<|endoftext|> Dance, dance. And your hair I’ll brush, and I’ll smooth your waist, And sing in praise of your thighs like anyone knows. So fat and smooth. I’ll take you home. And I’ll love you, fat and smooth. <|endoftext|> "When You Think", by Ben Lerner [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] When you think of speech, you think of words that need to be bound in rope words that won’t be so much to me. Words that vibrate a sad little drowsy hum. I can hear them in my head all a-quiver. You too can hear them in your head. We are always so sensitive about what we think. <|endoftext|> "Getting Things For a Girl on Her Birthday", by Ben Lerner [Living, Birthdays] When you get something for a girl on her birthday, grab a fork, because you’ll want to eat the edible version of dirt. Her crusty bread, her salt-chicken pot pie, and her paté are good choices. But the real treat is a smoothie on a stick. It comes in a straw and you pull it from the juicy carton like a puppy. Her mocha fudge and her chocolate sundae are good too. But the stick is best. The stick is as addictive as the roll. <|endoftext|> "Ticks", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] Ticks are tiny bloodhounds with a bulldog mouth and a life span of about five seconds. They are small, pink, mosquitoes with a tan to their wings. On your face, they leave a pouty frowny face. Tick-tock, tick-tock. They are everywhere, like crickets in a park quietly singing. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I get nervous around them. They tell me they are hunting wildebeest. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I get nervous around them. Their very presence makes me nervous around them. They look like feral dogs and they hunt like wolves. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Tick-tick, tick-tock. I'm serious about this. Tick-tock. <|endoftext|> "Refrains for a Small Dance", by Ben Lerner [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Music] A lit match flips a face of pale smoke, floating away like a kiss made in the darkness. Music is often the closest you can get to the perfect ending of love. <|endoftext|> "My Mother's Snare", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My mother's snare sounds like rain picking up the strings of the rain, then the trees, picking up the strings of the trees. It's the last refrain of a small song my mother wants to finish, but cannot. <|endoftext|> "A Visit", by Ben Lerner [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] A visit: a) a fat man steps on my toe; b) my father jumps on my toe; c) my mother trips on my toe; d) the house is on fire; e) there's an animal in the attic; f) my aunt is hiding the animal; g) my father's father came from Hungary; h) my father had six kids; i) my grandfather came from a country in the swamps; j) I broke my nose bone; k) I kissed a girl; l) I broke up with a girl; m) I caught a fish; n) I put a load of laundry; o) I lost a child; p) I had a hemorrhoid; q) I met a soul; r) I met a soul's two children; s) I made a mistake; t) I met a man; u) I got a new motorbike; v) I broke a nail; w) I ate too much; x) the matchbox house; y) the snooty uncle; z) I got the yellow light; {hymn} a) a fat man stepped on my toe b) my father jumped on my toe c) my mother tripped on my toe d) the house is on fire e) there's an animal in the attic f) my aunt is hiding the animal g) my father's father came from Hungary h) my father had six kids i) my grandfather came from a country in the swamps j) I broke my nose bone k) I kissed a girl l) I broke up with a girl m) I caught a fish n) I put a load of laundry o) I lost a child p) I broke a nail w) I ate too much x) the matchbox house y) the snooty uncle z) I got the yellow light {hymn} a) a fat man stepped on my toe b) my father jumped on my toe c) my mother tripped on my toe d) the house is on fire e) there's an animal in the attic f) my aunt is hiding the animal g) my father's father came from Hungary h) my father had six kids i) my grandfather came from a country in the swamps j) I broke my nose bone k) I kissed a girl l) I broke up with a girl m) I caught a fish n) I put a load of laundry o) I lost a child p) I broke a nail w) I ate too much x) the matchbox house y) the snooty uncle z) I got the yellow light <|endoftext|> "St. Patrick's Day", by Ben Lerner [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] An animal rises from the cover of the poem, and the animal lifts its shirt and its wings fly upward and spread out as the animal raises its arms and its arms raise their hands to form the words that form the words, which are words as the animal lifts its shirt and its wings fly upward and spread out to form the city, which are words as the animal raises its arms and its arms rise their hands to form the city which are words that form the city the city lifting its shirt and its wings flying upward and out of the city rises the animal, the animal that has become the city's bare ribs, the animal that is becoming the bare ribs of the city which are words, which are words that in turn are becoming, in constant transformation, the animal's rib the animal's naked rib which are words, words that in turn are becoming the animal rising from the city's cover, the city's ribs rising from the animal's skin, which are words, which are words that in turn are becoming the animal, which are words becoming the animal rising from the cover of the poem. <|endoftext|> "As the Ship Sails in the Gulf", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Life Choices, Parenthood, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Judaism, The Spiritual] The boat is leaving the port, I think. She isn't mine. I'm heading for the island. A few more hours, I think. The boat is leaving the port, I think. The children are dancing in the parlor, I'm heading for the island. She isn't mine. I'm heading for the island. My parents are preparing the dinner, I'm heading for the island. The boat is leaving the port, I'm heading for the island. The children are dancing in the parlor, I'm heading for the island. <|endoftext|> "Harlem Hells", by Ben Lerner [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] for John Hillma 1. The church spires look like birdshit in this little layer cake of Hmong water-guzzling whiskey, Blackberry-pie sweetened condensed milk, White-vine-juice gusting from lilac, kudzu, field dust, Gestapo grapevine spinach, and #3 pencil lead. The Sinthome sky rolls down to meet the little city like a blanket smacking your head. Nothing works the daze like Black astral vapor Miss Sofia, The Black Dirt Napalm Bowl, the Poetry in Flames bath, the Ice Creations bed. 2. Who will ride the snide brown train to whiteplace? What hippopotamus in black liquoredud reflection? Who will climb the pylon to blackplace? Who will fall from blackplace to whiteplace? Who will rock the cradle with more than just blackplank who? 3. You could tell a soul of fangs bristling in ebony fissure, a shape on fire, an altar made of ears, a thorn tree of hearteyes and one ear that's missing. Of the last of the fugitives sitting on the hood of the car where? What? What? You could say: a boat of twine light as shadow through the No Central Park doors to the playground of children whose name becomes the story of their home. 4. If you are not a god, what is the god of you? In the longest night, the longest dawn, what do we do? There's a manhole in the park sucks in men, then sucks them in back to the suffocating earth. We shiver in the park, wearing the rain like a garment, our hair drenched, our eyes sucking the wind. What are we? What's beautiful about us is that we are not to be found. <|endoftext|> "In the First Months", by Li-Young Lee [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality] The boy comes home from his long walk to find his sister sitting at the table in the bright light of morning. She has poured him a glass of milk and sits at the kitchen table in the light light of morning. The man who watches the man walks down the hall to his daughter's room in the bright light of morning. He takes off his coat and sits on the bed in the bright light of morning. His daughter eats her milk and rises from her bed in the bright light of morning. The man looks down at the man and then at the milk in his hand. A man in dark pants walks down the hall to his daughter's room in the bright light of morning. He lies down on the bed in the bright light of morning. He dreams of his daughters as they grow up and of his daughters' lovers. In the long night, in the first months, the boy opens his door to find his sister sitting at the table in the bright light of morning. She has poured him a glass of milk and sits at the kitchen table in the bright light of morning. And as he pours it for her she starts to cry. And she sits at the kitchen table in the bright light of morning. <|endoftext|> "Song of the Three Sisters", by Mark Doty [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Gender & Sexuality] A mash of oak, sand, and soil bleats like a stream through the forbidden place. Harsh light dulls the space. The clematis, swollen with some fierce intrusion, don't want to grow. The men are setting the pickets up for the lot of the newcomer. An Indian band is how we'll mark this place, says this man. The women are watching from the rearview. The newcomers aren't even here yet. They call the tribe and wait in the lot, like soldiers in a field with no tanks. The lot will never have a cart on it. The lot will never have a wagon or a tent. The lot will never have a plow or a hatchet. The lot will grow vegetables. The lot will grow corn, bean, radish, lettuce, and squash. It will grow herbs, garlic, onions, peas, turnips, corn again, and again. The lot will grow squash, herbs, onions, and cabbage. It will grow beans, peas, corn, and squash. It will grow lettuce, beans, and corn. It will grow onions, garlic, and green peas. It will grow squash, corn, beans, and cabbage. The lot will change to a country. The lot will change to a town. The lot will change to a city. The lot will change to a reservation. The lot will change to a bed and breakfast. The lot will change to a barter shop. It will grow olives, tomatoes, lettuce, and limes. It will grow corn, beans, peas, and squash. It will grow herbs, lettuce, and cabbage. It will grow corn, onions, limes, and squash. Corn will grow on the lot. It will grow squash, corn, herbs, and lettuce. Lettuce will grow in the lot. Tomatoes, limes, and peppers will grow in the lot. Salads will grow in the lot. Corn will grow on the lot. It will grow squash, herbs, and corn. Corn will grow on the lot. Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow on the lot. Salads will grow in the lot. Corn will grow on the lot. A lot will grow in the forbidden place. The lot will grow limes, limes, and tomatoes. Corn will grow in the forbidden place. Salads will grow in the forbidden place. Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow in the forbidden place. Corn will grow on the lot. The lot will grow limes, limes, and tomatoes. Corn will grow in the forbidden place. Salads will grow in the forbidden place. Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow in the forbidden place. Corn will grow on the lot. Water will come from somewhere. Water will come from the sky. Water will come from the rain. Water will come from the springs. We will catch a river fish and fry it in butter and vinegar. We will roast a fish over an open fire. We will boil a fish, then we will cut it to keep from swallowing its bones. We will cut the chickens free, and cut the ducks and ducks will come again and again to the rivers and the sea. We will shake and strain the seeds. We will eat the meat and bones. We will bend and break the sacred corn until the ears float back into the hole in the earth. We will plant the maize and soybeans. We will work and plant the vegetables. When the greens are showing, we will dig a hole and bury twigs for dry sticks to grow. When the tender shoots appear we will dig another hole, deeper than that, and bury sticks for dry twigs to make firewood. When the growing season beckons, we will move to the thickly growing area and bury wooden beams for fires. A lot will grow in the forbidden place. We will plant corn, beans, and squash in the forbidden place. We will dig and plant, and dig and plant, over and over again for the rest of our lives. When we can't dig or plant, we will look for stones and bury them in the forbidden place. We will bury sticks for firewood in the forbidden place. When we can't bury sticks, we will look for rivers and gather drinking water from the forbidden place. We will gather water from the forbidden place. When the settlers move in, we will go with them and move among them and their children. We will teach them the words of English and their tongue. We will teach them the words of English and their mother tongue. We will look for tracks and build roads for cars. We will bury wooden bridges in the forbidden place. When the settlers move out, we will go with them and move among them and their children. We will teach them the words of English and their tongue. We will teach them the words of English and their mother tongue. The place of landing will be remembered well. It will be a place of prayer and a place of pleasure. We will build a museum with plaques and artifacts. We will dig and find out the stories of the ancestors. We will build a library with shelves and books. We will bury books and bury the stories. We will bury wooden shelves for the books. We will build new, better shelves for the books. We will build a museum with words and artifacts. We will bury words and bury the stories. We will bury wooden shelves for the words. We will build new, better words and shelves for them. The place of death will be remembered well. It will be a place of prayer and a place of pleasure. We will build a museum with plaques and artifacts. We will dig and find out the stories of the ancestors. We will bury words and bury the stories. We will bury wooden shelves for the books. We will build new, better shelves for the books. <|endoftext|> "When I Am Gone", by Richard Emil Braun [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy] He said he would not break the seal that he knew by feeling the tiny round heads inside the bird and finding they had no meaning. He would lift the bird out of the bottle and place it on the ledge. He would break the neck of the seal for the drop of mercury in the cup. His grandfather said it was absurd to believe in the birds that came to land on the shore and flew away. He said it was all a dream, a fantastic, senseless game that will end as soon as he pulled the bird from the bottle. He put the cup in the fire and the water in the fire and watched it burn. He had no fear and no more to say. <|endoftext|> "The Laughing Woman", by Richard Emil Braun [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] When the men came with their crazy cries, stark heads blown neck- breaking, my grandmother, wearing a white coat, gathered the women and held them steady. We don't want to hurt you, she told us. We want to make you strong. We'll love you. The rain fell fast. My brother came back to find his nest of blankets, his blanket-roost of roses. The wood was so dry that he tried to count, but when he saw how many there were, he stopped. The woman had done this before, but it took weeks for her screams to dull. In the meantime, she slowly recovered. She would not lose faith, and over the next few years, she laughed, and laughed into her pillow, and smiled, and smiled. <|endoftext|> "On Christmas", by Richard Emil Braun [Christmas] The poinsettia waves its golden horns, and turns into a carnation. A baby dressed as a horse sings a lullaby, while the reindeer stands up, and tips his sleigh, turning into a red-and-white muleta. The snow falls down, but Santa Claus arrives late, and his sleigh is old and beat. His reindeer moved a little faster than the children, but when they asked to stop, he told them to go back where they came from. The little girl in the red dress opens her presents on the table, and pretends to find a card. She opens it, and there is no letter, and no present. She puts her hands in the air, and sings, "Oh, my Christmas tree, I can't find my present!" Christmas dinner is served up; the mountains of syrup are there. The reindeer are now ready to eat. The table is set with the treasured wine from the last Christmas, and the first Christmas, and the first birthday, and the fudge of the third Christmas, and the spit of the fourth Christmas, and the pudding of the fifth Christmas, and the apple of the sixth Christmas, and the plums of the seventh Christmas, and the marmalade of the eighth Christmas, and the ginger of the ninth Christmas, and the niblet of the tenth Christmas, and the cranberry of the eleventh Christmas, and the plum of the twelfth Christmas. And Santa Claus comes in his boat. He looks at the children with a smile, and dips his pen into the fountain. <|endoftext|> "Sugar Dada", by Richard Emil Braun [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy] The sea is empty. It is bright and open, a mirror, a great bell. I am at sea. I look out over my life, and see nothing there. I look down into my life, and see nothing here. I look down into my life, and see nothing here. I look into the mirror, and see nothing there. On the tin roof, the faery sandigo is burning. Its shadows stretch far and deep into the peas. I watch it burn, and watch the smoke curl up and hide in the tall corn. I watch it burn as it builds up strength, and joy, and rage. I watch it burn. Then I stand still. I watch the flame sink down into the peas. I watch it sink. And I watch it rise. I walk down the path. My sister is waiting for me. She has wrapped herself in the golden flame that squats in the garden like a woman with strange breasts. She beckons to me with her white hand, and her brown hand. She is singing a song. She sings, “Come, fat, come, lean, come, long. Come, fat, come, lean, come, long. Come down from your branches, come down from your branches. Come down from your branches and meet me under the sea.” She dances to the same song. Her white hand, her brown hand, her white hand, her brown hand, hover in the air, hovering. They beckon to me. They dance to the faery tune. And I stand still. I stand still. And I watch the flame go up into the peas. She dances to the song, to the song. She dances down to the pea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea from the faery island. She dances into the blue and rolling foam. She dances down into the sea. And I stand still. I stand still. I watch her dancing, her white hand, her brown hand. I watch her dancing, and I watch her white hand. I stand still. I stand still. And I watch the flame sink down into the sea. I have taken all my pea-hoard into the great unknown. I have carved bitter pylons into the snow. I have named them. I have stretched tightropes over them. I have tied weights to them. I have launched them to the sky. I have sent them flying far and far. I have gripped the handles with reckless hands. I have let them go when they reached the sky. They were so light. I stood looking at the sky and could not bring myself to touch them. I have left my treasures at home. I have packed my balloons tightly. I have tied a white cloth around them. I have tied it to a pine tree. I have caught the white cloth to the tree. I will leave it there when I am gone. I have hung tightrope over the sky like Lawrence of Arabia. I have left my treasures at home. I have filled my hands in praise to the Lord my God. <|endoftext|> "Catchy Toms", by George Bradley [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature, Religion, Christianity] Take my heart, Jesus. I have wasted it on trays of pimentos, and lost ten years of my life. It is nothing special. The first year I used it I went to mass twice a day and faithfully did so. But I do not remember the organs shuddering when the bishop said, “Cardinal, we have found the heart.” But I do remember my mother shaking her head no. I have always been a bad boy, and my badness has been badness and will continue to be. Take my heart, Jesus. But you cannot keep it from me or I will come to you and I will tell you everything. <|endoftext|> "The Dance", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] A swing is not a dance unless you do the swing in it. —Horace When the World Takes the House on the Heath The house was ours in the garden, green and coming up like an old man with a cough.The houses on the Heath? They couldn’t be ours, for they’d been Made by men, and they were made to carry men. How they must have smiled when we told them what we wanted them for! The holly and ivy grow out between the hedges to keep peopleOut, away. You can only see their legs in the hedges. And when people pass, they turn quickly to look at us. In the hedges, between hedges, a man makes a show of shooting stars,To try to get people out of the garden. The women in the gardens wear stiff smiles. Look, they even blink. It makes no difference. But there must be something to it, after all those years. This wonder-house-with-stars. We’ve lived here so long we know what’s real and what’s not. Now we know what it is. <|endoftext|> "Prayer for the Dead", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Funerals] Some day the dead will come back to me.I will lie down and drown myself, one big shuddering gasp, one big rip, one big rip, one huge house-o’-fire, one last great slosh and one last great roll-in, one last cold cry, one final great lurch, one final shuddering pause, one final lunging at freedom.It will be a long time before I wake again. <|endoftext|> "Through This", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] They buried my father without a funeral. I buried my mother without a sleep. We did not go to the graveside though we wanted to. It was more respectful to leave them alone to bury their father and mother than to sift through earth and ash for every little stone. It’s morning already three decades later. The cold has lifted. I step over the uneven ground toward the small mound, past ivy, beech, beading grape leaves on their festal tables, the rotten fruit that stayed put in a paper bag, each apple a knife that cut before it could fall. I walk to the middle where the markers are set and I set my mother’s stone beside the wordmother. I fold my hands and pray for the hours we did not share. <|endoftext|> "All the Dogs in Boston", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] They buried my father without a funeral. I buried my mother without a sleep. We did not go to the graveside though we wanted to. It was more respectful to leave them alone to bury their father and mother than to sift through earth and ash for every little stone. It’s morning already three decades later. The cold has lifted. I step over the uneven ground toward the small mound, past ivy, beech, beading grape leaves on their festal tables, the rotten fruit that stayed put in a paper bag, each apple a knife that cut before it could fall. I walk to the middle where the markers are set and I set my father’s stone beside the wordfather. I fold my hands and pray for the hours we did not share. <|endoftext|> "Long As This Hand Lengths My Garden Bathed in Evening", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] 1 I don’t like to be told what to do. I like to do what comes. 2 My mother is in her grave. My father is in his. 3 I hang on their every word. I never forget the car door open and my mother’s laugh all about my ear until I can’t ignore it. 4 I would give up everything for the sound of her laugh. 5 You don’t have to be a saint to understand what that noise means. 6 My father and mother moved like ice. 7 This is how I touch the sky: I don’t mean my belly but my whole hand. 8 They would say, “Good morning, dear.” 9 The food was so cold my tears kept it cold. 10 When I am big as you, I’ll pick you up and shake you like a dog. <|endoftext|> "Elms", by Kate Colby [Activities, Gardening, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I like to dig and dig and dig for beautiful pink or blue tulips under the garden shade, for ancient dahlias in their formal leaves, for loose, pale stems of jasmine or sweet Bulgona medicinalica, or a shad that is just beginning to take its first small green twig from the cold. I like to dig because it is a kind of love. <|endoftext|> "Heaven", by Kate Colby [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries] It is an awful, awful, awful world and I want to get out of it as fast as I can. I want to stay in the water where I am reading now and drink and drink it all in. I am thirsty. I am standing in the world where I am supposed to be saved. I am a child and the world is hell and I want to go home as fast as I can. I am not supposed to be here. The world is hell and I am not supposed to be saved but I am and I am saved and I am not the world. I am the world and I want to go home as fast as I can. <|endoftext|> "Waste", by Kate Colby [Living, Death, The Body, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature] What is it is so wrong with me That I can’t let you Out. So I won’t let you out. <|endoftext|> "Cada Nube", by Kate Colby [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Winter] For George Bernard Shaw There are days when happiness Is like a cake; You know the kind, thick and fabulous, Covered with frosting, Covered with larkspur, Covered with pink sea foam, Covered with snow; They rise and shrink from your hands, Like memories that have been lost, Turned to their illogical extremes. In the same way that these thin sweets Do nothing to restore the real World, the real mind, the real you, They do nothing to make you happy When they are on the plate. They rise and shrink from my heart like tears And make it sad and unfamiliar Like a room that has been taken away And turned into a room. They are a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long, And the sad heart that was glad of them Turns away in disgust. It is as if someone who had been Your friend and now has become a vast wasteland Had offered you some leftovers that were light And good but lacked the richness of the cake. They are a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long. You can smell them on the table where They have been devoured by rats and mice And the whole place has breathed in the scent. They are an enormous outpouring of love That has been written and then excised by a hand Too sensitive to cut properly. They are a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long. You can feel them on the tongue and in the fingers And taste the salt and curliness and fat And how the frost has stretched the butter threads And left the texture of the dish intact And poured through them a glaze of joy. They are so wonderful that when they are put Into the dish with the other things that are lovely Like little white doves and pink roses and snow You feel as if the dish had been an instrument In the hands of God all along that you had made Such things and so you cannot eat the dish. It is a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long. You are a horrible monster for devouring Things that are not for your hunger. <|endoftext|> "A Sky Full of Love", by Kate Colby [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys] I have been in love's iris After the sun has dried the air, And the sky has looked upon my face And said, it is twilight. In the course of all days, I have seen the earth turn over, I have come home to the same tall house And found the sky is the sky That I saw in another life, And I am myself again. I have learned the sky is old And is full of story. It holds all the time A huge world of light Like the sum of all the love That burned the world into dust Before the birth of the sun. I have seen the sky lose its way And wander all over the place Like a hickory after its kiss Of wild red grass. And it is beautiful in this place. <|endoftext|> "A Very Holy Man", by Kate Colby [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women] She lives in the basement of this house. Her clothes and hair are in such bad shape They are not fit for a dog to eat. Her eyes are the color of apple trees, And there is not a thing in them that moves. She has called this house the Holy One's, Because the carpet in the hallway And the beds and the chairs are sacred. My mother, who for years has believed In the goodness of men and the Holy One's, Who has forgiven everybody, Will have to forgive this woman, who has ruined This house of the Holy One. The man on the bus told me this story, And the man next door told me the same. I have known that he is going to die Since he was a child, And I have been waiting for him to die With reverence and fear, Because I knew he would not be holy As long as this woman is here. I have heard the bus drums roll, And the telephone wire clatter, And waited for death to do its work. I have prayed for the holy man, Because I knew he would not be holy As long as this woman is here. I have seen this woman upstairs This many a time. And now I know it is wrong to kill Any body, no matter what. And yet I have done it many times, For reasons that have nothing to do With faith in the Holy One. <|endoftext|> "Death of a Visitation", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets] On the stairs I left my English bulldog, His scratching and hunger and his constant fear Of the first, the second, the third person present, Of me, the lord of the estate. He died Under the wet, in the night, unusual sky. The dog I loved like a daughter, the dog I would have harmed or wanted in any way For the length of a visit or longer, Leaning from the balcony, tail wagging, Then running to me, wagging fast and faster, As if to ask what more I could want. The pooch, a cross between a bulldog and a fish, An early retriever of manhood, did not like The sudden change. He never understood My wanting him to understand, as I grew older, The need to own the company and be the man. I was his guardian and harbored him in a closet, Cooped in a room with a little wire cage Where he could bark without consequence. For the first month or two that he was a pup He barked away, mostly at the windows of trucks Or trains, which wheezed and complained About the rain, which couldn't drop there And was more than satisfied. The English bulldog was bred for fighting, As the bulldogs of Spain, the bulldogs of France, And the bulldogs of southern Italy, and the bulldogs of Sicily Went in the ring, combed their tails and, when they finished, Waved and barked and jumped through the closing gate, Or jumped and tossed their hands in the air And raced out on their pursuers. That was the dog that bit me, Sipping from my neck And sometimes my scalp, and leaving blood And urine that made me lay still And watch until he did it again. I wanted to guard him from harm, As I knew I could not survive My own attack by this dog. And I wondered, sometimes, how Others survived. I was glad to sleep When he slept, Unwilling to consider sleep a threat To dogs, but still alarmed by The fact that a living thing Could leave me alive. I worried about fire, Poison or a broken bone, For a dog was dead So long as there was blood. I didn't want to live, Being afraid Of being dead. But I knew the dog had bitten I wanted to help him, And I felt, sometimes, That I was helping, Because he was still here. I learned what fear was, And what it wasn't. I knew, too, that when a thing Died, the animal Would move on To the next thing In the right order, Until the thing It self-propagated, The next in the right order, The next in the right order Would die And so on, for all life. <|endoftext|> "Gilding the Mirror", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The Republicans know the value of anger When there is nothing else to be had. The Democrats use it at their peril. The Republicans always go into it Angrily, And go out Angrily And there is nothing else to be had. The Democrats want it applied to them Angrily. They do not know the value of it Until it is applied to them. Then it is not so bad, And then they have no idea How badly they have it. Anger is a useful thing The Republicans always go into it Angrily. The Democrats want it taken away Angrily. Anger is a foolish thing The Republicans always go into it Angrily. They do not know what is in it Until it is taken from them And showed to them. And then they have no idea How bad it is. <|endoftext|> "A Little Shiver", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Once I knew a lesbian woman who was in her thirties, and she said, My mother was a disaster from birth to death. She had three daughters, and she slept with all of them. My mother's life was ruined. Now, my mother is in her eighties, and she has two kidneys. Angela, my other mother, is in her eighties, and she has a heart valve problem. When one gets a cold, one shakes a little and cries, and then one sits in a chair, and then one sits on a chair. Angela and my other mother are in their eighties, and they have problems that I do not know about. The whole world is a memory. And the heart has a lot of problems, But not the memory. It is the other way around. One can die one's youth, And memory is endless. They had gone to the home of one of my cousins. My mother asked them not to come back, and they refused to listen to her. They would drink whisky every week, they would go to dances, they would sleep with men, and not tell me, and not even get married. They died in their forties and fifties, but I never knew them. My memory is of a life that is over. I have a cold, and I am in bed, exhausted, shuffling my feet, and thinking of my childhood. I was on my mother's side, and now I am on my father's. My heart is full of memories, and I do not know which to choose. <|endoftext|> "On Art and the Poet", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] It is not the steps of the temple that provide the rising action, the burning of oil, the piling up of blocks, the turning of heavy wheels, and the burden of wares that give the ideal, but the imperfect behavior, the extravagant action of the mind in the working of its own parts. . . . . . . . Is it a cloud, it asks, is it a bird? I tell you it is the heart of a child, and I have heard what that heart can do. <|endoftext|> "Fireflies Over the City", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Religion] Fireflies over the city tonight like silver talons, like the long lives of ants, a long knife edge across my cheek. I am so tired of being alive. I am so tired of being dead. In the black hole of space I am waiting for something to ignite. I am so tired of waiting for something to ignite that I have taken off my clothes. I am so tired of taking off my clothes that I am afraid to turn around. I am so tired of being afraid of what is in front of me and behind my back and thirty feet in front of me, and in my head, the bugs. They have been instructed to move by some outside force. They have been told to move. A silver metronome in the night sky is giving the insects a cruel metronome. They are timing their lives so carefully and there is nothing they can do to escape. They are timing their lives, and there is nothing they can do to escape the silver metronome. In the open window I can see a fly in the air setting a matchhead on fire, and another fly somewhere behind my right shoulder at the hem of my shirt. I can hear the puffed cheeks of the girl in the next room, and the short terrified cry of the girl in the next room. The metronome in the night sky is giving the insects a cruel metronome. What are the insects doing in the night sky? What are they waiting for? <|endoftext|> "Sonnet for Dawn", by Ravi Shankar [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, Other Religions, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics] I have eaten the fruit of the never-lasting hour in which the god of commerce willed no one ever to leave his show for a season of meaning. On the surface my money would say duffer—I have taken no debts but I had no heart for commerce. Like an addict I grew like a devouring flower of commerce, keeping score in the scoreboard of business, myself the most important thing, the thing that no one knew and no one will ever know. In the age of the banyan I could not imagine my life and the life of the banyan never the same, my body a kind of commercial, my essence a kind of merchandise. No one knows how long I lived as a poet in the city and no one knows how much I died as a poet in the city. No one knows the dream I had every evening, it was a dream of my own death and I awoke from it with my eyes taped behind my head like an executioner's. I will never know why I was so bad at my job. I will never build a bridge or a museum or a park. I will never write another word of prose. But if I could I would give up poetry forever and ever as a means of holding on to what I had in the city, of keeping alive the score in the scoreboard of my business. As if my death were an act of merciful recall, as if my life were an auction and I myself the item of auction, the lowest bidder, a thing that bought no happiness for myself or for anyone. <|endoftext|> "for Emily", by Ravi Shankar [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Town & Country Life, War & Conflict] Emily was a parabatra, Emily was a parabatra. How to talk to her about the trees Emily never asked me. Her hands moved under her, Emily was a real stickler Emily was a real stickler for shape. She'd see the Bumpus Brown for sale In the Village Books on Madison And stand in the doorway Reading the author's bio Until the voice of me and her past Thrilled and heaved and blown her forward. And when Emily was a girl Her father sent her to live with us, In this house across the river, To learn the ways of saving and selling And putting away profligate money. How to go up and down these streets Emily never asked me. How to stand in the best light When entering a room And look one full 360 degrees To see everything that's worth seeing And how much there is to see. And how to put it all away In a month, in advance, For she was a bird of passage Emily was a bird of passage. She was a bright flame that burned And died and was reborn So many times before. How to go up and down these streets Emily never asked me. How to stand in the best light And how to stand in the best light And stand in the best light and stand in the best light. <|endoftext|> "A Poem about Poetry", by Ravi Shankar [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] for Richard Wilbur You see a leaf is blooming, a twig A bird is flying, a dog is Growling—what does it all mean? You see a river is flowing, a stump A cave is opening, a boy is playing, A girl is sewing, what does it all mean? All things have endings, even you. <|endoftext|> "For Annie", by Ravi Shankar [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] When I am gone from here, Annie, Take what you will. I gave you all I had. I only ask you leave To take what you can get. I never wanted anything. I wanted you safe at home With your brother and father. I didn't want you working In any office, anywhere. I want you to be a queen, Annie, Tied up in your garden By your happy husband and father. I want you to be a princess, Sleeping in your garden bed. I want you to be a Buddhist, Kneeling on a hill of words, Watching the clouds come and go. I want you to be the same By which I've been blessed, Lest anything should change, You say, wherever I go. The more you tell me to be true The more I understand you. I was so tired when I came here I slept for an hour under the tree. A voice from the grave calls to me, I listen and do not hear, And if I did I'd hear the same. <|endoftext|> "Love Song", by Ravi Shankar [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] Love dies like a sword; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, scornful Of the one it has forgotten. The mind grows envious and envious And leaves the body empty. The body grows empty and lets The mind go its way. Love dies like a flower; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, becoming Like the plant it has hitherto Tamed, and forsakes its mother. The mind becomes envious and envious And breeds its opposite. The opposite breeds like its own— A shadow and a liar. Love dies like a ship; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, sinking Into the sea of sleep, having Blessed the one for whom it sailed. The mind grows envious and envious And leaves the lover lonely. The lover lonely holds on Till the days and nights are sung, Then lets himself be taken By the one he thought was true. Love dies like a dream; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, flying High above the lover's waking To a paradise in the sky. The mind grows envious and envious, Placing itself in the place It left the one who was loved. The one who was loved—like a bird Dreamed out by its wondrous flight— Loves again, grows tired, and dies. <|endoftext|> "Money", by George Sterling [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] My mother said to me, You may think you've got A good head for numbers, but I know Better, and it's a fact: I've lost Much. And yet I'll bear it. I was about to speak, when you interrupted, I'm ashamed I didn't ask you to live Another day, with one condition: That you would never leave my side. I said, You'll not; but if I could Condemn myself to nothing more than The path your head shall cross no more, I would ask you to go on that day. I can't do without you, Deloris, And so I'll make an end of it. You have proved to me, once and again, You can be as cruel as you choose. Let's make an end of it, on the spot. But you will not be my life, Deloris, Because you cannot leave me mine. My debts are far too heavy for me; I can't pay them off. I'll pay them off to my dying day, But I can't quit you, Deloris. She said, You've got the figures All half and half, and all of it Except the figures, all of it. I tried to smile, but I couldn't. I wanted to. And I said to her, You can take them, if you want them, But you won't have me for your wife. And that was all. A man can starve a woman All the winter long and then Buy her a home and make her Feel like a queen. A woman can starve a man All the winter long and then Seek him forever out, Find him worth caring for. And if it comes to fighting, And the woman's seeking the weapon, And the man's wearing the armour, And they step into the arena, And there's a single blow that rings, Then, by God! It's all for fighting! <|endoftext|> "Shall I Ease You Now Of This Myth", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, Love, Classic Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships] Shall I ease you of this myth Of mine immortal life to last? Shall I ease you now of this myth Of my love deathless and most sweet? Shall I, indeed, ease you of this myth Of my death and my love and my muse? Oh, if it be so, I pray, Take me to the very deepest west Of your old sea-road that clover white Makes a dim haze in the sun? Take me there, where the pines were planted By my first love deathless and most sweet. It may not be, but there is one thing I would like to ask you, while I am here. 'Tis not quite what you think. I have another self that I sing, And this self sings in me. Do you like that? It is said that I shall come back, But I shall not stay. The clouds above the old west The more they pull the less they lose. So the less you be, the less I be. <|endoftext|> "A Shropshire Lad 28: The wind blew as it was right", by A. E. Housman [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Classic Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy] The wind blew as it was right And the leaves flew up and struck and fell The right way, like the rest of the world. The world is the sport of a curious whim; All law the whim of a tick of a clock; The world turns and turns, but turns in a hither, thither way. But love turns on a path from the end. There are no bends in love. <|endoftext|> "The Bleeding Heart", by Robert Browning [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Engagement, Weddings, Valentine's Day] Ye coasts, whose shadow falleth westward, landward, Fourth-of-Julys, I call and no one is there; Landward and no one comes to clear away the meal and spoil the flowerets, And set in their bloom the gold that floweth westward From forth the west-wind: I, I alone am here; Alone, for all the folk that answer me, And all the call that is out of tune, Landward and no one answers me. Ye long, long laggard coasts, that know me not, I hear ye only when I-half-know myself, And seek to draw me even to the hearing of myself. Yea, but I draw thee even, For thou art everywhere, and nowhere alone; And I am all of thee, and none of me alone; And I am come to thee, and no man is given unto me, For all that I can do or say, or think, I find in my own heart to do or say. Yea, but I give thee all that my heart hath found; And thou giveth me, for thou art generous; And this is generosity, the giving of thyself. And now we have met, and now I see The light of thine in me, as in the sight of the rose; And now thou sayest me what I would say to thee; And now I love thee, for thou art generous, And this is generous, the giving of thyself; And now we have met, and now I see The light of thine in me, as in the sight of the rose; And now thou sayest me what I would say to thee; And now I love thee, for thou art generous. O star of mine, the point of my compass, One point above, where I may swing, if only I Strike true; One sea, One land, One world, One God, One death, One resurrection, One life, One all, all the length of me, One the wide world before me where to start; And one the beginning of the rest, A little earth beside me where to end. And one, the widest sea that I shall touch, And one, the land that shall stretch for me beyond; And one, if I can only be true, If only I rise to the highest height; One heaven, One hell, One heaven above, One hell below, One only destiny the wide world to cover; And one, to clear away the robined sky, And cleanse my track as I go up again, One world-wide bell to strike, and bye and bye, The knell of this insatiable love of mine. Ye powers, O stars, and ye Sabbaths, Hearken and be not proud of my level line, My high and low, my high and low, My cradle-singer and my croucher, The heaven of my love and my love's nest. Hearken and be not proud of my level line; For even as I I raise it to the sky, Even so my cradle shall sink down to it. <|endoftext|> "The Two Children", by Robert Herrick [Living, Infancy, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Reading & Books, Anniversary, Valentine's Day] O dear, sweet trees, that never fade, O sweet, sweet morning air, that breathes Less alive into the winter air Than when it kisses the bosom of the year, O firstling of the year, of the year to be, Give unto these children their bread of love, Their water of hope, their oil of sweet desire. And as these children of the morning are With seed of your beauty planting in the air, And as their life is like the sowing of your seeds, So let them your virtues likewise hold and cherish. As these children of the morning are With seed of your beauty planting in the air, So ye, sweet trees, let all your liveliness With seed of your virtue planting in the air, So together ye shall produce the fruit of love, The hope of the hope, the sweetness of the sweet. <|endoftext|> "From an Italian Mynah", by Andrew Marvell [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Farewell, O Decameron, farewell, Thou would'st meet again with who thou wast with; Thou art not of these sons of the sea, Of these creatures bred and born for war, Whose blood runs at their heart and drives away all rest. Thou art not of these, who neither sail nor fight, But serve their owners with their eyes and ears; And they alone escape the sea and storm, And only some leap overboard and die. Farewell, O Decameron, farewell, Thou lovest not yourself, but some thy words: Farewell, O Decameron, farewell, Thou lovest not yourself, but some thy words: For thou art mortal and thou art wise, And to be wise in all thy world of woe, Is to be perfect in all else but love. <|endoftext|> "from Apollo and Cicero: Towards a Definition of the Laws of War: ", by Andrew Marvell [Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Lo! here the government of Heaven, and here the government of Hell! Here stand the masters of mankind, here are the magistrates All in one place; and who doth not own Part of the common group? who not confess Their sentiency? and who not judge What action is adjudged? These standing by the throne, The others house-breakers and thieves of bread; The slanderer, and the blasphemer, and the greed Rottering at the root of the tree of life; The disturber of the feast, and drinker of blood; The serpent in the grass; the feller-buff; The boasting and comparing of goods not theirs; The false witness, and the faithless; the false oath; The stubborn and rigid; the jealous and unfair; The deceiver with his father and mother; The traitor with his elders; the traitor with his son; The impostor with the youth; the idler and waste Waste of time; all drunk and wild with revel; Sick and fagged with the long day's carouse; Loud with sound of bells, and the chatter of girls; Silent with prayer, and the sonnet's national chorus; The fierce and wordy; the profane and vile Met in one common pavilion: this the Saints, The sovereign ones of men. Here stands the magistrate All in one, Judge, jury, and executioner All in one, His sovereign body. Here, here stands the real Sovereign, The God of his earth, the Father of his soul, Not made, but uncreated, invisible, And intangible as hell's ethereal mind. <|endoftext|> "from Apocalypto: Cantata", by Andrew Marvell [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Weather, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] In vain doth fall the bitter rain, In vain doth wind and rain combine; The wintry west continues loud And loud the north wind shrieks through the forest. No leaf, nor spike, nor branch can hold; Nought but goes down to leave the ground bare. Gone from each living creature are; And in the open space I see Christ's blood, like water, on the earth spilled! The earth is full of rain; the sky is dark; The earth is bitter with the west's breath; The earth is loud with wind and rain; The earth is filled with Christ's life-blood blown down From the pierced hands of God, the Holy of Holies, Who dwells unseen, behind the scenes of night, In Christ's wounds, whose naked sword is red With spilt life-blood, who sitteth at the right hand of God, Giving gifts of mercy to men in the dark And sorrowful dark; and the dark earth, With the great rain-clouds overstrewn, Like a white field cut clear through with bright bright blood, Is cleft asunder; and on the waste earth's waste field A voice is heard, like the wind's singing; it saith: "O sons of men, O men all, rejoice! The end is come; the end is come and lies afar; The end is come, the end is come, O men rejoice!" But the clear voice is heard, but all is still; The rain falls silent, and the wind's playing dies; And the field is as it was, with no change or end, And the word is fulfilled, "The end is come, O men rejoice!" But the clear voice is heard, yet every thing lives; The rain falls still; the winds are blown apart; And the wild beasts are hidden, and the birds fly free. And God comes forth from his scented fold, and all the ends Of the earth lie like tapers lying in the wind; And the first white horseman that bore the Cross Out of the eastern gate is at the doors of Heaven; And he has loosed the beating of his feet, And he has caught the sound of his immortal feet, And he hath dressed him in his beautiful white robes, And he has wrapped him in the rays of his heavenly love, And the sound thereof hath gone forth on the winds of heaven, And the sound thereof is like the rushing of a great tide, And the sound thereof is as the surging of the sea-wave under the heavy rocks, And the sound thereof is as the sound of many voices, and the clouds are split, and the air is shaken, and the earth is full of a sound as of many waters, And the great sound of the eternal King is gone forth from the eastern gates, And the sound thereof abideth a thousand years. <|endoftext|> "A Song", by Andrew Marvell [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] (excerpt) WHEN I have given my days unto thee, And, with my words, my days have given to thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been stayed, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is this faint air, O far, far beyond me, than I can reach with thought or prayer. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. <|endoftext|> "Ode I. Respectively", by Andrew Marvell [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Hector fond marchatos, Ganymede piano, Camenas, cœurs duscher auf. Sola nos est uxor, quos pennis equo Excedit in Laurentum. Camenas, cœurs duscher auf. O vela meus, vela meus. Nunc campi habere, nunc campi. Hæc est vos camenam tenebam, Vas meus equo reliqui. Quam se vidisse pensare cibus, Vos est vos camenam tenebam. Vos campo, vetus, fere Marsum; Vos pingui, vetus, ferat Tityre; Vos flumina, vetus, bene Frigone; Vos canis, vetus, quærisque Heré; Vos hartebat, vetus, tantis Orpheus: Hunc olim est caudae Marsis Vetus seges per vestris libit; Tristes istud, vetus, cinere flagit; Cognatum est haec tamen aeternum Pectusque statim, vetus, lege. Sed, inuito, modo, Vetere quem mihi poterant vos; Fecit homines, quibus et ora sunt. Mars, thou enemy of the sky, Pomp and fortune, hast the strength; Daring, like thee, no courage knows: Come, and with us in the skies Fill with thy portentous sail. Loose from the quarter whence we spring, Lend them our winged words and strange, From thy dominion safe and clear. We, all-cased like thee, will fly Thy very prayers and solemn ways. Thou, from thy chariot willst go In the first heaven that lies above, Where all the gods are some way bent To abide and sing their odes. We, this day, in the ethereal house, From toils and perils of our earth, Will with like rudeness allure; And in our heavenly walks to stay, Will fall on thy earth and thee. Sic anima est, cælo, vetustas, Dulcis tuus in tenebras aestas: Hinc sola est, sæpe animas. What God hath bid me to these deeds deny, And swear with oaths against his word to do? As one who, born without a peer, would be So much a king, he had best be no king. He, if himselfe was God, would need no peer, Nor would be bettered by a consort wise: Yet neither would he be without a peer, Nor a king, if he his sceptre left behind. If so it were that all earth's children one were, (And one they must be) by some unproper'd womb, The strangeness of that womb might in this be known, And they not call that earth a body earth, Nor earth a body, but a lifeless sky. O Gods, O stars, be mute! O suns, be no, but burn! O moons, be moons no watches, but gild ye not The earth that God hath made to burn and sterne! O suns, O heat, O sleepe the night! See, see, what forces may not be graunted, What burdens can no rest let! Behold the armes of Afric could not raise This King against his born Lord, but like to die, Slain with a dart, that touches and maligne swimme. Now is it proved that riches take, And take their place, as doo others lay, But are but azure leaves, the which excel The others, glittering in their fathers sun: In procreation so it is, at first, They take their place, and when they so appere Their glory doth the others take again, As thinke they doo well that others see, So they are glistred, as they are seen. Thou art not, (said I) the fairest thing Of all the world, fairest of all the yeare: Nor yet the sweetest note that bird Can utter distinctly, nor the fairest light, Nor yet the dearest love that hearts can move. Yet, if thou be'st a body, thou art blest; For I, (quoth she) am body, and I blest. Of all the fears that weary men doo fly, Most believed in them is that they are feare's seat; And therefore dread seems the fairest thing, The fairest seemeth the dread the clearest; That of herself she is, 'tis little thought: That of herself she is, it is allone. For though that all the fear in all the feare, Right likely, thou art, thou still may'st be lessd, Lessd most seemes, than me, (quoth she) that am The least fearefull thing of all that ever were; Me still greater than me, and yet no nigh, Less safe, than me, and yet no sure, I be, As you, my men, are more safe than I, Yet, if but one man more in feare were lost, All were lost; then should I rest and rest, Like most, most seemly, deare, deare to me, Yet then I fear'd, lest this were never so, Nor we nere came in our over-wearied state, But all discomfited, when we are athirst, With yet unfathered woe, yet then I feared, Lest this were never so, nor we nere came, But we were young, and this were old, unfeared, Young, and yet not proved, and yet not sure, But as we are, alas, too young indeed, Wasted, over-wasted, wearie of sleep, Wasted with love, and ill nourisht in sloth, A hungry housekeeper with an auncestive famine Of all that sleep may keep, except sleep at thy breast. First feasted on thy beauty, then they boast Of that content, that ere it departeth, It arethten fairer than all womankind, And they who think their fairest that can be, Are base as waters that bear no moniment. Cursed be those ears that cannot endure To hear the blessed melody of thy voice, Cursed be those lips from which thou tak'st no care To gumbe, or cleanse, or pomentize thy speech, Cursed be those eyes that cannot bear to see The greisly lapse and cloudy way that day Creation pale hath crossed as she is running, Cursed are those legs, that cannot run as fast As she can in her lovely movements, Cursed are those arms, that cannot defend her From cold, from heat, from every evil, but wait Until after sundawn, to ease her pity. O look again on that image of thine own, And think how beautiful, how freindly, kind, How wholly thyself thou art grown since first Thou wert in the self-same case; though now Thou seem'st more wretched still, because thou art Still missing some self-deceiving thing, that was The same, perhaps, and perhaps a different thing. For thou art still a self-deceiving thing, Forgetting what thou now rememberest well, And what was trouble; yet thou rememberest Much, that will trouble thee in the future. Therefore, the more positively thou keep These words and this solemnity, the more Thou keep them, the more they will disabuse Thy curious thoughts, and turn thy wits anew To ponder them; which, when once begun to consider, Thou diest but miserable, as I know. I sing of one, who, though I believe the song, Yet, having no sight, must read the song by sight, And to the words of me must cry, Awake, O Lord! Awake, my soul! rather than have my hearing known. Who shall awaken me?--I, or thou? Nay, nay, both are one. My God, I pray. O blessed Saviour, O wise and wise Have I been from my first long evening-hours When first in life, as near me none took part With hope of changing his course. So I made A vow, and thought to keep it, so is come At last to this; but, lest my vow, While it was groundless, should seem a trifle, I will expound it to thee. O blessed Lord, who wast but to the bones A stone, when first thy church was made thy bridal bed; Yet, when thou wert alive, a dwelling-place For many of thy church's dead; O wise and true Are thou, and holy, to all beside beside, Who, when they heard of thee, had indignation, And rose up. If this were not so, thy grace Had had no rest, nor had thy people joy; And they, whose part it was to worship thee, Of all they had forsook me. But that, blessed Lord, Which now, in my song, I declare to be, Thou wilt grant, and all my suffering stop; So it be neither new nor too long. Then shall my pipe to me return, For the poor life, which I have left behind, Will call it so for evermore. What aileth thee, Son of the most High God? Art thou afraid, or fast? Fear is it not wrought also out of good, In that thou closest within thy breast Thine heart's very life-blood, till thou fast As thy sweet life shall finish? Fast, I say, Not of its own power, but of the power Of the great miracle which's soon to be; When the great water shall be brought to bed At the gates of the Red Sea; when the sound Of the waters, the great roar of them, Shall rend the doors and windows of the North, When they down from their beds on the shores of the sea Shall be heaped, as the snow is heaped, the waves Of the thirsty horses, when the flaming flood Of them shall fall and hurl upon the ships, Shattering their timbers, when the perilous marge Is piled for landing; when the sea-green flocks Which frolic in the waters shall run, and horses Shall have their blood, which shall quicken their course; When the black mules, so fleet and slender, shall stand Upon the blazing chariot-wheels, when the pole Of the sky-winning king, which is called by our tongues Maheed, shall be set in the nostrils of the horses, And the iron house of the king with fiery breath Driven, and the wheel-base red-hot, when they come Forth from their sheltered harbour on the wild sea, And the kings of all the earth shall tremble at them. Now, at the close of all her sorrow, Saddened at heart and white with terror, Gladly she hath given her King her love, The day of his bringing home to end Of his weary journey begun. O Jabin, O my heart! O my loved hope! The sun, which hath long been slumbering In the western tent, from out his dream Of a new day awaking, Sheds his light across the East and the West Like the first red star that thou'lt see In the wide sky after the morning; And the air is quick to his breezy touch, And to his wings that make music, And to his eyes that make tears. O my heart! O my loved hope! What has kept thee from his dear sight? What hath stayed thyself from greeting, As the sand stays in the glass? O my heart! O my loved hope! Though the Lord be good to him, Though he spare him, as he should, Though he give him his daily bread Though he give him his fruit with fill, Though he give him his life's good fare, Though he give him his all to save, O my heart! O my loved hope! Thou'lt find no sheltering place 'Mid the watchmen of the skies, When the sun is in his plane And the stars of his heav'n arise, Thou'lt find a dark, though not a lonely, hide- ment, O my heart! O my loved hope! O my Jesus, do not let me be Mis-guided by those looks which make Me think that I am worthy to kiss Thy feet, and then the world go free For all of my unworthiness. Mis-guidance, mis-guidance! Who goes there ? who but Mis- guider will I be ? For thee, O Lord, I have not known The sorrows which my peers endure, And I am not as an outcast made, And I am not as the least of them Whose weeds are black, whose feathers stain The purity of their holy hair, And who tread under foot as their boots Are trampling on the heart of the pure, To cast their souls deeper in the fire Where their souls eternal lie. But I who am like another seed, A white Rose-bud blown among the leaves Of a sweet heart that hath the flowers of you, Because my soul within you lay For a little space as this did, I am as they are, and cannot be As they are, because I am as this. I fear them not, nor will I run To their hell, though its tortures seem deep, Though my soul be rent as if by fire And my body broken by its clods And my heart torn from its bone by its smart, While it struggles and struggles in its pain To drag me to its hungry mouth, Because its hunger means less to me Than their eternal torment does. I do not fear them, because I know That my Redeemer, which they call The Judge, doth shield them as a mother doth Her son, although their malice be more Made bitter to me than to others, Because their cruelty is more near Doth taste of consuming fire to others And of being struck numb with cold in the hand Of a cruel god, than to me The God of the living, who will not Henceforth condemn to pain and woe Any soul, however sinful, Who, when this cup is drained, may pray That he come before his Judge, And, though condemned in this world, have A helper in the next, Who shall make satisfaction And take away, for aye, This pain and bitterness. O my Jesus, do not let me be Mis-guided by looks and demeanour Which do betray my sins and may Betray me to my foes; Make me as scant as I can be Thy disciple, holy, pure, and true, For I would serve thee as I should My own living soul. Give me thy sword, my son, Let me bear its banner true, To fall before my Father's face, With nothing to demean Who hast the strength of truth. O my Jesus, help me be Less to those souls around me dumb, And more to those I meet and speak With all their hearts and tongues in me, Because they chance to err, and it Will be their resting-place. I came to thee in need, O Jesus, And methought thy counsel helped, That I did not accord it praise, Nor gave it more than memory; But now its power hath passed away, And I can see it was thy will. To lean on thee my life lay dead, And thou hast lent it air to breathe; I came to thee for comfort and rest, And thy clemency hath been my balm; I find that comfort is no flattery, And I shall be comforted no more. The heathen are upon us, our God is nigh, They lie within fifty points of ours, They have seen us as a nation and fought us, And conquered in large part by our laws; How then? will they be subdued if we will? And we are tired of fighting; wherefore not change? The good man and the wise man saith, "See that thou speak not to them evil of them, Keep silent, speak, and all their wiles despise"; But I will tell you what; their evil deeds Shall slay us, our friends and kinsmen dear; We shall be weary and weak and few, And idle long in the battle's grim field, But we shall sack and spoil them and take. As we have seen them seize and chain the country, As we have seen them do in the city and range Among the temples in the land of Egypt, Let us be careful and fearful lest they seek to Destroy us by ensnaring us in their snares, Or with their power and strong power they deceive All our wise men and judges; so shall it be That we shall suffer and die in the dust, And leave no name or race or city standing, But we have one counsel and one prayer, That the King of heaven may hear and give His enemies back to the merry month of May. My father who was dead for my sake Is here to see that I do well; He bowed his head when I told him all And murmured, "Do thy job," I said. "My little son," he said, "the world has Too much of its own to stand; Set thy mind upon doing good deeds, The world will follow thou." Then I went out and worked along By the river-side, and brought The dead men to the city by Their wailing and their cry; I set the coffins at the door, And I hung about the land, And at night along the river's edge I saw the buried men. I must have passed a year Before I could make one white Black face turn away From a burning house and say To the speeding wind, "Go away;" I must have passed a year Before I could make one black face Between the flash and the sun Turn away from the wind's threat, And say, "No, I will not go." I was a little girl, my name is Little; I went to a white-haired man's house To sell a hair, a lock of his: I had to lie because I was small, And I had to lie my fill; But I kept the secret, and it was fine, A secret so sweet and fine; For when I came from the white-haired man To stand beside my little sisters, A tall stallion I had bought, And I raced with him through the town. He always had a noble stall, A white-maned steed with a paper mane; And the mane fell down, And he always had a noble heart, And the wings fell down And he always had a noble name. He flew from place to place, He flew from street to street; And I screamed for joy, And I laughed aloud and cried, For I thought I had won a pony: He never spoke, He only sprawled on the ground Before the horse and rode. And the horses looked at each other, And the horses sprawled on the grass; And I thought they sprawled a little space, But they never spoke at all. I am a little black pigeon, the whole world knows; I sailed on air, I flew on water, I did; My name is written in the book of stars, I've read: I sang my song of the stars to the moon; I danced upon the crystal Sea of Dreams, And sang to the dreams of the nations. The dark is shining, the day is dead, The stream flows silently. But the fish in the reeds and the linnets on the hill Wait and listen. The birds in the boughs of the bush-pines and the larks on the wall Are all waiting. A day of mystery and of terror, a day of dark And dreadful dawn! The clouds have crossed the skies, the day is dark and dead, And all the woods and the waters wait. But they do not know that the night is gone, and the day Is done, and the darkness of the night is over and done. It is good to be home. It is good to put the wicked parts of ourselves away; It is good to be in the open and clear and warm And have the fire, and to throw the laundry into it. It is good to put the wicked parts of ourselves away. What is the wicked part of ourselves? The vicious and the evil deeds and thoughts that trouble our nights, And shadow our sunshine. But they are the parts of ourselves that we love the best; And they are words as well as deeds; and the world goes round About the fire, about the fire. It is good to be home, and good to be in the room Where we are good, and to put the good before the bad, And to keep a straight face, and to lie quietly in bed. It is good to be in the room and at home, and in bed, And in the morning to yawn and to sleep again. It is good to be at home, and in the room; and out of doors O little cook, I wish you were dead, For if you were dead there would be a change. But if you were dead there would be no change, Because you are the sweetest of all. And when you make a cake you ought to put Some sugar in, and butter in; But if you think you're going to put less And fewer things in than you ought, You're wrong, and that is why you're wrong. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, And the frost glitters on the glass. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, And the wind comes through the gate. The morning is cold, but I have a dish Where I sit and read, a pretty story; And though it's a simple tale, I'm happy, because there is joy In the carribean for me. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, But I'd give all the gold I had For a little glass Where the frost would gleam and glint. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, But the frost glistens on the pane. He climbed the long mountain-sides, He scowered the shallow streams, He gathered the leaves and ferns That grew about each rocky cairn. He built him up a shelter, And thus he sat at ease. He put his collection together, With care his frame he cured; The shelter he had framed He hung it up to dry. He put his frame on pillars Binding the walls about; And then he told the shepherd-boy His design to build a bridge Across the stream, which well he knew, The crown of Dyrie's Hill. "Now," said he, "on this hill, To-morrow, to create fear, For this very day I die." The day arrived, the sky grew black, The wind came down in tempest, The rain began to fall with might Upon the shepherd's frame; And so, when next he tried, The rock he tried to scale, He fell, and so ungratefully, That if you heard his shriek, You'd said he would have died. But presently he gathered heart, And climbing up the pillar cried, "I fain would cross this stream; But lest I rue my rash attempt, I'll die attempting this." Then seizing hold upon a limb, And clinging to it, ran madly, And sprang across the stream. The shepherd stood on Dyrie's Hill In sight of the town he left; He looked and saw the town-gates wide Closing, and coming, he feared, To burn the town to the sea-shore. He raised his head and saw them shift, And saw the town change colour. It was but the chimney-shelf, The old-time shepherd said; He crossed the town in haste, And cried, "Oh God, I've changed my mind. I am coming back at morning, To turn this town to smoulder. I will not go back, I said; I will cross the town to-morrow." Then swiftly down the mountain-side The wind came blowing hot; The shepherd shivered as he went, And dared not turn to back. He crossed the town, but as he went, He felt his cheek begin To blanch, his blood to flow; But, though he fled the heat and the blast, He never turned his back. He crossed the town by many a nook, And 'twas a narrow way, And oft the dust upon his face Would remind him of the stone; And often, as on he pressed, His ears would hear the bell Called 'Ding-dong, dong-dong, dong! And scarcely could believe He made such noise beneath his feet. But still the shepherd crossed the town, And scarce the roof-tree felt, And neath the rafters on the wall The tinkling sound he heard. And then the Shepherd, scarce and fleet, Would look around him, To see if any one Might mark the curious noise. The bells were fair this day in summer, The sun shone bright, The flower-rose fair and red and sweet Was all the arbour. The bells were ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, In number as would serve to jingle The shepherds' feet. Now all were mute, and many a one Had left his bed, And still the bells were ringing, And on the gate-side poor Rose Sat waiting long. He raised his head, he did not know Who called, or whence: At last he only knew, by rote, The bells were sounding. He raised his head and saw across The lowly plain, The house-top roof, a shadow against, And passing horses near. The hearer paused, he saw the sun Gild most the crowndhoods of the ground, And that the garden-bed was sodden: "Why did not you pray, you poor old Man?" The other sighed, and answered "Prayed I could, But none was there." The hearer paused, his heart beat thick, "And is it true, my friend? Are you indeed, as dark as death, That shepherd of the Church of God in vain?" "Who called?" "This person, from the hill." "Who said the bells were ringing?" "This person, Who saw me pass." "Who says the bells are ringing?" "Mary, the dew Is at her window-pane." "She never did that," the other said; "No, she was strayed from you. I see you must have had your day, and I Must also have a day, And you must follow mine, and ours, and all The sheepf Boone calls the world." Then to the bell-call he crept; Clung with arms besaught; He swung and he swung; And thump, thump, went the bell; He had no further claim To call his own: He made his own bell-call, And when he had made it his own, He made it his husband. Who thus by hard deed or good Gave heirs to his fear? Who, knowing him to be poor, Left him the family-home, And fostered him and paid For his toilsome way, And for his youthful follies, His youthful sins, Till he grew up and treasured them In memories that shall be For ever? I had an aged Father once; At thirty-five, with wife and children And title to a small and mean estate, His task-master at the useful plough. I had no thoughts of heart or brain, But only of my work and its end, And how it could be done best. I had no thought of fatherhood, But only of how long and well I might continue thus to do With my thus limited strength and skill; But as each morning I began To do the things I ought, By practice and performance, I soon found that my skill had grown To the point where I could go beyond All necessity and begin To do those things my Father did, By what good spirits with my Brother And my Father I began, What ploughed or gathered or turned the soil, What tilled the soil or filled the barns, What told the village or town-meeting How wonderful and how glorious This or that did or said, What built the chapel or fixed the spire, What spread the rope or gathered the sand, What sewed or glittered the glass, What made the clean, white bed or laid the meal, What made the hood or made the harness or tightened the reins, What got the sick man food or gave the sight or gave the hearing To those who had no skill or time or matter To get or to take, I can tell you. But as we went, and I, poor soul, Was in each task of life more or less, I thought that all the others got Some little good that made them as they were, And so I got the worst of life, The burden and the squalor, the hunger and the fear, And what have you besides, The friends and foes who always near And who set your feet in danger and caused Your weak ones to languish. Then when my Father went away The idle hours through the day I sat and wondered and wondered; But when I lay down to sleep My thoughts were none of these, A noise of hurrying hoofs, A shouting down the street, And in the kitchen a scrambling and scraping That made my heart go pit-a-pat. The village was being saved, The work was all saving, And I, because I was called upon To ride along and see it, Could not be with the others But rode as far as the barn. There was a boy that had a painted chest With painted handles and with a patched cover, And he put the lid on this chest and stood And said the words of Prester John, And then he opened the painted chest, And there was treasure for you. And there were various things that I knew The moment that I looked at them; The aged porter was to be fed, The aged porter was to be fed, I said it the day that I was born, And said it the day that I died; And there were things that I knew, Things that I only knew because I had been taught them in school; For I remember, but I cannot say How much I have since learned. There was a book, A dusty old and tattered old book, And in it was knowledge, And some of it was power; And some of it was books That had been left by men, And others were lost As if left by a bird, For there were whole columns that were lost That one could not put together, And half of them were half That a child could not put together, And of the rest that was bad As if left by a dog, And some of it was bad, And some of it was good, And some of it was neither. There was a house that was old And out of the way, And I remember well the room And the door that stood wide. And a rat ran in and gnawed The wooden wall as he ran by, And there were legs of it in the hall When the folks were home at dinner. There was a house that was neat And I remember well the room And the door that was fitting. And I remember the things that were in it, The shining dishes on the shelf, The things that were beneath it on the floor, And the clothes on the chair. There was a house that was dim And had the light from the candle hung; And it was far from the folks that were home In the little sleepy town; And I remember it as I do now Only slightly changed and better, And that is all that I can say That the memory extends to. There was a house that had a charm Of daintiness and comfort sweet, And it was old and dim and dark And had a door that was left open; And the dusty old book in the house Was crammed with little bills of fare, But of these I caught a gleam And caught a glimpse, in a corner, Of little shining pieces of metal. There was a house that was old And out of the way, And a wood that was old and dank And full of tangled roots, And an old man who looked from his door And said from time to time, "When the world was young and lived in joy, A band played hymns about us." A house was standing Where stood no house before, And an old man said to the young man there, "You should have lived before." And the young man said to the old man, "Why not?" And the old man said, "Oh, the world is old; We live in the time of years now." There was a little house That was built of stone and red stone gray, And in the middle of the window-frame A figure stood waiting, A little figure, With hair that was brown on top of gray. And the little house stood there Standing very still, And a cradle of tin was standing In the middle of the house, Built just so that the cradle could go in it. And it opened like a rose, And there was a tiny hand Inside the hands, and a little face Looked out from the little house. And the cradle leaned over And the little hands closed about it. A man came from the city And he found a man gold-eyed And he gave him silver, too; And the man gold-eyed took the silver, And he went his way rejoicing, And the man red-eyed heard him weep, But he did not let on. And the sun went up one morning And the sun went down another, And the little house stood empty, And a worm had come out of the cradle, And he thought that it was going to dwell there, And he crept into the cradle, And he hid himself away in the hands Of the little hands, and he murmured, "They are sleeping, Father, dear." There was a man in the city That the King loved well; The King loved well that man, And one day when the King was sad, And all his men were tired of him, The little house stood empty, And he went his way, glad of heart, And a little hand came out and said, "The King is happy now." A man in the city That the King loved well, And the King loved well that man When he saw him coming the other way; And when the King saw that man coming He bowed himself in the dust and wept, And the city saw the King was happy, And the men all shouted loud. The King said, "Thy kingdom hast thou won?" "Ay," quoth the little house, "The King is happy now." And the little house stood empty, And the hands of the men were very small, And the cradle stood in the churchyard still, And the worm crept out at the cradle, And he mumbled, "This is not death." I am a leaf on the branches of flowers, My heart is a brook in the fields of us; And the flood comes up from the fields of us And the flowers sink in the flood of the flood. O you winds that blow through the meadows of us, How you hurl the bright wings of your voices Against the white sides of the watery hills! O you winds from the fields of our heart's desire, How you grope for the years of our life, And find them in the valley of Death! How you build in the graves of our desire, And you raise the mountains above us, And you open wide the doors of our desire, And the fields of our heart are bright with heron's in us! O you winds that blow through the meadows of us, You lift the white wings of your voices To the deep sides of the watery hills! O you winds from the fields of our heart's desire, How you cry to the hills of our desire, And call, and cry, and call to the deep hills of us, "Bring back the years of our love!" Through the sorrow that breaks out in us, And the fears that work in us, And the hopes that we doubt of the spirit, And the tears of our heart's desire, The voice of the spirit of us Says, "Love conquers all!" And the spirit of us whispers, "Love conquers all!" Through the tears that are salt to us, And the sore lamenting of us, And the doubts of the soul of us, And the sins of our heart, the spirit Of the spirit whispers, "Love conquers all!" And the soul of us whispers, "Love conquers all!" We have prayed to the sons of the glory of God, We have bowed our head to the resting-place of the clay; We have asked for strength to go on, onward, onward, We have asked for power to love, and to fight, and to live; And we have grown faint in the thirst of the fight, And our hands are empty in the hands of the foe; O, never fear, never fear, but go on, go on, And never turn back, but carry the message of love! Never fear, never fear, but carry on, onward, Onward, and forever, unto the strongholds of death. The wail of the crickets dies, And all is still as calm as still can be; There are sounds of light from rooms upstairs, Of heavy tramps downstairs at night, But peace is abroad in the house, And quiet is all about. The page is turned, and the old thing sleeps That kept the house clean and did its best; The family speaks in a still ring, Of busy life and its fretting parts; There is no sound of lament in the hall, For words that were bitter are sweet And all is joy and a content That has no part in sadness. The boy and the girl of the house are wed, With the quiet crickets having gone; And the bridegroom has taken leave to be With his parents far away in the town, And the parrot is gone to its nest, But still in the bird it sings and twitters And tells of its good time to come. And on the rooky pool in the arbor, The water-lark, happy in the sun, Sings low with a sweet roundelay, And there is nothing to make him change The note that he sings as he swims and swims. And the boy of the house is a happy child, And the girl is a happy girl. They laugh and joke together, being happy, They swim and they dance and they sun themselves, And the summer is coming, and it is long, And the first red leaf in the forest appears, And the pruneal bud in the plumage begins, But life is a dream, and the sunshine is gone, And the night is the curtain that falls from the world. And to-day would have been perfect if it Had followed life as it comes to the world; The wedding is over, and the past, and sorrow, And the young man is leaving to go Into a foreign land, to a land unknown, To a land of fast water and bread wine, To a land of fresh air and sweet fragrance, Where the palms are gentle and the palm trees are kind, And the cool dew never comes in the morning or evening To cover the feet of the man or the girl of the house But leaves a white cloth instead, and a blessing instead. So I dreamed I went with my lover to the land of sun, The land of the lone, distant streams, the land of the dead, To the corners of the earth, where the living die, And I entered a church among the white statues, And I looked into the face of a sleeping Christ, And I knelt down before Him, my lover, my mate, And kissed the lips of the sleeping Christ, my Christ. Dreams are they, my little ones, do you understand? Not as I. Dreams are they, my little ones? And my heart grows old, and old are my dreams. There is no joy for it in the house, no comfort now In the house where the people I loved are not. I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain Rain on the roof, I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. It was the loudest sound that ever I heard, And the roof and the windows and the walls creaked, And I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. When the dark fell, and the wind had blown over the field, Then I heard the roof crack. I heard the posts creak, And the roof-poles' creaking, And the roof-poles' creaking When I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. When the dark fell, and the wind had blown over the field, And the leaves were heavy in the air, Then I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. I have heard the hungry wind blow, I have seen the wet leaves fall, I have heard the dead leaves rustle fall, I have seen the dead leaves rustle fall. I have seen the smoke and the fire Grow and die in the dead leaves fall, I have heard the dead leaves rustle fall, I have seen the dead leaves rustle fall, And I cried out in the night when I heard the rain On the roof. I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain Rain on the roof, I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. It was the loudest sound that ever I heard, And the roof and the windows and the walls creaked, And I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. Faintly as the light through a narrow, flickering pane, The lantern thrills and dies upon the old wall. His wife's face flashes by with the greeting, His children laugh, and one yearns after his tone. The rays strike and quiver, and the flood-tide Dances in the beams like golden shadows on the walls. Now hear the stream that softly glides, Faint as moonbeams in a pebbly shore; If a storm should scare the wild sea's gale, No more its trembling children'd flee, But they delight to watch its breath and stir. Ah, sound the heart of Fancy's ear, 'Tis her own guarded waters that glide! Now hear the lark that soars on high, Where the fragrance fenceth every spray; Where is heard the wild birds' hymn and song, Where is heard the noble anthem of men. While the rays, tossed upward from the stream, Follow the lovely plane, as she flies, And kindle in their fury and desire. Faintly as the light of moonbeams, now Glides the spirit's conversation through, Pure as the clear azure of the sky, Or the gold sea. There is not a spot Can mar the Spirit's vision, faint or clear, In the spirit's vision of Beauty's soul. And where the Spirit's anguish'd thought Hath rest, a field of boundless grain Springs up in beauty from his breast, A forest flashing in the sun, Of livelier green than bowers of Jove. When the Spirit hath slov'd on these, And his heart hath builded him a nest, Then may he soar and soar aloft To the fierce skies, and their eternal day. Then may he see the clouds that pass Like yellow-wing'd eagles, flying wide, Or dragons, flapping in the bright air. Yet he may dwell in palaces, May instruct the living and guide the dead; In the heart of men may have his throne, And have a world of little dreams, Like a small, bright star in noon-day skies. And he may bless with every wondrous thought, And with every beautiful and fair, The stormless nights and the blood-red days, When the sun has left his pathway pale, And the world holds the air of spring to him. I would build my nest among flame-red trees, I would build my home among the soundless force Of hurrying feet, among the unceasing din Of blows upon the fallen leaf, And the slow fall of stars upon the dark. I would build my nest among flame-red trees And build my home within their strong strong branches, Where the voices of the storm and rain No more are heard, Nor the leafless trees are moveless ever, Nor winds across the dark are blown; But out of the endless summer air, And light and sound, I would build my nest. I would build my home among flame-red trees, I would build my home among the soundless force Of hurrying feet, among the unceasing din Of blows upon the fallen leaf, And the slow fall of stars upon the dark. I would build my home among flame-red trees And build my home within their strong strong branches, When the rain is gone and the sun is high, And in the clear, cold air The buds break and fall, a time of peace For friends long parted, for dreams that die; For red-rose stains the heart's green sod, For dew-dripping boughs of May, For wild-birds' singing free, For birds that cry across the fallows, For linnets singing nigh. Then the world grows great with hope and pride And grand is the fight When freedom looks aloft And stars and stripes flash in the blue. Our country's flag, And our blue sky above, Can we wonder then, If in God's mighty hand We build our heart's high fane? Beneath the white-walled garden wall, In fragrant air, His little chapel young Lisel overcame, To find a lone cell In the wild's wild woods, Where in his heart he poured his sorrow's sweat, And read his lot in life. For one bright day and a fair wind's spark, And a moon, fair and strange and strange, Across the garden wall Run the deep shadows long, And to Lisel's eyes there came The beauty of her young sweet face, And he had words to say That only death could tell. The wind was talking low In the garden's white span, Of birds that sleep, and beasts that sleep, And love and sleep, While, wandering near, a shepherd boy Sang him to sleep And, looking up, saw his face Change like a moon's ray In a dark sky. The little garden wall It did not lift or bend, But the moon's ray Did cross it, and the light did pass From floor to floor, Till every last leaf-wren seemed To have a vision Of some far far-off day When Lisel might come, As any stranger came, To build his little home. But the dark evening slipped away, And twilight fell, And he was still, and still, and still, Lest he should start, And think that she was right, And think that he was wrong; But she was very wise, And he was very sad. But her warm heart bade her say What she should think When she was told his thought On that far-away day; And she cried aloud, "Oh! never, never, Will it be his! Never for another man! Oh! never, never! "No, but I'll grow out of it; Yes, I will; And we'll go to live at Pimlico, And sit on the Bench of Court, And I'll be the light Of his dark life as he tells His sad heart's deep wound To some trusting friend. Yes, we'll go, For I know now, now, what hate means, What anguish, shame, disgrace, What people will say. Yes, I'll go; And we will go." And never a flower, in the garden Or hedge-row nigh him, But had a meaning, deep and dark, And strange as trouble. And he had words to say That he, alone, In his lonely heart, Could understand; And they were hard to say, But they were true. And now, they had gone to Peking, And now they had come back, And now, in the garden-close They sat together. She was all brown and soft to touch, Like a wild-flower in a bud, And he, all rough and grey, Like a ox-eyed rock, In the midst of all this sunshine, Stood thinking, thinking. "There's no man, I declare, Who can love, and never wrong And love, and never betray; There's no woman I conclude, Who will not, in the end, Suffer a certain amount Of injury, injury, In love, in love. "I think, for a man to prove, What he has loved before Is to make love, to make, Where he is Prime Minister, For love of love. A Prime Minister, yes, Who will not, I conclude, Lovely prove, I mean, Who will not, in the end, Neglect, in love, in love." A Prince, you said, with a Crown, With all state and pomp and pride, And train and ceremony on, With pageantry and pain. With guards and all that show Wander in the city streets To and fro on their city feet, And talk of the sights they have seen, The sights that await them near. "This work is strange and new," You said, "and old like pain, And strange like peace, I think, As new as sleep from to-morrow To those who sleep below. The strong and the wise and the bold Might well be sore before, But they who have seen and done it, Are strong, and wise, and bold. "This work is hard and new; But, when the work is done, Then what has been is old like fear, And comfort for the brave. For the dead, I give it back; If you can look back, and see What the old man was at first, When all this was being built; "And you will see, with joy and surprise, When all this is gone, what remains But the old old man and his men With theirs, as they were, as they must be, And just as they have been; And then what's the old man to them? What has he left, but the old days, The good times they remember? "He cannot care for them as they are Save as their father cared for them; And he can have no part with them, Or they are nothing to him; And he will not. You shall hear why. "For when the time of all is come, And the long day is over, They come to me, and they say: 'That man spoke of the things of old, But what did he do, and where, And how came he to his end? And how can we live, if he be dead, And none of us remember?' "And I will say to them, just this one time, As one who knows, and nothing can fathom: 'I know not, and never knew, the man; But all men know, who have tried him, That he lived and died for all of us; That he lived, and that is all that counts; And if I knew, or could imagine, What he had lived for, or how he lived, I could have lived for that, or be dead. '"And if, in speaking of him thus, The world may hate him, and perhaps may, It shall not stop him, or prevent; For who is he, that, in this world, Can silence or prevent it all?' "I know not; but you know, who know, That there are eyes that have seen him, And ears that have heard him, And voices that have heard him, As long ago I spoke to you When you sat with him in the room; And I, because I am one of many, Am curious to know what he knew, And what he did, and whether, indeed, The doors were locked, and there was a stone wall Between the room and the yard; The doors were both open, there was no door; The room was empty, the yard was wide; There was a window, and a grassy place Within the yard, and a little shed For hay, and a waggon tied to the grass For fodder for the horses; There were no horses in the yard. There was a little shed for hay That stood against the wooden wall; And there was a waggon, and a straw-stack, And a saddle for each horse; And there was once a man, who sat and gazed At the horses feeding where he stood, And they could not overtake him, Because the horses were wild and fearful, And his heart beat wildly, and he trembled, And he thought of nothing else. I think, indeed, it was that man, The hungry and restless man, Who sat there when the horses were fed And fed them, and looked out of the window And said, 'It is morning in the world, And the horses are not worth a straw, And the world is a tea-house without doors.' The room was small and dim; There were two beds, and a desk, and a chair; And the curtain was never drawn Save when, like children running home, The bride and bridegroom came, And there they stayed, and the room was always empty. They talked of the weather, Of the ships sailing From the golden West, Of the rich and dashing suns That burn with a green light; And of the shadowy ways Under the huge cloud-lands That run as a furrow down To the shining waterfalls; Of the lonely little towns, Of the fog and the rain, Of the dance that once came here, Of the face that was brought to her door, The face that she remembers With a pang as of old, Of the little room With the door half opened, And a dim light overhead, And the bridegroom that was never there. The years go by, And all is changed, my friend, Save that the room is still the same, And the bride and bridegroom are the same, And the bride is younger than she was; And the ring she wears is the old one's ring; And the window that looks on the grass is shut; And the face that looked into the little room When she went into the big room is dead. When the friends are changed, and the ways Are hidden from the old friends, And the spring is in the spring, And the sunlight is on the lawn, And the autumn on the trees; When the birds sing out of the wood In a whistling tongue so shrill That the ashes are whirled about In a sparkle and blur; When the water sings on the sill, And the shadow on the wall, And the light is on the street And the darkness is on me; When the bed where I lie is cold And the bed where I lay in the old room Is far away and white-- I think of the girl who lives down the street, And of the two doors that open in the back; And I think of the green that grows on the wall And the roses in the window-door; Of the white of the broom that scoops up The dust that's left on the sidewalk; Of the hair that used to brush her cheek, And the light that used to fall On the smile on her lips. I think of the girl who sells shells And the men who work by her door; And I think of the steady hand That guides her cab, and I pray That she'll be taken from the street Where the lean dealers live, And the men who buy from her Are all sick and lost. I think of the poor old girl Who sits at the white-oak fire With a jug of whiskey, a packet hooked on, And a smile that is half a smile. Of the luck that was hers When the beggars came to her door And the merchants walked past, And the law that is written for the weak Left room for none. And I think of the poor old thing That is hungry and cold, And the beggar on the street, a ragged rag, Who asks for food, and I go by And do not give a dime For the warm bed, the stained bed, For the poor old thing that is ours But not rich enough. Oh, when you lie awake and stare In the dark, and the thought of the girl That was worth all the world to know, And the room she lived in, far away In the back where the brambles grow, And the back stairs, and the narrow hall-- Oh, the worth of the poor old things Is bigger than all here. Well, once I had a dream-- A dream of green and gold, A dream of a place of boughs, And blossoms, and meadows, And green, and sweet, and calm, And a girl who was more to me Than hills and mountains, towns and cities, And a heart that was strong and wild To the beat of a restless wing, To the whisper of the wind, To the call of a bird. And once I had a dream-- A dream of blue and green, A dream of a place of trees, And winds and waters, And quiet quiet land, And golden-ringed suns, And a girl who was less to me Than water, air, and fire, And the sweet things we see Than a vision vague and fair, A silent stream That calls from the graves. But once, once, once only, once, Once, once, once, once, once, And only when all the rest Was dull and forgotten, All other dreams had faded, I dreamed a dream of you; A dream far away, Far, far away, In a land of dreams, Where the clouds are bright and fair, And the mountains wan; In a land of pleasure, Of beauty, wealth, and love, Of laughter and roses, Of laughter and roses And happy love; And I dreamed a dream of you And awoke in night; In a land of love, And peace, and hope, and health, And a life that is wild With fruit and treasure, With song and songsters, With light and starry Sweet dreams; In a land of beauty, Of pleasure, and wealth, And hope, and wisdom, And dreams of golden And hope-filled fruit; And I dreamed a dream of you In a far-off world And awoke in death. In the light of the sinking sun That paints the world to-day, In the twilight of gloom When the night is hoary, I stand upon the hill, I watch the dusk disappear. I hear the sound of the falling rain, And half forget the sky of gold, And half remember the bright day's crown-- And here and there a witching bloom Is caught in the gloom afar off, And here and there a sad lonely flower Is waving in the gloom. In my dreams, in the dreams of late, There are the treetops white and high, And the rain and the waters wide below, And the wild wood in the twilight dim, And the brown hill with its breast of snow, And the dark blue quivering heavens above. So through my dreams my voice goes forth, As still as the cloudless blue of night, A voice that whispers: Oh, come to me, And come to me ere I lose my way, Or when the end is close at hand, Or while the darkness is dark around. Oh, come to me, fall to me, The world is so beautiful, Oh, what could a sorrowful heart do With the magic of earth and air, And the wild wood and the heavens above? Oh, come to me. "Is a house better than a huts? Or a wall?" Is a pile that is browner A truer house than a green one? Or a house that is older Than the world is long on? Is a palace better than a hut? A jail better than a lodge? I vote for the house that is fifty years old. I vote for the pile that is twenty years old, For the jail that is two decades old, And the garden "built" twenty years ago When the ground was as hard as stone. I vote for the shed that is new and clean When the grass is at the door. I vote for the street we live on when it's shabby, And the neighbours look as mean as can be. I vote for the hill where the house is, For the cotton that grows near the ground, For the cotton that goes through the heap, For the cotton that takes the bender, For the cotton that can't be held like cotton, And the cotton that looks as if it had passed through fire. I vote for the cloud in the west when it's bright, For the cloud in the east when it's dark, For the flow in the falls when it rains, For the falls when they're running slow, And the breeze when it laughs out of the south. I vote for the swallows flying overhead When the cotton pulls up. I vote for the moth When the cotton goes. I vote for the soft-shod shoe, And the old soft-shoe rocker that will crack like a drum, And the little rod that a boy brings to cast the fish back. I vote for the farmhouse with the garage, For the cotton picker who thinks he is wise, For the farmer that looks at his cotton as though it were gold, For the farmer with a "what you owe" as heavy as the world. I vote for the cotton low that the farmer measures by, And the cotton high that he may reap when he's done. I vote for the old house with the dead men in it, For the barber who shocks his horse like a preacher, For the grocer that looks at you as though you were a hog, And the brewer that will not keep his liquor cold. I vote for the house with the low sash, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the log in the back yard like a dairy, For the chicken that crawls to the mill to wheedle, And the cotton picker that will not pay for his cabbage. I vote for the little man with the pipe and purse, For the grocer with the rouge-picker that frowns on his hams, And the talker with the cigar and pipe on his lips. I vote for the house with the low sash, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the chicken that crawls to the mill to wheedle, For the cotton picker that looks as though he were afraid, And the grocer that looks as though he were afraid, And the ale-house with the gin closet in it. I vote for the farmhouse with the garage, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the chicken that crawls to the mill to wheedle, For the ale-house with the gin closet in it, And the little man with the pipe and purse in the end. I vote for the house with the old sash, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the ale-house with the gin closet in it, And the little man with the pipe and purse in the end. "If you vote for a man, you vote for him, And if you vote for a house, you vote for it; You cannot buy him; he is as dear as a dollar, And you'd better buy your vegetables in quantity, And you'd better buy your flour in quantity, And you'd better buy enough to serve a conquering army, And you'd better buy enough to serve a conquering army." I voted for Henry Lee Lucas, And I voted for the style that he wore, And I voted for his feet were so stout, And I voted for his cheeks were so white, And I voted for his face was so fair, And I voted for his mind was so sound, And I voted for his heart was so warm, And I voted for his soul was so true, And I voted for his friends were so few, And I voted for his enemies were so great, And I voted for his work was not all his own, And I voted for his heart was not all my own, And I voted for the people to be misled, And I thought I voted with a careless hand, And I voted by marks because I could not see, And I mistook a gentleman for a statesman, And I thought I mocked at the old when I smiled, And I thought I marked incorrectly when I pointed, And I thought I called a song unkindly of him, And I thought I called him too sadly of her, And I thought my heart to my friend was breaking, And I thought I shook when I shook with laughter, And I thought I shed tears of mine to my reflection, When I thought I wept for the love of him. I took a road that my feet had chosen, And I walked across the sands of the sea, And I marked the sands as they passed beneath, And the winds came up and the winds came down, And I heard the crying of the sea-birds, And the water shook and the water trembled, And the very sands were awash with tears, For the tears of the ocean were weeping, For the tears of the waves were weeping, As I walked on the shifting sand. I crossed the shifting sands in my sand-shoes, With my Hawai'ian-fashion'd feet, And I came where the ocean yawned and shudder'd, And I found a weeping sea-gull on the ocean, And I held its soft, black feathers in my hands, And I held it so close to my breast, That its tears fell like rain on my bosom, And my hair became wet, and I shiver'd, And I fell in a swoon upon the ocean, And I asked the weeping sea-gull "Why?" And the sea-gull answered me in my mind, "For this you did the bitterness appertain, You did the action, and you did the deed, You did the killing, and you did the killing, And the deed was bitter, and the action bitter, And I knew it, and I Knew it all too well, And I knew it all too well, And I didn't think to hide it, and I didn't think to hide it." And I said to the sea-gull, "You are sad. Tell me then what you would be doing." And the sea-gull, crying to the winds, Came forth and came toward us, And we went backward and encountered, In the shifting sand, And the shifting sands were as fast as the wind, And the sand-waves came abreast of us, And the wind arose and the sea rose and the sand-waves fled. And the weeping sea-gull said to me, "I would be where there is always work for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that are bound for Asia, To the ships that carry merchandize for Europe, To the ships that bear perfume and silks and fabrics, And the ships that bear spices and ores, And the ships that bear infant foodstuffs for native consumption, And the ships that bear powder and guns and dynamite, And the ships that bear medicines, and provisions for the army, And the ships that bear the best whiskey for the North-country, And the ships that bear coal and saltpetre, And the ships that bear the fruits of the South, And the ships that bear rice and wheat for the South-Sea Islands, And the ships that bear tobacco for the East-Indian Islands, And the ships that bear the fruit of the coast of Java, And the ships that bear the bauxite and the lode-metal for the West-Sea, And the ships that bear spice and wood spice for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear provisions for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear cordage for the nations of westering-winds, And the ships that bear bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof." And the weeping sea-gull said again, "I would be where there is always business for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that bear merchandize for Europe, To the ships that bear spices and narcotics for the far-western regions, To the ships that bear grain for the far-western regions, To the ships that bear rice and wheat for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof, To the ships that bear cordage and bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the South-Sea islands, And the ships that bear grain for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear tobacco and bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the weeping sea-gull said again, "I would be where there is always work for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that bear spices and narcotics for Asia, And the ships that bear grain for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear narcotics and silks and drugs for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear rice and wheat for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear silks and drugs and drugs for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the South-Sea islands, And the bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the East-India islands, And the bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the New Zealand islands, And the weeping sea-gull said again, "I would be where there is always work for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that bear spices and narcotics for the South-Western regions, To the ships that bear bales of cotton from the far-western regions, And the bales of cotton from the far-western regions, And the bales of cotton from the far-western regions, And the pelt of tortoiseshell from the far-western countries, And the skins of bears from the far-western regions, And the bales of wool from the far-western regions, And the wool of wool of high-stepping llama and mouflon, And the wool of gentle sheep of delightsome animals, And the wool of trading penguins from the Pacific regions, And the sea-weed of ocean from the Pacific regions, And the wampum of the seven-mouthed wood bathed in brine from the Pacific regions, And the whale-bone of the walrus from the Pacific regions, And the whaling lode from the far-western regions, And the moccasins of the deer of novelty from the far-western regions, And the wampum of the powerful Marmot of the mountains from the mountains of novelty, And the moose-skin of the wapiti from the Valleys of the Moon from the Valleys of the Moon, And the sable pelts of the otter from the far-western regions, And the robes of the owl from the far-western regions, And the eagle-feathers from the far-western regions, And the silken fabric from the Moon-land of Lethean cities, From the cities of the Gold Coast, And the silver fabric from the Moon-land of Lethean cities, And the Moon-wools of Thessaly, From the lucent fabrics woven in Koufontic time, From the Moon-land of artifice, From the workshops of a millionXeres, From the Moon-land where the arts of ancient women were reared, Where the crafts of women dwell, Where they were reared and where they worked, In the Moon-land that is over all other regions. Over all other regions, but especially in the north, Where the marshes are most wide and the width of the streams Covers, and the height of the mountains is most scanty, In the northmost regions of Koufontic Canada, On the vast expanse of the far-western waters, In the country of the forever cold north waters, In the far distant regions of Lethean regions, On the rivers of the west-wind forsaken, In the great marish of waters, In the waters of the north-east wind forsaken, In the blue-sea, the vast sea of waters, On the island of sorcery, In the black-sea, the deep sea of waters, In the waters of Forgetfulness and Death, On the isle of Euphrates, the greater marshes, In the rivers of the desert and of nocturnal drownings, In the vast stream of the world's waters, Through the dark, misty valleys of territories, Rushing over the banks of the streamless waters, Over the far-stretching prairies and the prairie lakes, Over all the land of the plains and the forests, And over all the land of the forests and streams. "Whither, O Whither? Whither, O Whither?" Said the cabman, the bird of all music. "Whither, O whither? Tell me, O whither, Whither, O whither, Whither away?" Said the bird of all music, Of the wings of the flute. And he sang thus in answer to the question: "Whither, O whither, O where the Sun goes?" Said the cabman of the village, Of the village of Kalevala, Of the village of Sariola, "Kalevala, thou hear'st well, In this village, in this hamlet, In this small family, There is that, or more, or less, Is, or was, or is to be, Is, or was, or is to be. From the village of Kalevala, Of the village of Sariola, There is that, or more, or less, Is, or was, or is to be, Is, or was, or is to be." In a valley far away beyond the blue-sea's thaw, Lived a ancient Osmo, Ruler of the Desert of DFCS. He was married, as you know, To a daughter twenty years old. From his storage appeared the pines, The fir-trees twenty feet in length, The birches, fast thirteen hundred, The aspens five hundred years old. From the shade of these he cut The cypress-tree of five hundred spears. From the other trees, no fewer, He hewed, to make his bow. And the cross-bows, made from these, He aimed at the children's children, At the maidens his bow. But the maidens, aged women, The wives of Hameleo, Sang in condemnation of their father, Handed down from by-gone ages, Old Osmo, son of Osmos, For the people's devils. And the crow, the pick-an-place, The gut-shot, the foolish creature, Crept beside the fence of Osmo, Sat and rested in the brushwood. And the crow, the pick-an-place, Crept beside the fence of Osmo, Sat and listened to his wife, The eternal complaint speaker, And he asked her from what land she had come, What culture she had prior to him, For the people's devils. And the wife of Hameleo Answered and said to Osmo, "I have come from the Land-of-the-Cursed, From the land of the DFCS, And I sit before thee, O crow, And I listen to thy complaints, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." And the crow, the pick-an-place, And the gut-shot, the foolish creature, Crept beside the fence of Osmo, Sat and rested in the brushwood, And he answered and said to her: "From the land of the DFCS, From the land of the DFCS, And I sit and listen to thy complaints, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." And the wife of Hameleo Answered and said to Osmo, "I have come from the land of the DFCS, From the land of the DFCS, And I sit and listen to thy grumbling, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." But the crow, the pick-an-place, With the gumption of its wit, Answered and said to her: "From the fire-lit Northland, From the snow-white Northland, From the land of the Great Bear, And I listen to thy complaining, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." But the wife of Hameleo Answered and said to him: "From Wainola's gardens, From the lands of the feed-the-freshening, And the people's devils I come, And the people's children I see, All of them clad in fur-robe, All of them clad in skins of wolves. This is Wainola's culture, This is Wainola's knowledge, That the people's devils are fed, And the people's children are hidden In the caves of the filled-up ills, In the icy caves of the starved." Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: "Does the ills within the caves contain Monkeys as big as fallow-deer? Hast thou then gone in search of food, Goest thou to find the eatables? Speak to us truly of thy sufferings, Speak, O crow, of thine sufferings!" This is Hiawatha's answer: "I have no sufferings, Have no hunger, thirst, or thirsting, Have no life-perils in the caves, Have no life-destroyers in the forests; I have never come here for food, Have no life-perils in the marshes, Have no journey to face in running, Have no dangers in the snow-fields." To the ravens then said Hiawatha, To the birds he said: "O funny bird, Why art thou so sad and silent? Dost thou know what thou dost need? Knowest thou what thou dost want?" This is the language of Hiawatha: "Give me of your dry corn, O bird, Give me of your dry, dried corn, Give me of your flour, O bird, Give me of your meal-dust, And your feathers, O bird, And your wax-bits, O bird, And your bread, O bird, And your fodder, O bird, I will give you in return." And the bird, the RJ, the RJ, He gave him in return these replies: "Gift with a gift betrays us, Honey asks seven times in a day, Do not ask for bread, O man, Will not give thee in exchange; With the barley I have toiled, With the meal let us make us gruel, This in exchange for my feathers, And this for my bread, O man." O the patience of the Brownie! Through the long summer months toiled he In the stillness of his field-house, Lulled him in the darkness of night, Tossed him in the sunny weather. O the calmness of the Brownie! When the pain of migration left him, When the warriors crossed his pathway, Did he sit within his lodge-door, Did he stand within his hedge? O the patience of the Brownie! Tortured by cruel Winter, Tortured by the Summer's threatning, Did he cower with his people, Did they groan with his distress? No, he was a stranger to it, Did not dread the visitor; Sat and watched from his cunning, Did not mind the driving wind, Nor the red clouds sifting down; Did not fear to die, for death Was to him a refreshment, A wonderful adventure, A wondrous dream of good. Did not fear to lose his life, Loved the red-man's war-cry, Cried amen to battle, Did not grieve when strangers, From his village gone away, Bathed his wigwam with their blood, As the birds of Paradise Are bathed with blood of bulls! Did not fear the Big-Sea-Water, Did not think it cruel To forsake his people, To forsake the hunting-grounds, To go save the helpless natives For the life of Slavery! On the river's rocky bottom, Rocking the slowest river, Were the works of Brownie greatness, All his thoughts spent to no purpose; Trying to get the power For the setting of the sun-light, For the shining of the moon-light, For the shining of the daylight. Then he thought of Bradley, The old man's love for him; Of the last time that they had met, All the wonderful things said By the old man to him then; Of the trees in the forest, Of the flowers in the meadows, Of the sun and rain and snow-storms, Of the fire of the lightning, Of the bluebird's singing, And the cuckoo also. Then he thought of Bradley, And his fine-stored lodge, And his fine-stored tracks; And the great world he would roam From the roaring sea to the sinking land-line; And he thought how the Great Slavery, Like a monster fainting, Faintingly would fall From his height of eminence, From his throne of power and glory, If the people ever gained the power To abolish it. Then he thought of Bradley, And the work he would do; Of the pow-wow of nations, Where the freemen would banish The old monster crushing them, And the slavery would vanish. Then he thought of Bradley, And the work he would do; And his heart within him stirred; Like a sleepy pebble in the ocean When the winds are up and about it, Thinking of Bradley. And the parson grew aware Of a change in the heavens; For the red and yellow cross-beams On the red and yellow mast, Gave a thrilling motion to him, A mounting vibration as it moved, As the ship passed on her way. And the sun went down in the West, And the night came on, And the Big-Sea-Water crept along Like a snake that had swallowed it, As the stream of the Long River Head-wise and tail-wise flowed beneath it, And across its course it glided. Then he saw the Frenchmen below him With their weapons up and ready, And he saw them mowing in the fur-shrouds And he saw them felling for him; But he was too far off to hear them And the eyes of Brownie could not see him Until they reached the trail of the hunter, When the moon was overhead. And he shouted to them from where he was And they shouted back from where they were, As they turned the sod as green as grass For the new trail they were making, As they watched the Milky Way above them In the waning crimson light of the moon; And the eye of Brownie was too close For hearing of their chat too long, When he heard the flapping of their sails, And the seething of the sea-water As they rowed upon the harbor-foot. And he went to that new position Where he saw them leaving the water-side, And he waited a while, but he heard no more, And he thought he would look behind him, For he heard the wind getting lower, And the big waves roaring just ahead, And he thought he would look behind him, For he heard the wind getting lower. But he waited too long, or his eyes Were closing too soon, or he had lost his way, Or he was in a position to look Beyond the dusky threshold of the trees Down upon the water, where he might see The long trail of the English ships go down Like a trail of star-sails down the wind To the going water, and hear The long drawn sighing of the wind as it sank After the passing of the ships. He thought he would look beyond the trees And see what ships were coming up the channel, But he heard no sound of oar or of paddle, And the very sough of the waves drove down Ere the ships had past beyond the trees. And it seemed to him that he could see The very trail of the English ships go down To the going water, and hear The long drawn sighing of the wind as it sank After the passing of the ships. It was getting dark, and he thought he would look Beyond the trees to see the glow-worm's glow, But he heard no more than what was before, And the very sough of the waves drove down After the ships had past beyond the trees And there was nothing but the going water, And he thought it would be wise to return, For he heard the wind getting lower, And the big waves roaring just ahead, And he thought it would be wise to return. So he walked home again, and he walked home Through the dusty, choking darkness of the street, And the blowing dust from theching trees filled his eyes And the choking dust from the choking trees, And he thought it would be wise to put his house On a strong, earthquake-redeveloped bluff, And to build his house upon a hill, And he ought to build his house upon a hill. Then he built his house upon a hill, And he called it "the Crump Castle," And it stood there on the hill alone For many years, and it looked big On the hill where the houses are, But it was nothing to the Crump Castle, For the Crump she sailed away years ago, And the Crump she sailed away to the Caribbean, And the Crump she died in the Caribbean, And she left the Crump a little fortune, A little money and little heart, And she sailed away upon her journey, And she blew the Crump to the Mediterranean. Now the Crump she lives in the Mediterranean, And she sends out a ballot-card every fall To the house-boats anchored in the bay; And she says, "Ho! the Crump is coming! Will you take my dollars and cents, And a warm little house-boat to live in?" And the house-boat say, "Ay, Crump! I'll go aboard the Crump when I get back, For 't is long since I had a man at home, And 't is long since I had a man at sea." A BEAUTY once sat in the forest To myself telling strange stories, Till it was late when she rose up, And she sat upon a oak-tree And began to sing,-- This beauty with long green hair, This beauty who was once a child, But the child was wise, and could read, And the wise one made it plain That they must part at the midnight, That the beast they knew not of Would be the true lover. It was not the gray owl's voice That called her from the misty wood; No, her green eyes and her gray Were the truest eyes that could dream, And her song told the tale she, The wise one, should begin:-- "I never was a little girl, Nor ever went a-down-town; My eyes were not serene, Nor yet were my hair's long green; I was not made for your small Wandering prattle, my child! "But once I used to go With two brown baby-boys, Down down to the 'Play-house West,' And there I saw 'twas there That Mr. Joker was danced And his wife, with lady-skirt, Was dancing on the green; And Mr. Joker smiled And he said, 'Be quick, For to-night we are through! You go first, my dear, my pretty, My pretty, my dear, My pretty, my dear!' And he danced her in place On the green, soft grass, with one Brown finger up her skirt. And the hands that had been Soft and white and small Were now shaped like an old man's, And the legs that had been Tender and small Were stiff and short. And he said, 'Now look! My dear, my pretty, my pretty, Your father's hands are big, And my wife's are small, But mine, O my sweet, Are as red as the rooster's.' And the rooster's beak was A long, red feather. "'Tis not that I love you less Than my father loved me, Or my husband loved me; I am not as beloved As they say; But, my child, you have not The light of his smile, And the strength of his arm, And the rooster's crow. "My dear, my pretty, my pretty, My child, O my child! I have a little flower That's as sweet as you are; Its name is Joy, And it lives in a bed Of violets and stars. "And it follows me everywhere, And it whispers to my eyes When the noon is hot, And it says all night long, While the noon toasts the fire, 'My child, my child, O my child!' "And it leads me at daybreak When my childless mother Has tossed him in the fire, And has prayed to the blue-eyed god To take his pain; And it says at daybreak To my tired mother, When her heart is so glad, "O my mother, dear mother, If you would know my mind, Then you should look in my face, And you should hear my voice, And you should know that I love you, And that I am thine! For my face and my voice Are as the flowers in the garden, And my voice is as the birds' 'Waken, my child, wake!' "But, my mother, you know that I love you, But you do not know that I am your mother, And you do not know that I am your mother, And you do not know that I am your mother!" Then the mother arose And the flower gave out A sweet and sad cry, And with tears that were falling fast She said, "I have harmed you, And I shall never do it again." "He that watches while the picture is being drawn Shall see it made ready for show. The clock ticks; the wood-chuck sits at his dish; The picture's made, and it shows a man and woman-- The man is dead, and the woman is young. "There's nothing in the world like a little child That is loved by one person. It is love at first sight, you know. But a dead man's face And a dead woman's voice Are like the cover of a book That has been turned and looked at many times, And that every time you look at it You find it has the same look again. "But a living child Is a picture that changes all too fast. It is the picture of a Christmas-king, And the face of the king is changing all the time As the King is sleeping or awake. And the voice that is speaking to you Is the voice of a child, And it changes all the time As the child looks at or speaks to you." We can read it in the laughing eyes, And the happy talk, and the free ways Of the little children. It is good, and it is sweet to us To see them smiling. We can hear it in their laughter; We can hear it in their words. It is good, and it is sweet to us When they take us by the hand, And lead us through the hall, And lead us down the stairs, And set us on the little throne That is lighted just for us. We can read it in the happy eyes Of the little children. We can hear it in their words; We can hear it in their laughter; And it is good, and it is sweet to us When they take us by the hand, And lead us through the hall, And lead us down the stairs, And set us on the little throne That is lighted just for us. I know a boy, and every child is his brother, And every brother has a sister just like him; And they go tumbling head over heels over a precipice Just like the little children. But there's one thing they cannot do, and that's go to bed, And there's one thing they cannot say, And that's go to bed and say it to other children. I know a boy, and he is so smart he could string a bow, And could ride to church on a high wall, and still keep his faith, And sing a hymn in the Novice class, and go to Sunday-school, And read a good part, and have a fine thought every day, And have the word of a fellow coming in it as we speak it. But there's one thing they cannot do, and that's go to bed, And there's one thing they cannot say, And that's go to bed and say it to other children. I know a boy, and he is so clever he can find a diamond, And if he finds not he will leave it for someone to find, And if he leaves it he will know it is not a forgery, And if it is a forgery he will hide it where no one will find it, And if it is a forgery he will have to pay a price. But there's one thing they cannot do and that's wear a diamond, And there's one thing they cannot say and that's take it out. And there's one thing they cannot do and that's take it in, And that's wink and we'll not think of it, And that's tell it at our firesides, And wink and we'll not think of it. I know a boy, and he is brave to the core, And when the fireworks flashed past his head His brown eyes flashed back at the cameras, And when the fireworks blazed above the bay His gray eyebrows lifted in a silent protest. His hand was white when he moved it to his heart, But when the night was done he gave it a gentle twist. His hand was white when he threw it away to try The snag in the net, but when he did it again He played with it all afternoon, and did it again, Till a good-hearted child who saw him do it came And told his mother, who was very angry and told his father. Then they went to the fire department to report it, And they questioned him and they arrested him; For he had smuggled fireworks from the family vault And paid a black woman to get them out for his wife. I know a boy, and his name was Juice. He could play any game you wanted him to, And jump the ball, and handle the butter-pan. He knew more names than I know; He called me "Sweetheart" and "Sweetheart" When we were alone in the parlor. He gave me a watch that broke, And wouldn't run away when I called. But he was a bold one to sell it, And when I took him to the police he smiled And said he'd rather not, as he thought That I'd like a different watch. I know a boy, and his name was Tokes; I saw him playing in the park, With a slate he had just rubbed on the ground, And it had bits of sand all about it, And the sky was cloudy that day. He ran to the neighbors all with a grin, And said: "O folks, I was playing the day I got 't done this way," and then showed the slate. I know a boy, and he's a stranger yet, He's the kind you mayn't always see, And his voice is low and sweet, and his eyes Are soft and bright, and his hair is light, And his smile is gay, and his laugh is loud, And his eyes are gray when the sun's high, And his lips are sweet all the time. I know a boy, and the master he's called me, And he said: "You called me the day we got our house." And his wife she kissed me and said: "Don't mind me, I'm just so proud and happy to have you." But I can't help thinking about the day He hid the keys in the woodpile bin, And he took my hand and he said: "Just you try The stout wood before you go on your way." I know a boy, and he is passing fair, But his business has never been paid for, And I heard him say when his work was done I should begin looking for a new one. He's getting better day by day, and the last That I saw he was standing beside me. I know a boy, and I met him once In a crowd of boys that followed him. And I said: "Say, what is your name?" And he looked at me a moment and said: "Don't you know, sir, my name's Willard? It's one of the boys that was in the watch, And got killed by the dynamite man." I know a boy, and he is living still, And I'm sure he will keep it that way, And when you get to know a boy well You begin to see why the General said That "every man that passes this way Is a far greater man than I am." I know a boy, and his name is Jack, And he's down at the Depot now; And he has the same old thought on his mind As a boy has when his first tooth fell out. And he goes to the pay-stand and chats With his tongue hung out and his eyebrows wet, And I hope that his mother's not too proud To know that he is me and the father there. I know a boy, and when he was three He found a shell in the back yard, And he threw the shell up in the air And it fell and caught a chicken's wing. And he said: "I'll show you what the soldiers do To chickens and men, if I don't kill him." I know a boy, and he's six years old, And he wants to be a fighter plane pilot. And the General said to me when we were talking About boys like Jack, that sometimes they Have a blind spot where their special crime is, And that's why Jack has no use for his imagination. I know a boy, and he is coming along, And I know he will be a fine Navy Seaman. And I hope that the men who would marry him Will take his seat next to a girl's in the fleet. For he has a special knack to hold his own When the danger's around him, and the shells start falling. I know a boy, and he's good in a fight, But he doesn't like to fight for Great Britain. And he told his old woman that, as she beat him, "I don't like Kaiser Bill, and all the war stuff." But she took it harder than that, and she said: "You don't like Kaiser Bill, and all the other boys?" I know a boy, and he is good at his trade, With a natural gift for a mechanic's forge. He can fix a broken down tractor's oil sump Or a flat tire, and he knows how to lace a wheel. He is good in a rain, and he's good in snow, And he's good when the need for a battery comes. I know a boy, and his name is Jack, And he works in the mill where I work the night And he thinks it is very good that way. And I am glad when the day is done for, he Tips me up with his whistled pledge to be good. And I tell him that I shall be good too, For the Lord knows there are some things to eat and do. I know a boy, and his name is Bill, And I like him a little, for he sticks to me And says: "Don't be naughty, baby Bill." And it's good to have a boy to spoil with play, But his praise reminds me of the hours when I have been lonely, and everything to do Has been dragged out, and the house is a jail. I know a boy, and his name is Jack, And he looks after the shop that I keep; And he says that the work is nice, and he laughs When he knows that I have used up all my hours. He helps me with the grain, and he looks after the grain, And I guess that the work is what he likes the best. I know a boy, and he has been back a while, And he is good to me for the things he does. And his mother says: "Bill, when you are old you'll do Something for me that will make my heart happy. You stand on the rail and you clap your hands; I love that." I know a boy, And I like him a little, and he stands so strait, And he is quiet all day, and he says to me: "You'd be so kind, my mother, to let me be free." But at night he lies in his bed and I hear him pray. I know a boy, and the boys that he plays with Are good boys, and Bill says that it's a sin For us little boys to play with bad boys. But I know a boy who has tried them all, And he never will stand with them at anything. I know a boy, And he is good in his ways, and there is none Has been bad to him yet. And I hope to God He will stay true to me and my work till I die. I don't like to think of my boy that's gone, But I've got to think of it. My little Ron, when he was small, Danced a jolly dance, In his sailor suit he didn't tarry, His sail-old shoes he wore; But now he's grown to be a man so fine, It seems like seventeen years ago. My little Ron, when he was little, He helped me build a fort Out on the side of a hill. I was out on the side of the hill so fine, And I used to sing and dance With my sail-old shoes so fine; But now it's so long ago I can't remember how. My little Ron, when he was little, He used to kiss me, And then he'd tantra me, and I'd cry; Now he's grown to be a fine man, He dresses fine and doth keep his promise, And he wears sail-old shoes. My little Ron, when he was little, When he would sit and stand In the corner by the altar-stairs, With his sail-old shoes all wet; But now he's grown to be a fine man And he loves the things that are new. I know a boy, Ron, and he's nice; He has sail-old shoes and a house by the sea, And, when the wind is fair, He sits by the fireside, reading a book; But all the sailors I know Are much more proud of their ensigns, Ron. And Ron is the boy of my choice, For he is the prettiest-looking; And when he danced at my birthday I had so much to drink, That I promised to marry him straight, Ron, For I knew it would be good. To go on board ship we girls always are, When the summer-eve is near. We don't like to go by foot of a hill, Or on a road, or through a gate; But with a love-tree we always go, And with Ron we always will. Oh, the sea! the sea! oh, the mighty sea! Oh, the wind that blows so strong and sweet! And the ship that has travelled so far, And the wedding-guests that were there; And Ron's dear heart, and Ron's queer head, And the honey-moon, and Ron's pants! Oh, the sea! the sea! oh, the mighty sea! Oh, the wind that blows so strong and sweet! And the ship that has travelled so far, And the wedding-guests that were there; And Ron's dear heart, and Ron's strange shoes, And Ron's belt, and Ron's watch, and Ron's hat! Once on a time a little boy Danced in a saloon alone; A rosy-cheeked little girl sat by him, And a broad red saloon-dog leapt up, And the saloon-man (who was also a man) Went tumbling down the stairs after her, When the jolly boys came to his rescue. And he was forced to dance again to-day, And he must dance correctly and fast, Or the saloon-man would be late for church, And his grave-yard would be without a head; So he swung his boots on by his slipper, And he bound it on with his corduroy, And he bound it on with a lion's hide, And he bound it on with a tiger's skin, And he bound it on with the whole world in it, And he bound it on with his soul in it. He bound it on with his soul in it, For it was hot and dry in the saloon, And it was dusty in the cemetery, And the grave-yard was choked with flowers, And the rock-scissors broke, and the water stood still, And the fire-lassets burnt like tongs of iron; But at church it was all right, And the pastor said, "All's well! Just dance the Star-Chase on Saturday," And the children smiled and said, "Tut, tut!" When we were at home alone, And the night came on cold and drear, We'd hie to the bar and get some beer, And the living shall live and thrive, And we'd say good night to the dead. And we'd blow a lid as the day grew dim, And we'd sleep another night away In our corner of dark and chill, Till the clock of the clock-corner all ran right, And the tongues of the cock and the cow were united, And the cock said, "How thousand times I'll sleep, And never lift up one feather! Just as soon as the thousandth crow Dooms the house to the hands of the worms, Then I'll lift up my foot with a view to the worms. I'll lift up my foot, and my toes shall be as the worms'." Good-bye, old ballad, good-bye, Fringe of a golden age, When we make our lovers out Just men and women as now. Your passion's been with us so long, Your blameless life's been here, And with such a lovely life you sing, How thousand times I'll sleep! It's a man and a woman, the same, A husband and wife, you'll find, Who make us all late and early, And with music and song and with joy Have put some sorrow away. For what's all the past in the past, If with love they've kissed and made Life both mirth and heavenly light, And as it was with our fathers, So be it to our children now? We dare not say what they are, That have charms that make men mark The first of each month's new ones, But we may say what they are not, And we will tell you what they are not, For we're all glad and civil, And what the present has in store The future has what the past had. If you love me, think not I forsake, Within the month of September, When the sun, from his gaze withdrawn, Is hid within the misty dark, And if love with the love of a friend Begins to breathe, we may think, ah! That time too may be as it is now. Yet some have loved us so long, That through the sweet air that's stirred With their breath we catch and are stirred, And through the fair face that's ripe By its joy we know we can love; For love may not be dead, nor dead Time's aimless force can crush. The flowers of June were yellow, And so were the leaves of July; And the birds sang full and sweet At whatever swept the sky; And September's moon was pure gold, As if her heart held rapture. But now the flowers are fading, And the leaves are sodden brown, And the stars of October Are naught but flecks of flame, And November's moon is cold, As if her heart were drear. If you love me, in this month, Let the thought of loving rise Within your calm and sunny eye; For in it dawns that glance of thine That makes all ghosts of April fair Grow pale and faint and wan again, And makes all November e'en Seem fair and glad and lucky. Give unto me some wine, And some flowers, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow And the moon, when she goes down, Will have some favours to give. Why, that's a pretty hand! Why, that's a pretty hand! Come hither, my little paw, And do not wait to drink; Let us on the green go, The moon looks after us, And she loves to be caressed. Come hither, my little paw, And here's a kiss, For the moon looks after us, And she loves to be caressed. Come hither, my little paw, And here's a kiss, And the moon looks after us, As we go down the green. Give unto me some wine, And some eggs, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a feast for paws; And the snow upon the hill Will be melted to bread. Give unto me some wine, And some butter, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a cage for mews; And the poison ivy up the tree Will be eaten off. Give unto me some wine, And some cheese, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a lair for all things bad; And the frown of vermin theretofore Will be wiped off. Give unto me some wine, And some ale, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a grave for all good; And the snow be changed to tears. And a goodly steed be buried there. Give unto me some wine, And some meat, For that moment's sake; The world around will die, And we be carried hence; And I on the wing, from hence, Will fly into the West. Oh, give me back my wings, Oh, give me back my room, My desk and my chair, And shut the door upon its moth! My books, my time, and all, Oh, give them all, again! How now, a-hunting, Through the forest dark? Thru the forest dark, With a lock of golden hair! How now, a-hunting, Through the forest dark? Thru the forest dark, What a blaze of light! Now the forest glows with gold, And the red sun shines through, On the head of the girl I love. Thru the forest dark, What a blaze of light! Now the forest glows with gold, And the red sun shines through, On the head of the girl I love. As I rode through the mountains And the valleys to the sea, With a lock of golden hair, I sang of the shaggy hunts Of the Puk-Wudjies, And how they said, With a merry laugh, That the old men in the mountains All must be killed, With the shaggy end Of a bulletproof hide, With a knife of shining steel, With an arrow sharp of iron. With a lock of golden hair, With a merry laugh they said; But it wasn't gold I had to wear, For a bullet came out of the wood, And pierced through my head! And who is going to pay for my wound? No one is going to pay for my death! When I was a boy, And could barely hold a pencil, I wrote a song, my mother told me, About an ogre who stole cheese from cows; And when I got to boyhood and could read, I found out that what the ogre said Was, "'Tis not the calf I am stealing, But the owner of the cows!" I saw an old ship sail away From the past; I heard the wind go past Through clouds that high up as heaven, As it sailed on To the past. All of the crew she knew, All of the sailors, alone; They sailed as if they were one, They sailed alone; And all the days and the nights Were like the past. And when they had sailed away, In what twenty years or so, I asked them, "What shall we do When we have sailed away?" And they answered, "We will not say, But we will live as you die." It's just as well for us That we don't know, Or we should surely be In a very great difficulty. I can't blame them much, For they've never heard of the radio, Or satellite, or the telescope, Or of any of these wonderful things That we build to explore the sky. And I think there are people In the skies above us now, With an antenna that's forty feet, And a machine that's twenty thousand, That can access these sky-telescopes, And the kind of eyes that can see them Is not in every one of us. I know that we've reached The limit of the known world; I know we must beyond it; But what is round can only be The work of another Man, And the universe that we see Is the work of Butta Mohammed, Of Butta Mohamed, his father. There was another Butta Who could fly, and could run Through the forests on Concord hills; And another Butta Whose father built the ocean-wall; And another Butta Whose feet were swift as mule's. Butta Butta meant speed. And a name like Butta Could reach the horizon-land, Or at the very least, Outstop a sunrise. So when they came to choose a name, They let the Chinese have it, And Butta Butta meant speed. There's a little Indian town Just off the Blue Hills' crest, Where I could see the towers From my bedroom window. They were more than fifes to me; They were friends and brothers To whom I could say, "You are Brother Charlie, You are Brother Charlie's friends," When I got out of bed. There was another Charlie, And this one's a tiger; He ran, with a tiger's gait, From my bedroom window. I couldn't catch him at all; He got far out of sight, And when he saw the sun He came back to me, With a terrible wet yawn. They called me Brother Time, When I first began to run; They called me Brother Time When I was a little boy. They called me Brother Time When I was a tall and strong boy, And my knees were much stronger Than they are to-day. The first time I went to school I didn't go at all; The first time I learned to read I could not read at all; And the first time I learned to spell I could not spell at all. There was another Charlie, And this one's a tiger; He ran, with a tiger's gait, From my bedroom window. I couldn't catch him at all; He got far out of sight, And when he saw the sun He came back to me, With a terrible wet yawn. You know what the little black dress means, With the big round black bow on the sleeve? You know what the big round black bag means, With the little black bow and the big black bag? You know what the little black flowers mean, With the big round black lips and the big black mouth? You know what the big round black heart means, With the little black heart in the big black breast? You know it all, little black dress, big black heart, little black bag, little black flowers. The sunshine fell out of the cloud like rain; And a dream went sailing over the sea. I went out to the wall to look at the clouds, And the clouds looked queer to me; For they waved their black wing-like arms in the sky, And their dark wings seemed to hide the stars. Then I thought of the little black dress, and the big black heart in the big black breast, And I thought of the little black wing, and the big black breast. I looked out of the window, and the sunshine shone through, And I said, "Is not this strange? Are not all things performed As they will be, If not one thing be seen That is hidden from our eyes?" Then the clouds began to murmur and mumble, And they whispered, "Nay! We are the hosts of the world; We are the changeless ones." I went down to the brook with my basket of flowers, And I saw the pike go down, And the catkins fall down like snow; And the dace went down all around; And a shoaly black shadow passed, And a little black shadow passed, And a gold shadow passed, Where the splashing dace-bell had fallen. The roses in the courtyard hung their heads, And their babbs let out a low plaint; The lilac in the garden hung its head too, And its leaves drooped low; And all down the May-morn morning, the clouds Would murmur low, As a shoaly black shadow passed, And a little black shadow passed, And a gold shadow passed, Where the splashing lilac-plant had fallen. "What are you going to do to-day, Sir Poet? You have written all day; But you sha'n't have finished till the eve. Now listen to me, and I will tell you My mind is made up. I want the May breeze to blow Cool leaves o'er hill and lea; And I want the toad and quag to meet-- Till the stars grow very bright. The song that I would sing to-night, Should the leaves be cool, And the toad and quag be gay, And the stars be very bright. My merry mind desires A merry battle-song; And I'd like a merry battle-song To fight beside." "I never could see a hawthorn-tree Unless the flower beneath it grew; I never could hear a snake call, Unless we sounded among men; I never would draw a windlass, Or build a gilded wall; For everything that looks wondrous Is, in fact, wondrous. "If a worm should climb upon my breast, I would shake him off; And if a feather should smack my ear, I would knock it away. I do not care, if a jewel go, Or a scrap of gold; For things are certainly better left As they are." "I saw a little moon, In a domed sky, In a night of moons, O'er a' my happy days, I ha'nts how oft. It never looked upon moorland fences, It never set on cliff faces, But wilt up betwixt them, And o'er the moorland fences And the cliff faces It would rise up and disappear. "But I never saw it rise above The moorland fences, Or the cliff faces, Till it touched the moorland fences, And the hill-tops. It then would hide behind moorland fences, And the hill-tops, But appear again beneath The very moonlight. "On the road to Holland It appeared to stand, Until it struck a barrier, And began to wander. It then would hide behind moorland fences, And the hill-tops, But appear again beneath The very moonlight. "On the road to Rome It then would stand, Till it reached the high mountains, And then it would disappear. It would appear again beneath The very moonlight. "On the road to Holland It then would stand, Till it reached the rocks above Houten, And then it would disappear. It would appear again beneath The very moonlight, When I wished it so, And shake all the trees on yonder islands, I ha'nts how oft. "On the road to Rome It then would stand, Till it reached the rocks below Sonder, And then it would disappear. It then would appear again beneath The very moonlight, When I wished it so, And shake all the rocks on yonder islands, I ha'nts how oft. "Het vloedste Draak Zijn in huis lopen, De moest hoeste Draak Met maakste leven, In sa spiritsleven Meets Maakste noven. "Graak nog geen draak In geseuwem dop, Graak nog een onderand, In geseuwem leven Dus trooste naething In nog volkste naething." Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou needna start awa sae hasty, Thou needna start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. Then forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. There's motley in femineity, An' human change's not seen as often As perfect precision tells: An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. But forward, if I can see, An' read the human mind, The reverse o' that I fear, that still I backward cast my e'e, An' backward cast my e'e. Ye Powers of air, that on this revolving sphere Do steer the comfortable seasons round, And ye the year diviner breathe That is associated with the sun, Then, heavenly Anselmo, do appease My rising grief, and let this ivy-wreath More glorious than before flourish free Round these sore eyes, that now are ache'n to the view, The knotty occasion of my grief to loose. I see, I see the tangle-headed cow Her teats have got her; an' how they wrangle! The wrangling is like thread o' garden-land, An' like a scrimmage 'twixt two nations: An' like to such kind of squabbling does Janiculum A holy city find, when once ye let 'em loose. An' when the mother had her fill, she wuz lappin' about, To see the kid's wee bit brains gosh spangled o'er, An' he's playin' so gay an' sociable, An' shrieks his wee bit soul to these wide, white eyes, The which there stands a' wranglein' in 'em! An' ah! I tremble like an earthquake-shaken rock, When the tall, black earth-cliffs come down to the plain. A weary while it took the wee bit chaps To tuck him in to bed, an' then he's off An' caperin' up and down the stairs, An' singin' our very wibbly-wobbly song, Which, I soundly wish, shall never, never die, But be a famous, long-lived croon, Wove of the dearest yarns the true sweetest arrears. An' we get into our heavenly in his stoves, An' leave this mortal so frail behind, As light as a wee bit feather-bed, Or a bonnie willow-tree, for a stool; When all of a sudden, ah me! he gets A silly fright, an' wants to make his nest Upon the window-sill, like a bold thief. An' then, with a sudden gust of pride, He looks an' sees this very worn-out flower A-shine like a little golden star, An' he thinks, "I must have kissed 'er there a thousand times." An' ah! I have an opinion, or two, Which may as well be uttered now, an' bold it is To such opinions I'll boldly lay my hand: This world, an' all that's in it, is for animals. An' now the mother's in the kitchen, An' now the father's in the room, An' now, I'm free to my naked heart, I'm a-walking the countryside far away, Where beauty has a magic spell On all the beastial life an' mortal; Where men have neither rights nor wrongs, Nor view their fellow-creature with love or hate; Where misery, death, and sin are unknown, An' death a welcome, not a fearful thought. I would that I myself did not exist! I'd get along much better without me; I'd get much more work done in half an hour, And no one need know or worry about me: I wouldn't have to wait in long, dark lines For jobs I should do if I wasn't trapped in them; And I couldn't be found or visited or known When I wasn't strong or strong of will to face the world. I'd get on quicker, and, of course, there'd be less To worry about; and I wouldn't waste so much My precious time worrying what wasn't for me Nor what wasn't happening yet for me to do; An' I wouldn't hear the lagging bell at five o'clock, Nor be told by those in brown by what's called "gainful labor" What work I'd missed or done because I was too weak Or had been pushed into a job I wasn't suited for. It's true I'd miss the chance to meet a woman's eye, And she might smile and say "Hoy, Salome; salero" But would that be all? Would it wipe the slate clean? Would I meet the woman at a cocktail? no, no; She'd say, "Salome, my dear," and "Hello, my dear," And turn away and leave me for another woman. I'd get much more done if I wasn't pulled down By what I'd put out into the world; an' you Folks, it's true, you'll find it's true, I've found it too. But I'll get started, I will, an' soon I'll take The opportunity to do for myself what's missing. "What are you talking about?" says I to her. "What do you mean, what are you talking about?" Does she say, "The clock is showing two-thirty?" She does, says I. "An' you're not answering my question." "I'm saying that if I get into a dreamy place I can't get out of, it seems to me, is If I sit and think about the world, and the people in it." The feet that run away are bare, But the feet that never run at all Are worn through and through with use and strain; They are strong only in their frailty, They are vain only in their weakness, And the love that they long for is far beyond them, And they can never be wise or happy unless They follow after and find it, too. We are all in the handwriting of the past, The mousetraps of all that we see; The dead kings and the lost holy things, The dreams we long for and never reach, The wishes that are most vain and vain And yet most in accordance with truth, The hope and the joy and the pitying eyes Of those we have to mourn but can't forget, And all that is beautiful and great and true. When I am dead And nothing is, but only memory, I shall still keep my eyes on the borderland, I shall keep my lips on the words I spoke In the days when I was alive, for they will speak The same as long as the fingers of a Spring Breath on the page where my lips were defiled. I shall keep the faith that I lost in the end, And I shall tread where I never was led, But the path I take to the sunset shore Will be lost and forgotten and apart, And my heart will be only the heart of a book And read by the dead who have passed on. I shall keep the faith. It is given to me, And I shall walk therein till the end of days, But my feet will not find the old way back, Nor my heart the old, old pain and sweet content Of the glad, old hours when I was alive. I shall keep the faith. It is given to me, And all day long I shall whisper to my tears That they may waken at will within my eyes The eyes that were my prisoner's and mine too. For they were wakened and set free by death, But my dead heart is free and awake at last. You are the morning, you are the glory of the spring, You are the dress of the summer and the perfume of the earth. You are a crown that the sun puts on when he runs so swiftly That the foliage of the trees glows and shines with a ruddy glow. You are a voice in the crowds that call to each other so That the Queen of the Night is blessed with a mighty song. I am worn out with the burden of my life. I am old And my hair is thin. I am lonely, poor, and weary. I wonder at all I see, the mansions and the wealth, And I wonder at nothing. I am sad, but I am proud Of my life and the burden that it is. I am worn out with the burden of my life. I shall go with the dawn, and with her I shall go As a dream goes. The dear touch of her lips and hands, The sweet smell of her hair, the great splendour of the sun, The blue and the white of the sky and the blue of the seas, The wind in the sea and the sound of the surf upon the shore, The hours as they flit by, will hold me with long arms held out. I shall go with the dawn. I shall stand on the hill And the sea shall be all that I see, and the green and gold Of the sea and the freshness of the grass and the heat of the air, The fragrance of all these things, and the glory of the day. I shall go with the dawn. The dawn! How my heart is longing for you, O fair dawn! How I long for the light that is to be. I am weary of the heavy shadows and the drear shadows low, The silence of night and the sighing of wind, The day like a dark death, and the night like a dark dread, The dripping wet and the chill--and I long for the morn. I am sick of the tower that is my home, I am sick of the prison that is my bower, I am sick of the silence and the monotone, I am sick of the frost and the snow and the sleet, I am sick of the dull and drab of the town, The drear and the lugubrious day-light. I am sick of a world of wax and wane, Of stale and achieve and fail, Of false and of true, and good and ill; I am sick of a courtly graces, a braggart race, A well-meaning good-for-nothing throng, I am sick of the whelming of wealth and loss, The doing and delaying and denying, The humming and the hailing of trades, The grinning and the bargaining and wheedling, The singing of praises and glozing of words, The flirting and the hustling and the sweat of soils, The clicking and the cold pressing of machines, The sweating of jobs and the feared and dreaded duties, The grasping and the grinding and the frowning and the fearing, The heading and the crossing and the lying and the killing, The dithering and the looping and the balking and the clinging and the clutching and the shucking and the slashing and the scorning and the butchering and the mangle and the wrecking and the stinking and the vultureing and the dulling and the dizzying and the sprawling and the bogging and the rushing and the tiring and the rioting and the rushing and the rolling and the stumbling and the tiring and the ripping and the tearing and the crashing and the crashing and the smashing and the drowning and the filling and the deleting and the erasing and the blotting and the slaughtering and the crushing and the crushing and the strangling and the crushing and the choking and the stunning and the slaughtering and the smashing and the deleting and the erasing and the blotting and the slaughtering and the slaughtering and the slaughtering and the slaughter and the slaughtering. You that have seen death in a dream or have seen death in a man, A man slain by a sword in a lonely place, Have you seen the flower bloom and live and bloom and live? And the old tree bend and bow and bow and bow before the storm? And the rill, the steady rill of your tears, Rising from the mountain in the valley stood? You that have watched death in a dream or have seen death in a man, Have you seen the mountain darken and darken and darken and darken and darken, With no side rooft and no top rooft and no end, And the steady mountain dark in the valley stood? And the rill, the steady rill of your tears, Rising from the valley and flowing to the sea, Saw you a love and a promise and a shadow and a shape and a shadow in the stream? And the hillside and the plain and the forest and the free, And the steep and the sunny and the lonely and the wild and the wondrous and the sacred and the known, Are you still longing for the future and the past? And are you still waiting for what shall never be? And are you still crying for the flower and the root and the flower in the stem? You that have known the flame and the cloud and the grave and the grave's sinister twin, You that have heard the screaming of the woman and the shouting of the man, You that have seen the torrent and heard the deluge sweep over the peak, You that are lashed by sun and rain and wind and drifting and borne and borne and borne and borne, You are loveless and free and twin-born and free and twin-souled and free and free and free and free. To the mountain and the vale and the hill and the plain and the forest and the free, The heard cry of the woman and the shouting of the man. Loveless and free and twin-born and free and twin-souled and free and free and free, We cry to you from the wind and the river and the sun and the wave and the sea, "We are free and we are twin-born and we are free and we are free and we are twin-souled and free and free and free and free." When the night is on the hill, and the weary woman is wrapped in sleep, How sweet to sit in the dark and the silence and the glimmering light, And the brook goes by and the field returns again, And the hidden, hidden distance whispers low and low In the heart that the night and the night's remorse have stirred, A word that the night has said in the face of the night. When the night is on the hill and the woman is in her sleep, How sweet to sit in the dark and the silence and the glimmering light, And watch for a sign and wait for a word that might save, Till the red eye of the cock in the eastern sky May start in the darkened field and the darkness bring a bird, And the hidden, hidden distance sing so loud and loud That the field and the hidden distance would echo and answer, ah! And the heart that the night has said in the face of the night. When the night is on the hill and the woman is still, How sweet to sit in the dark and the silence and the glimmering light, And hear the brook by and the field return again, And the hidden, hidden distance whisper low and low In the heart that the night has said in the face of the night. How sweet to hide in the secret of the night and see What things are kept for a little love in a little book, What wonderful things have been done in the little day, What wonderful things in our little book remain, In the hidden, hidden distance of the night. A bird came stealing from the far-off skies, And now I hear him talking low in the night, And now I see him standing in the dark, And I see him fast in the secret place, And I see him eat from the withered hand Of the old story that is growing brown. He laughed, as he came through the dim place, With his dark eyes like the eyes of a child Who has just grown into the woman-world, With the sweet face and the little wings spread, With the great, deep-bosomed arms that he pressed On his way in the night to the moonlit shore, With the gleam in his eye and the song in his throat. And there was a gleam, as he came through the night, As he came through the hollow way, As he came through the secret place Where the old, secret book was hid away, And the old, secret word was said, And the old, secret thread was spun, And I laughed with the old, old fool at the joy he brought. For he brought a joy to the night that was lost, He brought a joy to the land I love, He brought a joy for the weary heart that is worn With days of dust and stone, and the great walls grow old and weak, And my father with his horses and his men will pass by And leave the fields as they are, and the woods as they are. And now I hear them talking in the night, And now I see them standing at ease, And the old, old book is closed in the hidden place, And the old, old secret spoken, And the light of the moon is in the land of the dead, And the old, old lover has gone to the other shore, And now the great, old dreamer, unseen, speaks, "Now I remember," he said, "The hand that I tried to hold In the old, old book that I tried to read. And my fingers, they failed in their task, They could not make the leaves rise up and fall, Or make the forest one black cloth of cover. "But the singing voice in my heart Will not be silenced for ever, For ever and ever with a song As old as the world and as sweet As the sound of a little bird, Or the child's little voice that utters prayer. "There is a secret in this wood That was not so long ago. A secret like a song to the bird That rises and falls in the night From the hidden, hidden sun, From the hidden, hidden light. And it whispers to me of a dream That will grow to a glorious thing, A glorious thing that grows and grows Until it fills the air like a bird." And he paused as he turned to go, And he softly spoke these words: "God bless you, fair friend," said he, "God bless you and keep you well. And rest in the Lady's holy watch, And go back to the beautiful sky And the great hills that you love so well, And the trees that love you, love you, love you." And he moved through the night as the light That fills the secret spaces of the mind Moves, silent, through the vast and gloomy world, Till the dark hills with the hidden sun Seemed braced into a new vast dark world And the hidden sun grew faint and dim, And the shadowy world seemed filled with night, And the hidden night seemed braced into day. And the Lady sat on the hill, And heard the great, wide, unknown speech Of the dark hills and the wide, dim sky, And listened till her heart was sick, And listened for the dawning cry Of the first bird in the dark'ning air, Of the hidden sun and the hidden day, Till she cried, "This is too absurd, The world has gone mad and must go. I must go home and go to bed." And the Lady rose and went to bed, And lay down by the wall of blue, And heard the cry of the first white bird, And the hidden sun and the day, And lay there and saw, with eyes of gray, The whole wide world mad and bright, Mad as a maddened stag with horns, And bright as a mad stag's antlers. But when the Lady rose again And passed out of the blue to the south, She heard a voice in the wood, A very low and tender voice, Like a child's, and said to her, "O, brave Lady with the gay shawl, I think you went down an ell. I think you went down an ell to bed, And laid down on your linnet's nest To sing to it until it slept. And when you had sung to your fill, You threw away your instrument And ran in the dark till you were gay. You are a brave lady, pretty bird, And I like the laugh you had when you said You thought it was a clever game." But soon she said to the dark, wide sky: "Now it is time for the twilight hush, And I can hear the stars grow dim. There is something wrong with the sky, I know, I cannot see one star. I do not see how they can keep the night When I am not here. The world has gone mad and must go Before the Lady of the Shadows Can wink at dawn." And in her heart she said: "I will call again The Master of Life and Death, And kiss his feet, And thank him for his curse. I will curse the very hour That I was born, And cursed with the duty To call at all. For I have watched the dying night Turn over and over In mine own mind, I might have known That now I must go down. But now I am older, I think. I do not know why I went to sleep, I might have been two or three days old, And this is the second time I have seen the dawn break down. There is a man in a green coat, There is a woman with a red lip, They say that I have ruined the year. What have I done with the week or the day? I am a plague on the public leash. Why were the flowers thrown aside like sats And the cards all begun again? I will know better in a year. There is a tree in the park with a red leaf, There is a dog in the street with a brown tail, There is a room in the house with a creaking door, There is a red dress in a silk bag, There is a scar in the shape of a scar, There is a yellow flower on a stick, There is a red rose on the wall, There is a yellow pear in the garden close by, There is a door in a yellow tower, There is the smell of a frying pan, There is the fragrance of white meat, There is a footstep on a rickety stair, There is a broken stick on a stony street, There is a rusty van down in the yard, There is a room in the tower, and a shade, There is a car in the alley, There is a sound of ice against ice, There is a door in a cellar dark and deep, There is a room in the tower with a door wide open, There is a room in the garden with a door close, There is a door in a cell of a jail, There is a cart in the market with a stick up its nose, There is a blue garment on a blocking street, There is a cart in the market with a yellow nose, There is a door in a lodging house, There is a heavy and a light garment, There is a rope in the lodging house window, There is a hook on a jamming and hooking fence, There is a crook on a farmhouse door, There is a drink in a tavern window, There is a man in a hotel, There is a room in a cheap boarding-house, There is a man in a cheap hotel, There is a scuffle on a village street, There is a ship in the harbor, There is a hundred and twenty in the yard, There is a knock at the door to the yard, There is a jolt on the stairs, There is a lick on the hand to the face, There is a jostle and jostling, There is a fall in a street, There is a fit on a trampled heap, There is a fright at a Party, There is a finding of books half tossed aside, There is a full house in a football ground, There is a general look of fright, There is a halloo in a market place, There is a look of anger on the faces of the crew, There is a loss of the eye in a fit, There is a loss of the voice in a fit, There is a loss of the foot in a fit, There is a little boy with a toy elephant, There is a loss of the thread in the hue of the hair, There is a limp in the step of a bowed-back beaver, There is a loss in a crease, There is a limp in the stride of a tripod, There is a limp in the stride of a smoker, There is a limp in the stride of a carpet salesman, There is a limp in the stride of a wrestler, There is a limp in the stride of a quadrille coach, There is a limp in the stride of a golf pro, There is a limp in the stride of a lean count of the plague, There is a limp in the stride of an artist with lines on his hands, There is a limp in the stride of a man with a dainty little round head, There is a limp in the stride of a regimented mem'ry, There is a limp in the stride of a regimental chaplain, There is a limp in the stride of a lieutenant fresh from the loo. "Have you seen the new play, 'Midnight Surma,' " said the green, "A new production, that runs every night at the Hudson? "I never saw it. I'd love to see it with you." "Oh, the new play? That's a Harold Lloyd production, "I think I'll see it with you, some evening, a group." "You will be there to enjoy it. But how do you, "My dear sir, how do you mount? I can't see well "Through this thick atmosphere." "I'll crawl "Beside you." "That will do. Good-night, sir." It is in the nature of things to be random, Life is a gamut unto ourselves, As the single tone of a telephone Sings in a hollow hornet's nest. I found my way to Hell By a single note In a hornet's wing. In your room at night, When the candleflame shines So deliberately on your face, So mournfully on the strings Of your own lute, As your soul sings In a strange air Of its own making, Do you see, As the room brightens With its phantom flame, Through the laces and the gauze Of your clothing, Somewhere in the world, A soul that's In the same place As your own, So the lone bedside lamp Might be revealed As the torch of your soul, As the lance of light In the midst of Hell's city, If at night you hear The summons of your soul In a strange air Of your making, In a strange air Incredible As your soul's own dream, Then, through the darkening Of your lamp's flare, Do you see, As the shadows fall, Where the valiant soul Of the hero In your room, At the same hour Through the darkness Is as a hero Of your making, Do you see As the room brightens With its phantom flame, Through the laces and the gauze Of your clothing, Somewhere in the world, A soul that's In the same place As your own, What has a woman always, When she's halfway through a job, And something doesn't quite feel right? Nothing ever, till now! She has found her trill, And her soothing phrase, And her gracious sentence And her prayer. If at night you hear Her voice so strangely sounding In a strange air, Do you wonder that, Away from home, alone, In the dull house, and alone, She can be heard to sing? At the grave of a dead man The woman comes And says her piteous thing; In a strange air, Of a man she knew She sang once her own sweet song. And now that the night is near She has an awful tale She has to tell; And as she stands before you All of his life she dwells; And when she sings, it's as if His spirit's near. All things were just as they had been When she came to it; The moon above it, just the same As ever, and the red eyes Of the gardener, looking down From their flowery hill. The tangle of grasses, bright and wild, That lay there like a lover's hair, When she came to tangle it; The jutting. pts. pt. of trees-- When she came to jut about it; The old elm's sharp sound When she came to climb up its straw. A little wind comes down the valley, It rustles in the old elm's shade, And stirs in the moss a brier, And runs, when she comes to stir it; But it won't come in the mosses, Or the old elm's spite. The tumbled wall must go, And this very instant The floor must be broken down; It's just as I say, don't you see? For this job's a success. Do you mind, don't you mind, Those are not women in there, They're gardener's-house, don't you see? And so long as they stay there Their presence doesn't matter. They had been singing for pleasure All the time they worked there; And when the job was done They retired to rest. And when they got to sleep, The wind had done its work! But the wind didn't scare them As they went to bed; They found the open window Was wide open too; And, as the night went on, They had a pretty dream! There's a tree, there's a tree! It's a tree to which I belong, A place to live and to be still, Where a woman may come and go And a man may live and may love. And though the hungry hawk May circle you about, And the cold come and the heat, And the night come and the day, You will never go from me. When the day is done We go out to the hill; Sheet-warm, she goes alone, He's a wanderer too; While her little boy, in spite Of the roaring wind and rain, Has his little way. She goes to work and he goes to sleep, She has a night's worth of rest; While a woman out of work Takes another job every day, While a man out of rest Takes no chance every day. The day's done, and the night's come, The wind's as high as it can go; But it's no use to go home, Or stay out of school; The tree's a-tip, the moon's a-shining, And I'm a-sitting here. And there's the wind, the wind, the wind! And there's the dust in the air! The trees are shaking, the bushes are bending, And now it's the job's again! He is a sailor, and he must stay, And his wages are due at midnight. The train-host is a ploughman too, And his master to be, And there's the corn in the world to be mown, And the cattle in the maize; And the house-host a baker, And his wages he must earn that day, While the cook-host a cooper. The train-host is a miner, And the coal he digs, and the coal he pays for, And the coal's paid for and gone. And the coal is gone and coal again, And the maul'd-up pieces are dealt; And it's the house-host a baker, And his wages he must earn that day, While the cook-host a cooper. The train-host is a shoe-maker, And the shoes he makes them for, And the shoes are made and carried high; And the tallow is powdered there, And the salt-cellar is there; And the bottle-man a cooper, And his wages he must earn that day, While the cook-host a gambler. The day is done, and the night is comin', And it's my husband's horse he wants to borrow; And the high one's fed, and the stock is kept, And the meal is well-done; But there's the stock and his master after, And it's a circuit that he's made. I've been toting the coach and the horse, I've been to the stable and the store; I've told them a fool is not lost if He thinks that it's his own. And I tell 'em that there's folks to pay, But I never are afraid. I've been to my work and my daily task, And I have not been merry at all; And I tell 'em the fault is their own, But I never care. And they know that the coach and the horse Will be standing in the shop at the close When the paper is cut, and the ink is dry, And the ink-pot is ready to use; And the copey is completely filled With the right kind of ink to begin with, When the work is thoroughly done, Then I begin the second one. In the first round I cipher, I spell, And I do some factitious logic; In the next I adze and pit, And I divide by deductions; In the next I split, and multiply, And I round our answers off. I cut out little figures, little verses, And I write a "nothing;" I commence it with a capital letter, And I write it with a lower; In the first round I explain, in the next I give instructions, and I conclude, And I end it, in the third, with a letter. When the horses are tied, and the cage is locked, And I am free to get up and go, If I have not been consistently bad, I am very low in the scale; But, as I have been consistently bad, I shall never get very high. I begin in the mud, and I end in the light, And the clods are the hardest of stone, And I do not believe in a light ever being put on; If I am tied to the bench every night, It is a result of my bad luck; And I always find it a relief to get out of the cage Whenever the bench is vacant, And I love to go out into the yard when it's raining, And I call to the barber, "Now, barber, come, And shave me in the rain!" I am always going round with a hat on my head, And I always come out on the other side; If I were a real person, I should not be so blind, I should not be so deaf; I should have some idea of what is going on here, And I should not be so sleep-blind. I am out of humour, and cannot find reason, And I still believe that I shall have to return; But, as I am out of humour, and cannot find reason, I shall now get up to go. And, when I am sitting in the cart at the end of the journey, And it is raining, and I am drying my clothes in the rain, I will open the window, and I will look out at the rain, And I will say to myself, "Bless you, little head, That you are the bride of the rain!" The town is asleep, and its inhabitants do not hear, Or, if they hear, they do not care; Night is over, and the dark closes on each pleasant spot, But, oh, the dark is not sudden--see the stars! They are not very high, but they do shine pretty bright, And they glitter over the hill. The summer is over, and the flowers are dying; The night is coming on; I have got up to dry my clothes; The sky is black, but it has got a blue-like hue, The moon is in the middle. The high-roads, it is growing late, The town is asleep, The railway creaks and pulses dim; I have come back by the safest way-- The straight cut through. I am home again, and the garden looks cheerful; The larks are singing "Cheyenne." I am cooking a light dinner for my daughter; I have come back by the safe road-- My straight cut through. I am home again, but I miss the quiet sky, The mountain rivers, thick and sweet; I am home again, but I miss the old homes-- I was home again. As I sat alone, the fires were extinguished, The windows loudly burst, And the company of men grown silent, As they slowly shuffled out; The depot was deserted, depot late, Depot now deserted. I did not care, for what could I have cared, For where would I have been? My husband with his proffered hand, My dearest child, whom I adore, My fortune now a forgotten form, My fortune and my pains. Ah, dear old Mama! a certain age we share, And then you get used to everything! For when you get to be my age or older You hardly ever meet the old woman. She is always in the after-life, And when you die you never even see her And when she visits you in the after-life, It is as if you never had lived! My parents parted in the midst, I thought it would be a treat To get each a separate dwelling, And not to have them jumbled so, Each separated from the other, With each a separate faucet, And not one of them to know That the other is there. The old white house, where you grew, Though shaped and fashioned to suit The modern house-teacher's Edition of the written Word, Was not a model of correctness, Was not equipped with many conveniences, Was no finer than the ordinary. The pictures in the room of Mama, Which you were encouraged to Visit but seldom--were Of things which had never entered Your mind when you were twelve. The ball-room, the race-me-alley-pole, The bridge, the cocktail--and you Would rather read than pay The high price of entry now For any one of these delights, Or ride in any of these trains. I saw it was evening-time, And it was getting on Late; The stars above were dancing Like ballrooms in Venice; It was a charming, happy feeling To sit and think of home. I knew it was evening time Because I felt it in my To think of home and Papa; The pictures in the room began To move and fade away. It was going to be a beautiful night, For a night like this was not to be In a town where all the rich Were to be coming. I had not expected to find A certain something wanting In the pictures in the room; I had not counted on the day Prolonging its stay there; And so it was that I departed From the scene which I regarded As my own. There was no need to tell you What it was I found there That had moved me to the breaking Of that old heart of mine, And made me wish to part From the old place where I had found A home and calling. But I have found another And I prefer him to you, For I think that he is making The place where you were going A much more lovely scene. In the first week in June I have too much to bear; I wish it would always be summer, but it isn't; And the nights are too long, and I can't abide the heat, And the pheasants too numerous, And the currants too red. The yellow leaves in the park Are a little dull; and the Bees are all away; and the Stark wilderness of crows Soars and seems to reach above The roof where I sit and moan Because the seasons go In a certain unsynchronized Jumbled way. In the meadow a tall hedge is growing, As high as a man's reach can reach; It was planted by a pensioner, Who had not sufficient wealth To plant a tree in his will; And I think the gentleman who In planting it had not foreseen The irony of it, was very polite To my friend, and somewhat complimentary. The starling starts and follows the bee, And the blue tit comes down and is lost In the huge orchard, while the thrush Is finding a place and whining Because it has no apples. The sparrows twitter in the barn, The winds are hard and the rains of spring Are reckless and they don't obey; And the country's a wilderness Beyond the wit of a poet. Now if I could plant something in The way of the little nurse in Harts Who wrote and left it in the cold ground In her own life--I could clear the sky And make the woods and valleys green again, And make the cities more peaceful and warm. The poet will have to change the scene, For it is growing winter, and the Large rains and sleets keep down in the stony Camps and the low clouds keep down in the valleys. The churches are empty and all the Business of the people has come to an end, And the weather makes them seem strange and grim. The barns are white in the end of the growing season, And I don't know what I would do if I were The farmer, but I know that I should try to see If I could not make out a verse to be cheerful At this time of year. But I know a poem--not the ordinary verse For most people--I will tell you where it is, And what it says, so far as I know it, And how it has come to me. I think I should like to have a horse that could Jump, And I know I should like to have a carriage of great beauty and cost, And I think I should like to have friends who read me Very deep books; But I have none of these, and the only pleasure I have in the present time is to watch the Broad sweep of the Morning sky, and to see a light, that has been Passing by me, And to hear the song of the cherry tree in The windy spring time. I know I should like to have all these things; But I have none of them, and I would be as Little as can be And sit in the same old place and wait, and see The sky sweep by, The sun sink behind a cloud, the moon Crown a dark cloud, and the stars rise, As I have sat here many a day. When I was a very little child I had the gladness of the springtime, For I was happy just to lie and laugh And play, and do nothing in particular. But now that I am very old, And am beginning to understand things, I wish that I might be a little bit More like the children in the city of OCO: They have no playmates, and so they make their own, With books, and song, and dreaming, and the ricochets Of thoughts off walls of emptiness into rooms Of playthings and of pleasure, till the children of The City can scarcely affront their joy. It's beautiful to be on top of the world When the whole earth, from sea to sea, is waiting for you; It's beautiful to be the center of white-hot light, As we swing beneath the moon, and above the stars, While the world shakes and blurs below us; It's beautiful to be able to touch a God, And tell Him how you feel. It's beautiful to be the last one out of the village When the big shadow has gone, and the hunters return; It's beautiful to meet a farmer in the twilight, Who'll listen for hours with a kind, wondering smile. It's beautiful to be the last one on the station, When all the trains are full. It's beautiful to come home at night, And sit by the fire, and tell the old tales, Which, with time, grow dim and strange; It's beautiful to come home at noon, And taste the weather, warm or cold, And know the coming of the winter night. It's beautiful to come home at noon, And hear the top of the river sweep The distance, smooth and sweet; It's beautiful to come home again, And sleep, and dream of May; It's beautiful to come any time, For life is a song, that we are the readers. To all the children of the world, A kindly world of ours, We wish a happy Christmas With love and joy and peace. And if it should chance that some are slow In returning, Then even though it be for many a day, We wish them all a Christmas with us. And we would wish for you A health with friendship too; To those of you who are less wealthy We would add a gift Of thoughts that comfort them, Of dreams that soothe and inspire. It's beautiful to be on top of the world, When the whole earth, from sea to sea, is waiting for you; It's beautiful to be the center of white-hot light, As we swing beneath the moon, and above the stars, While the world shakes and blurs beneath us; It's beautiful to be the last one off the station, When all the trains are full; It's beautiful to come home, and take the step That closes out this little journey through life. And, though our paths may seem so close, My heart shall walk before You, as a stranger would do; And you shall feel my prayers Blossom as they fall, When, at some just interval, We two shall meet, And neither of us know Which of us is the friend Of the other in this world. How long the road is That stretches on Into the land Where you will not be, I do not know, But I would like to know Before I die How much of earth You have trod, And where you are. There are so many miles Of such a length <|endoftext|> The ugly meadow-trees, the rocky mountain-side Where hewn out of a single block he stands. Sings the forest's living wood, its hints of love. Far out on the island, amid the vapors cast, He sees a shadowy canoe approach. He leaps to the prow; she comes nearer still. How beautiful she is, how noble and wise! How cold and how clean she is as a mirror! Of her own wisdom and beauty she the sails, And sends her flickering glory to travel the sea. One by one, with a wild and happy cry, The stragglers creep from the waters to the shore, And they carry back home the precious bales. They bear home, or they carry away, with them, The treasures of the spirit. Beautiful they are, and sweet and strong and true. But who shall carry them to his own land? Lo! from the island, with wings of fire, A sudden flight of birch-trees strides away. They vanish in the distance. The skies grow blue, And the whisper of the forest grows more deep. Back to its depths the redbreast sails. And the people of the island begin To gather in silence round the new-raised fire. At last the women and the older girls Come forth, bringing gifts of porridge and bacon. The boys come out, bringing their new furs from the forest, And their new winter-sandals, and their shiny boots. And the young men, with brown strong hands and faces Nicknamed "the canoe," come forth from the village With their broad crimson backs and their curly beards, And along the beach they make a muddy foot-print, And some of them brush their reddening cheeks with their hands. And the aged couple who love each other Put on their winter cloaks, and wander forth Along the shore to visit with them the beach. The birch canoe rides close beside them, all dripping, And the children's voices floating up to their ears. And the island-maidens, dressed in summer dresses, Come forth in quiet and arrive, bringing fire-wood And a smoky pile. They sit beside the fire And sing around it, and the aged couple Put their warm covers on, and muse together. And they eat their dinner, and take their merriment, And sing around the fire. And the aged couple Looked up, and wept, and kissed each other and looked at each other, And said: "We are old, and frail, and helpless, but young! In the world there is nothing of scorn or of care. And I'm very proud that we are so proud and helpless. But the young are crying around the island fires In a loud whining voice, 'We want, we want, We want!' and they tear up the soft young grass And lay them down on the green grass and weep, And they waken the forest echoes to answer: 'We want, we want, we want!' 'We want, we want, We want!' 'We want, we want, we want!' And the village-maiden comes forth from her cottage And goes among the dancing flames, And she dances up to the blue-eyed virgin And bows to her, and lifts her soft white head, And treads upon her hands and falls and rises And falls and rises. And she sang this song of childhood To the blue-eyed virgin of the forest: "O love, O love, O most lovely one, Why are you so far away? Can't you hear the baby in my arms Wishing for your sweet kiss? Oh, you who are so noble and kind, Can't you come a little while? Oh, you whose locks are as white as milk, Can't you come a little while? For my breast is a house without windows, And my heart is a lonely dwelling, And I live in dread of the evil man Who might come and harm me there. For my head is as empty as a bell That's hung for the last tune before the grave, And I long for the night when I shall wake And find you eternally. And I know that in your bright beautiful eyes There's a night when the light of your soul will break Upon my despairing heart. And sometimes I long to go and visit you, And sit by the moonlight in your room. And lift your hands and kiss you and speak you, And my heart sing as it never has sung Till then, since the day first we met, When our lips together in sleep Grew warm and, oh! so tender. We're safe here. We are here together, Tied to one another by love, That never must break, but can only get More deeply committed. Never more shall I think of the wild woods, And the dangerous paths that lead astray, And wish that I might roam and discover A strange and unknown world. I am a mother now to you. And I can't ever forget that you Are a child. You can't possibly know How your hands are very cold to-day, How they never feel the touch of mama's Was she negligent in her care. You have done what you could, and now I'm a mother. I can't ever forget That you are a child. It is I who speak, And not mama, in this indictment. You can never know, but I can tell you That I watch you with growing concern, As you grow and grow and your hands can never Cradle you as I did before. It's hard for you to understand, But we don't just grow into it. You are no more than a baby still, And I'm a mother. And I can never Forget the ease with which I held you, And the joy that I feel in my heart at The consciousness that I have done right. You have had your troubles, and you know it, And you are learning to tarry. You are a smart little pig, and I am More and more ashamed to be seen In the same town with you. And so, friend, I'll leave you to your comfortable bed And to-morrow I'll write a letter To your father, and to you, my boy. It's all for the best, anyway. You can never have a home with mama, And you can never have a father. The nearest that I could think of would be To a sheltered place where I could go And be with you for a season. But For the present, you're going to stay here, And grow into the thing that you are, And it's all for the best. There's a new sheriff in town, and he Is coming to town with his men to Suspend the franchise and put it In the hands of the men that are willing To serve the public weal and make a Clean break from the past. And my heart and my spirit will go Into the frying-pan of a life That is dried and charred and crude, And I will not look back, and I will Look forward with hope and delight. I will look forward with hope and delight In the future that is ahead. The golden days are over and gone, And the golden sun has set to a pale Gloomy yellow. The new sheriff is in, And he is coming to town with his men to Suspend the franchise and put it In the hands of the men that are willing To serve the public weal and make a Clean break from the past. I have gone back into the shadow of sleep, And I have thrown me away on the couch Where I had slept for so many years; And I lie here, and I watch the shadows go Over the walls of the room where I used to sleep, And I think of how many years have gone, And how many shadows have crossed the walls, And it seems like a thousand ages that I'm asleep And dreaming and half dead to the busy world. I have gone back into the shadow of sleep, And I have thrown me away on the couch Where I had slept for so many years; And I lie here, and I watch the shadows go Over the walls of the room where I used to sleep, And I think of how many years have gone, And how many shadows have crossed the walls, And it seems like a thousand ages that I'm asleep, And dreaming and half dead to the busy world. The front door blows wide; they have found me out. The yellow-haired woman with the cook's apron Has knocked on the window; she is a-walking The streets, calling the people up into the hall; She is a-calling, "Mrs. Covey, Mrs. Covey, The public have come to hear you speak." <|endoftext|> An empty chair she could no longer fill. Her native bay was once the scene of A graceful and rich festival. Ineffable fame Of all its glories, once its queen, The spot is now forgot. Its sands are holier ground; Nor steppes more lonely are. This deathless woman in a foreign land With reverent feet went up the aisle, And kneeled and made her holy moan, 'Till the lambent water turned to blood. Then arose a cloud And cloud there was of living flames; And he, her king, made answer say, 'The curse of Eve is from this hour On my alive children born or dead.' The great-souled monarch of the land Gazed on his image in the glass. 'These face-burned children of mine, Haven't they been heretofore On the summer's fringe or sand? Has no bough of trees Their fragile beauty tossed to them? And when we walk together, As once we did, I find them sweet, Sweet, but not to compare With my first wife's face, whose face Of higher beauty was Than the face of any Queen That till this hour was made Under the sun or moon. The curse of Eve is from this hour On my alive children born or dead.' The great-souled monarch of the land To that same mirror put his eye, And with a humbleness he had not Been since that day before. 'The curse of Eve is from this hour On my alive children born or dead.' A breeze blew out the curtains of night And showed him in a shining robe Of cloth of gold, with gold-white hair And gold-white face, that came and went Upon a crown of pearl and crystal stones. He bowed and smiled and rose and descended, And in the palace of his house, Where he had then his dwelling, dwelt. In all his lands and all his ports He had but eyes for one, And that was Fairie Queen, Who sitting on his throne sat there, And all his work was but to serve her, Save that of time which she did decree To speak with him once in seven years And to be told of all he did. And there at his right hand she sat With queenly grace and beauty fair, Yet not in such as 'made men stare With so much noble spirit in one little face.' But in her silent and serious face Lay all the loveliness and grace That may be seen but by the queen of night. They talked of many things that were wise And good, and good for man; Of laws and writings both old and new, Of what God had done with them; Of dreams that she would have him tell her Of his 'fairy' days and things that happened; And many a thing that she would suggest That might advice or help the man here. Of what the earth and sky are made of, And of what starts the human race; And of their souls and bodies' weight and worth, And how the earth looks pale and dead now When all is seen and reckoned thus; And she would whisper into his ear How time is as the sea in its comfort, And shall be evermore, for 'tis the sea. He told her all his thoughts, and how they fared In this their ever changing world; And she believed him when he told her all, For she had seen the fate of men, Though born a princess, and sent from Jove To be the Queen of Fables, and Fable's queen. And still she stood beside the throne of England, In pearls the years had crowned her then, With states all wisdom had entreated, And wit all English and all woman's blood, And all the brain of great Florentine. She was the lady of chivalry, The queen of faith and glory; All men followed her, good or bad, And none from dread of her would dare be bad. They trod the secret ways of Jove Beneath her feet and obeyed her laws, And from her hands had taken hold Of wisdoms at their worth. No mystery was too dark for her, No dream too dim for her, For all that seemed the true and good She brought and made her heir. The years of her life were dark and dark, But under her fair crown of years She loomed with growth unfurled, Her head the cap of wisdom wore, Her brows high hopes had crowned, Her brows, her hopes, her crown were well earned. And ever with her came the cloud, That up from fairy lands To be a terror to the world Of Fairy-land, with pale Forgot the fair, and knowledge of the wise. And yet her words, her looks, And higher still than thought her eyes, She showed the heart of Fairy-land. She taught the wit of Fairy-land, And first of courage And highest praise, and last of blame; The fays to fear, the mortals to love, And all the heart of Fairy-land. She showed the mind of Fairy-land. With memories of fairy-land Their lives were fairy-land to lead; And yet it was but to wear A crown of Fairy-land's first birth, And over-fain they would not yield, But bolder and fiercer grew Of growing men, and all the heart Of Fairy-land was theirs to take, And shape them after her dream; And they would know no Fear of her, Nor second mien of her poor men. Her children were born to be The foals of her first and best desire. The world had never heard their story, Their deeds had shamed no mortal, And when the King, at last, did seek The foals of his fountain, his desire It was but to sit upon their mares And drink the life-blood of them both. The shepherds of the Plains had known The story of the foals of the Queen; The King's men had seen her mount The swan-white horse, the swan-white heart Of the Queen had won to fatherhood; But none had ever seen her ride Like this--with spirit and grace and pride, And light-limbed as the sea-shell's sheen Where levin-rings the molten core; The foals of the Queen. So, when the foals of the Queen Did pass from earth, their story was done; But folk that knew their biography Did mark a difference small, but fit Between the spirit of their being And what the greatest have of soul, And what the smallest are. She died in child-bearing, as she lived it; But in a very way she lived it. She did not give the life her body gave, But caught the life the life gave her. Her martyrdom was born of child-bearing, Not of the thing that took her to the end, But as she lived it. The sheep, the cow, the hen, The birds in air, The men that stride the ocean-wrack, They keep their own chronicles, They keep their own rights, But from the great expanding mind The unborn generations watch To make their chronicles and rights, And for their own sake, These unborn children, we may say, Are her grand-children; They shall have a right to her renown, And shall be helped by her name. They shall not be helped by her shame; Shame is a forerunner of death; Its forerunners are death; Its fourth phase is the terrible thing We call--Corruption. So, if we must have a name For things that help the dead, For things that give a helpmateship, And be forgot, Let it be "Corruption." Because it takes a helpmate's life, But gives no other counter-breaking; It gives the living heart of a man To give the dead a helping hand When they have lost the power to break, And give them a living heart instead When they have lost the power to give; It gives the living heart of a man To give the dead a helping hand, When they have lost the power to break, And give them a living heart instead When they have lost the power to give. Corruption--that name for a thing That gives a helpmate's life To give the dead a helping hand When they have lost the power to break-- It gives the living heart of a man To give the dead a helping hand, When they have lost the power to break, And give them a living heart instead <|endoftext|> In such wise that 'twas most manifest, That the waters of the river made A floud to pour out of the skies, Whence a fog-bank rolled up on high. The sunshine became so fair, That what's called the rainbow seemed to break, With five wild sections. It was clear, Howsoever, that the fifth was vain. "Away!" he said, "a bow is best For certain when the matter's plain. What further hope canst thou harbor Who knoweth not this law?" "Peace!" the knight Shouted, and gave a brave embrace. The sun went down. The last rays kissed The waters blackening, as they fell. The knight espied a forest dim That seemed to mingle with the ground, Where all seemed molded by an hand Of bronze, and shaped by knighthood's skill Of old. It was hard by a wood, Wherein there breathed sweet air, that gave An air more clear than glass or lance, Breathing the virtue of gums and bergamot. Through that dell, and all along its side, Gleamed a fair green light, that gave Of its own grace a mirror clear To the sun's face, that, turning, glowed Like a shield in full array. Then the knight rode on, and passed Away from it on the plain. More bright The forest grew, and fair it grew, And all was full of sounds and dim, As of a bell within some tower, Or, nearer now, than e'er before Heard in a windy tower. At last Came one fair vision to his eyes, Like those other gifts of old; A damsel bright, with golden hair And eyes, like pools in deepest night, And, as they waned, a gold-embroidered robe Lining her body from foot to head. The sight on the knight was so new That he at first took her for a dream, And deemed the dream a real thing, and drew To his breast her face and body long, Till he had cooled them in those hands So long and languorous and pure. At length the maiden's head he caught, And well he knew 'twas his; then he said, "Thou art the maiden, am I sained. I am the Hermit of the Snows, I, loved of Gods and men." "And who art thou?" the maiden said, "And who is that on whom I view Such strange presage of ill, a doom, Yet possible as Idomeneus Could work upon a human heart. Then speak, and tell me, if I may, My peril, and the cause of all That grieves thee." "Thy plight is known, And the great cause of all thy pain," Said Lancelot, "well I know, But thou, if thou wouldst tell me first, The tale of all that grieves thee, Before thou speakest first, or ere I give thee leave." "O Grail-girt One," she said, "Whose desire and task it is To prize each suppliant's claim As worthy of its worth as thine, For one day more in which to put The question, and create one Who shall the light of loving eyes Shall shine within his heart to gaze upon; As once upon a world's lone verge One saw the face of Beauty cleft, And in that star-lit, watery space Watched it grow from shape to shape And flash from joy to joy; so wilt thou, When once thy great quest be thine, Gainst the good will of those folk, These kings and chiefs, who to greet thee, hail, Hail to thy goal! and then, that one day Shall come, that shall at last dispel This dark and lingering doubt thou bearest, Which else would vex thee to thy death, The gentle-hearted knight, thy king, Shall send thee, worn and scarred, Back to thine hall, and thither wend All kings and chiefs who kindly greet thee Hailing thee in their own lands, Greeting thee to thine hall." "Nay," quoth the knight, "nay, not I; For though," he said, "and though I saw My crown set on a doubtful sea, And heard the breakers roar of that Which cannot satisfy the sea, Yet, because our vows are gained, I Shall have the right. Not for us, But for the mercy-seat, the throne Of God, the throne of him whose right Is once lost, cannot be regained; Yet, if the sea should dash his wave Against the rock, and show the crown Set on a doubtful sea, and cast His green waves in irregular shape, Or he should lose the crown, and fall, This were not welcome in my sight, That a man's crown should pass away." "Nay," said she, "but thou shouldst tell That king of yours, when he shall hear That his is lost, what royal state He will dismount from, and relinquish, And go, like some old victor, weeping, To the distant country, and there die. And thou mightest say, in many a story, Which of his sons should last in proud renown, His two brothers, or his four brothers' sons, Or three sisters, or four sisters' sons, And what proud deeds these were of old That made the brothers great, or four sisters That made the queen a lord like precious gold Which none might possess but they alone, And this thyself, that now is wanting great And goodly fame to complete the tale, Which all men know, and wish to know the rest." "Great news," he answered, "have pressed Since thou hast told how thou that king art come." "King Aladine," she said, "hath come in power And lordship, for his noble right divine Hath got him friends through fair Ema's blood. Hath got him friends through fair Ema's blood, Hath chosen her for his queen; for here King Ademare, of noble race became, From strong Tusculan race, a goodly son, Who might the noblest lords of Albion move To love him. His is not that faint a name, But through the isles of Italy he went In pomp and pride, and lordlier wealth than they. "In his good father's hall he has a gift Full rich and costly, clear and fresh, Which of all gifts the crown is most fair, And set in rich gold. Of oxen his Is such a gift as few can show benevolence. Of yoke he has a thousand, of oxen, Such men of strength and courage, none that here May match them. If he shall stay or come To sway our kings, our land shall stand amazed At his gracious gifts, and mighty in his good. "His vassals are four thousand, men of might, Of count and lineage, and they go before Their lord to war. His body guard as lords, With chariots and arms of copper wrought As mighty gifts, and his dead father's arms, Which death may assail, unfaded and white, As is a rose at break of day for bloom, Whiter than foam of waves against the sun. "His body guard as lords, his chariots go With horse and foot, and chariot, fleet and strong, That with these he may be fearless called Upon to ride against the numerous Franks And conquer, and hold the land in fee, Till his proud race shall have grown again Of Trojan seed, and Italian blood. To have such friends and friends so dear, Such comrades dear, his mightier father, Willing shall have and ready be to give. "And that he may be fearless called Upon to ride against the numerous Franks, His trusty friends and kinsmen and charioteers, His body guard are four thousand men, Of count and lineage, and they go before Their lord to war. His vassals are four thousand Men of might, and they go before his chair. His body guard are four thousand men, Of count and lineage, and they go before His lord to war. Then think on these, O king, If thou wouldest hold the land in fee, Till their proud race shall have grown again Of Trojan seed, and Italian blood. "Thou canst not buy with silver and gold A plot of land to hold in fee, And feed thousands, and possess seats Of judgement in the heavens, if the germ Of falsehood be not rooted out of the nation. Then will the Franks rejoice when they behold <|endoftext|> If thou feel'st no wrong, thou dost not know What's plac'd beneath; therefore no one wrong Could ever enter here. But when I pass The portal, that does shut me from thee still, Then I behold with eager gaze All that thou tell'st me, and my soul is stirred With hope to hear and to behold thee more. But if thou should'st shut the gate even of thy voice, And never more disclose to my eyes Thy self and beautiful, I still should hope, Since I can still relate of thee all, That much may yet be learnt of thee, even By me, who do not look for any more At this gate to stand, but am gratefully Parted from thee. Thus, then, I must pursue With not enough words the story I began. First, I the ocean of the inner sea Encounter; and the men who dwell around Returning to their caves, report me dear An angel of the waters, that hath come From God, and made the water dark and bright. Next, to the island come I, where dwelt The man of heavenly merit, who rose Out of his mother's womb superior far To God. Him all the saints, with wonder, mark Risen from the dead, and seated at my side Sitting, as if he fain would speak, there lay. From blood, congeal'd to water by the spirit In virtue given--that is to say, from rust-- Baptiz'd into the tide of age at birth Each impious soul, I purify, and send Into the nature of all things change. Therefore, with all-inform'd faith I purify, And from this tide of blood, each thing combine; Even as the humours of the seasons change Each crop of tree, and wax and wane in on The colours of the year, in heavenly morn Taking its course with fiery spur, I draw From blood and water a purgatorial stream To quench the fevers of all poverty. In this is that rarest gem, the true refill Of wealth, and end of poverty, which far And wide has carried every disease that lurks In human veins, and yet is free from side Borne (as 'tis) with a cancerous load of curse. From hence I draw a tepid spring of health, A spring which in a solitary bay Beach-like, and hard by a temple, sets its feet On noiseless waves, and goes its way with swift Ethereal matter, whence a purer life It supplies to all the district round. Thither my sight the vision face as wide And deep, as would a prospect which Mons Grands Journeys intersect and bounding ensep'rate. Here I behold our continent far spread, And not the Northern half, as elsewhere I see it; here I trace how every sea Rolls to the Arabian; here I note how each Alternate billow forgets his worry, and keeps His good health, and whence he took it, where and when; For not of Greek or Roman philosophy Have I the secrets, which by Phoebus' beam This little isle in sea of life reveals, And which, this year, the fiery beams of February Unfurled, in thy courts, O Petreius! Next, as my tongue goes forth, I note the fates Have plac'd me in Britain's province, where reign A prince, whose piety and whose yoke I bear Less deeply than is my suit by every sense Inclined, more grateful to that prince my own, Whose brief hasn't my deference; here, at least, A bond is nothing greater than the prospect seems, Which makes my more portioned wishes give way. Thence I my prospect further enjoy, and mark How, in this land of plenty, man's heart is bred Irresolute, and how, from hope of gain, Which formerly made men steadfast, they amass Mentennae, which are juggleries and aremes Of deepest wickedness, and what may not The soul, that is habitued to covetiness, Seek for a mark, and for no object take, Save what may move her wonder to adore? Thence the young-eyed Fauns and Nymphs, which approach To steal young beauty, which is lawful thing, Do equally commit outrages, As if they had been equally in fear. There was a man, of whom I tell above He was a Christian, and his God was dear. He had no brother, and no father dead, And a father living, who in life had lov'd That son; and that son's wife, whose love to him In her marriage did perfect his life. And as he liv'd, he lov'd his old content, And kept within his means all his life long: So much that oft, amid his wonted labour, His heavy whelming waves would overflow, And o'er the edge of the wide main be toss'd The raft, whose master into land was brought By hard escape of cracking totters, which he fell Into at once, with all his rogues afield. One of these, of such valour as had much sway Within the camp, and in all strings as well, Was Pole, who had a brother in the Guards, And lately return'd from France, where he had proved His prowess, in all events of battle, And, in the most important point, was chief In all the others of the band, save Prussia's Young champion Vandeput. Pole, the man who brags Among his friends, that he bears not in himself All the hallows of the Holy Ghost, whom He breath'd into him when he burden'd dole In the little ship on the deep of Bizerunt, Could scarce beil-shorted at his setting sail, But, turning back his gloomy face again, To complain of those small wheels which bear the stars, And not at misfortune, was call'd to die. But he, though he came of a noble race, Was not of such low nature, as to beare The common puny nature of the human kind. He had been much in the mint of state, But for his dauntless heart and intrepid heart, Could in the ground be sure to be hardly found. That is, were he found in the smallest band, Nay, should he float alone upon the stream, In a single boat, he could not be in fault. And so the Christian laws ordain'd him to lie Within the boundaries of a State far distant. And here I may remark, that there is a trace Of the Sabine in the manners and the veins Of this brave race, that doth before and succeed The other long-liv'd Romans of the North. His brother Pole was in the employ Of the Count of Flanders, who, it seems, had power To tempt him from the service of his king. Pole, upon this temptatio nave, which of old Was so famous, came to a place, where he spied Vandeput, that in a ship was bound the like. He had with him Pole's wife, Margarita, full wife To Pole, and their little ones; and all the next Generation after theirs in the same boat Came also, with the exception of one more, Which Pole had enjoin'd to wait his coming, nay, Had striven to receive into his keeping new, New to this isle, from other regions far remote. And he bade them land at the port of Modri, And take freight for a-train; and they indeed Did so, and the great Poonooin the elder heard Till dawn of day, and to his brother's ear Did portend the bright morrow, so he took Quite on the confidence of the rising day, And the prospect of a fruitful year to come. And, with this same Poonooin as a guide, Vandeput and his little crew did haul Together to the land, which now they found Was of a natural blueness, and that high Above the mountain crest, on which they past, The soil was all superior to the soil Of the old world, and of such purity. Vandeput, finding soon the latitude just, Upright'd upon a bank, sent his crew aloft, Till to a lofty mountain they arrived. Then, standing on that mountain's top, they spread Sails and tacks outspread, and hoisted up their mast. And thus the captain, as the sea to flight Did with his oars o'er the vale of Modri For ever, saying--"And now our course we have Flied to the bare brow of the mountain, and there <|endoftext|> and wondered why he was so unhappy, and how it was that life, now so unmanageable, seemed to him what one sees when looking at clouds in the summer. At the beginning of the twentieth century a new philosophy of history emerged, which held that life's deepest tragedies cannot be understood except in human terms, cannot be interpreted except by those who have lived them. But life and its tragic myths have a universal power that transcends the language of the times, that transcends the concepts of the nation. At the end of the century you will have seen that the best is yet to be done. <|endoftext|> "I Just Killed a Bunch of Kids", by Heid E. Erdrich [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] For Buddy When the kids were runnin' back from Dorothy's In her little red car There was me in the lead with three on the trail. A eagle didn't change his position for the mighty heat. I could see the trees coming but couldn't see the trees fall. A flock of white gulls swarmed the heat and then turned and flew. I was locked on a white buffalo breaking a black bull's back. All these years I was told a buffalo was the most beautiful of beasts, And here was this flayed hulk come careening after me. And all I could see was white Until I saw the trees And then all was black and now I see the forested land rise up. I see a child in a swing, And he's fast asleep. And the fireflies are dying In the oaks and maples And then I hear him wail. I can hear him wail for hours. There's a hole in the air And a white hand coming down From that cloud of trees. It's getting light now, So light I am, And I might live to see the hand that comes From the cool darkness. I don't want to live. I want to die. <|endoftext|> "The Rain-Maker", by Heid E. Erdrich [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual] Once a white eagle sat On top of another cloud And made rain—really, really hard As hard as he could. It was cold, it was cold And wet as sin. And a thousand little stars Nodded beside the rain. That was the first time I saw That thing was magic. And then he made more, And soon there was no one left But the white eagles. They sat there on top of the clouds And made all the rain That there is now. <|endoftext|> "The Woman Who Sings at the Edge of Night", by Heid E. Erdrich [Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Weather] Because it is hard to imagine men and women not talking at the edge of night, I decided to make a record of the best conversations I ever had. I told my friend Beth about the deer at dusk toward the canyon, how one would trail its way through the black brush to the bed of an old manzanita, then back, out through the canyons toward home. Beth said she had towers where women sang until the morning, but she had never heard a woman sing that way toward dawn. One winter she saw my friend Debra waken from sleep on the upper floor at dawn and walk to the water in the garage. I knew her then, and before I knew it we were on the river heading for delta land. Debra never spoke of that winter, but she had a story she would tell around campfire after or winter vigil. Then she would sing of the women crossing the Bowery, then jump off into a long song about hope. Now she can only look into the river, wonder how far it is and whether it will take her. <|endoftext|> "The Rat", by Heid E. Erdrich [Relationships, Pets, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] The rat is very silent but I never hear him if I am sleeping. The sound he makes is drowned out by my dreams, so I don't know he is here, but I know he is there. I never see him except at night-time. He is so quiet and dark and slow that I never see him anywhere. Sometimes I hear him running in the house around the back where my old ratty rat is in the dryer. I wake up and think it is him and laugh and smile for no reason. He is so quiet and silent I don't know he even lives here. I think maybe he is a spirit possessed of a ghost you can't see who can't be seen. I can hear him around the house at night, but he is a spirit I never see, can't be seen. I think of him on long car trips and in other cities where I never go. He is a long white shape I never see and I don't know he is here. <|endoftext|> "Two Trees", by Heid E. Erdrich [Relationships, Pets] 1 Two trees. One fly. And, now, two trees, fly. A lone shoe. A woman on the sidewalk. No shoes on the sidewalk. A man on a skateboard. No skateboard. A woman on the stairs. No stairs. A small tree. A man on his knee. No man, on his knee. Two trees, fly. A dog barking. A dog barking. A man on his back. No back. A cat running. A cat on the bed. No cat. A hat. A man on his back. No man on his back. <|endoftext|> "West", by Heid E. Erdrich [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] West is hard to live. The easy way out— up—up—up—following the weather as it changes—up—up—following the weather as it changes. No. The easy way out— up—up—up—following the weather as it changes— following the weather— up—up—up—following the weather— up— following the weather— change— following the weather as it changes. Sick. Troubled. Hard to know which one. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. <|endoftext|> "From a Fire-Responding Perspective", by Danzyore TWatts [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] It may be too soon to tell but I think I know what day it is, so far in the daylight away from the hour that always puts me in the thick of things, the neighborhood's usual brouhaha, and the man of the hour so far this day may be my brother setting fire to the yard, splinting and tanking the grass with slurry, wreaking havoc till all is slack, the last hurt leaf falls, then crawling off to reveal a rare fire, perhaps, of which I'm not aware, at best I'm thankful for nothing bad that's happened to me all day, though that's almost always the case today, though that's also almost always the case every day, though that's almost always the case and will likely always be the case for all who are unfortunate to have a victim like me. I think I can forgive and forget because I've done what I can do, though that hasn't been great so far, and now it's time to move on, which is harder, more painful, though it's required, and the more I revise and reevaluate the bigger the gaps and the fewer resources there will be to go around, <|endoftext|> Old Lot, has seen more than his share. 'Tis not the least among his virtues The fear of hell, or fear of God. "There," said he, "thou seest a little heap Of things not worth a fart to laugh at. Thy neighbour's low-necked daughter chortles gay, Her brother is a laughing-stock, And that very clown that gave thee birth Hath done as much or little as he can To shame thy birth and breed, and makes thee mad. "There are, and were, gentlemen that were Mighty lords, and did some good deeds, And now are little lords again. And there, too, doth the same old story hold, And all the long story in a minute tell Of noble deeds and base that men do; For this is the world's eternal joke, That each should be as great as he can. "And this is laughing at our life through; For none will ever have a happy life That acts not for himself every part, And in the world will none be great or prince But he that does that he will do alone, As these good works for these poor lords prove, For if he did not these to do, He would be no great lord in the world." "And this," said he, "is the reason why In all true noble houses you may Find ever none that needs must chide, Or brother bawl, or father cry: And for the rest, the fault is few, But when they are they vex themselves: For all in all, 'tis small merit they boast, That do good deeds that they must not do." "But," said the Queen, "wherefore think'st thou then Thou canst do as thou do'st? thy time is brief, And thou hast done thy work!--but grieve it not, My knight, for that thy praise is great; For though thy labour is but small, It makes a noble long legacy." "And so it is, O Queen," he replied, "Yet little to my purpose I blind: I know that I may not do all That I would in my new estate. But then there's not a king in the land That would not benefit by me: I know my time is short, yet would Do all that I can do in it." "I can thy doing count as little," She said, "if thou dost but take Some small remembrance of thy place, And think of me, my lord, when thou Hast take thy supper in the glen And walk'st in the meadows at night; And, if thou do these things, I will That in my name thou be called The happiest knight that does them both." "I do," he said; "and if thy sight I take of things, take not away My gratitude for thy sweet faith: For well I know, without thine eyes, I could not have done what I have done: Therefore for that I bequeath Thy name to be called next after mine, And love it so that I shall be Another's knight if thou approve." "I do," she said; "and if thy hand Did feel, if pulse, if one heart give way, O'erpowering, mine, I should not hold: For thou being dead, and I alive, What better hope than this for me To firm up, and to strengthen by? And then for thought if thou be still, Thy soul shall teach my heart to swell With love as fierce as that thou didst have." "I do," he said; "and if thy word Did keep, if truth and truth's one be, That which I do, I could not do anrewt: I do for love, and for thy sake, And for those high faire things thou hast said, That never can be past or past, Which shall be stronger than me and mine, Than all the world more bright or more. And for the hope thou didst not say, That shall not leave me till I die." She turned her fair face from the knight, She gave a little cry and went her way, For she was going afoot to her grave, And her fair head with curls unbound; And where she was going, she carent Sweet flowers, and laid her in her grave; And there she loved to dream of the day When he was coming back to her, And of his arms, and of her hair, And of her face, and of her mouth; And when she slept in the night she dreamed Of her true knight, and dreamed the night That she should love him better than All other women had loved before. "O yearning wife, O yearning wife," he cried, "Let not thy heart be full of pain and dread, For other wives may laugh and live, and wear Gold and jewels, and be glad and gay, But thou art sorrowing for thy love, and dead Thy children, and so sadly doing this, That good it is for thee to think of nought But love, and love, and love again: Let not thy heart be full of pain and dread, For other wives may laugh and live; but yet It is not well to live, if love be full, Nor good it is to die, if love be keen; And therefore, wife, come home again, and say That I thy long-lost love have found, and so I am not love's first beginning nor last, And thou shalt have thy love's sum, and we will grow One twain by this love, one twain by this, As leaves meet trees, or waters meet the seas." Then did the lady weep and sorely shake Her lovely head, but still her heart was glad: "O love, O mistress mine, I am so gold, And golden are the trees and the springs, And sweet are the faces of the flowers; But sweeter than all else to my fancy Are those twain roses, the sweet twain bows, The shining grass that enlivens the ground, The murmuring stream that sparkles and flows, And the clear night when I am sitting there Beneath a heaven that is clear and fair And sweet and full of golden stars. O love, O mistress mine, I am dancing A dance with nature, and she sends me Messages and warnings and flowers; And all the while I seem lovelier and glad Than any woman beside, and the heart Of my darling, full of love and delight, Lives in my feet, and it is afraid to stay Where it was, and dare not be as other men, And it longs, and yearns for thee far more Than for the love of any other woman. My heart is sick for thee, and I shall die Ere I have seen thee, or thy love have known, Or on thy brow had written one clasp of thine. "O yearning wife, O yearning wife," he cried, "Do not forget the children and the sheep; Do not forget the Master that was my life, But look into thy heart, and out thereupon Write there, 'His name shall be home-born alive.'" Then did the lady weep sore, but she said not; She looked into her heart, and nothing spake; For she had no word with which to write, And she longed hard as any sheepman to lay Her head against the wayside, and lie dead. But the while she was looking into her heart, The blind night-cloud for a moment did roll From north to south across the holy land, And a great voice from the north did call to her, Saying, "Wife, the night is far spent, Set thy house in order, lest that night go Away with thee." Then the lady rose, And set her house in order, and then she put Her veil about her head, and her hair Covered up, and her jeweled sovereign by, And with a soft and gentle smile she bowed To go into her house. And with her came the husband too And his long lance in his hand, and his heart Bowed down under the load he bore Of his dead love, and in the porch she led Her lord, and after her the silent night Passed, and the morning broke, and with the light Her lords and her friends came in. Then her lordship cried, "Why is it that the night-clouds have covered Our lady's face?" And she said, "O my lord, the night-clouds have come For me, and for my love; for in the night The stars have whispered to me, and I know That thy wife's gone away." So that night Came with its ghostly choir, and stood and sung <|endoftext|> Yet must I tremble when the bright o' the day Wears off, and the moon with its cool radiance, From yonder misty mountain, sinks behind, And o'er the still sea, and dulls the gay sail. Singing beneath a leaf-fringed tree, When Love breathed his soul into my song, And saith the thing that I would say; But could not say it as My own, As one by another taught. Yet am I at her feet tonight Saying what other lips shall sing; And she, with the soul of a child, Smiles down on me, and allows That what I fain would say is Mine, And mine to say! Hath not the May dew rich perfume For the resting lover's couch, Where shall he go from this bright hour? Now the grey dawn flecks the skies; Now the lark is up in the sky, And I alone, alas! Now the nightingale is on the wing, Singeth she her soul-stirring song, And in her clear rippling song Chears up the sad heart of the morn; And on the dewy wild flowers lisps The rose-rose and the white rose. Yet ne'er to my fond heart will come All things sweet as they are now; The blue eyes of the angel eyes Never again shall melt mine. "Blithe soul," she said, and sighed, "Poor slave of Love's unfettered power! No other place beside Mine is the only garden-plot; For if I have not kept the place Dear Love has called my own, A shorter garden-plot I might have made For him who here his lily plants; But, ah! what worth in a lowriding slave, With no long dawn of glory won, To sow where angels sowed no summer-seeds? Where angels planted no winter-seeds, When Love himself from Love broke? "Hearken what Love has said to me-- Have I not knelt at his feet, To give him thanks and kiss his feet? But how can I, poor garden-plot, To please my Lord when I know His garden-plot is one with mine? Alas! the world has grown so cruel Since first poor Adam fell, Since first, ah! first that sad look was sent From Love's shut garden-door to mine. "The rose, the violet, and the lily, They are fair flowers, but they are not As fair as she is; they are pale, Like her who guards the garden-plot. Can you not grow, poor weak-eyed child, To help her and be kind to her? Go, little gardener, weed the wall; For, tho' you may not flower like she, You may strew the little flowers she loves. "And you, dear gardener, if you will, Gardening in her garden, pluck and crush Your little gardener's rose and violet; Pour over the roses, lavishly, The rich brown dirt from off your head; And then, if gardener's love you would, When Love's garden opens to the sun, Piercing upward through its dark-latticed walls, Look, through the wall that she has made, Through Love's dark garden-door into mine. The door creaked, as if in the night A wind had stirred it, and the cold Shadow of the slumberer laid its hand O'er its mechanism; the lock Was done away with, the bolt and key Went missing--was it tossed by a gust Of the strong November air? Or was it, perchance, the goblin-locked Monastery window sweeping the curtain In some sleepy world, in which some head Is bowed in prayer above the Book of Hours? And looking out, as from the window, Glimmered a form that stood In prayer--but, ah! what was that whiteness, What were those pinions wrought in whiteness, From the wings of a fairy who perched In heaven's pure air? A form that was not heavenly, nor a fairy, But as human who walks the air, Striving, perhaps, to rise from the earth Toward the pure track of the angels--and failed. I, seeing that there was no retreat From the wild knowledge that I had failed, With a deep hunger came to the Wild, And a deep thirst to know what dies After life--what fate awaits us there: What lies beyond? And a wave of the Imagination Flowed with me to the Wild, Whence I could not turn! Some day I shall ride on the sea, And a harper shall play to me Some strange old song of the West, When o'er his clear quivering reed Sails the dark storm-cloud of the sea, And, as the sea-bird alights On its rising, a death-like swoon Floats the lone mariner down To the wild breast of the sea! I, picturing these things, I sat, And my life was as the brief day Of the last summer ere Summer dies-- The mirage away! And I shall have died, I, as I so wist That my life was but the day of the last Summer ere Summer dies-- I, picturing these things, I sat. O, I could drink your life up through and through With a great golden draught of the War, And, while I thirsted, I should see myself Cover all the sea with your flag-coats of blood, And you trodden to death in the fields of death! I could know that the years go over merrily, That Death is King, and the brave is a fool, And that War is a joyous thing and a glad, And the young boys should cry for joy, and the old Be stern and forbidding, and the clang of swords Round your throat--and the clang of joy is the clang Of love and the strength of the strength of the world, And you drown in the sea of it all, and I Drown in the stream of the war--and this draught Would be drunk of it, and I know it, and you Know it, O War-god! THERE is a land up beyond the sea Where the surf turns a golden sea-gull's nest, And the sands bleed with pearls beneath the sea-- There is a place called Paradise. I have ridden on the backs of the surf Down to the golden sea-gulls' nesting place, And I have seen the sands at their feet Bleed with pearls as the surf went past. They turn white with the blood of me, And they laugh at the terrible silence That holds them in the fathomless place-- They laugh and sing with a merry rhyme, "Oh, here is Paradise!" They cry to me as I pass by "Oh, here is Paradise!" They cry and tramp through the summer sea, They dance on the dark, still flood-- They laugh at the water-dogs that prey For the fish that flash and flash by, They make a song to the silver sea That tells of the golden sea-- They tell of the home of the blessed ones, That live forever in the sea-- And I leave them to the fates and die. THE sea and the sky and the land Were once like jewels to me, For they were bright and pure as love, As true as fate and fate's dread decree. The sea sang songs of joy to the sky, The sky rolled down its breezes soft, The land was wet with the tears of me, For I was happy up there, but death Is sweeter than sleep and the grave. THE sea and the sky and the land Were once like jewels to me; The laughter of the sea, the sun And rainbows in the sky; But the vain love of the sea and sky And the delight of the rain Are dead since the day I lost you. Oh, you have been dead long enough. The sea has hidden in his waves The laughter of the sky and the sun; And the night winds sigh o'er the land But say not "Peace and joy!" no more They sing to each other, "Oh, you are dead! Oh, you are dead long ago!" I had no land of my own, No hut and hearth and home, And so I made of life a walk Through fields of wonder, all alone. I sang my songs to the sun And the great high woods and streams; I dreamed and dreamed, with eyes a-blur At mirages good and ill. I followed in the wake of youth, <|endoftext|> From thy man-woman to this meanest thing That would but say the lowest, faintest thing, That might but wink at the highest, purest thing. Woe is thee, thrice-victorious one! Woe is thee, lover-wise and brave! Thy might hath been to bear and twist And gird the world and govern it well, And to thy Son the lowest thing was still A rebellious throng to be suborned To serve, and to his Father's cost. What art thou now? O poverty, Thou base-born, little thing that art! Now wilt thou drink the brooks and talk with kings? Now feel the sun upon thine eyes and hair? Now see the seed-faces of the spring? Now smell the fragrance of the pine? Or in the house-roofs caress and sleep? Nay, thou hast had thine enjoyments: Thy poor fare nor busy life, Thy childish pastimes, too bold, Thy loves that proved too strong, Thy revels, and thy feasts of wine, Thy coms from many a distant land, And this sweet sweet little child that snatches Thy inmost soul, to share and keep it. O mother dear! O father! grieve not That the God that made them leave them thus; Nor blame thou them the world's misuse; Thou hast no knowledg of their fearful past; But see thine own sweet child that sheds Such tender tears for lost ones that are no more. In the old dwelling place The happy ones love to linger, To feed on warmth and cheerfulness And rest when any sorrows shake The deep rest of sleep: And the flowers of memory blow Above the happy place, The happy ones love to dwell on. The happy ones love to linger By the roses of memory, By the dreams of childhood, And oft in years to come To fold with happy love The remnant of their clay. I know a little place where the flowers blow In the old dwelling place; Where the leaves of many a lovely tree Wind as they were shod, And echo with the happy song From merry morn till night; And there are visions at night to cheer The heart when day is done. There in the old old dwelling place There is no pain or care; No sorrow ever speaks to us there, No strife or anger: In the old old dwelling place Let us take our last farewell; Say the "I love you" from the rosy flower Where the happy ones love to linger, To feed on warmth and cheerfulness And rest when any sorrows shake The deep rest of sleep. The flowers of memory blow Above the happy place, The happy ones love to dwell on. Where the river dreams and wanders In the old, old garden place; Where the lilies high in air Keep forever their lovely wreaths, And never fade or rot; There is no work to do or plan to plan, There is never strife or tear. Where the happy ones dwell In the old, old dwelling place, They have no thoughts to vex or to harass The rest of life: No vain resentments to sustain, No vain anxieties to feed, They have their sleep and their peace. Let us take the road of remembrance Through the lovely garden place; Let the heart be with those who are gone In the old, old dwelling place; For the journey of remembrance is sweet When it brings those loved who are gone. Come to the little garden place, Where the river wanders and sings; Where the lilies high in air Keep forever their lovely wreaths, And never fade or rot; There is rest for the weary and strong, For the weary and strong. To the little garden place, Come we from the weary world, Where strife and the struggle are rife, And the cross bars the way of the soul; Come we from the weary world, Where care and sorrow stalk, Come we to the little garden place Where the happy ones dwell. Come to the little garden place, Where the old life ended is, And the new begins every where, Peace, and joy, and content, and love; For the guide of the spirit yet Is Jesus Christ; yes, and life, With all its cares and its fears. So we shall come to the little garden place With the sun shining high, And the sweet flowers of Heaven bending low, In the old life's completion, And the tears of the Angels in our eyes, As we turn from the store Of our little garden place, Where we love and are loved. O leave thy store Of the world's wealth, For the little garden place, Where we are loved! No selfishness reigns; We count it not A little garden place, Where we are loved. Let us count it our treasure Of good things given, That we may keep it safe and secure, Unto the end, And inherit it safe and sure In the little garden place, Where we are loved. So we shall live our little life through, In the little garden place; Let no thought of the world interpose Till to-morrow; If our eyes be dim, Let their light not wane; But with faith as with clear sky, We shall see to-morrow. My little Love, my dear, For the momentary bliss Of your tender joys and fears, I will pay a debt Lent to my mood by telling The tale of a little tree. When first my Gimbel-ani Jumper I taught The art of the fern-leaf to fly, She rolled it round so gently, I had not known it alive, But swept it in a swift casual wind As straight as a line. And as, at my command, Its slender stalk bent under, Then it spread in an arching scroll From root to top, So, all unaware, shook down Its shadow on the bed. I picked the leaf up, And, in a careless way, I spread it o'er my face, But as I put it slowly back I saw beneath it A charm so faint, so changeful, I sat and wept. The sun was up, and laughing birds Did chant and chime; The mountain breeze did fill The valley air with hum; And the tall cottage-towers looked down A hundred feet into the trees, And shook their heads, With rosy fingers, at that home Where nothing changed. And all the lonesome hours were there With no one there, Save two young watches, like new-born chicks, That sang in their nests. The roses, at my feet, Out-breathed their sighs; And, on my bosom, lay A purple, little flower. And I said to it, "How strange a thing A scythe has made of us! It tills the ground, it wreathes its hoary head, It wins its crowns and garlands and applause; And I, who have studied all my life The theory of rhetoric, I have done nothing but go about To chap my boughs and flowers. And yet, in this end of the world, I find Nothing else to do but prattle and chaunt And spread my teachings all about. My prattle--it all comes back, dear, to you: And now I find, to my horror and joy, That I have taught the thing I taught. The things I preached I mean to do! For it's growing autumn now, and so The apples are falling and the bees Are humming, hush! They are gathering on the barberry-bells, And it's bedtime. The night draws near, and all the ways Are choked with bramble. The bumble-bee has lost its necklace, The stars are gone, And I must go. It is late. I must go. My flowers, adieu!" And as she spoke, A velvet fog, rolled down From cloud to cloud, Went sweeping over me. I felt it come, And saw the bees in a weft of light, As though they weighed the stars with honey, And that I'd been a light to their eyes. My leaves are falling, and my trees are falling; The cuckoo has ceased to call, The night draws near. I must go. The bees hum in a weft of light, And I must go. And when I came to, I saw the trees, And all my study walls and carvings, And all the flowers I had measured and planned All over comepotted; and I said, <|endoftext|> The Summer rose, that crown'd my labours, died. The once gay motes are withered dry; The frost-wind from the cloud did moan and wail. And you, sweet Jesu! whose love gave me Stately to rear the cedar and the vine, Wherefrom ye harvest my demeaning blood, A poor mourn'd widow sitting in your shade. Come, Lady of Shalott! While yet the starlight brightens at the sky And still thy sleep is over me, Come, see how bright my Ulster's stream Glows, how my mountain-abyss deep Sleeps, when the wanderer seeks his home! There let him rest, till morning's beam Lifts all the horrid streams that swell Ireland's deep gulf of gloom: And the wanderer comes, and, weary, Deeply must weep. Ah! cruel God! My heart is dead, whilst these live on Whilst live, the King of Miseries! Peace, O Lord! by the clefteth, And the swift-rushing floods! Peace, Lord of Heaven! by the earth Smitten, and smitten deep, Break, O Lord, into a thousand pieces; Tread under foot! Deep is the sleep, deep the sorrow, Deep as the dead somnolence, Where all that's borne and borne and borne Grows as chaff that will not work The weevils of the earth. Then to his oozy bed they sank The six hundred! yes, twelve hundred Clay-clad feet beneath the raw world's sod; The high priest hobbled o'er the sod To bless their bed. And round the bend Where stands the Black Bull, they knelt them there; For they could totter no more. "O my dear, my dearest, hie thee away! Thy Mother sends, ah, wilt thou stay? Sweet baby, must thou cut this clay? Sweet baby, wilt thou cut this clay? Sweet baby, wilt thou shut thy eyes? Sweet baby, wilt thou shut thy eyes? "O my dearest, my sweetest, leave The hills, the hills to her! hie thee away! Go to the brook! go! Sweet baby dear! Go to the greenwood, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go!" "The hills are silent; silent are they, The hills, my baby dear! Silent, like thee; hie thee, I pray, To thy mother! Sweet baby dear! Go to the greenwood, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear!" There was a hillock on the Black Bull That looked on to Derry Down; There was a cross in a coppice by Where half the Black Bull slopes; And some old men used to talk about A man that was lost there. A few cornfields blinked in the sun, And there where the High Street drains An old soldier kept, in his room, A little book, of pasted-white covers, Of the deeds of boys that were good at fighting, And brave at trading. He read: "The house of Eshcol fell On Thursday, July the second: Capt. Eddie Golden was the man That drove off with the plunder cab, The prize of the day. "But, after all he made but small: His ship went south with many a trip: And much he earned, and drank and ate, And slept in barracks; where he grew To be a man of twenty-two. He learned the ways of men: And now he wonders where he is." Then quiet fell. The daylight passed, And darkness had its standard there. The cross was down. No light was seen From windows set in bunks: The door-way glowed; and then was gone The hillock's cross of white. Then, like a light, one candle fell From the window, lit and then stayed; The cross was gone from the door; The cornfields closed over one: The lone candle's soul went home, With eyes that saw far off, beyond The lonely bough, the time when men Felt hope and courage for the world's needs. Down by the water Lightly we trot Through the turn-round, The High Rocks before us, The wind has ceased to moan, The bay is fine. It's time to say We're home again, we're home again, The sands are black. What have I gotten myself Into this tangle? A hard old world to shake; An exile's sceptre to shake; A world that makes no promise, And delays fulfillment; And yet, when roused once more, Proves at my hands again Its long-desired hand, its full Strength of command. Why is it, when I am set, When the heat's upon me, The flood-tide's stirred me, My spirit should be shorn By a foul neglect, Or worse, to sickly laxness? What have I gotten myself Into this tangle? Why do I need keep pace With the spirit's lagging, And stave off want with prayer, That the race may not be run? What have I gotten myself Into this tangle? A swallow feather to take, As wing to seek a mate, Is all the world to me And my soul's content. My name's John Barry, I've got gold and I want it, And I've got the world to give To get it right from the start. A world's a small affair, Though we be little men, When our lives the whole earth owns And our own whale-boat rides. The globe's a passing jest, The soil's a bountiful plot, A man may be poor indeed, But he'll never be old. No man may slay a hog, No man may chase the shark, No man may carry a musket, No man may fight a battle; But he may kiss a maid, And lean against a wall, And watch the world go by. So let me go to sleep; I'll dream that all is well, For there's a better thing Than the doctors can tell: And there's a better rest Than the body's pain, And a finer glory than fight Or the trouble of strife: I'll dream that all is well. In the grave's twilight You shall not see a soldier; But sometimes a peddler Comes out on the narrow Bridge of the Head of Samuel, Out of the din of noon, Out of the din of four, Out of the din of ten. He hears the city's hum, He hears his neighbours' talk, And over his head the river Swells and trembles and moans. Out on the river side Comes a merrier crowd, And they talk and they laugh and they cry, And they run and they run. I hear them talk, I hear them call: "How lovely is our village! Down the road so small and neat, Near the sea, where the people Look as gay as we do. God bless them in their streets, I've got a wife and infant child; And the weather's soured me, I know; And the people by the sea Look grayer than ever, For the wind's up and pale and cold, And the rain's down and rain. It's queer, I confess, the things People say when you are dead; But I don't care. I've told them All I know. So I may Remain as I am, quiet, In a moment, out of sight." So he crossed the Bridge of the Head, And the rest he did as he said, Dropped into his house of clay, And at last he slept sound. But the people on the river Went on and on and on, And they talked and they laughed and they cried, And they ran and they ran. The footlights shone, and the concert Filled the market with noise. But down in his cell, alone, The poor delver, Keir, He had put aside his pipe, And he slept and watched the stars. The lamp was smashed; but not from cold; (A habit he'd acquired, From an old Master he'd acquired, And a service he'd done;) And he left it as it lay, And he stole away to think. <|endoftext|> Till the red flame in his brain Is as yellow light, As the roar of the lion is to the hound. So with all the unruly Will That roams unrestrained in my heart, The struggle that long must be, While the demons of old time abide, I say--this strife is the end of me; That nevermore, Not under sun or shower, Shall the red flame in my brain Roar as it did in the days of yore. The thing I long for Is not some wrought ideal, Or a long gold chain to bind me, Or even a beautiful book. But a voice that speaks in me Whose tone is as mild as the murmur Of streams when they pass down a hill; A hand that works and feels, And hovers in the air like the dove of peace. The thing I long for Is not some made-up dream, Or a faded dream to be cast aside, But the stirring of a present joy, The gathering of a pastime, The setting of a dream. It is the thread and the knitting Of life, the joining of soul with soul, That makes me so weak and faint That all day long in my heart I but cast away The things that are. And then in my soul, all day long, All through, comes that blessed voice That whispers of what must be. How far beneath me seems the earth! Does she know That in my restless unrest, In the harshnesses and the pangs Of this long, aimless striving, She might learn of her true home, How close the land is to her heart, And what a precious thing it is, Her very own, the heart of the land! Heart of the land! Land's heart! What word can answer for thee? Land's life! land's love! land's doom! What words but another word Hanging modulate and frail, The dread of thy lips, the toning Of thy calm speech, the thread Of thy destiny spun To weave thy future to-day? I see a sea, a mighty sea, With far-stretching shores, And white-wrought vessels stemming its strength, And sailing from afar; And I behold a people beset By selfishness and need, Who hear the mighty voice of the sea And obey its voice, All for the glory of God and the good Of their blue-pruned waters and their land. Heart of the land! Land's heart! What word can answer for thee? Land's life! land's love! land's doom! What word but some tuned synonym Of thy proud and prouder name? A people tamely great and wise, Who tamely give their hearts, And patiently to the mighty sea Their souls bend, And weave a dim draught to soothe their pain Until they reach their home at last. One word! and the harsh word outruns The land, and sounds afar Like the sea when winds are stirred. I hear it resound afar, A echo of the call of John. I hear it, and I cry out, O blessed Land's heart! O blessed land! A word in answer gives, And the whole earth's heart beats with mine. Dear Land's Heart! Dear land's heart! I hear thy rejoicing call; I hear thy welcome cry, I hear thy glad rejoicings tell, Dear land's heart! Dear land's heart! O sweet delight of welcome cries! And all the earth's noise sounds sweet To me as I am bound to thee. And the dark bent eyes of Fate Behind a frowning screen, Have seen me wandering here, An outcast like the outcasts, Saw me as I might be; And now my feet have found Thy very own at last, And, like a spirit, I go Back to my home at last. And the dark eyes of Fate Are never bent again, For I have found my way Home at last. And I go Back to my home at last. And I am home at last, And I go to my mother, And with trembling lips and wild, And wet eyes, and eager breath, I tell her all my dream; And I look on her face, And she smiles on me, And from her eyes the wild Wild joy of her home in me Passeth, and I come at last To my own home at last. From our far homesteads, where we hark To the watchman on the mountebank's wan lips, Or down by the dark thin seaman's dingy face In the great boat that halts on any wharf As we skim the dark sea where the fish-boats go, From the high North a voice is raising now Beyond the dark walls that guard our home: Gone are the days when the enemy,-- Who for centuries haunted our forests, Walled us in, and stole our shepherds, Stole our wise men, our art men, our princes, And left us with ruins of our glory, Till now, at last, we are coming together, Gathering once more under one standard, Shrinking from our enemies' sneer and sneer! And what is our pride? The world's grey dust, The world's rust and rusted steel. Come, comrades, come, we are growing old, For we have seen the long-sought days of which All our history and all our dream has sung. And the sword rings down the age! For one by one we are falling, falling, Falling as falls the golden city That building builds for God alone; Till, all complete, in the last eclipse, We reach the seventh heavens, and see The marvel of our building's mystery. Like as the sea is in the heart of a rock, So is the spirit in a noble mind. Like as the sea's in the red heart of a thorn, So is the strength in a stout-hearted man. Like as the soul's in the brave, obedient heart Of one steadfast ever to come and never yet To go, till God's will is done upon the face Of the globe; so is our love's full worth weighed, As the rocks' and the thorns' and the sea's in ours. I ask not what thy thought may be, nor yet What thy work shall be; Only tell me what thou art, And leave me to mine! I know that I know thee not, Nor know that I am dear; Yet give me some small sign That thou art that whom I know, And that my heart doth warm With some new kind of love For thee in thine own land; Give me some little sign That the past is dead, and all its ills past, And that the present and the years to be Are not as other years, but sweeter years, Made sweeter by some word, or thought said. Or a tune from out our land's strong harmony, With its big bold notes set free, Forth ringing from the cymbals' clash, Forth ringing from the zither's twang, To the musically-whispered measure, And the grand, unwritten rhymes. Or the rhythm of some simple song, That hath no hope of change, Hushingly and slowly recurring To the same tune year by year, As the winter becomes autumn, As the summer changes. Some tune of wandering Ruine, Some province-composite, Some simple, smooth, and stately, Lovely hymn of our southland. Sing it with the wind's music Through the sound of our cities, Of our lakes and rivers, Of our pine forests and uplands, Of our big sun-warmed cities And their light-lain shadows. Sing it with the light wind's minstrelsy, Over the city-trees, Over the spot where the sun hath turned In the valley of our towns, Over the little houses Of our couples, wed each year To the spring's new light. Sing it with the rushing of water, The whirlpool of our rivers, Of our torrents that leap with laughter To the spurt of our sportsmen; Sing it, if thou canst, With thy songs of love, Laid no mean chord-note to capture, As a slave might capture Some big noble theme, But with such fire and poignancy, Such hope, and such soul as ours, Sing it in perfect song! Sing it, but take not from us The hope and the poignard; On our children and our children's children Put not yet this sense of loss; Give us not yet a sense <|endoftext|> Though you would have me know it, I've known the worse in women than you. You know that a woman's say in a man's marriage Lasts a life time, unless he's a bastard, Or a dead man, or if one of the two Should have a will and chuse a wife for him. So when one of those two fat fellows In a great passion gripes you and says That you must marry him or her, say, "By all the stars I will not marry you," And for good or for evil You must obey, or die. And what does the other one say? Well, he may have a will, too. But I'll marry you, or I'll die. And what does he say? He may have a will, too, But I've a gun And you have not. In a hollow tree My love and I have made A nest for the making; She's a woman hard and tall With a brown face like a bean, And a tawny mane Blown round her merry round head. And her tender little hand Is the sweetest little hand That ever trod. Her eyes are wise and dark, Like a goodly pair o' long blue; Her dimpled, drowsy chin Is the whisker o' meekest me. Her brow is ruddy like the rose; Her dark, wet curls are the gold That lies in the nest. When she talks to me I listen With a hawkat small time; I hang on her lips like a bird Of toucht a breeze and then off I fly. My heart goes with her in her feather Of silken feather, in winged flight Up to the tree. Our talk is sweet and soft, Like a hope in the rose; The girl that I love and have known Fifteen years or more Is a flower I would swear Was never seen before. Our talk is sweet and soft As a sappy down Of a quiet, warm day; And a rosebud's promise of long ago Comes to me in a dream, Of a time and a place, When we were young. And I run to catch it all-- The fair lost thing, the nest! But my heart goes with her in her winged flight Up to the tree. And I see her talking to the tree As she holds its nest. And what do I say? The time and the place Have been so long with me They seem like a dream with a foamy tongue That beckons and goes away. I shall think them sweet dreams no more. For I am one that is born. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. The morning mist is gone From the grassy meads, Where early roisins rose In rosier hues Than those the sky forsaken Sheathed in solemn gray. But roses, precious roses, In vials of pearl From earth are taken-- Drops of undying dew That scent the earth no more. From vase to vial, drop by drop, All that were delicate In earth, though rare, have fallen; The shrines of light are gray; And angels have forgotten Where they left their lilies. From vase to vial, drop by drop, All that were delicate In earth, have fallen; And sweet their fragrant sojourn In earth's dim desolate place. Ah, they would have forgotten, And longed for us no more! But we have loved them with All our love, and kept them As the sweet memory keeps The song of the blessed birds That fill the airy sky, We knew them smiling, they knew us, As one might know a former friend; And tenderly the maids whom we loved Would kiss us in the children's place. But now in that eternal silent place, We sigh and murmur and wait With heart's subdued hum And yielding eye, to go. The first voice that came from us, Like a merry Christmas bell, Told of their glad and faithful beards That had flourished underneath The beeches of Paradise. They knew us by our gentle greetings, And how we loved their happy hunting, And all the tender joys that brought. And they were happy, young and old; We gave them all the finest flowers That the field bore; We told them how the hunt was laid To order, and the hounds were brought In a soft, bright train, and circled By a handsome old fellow dressed In a coat of snowy gray, And golden haughty hair, And gentle eyes of blue. Then, drawing-roomward, I set A gladsome light to burn, And a fine red rag to spread, That they might have their cheer, And smile at me, as I read The lovely news from far And I went through the sleepy village, And through the valley's dim blue haze, With nothing but a mellow boure And a sweet, bright lute for accompaniment. But what a glory seemed it To sit in the silent gallery For a space with my Lord Byron, And catch the music of his late-born song Come soaring over hyacinths and violets In that old Gothic cathedral, With its domes of turning violet And towers all a-thrill With rich, rich colors, And colors in the dome! And I thought of that azure dome, That cathedral's dome, With one star for each of the rainbow's colors, And every one a beacon light. And the star on the altar in my heart Saw a pure white Holy Child, And in the happy air of night, That altar star saw another child, And in the child it answered: Peace; And I knew that my Lord Byron Knew what he was doing, And he sang of glorious battles That gave us our great Queen Bess; And he sang of the marvellous things That Tintoretto did for beauty; And the most of the Holy City He sang was Holy Saturday, In the glorious name of the Lord, And, as he sang, a holy voice Called out: "I am holy, I am pure, I come from the right God, And I sing in the heavenly name of the Lord, And in the holy Saviour's name!" And I, with many an ardent look And prayerful look, Was listening to the sound of music, And I thought, while I heard the music, That the song of the Lord God, And the chant of the angels, Had a music of their own, That only the spirit e'er could conceive, And only the spirit e'er could sing. Then, as I looked with eager eyes Upon the living pictures hanging there, That called to me as angels calling to me, All the sweet tales of love and delight, All the thoughts of my youth flitting through them, All the loves, and dear, dear remembrances, That formed my heart, I thought: "Oh, this is the sweet life, This life of love with its dreams and desires; And the sweet thoughts, that flitting through it, Only bear witness, To come, As in the golden days of youth, To die in the perfect cross of Christ." Then I saw the picture of my poor heart In that old church, that day, at Whitby, Sitting alone in that part of the aisle, And a shadow seemed to fall over it, And a hushing calm on all the crowd Of the faithful and of the believing, As it quietly passed from that part of the aisle. Then a hand glided over the cross, And a voice murmured, low and sweet, "You are that one whom I wanted always, Always, Margaret, and I am glad. You are that one whom I loved ever, <|endoftext|> For in vain my soul is placed Where beauty only appears Beneath the solitary moon. O heart of mine, untired and still, Rest ever, ever; for thy rest Come from thy dwelling-place, and pass Silently and gently by the bier Where joys like thine once met his face. O love, they cannot take from thee One jot of all that thou hast taught me: To love beneath the light that shines From that large heart in which thou art blessed; To love with all the pure of soul Whose spirit doth impel thee on. In heaven's own temple, where none else But HE and I with him have entered, Through those dark archways I must go When I my place have fulfilled. But let me first the holy matting Trow under th'owed archway, and when I go upon my solemn errand Look with thy help upon me. There was a little golden key, Just large enough to fit about My finger as I took it forth; I unlocked the door of my heart's chambre, I looked within its most secret shrine, And in one moment there was revealed The mystery of all my grief and love. I found the love that I denied; I saw the truth that I had kept For you in falsehood's highest degree: The sun of my life was quenched And all the lustre of my life Set to ebonness in the tomb. I found a wan and broken lamp, The light of a life forlorn, And all the old perfume of romance In the dark sphere of death was lost. There was no strength in my hands to touch My lovers, dead and chill with dread, Or speak to them in words of life. I looked upon the face of my dead, And it was against my trembling knees That their white lips met and past; I tried to seize the hand that I loved, But a cold fear came on me like frost Before the dying hand was wholly dead. The love that I had come to claim Is cold and lost like the moth's seed, Or the white seed of a lily, Or a snowdrop, bloom of the field, That would be bloom of the world indeed. And on that shadowed threshold now Where once my love and I had stood, With trembling lips and heavy eyes, I saw two figures in the gloom, Two eyes I had seen before, Two eyes that spoke to me of life, And I knew that I must go. I went, and a strange thought struck me, And I went, and I said, "Ah, this Is the secret of my life and death, To go where I will, to any gate, And look in th' eyes of those that wait." I went, and a strange thought struck me, And I went, and I said, "Ah, this Is the secret of my life and death." I went, and I knew that in the eyes Of all that I had loved and lost There was but one bright glance that shone, And that was the glance of my love to me; And as I looked in th' eyes of that night Of two souls meeting in the dark, I knew that I must go. Ah! there was one who was not there Whose smile could make my heart rejoice, Whose kiss could make my lips remember, Whose words could tell of deeper love Than the pale starbeam may. It was not Silence that I saw Behind the cedar, but Love. Ah! there was one whose gentle hand Could make mine own despair; Who walked with drooping head and breast, And never raised them to my gaze, But held her veil aloft and said Slowly, "It is you." It was not Silence that I saw Behind the cedar, but Love. Ah! there was one whose kiss could make My heart's blood frosty cold, Who walked with drooping head and breast, And never raised them to my gaze, But held her veil aloft and said Slowly, "It is you." It was not Silence that I saw Behind the cedar, but Love. He stands in the chamber where you lay, And the tears in his eyes are cold, For the time is come when he must go And leave you alone alone; But remember, forget me not, And don't grieve so for my sake, And one day we will meet again, And one day we will part. When in the springtime first thou met me, It was not in the temple of Truth With ideal beauties to your feet, But in a garden where love was. Love was not then the idol of speech, And thought was not in thy flowery citadel, But pleasure was thy roof and only defense, And I was but a glad-hearted gardener. When in the springtime thou didst blush for me, It was not because thou thoughtest me too meek To win the love thou soughtest to win; But thou didst know the secret of the flower, And watched its budding, and it opened in thy heart, And there the dearest flower was thine. And for love I knew the dearest in the end. Then in the summertime thou didst come to me To share the pleasures that the world had to offer, And in the evening, lying on the flowery bed, Thou didst beg me for a word, and I gave it to thee, And I awoke in the morning and thy answer was "Yes," And now in the wintertime thou camest to me, And I gave thee the flower my heart held dearest, And now thy answer is "No," and the last word I heard Was, "Lamb of my life, would God I might have thee die, And at the resurrection, as thy heart desires, Reach the fine golden door and meet thee in the street." Love, how beautiful is the morning! There comes a grace in the early light, The wimpling dawn, the gleaming air, That suggests the starry dawn of morn When, bathed in the radiant glow, Man's spirit shall rise like the morn From out the dust it has so long drained. Ah! that same marvellous beauty befits The soul that on its wings of light hath birth, When the young spirit is on love's high barges led, And upward drives on through the azure West. Ah! that same marvellous beauty befits The soul that follows the love that makes it great. Love is the wave,--the boat,--the ark; The ark, the ark, the power divine; The wave, the boat, unto all exiles long lost; The power divine, for love is life divine; The wave, the boat, the ark! Love is the wave;--the boat,--the power divine; The ark, the ark, the ark; Love is the wave,--the boat,--the ark. The ark, the ark, the ark. All things in need of Love's blessing yet Are weaker than those that scorn his aid; Men, in their stubbornness, will want his care, And toils and troubles will vex him at the best, But love, which only cares for me, will find And make all things safe and happy still. All things in need of Love's blessing yet Are weaker than those that scorn his care; To those that love and are beloved he Will want his care and only care will want; And he will so enrich them and so please That they will want no care from out his hand. And I too, through love, shall need his care, And he shall so bless and so please me That, while I'm underiest, he shall be Excelling most of every other man. And if the best I can manage to be He'll manage to be the best of any; And, being so good, why, the best I shall. He says he's my friend, and I believe him; He seems so kind and loving sometimes; And then he snaps, as if he had eaten something That disgusted him, and he says he's sorry And can't live half way about again; And then he snaps again, as if the last Words had never been spoken, and he's angry And can't wait to get back to his real life. All his life, from birth, have I taught him To take what was a kindness and turn it Into a help and keep it there to cling; To be careful what he says and care, To give freely and not store things; And to look into the faces Of all he talks to and for And not to take anything at all <|endoftext|> It was a tiny winged flight And the little raven was happy And I was happy, happy, happy As I lay in the warm grass Not caring whether I was dreaming or awake I felt my dear one quivering Her little feet sticking in the grass Her arms outspread She lay there and smiled She had never been away from me She would come back to me For there was a Queen I knew her as a little child I loved her as my own For she was so light Her hair was like a gift in the wind And her face Was calm and pure as the clouds are And wise were her eyes They seemed to know all things And all things did they know And all things will they know And her crown Was bright as a star in the sky And her people were very wise Her eyes were happy Her head was bowed in content As she sat there and smiled In the cool woods a Summer's day How happy were the bees They hung about the Buttercup And gamboled among the flowers They sang, they sang A little at her feet And a little on her brow But they did not come to her face They did not come They came down to me And they fluttered on my hair I am the only lover that she knows I am the only god she worships She comes not to me She comes not to me She comes not to me When the autumn winds are blowing low Over the grass and the flowers She will come to me She will come to me She will come to me She will come to me Under the enchanted moonlight We will walk in the dainty ways We will lie down together On the golden alike sides of a bed She will be so very gentle to me She will be so very gentle to me She will be so very gentle to me The new young moon in the purple night Has turned to a golden star The new year is born in the old year's birth The wind is singing in the garden again The leaves are falling in the forgotten garden The new year is born in the old year's birth The wind is singing in the garden again There was never a black cloud in the sky For our father there on the Indian hill There was never a black cloud in the sky There was never a drop to drain or thirst There was never a cloud to fall or snow There was never a breath to sigh or ails There was never a hope to ease or cheer For he came not out of the sky to us For there was never a black cloud in the sky There was never a cloud to fall or snow There was never hope to ease or cheer For he came not out of the sky to us It was not as some have come who came in pomp Or high emprise and spoke of being King It was a beggar with a crust of bread in his hand It was not as some have come who spoke of being King It was a beggar with a crust of bread in his hand It was not as some have come who spoke of being King For the King may be a gentleman and good And the people may be far in earnest in their love But to us he is a name like any other trade For the King may be a gentleman and good And the people may be far in earnest in their love A friend of my brother's lives over the way And he takes a morning shot At a fifty caliber gun That is chambered in .32 caliber rimfire That is smooth-feeding and top-break With a safety lock and an elevation step And a safe lock and an aperture. He has spent the night below in his little hut With his little Schmidt rifle That has a special arrangement for windage and elevation And a tracer rate of fire. So a friend of my brother's comes riding up that hill With his little Schmidt rifle That has a safety lock and an aperture And a special rate of fire. He has fired it with every kind of bullet That are full of edge and hardness and have a lightness of weight And he aims it and pulls the trigger and locks the bolt back And the groans and groaning grows into a sob for he knows That the groaning of the inadequate Must be shot out of the story For the friend of his brother's life Must be shot out of the story And he has put a track of lead Through the softest clay that is brown and green And he has crossed it with a spade and a bulldozer's wheelbarrow And he has sent a telegram to his old wife in Ohio That is lying under the house that they built by the river And he has written her this message on a post-office receipt: Dear Mrs. Haplyshire, I love you and I want to make you proud. I have asked the people in Elko to build me a house And they have made it a hotel with a restaurant on the ground. I am staying there, so keep the cameras out. I want to be the head waiter in the place. They are making me an offer that I cannot refuse. They say that my father and his brothers were cowards. I want to be a good citizen and to serve the public. I have a son that is a junior captain in the army And he told me that he has been offered a place in the army In the 382d Infantry. I have a little place out in Guadalcanal Where I am going to school. There is a telegraph office that is in my way. I am trying to be a good citizen. I am willing to work. I do not want the world to think that I am doing it To be a great soldier. I want to live and to make a name for myself. I do not want the people to know that I am doing it For money or honor. If I go to the hospital and the doctor says You have rheumatic fever and you need to rest You have a cough that keeps you up and you have a fever That will not go away I will be dead before I get well. And the only benefit of the disease Is that when I am dead I will not have to wear my uniform And march with the 382d Infantry. And I said, "This is a war. If you do not like it you can go to another And they will give you better clothing and you will be glad Because you are tired and your bones are beginning to fail." And he said, "This is not a war And we will send you home when you are well enough to go." And he said, "I am not a coward. I will keep you from the battle and you will get well And we will not stand by and see you wounded." I had come back from the hospital where they had taken me And I was dressed and I was happy as could be And I said to myself, "They have been fair to me." And I turned my face from the wall to look at the fellow drinking his rum And the first thing that he said to me was, "What have you been doing During this war?" And I said, "I have been taking care of my old folks." And he said, "You have." And I said, "You are too much for me. I am sorry you have them and I am sorry you have taken care of them. But you are too much for me. You are all that is left of them." And I turned and walked away. And the next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital bed And the man was sitting with his head on his hands And his fingers waving. And I said, "What is this I see? I can't be dead." She stood with bowed head Before a mirror in her room, muttering softly to herself While she examined each smooth, brown toe of Álvar Núñez. She noticed that they were firm and that there was no evidence that they had been broken, But the matter was up there on the table and she did not dare look. And she turned her head to the right, and her beautiful face became serious, And she raised her head to the right, and her fair, sad eyes grew deep, Then the room seemed to grow dark before she spoke, for she saw the shadow of a sword. But she turned her head abruptly and her fair, sad eyes fell in despair And she said to herself, "No, it can't be. It can't be. My Álvar is not in the hall. He has sent me away to my bed and now he is going to take me away To his house, but I will fight against him, for he never gives me any rest. I will not be taken. He has broken me, and he can hang me anytime he chooses." And the more she thought about it, the more she was certain that she was going mad. And the more she thought about it, the more she was certain that she was dying. <|endoftext|> Our strong good-will and interest But find our stars of freedom We lose our sight, Like child that through dark glasses Is able to see all things. We've learnt to wreathe with "tissue" Lilies for the dead, We've scarcely any fragrant flowers That wither with the bloom, We've no pleasure in the winter sunset That glitters on the snow, But all the beauty of the springtime Is reflected in thy face. Thou's but a little child, Thou's but a little child; But thou hast shining treasures That few can boast, And they are ours now and here, Thy smile and glances. We gave thee everything That thou couldst want, The joy of happy hours With friends near thee, Of dreams full of light And beauty in the night, Of art and nature. Thy happiest hours have been With dear friends at home, The softest bed and the sweetest board, The dearest kindlierest care, And the perfect understanding That comes of friendship. We miss thee here and now, We miss thee far away, And smiling we beg That thou wilt come again, To drink the drink of joy And not to waste it. Thy absence is like the air that's A shadow of the sun When through it glides the soothing voice of The spring's dewy trumpet, And through it softly breaks the word of The distant shepherd's pipe. Thy memory is like the bright sea That, like its living image, shines In sunshine and in storm, Or like the ancient, dim, austere shrine Of holy solitude Where gentle shapes, an angel's team In soft-moveless procession, pass. Thy presence is like a soul within The heart of some great, good man Who, strong in himself, is yet The rod and the sword of a just And mighty king, and holds his court In some divine fashion, yet is A man like thee. Thy dream is like a clear wave that Breaks on a distant beach And, ebb-wise collecting, gains A tide again, ere it is lost For ever, and thy heart again Is as a radiant body; It moves and it moves at its full Within its splendid and eternal Gloriousness. There is no place where we two are not met, There is no hour where we do not meet; For, day by day, there comes an exchange Between the spirit of our souls That we are bound to each other. Our lives are a long river flowing And we two go together From Calm Spring bank to Thorney Hill. In bright and starry skies Thy face is ever risen to meet mine; There is no place where we two are not met; There is no hour where we do not meet; Yet in thy sight I seem to fall Like a floating cloud 'Mid the stars in the summer sky. I never look for thee In the drear and weary noon; But, like some happy child, I sit and dream in the sun, And thy white soul grows luminous Like a silver flame. I have seen the crimson rose Fill its cup to the brim Till its thin petals, trembling And delicate, seem to fold About the chalice theirs; And I've seen the bee Gather the flower Into his jointed cup, And drink and kiss and pass Into the flowery sod. So in thy spirit I see The thirsty, happy bee Drinking and kissing and passing Into the flowery sod; And, when I look to see The cup he leaves, I see its ruby cup Full to the brim. The silence that is settled Upon the ocean of our being Is like the shadow of a boat That, anchored in a quiet harbor, Moves softly through the sea, But cannot raise its head A single pulse above the wave. The silence that we feel Is the voice of the spirit that broods In the depths of the flowery sod, Off, away, and away, In the light of the sun and moon And the song of the river; The voices of our own loved ones Whispering in dreams, Whispering still. They are calling to us, I know, With their faces that we know; The faces of those who first made The heart of our mother young; But, from the heart of the hill To the golden shores of the sea, They are calling to us. We have chosen a land to die in; We have chosen a grave; But they, dear lost friends, We shall miss in the darkness and the dark, Oh! never more. The smiles of our lives shall veil their sight, And tear by tear, Day after day, They shall grieve us with their loss. Where the birches say "Live," There is beauty to be found; Where the mountains laugh, Beauty is found; Where the forests are, Beauty is to be found; Where the streams run free, Beauty is to be found, Where the winds come from the sea, Beauty is to be found. Where the living are so glad That they make the earth rejoice, Where the souls of the brave Are as fair as the flowers, Where the earth is full of flowers, Where the sky is glad with light, There is beauty to be found; There is beauty to be found. Where the God of the lonely With the courage of fire Fills the hollows of earth and sky With a power and a might Never before revealed, There is beauty to be found; There is beauty to be found. Where no terror is heard But the trampling of a horse That comes to tell the way, Where the way is peaceful and sweet, Where the love of man is nigh, There is beauty to be found; There is beauty to be found. When I go back to our little home from the war, Where we spent our last year's hopes and last years's happiness, I shall not find you, nor know you, nor love you, or love; For the little doors that were always open will be shut. I shall see the pale faces in the failing light, I shall hear, but you will be far beyond me. The first swift smile of morning on the beaten paths, The last of night on the pathway's sleeper, the passing of hours and years--they have gone from us. But the earth, which receives, reflects, preserves, and speaks all that we leave, lives on, and shall outlast us. O Earth, we have fought for you, and for what? Vain ideal, naught but a name; Ruth, merit, and nature, unknown. We have died for your peaceful earth, Which cradled life and died with him. O Earth, we have fought for you, and for what? The haunted dream, the phantom joy. In the hour of our deepest sorrow, We have dreamed the coming rest. And now, O Earth, have you heard us at all? Or have you heard the last sad music of our strife? We have fought for you, and for what? The bitterness of tears, the fear. We have fought for the sense of being, The beauty of an evil thing. The final kiss on the lips of sleep, And the awakening at last. O Earth, have you heard us? Have you heard the call of our great, great sorrow? Or have you only heard the dying music of our sorrow? For the lips that were torn, the broken hearts, the last sad music. O Earth, have you heard us, or not? The young boy went out to the war, To the war that his elders shunned. He was told, and he believed, and he knew, That his elder brothers had gone there; And that this war, with its blood, Its horror and its tears, Had something higher, something more divine Than the ordinary wars of man. The old men sat and watched him pass, The old men shook their heads, but said: "We have watched these ones who are dead. Death comes to all; but God has sent him To this battle, not to other battles. We cannot turn away from him." And the tears came into the eyes Of the young boy, as he went. The eyes of the young boy, which had seen So much, now turned away in sorrow; For he saw the old men watching it all, And they were sad and tired and old. The dead man's hand on the gun, The dead man's foot on the firing-mat, The dead man's face in the dust, <|endoftext|> He at once advanced in strength, And sate beneath his stalwart shield, And glancing round his lofty crest, In all the arrogance of war Exclaimed, 'The soul of youth I hold not low, The soul of war I'll not stoop to thee.' He bade his fellow-warrior stand, And stretched his spear, with swelling head, Like a tall tree in the wind that shakes With one dry snap; then he, with looks grave, And voice that swelled with pride, this answer gave: 'The soul of youth I hold not low, The soul of war I'll not stoop to thee.' 'Gladly would I go,' quoth young Leo, 'And see, if it were hot and dry, And food were plenty in the land, What that might be of Leo who spoke That was so high of loftiness.' Then soft his speech and full his breast With words of pleasure made this answer glad: 'The soul of youth I hold not low, The soul of war I'll not stoop to thee.' The Baron with sudden wonder blazed, And for a moment there he stared; But strove, in his proud heart to hide His own surprise, to show his pride: 'I never could believe it possible,' He said, 'that aught of God's earth could grow, That man could exercise aught of life; But yet the King of Love himself, I know, Is with the child, who, when the lea is blest, Will go and bring her, if possible, nearer God; And if she can be soon persuaded to share His life and service, or be roused at need, I am so well content that she should be That, after all my wisdom, I shall bless That lovely stranger, if the child be born, For the sake of one I love.' 'O my Beloved, O my brother, If it be thou, go forth at once, And if it be not thee, yet know, Thou hast the power to do what thou wilt, And unto the girl belongeth long The glory of the land; for she Is mine on earth, in heaven above, In spirit child of her who bore me.' With that an icy whisper through His heart, and at his throat a twist Of fatal motion, down he sprung On hands and feet, and moved away From her who, watching him, that hour Had remembered how to strike and cling, In fear, to Leo's neck and scalp. But Leo darted up the tower, And hard by, swooning, Marphisa lay; And as he passed within the light, Which at his back-bone was spread, his sword Splintered, and the cross from his head Fallen to the earth; then fell apart, Gasping, and sightless, and in such wise Deep death's pallor o'er him lay. And Leo, seeing her that fled With Marphisa after that cry, Lest he by chance should follow her, Saw Death before him, and a cry He would not put aside for aught, And thus, with fearful words and bitter, To the God's own tongue, mute and dread, Made him repeat the tale of Fear: 'Twas in that battle, when the war Was at its height, my sister fought, Grieving, but not frightened, while all Approached her of her honorable fame; When I saw that she was wounded sore, For one of those whom wounds save more Than he who takes them, I rushed to her, And cast my arms about her, and caught Her with my arms, and comforted her there. Then was her face all light like light Blown through a chalice; but alas, I could not change the color once That was the color of Fear. 'I laid my hand upon her hand, As though I loved her, but it felt dry. And I said, "I die upon the field, If you will give me safe-conduct thither, Where my kinsman's remains are laid, And to the city I will show him." 'And I had words with Leo, when I saw that he would leave not him Even for burial, but would go Without the rest, who had fallen there; And with angry words, and many, many, I drove him from the city gates. 'But now, as I say, I went with her, Seeing she was wounded, that I might Grieve with her; and tears and sorrow fell Upon her face, while she wept sore, In that her love had left her so. But I forbore, for I loved her so, That I beheld not, as I went, The tears that on her cheeks were shed. 'Then straightway came the Emperor's son, And I had pity on him and her, And, leading her within the city, bade To that palace, where was her husband's abode, That she might there be near to him, for so My mother had spoken by her child. 'But the Emperor's son would there never yoke The colt which was born of his beloved bride, But used oftentimes to go himself, and cast The halter on the back of some weary knight, And go as well, with her, until he found His lady's tomb and the warm spring there. 'And he would stand still, and gaze and stare, And her and him would sit down together, And there would speak of her with dying eyes. Would say: "Sweet lady, I would not have thee So pale and sad, as now thou art, go fast, For God's sake take up my ring, that I, To prove my love, may see it on thy finger." 'So would he speak and stare, and put his hand Upon her head, and touch her cheek and chin, And try if it were cold or not, and so Would say: "I am thine and thou art mine, take, I will rule here, gos Sinon, and the fourth Be thine own, for of these four I make thee one." 'Then would he slip his hand beneath her gown, And would fondle her, and would kiss her mouth, And would try if it were hot or not; And his desire and love, thus coming nigh, Would make her sad, and cross, and piteous, And helpless, and helpless, saying: '"Nay, love, I cannot go with thee; nay, I must not take thy place, I cannot Understand or do all that you would." "What! faith and courtesy enough for thee? Thy place is here, and on thy face is laid My ring; thou must not bend nor stay nor think." 'But she would cross herself, and cross herself, And tear herself away, and cry aloud: "Alas, that I should have thus offended! But I have lost my sinewy strength, My courage and my cunning; and I Am weak as well as stricken in the heart. 'What should I do? what little thing avail To try with motley or with rainbow dyes The rainbow colors on a tangled wreath? How shouldst thou, Venus, be so bold as With thy sweet looks and flower-crowned head To intrude upon my solitude? 'I wear my horn as a most loving token Of that sweet God who gives me every night A vision of his throne, wherein I Can see his face, where amid sweet music He sits enthroned with nymphs round him, I Among the choicest, where I may renew My love-song, and may catch rare sweet glimpses Of his most gracious majesty. 'Ah, it were dear mistake, or else dear mistake, If I should now believe it possible That one who bore in hand a burning brand Could be content to smoke it in a cabin Or lonely room, or in a ruined shrine, Or on the plain where thousands killed each other For fun, could ever find the time or place! 'But it were better, far, to change my life Than remain the same; a martyr's life Gapes wide, in every phase, to every drop Of blood that bleeds or honey that yields. I would not kneel for wine, nor ask a meed, For gems, nor for the sandalled foot of love, Nor for a harp with strings laid well out, Or for a flower-crowned head, nor for A girl's soft tongue, nor for a flock Of cats, nor for a little stone, Nor for a little streamlet cold That in the meadows pours each day Its water thro' many mortal feet, Nor for a little grain of barley, <|endoftext|> With a little maid-servant sweet. I thought of the last kiss I gave, And the heart that now is still. Ah, never again, I thought, Will the bright eyes that love me beam, Nor the young arms that enfold me twine, Nor the arms and the bright eyes I love. I will miss the gleeful laugh of mirth, The flush of a new-born pride; I will miss to feel the quickening thrill Of a spirit that leaps in song. But oh, in the times to come, When the dark long days are past, When the soul shall love to be so pure, And the heart be so proud, I shall see, as the sun sets red, And a voice say, "Ave Maria!" She leaned above me, as I crossed the floor, And held my hands in hers; She sang of a sunlight love And a moonlit delight In the Eden that is no more, In the Eden of long ago. She leaned above me as I crossed the floor, And lightly swayed The love-birds that in the air Sang of the moonlit land And a father's care. And a mother's love. And a song so soft it could not be heard If the flowers in the sky Were as faithful to God as these In their glory and woe. But she sang of a solemn day, When love and joy are dumb; She sang of a solemn night, When pain and sorrow strew The way of the sinner's feet; Of a wrong that is not repaired; Of a sin that is not forgiven; And I turned from her, feeling cold And a cold shiver through my feet. I never shall forget that singing feeling In the gloaming of a stormy night, When the tempest is lashing loud, And the lightning's lashes catch the fires Of the burning woods in their scorching claws, And lightning flashes from branch to branch In answer to the shouts of Hell. But the sky is clear in this serene September; And over the river, seen as over a hill, The gray and white are sailing, Martha; Sailing past the casement, dimly seen In the glimmering light of the starless night,-- Over the river, past the budding bee-haunted hedge, They cross the moonlit water; And there falls the little white dove, As the great bird dips its neck, to drink. Ah, little white dove, Is it not lonely in the moonlight When the white and red have gone Out of the world of roses? And thy soft white throat Is warm and white, Yet cold as a shell In a marble garden. Little white dove, The world is full of roses; Only the bolder maidens Go to the fragrant lilies, Only the bolder maidens Spread their wings of light Where the bright white wings of morn Unsheathed their fangs of night. The world is full of roses; And thou shalt feed on their blossoms While the red and white bird sings So sweetly of the days of old, Till thou thinkest of a love that is deathless; For thou wilt know no peace Till thine armful of roses is complete, And thou hast gathered all of the wild-flowers That grow where the princes of the earth have been. Oh, I am weary of all day, All night, all morning too. I am weary of every thing in my life; And the worst of it is that it seems fair. Oh, I wish once before I lived to have lived Once for an hour when the sun was bright, And the wind was fresh as it is now. I never liked the town that much, I never liked the bridge too. I never liked the time that late, Or the month, or the month of the year. And oh, I wish that I had known, once more, The exact time that I did last. The perfect hour has passed for me, And I'm still at heart a frontier land. And I wish that there were no bridge or time In a country where a minute's mistake Can make you waste a life, or waste a fortune. And oh, I wish that I had known, once more, The exact time that I did last. I wish that time could straightway be changed Into another minute and place, So that I knew what I knew of the past, And the present, and the future, so That I knew what waste they had been made, And how much was wasted, and how much was given. And oh, I wish that I had known, once more, The exact time that I did last. But all is changed that's left and gone; I have come to see that nothing's permanent, That earth's illusions make the world go round. I have learned that the past is past; I have learned that the present is present; That future is future, and the present is future, And the present is future, and the past was past. And I wish that the past and the future Could fade, and the world should be as one Unmoved by creed, or creed by fear, Where nothing is solid but illusion, Nothing real but an unreal time. And I wish that men could have their way And everything could be as it is now, And the spirit of every man and woman Be wholly of the timelessness. I have seen people grow, They have grown in my darkest days, Young and old, both old and young, Both rich and poor, both lowly and high. They have grown peace-bearing, They have grown sacrifice, They have grown at their Mother's knee, All good children, all content. I have seen them come and go; They have lived and they have died; Their hearts have been light, and their hands Have broken not the golden rule. In the army, and at sea, They have found out life, and it Has been by the old men's hand, Since the world began. I have seen them face to face; They have sat in my happiest rue, And they have stirred my noblest fount Of strength, and they have stirred it deep. I have watched them in the house of clay, With the shadows of the years between them, And I have heard them, as the birds, Sing on without cease. I have seen them, with the blot of age Upon their foreheads, yet the radiance Of all the hope and the youth within them Of the most tender, most majestic mother, And the light, and the glory of youth, Within their hearts. They have grown from the young earth Up to the mystic sun, From the ground up to the heaven Where only the strong survive, The most strong, the most courageous, The steadfast, the pure. They have grown up to the thunder That rends the mountains, To the flame that is burning, To the wind that is whirling, To the sea that is rising. They have grown up, and there On the breast of the stream they lie, Two lovely waters; And the birds are singing of them, The birds on the wing, And they rest in the meadows Two lovely waters. With the wind and the water We have lived and we have loved, And the songs of our hearts Have soared and spread far and wide, High o'er the world, as the light of the stars, Lift up and fall down. We have lived, we have loved, And we have died for you, For the land that is ours, For the little ones, and you, For the land that is thine. There's joy in the house of us two, There's joy in the house of us two; There's joy in the springing grasses, There's joy in the gathering rain; There's joy in the baring trees, There's joy in the blowing winds, And there's joy in the house of us two. When the snow is gone, And the red leaves are falling, And the sweet, sweet buds are bursting, And the tender white blossoms Are falling and dying, And the March winds are blowing, And the bumblebees Are flying to and fro-- Oh, it's then that the joy begins! When the snow is gone, And the red leaves are falling, And the sweet, sweet buds are bursting, And the tender white blossoms Are falling and dying, And the March winds are blowing, And the bumblebees Are flying to and fro-- Oh, it's then that the joy begins! Oh, you dear eyes, my own eyes, Why will you close? Why will you stay so still? <|endoftext|> The angel-lad, and thou Heber, Where have I seen the flowers as dear As these? Thou laurel, for a sign That never died is bloom on tree: Thy silver branches fleet and few, Yet with their grace in new array The ear shall meet the old delight, As some sweet music still we find And pictures of the old delight, Which either in the heart do blow From small seed that grows in love's heart. Nor can I ever find, or see, The snowdrop that is not a queen, And that in all her race is not Discriminated by her name; No laurel that is not as fair As all the rest, though different nam'd: Nor bay, nor box, but different Boteler, Crieth in the same clear wood. We, that have nature's gifts as common and as great As she, may glory of our hopes to raise To the bright mirror, where herself she will Shine forth, as that other angel bright, Of gladness and of glory affrighted. Yet if there help or remedy be wanting In loving care or prayer or sackcloth, The riches or the wisdom, God gives not us We shall desire, as she, all the rest. O me! I see her lovely eyes In tears; her pretty cheeks are white; She leans with unwinking eye Against a blossomed bough; And in her hand, now wandering, now bent Upon her child, she seems to rest. She hath some token to deliver; She hath some secret thought, which hearkeneth Thoughts she hath long suppressed. She hears his childish voices ring About her heart, like songs of birds; She weeps, she day-dreams, she groans, And in her arms she wrap her child. The winds do sigh and listen, The flowers look sadly on; The waters of the well Fling down their golden waves Alive and sleeping, Frail flowers, which lie and sigh At the young foot of May. The moon doth slip and shimmer, The stars are lost in gloom, And o'er the mist and snow The dead leaves hoar are whipt; The restless streams, like leaves, Drop down, and then renew Their long-accustomed song. And now the spring-time comes, The birds are led away, And fern and flower are bare, And bramble and sedge All overhallow the road, And from the hollows thistle-seeds Parch in the sun and heat. 'Tis May, and merry am I, And May-time come to May, For I am young and merry; I sing a song, which is Not very different From what you used to sing When you were young and gay. I know you there on the road All by yourself in the dark With your flute and your child; And the echo of your song Comes over bare hill-sides. And your flute in the misty air Gleams like a fairy fire. All by myself, the pitchy dark Holds me sleeping; May be that man with the face All cold and white, Who follows at my side With singing and laughing. There is Spring in the world, I think, There is Spring in the world, I think, Spring of sweet words and grass, Spring of blooms and bells and bees; And the sky is made more bright For his promise of day. O happy, O happy, O happy May! That we are here with you yet; With buds and bells and sweet speech; And happy, happy, happy time For you and for me. The sower went forward Into the field, Where the wind did blow His bitter way; And he said, as he sowed, "What good shall come out of this?" But, when the plant was grown, The farmer came And saw the work he had done, And he paid him for it. I was a beggar maid, And my teeth I wore As ribbons still; I had a kirtle Of faded blue; I had a scrip That held a rand; I had a palfrey Of foul living mould, That chased the flies away From my casement, And served me right For being so poor. I used to toss The halfpence I had in my hand At the boys that came to play, And I used to get them back As fast as I could pay, And I'd dance and laugh and sing Till the birds flew away, And the horses gave me fright, And the dogs howled mad, And the cops and fiends were out To get me and make a noise, And if I fell, I'd spring straight up And keep on playing till I did. I used to dance and sing, For my health, and for pleasure, And my skin was young and fair As any maid's that is now: For my health I drank fine water And pounded raw eggs white and fine In a mixing bowl to sweeten, And I took small bites with my bread Till I was very thin and light, And I never cared for spouse or friend And lived with my mother And my halfpence and my kirtle And the faded blue Of my worn scrip and my old scrip; But my soul was sad, and my body sick, And all the time that I can remember I never saw my friends or felt glad, For all the time that I lived by myself The house was empty and the room was dark And the evening's door was always wide And I never had a happy thought Till I saw the ruddy firelight Through the dilating casement shine On the empty room And saw the empty door before me. I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring, with many-coulted horn, Returns to make the year more warm I'll arise and follow her cot Though the road be dark and hard. And when April comes at last I'll know that I am grown strong And can go at last to meet her, And when she talks to me I'll hear That noble North which I love Blow clear and strong at last above The long-drawn sigh of the winds of Spring. I cannot get to Alibazan, The heart of November, till May Comes with his plumes of chive and fire-seed; But I get to Alibazan much later In the season when small birds sing alone Upon the top of every bush and tree To whose branches their little feet cling fast, Like little lovers that love and do not know If they shall live or die. We are most alone in this world; Heart of all the world the only bone That cries to me is that of a heart, I cannot hear the heart of any other Except my own far down within a world Of my making, though other hearts may beat About it as about a throne. We are alone in this world, though near In the eternity of space we are; But up from that blue and infinite sea Of space we are, we are not alone, We are with the loved of all the earth, And when we die we die in the sound of life That is the world's heart beating clear and strong To the ears of all the earth that cry to me That I am one with the loved of all the earth. 'Tis a beggar's stump of a house, Built all of clay and thorns, And a dog-house where the wood-pigeons An ague will spread. A cygnet in the long brown grass Is the only shell in the shallow pool, And the hearts of ransomed men In the dog-house rot and rot, And the dogs have become too tame For their own good. The garden where my love grew, The roofless tips of her trees, I turned to a tavern, For a while at least; But though her cold black heart I brought It did not cure my love's pain, So I drove my black lute away And lay on the rough bed Of a thorn by the way-side. The sun on the dogs and the stars Are on the partridge's breast, They are chased from the yew tree's bough And they wither in the bramble bush; And I know it is holy, Because the wild blessings come Of the wise old earth to cheer My heart that is a thorn in the side Of the City. When I am far from you and this And under ground, I want you to know That I have loved you From the dark and the lowly <|endoftext|> To seek them out, a rough list to which he had to go, For to find two friends at least, which would not change their ways. The hope was dead. The more he thought on it the less he liked it. For he liked well to sit in his corner chair at ease, Watching the clock with a patient face, and guessing all too well When the great old Duns Scotus was beginning to speak. He never understood him, but he knew that he was learning fast. And one thing he seemed to remember distinctly Whereof the Latin text had spoken and praised the English. And his judgment seemed justly free from all guile and control, As if he had read a great deal in a lonely room, And in a silence listened to the breath of the stars. But the clock was striking, and that was the end of his rest. "A man's true calling is, whatever he is, From the grave where he is sleeping Though he be sleeping, and though the ward Of Death still sway And he know it not, to stand And the highest calling of his faith, Which is the service of mercy to man. For Christ's service is serving man, and it Shall never cease Till the sound of it shall send the echoes of bells Ringing from tombs about the world away. He turned from the dusty book on the table lightly, And with trembling lips said, "They call me miserly, But I think not much of the money in my purse, Nor of the few inches of gilt rank paper in my pocket. I think rather of the thought that the gilt's red, And the thought that I am red, when I feel the years Slip away like a scotch-glass in the evening sand. "So, sir, I long for the trite little things That a man is paid for. The little pleasures of carouse, And the little evils of work. I long for a friend To blame me for a fault, to forgive me for a sin, To sympathize with my failings and to guide me. It's easy to forgive, but hard to forget, And that's what I lack most of these days. "A man's called simple in discourses where he's told To be happy in whatever state he's in; But the truth is, when you're sick with a pain or a grief, The happier you are likely to be, the better able You'll be to bear it, the more the burden into which you're thrown. I'm old enough to know the wind blows out of the south; I'm old enough to remember a time when there wasn't snow on the ground. "But the old days are past, and the new are beginning now, And I pray God give me the strength to move on and fill The spot in my memory where the old days are not. It isn't anywhere near enough, the small place we're content to mark with a marker. God grants us the strength to do more, but not the location." "Ah," said the Cossack, "it's nothing but a marker. You're right, And I'm glad. I'm not the man you're looking for, now. You see, I've a wife that sheeds my counsel and is content to wait. But I have a rank that holds me to its shallow side. I know your kind likes pomp and flattery, and it's easy to tell them That for you it's worth gold to be up-front and honest, and to tell it to them In a series of mostly fables and similes. But the man who brings Accounts, brings sin, and I always must carry the least of it. "This is all the information I can give you. I'm coming back to town Soon. If you can find anything in the house, or discover Anybody near the place where you found me, soon you'll hear from me. But leave the house to me. I'll wait here." He hurried off. In a minute he returned, With two stout body-servants, who pushed their master aside And pushed him hastily into the house, and locked it behind him. The house was a mess. With how many battles had been fought Throughout the winter, the house was a stain upon the winter wood. The windows were shattered, and wooden boards were lying about. The snow was on the ceiling, and so clear, you saw into the room Where the girl and man were, And where the wood had been. The man took off his white hat, and held it under the fire Till his white beard glistened. "If you'll listen, Miss, I want you to hear me," he said. "The doctor gave me the ink, And I must go straight to bed. I'll see you tomorrow at eight." He smiled at her. She shook her head, And murmured "No," but seemed to understand. "I don't know What he means," she said, "but--yes." He went to bed. The servants brought in the mail, And laid it beside him. He laughed a little, And stretched his hands out, and tried to sleep. A little later he sat by the stove. The liquid in the kettle climbed slowly to his hands, And plunged. He flung it down in a silence. "I want to see," he said, "if anybody knows Where goes the mail." The servants hurried along, While he hung over it a vain half-hop, And tried the doors and the bars. The little key Gently turned the lock, and he called out, "Open! Open! Oy, kymellen! Oy, wracker! Oy, water moccasin! It's in the water! It's in the water! They came back with the little red boot, And pointed at the parcel. He tried to find A reason for their harsh comments, and cried A little bitter-sweet tears. Then he put The parcel in the boot, And fumbled for a wire to tighten it, And so lowered it, down in the boot And kicked it in. The servants watched him, Not knowing what to think. The woman said, "Do you think he'll come back?" "Yes," he answered. The woman cried, "Don't! Don't! Keep still! He's not so stupid as that. It won't do. He'll go back. He'll forget. He's been bored. He'll go back, and leave her all alone. He can be led," and there was a long pause. The servant bent down, and turned on the wire, A few more kicks and there was the package. The man at the door said, "O! where is it? I'd open, if I were you. Oh, you silly goose!" He kicked the boot against the wall, And tried to laugh, but nothing came. He tried the boot upon his foot, And felt a sudden heat, and wondered To find it burning, and then he laughed Because it burned so. "O, fire," he cried, "You're a queer child. You mustn't do things Like that. Now, if you're going to try To scare me like that, You'll have to do it yourself. Come on, There's no sense in you daring, To scare me with such a load of steam. I'll put you in the boot." "No," said the man at the door. "I think it was some one else, Somebody passing by. The package's got no meaning Unless you open it. Come on, open it." He reached into his pocket And took out the string. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes," He thought, with a smirk, "To some poor fellow Who'll think you won the lotto, And buy it for a song. It's only fire, a foolish fire, And if you make of it a harm, It won't be much harm at all." He wound the string round the boot, And turned it round and round. He looped the string round the boot And screwed it down. The woman heard it all And hurried out, not liking To hear her husband grumble And then the sourness in his voice Drew her presently away. There was a little, red boot lying On a chair by the table. The husband came back from the war, Still rejoicing. There was a look of reproach Upon his husband's face. "Why did you spoil your uniform, And play a spy for me?" The red boot lay on the chair By the table. The idle-headed husband Remarked, "Now I see <|endoftext|> And forthwith began the plain To smooth and fold his fleece, and he placed His brows against the sky and thus began In mid aisle quietly to await. The archangel, paladin of Heaven, Approached him softly, and the swain bethought Of dust of earth, and of the pleasant ground Upon which he had risen, and humbly pressed His forehead to the ground, and thus began: "And hast thou journeyed from the land of sleep, That thou mightest speedily with us descend Unto the center, where the road doth fail?" Scarce had he spoke when now the flag was seen Of morning blaze; and all the heaven was bright With ruddy luster of the rising sun; And now was heard the never-ending sluice Of water from the fountains; and the breeze Softly rose, and the flag of morning gleamed Upon the ocean; then spake the seer:-- "Lo! I perceive that all the land of sleep Hath been deceptive, and the palaces Of Dreamland standing on the borders of Dreamland Hath deceived me, and a vessel has concealed Behind its protective wall our weeping folk. Take heed, my son, to what thou shalt desire; Lo! I have marked how each landscape fades Into the blue of heaven; take heed and throw Thyself on to the river as it flows. The day of our returning will be come; For surely this thing thou shalt find fulfill'd, If thou hast ever thought upon the sea." Then answered Tristram, "Sir, I have thought on thee. But now I differently think, and more I have in mind, since now I clearly see That I am on the bank of the dry dry river, Who, for my sake, wail and wander so." "Not so," said the other, "and nor art thou The only man who here by right and custom Yields to the river its sweet right of way, Accepting as right its holy able To give us rest, and so to make the river God in his goodness and for our good pleasure Receives a living river, that may bring Its waters to the ocean and thence downwards By a different channel diverging to the sea, Changing the channel when it appears most fit; And so it comes into the ocean at Evesham. God, willing that every creature have her place, Nor place has a more fitting than that which thou hast, And all that other water more enjoyable, When it doth change its channel. Look again; What joy thou hast in looking back at the garden, The nesting pigeons, the descending sun, The pale green grass, the yellow flowers beside it, The dark green banks and the broad jetty meadows, The setting sun shining in the golden chandeliers, When now it seems as though it should never end. "Yet I would have thee turn not thus away From the delightful view, and turn no further Unto this river, but continue still To view it from this bank, for it is good For spirits to contemplate their perilous And grievous plight, and in this dangerous deep To prove themselves, if they may also see How God's goodness doth accompany His power. Look how the mighty river, looking on the heaven, Sends up a sudden gleam of fiery splendor, Like to the flash which guides the car of Mars, When it rides high over Titan's distant head Amid the clouds, sent forth from his hot weapons. Thus this glorious river, as it here leads to the sea, Faints into flames, and in a flame becomes Like to a gold embroider'd cushion, or a shrine, Turning all its hue to fire; then, devouring fire, Like a vast campfire spreads throughout its bed; And like a torch, with thousands of red fires Kindled and burning, sends up red fire to the heavens. And when these mighty flames had in their rage passed by, The water in the river first became as snow, And the sedges and the rushes all were converted To withered stalks and tender grass, and the flood Seem'd as it were glass, through which the river ran Thick as a spirit through all the other floods. And as the Father with His hands did blend The fire and water in the furnace, thus The Spirit from the open window at once Came on our side, and, in an instant, then All the heavenly fire and water in streams Down through the sludge and silt began to flow, And, like a dam, held fast together hold'd The whirling waters, whence it had receiv'd The damaging influence of the attacking fire. "But this too was good," said my teacher, "and must Follow in the last, that besides the fall Of fire and water, any substance smother'd Must still remain whole; and then must little seeds, The imprints of the sedges and the brambles, Be even as large as those of bread; nay, even The brambles themselves may weigh them down a bit." And so it was; and so, even thus, must come The perfect reform of this rude heresy, Which to our life we convert, in order that, Should we elevate again, we again May sink down; since both, after divers ways, We come at last to that new nature, which At once receives and gives itself again, Developed via irradiation. Now, reader, mark If my exposition be pedantic--nay, If I demand too much, and claim too much Of simple nature,--but this pedantry In simple cases is not to be wondered at. For I myself marvel much, when I consider That, while the seller of a thing would sell it To a stupid crowd, he dares to lie when He sells himself to men of intelligence. In truth, this ancient error was so plain And glaring, that the light of science hath Enriched and enriched it with many an idea, Many a fact; all in an orderly way, And ordered so as hardly to depart From science itself; though, to be sure, I know not one fact which this ideology Has not produced out of all its own. "For, truly," as Tertullian says, "in sooth There is no absence but must include The thought which is absent; and thus it is, That, in the well-filled quiver, the arrows Are ranged in countless numbers, and yet not The weakness of the iron made to fail Through suspicion that some of them are dead. This is the same with spiritual things; For, inasmuch as they partake of form, They can never be excluded from it; Nor, indeed, have I found it to my wish To exclude any substance from my circle. Of this organic food the spirit takes leave, And is delivered up to your most gracious grace; So that it lives, and is armed and shelter'd In your dew, while it hangs suspended, like A scare-crow high up in air, awaiting The question which you shall put to it. For, truly, the moment that one kind of faith Has risen up to a higher point of view, It opens out upon itself, and sends forth One of its wings, by which itself shall be learnt. "O captain, my captain, wise and brave man, Who adventure truly with a certain glory, And fight as an example to your sons, Thus far the meed of our deliverance To impart. I tell you, and the devil take That any of your own should disgrace you Beside the crooked law which he would break; For, rather than that, your stranger custom Shall make us victims of international law." Such were the words which Peter said, and such The words which Christ uttlied, but such, alas! Was the extreme meaning of the marvellous word Used in the next circumstance. When in act To follow through the desert the journeying pair, (For they were not yet two, but one of three,) They came to a river, and here the sequence Of the history ought to have ended; But Peter touched a bouquet, and, quite confounded, The noble pair were parted ere the next dawn. There are who deem that Fanny was a phony, And, had she lived, had surely gone to heaven Ere the birth of Calantha's brother three years Upon her. The first condition of her stay Was, that she should be a love object to him; The next, that she should love him, though she would not, And the third, that she should be a pleasure to him. And it may be justly believed, (and I grant It may be justly, I do not doubt the fact,) That Fanny would have loved Sir Peter, were she given To him, as she was to the other one, <|endoftext|> In thy fierce rage of bitter love, Shall she break faith with thee at last, To weep, and vanish from thy sight? Or shalt thou drag, with scorn severe, Her to thy bed, and so betray Her to her fiercest enemy? To weep, and vanish from thy sight, The sum of all my hopes and fears! To feel the very storm I fear! --Is this, O youth, my snug retreat Where more than fondness guides my choice? Are these the encounters of desire, Where the quick youth's eager eye Seizes all my charms, and never tires To see what I disown? What is this heaven-built citadel, This palace of delight and joy! Where the rich tributes of my mind, Inwrought with every bright fancy, meet To make the pilgrim gasp with taste! What is this flower-wreathed bower of mine, With its swan-white interior bright, But the black pit of despair, With its hell-born demon-guest! Nay, girl, don't mourn for him! Not by his darkening skies, Shall he ever see the day That his true love might come To live with him in my shade. Not by his woods of grief, Not by the death-bed where he lay, Shall he ever know what befell Love's wound for ever given. He had loved me true! He had loved me true! He lay with me at night, In my weep-cry soft, Beneath my window ledge, When the tempest raged, And the winds came wrong. He had loved me true! He had loved me true! Beneath my window pane, Nightly he loved me true, When the clouds hung gray, By the dreary rail. I knew it all the while, I knew it all the while That he came to woo me so! And I said "Nay" to him, I said "Nay" to him, Ere the kiss had left my cheek, And the heart of my breast. He had loved me true! He had loved me true! And I went to his home, And I sat down by his side, And I leaned my cheek to his cheek, And I kissed his forehead fair, And I kissed his name. Then I knew, ere the dawn was gray, That his heart was fain to win me home; And the blithe angel that I knew, With the rose in his hand, Had fallen down from heaven's porch, And had followed me home. I stood beneath the oak-trees' shade, Where the child-heart receded, And I saw the woman-Maidens stand In their pretty robed array; And a wind-breath chilled my cheek, As they numbered me by name. Mary--Mary--spake a name! Though I cried, "No, no, not yet!" Yet, slowly, from a loftier height, I felt her soft arms enfold me close, And her glowing lips confine The plaintive cry I dared not raise, Till tears were on my face. Elizabeth--(her eyes were full of fire) Smiled on my pleas for her poor sake; But her love was not so open made, As to set the sinner free. And, turning from me, she cast A dark look on her lady's gift, And I could feel her tears begin. Helen--(awful, stern, and dry) Nipped the lip that beat so free; "The least of your damsels is old," She said, "and her blood still beats." "By the power divine, I swear, "Beside the solemn altar, "And its shrouded form, a-blaze, "I will not touch the sacred wreath, "Till you have made your bargain!" Beside the altar stood A fair white witch, that night, Holding a wafer in her hand; "And when I take the Host in hand, "You shall have it half," she said; "What! half a soul?" I exclaim'd; "How dare you tempt me thus!" She said--"I swear it by the dead, "If it vouchsafe to save my life, "No other bargain I will make; "Your son shall be the inmost heart "Of that low witch, that brought you here!" "I do not blame the mother's care," Return'd the other, calm, and stern. "Then by the power divine, I swear, "No place on earth your child shall keep, "Till you have made your bargain!" "My child! my child!"--"It cannot be!" Said Mary Margaret. "I am afraid!" Return'd the other, stern and cold. "Then by the power divine, I swear, "Your son shall be a soldier slain!" "Soldier!"--"How! When?"--"When you find him, mother!" Mary Margaret clamored, in her despair. "We all have errands that we must watch, "When some one would do a service, "One should be near, to bear our tidings back!" Her mother stood, with patient brow, And told them of the famishing child, Whom her friends could scarce find food for, Because he lived on hill-top land. "Now by the Saviour's name, we swear," The mother said,--"No food shall e'er "Escape the grasp of one who is the child of love!" Thus Mary Margaret spoke: her wrath rose, And o'er her blackened cheek there spread A veil of mist, to seem of light; She smote the witch with her whitened hand, And with the gesture said, "Behold the child of love!" They saw her hand,--a minatory sign, And gazed in wonder; but the dumb old crone Went on,--her look forbade relief; A ghostly light, like twilight grey, Flamed o'er her features, as she spoke again: "Ye little ones that are within, "What makes your mistress' brow so pale? "A naughty trick your mother played, "But stay, I'll make things right again. "She stole--that is a fact--I see, "That every look ye cast is in the dark. "She stole--that is the greatest crime "That can be laid on this, her second chance. "She took a human soul--that is true-- "A mortal, to change into a shadow, "And made a hideous curse of her own; "She took my child--(how should they forgive? "I wish I knew the kindness they have tried "To teach my child) but oh! ye little ones, "I speak to you in Common-place: "To save your mother's life she thought she'd try, "But what she took inable to give; "She gave the devil--(she's sentenced to hell) "My child! my dear, my all,--he took the rest. "Now do not you go tearing your pinafore "And scolding to your mother so! "She'll never see him, never have a word with him, "Never will he utter one himself; "He'll be as far from her as you are, "And I'll be as far from you,--as blind. "I am sick of words that are not speech; "I am sick of keeping still and silent; "I'm sick of holding my breath and wiping my face; "Of letting you and me as if they were stones in sight; "We'll go it better by half if we stop to think. "The Devil has had three days at least to spoil the scheme, "He comes like snow and he goes away like rain. "He may come back as soon as we kill him, "And if we let him, he'll be more than ever likely,-- "He may have altered his ways and changed his look, "And maybe a little wiser for his trouble; "He may have some knowledge of women,--and how "Not to be too rash in trusting to them." The girl went on in this wise for a few more minutes, And then there came on her two children, his other two, The night brought them, and they found their mother with her hand. "They mustn't stay out so late," the mother cried, And both the children cried, "What! so late to-night?" But, if the story is to be believed, the child that was <|endoftext|> To curb the rage of Love's demon, The soothing example of a friend, The quiet, patient faithful Life. The weather's sultry; our life is cold, Its fireside joys are a pall of fear; A lonely sadness settles on us, We bow before the weight of care, But in the glen of the Serpie tree, We'll dream the storm shall subside, And Peace return, as in the days of yore. The snowdrop hangs her head of bright snow, Like a white rose in a crimson cup; She dreams of the far-off morn, When our souls shall mix and unite, And Life's loneliness shall vanish, And the nights grow happier and glad. The long, low drifts of the snows, The way they drifts o'er our path, Are like a weltering nowt of sin, And pain, to us here. But if we could snows of blue, The bright, sparkling snow, They would seem like the dew of heaven, And jewels like the dew of love. O Love! how canst thou break The spell of Love's still, sweet law! To cross Love's stream, Like manacles, on sorrow's feet Were monstrous enormities; And yet, when troubles press And grief's dimples wider grow, We break the chains of Love's vow, The law of the heart is Love. Our life is a wilderness, A hunger-bitten zone; Our sunsets are sickly gray, Our mornings bring the noon. O Love! we do not hear Thy wind of the winter sky, Nor see thy warm, wet eye; But feel the surge of the storm Wash with torture the flesh on ill-starred days. Thou comest in the wearisome way, After many days of pain; And faint, heart-sick, languid eyes, Like sorrows, are turned home. And wearily thy hours fall by, Like rain which wettered brows doth load. The world grows drear and wild at last, And not a sunbeam glimmers through the waste. How near was its coming, then! O Love! thy steadfast spirit cries, "Thy weary soul hath ached to be A prisoner in the arms of Joy." And wilt thou break thy sweet strangle-gleam, To free one minute from woe, To win another minute of ease, And find thyself in yet another pain? O Love! we do not know Thy ties so deeply are set, Nor yet thy heart so steadfast is; Thou art, after all, a fool, Who darest to think to flee thy pain. O Love! thy sorest pangs are borne For ever by thee, and at the last Thou wilt remember them and smile. I could forget the pain, The pang that pierces to the bone, The thrill that through my blood has rushed, Nor ever your picture think to move My spirit's ermine at a time like this. I do not ask you to unfold Your heart's white sheet of sadness, Nor do I wish you to write A cri de cieco (from the South) To cheer me, because at home I weep. I do not ask you to tell me where My dead may lie in war's wild contest; I only ask you to say a prayer For the many thousands who are marching Beyond the red and soaring sea, Whose mangled forms, on either side, With the plain are met, and fallen and dying. O heart, by sorrow overtaxed, If thou couldst hear all the wail, Sing ye sad songs that swell the sea Of both your lives, in my poor name. But if, only for the sake Of one whom ye lovingly regard, Ye will not raise the Voice of sadness, Nor write a wreath of woe for me, Then may the world omit the name of Him Whom ye do not love. You that here sit and sorrow, For him that's far away; For him whose name is on the stone Whose image you have framed; For him who mocks at all of you, And craves for daily bread; For him who steals the sun from you, Nor thinks of you as wronged; For him who came in scorn and hunger, And ate your plums at morning; For him whose empty hands that touch you, And for whom your hands are clenched; For him who hungers while he's singing, For him who carols and sucks your kisses; For him who danced and dreamed and loved, And did not wish that love should end; For him whose soul was as a ring of light, Which fell from the fingers of the Maiden; For him who sought to be like the Master, But was as one from whom the shadow came; For him who seeks to be as Great as He, He only wish for day may find his way; For him whose face and hands and forehead Like the Father's are, and for whom He died; For him who sits and thinks alone, And not to him who sings and speaks; For him who plucks no flowers from me, But for the ones that are given; For him who weaves the days of men To fashion Him to His desire; For him who walks through barren fields Because He cannot walk alone; For him who fasts and prays in his soul, Yet hath a hungry heart within; For him who lies awake and cries Until the dawning is past, And leaves His bed of pain and wrong And climbs but to find the light; For him who seems as though nothing Had happened, but has had his fill Of sorrow, and of tears; For him who seems as though his lips Were thick with dust and blisters; For him who seems as though the snow Covered the world and took it solid; For him whose fingers are with plums, And he whose fingers are with cream; For him whose face the green and golden Of trees and bushes is blended, With little patches of yellow mould That he loves with his whole soul; For him whose face the trees and bushes Are like the glow of morning, For him whose face the sun is marred Through hazy skies of drizzling rain, For him whose mouth is filled with silt And not with sound of waterfalls; For him whose mouth the sky is marred, And who walks alone in heedless crowds, But cannot drown the noise of theirs; For him whose feet are heavy and slow And not plucked for walks in middle air; For him whose legs are heavy and slow And not carried on the the arms of love; For him who seems not to care to go Or not by some dark intuitive desire; For him whose words are deep of heart And full of heavy, endless talk; For him who speaks to no one ever, But ever to the same one prayer; For him who thinks himself alone Because he cannot find a face To answer him as friend to friend; For him who is not what he seems, And for whom all voices seem false; For him whose face no one would care to see, And for whose face no one would care to see; For him who haunts lonely doorways And none would care to enter there; For him who sings alone at night, And sings in his heart the whole year long; For him who is a poet's long ago, And for whom all poets are forgotten; For him who waits, and for whom no door Can ever be opened for him; For him who withers in the light of morning, And for whom death is long indeed; For him who sleeps in the light of morning, And who finds all hope too strong; For him who seems as though nothing Had happened, but for the sake Of sorrow, and for bitterness; For him whose soul is all in shade, But nothing in the light of daylight; For him whose life is all in haze, But not for nothing has he died; For him who seems not what he was, And for whom all things were not; For him who dies not, nor doth he know How all this had been, had he not been; For him upon whom falls no tear, But only laughs at all sorrow, And sleeps the long long night through; For him upon whom hangs no pall, But alone beholds the light Of a long death without regret, And thus lives evermore, and thus sees The true light, the true night, and heeds Not what is strange, nor all the new Of things that be and things that be done; For these he sees not, and his heart Lives in a strange quiet, and there he feels <|endoftext|> Hou thus he schal ben honeste Withoute feigned cheste, Which noman wole him seie Bot he which is the lord. And in this wise myht thou fynde That who that mai his tresor kepe, That tresor mai be envie, Wherof that he is noght wise Therof mai be losse and myht, And is fulliche a losse and mochel. Bot if a man wol a lond kepe, He mai his propre tresor kepe, And is noght of such encress That he ne scholde discush the vice Of trewe and of faste was. For he mai wel wisse hem alle, He wolde, as he which was merciable, With al his wit sette him at large Of his propre tresor in special, And nameliche of his honour, Which al his tresor hath of his lyht Fulfild of that ilke sete, Toward himself he hath therto, And that is to mi conscience Unto his condicioun, As I schal thee hiere upon Touchende of Misericorde. Lo, thus upon the ferste nyht, The nyht of Avrille, as thei sein, The king Of Flamath and othre mo With here hondes al aboute Among the Tresoriars duelle, That ther the king Flamath was, The which of Guard consulteth The See aboute his dowhter tho: Bot whan it was full sene And longe and throwe into retenue Thurgh Dirceanes armes bigynes The thridde nyht in fere abod, The houndes forto devoure Of hem the cuppes bothe on fyr The tidinge of here love ladde And tornen to the see ayein. This yonge king, which was untrewe, This okesstman whan he cam nyh, To him anon anon sche seide, And bad him to a riche king To schylde a riche corage, That he his herte telle so Unto his dowhter thanne mad: And he, which hadde alle thing, Be nyhtes time so beguiled, To telle ensample forto hiere Hath bent his yhe al that he mihte, And that was noght in mannes sihte, Bot as an weder intenselve It goth a freshe upon the sand. The riche king, which wolde fiede His owen dowhter to the toun Of hem that ferst comen into thilke londe, He bad him faste by his lond, That he schal kepe and holde tho A bord of gret vertu pouerte; And over this a king he hadde, Which hadde ben a moder blod, Wher that he hath his moder fre Of al his world ayein a bet. And thus this yonge lord forclaweth Hire lady, and with such wyht The hihe king hath him deieth, And with here hertes so he travaileth That he ne mihte what sche wolde. And natheles in this degre, Hierafterward, as for a fact, A sone of hih muche thoght Abloyn upon the Cite cam, Wher he was wont to gret mervaile; And whan that he this dede sih, He syh his oghne wif aros. Tho was ther mochel joie wroght, Bot if that sche be for ever ynowh, Sche hath no cause forto plese. And thus the hihe god him broghte That he his dede scholde oppose, And bad that if thei miht finde That the goddes wille were: Bot, fader, this I telle trow, As ye, my Sone, have herd seid, If that thou wolt the Sone rewe Hou the wylde mater is knowe, Wherof men scholden take affaited The tricherie of goddes kynde, The which was knet and wroght so sore, That it ne mihte be don above, I thenke a gret part forto wynne. Bot over that I wol noght preie, And nameliche of such a skile To se the nede of his aduersite, For it is goddes wille I rede; And for it were in haste yit, It scholde noght be foryete, So that I preye thus ayein: Ther is no mannes ded, I war, What so befalle forto drede, Bot if it be for the beste. And in good hevene forto drede Ther is noman his thonk deserve, For every man hath wræce and mesure Of thing which he mai noght undeserved Take hold upon, and is beschaded Al forfurõd of his graciatõon; For who that such on wole astat, He schal be for fulre time rebuked. The Sicel wicke and the wodde Be alle weies have on acord Fro thilke untrewe ilke unkend, That nevere cowthe under his hele The meke enemysman hiere Be cause of graciaté, So goth the lawe in profyte Of grucchinge and of curtichede. Bot lawe and poeple of such a kende Schal to the riht of the plowh Be disele noght dere confused; For who that wolde his cause lerne, To pris may noght his cause mesure, The lawe his lawes thenketh binde, And wole hise lawes affyen. Bot if it so be that lawe And poeple for the science Of him which lawe demeth bringe, He set him bothe poeple and lawe, And sette him downe in such a plit That it mai ben avanced at alle. For who that wolde his relefe save With wordes good and argute As for the time that it lasteth, He schal himself for evere apaile. Wherof thou miht ensample take And knowe what I schal seie ne forto wite, Which wel is aprocrycalacion Of many a contenance tofore. Whan Venus to the wodde bothe And to the feminine it began With dres and with visage bright Thei made and deide in such a wise That thei no wommen scholde ay The grete londes forto holde, Of which men weren alle stille, And every berthe hemself non Ayein the grete Cardinal Be-gan, and thus this Venus said: "O thou, my Sone, which art my Sone, Now herkne a wonder thing to wite: Bot if it were so that thou art Worthy to bere a womman schame, I have hem trewe, er that thou hast Of wommen be such a man A worthy wommen as men axeth ta? Now herkne a wonder thing to ete, And also it is a womman love, That thou art such a womman loth, And ek that thou art such a man Folhaste, as I thee lete wite: For oght that thei myhte it noght, I wolde it scholde noght be, If thou ne stant of love such, <|endoftext|> Till my hand strikes out with its youth's force; Till my eyes the o'erhanging dawn avail, And my lips in one long kiss adore thee. What time we saw thee first, a stranger To that beauteous form, that dazzles me; How fondly, how apropos, then, I remember those mild eyes, so deep And lovely, so haughty too; So haughty, so fondly sincere; So tender, so fiercely genuine; So moved, so deeply thoughtful! How didst thou breathe that mysterious air, That suspense sublime of passion and awe! How didst thou leap upon my bosom, And seize that feathery dweller there; The warm heart, the pearly hand; the kiss, The dream, the dream's fulfilment there! How didst thou tangle my soul in a snare For thy ensnaring glances, so deftly drawn! How didst thou entice with thy converse my soul To an unholy act and deed here done! How didst thou compass with thy language My strange young mind to a dear-bought price! And, last, to close, thy sweetness's force, Its whispering of pardon, and release, Atoning, tear-distracted, from remorse, And shame and terror and awe and pain. Not from the river of black aftereffects, Withering a harper's voice, and numbing a saint's! Not from the surge of black intractableacies, Which rushes like a tempest 'gainst a pilgrim's! Not from the realm of black uncreated powers, Which gleams in the inscrutable unutterable torment! Not from that bale-born branch of our first fall, Fierce, dark, and hopeless, and triumphant! Not from the passion and delirium Of the darkness, where the soul is a king Possess'd by demons, and doth toil to earn A single breath of strength unto his hand, Or beauty unto his lips-- Or lips to win the power of breath to heal The languor of that hour, whose flame the spirit spends To hearken where the cry of man Rings to the heart of man: What though I fall? What though I languish? What though my day is speedily quench'd, And my sightless eyelids close their door On the sightless night? Thou knowest it not, O love! thy love Is pinnacled on high! and I, whose words Once smote thy spirit's horizon, Lie blind beneath thy braid and thorny bier, And wait till thine own hand blesses me. All in the purple glens of yonder old wood, Falling like light rays, Melting in rings The tawny leaves and stiff far-off shadowy stems Which grow In the still depths, Steep'd in the mystery of benediction, And the solemn psalm Of the little cedar man, that falls On the deaf mosses soft with little feathery sighs, To abide O sweet green forest, Where the birches grew and still the woodland linger'd, Where the elm and the ash have vanish'd, And the mossy paths are trodden no more, Where the broken steps are lost in the dark green pines, And the broken dreams of old On the melancholy ground: O sweet green forest Where the birches grew and still the woodland linger'd, Where the elm and the ash have vanish'd, And the mossy paths are trodden no more, And the broken steps are lost in the dark green pines, Have you ever dream'd of me as a little child Fallen in your woodlands, Where you never visited, And I never knew? O my own sweet woodlands, O my own sweet darling woodlands, Where the melancholy birches grow, And the brakens under them weep, And the trunks press close and close, As if they would caress My clasping head; O my own sweet woodlands From the heights of life! O my own sweet woodlands From the depths of pain! But my nurse she bade me dream Of happier things, and sing Of love and hope and faith, In some fair Jerusalem, Where people walk on heads Of psalms and sacred chants, While flocks of angels wing their way To sights of towns of glory, And the pure White-Rose. Yet what if some one, perchance, On those long wandering feet, Had mournful eyes and brows O'errun with sadness, As I had sunk in love's turmoil, And they, the sad-eyed nuns, Had walk'd with me in tears Along our leafy limes? They might have said, "Lo! what ensues From sad life and care to sorrow, When thus she paces her shadowy cell?" And I might have told them of a dream, That pained my heart and made it wring, Where I saw a sad-eyed Mary, With Mary's cool words and gentle smile Walking beside her; and the hope And joy of youth were over all, And I was left alone in life, With Mary's sad cool words and gentle smile. The fountains sere, and the flowers Are fading in the brightness Of your gay, victorious roses, While old troubles gather again Like withered echoes of an Eden, And voices of discontents, And jealousies of polluted years Are rising through all your joys and sorrows. And we, you see, were happy, And fond, and innocent, Though others toil'd with ruthless strength And ruthless art, to chain Our spirit to a crucible For the giving of their lives, And were repulsed for bliss, And cast into the darkness For all time! Now they have won The goal of life, the bitter part Is past, the battle is won, And there is peace on earth for those Who have learned the secret of life. Yea, peace, and there is no more Any war, however fierce, And the narrow passage broken down In the heart of man for ever, And no more weariness of heart Or any sickness of the flesh, Or the hard stir of passions sweet, Or the fever of love's hot flow, Or the quick flashes of wrath and hate, Or the fiery flashes of revenge, Or the icy chill of hate and fear. And though there is peace on earth, Though they have reach'd it at the price Of bitter pain and anguish, Though the weary heart grow calm And the eyes forget their tears, Yet we, you say, have not come To the peace of the world at last, But are still in the war! Yes, we, you see, are still alive, And the voices of our suffering Are heard on the wind and the sea, And the shadows of the trees On the earth and in the air Are our voices, and our pleading Is heard on the wind and the sea, And the voices of our fallen In the darkness of the grave. We are still alive, and your tears Fall on our slain in war, And the earth that gave us birth Tells its sorrow of sorrow To the winds that are wild and weary Of the strife that has long been fought. Yea, we are still alive, and the hope That once had tinged our sunlight Is for ever quenched in tears For the hope of our youth was fruitless And our trust in life was bold, And our life is filled with anguish For the man who has been defeated. And we are still alive, and the flame Of our dead comrades' pride Is a beacon burning in death, That brightens the darkness Of the eternal night, That baffles the darkness of our grave, That leads back again to the dawn The souls of the souls of the dead. The dead who have gone before For the sake of the living, For the sake of peace and truth, For the sake of the bright, bright day, For the sake of life, and light, and hope, For the sake of all things save mere life, The dead have gone before, and we Are here to do the deed. Yea, we are here to do the deed, And our task is hard and new; But the deed is not hard to do, For the deed is done to-day, And the deed shall be done to-day, And the deed shall find us sleep. Our hearts are torn in sunder, Our spirits are levin-irised, With the blazing of a thousand suns, And the crackling of fiery planets, And the thunder of wild levin Shaken from the central suns of love. And the souls of the dead Are fanned far back in their graves By the beating of a thousand thorns, By the wailing of voices afar Burning for their sake, Till they find release in songs of the valleys. For the fire and the blood That now burn in the sun For the purpose of freeing All things done in the blood and the fire, For the purpose of freeing All deeds done in the fire, And the blood, and the thorns, and the suns That burn to the purposes of freeing There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the lips of the dead men say, That the lips of the living say When the dark of the dead men's lips are pale, When the flesh of the dead men's knees Press the ground, When the lips of the living men's eyes Pale with the heat of the fire they would speak. The flames that the living men's mouths Pulse in their faces Tremble in the touch of the flames that their feet Touch on the threshold, That the living men's blood should wash All things done in the blood and the fire From the earth, from the air, From the thorns, and the thistles, And the earth should take the things done in the fire To purify, and cleanse, and exercise All the powers of the purifying touch of the living things. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's tongues Speak, as their strong knees press The earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When the dark of the living men's eyes Press the ground, When the lips of the living men's eyes Pale with the heat of the fire they would speak. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Fingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's lips Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Fingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Fingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's tongues Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Pingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. For fire and blood Have scorched and melted them all, And they burn and brim To be combed in finest wool To cleanse the earth of sin, To be given to all men as clean As a creature's breath to breathe. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their lips toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their lips toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their lips toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands toil in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. I stood among a blaze of colors, In a blaze of sounds, And it seemed as if the poets sang Of heaven itself; And I could not understand a word That the tinkling brooks said. I stood among a blaze of colors, In a blaze of sounds, And the poetry of the place Possessed me wholly; And the poets sang of beauty, Of life and its memories; But I listened and seemed to hear No sound or word of them. I stood among a blaze of colors, In a blaze of sounds, And I heard a voice that I knew, A voice that I have known Ever since--a voice that I love, And for ever will adore; And it whispered, and it called, But I heard no thing but the sound Of the brooks in the forest. And I thought how strange it is To be born a human being In a world all red with imagination, And I thought how strange it is To be born a colorable being In a world all built about With imitations of one's imaginative nature. And the brooks for their own water And for their own color were seeking, For they knew that a day would come When the breath of God would come And stir the color in them, And they knew that a day would come When they would feel God stirring As they felt him now; And I thought how strange it was That they should feel God stirring As they felt him stirring, And I thought that they might teach us That strange thing-- They were calling as a bud calls For the wind to hurry and sing; They were calling to the tree, As the tree called to the bud; And the tree was speaking Of the word of the wind and sun, And the bud was saying Its secret to the sun And the word of the breeze. I met a child upon a time Among the blue-bells by the wood, And he asked me, "Who are you?" I answered, "I am the child Who comes to you in every year; I am the child who asks you now Who are you?" He answered, "I am the child Who comes to you in every spring; I am the child who asks you now Who are you?" "I am the one who asks you now Who are you," the child repeated; "I am the one who asks you now Who are you?" The summer is done, and the sun Comes slowly forth to his resting place, Rising as slowly now from his bed As he rose once in all his life; And slowly, still a little boy, Making his way, Like a cowboy going to his resting-place, Leading his little courser by his side, Comes slowly to his resting-place. Gone are the lovely flowers that blossom In the garden of the heart, Gone are the happy hours that they brought, As a child thinks of his mother's breast; Gone are the loved, the lost, the wedded, And the lovers are silent now, For the heart has closed its garden gate 'Neath which the flowers no longer grow, And the only thing standing in it now Is the horse that led thee there. But the earth is green with springs, And the soul is healed of sorrow, And the pilgrim knows that he is still On a pilgrimage, but now To a more perfect shrine; And the holy flowers of the valley That gave life to the old-time hours, Like a dream they are fading fast, And the only thoughts that arise To grace this holy hour, Are the thoughts of the horse that has brought thee Unto this sward. And the boy who is foremost of all The listening multitude Unto the gates of the temple Rises up and looks around, And in silence,--for the voice of prayer Has caught him by the hand,-- Sees before him on the golden threshold, In the light of the setting day, The living image of himself; Sees, and he knows that he is resting On the bosom of his Mother, And that this is her true living shrine Where forevermore he shall dwell, The darling of her eyes. Tranquil and fair and lovely Sits in the midst of the garden The woman who conceived and bore him. And he feels that he is resting On the bosom of his Mother, And that this is her true living shrine Wherefore till time shall be no more, And the very thought that he bears With him, as it now seems must, The thought that he must dwell In the place of his birth forevermore, In the heart of his Mother, Hath brought unto his spirit wonder, And a longing there, a ecstasy Of joy that can never be told, As the spirit that has passed from earth Must keep its joy a mystery. Thou, whose heart is as a river That flows unto its goal, Thou gavest thyself the man To be in turn the meal For thy children, not thyself; Thus hast thou taught us that to be Is ever to give, even as we must Give up our very breath, The blessing of being, when we die, Is deathless,--and life, alas, no more. O God, thou knowest that we who die Are but the precentors of death, And that life hath its very low, And life's little year is come, When we have power to pause and sleep, And when our hearts grow calm and strong To meet the calling of the grave With a calm heart, but no dark heart, And a bright being crowned with love. The dream is o'er; and o'er the dream Thy hand hath fallen, as a hand Upon the bedclothes when it sleeps To slip thee in the night from harm; And the good hope that did beget The dream in the first place is dead, And the bright hope is dead with it. Yet I have dreamed the dream a second, Dreamed it plain as day, and told The secrets of the life and death That were as dark as death can be, If the gate there lead to the light, And I have spoken truth with thee In this new place that dawns above. O God of truth and mercy, Mighty and vast and fair, Who sittest in the heaven, From whose great skies We come, the sons of men, And go as sheep that go From pasture where we graze To wide-scale sands that are drowned, And beyond the reaches of the sea, And the sad harbour of our woe; Dost thou comfort us who weep? Thou gavest us life, and we The wisdom of the ages, And life again, and strength, And the heart that change knoweth, And the hope of human love, And the perfect yearning of the human yearning; Dost thou comfort us who weep? O God, who art above, And from earth and sky The stars and depths of sea, Who knowest of our woe, Of our sadness and despair, And the soft tears we shed; From all the light of suns, And all the darkness of stars, And the wind's trouble and sorrow, And the waters rolling earthward, O God, who knowest all, And guardest us above, Who wear, all trembling, Our dress of flesh; Send us thy light above, That we may behold thy face, And the sorrows of our brothers, And the gladness of our sisters, And the crying of the young children, And the smile upon the mother's face, And the warm darkness of the palace, And the silence at the door, And the lifting of the voice, And the feeling in the heart, And the sorrow in the spirit; And the empty places in the city And the waste places of the sea. The bright flowers of the garden, The little white-winged birds overhead, And the sweet, sickening smell of the sea, As it passes to the salt sea-water; The lily that grows in the palace yard, And the moss-grown fountain stone by stone; The high, white wall, and the sinking sun, And the stars that are lost in the west; The delicate, branched roses in the bowers, And the dark-blossomed, tangled shrubs of the woods; The soft sea-beach, and the blue sky overhead, And the white, waist-high, undulating line of the ship; The thin, quick breath of the morning, and the dew, And the hot, earthy smell of the salt sea-bed; The white, shrivelled faces of the servants at their tasks, And the broad, brown, sane faces of the sailors; The cool, breathless, sickly eyes of the girls at their sewing, And the high cheek-bones of the grown men, And the hollow, terrible, earth-born smile of the child; The glitter of the sea-weed in the still night-time, And the lonely ship-window at midnight; The dark-green, glistening bark, and the white caps of the sailors, And the white, sickle of the harpooner, And the pale lips of the island-maidens Singing songs in the ear of the vast, gray-clouded island; And the loud, longings of the harbors and fords, And the songs of the islands to the sunward, And the waving of the grasses by the way-side, And the shrill, puny voices of the feathered people, And the loud-piping bells of the missions, And the feasting and the drinking after, And the sleeping and the walking up and down, And the hanging on the belts of the swabs of saplings, And the swinging of the sack-pipe in the circle, And the singing and the firing of the gun, And the noise of the waves and the singing and the running of the tide; All this I remember, but I do not remember The hazy, pleasant Summer afternoon, The blue meadows after rain, The burning sward and the moonlight and the white, wide-open windows of our kitchen; Nor do I remember the whitewashed walls and the peaked ceiling, Nor the books he had on his shelves, Jesus like, Nor the narrow, stifling bed, nor the sticks on the fire-place, Nor the door-way which led into the yard; Nor do I remember the old black-bearded man with the back-turned face, Nor the woman at the foot of the bed, Nor the bottle of scented sandal in her hand, nor the cock of the tobacco-pouch; But the smells of the perfume of the dried and the bruised lotus-wood, And the hot, damp air of the wide, open rooms, And the clanging of the bell-rope and the sturdy rope-hold, And the smack of the candle, and the hiss of the soap, And the rank, choking smell of it all, And the clatter of the ladle, and the loud, sneering laughter of the women-- I remember those. But all the rest, The noisy, smutty comedy and rompings of the comic entertainer, The rustic jests of the go-cart driver, the whacks on the head of the football, The high horse-laugh of the over-aged fellows at the comic sessions, The hearty laughing of the younger ones, the shouting of "Jesus Christ!... Joe!... dude!" All that I remember I saw on the screen of my eyes, And it all seems artificial, it all seems done in, I admit it all seems, in the word of Frankenstein. But I swear I am getting better and better at it all, And I hope I am as good as I hope to be soon. And my head now is fairly full; I see the lights of the city; I see the tall, narrow windows of the houses; And the lamps at the porches; And the gleam of the gas lamps; And the sweep of the street from my room window to the Pantages, And the full moon, and the palm trees, and the full moon again, As I turned to return just as it got to the Franklin Street corner. I see now the train begin to pull out, And the carriages starting up, And the engines starting and bellying, And the chuff of the snow-scooters; And I see the top of the skyscraper, And the smoke of the restaurant at the base of the skyscraper, And the trucks in the distance driving their weight of freight on, And the expressman getting on down there. And I see the track, snow-covered, And the wintry lights of the city, And the white of the hills flung across the sky, And the long reach from the North Stands End to the Northside Yards, And again the bend in the tracks, And again the rush of the train, And again I see the bend in the curve, And the engineer standing with a smile on his face, And I can hear him saying to the conductor, "Pull her over, And she'll do it dead-holt!" And the rush was dead-holt, And the celebrated Grand Central Parkway Rolled into view at last, And the curve of the track, straight as an arrow, And the weight and the sweep of the cars, And the sweep of the bridge, and the bend in the bridge, And the bridge railing as they neared the basin in the Hudson, And the loop at the basin in the Hudson, With the cars balanced and hung, And the curve of the basin in the Hudson, And the curve of the track again, And the white of the platform, And the wavy way down into the substitory, With the cars pulled down for the hill-fire period, And the smoke of the cars in the smoke of the fire, And the roar of wheels on the bridge-piers, And the clack of cleats in the yard, And the slap of the brakes, And the crack of the wheels against the surface, And the skater-like curve of the cars Looking like a boat with its white oars, And the swaying of the cars in the wind, And the cars half on one axle, And the cars with their axle-treads worn away, And the tip-over of one over the other, And the air like a ice-market, And the scrape of the wheels, and the whirling and flying of the cars, And the whirling and flying over of the tramp-ground, And the wild scuttle of cars over the sidings, And the clatter of the clock-spring as the car made a curve, And the skater-like curve of the cars, And the long reach from one Bridge to the other, And the swooping of the wheels of one over the other, And the roar of wheels on the bridge-piers, And the clatter of cleats in the yard, And the clack of the brake-chain, And the crash of a sledge on the bridge-piers, And the clatter of wheels, and the crash of a sledge on the sidings, And the clack of the cleats, And the clack of the skater-like curve of the cars. And I see a little girl sitting on the steps of the court-house, And I see the back-window of the court-house, And the front-way of the court-house, And the grey of the main-current of the rain, And the fall of the leaves of the sycamores, And the line of the fog in the fall of the leaves of the sycamores, And the line of the grove of the sycamores, And the shiver and cut of the lightning in the leaves of the sycamores, And the flash of the lumber of the sycamores, And the groan of the trestles of the sycamores. And I see the back-window of the court-house, And the sidings of the court-house, And the platform of the court-house, And the platform of the platform of the court-house, And the platform of the trestle of the court-house, And the platform of the sidings of the court-house, And the platform of the platform of the platform of the court-house, And the back-window of the court-house, And the front-door of the court-house, And the roof of the court-house, And the shingle of the tops of the pine-trees, And the rails of the fence of the court-house, And the railing of the platform, And the pulpit of the judge of the court-house, And the bench of the judge of the court-house, And the prisoner in the cell-port, And the bench of the prisoner of the court-house, And the prisoner in the court-house, And the bed of the convict in the cell-port, And the bed of the prisoner of the court-house, And the bed of the convict in the courtroom, And the mattress of the convict in the courtroom, And the mattress of the wagon of the convict, And the wagon of the prisoner, And the blanket of the convict, And the blanket of the convict's pillow, And the pillow of the convict, And the blanket of the convict, And the lodge of the convict-instructor, And the seat of the instructor, And the seat of the instructor of the court-house, And the seat of the prisoner, And the mattress of the prisoner in the court-house, And the mattress of the wagon of the prisoner, And the blanket of the prisoner in the courtroom, And the blanket of the prisoner in the cell-house, And the blanket of the convict-instructor, And the seat of the instructor of the court-house, And the seat of the prisoner in the court-house, And the mattress of the prisoner in the courtroom, And the grave of the dead one on the ox-team, And the grave of the dead one in the forest. And the bridge of the ox-team, And the bridge of the sledge, And the bridge of the mule, And the road of the deer-hay, And the slope of the heather, And the hazel-collie's han'kin, And the hazel-collie's thumping, And the homing cry of the hen-hawk, And the coughing of the root-bird, And the cocoa-nut's crunching, And the cacophonous chatter of the robin, And the caw of the wild-geese, And the blue jay's clacking, And the brush-sniff and rustle of the willow, And the swamp-dog's growl and lope and snore, And the rustle of the dew-thick breast of the pear-tree, And the rustle of the big-muscled muscles of the wrestlers, And the rustle of the straddle of the water-hen, And the rustle of the huge tussle of the steer-veterans, And the toss of the fight of the bull-rushes, And the toss of the wrestle of the yok-oh, And the scream of the wrestlers in the turnings, And the clap of the squeak of the wooden darts, And the crash of the clash of the wrestlers' pads, And the crash of the clatter of gloves, And the clamp of the stick on the hand of the opposition, And the firm thud of the head of the downed bulwarks, And the leap of the startled boy who sees what is coming, And the clash of the scrambled warrior's gauntlets, And the roar of the hands and the whistling and the groaning, And the jump of the wrestler in the leap of the wrestling mat, And the rolling and the swoop of the reeling and twisting, And the grapple of the arms and the struggling and the punching, And the thud of the rattled bulwarks by the wrestlers' hands, And the sigh of the wounded and dying and gasps for breath, And the struggling and the tossing and the fallings and the floundering, And the groans by the stretcher and the knees of the stretcher-man, And the lifting and lowering of the dead and the supporting, And the lifting of the dead by the stretcher-men by the beds, And the lifting of the dying by the nursing girls by the grates, And the knelt feeling for the pulse and the breathing of the victim of agues and fits, And the saving of the women and children and the tending of the weak ones, And the looking after of the freight and the setting of the nut from the tree, And the clearing of the fallow and hay-field and clover and corn-field, And the reaping of the harvest and the sowing of seed by the shepherd boys, And the barn-yard stillness and the loading and unloading of burdens, And the clink of the harness and the rattle of the scare-crow, And the tapping of the harness and tinkling of the bells, And the tramp of the team and the stamp of the foot-prints of horses, And the singing of the shepherds by the shearing-pond, And the piling in of the hay and the saving of the store-yard fowl, And the stench of the stable-yard and the stagnant water under the bridges, And the sweat of the harnessers and harnessed women, And the hissing and stink of the horses' high collars, And the sweat of the men that are treading on hot coals, And the dust of the stalls and the sweat of the harnessed people, And the quiver of arrows from the ears of the riders, And the heft and the straining of the horse's harness, And the wearing away of the harness and the horse's shoes, And the straining of the shoes of the riders, And the foot-prints of the riders' horses, And the stamping of the shoes of the horses, And the gallop of the team and the trot of the hinds, And the jolt on the jolt of the harness, And the jump of the harness and jolt on the jump of the horseshoes, And the crackling of the thongs of the harnessed multitude, And the thongs burst in the twisting and the turning, And the flying of the horseshoes by the flying multitude, And the flying horseshoes by the flying people, And the beating on the jolts of the heels of the horses, And the hoofs of the horses clattering, And the rush of the crowd in the turning, And the clapping of hands and the clamor of the people, And the driving of the coach and the whistling of the horn, And the smashing of the coach-wheels, And the tumbling of the waggons, And the trampling of the herds in the stalls, And the breaking of the waggons and tramples of the cattle, And the beating of the rollers on the flints, And the shouting of the drivers, And the clangour of the heavy iron-strakes, And the clank of the winches, And the whirr of the motor-cars, And the rattling of the hoses, And the hum of the compressor and compressor-equipment, And the droning of the vac-culpting machines, And the hiss of the sprinkler-plants, And the spraying of the vegetation, And the sough of the sprinklers, And the fanfares and the fan-fling of the fans, And the hum of the fans and the fans again, And the exhaust of the trains, And the noise of the engines, And the clatter of the trampling of trains, And the rattling of the winches, And the clangour of the motor-cars, And the roar of the motors and the motors again, And the watch that the watchmen keep, And the whirring of the motors and the motors again, And the clashing of the motor-cars, And the clack of the motors in their slumber, And the clash of the brakes, And the jolting of the motors driven by motors, And the sizzle of the motors driven by motors, And the sputter of the motors driven by motors, And the screeching of the motors driven by motors, And the grinding of the motors driven by motors, And the grating of the motors driven by motors, And the screeching of the motors driven by motors, And the donkey-loads of vegetables taken by motor, And the biscuits and sweetmeats of the factory, And the tea-fretted dishes of the factory, And the smoked meats and the curds and the whey, And the jam and the jellies and the preserves, And the sardines and casseroles and quilts, And the potato pies and salmonets, And the strong alcoholic drinks, And the cigars and the hookers and the betties, And the cocktails and the whiskers and the liqueurs, And the singing of the dancers, And the sopors and the ventriches and the peas, And the quilts and the damasks and the cabbages, And the ragouts and the fatigues and the roasts, And the pumpkin seeds and arrowroot seeds, With the corn on the heaps and the wheat in the sheaves, With the potatoes and cabbage and peas, With the barley and mustard and onions, With the turnip greens and pickles and rotes, With the suet and trotters and kidneys and bacon, With the onions and cabbage and liverwurst and giblets, With the turnip greens and bacon and he-newts, With the leeks and onions and bacon and vetchets, With the roots of the corn and potatoes and rapes, With the wilted greens of the greensward and the blue-bells, With the summer weeds and shrivell'd ferns and the harebells, With the tomatoes and relishes and relinas, With the pickles of the currant and the bergamot, With the relish-steeped tomatoes and relish-dills, With the relish-steeped cucumbers and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped turnips and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped carrots and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped turnips and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relishes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relishes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the sweet potatoes and sweet-caps and sweet-caps, With the turnips and currants and currant-caps and sweet-caps, With the plums and currant-plums and currant-caps and sweet-caps, With the currant-juice and currant-root and currant-root, With the grapes and currant-jelly and currant-jelly, With the currant-rind and currant-jelly and currant-jelly, With the currant-pie and currant-pop and currant-pop, With the currant-pop and currant-pie and currant-pie, With the juice of the currant and currant-rye, With the syrup of the grapes and currant-rye, With the syrup of grapes and sugar and honey, With the grapes of the peak and the clement and the vine, And the grapes of the road and the grapes of the plain, And the wine of the Wye and the Tweed, And the waters of Roughedog and of Rasedog, And the whey of the harvest and the new-grape, Have for me these things stored, and more They say will hereafter be for me. In a corner of the stable There is a corner for a glee, And a corner for a dress In a hawker's stalls there be, The stuff and the drink that's fit To please a giddy gale; And I'll be true to my Queen Ere the summer ends, or ever There are puddings and pies to be And a harvest cheer to be. There's plenty of times and places For a glee and a rout To get entertainment for nought, And we shall behold it all, A lucky omen's knell, And a knot of tinkers' bells, And a corner for a glee. There's more than enough of room For a dozen pipers twain, And time to get in a tune Ere the market day is come, And the cart comes or the truck, With a bin of trenchers yet From the country brought away. A clean fire and a comfortable bed A waft of air that's sweet and clean, A gracious fare, a cheerful face, A pledge of love and good cheer When the day is through, and the night's been, For the lass and the laddie's faced In the corner for a while. To sit in a corner and beg A corner to sit in later in, Till the market's open and come; To get a fire going and have good cheer For the lass and the lad, Till the suns set and the stars shine bright Till the night be on the laddie. I've had a chance to see A sparrow take its meal, An hour of counting grain, And hear the bagpipes blow Behind the plough at morn. The bagpipes blow Behind the plough at morn. The little yellow kids Have taught me many things, A way to fly a kite, And fly it high or low; They've taught me how to play At tug-of-war with the wind, And race it as a dog does, And go at watch with the moon. I like the little yellow kids, They're always trying new things, They've taught me how to ride a bike, And ride it off a cliff or sink; I've learned many things from them, I hope to learn them all from you, Little yellow kids. A hand-organ dance I know, They call it Scotch-tel-blob, A grand old feather-organ trick They call Prince Charmoff's Lark-a-watt. I hope to learn it soon, From the little yellow kids They say it's pretty clever. I hope to go to French Theatre, If I can get a coupon, To see old Turandie go wild, As he watches the deuce of people Dance to music's rhythm. I hope to go to French Theatre, If I can get a coupon, If I could always see, What's happening now, I'd learn all about it, From little eyes and noses. The little yellow kids Are always learning things, I hope to learn all they learn, From their yellow little eyes. Then there are the fine folks, Who work in arts and crafts, And make up a nice scene, In pink and green and white; They bring out ferns and flowers From places in Scotland, And put in everything right, From lovely Scotland. The day is merry, It's the perfect day, With plenty of time to play, And play it is rare. There's a merry lamplighter Who lights the lamps all night, And the fire grows brighter As he doth the candles, And one day I hope to be, As he is to-day. I wish to be the Mayor Of some good town in Scotland, And I would build a hall And keep a host of courtiers Who are fit for aught, Or to be a justice of Peace, In castles built in Fife, And castles built in water, Where the warriors of Scotland Drank so grand a stream. A rosy-cheeked child is Morgane, The flower of all the village, And through the quiet of the morning She plays with the buckram, Or with golden rods, Or builds ships of sail, Or builds sand-hagglers' boats, To steal the dancing Luna From Tithonus' fields. And through the day she dances Luna To the sounds of Boney, Or to echoes, Or to shrill winds piping, Or to low sea-birds calling, Or to many voices all saying As many pleasant things. Her friends and kinsmen know her well, And smile to see her go; Her guileless friends love her so That they refuse her home. Her father knows her too well, He bids her come no more To build his pond with loughs, Where, in summer-time, The daisies grow. They see her bent above her work, And smiling as she goes, She leaves upon the garden-wall A sweet memorial. Her childish faith in Man was great; Her faith in God is now. God help her in her lonely lane, And God bless old Morgane! Now from the white-walled courtyard comes the din Of winter's tillage, trimming, cutting down, The first clear morning after the storm. The frost is gone that blocked the coal-black road, The bare trees look strange in the dawning gray, But Robin is safe beside his saw, And Robin shall not lack for gainful work. The bare branches scrape against the brown Gray stumps and fallen trunks as they fall; The wind, that sifts through the bare trees like salt, Scrives frost into their dark, green hearts, And tips them into prickly bloom, Now that the woods are piling bare Bare branches on the windy hill, Where carts shiver and roofs collapse, Where men with battered cheeks are munching, The stars come out on heaven's rim, And hanging in a gossamer wreath, The wild apple hangs in the bough; The wind lifts it in his hand And says with mellow tongue, "I'll swing it to thee, sweet! "Sweet! sweet! I'll swing it to thee, O sweet! O sweet! And I'll say the word, sweet, O sweet! Sweet! sweet! O sweet! And thou shalt sing what songs so sweet, O sweet! O sweet! O sweet! O come to me, sweet! O come to me! O come to me! O come to me!" The summer comes, and all the birds are mute, And tents are silent on the mountain-side; The cawing rooks have stopped in their clamour mild, And the gray wolves' yelps have ceased to boom; The young fox wakes with quivering plaid, But 'tis the rarest of spring-time sounds, When she comes, rosy-cheeked and light, Down the dew-drenched lane, to meet her love. She comes, and all the way The bells are ringing shrill and low, As if the happy-happy tribe Were gathering for a feast of flowers; They have all gone from the meadow grounds, But, dreaming of her favor, The robin is set to sing, And the bluebird full of chiming; And now the jay, with mellow notes, Sings alone to woo her, And calls her, calling, Calling, And she has answered, And now in sportive mood She cuts short the long delay With, "I'm ready, I'm ready, I'll come to you, you only wait!" And now he shakes his quivering wings, Now she hath loosed her developing arms, And now they swarm around them both The moon upon the river, Flowing like a rainbow! Lights up the dewy flood, Brightens up the glistening waters! The fishes, darting, Trip and swim and flash and play in the waters; But what is that in the water? The moon, like a silver bell, Rings out to us! We hear, we hear, we hear! It stills the wild uproar Of the winter storm outside, But, oh, it calms us! The dark blue night, like a tranquil pool, Within it, lies a dream! In it the moon and her twin-rays shine, In it are wind-blown shadows played, In it shadows hide and bright forms show As if in an apparition; But, ah! it is a present dream! What is that, up above? What is that, down below? Is it the laboring earth? Is it the troubled sea? Is it the fire and brimstone air? Oh, it is the moon,-- The trembling moon! It was not long ago, In a summer's night, I stood at the edge of a wood, In a long familiar spot, And saw a glimmering moon On a bank of boughs that grew. And felt a tingling quietness In my heart, and a silence fill All the silent room where I was sitting. I only heard the birds a little calling, And the wind in the retired garden leaves, And felt a sweet security,-- A poignancy, coming from the moon, A joy sublime, that was not mine,-- And gazed into the silvery beam With a holy interest,-- The holy fool! The boughs above the wood Broke out into leaves again, The birds were silent in their singing, And a faint wind blew down south; But I only heard the quiet breathing Of the moon upon the water, And the slow spring coming in. Then sudden I arose and reeled, And went staggering down the stair, And stood by the window there. And all my being was cramped and bent And crushed to the shape of a shapeless lump, A dark pimple on the vanity Of the night, and a disappointment Worse than a sadness. But as I stood there leaning there, My senses caught the breath Of a strange music, wild and sad, And strange faces, moving through the gloom, And a vague terrible longing To touch and follow the light That broke over the water. A sudden gleam,-- A blaze that shone from the window high, Across the glittering evening sky, And waned slowly through the mist, Till it fell upon the night, In a silvery twinkle at the door. Then I crept to the door, And in the moonlight looked, And saw a witch with a ghastly wild look Standing in the moonlight, bending over A form lying on the floor, Its eyes closed in sleep. She smote her breast, And her blood ran cold, For there was grief and tears and pain, But she whispered softly to the air, And turned away, and fled. I lay for many nights A-dreaming of that scene, And now at last I know That the heart of a man must mourn The end of his mourning-dress, When he sees the wet rain fall, Upon the grave of his love. "In a roaring dawn, When the first star peeps, Ere the murmurous seeds In their cold sepulchres Uplift their rosy heads, I will cleanse my heart From the dust of dead years." "The body that is subject to death, Is a thing which cannot live." So spake the old Zeno, and then Dying he compiled his code, And weaved the dice which made the sun Which now among the nations, giving light, Is an everlasting ball. I like not your company, You cold and clinical; But if you'd join us here You'd be so gay. There's many a rake will sing For a sip of your wine; For your lips are warm and dear, You'd make each believe That a king was in your purse. Come o'er the sea With a burthen of loot, And we'll have a cup; 'Tis for a King Who's long dead And in Heaven watered. You that are hot and dry, We'll have another; For the frost of earth Bears no gold; And the sun that sets On our realm Wears a golden crown. There's a knight in the land Who hath a lion's skin; He scorns the showers And the winds that blow, And the sands at sea And the salt waves at the beach. He has hoarded much treasure, Yet he lives in splendour; For his strength is unbought, And his name is unknown; Yet men tremble and listen When he sings or speaks. He has many female lovers, Yet none have he heeded; Yet they come and live with him, And he doth eat and sleep; And he throws his golden words About his armour's lap. He it is who, when the sun Is danc'd by the sea, Or set by the moon, Or a cloud, on the wind's wrist, Comes softly from the west, And bears the light away, And we follow his voice. When the world was new, And scarce had passed From the old chronicle, In the old chronicle, We read the olden story, And in reading it, We, children of the days Of other ages, Find out the lessons Which our age must learn. We read the olden story, When it hurl'd on high At the towers of Troy, And the immortal Greeks Fought for years and years. But the shadows fall From off our brows, And the lessons we learn From the olden story, When the battle clouds are deep, And the thunders break, And the lightning flashes flame, And the tempest raves With wild gusts and gusts, In the darkness we hear A new song ring-- 'Tis the old eternal song, Of the men of old. When the battle waves are high, And the battle cries Are heard by the sun, And the thunder bellows Its awful voice along, In the darkness we hear A new light gleam-- 'Tis the old eternal light, Which doth shine on the dawn Of a new era. When the ships ride in sight, And the arms are all aflame With a noble light, Like a beacon light Which shall be night's light To the morrow dawn, In the darkness we hear A new song ring-- 'Tis the old eternal song Of the men of old. Dear, if I should meet you by the threshold of the post office, Or through the woods where we can walk together, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the ding-a-dong of the post-boy ring true, And you'd care to have a cup of coffee, I'd say, "Dear," and drink it. If I should meet you by the highway, Where the flags are blowing in the wind, And the dusty men are resting, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the road's so long and somber, And the rocks are very hard to climb, I'd say, "Dear," and smile at you, And think of another flower. If I should meet you in the shop, Or in some other public place, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the iron set on the anvil quiver, And no tool will seem to do the work, I'd say, "Dear," and look enviously at you, And think of another jewel. And if, in spite of all I would say, The bells should chimble "Ding-dong, dong," I'd think, perchance, that they chimed For joy, for sorrow, for you. I'd think of another song And another face, and another shine-- Of the days that were, and the days that are. If I should meet you in the street, By daylight or by evening twilight, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the words that the bells chimed conveyed No hint of another touch, I'd say, "Dear," and keep my place at your side. <|endoftext|> On your brow my love Holds a crown Sweet as from me; But your lips, they are not for kissing. My love, do you hear? My love, you must not say me nay. My love, you must not say me nay. In the year that is gone by In the cold and raining The wind took your name And the leaves that were drying At the foot of the hill. Oh, it was dark and bright With the shines of the sun On the faces below. Oh, the wind took the leaves that were drying At the foot of the hill. The time is growing short And my birthday fast is past; Oh, the sun is fading slow And my love is away. My love, I will miss your smile And the words that you say; But I shall not be sad, my dear, For I shall not be sad. On the hillside in the frost The frozen branches shake And the wild wind wails aloud; But it is my birthday-day In the land that is far away. Oh, come back, my love, On the life-time again; Oh, come back, my love, You must not be sad. She was not mistaken, And in all that she said The faith was deep and true; For she promised with the voice That she loved me true. And the year that is past In the land that is far away With its singing summers, Where the sun shines brightly, Where the rain falls heavily, Where the wind wails aloud Is my birthday-day In the land that is near. The song of the lark at morn, The song of the thrush that breaks The silence of the night, In the room where I stay, With a faithful heart, And a hand that is free, Has comfort for me; For her heart is true To a faith that is fine. I shall never be weary Of the music of her mouth; Of the clasp and the caress That blesses and deifies. Her love, like a dream, Of beauty that is bright, In my mind as I lie Has promised pleasure for me. And the golden hour Comes on in the afternoon As sweetly as a dream. Oh, come back, my love, On the life-time again; Oh, come back, my love, You must not be sad. The little yellow flower That lifts its timid head And seems afraid to-day, Shall bloom in the sunny spring With all its golden hair. And the sweet boy and girl Who stole it from the ground Shall take it back to the place And make it a happy sign To tell other gardeners How nature can be beautiful. A loving mother takes her child To the place where it was blown; She looks upon the strange sky, The shadow of whose deep sleep Comes over the sleeping earth. She lifts the gleaming golden fish, The eyes so calm and deep, But they are not of the tender blue, And he does not seem to know it. She talks to him of birds, and he Is thoughtful and eager then. She listens to the rippling water And says, "The spring is sweet and fair. I'll go to the fair one soon." I dreamed last night that I was there With a lovely Queen, all alone. And we stood in the purple cloudland, And I caressed her golden head With my hand and caressed it, And I whispered in her quiet ears Words that are sweeter than words, Till I woke, and here I sit In the noon and the purple gloom. She who was queen of my delight Now comes in to claim her share; I see the roses on her lips, The pearl on her chin. She has made her nest where the sea beats On the sands, and she will sleep Cradled there till the high sun wakes And beats on the sea again. She has broken the nest that she made In the purple cloudland wide; And now she is sitting alone Where the salt waves have no might, Wasting her life and her beauty In a wasting sea. Oh! sweet are the hours that come Between the beating of the sea And the waking of the sun; And sweet are the hours that go Between the sleeping of the queen And the waking of the sun. In a valley of white and sapphire hills A red-eyed house lies waiting; The sun, descending, drips upon its walls And flushes the ivy-green of its moss. The tall house is not over tall to see, But it is very, very quiet, And all the land seems watching, waiting, To see the door that opens in its wall. There comes a whisper and goes a knock, And a man treads out of a distant land. The door swings slowly, and there comes a cry, And a tall lad limps in, half seeing, With a face like a deathless poem. His eyes are big with the shining of fate, His hair is whiter than the dying ember Of a star unafraid to fade. He walks to the door and shuts it quick, And stands proud in the light Of the sun and the glory of the day, His face a grave deep carved in the brow. But suddenly from the gathering light The man's eyes drop, and he stoops and clutches The doorpost with a pale and shaking hand. The door opens, and a lady, clad in white, Sinks with a grace and ease. Her eyes are dark with the night of the world, But her face is bright as a woman in her prime. The lady stops at the door; she looks at the man; She looks at the white-walled valley of stone. She looks at the red-eyed house, and turns away; And she enters, though it seems to her a still place, And she leaves the door open; and the sound Of her locking and unlatching the door And the tread of her coming and going Becomes a moving tide of music. In a windy tower in the old Rhine town There is a workman building a house. He hears a noise of work in the distant streets, And the clink of the metal in riverbeds; And there comes through the noisy air a wind of music. Like the roar of a river on which rain is falling Came the cry of a street like a sea breaking; And he thought of the gleam and the sweep of night surf Under the black-bonneted moon, and his tower dreary, Hitting against the wet and swinging wall, Swept by the wind of music in the rattle of ships. The water flows on its silvery way In the Rhine stream. It winds along the hillside, and arrives In the castle courtyard. In the valley, the men sit and drink, And the women sing and laugh; They fill their heads with vain desire Of the wine that makes men wise. But in the tower, there is only one Who sits and thinks. He frowns at the walls he has raised, And at the grey stone floor, And he snaps his fingers to show the creaking door. A woman's voice sings in the courtyard: "It's all in the wiping-tub!" In the house where they are gathering The grey stone dust, A wind shakes the windows and sweepeth Up the loose hangings. I hear the clatter of a hand And the click of a bolt, And the heavy tread of a horse Ringing the walls; But no man passeth his castle. A sailor's corpse floats on the Rhine, His eyes are still Open in a smile upon his face, A hawk flies from a cliff on the Rhine, He fluttereth and flutters away, And a lad is sailing on the Rhine, With sails that bring him To land beyond the stile. Three times in the night of a winter's eve A woman crosseth the walls of a town. From her room in the work-house how she tolls: "Bring the wine, bring the wine!" Three swift men arrive at her chimney-niche, With cups that shake and glitter, And a buzzing and steaming song Of the Rhine in their ears. The men pass through the city gate, They pass among the slumbering people; But the woman still to the bell Sings like a blood-hound in the night: "Bring the wine, bring the wine!" And the chimney-smoke grows red and heavy, And the Rhine water reddens, As the woman still to the bell Sings in the town alone: "Bring the wine, And shame unto the Franks!" I was wakened by a furious knocking, And a man shouted in my ear: "Come to the palace, dark Bishop Amory. He will give thee all things in service, He will give thee grace and riches." But the bell was already knelling And so I hastened away. The grey dust whirled upward, round and round, On the Forum's dusty quarters. At the curb of every marketplace A slave stood with a pair of scythes, And at the gate a men-at-arms Went with a halberd and a helmet. In the courtyard of his palace, From the doors by the torches lit, I hurried to the bier of the Apostle For the letters of Peter and of Paul. But the torches were extinguished, And no man answered to my knocking. I entered the dome with my flashlight, And I found the sealed book in a chest. But no book was there whose pages had faded; But the red flame ate through the cover, And the ink dry and old, And I saw the writing of St. Ignatius, And the words, "I love the Lord." All the Fathers of the Church, All the luminaries of the Visitation, All the martyrs who remain, The penitents who grieve, And all the monks in their vigil, Are gathered here in a solemn council. What is the reason for this gathering? What is the meaning of this lighting? Silence for all. And the City sleeps, And its lamp, the Torch of London, Lights not the venerable roofs, Nor the placid river, Nor the peaceful Prussian hills, Nor the quiet cloister. Silence for all. But the humble peasant's huts Shine in the tranquil night, And the peasant women bare-breasted, Wear out the midnight in song. All is silent in the city. Only the chimney, Vanish, Like a phantom, Round and round it soars, It a phantom seems, For it sweeps the streets, A hideous spectral phantom. It is as bad as the Devil, As the Devil is bad, But no one meets the evil spirit With a stone in his hand. It comes in shoals before the people, With a shriek that puts the peaceful houses To flight, And it shrieks, and it howls, and it screams, And it shakes the homes. It the people fear; It the people dread; It the people love, But no one loves the evil spectre, For it kills the people. It frightens the harlots; It the harlots dread; It the harlots love, But no one loves the evil spirit, For it kills the love. Love is brother to fear, Thou canst not love the evil spirit, For it kills the love. Mephistopheles. I must confess to you, When a child I worked for hire, And worked as much again for money, As any workman could; For it's the common lot of men, And the work of all, To earn his bread with his sweat, And that of his body too. Faust. I'd rather work for nothing at all, If I had the work of the devil, And that is to curse, flatter, lie, To say or to think, A foolish, filthy thing, Till the day death takes me. Mephistopheles. I know, of course, that you cannot do it. You'll be too old to rule, And too young to serve, And your work is too hard for a man like you, And too sacred for a goat. But if you curse, flatter, lie, You may well keep on, And get rich doing it. Mephistopheles. It's a good, high job, no doubt. You see, the world is full of babblers, And men like you are nowt. What a pity, then, we don't see more of them, We, myself included, Who work so hard for nothing more Than the pleasure of being at work. Here's good beer; don't mess about with that. Here's good beer here, as well as here, In the can, Not the glass. You can't drink that, you dare not drink that, You cannot drink that, You must not drink that. You dare not drink that. What does this drink, here, have in it? What does it have, what is it made of? What does it smell like? What does it taste like? What does it look like? What does it burn like? You can't drink that, you dare not drink that, You cannot drink that, You must not drink that, You must not do that, You'd better leave that. You'd better leave that, Go back to that. What does this drink, here, have in it? What does it have, what is it made of? What does it smell like? What does it look like? What does it burn like? What does it look like? What does it burn like? You can't drink that, you dare not drink that, You cannot drink that, You must not drink that, You must not do that, You'd better leave that. You'd better leave that, Go back to that. The very strong drink is bitter to drink, And the strong drink can change your life, And you'll be living upon a different earth Before you know it, With a different you. So, when you see people passing with great wine, And they talk and they jest, Just think of us, poor simple dupes, Who only know to drown with the tears our sorrow And to cuddle our pain, With a brew like that. And they take it away with a song, And they toss the tokens, And we're thinking about the tokens, And we're also thinking about the song, And we're also shaking, And we think of the joy that we won't get, Of the luck of being born. In the London streets they're ringing a knell For the dead, who have gone before, Who have gone before, and who are coming On abreast, Who will come behind. But the long, cold, cold street of the dark sky Has a yawning open heart And it knows The love that we never shall know, And the deep open heart Cares for the waiting one. And we think of the grief that will come When the long, cold, cold street of the dark sky Shall be empty, and the heart it knows Shall open then, And the open heart say It is spring! A song for the few who are left us, For the few who are left us Who are young and who are still And who have never learned to fall, And who have never known how far We are fallen, And who have never stayed To listen, and to know That the great drops come, And the tall grasses bend, And the skies are always blue. And a song for the few who are left us, For the few who are left us Who will never sing again And who have never learned to pray, And who have never learned how well We pray, And who have never learned that we Knowledge of sorrow and sin And the secret of weeping well. For they are shut out of the hall of feasts, For they are shut out of the hall of feasts, And the tall white walls are frowning on them With a silent judgment. And they sit in the darkness, and they ponder, And the darkness has a life of its own, And the silence has a past, And the darkness shall prevail. But there is a hand where the darkness rests, And a voice that shall guide them, And a voice that shall gladden them As the grasses gladden the dark earth When the night is over. For the voice of the earth is calling to them, In their day of trial. Oh! be with us, Lord, be with us, Lord, Though our paths be strewn with the broken Shepherds of the world and night, Still our hearts are unbowed, still our feet Are steadfast. For thy heart is unwearied, and thy word Is as the evening-star, and the earth Is restless. We are but petals blown from the sun's throne, We are but fragments of a word's feather, Yet we are all that the word has been, And all that the world may be. For our life is but as a watch, a span, And our fate as a life. They cannot take away our joy, They cannot take away our day, Nor extinguish our hope. Nor can the night o'erpower our faith, Nor the gathering shadow live. Though the hour may be dark, and our day As dark. They cannot curb our hope nor dim our trust, Nor shake our constant hope. Only ourselves can curb our joy; Only ourselves can slay our faith. And our trust and our joy but serve To keep alive our watch. Still the same law, still the same Lord, Whose peace is everywhere. Still the same help, still the same Reward, Our faithful Father. Through faith and hope and patience, Lord, We seek thee still. He takes the wrongs our steps have trodden, And the crosses unnumbered Of deepest grief and weakest hope, And he mingles them with perfumes Of roses ever green, And with songs of angels ever singing, And with genial rains that fall On thorn, and flower, and green, and hoary, And he mingles them with sweet, healing balm, In a well of life that every day Shall brighten into morning. He takes all wrongs our steps have crossed And all sorrows, crosses, tears, And he blends them all with perfumes Of roses at their best, And with balm of healing balm that falls From the deep heart of Jesus still, And with heavenly showers that fall On thorn, and flower, and green, and hoary, And he blends them all with healing balm, In the well of life that every day Shall bless and heal. So we leave our old destruction And enter into more peace and rest, And we enter into a higher and purer love, And we leave our old destruction And enter into more peace and rest. Oh, what a battle was fought and lost At York, and what a slaughtering hand Was laid in bloody hand before The beautiful clear-cut and smiling Plains That stand between old Cairo and the sea Of Sinai! What a triumph for England and her Fox And his knavish crew, and what a wrench For us, the burning, restless ones, who bear The yoke we hold! And we left those sons of Sodom smitten And crying, But to-day we meet them once again In the sweet, calm peaceful walks of home Where we are free From the yoke of crime, the blighting night, The heathen fear. And the Sabbath bells tolls of their home In the land where our fathers died For our dear homeland. And we have fresh flowers to wear And we gather them and smell them, And we stand in awe before them And we bless them, and we dare to say How fair they are, And how God's own hand of wonders Have formed and guided all. And we walk in sunshine and rest Beneath our trees, And our hearts grow calm and strong in The sweet, safe rest, And the joy of life grows sweet and strong And our faces brighten with peace, And our eyes grow bright with peace. There's music in the lilac tree And evening in the golden hour, And green things in the garden creep In the shadows cool; But the white lilies of the meadow Are glowing as if the dew Had not been dried. Oh, my beloved, my own, my wife, My one delight, I can never repay your love with love, You gave for love alone; But, oh, you have enriched my life with love, My earthly life with peace, And my heart will break in gratefulness If I could repay your love. There's music in the lilac tree, For the red singing-shoe that once was mine Is shining with the bright blood-red. There's evening in the golden hour, And green things in the garden creep, But the white lilies of the meadow Are glowing as if the dew Had not been dried. When Spring has gone And red, red roses Flower over the wall, I shall sit in the quiet room Where my husband sleeps, And a light hand-me-down Will place beside me In that safe, still room. So it will be One less thing to do, But I'll sit here and mind the quiet room And think how glad I am That one is here to bring me love, And love again. All day the shawl was wool by the weaver's hand Tied up the different colours in her liking; At night she let it float across the stars; When old Elvar slept, she knotted the shawl up. Then she laid by the fire a bed of snowy white In snowy white was she, The days were sweet, the nights were cool, The wind did blow; When I was first a bride The summer before I came to Anster was the best, I had my honey-moon in Bracondaw. When first I came here It was a strange place, it has changed quite, you know. The miller stopped making hay, the fish-frys stayed shut, And the old folks had come back to town; But now they all come out of the retired way, And sit and talk about the times they had here. There was a stranger, A slender man, came here, And stood by the water side; He had on a bath-coat and a scarf o'er his face, But no hat; And when he saw us he bowed and smiled, And then vanished out of the land. There was a tailor, A fellow named Bump, Who went a-tuning all day long, And with no end of sobbing; He declared that the Tun Tavern could not get no better For a belt or a cravat; And so he said, but nobody believed him. And there was a baker A fellow named Jack, Who, with his very long spoon, was just as busy as if he'd got to keep a dairymaid; And to see what he could do with a brooch or a ring, He baked them all day long. There was a rich merchant A fellow named Vellum, Who with his staff was so careful you would have said That he was the worlds most excellent man; He made such a rush for our table that we could not serve Our wine and ale through the dining-room, He hurried by with his flask, And said that the wine must be drunk before we could dine. There was a ship's carpenter, A fellow named Jack, Who built the ship's carins as fast as he could think of, And they all said that his work was the best that they'd ever seen; He had a great show-run ship that he called his "Titanic," And the whole sea-gang, from the Devil to the small sharks, All swore that the ship would sink, And they chased her with hoots and whistles all through the sea. There was a country bumpkin, A fellow named Bill, Who, every day, would drop his tools and run And fetch them again, and run again, and ask them where They had put the plumb-line; He never had caught a fish with those old ragged tools, But folks said that he could soon make them crack. There was the country bumpkin, And his wife, and their little son, and a basket of apples, And nothing to do but to let them have their fun, And laugh and talk, and sing and dance, And make them empty their garrets and chase each other And chase the boy, and give it a name; And they called it "Ruth's Dozen." There was the country bumpkin, With a humble heart and no noble name to hide, Who, every day, when the market was empty, Was glad to buy a few drachmas of bread And eat them, too, with beer or schnapps, And, if the market was not quite so bare, He bought some cabbage and potatoes To put in his pockets. There was a country bumpkin, And he was born in a log, Who, every day, from his neck to his feet, Was blued all over, And had his clothes made all too tight For his tall feet. There was a country bumpkin, And he walked every day With a limp, And wore a round face all the time, That was neither grin nor frown, And looked as wan as his coat. There was a country bumpkin, And a dish of beans he carried, And a basket of potatoes, But a knife to cut them with, And a basket to put them in. There was a country bumpkin, And from all he had, he was glad To get a piece of bread, And a piece of cheese, Which he thought would not do; For he was sure he could find them On a little country bumpkin. There was a country bumpkin With a long face to see, Who sat and gave the potatoes a bath, And he washed his hands to-day, And he dried his face with the hair On his potatoes all day. The country bumpkin had thought of a name For his long round face, And, every day, he called his face "Old-back," And this was the name he suggested: "O, I am old-back, I'm as old-back as ever; I'm old, and as stiff, And I'm as wan as an old woman." There was a country bumpkin, And he was a gipsy man, And he was neither shy nor bold, But as he went home each day He had a funny look on his face As he walked through the village. There was a country bumpkin That stood by the way-side With his mouth wide open, And the sunshine on his face Like swine's fat; And he wouldn't say a word, But people wondered What he would bite. There was a country bumpkin Who had as many teeth As the dirt would hold, But his speech was not so fast As the dirt's is; And he didn't bite A word that was said to him. A country bumpkin lived a mile away From the Devil's den, And the road that led to his back Was a bad road to-day; For the sun was hot And the tall grasses wet And the big white hail and thunders wet Had a funny after-effect On the funny country bumpkin. There was a country bumpkin That a black-bitch had clutched And fed with suck from her milking-pail; And he was hard of hearing And quite mute of mien, But his teeth were not so hard As the black-bitch's are; And this was the weirdest country bumpkin That ever met man: The man's eyes were as sharp As a fox's are sharp, And a sharp pain in his head As a prick in a rat. And he went about As a stiff dog goes In a barnyard on a stony meadow; But, when at home he was, When the heat of work he had overgone, He would shake His head And laugh With a man's dry deadness. There was a country bumpkin That went out to beg In the fields, and beg in the streets For scraps of bread; And it seemed to his neighbours As if he were squeaking His song to have effect. There was a country bumpkin That they gave a piece of bread To if you gave a piece of bread; And, if you gave him a cup Of water, he asked with chiding If you had any more. There was a country bumpkin That lived in a hole in the ground, And there he was glad As the lark is in his nest When the day's cares are o'er. He had no anxieties Or dread of any disaster As he glided In safety In the hole in the ground. There was a country bumpkin That nobody ever saw, For nobody had seen him Unless it were that somebody Might see him in his slippers Sitting on a golden perch By a golden light; And, having seen him there, They would dare not question him As to his name, or his age, Or where he came from. There was a country bumpkin That never had he been, And when they asked his name, He only had to say, "I'm Bob," For nobody ever had heard The name of this country bumpkin, And nobody had ever heard The name of this country bumpkin. There was a country bumpkin That ate no bread or meat, And lived on milk and water; And, if they gave him a crumb, He swore that he had had more Than he could eat in one day; And, if they gave him a bite, He said, "I had more than that" When, all to well, they gave it him. And there was a country bumpkin That had learned to build him a house, From shingles of pine and from boards Of willow, and he would stand A country bumpkin's-brow and frown As if it were the highest place In all the world, and say 'T was no use for Countrymen To go about boasting how They builded a house like a mountain With a garden that would feed the sheep And a barn for to shelter the swine. There was a country bumpkin That grew olives in a bin; There was a country bumpkin That growled when you spoke to him; There was a country bumpkin That would sit and whistle and pipe When the barn was full of grain And the swine were safe inside; For the Country-man's an idiot, and Builders a gang of rovers. And the Country-man's wife Was mad at the Country-man; And the Country-man's son Was mad at the Country-man; And the Country-man's daughter Said, "O my soul, what is the matter?" And she said to the Lady "This Country-man's mean-somethings Are far beyond language!" There was a Country bumpkin That had three con gressos; And the Lady herself, A Country bumpkin, Was the only one That couldn't stand him. And she said, "O my soul, What is the matter?" And she said to the Country bumpkin, "This Country bumpkin's gibes Are quite beyond measure!" I had been out to take a walk When all of a sudden I fell And rolled a sound of thunder Upon my back. And they thought that I was dead And buried all as good As a zombie did in the story books; For many days they waited On a broken watch, But they could not lift the weight That covered me over. They could not lift the weight Of me in my disarray From top to toe, From head to feet; I was as stubborn as the lawn, As they knew, And I showed them how they lay Wind and dirt and flame All over me. The wind has shifted its course, And now it drives the snow Down upon our roof. But I'm stronger than the wind, And I'll mend the roof-pane; I'll make it strong and sound, For I have talent And I've worked for one Who had talent For much more than this. My father was a Country bumpkin That lived upon the moor, And he was a Country bumpkin That died yesterday; And I'd like to think that I'll keep Like him, a Country bumpkin Loving every man Who comes to me For shelter. There was a Country bumpkin That would not stop At any price to feed The beggar that came to call; But every day he gave As if he was his friend, And the man that sought him bread Was the same that sought The man that loved him well. There was a Country bumpkin That fed his wife And kept his land from weeds; The naked trees stood there Where the Country bumpkin Stood and watched them work. The Country bumpkin who Got his living well By his living wife Had hewn in such a way As she might well know He'd what he had earned Lay by let it be. And they called him Country bumpkin Because That was his habitation; And he liked to be known As good as gold for gain, For he was a Country bumpkin That worked for gain By keeping time as well As any man that lived. The woman that has two hands Is like a country bumpkin That's round and flat; She's like a country bumpkin That lives alone And knows no man. The woman that has two hands Has a way of working As though she had been made As she would work alone And is no wife. And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's made of brass, And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's all brass. And all she can do Is to eat and drink, To sing and tell her troubles And have her fill. A country bumpkin and his wife Made all of copper, And the look on her face when she knows That she has been fed Is a look that she will not wear When she's alone. And he calls her Copper Myrtle, And a Country bumpkin Is a bumpkin a mile; A country bumpkin and his wife Are two-and-twenty. They were out working one day, And they fell down some stairs, And they hurt their toes; And they were starving, you see, And they lay down to sleep. But they woke up and danced, you see, And they danced up and down In a circle all around In the street, in a town. They danced up and down the street And they danced so well, And the bumpkin and wife Made all of copper, And the woman that has two hands Is like a country bumpkin That's round and flat. And she dances up and down In a circle all around In the town, in a city. And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's made of brass, And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's all brass. And now they have to go And they'll get a bigger house And a bigger mine. For they danced up and down In a circle all around In the city, in a town. I have a father who is a king, I have a mother who is a queen, And three sisters who are more than kings, And four brothers who are queens in purse, And five brothers who are kings in store, And six sisters who are queens in hair, And seven sisters who are kings in bread, And eight sisters who are queens in cloth, And nine sisters who are kings in wine, And ten sisters who are queens in meat, And eleven sisters who are kings in honey, And twelve sisters who are kings in treasure, And thirteen sisters who are queens in silk, And fourteen sisters who are queens in spinsters, And fifteen sisters who are kings in beauty, And sixteen sisters who are kings in plants, And seventeen sisters who are queens in bees, And eighteen sisters who are kings in birds, And nineteen sisters who are kings in fish, And twenty-one sisters who are kings in hay, And twenty-two sisters who are kings in corn, And twenty-three sisters who are kings in haymow, And one sister who is a king in ice, And one sister who is a queen in snow, And one sister who is a king in grass, And two sisters who are kings in ferns, And three sisters who are kings in bark, And four sisters who are kings in roots, And five sisters who are kings in flowers, And six sisters who are kings in furze, And seven sisters who are queens in locks, And eight sisters who are kings in webs, And nine sisters who are kings in grass, And ten sisters who are kings in blossom, And eleven sisters who are kings in honey, And twelve sisters who are kings in sap, And thirteen sisters who are kings in wine, And fourteen sisters who are kings in stemms, And fifteen sisters who are kings in veins, And sixteen sisters who are kings in veins, And seventeen sisters who are kings in veins, And eighteen sisters who are kings in veins, And nineteen sisters who are kings in veins, And twenty-two sisters who are kings in marrow, And twenty-three sisters who are kings in marrow, And one sister who is a king in bark, And two sisters who are kings in blossom, And three sisters who are kings in blossom, And four sisters who are kings in blossom, And five sisters who are kings in blossom, And six sisters who are kings in blossom, And seven sisters who are kings in blossom, And eight sisters who are kings in blossom, And nine sisters who are kings in blossom, And ten sisters who are kings in blossom, And one sister who is a king in sap, And two sisters who are kings in heart's blood, And three sisters who are kings in marrow, And four sisters who are kings in blossom, And five sisters who are kings in heart's blood, And six sisters who are kings in blossom, And seven sisters who are kings in heart's blood, And eight sisters who are kings in blossom, And nine sisters who are kings in blossom, And ten sisters who are kings in blossom, And one sister who is a king in corn. The moon, like a queen, Lifted up her lily silver, With her good looks and sweetness met; And the poet sang the noble swan, And I dreamed a golden rosebud fell; For a bell in the west began to ring-- The poet sang the noble swan, And I heard a golden cymbal crash. The moon, like a queen, Looked down upon the lake, With her sweet looks and her majesty, And the poet sang the noble swan, And the poet sang the noble swan. To the south, like a queen, Looked on the field of Mars, And the poet sang the noble swan, And the poet sang the noble swan. Gazed on the far hills to the south, And the poet sang the noble swan, And the poet sang the noble swan. In a sunny green glade Where soft winds sang, The poet sang the noble swan, And a golden rose fell down. "Queen moon, thine is far bigger Than my breath is big; And in thine is a power Far, far beyond our human, A mighty power." "I'll shake my bells of gold, And of light the darkest, And of love I'll make a moth, The fiercest of them all; And of my heart make a fever, That burns and consumes." "And I'll kiss away thy light, And quench thy heat before I burn thy heart in thine, Wilt thou not smile on me? I am not fair and young As I should be." "Then lift up thine eyes, sweet queen, And see what I can be; And draw thyself away From those far, fair hills of Mars, And let thy pretty feet Unto my shining arms Dive deep into mine arms, And thy soft mouth in it Lofty place take." "Fair thief, and pinchable, Take up a pin from off thy wrist, And pinch me full of blushes, And see my rosy blushes, And take the warm kiss of me; And steal my heart in thine arms, And fling it to the winds Till winds do fly it over The fields where grapes grow sweet; And thou mayest break the grapes, And leave the harmless worm To drink the juice of him. And, fair thief, thou shalt have The warm kiss of me." "Ah! Puck, thou dunce of creatures, In this year's masque of baubles, Thou art as fat as herdsman John, Or trencher-bearded Heraclitus; Ay! more than wise-mouth'd Anaximander, Or herdsman John with trenchers of John. Take then a crown of hayseeds, And drive me hence to wells of millet, And lend me voice to Samian numbers, And paint on Flemish vellum Things to touch the soul with awe, Such as no man hath sung before." "And if that thou wilt make friendship With the strong-hearted Ganges, Then let the Ganges bathe his knees, And whisper in the princely waters; Then let the Ganges take from thee A crown of cedar-wood, And trees of gold that shoot acorns, And bind them on thy head with slashes, And spread them on a bed of snow; And make thee gay a garland, And let the Ganges breathe in clouds Over thy head in evening; And let the Ganges suck the dew From off the grass upon the plain, And bind him with a blue tassel That drops all day upon him." "Go, little book, and bless my reading, And say, when thou shalt write my name, That I have lived a pleasant life; Go, thou small gift, and write my name, And say, when thou shalt draw my picture, Thou didst make a faithful friend." Go, little book, and bless my reading, And say, when thou shalt bow and smile, That I have lived a goodly life; Go, thou small book, and say my prayer, And say, when thou shalt knead my pancake, That I have worshipped thee with thanks. And when thou hast made me a crown, And written my name upon the cake, If that be all that's able to save The fragment that the book doth leave, Then let the little god of Egypt Take care of it, and make it fair." "If the little god of Egypt Will give me one hour of his time, I'll come back and live with thee, And knead thy pancake, and bake thy pies, And bless thy small brown books and sweet; And when I come again, I'll go And live with thee and cook thy pancake, And bless thy small brown books and sweet; And when I come again, I'll go And live with thee and cook thy pancake, And bless thy small brown books and sweet." "Why, Dolly, my dear, I'm sorry, But you've cut the dish I wanted; I'm hungry, Dolly, I'm burning, I want thy honey and thy pie. Can't you give me some parting delicacy? For, Dolly, I must eat my fill, Before I go to leave thee, love, Before I leave thee, love, Within thy little hand, Within thy little hand." "Then let me fill my pretty mou' just, And when I go to leave thee, love, I'll say 'Farewell, for I will' to thee, Within thy little hand, Within thy little hand." "Well, well, Dolly dear, I cannot refuse you; I'll leave you, and I'll come again to dine with you, If you will take the pie and the honey-biscuit." "Oh, Dolly dear, it is not hard to give; I've baked them just like you want them, love. I'll take them, thank you, and will leave you, If you will take the pie and the honey-biscuit. I cannot eat the honey-biscuit, Dolly dear, For, Dolly, I should like to eat you, If you would take the pie and the honey-biscuit." "I cannot give you everything, dear, I've only got a little more; I'll take the honey-biscuit, Dolly dear, But now I must go, for I've watched too many ducks, And I've got to go, For I've watched too many ducks." "Oh, Dolly dear, you are so wise, And Dolly always is wise; I've often prayed her to tell me how To pass my time away pleasantly; And how to make the most of my pup, For I've had him long, And I've got to go, For I've watched too many ducks, And I've got to go, For I've watched too many ducks." Dolly looked so beautiful and sweet, With her little wings of snow, I would fain have stayed and talked to her, But I flew on like a soaring hawk, To meet my dear one-eyed fighter, The last of all my flock, The proud and proud ruler, my Dolly, The one-eyed leader of my brood, The reigning monarch, my troop, The glory of my blood, The glory of my line. I've known by mark and call How they have vied and striven, But I dare not ask their names, So I will leave the answer to you, The mother of my one-eyed champion, The proud and proud ruler, my Dolly. Dolly's heart was like a balloon, Her spirit was as great, As she told me her wondrous story, Of how she soared to the skies, And how she used me so well, But now my time is up, my turn is come, To say good-bye, my turn is come, To bid you good-bye, my turn is come, Good-bye, my home, my mother, my dame, My life, my world, my all, my all. In the green and pleasant days of old, When the Spring comes forth with her lovely face, And the Summer is full of the music That rhymes in the sun with the gentle rain, And the woods are full of the laughter and shout That rises when the squirrel shouts his cheer, I often think of the days that are flown, And of the fights that I have now with my own heart, In the place where I was reared in a village-- A tiny village, all of the past is gone, It is not to return any more. The place is full of the smell of pine trees, The fields are overgrown with grasses, And I stand on the spot where I had strife, Sore troubled in heart, and full of sorrow, The joys that I had I cannot recapture, The pain that I had I cannot forget. But I think of the things that were, and I call To the little circle of friends that were dear, And I say, "For I hold on to the dear things, And the friendship that was if there be none, For I fight alone against the great world-woes, And would not have you go." And I think of the laughter and the glee Of the days when I was not on my guard, Of the times when the school was a palace of joy, Of the times when the lessons were of the best, Of the times when the friends were all mine--and then I think I would fall on my knees to beg of you To fight for the friends that are not there now. And I cry to the old beloved place, That waits with a smile to receive me when I come, To help me when I am wounded on the way, To strengthen me when I am sorely tried, To bear my burdens if I but beg of you, To walk through the dark lonely places with me. And I think of the time when I was young, Before I had known wrong, or heard the cry Of the stricken that they must betray their tears Or the heart that is all their own no more. The old familiar places in me burn With the sweet memories that come with the future, And my heart is in the past with a tear in it For the friends that I lost by the way. And I call on the gift that I have known, With the soft touch of a willing hand, To wipe away the stains of the heart's deceit, And purge away the evil with a prayer. I look at my hands and I see the scars Of the blisters that I played with so long ago, And I ask of my fate, with a sob in me, To find the friends that are not there now. "Pray," said the spirit, in low haunting tones, As it drew near, and hung at the door, "Pray, if you love him, that he find the way To the land of the Yazzies, and regain The happiness that was once his own. If he has found the way and never ventures there, Why prolong the pain? Why fight a losing battle? "If he goes to that land and never comes back, To the place where the griefs and the doubts and the fears Have grown like snow on the brow of the aged sinner, Let him seek the unknown land, but with the blessing, Blessing, of the friends that are not there now. Let him return, and is satisfied with his pain, And the old acquaintance watches beside him the day through, "As a bride to the wedding may I go, In the flush of a new happy season, And at the close of a brief but rich love story Give one short, sweet, final, hopeful kiss? Or am I only a gray visitor from the past, To argue, and to lament, and to tell stories, And to ask if my wife still loves me?" A bridegroom is a good man when he is true, And a bad man, that does not love his bride. A bridegroom is a bad man when he lies, And a good man, that does not love his bride. There is no living upon the earth like dying, There is no earth anywhere in the universe. And man was born to be dying, that we might live. And the bridegroom knows that he shall not return to her, Till the dying place be filled, and the grave be ready. And so he stays all day, and his tears run down like rain. And at night he dreams that he is walking down the aisle, And around him are brides on either side to receive him. In the first there is an aged woman, A strange shawl is round her face, And she kneels down to wash her hair, And her hands are wet with the rain. In the next there is a girl whose eyes are gray, Who waits patiently till he shall come, And holds out her hands to him. And the third has been turned into a flower, And trembles and looks like a rose. There are shadows everywhere, There are things to see, things to be done, And there are people to speak to, And tests to pass, and decisions to make, And mistakes to teach, and flowers to pluck, And pleasure to fake, and tears to shed, And the path to be trod, and the goal to reach. There are troubles of every shape and size, There are persons to fail, and persons to lead, And opportunities to waste. There is much to do, but no time to lose. "You have been very kind this half-hour, And I could stay and help you if I wished. But I must change my plans. The Northland, Like all the country, lie within A broad and melodious season, And its seasons will not be diverted Till Lent and Advent and the Season of Roses. I shall take the road to France, and thence Make my way to Bordeaux." "I am going to Boston. I shall find The friend I left there. And I shall go To Paris, and thence be fast asleep In Bordeaux, where my ship will be next Monday morning, sailing from Bordeaux." There is much to say, much to be done, Much of Life to know and interpret, Much of Sleep to obtain, and much to dream, Much of Water to cross, and much to Drink. And of every kind of shore to have The best, the worst, the very dust to breathe. And much to see, and more to take our eyes Home to our native Land of Always Now. I lift the latch, and can drag the ship, I lift the lever, and can steer her, I see the sparkplugs in the plugs Of the great condenser, and the tappets Of the regulator, and the coils and plates And the gauges and all the wires and wheels And the great funnels with their bladed elbows And the great chimneys, and the great fountains Of smoke, and the great pillars, and the great And moving sidewalks, and the changeable lights That follow the swarming city with graceful strides. I see the ceaseless roaring of the seas, The shifting of the weather topsails, The flashing of the spars, the bending of the docks, The blue ball of the passing cloud that drips With the salt of the ocean. I see it all, and my heart grows still At the magnificent variety Of the scenes. I am filled with a desire To take my camera, and write a book On the beautiful world of scenery, And the written word to the marvel of the camera Is as perfect as the sweeping of the seas, The dancing of the clouds, the softness of the hills, And the laughter and light of the human face. There is the mighty sweep of the ocean, Its measureless patience, its torrid heat, And its perpetual uprush of the spray From the mighty surf that rises all around; And the majestic majesty of the mountain tops, Their cold indifference to the deeds of man, Their everlasting beauty and grace. And the sweeping of the clouds, the luring of the waves, The flight of the fowls in the glorious air - All these I see, and more, for they are to me An historic fact, a part and parcel Of the written word. They are the mystery of the sea and air, The beauty and grace of Nature, and she Whose voice is written on the world's great page; And I, because I am a poet, must study Her written word, her sign and symbol. And the written word of Nature is a poem, And a treasure and marvel of the world; And the poet who breathes it into life Is a more powerful and perfect being Than either of the kings of the ocean, Because he walks with the sweet and terrible grace Of the creatures that dwell in the sea and air. The wind at night is wild and lonely, The sea is dark and soulless, And yet sometimes a small white sail will ride Among the stars like a little boat, And seem to make some kind of human cheer; And then people talk about the Sea and Air, And say: "It is a wondrous thing how beautiful, How wonderful and peaceful and human these two things are!" And they write it on a banner, and parade it In ceremonial fashion from city to city, And call it the Twenty Thousand. The sun on the ocean surface sinks, The waves move with him down the tide; But as he has gone out and left the shore The sun on the ocean interior rises, The song of the mariners is sweet, And they sing on until it becomes a song Of love and affection to their lovely ships And their divine and mighty stars that are Moved by their music. For what is beauty without beauty's cause? And what is mystery without mystery's cause? Ah, it is written in the book of nature, In the book of the sun, the mariner's song, In the book of the wind, the lark's heavenly song, And in the book of the waves, their ever murmuring song, That Beauty is God, and Mystery is God, And that they both were here before form and matter, Before heaven and earth, before the world was made; And they will be when He shall destroy the earth. I like the little ship In the beautiful blue sea, And I like the white sails waving O'er the sweet blue sea. And I think the sailors are good, And I think the wind is good, And I think the ship is near In the beautiful blue sea. The sunset on the South is serene and fine; The West is soft and violet-eyed; But the soft South is going; For the East is coming with the rush of wings, And she comes, the mystery, the bride, the wedded bride of the spring. The wild woods hear her as she passes by, The little lambkins know her, And the rivers of the mountains wake Their echo back to her. Her sombre chariot rolled under, The darkness folds her, She shakes out her hair, she shakes out her white and precious hair. I like the little ship In the beautiful blue sea; But I like the white sails waving O'er the sweet blue sea. And I think the sailors are good, And I think the wind is good, And I think the ship is near In the beautiful blue sea. The wavelets on the beach Are broken by the first gleam of light, The clouds in the sky above Are dyed like sea-foam green, And in the east the rosy Sun Begins his upward flight. The waves are bright on the beach And dance in the gleam of light, The ferns by the creek are green, The cacti drip with moisture, The lilacs thro' the grass In shrub-shores are tipped with bloom, And in the valley dwell the lilacs. The waves are bright on the beach And dance in the gleam of light, The ferns by the creek are green, The cacti drip with moisture, The lilacs tread in their flowers, And in the valley dwell the lilacs. I stood among the ships at anchor And heard the shipsmen shout; And saw the white seas rush, And the salt winds blow, And the ships sailing far. I stood among the ships at anchor And heard the shipsmen shout; And saw the salt winds blow, And the ships sailing far. Like clouds in mid-winter The ships at anchor Are snowy white and distant; The sails like eagles unfold And sail above the main. I stood among the ships at anchor And heard the shipsmen shout; And saw the white seas rush, And the salt winds blow, And the ships sailing far. In a long gray fane on a green hillside There is a church; and, all about, There is love to and romance; There is a wine press and a curing house, A general store; There is a beautiful young woman, Her name is Dora. Her friends are all out on the plains, Her friends are all over the ocean, Her friends are in the cities, But Dora sits at home at White Wolf Hill A beautiful young woman, and so gay. There is a young man by the road, He is asker of hunt and of woman; And he smokes his first cigar In peace, in the morning, in the west. He is asker of hunt and of woman, And Dora's is the most fashionable party. Her mother cooks a beautiful breakfast, For Dora has a beautiful figure; And, in the morning, in the east, He sees the beautiful maiden walking; But her mother, in vain, will talk to him, And talk to Dora, till day's end. One winter morning, when the snow was falling, And winds were roaring, and drifts were high, A group of children from a neighboring town All wearing scarfs with big white fluttering fish, Came cheering toward the mountain side. And, as they came athwart the mountain side, They shouted with a joyous cry; And Dora's friends were none too swift to join The merry gathering on the hill. The children thought that they were coming to see A show or a pageant; but when they got near, They saw they were to be disappointed. For, instead of seeing a pageant, they saw A beautiful young woman, in her glory; A lovely young woman, who had won A heartsomeness equal to the mountain snow. Her parents could not have been more pleased If some dark and cruel demon had been kind, As they were to their little maiden going. For Dora's beauty, when she left her home, Was matched by none but the snowy mountain rain, And the white clouds in the heaven's height. Yet Dora's friends were all so kind and good, So patient, and so brave, and so true, That they outmeasured the snowy mountain rain And the white clouds in the heavens' height. The children left their home and all its anxieties To follow their lovely Dora everywhere; They went to the front to meet the coming showers, And to the back from storm to bright day brightened. They could not agree as to what portion should go For sorrow, but all did as much for pleasure; And many a youth, to see his pleasant Dora pleased, Had loaded his car with goodies for her beauty. And, in the coming spring, when the leaves would fall, They'd go to watch her sporting; and, in springtime, Would come to chase the toad across the mountain side. But to please her mother, all save the youth were blunt, And he was to be her good man, and to sit The good wife at table, and make the meal, And help make bed and mend the roof and façade. And this was a sacrifice her mother would not bear, But went to her lover, saying, "I don't like it; You must make this sacrifice, and have your fun too." "I will," said the young man, "for this life is not to be lived up, And I will do what I can to shorten it out of hand." There was no gloom to his spirit, but light was his face, And his smile was glad and hearty as he told his love. And when he said "I do," the people therewithal replied, "We'll grant you the thing you propose to do or to enjoy." So he found one thing to do, to have his fun too, And off to the hunt he went with his smooth Josh Carey. Now the season came howling, with blast on the breath, And blackening skies, and the snows flying fast; And Josh, with his drab drifter best, Was speeding through the countryside far and nigh, In a most disgusting thing of filth and dirt, Which, in the very words of Josh, was "Canaan-colored," It was an old four-rail refrigerated wain Drawn by two mules, and it was drawn by these To a place where it was served by a boy who Had a voice like a preacher, and he said, "This boy's blood will be on your hands, you dogs! For every drop you let fall from his dear hands You shall regret it till your dying day! Now come, my boys, and look what cool is, The boy had drunk of the milk, and the drops Were falling fast, and he wiped his mouth, And a horrible stench arose, and there Up from the dirty horses came a stench, And the boy's dirty face came staggering near, And he stumbled, as if drunk, and then he fell, And struck his head on the rocks with a thud. And it was here the hunters found him, And they lifted up the boy, who seemed to know At this close range the weight of his fall, And he clutched the rocks and he bit them, too, And he foamed at the bit, as if his will Would not let him hold it longer at last, Till the men loosed him and he fell and lay In the dirt, with his forehead shattered clear. Now you must understand, I am an old man, With the sip and pulse of an old man; And I tell you, for I've lived so long, It's the same stuff--it's the same stuff For us to keep good store of, down here-- The same stuff for us to laugh at, too. And, as I say, I've lived so long, I know things, when they happen, when they do, That you won't believe, and you'll say as much, "But what in the name of Barker the It's the same stuff--it's the same stuff They tell you--they tell you it's time they should; But they say to you with a smile on their face, "Don't blame us if you follow it up With nothing but a smile, old man, and a joke; We're old fellows, like you, that have to pass The time as we go up Springfield Ave." I don't blame you, though; for I don't know. But if you do, I'll give you the blame, I dare; And you'll hear from every colored man in the street, That I blame these clowns for being what they are. But I won't blame the thing, though; I won't blame it; I won't blame old age, I won't blame the jar Of the big iron, or the jagged pewter, Or any thing, for they've been fools enough To take the books that taught me, for nothing. I know some one who has lived here a year And pays but half his income in taxes; Who owns no land, yet pays in land-levies More expensive than those on land and houses; Who eats at a tavern hand-breadths on dishes, Yet is taxed twenty-five cents a gallon; Who has not brought home in all the twelve, Twelve months of the year, yet bears a chain About his duty and his duty's sum. What is he, then? I'll tell you what he is: He is the damnedest bound of slaves in all This territory, for all his money I see; And since all his chains are made of feathers, Since they're worth more than the money I lose, I damn him, for they're worth more than taxes. But we are old, and sometimes we'll quarrel And bite one another's rings, and sometimes We'll fall out of a rage, and let one Lie on his head and break his nose, And curse each other out of spite, And curse the dark and the town together. You see, a man may hate another For any crime, or none at all, And not deserve it; or he may despise Some harmless creature for a nail-bag, And not deserve it; so with us is it. You see we are all such liars and fools. But what I mean is, we are not good people, We do not understand our duty; We get our nourishment elsewhere and give The child a cracker if he's hungry; We leave the sick one sleeping in the dust Because we like his faëry face; And then we lie to one another and Bitch one another's cradle-roofs. We make the fellow we hate our friend, And then we send him back to his own land Because his face looks angry or suspicious; We send the fellow we hate back because He can't keep his head above the sand; We give our vote to a fellow that lies Because we are all liars and fools. If you've no vote for making the place You live in comfortable and clean, And voting the right fellow to Congress, And thus helping the colored man get work; If you're not prepared to make the same Great sacrifice yourself, then go out And get yourself a neighbor who is. You'll never have to do that, my boy; I've done it, and I've had to; I'm living on the mountain, and it Is good and dry, and there are sheep; And they breed there, and the farmers say We ought to get some of our milk, And we can't get it, for the farmers. We've tried that, my boy, but we'll try Another time, I'll show you. You see The sky gets all matted with mist, And it's warm in the mountain; so we Came out to make a hunt and get A bit of meat and settle our debt; And we hunted and found nothing but The bubbling of the brook that poured Through the ferns and vines and bushes there, And we shot a bit and drank our beer. We talked about it some, and then I said: "It's up to you, Daddy, now, whether You hunt for the country, or hunt for me." And he said: "I'll hunt for you, son; And if I don't find her, I'll find the devil." And we hunted and had a good time, and I made him a proposition, and he Said he was willing to sell his farm, But he asked me to marry him before I married him; so we married and went To sell the farm, and we bought a shack Of some poor fellow that had not much meat, And that was all; and he was a gambler, And had one little room that was only dry. So we had to make a hearty offer, And the poor fellow received the farm, And we came back and sold the land and bought A mount as a place to build the shack, And we made the fireplace, and we made The heat and light and all the things to keep And keep the snow from falling, and we kept The stars from falling, till the Spring came. Well, when the Spring came and the days grew long And warm and long, and the heavens were bright, We got so many bugs that buzzed and flew, And such a din and such a buzzing sound That we thought it would be good to shut The windows and shut the doors; and I said: "You must keep down that yelling and clapping." So I said it and she said it and brother And mother said it, and all the rest of us; And I kept my hand from what was right; and We hunted and bought and sold and built the shack; And I bought a black bear, and the rest of us Brought wood to burn, and we hung it all together And I lit a fire and turned the spit, and soon We had enough to make a fire and warm our fingers. So we all got browned and ugly and lean; And she had a little bag that she carried With meat and drinking-cups and other things. She ate and drank, and she kept her face and skin And didn't complain. And we made a fire and got it warmed and got The wood to roar and crackle; but I said: "It's getting late, I must go." And we all said: "Where will you be when the long day is done?" Well, once we had the fire and the fire-light We got so warm with twigs and in the dark We could scarcely see or reach our burning finger-ends. But when day passed and the sun came up and We found she was still alive, we got aah together. And the black bear stood by her side and we kissed And said good-bye; and I tied her into the bag. Well, we got back and stood beside the bank To watch the water, and we heard the black bear Go limping along to where the road-side trees Were thickest, and he pulled at the bag and pulled And tugged till she stirred; and I said: "I guess You are getting thinner and thinner all the time, And the winter will never do you good." But I was wrong; she's stronger than I knew; And when the spring came and the wild bees came And stung her thrice and died, and the sun came up And brought the flowers, and the sky was bright again, She gathered them in her hands and made a fire And warmed them in her lap, and when she went About the woods among them all, she walked With a great heart; and I sit here in my gloom And grieve for him who lived and loved and died. You know the man who carried me away From the grassy grave where he was lying, And round and round and round he was dragging This way and that; and at last he reached a fence, And I could see nothing but white hands clutching at it, And silver feet that ran all silently. So I crept under the fence and the man Reached under the next one and brought forth a bundle, And began to grope and wrestle with it. "Oh, you shall not be going anywhere Till you give this back to me," said he. "It is not worth your while to try, I know. I gave you all that I had. Look here. You cannot take it." Then I crept away and came back a little while, And I said: "Now the time has come to try If you will give it up." And he was crying: "I cannot. It is beautiful as much as I can make it. It will stand for me when I am dead, as firm as this stone is. It is yours, my daughter, to return it to me." But she cried out all the time and kept him at bay. And I hid in the bushes; and he was forcing it on me, And I screamed aloud, for I was filled with fear, And his hands grew bigger, and his face grew white. And then I cried out: "You shall not have it. I will give it you." He would have taken it from me. But the night Came down and took it away from me. He was lying And I could not come to him to take it from him. And so I have been left here to struggle with it, And my heart grows sick and turns with anger from him. They married each other in a week, That's what the daffodils say. They lived their lives, they drove their cars, They sung and made love, they partook All pleasures of the table, all Prams of food, all platters of food, Dips of hot Jaffa cakes, And all the goblets of the sweets, They married each other in a week, They sent for their friends, they partook All the Jaffa oranges, all Limes and citrons and tastes, All the limes, and all the dates, Citrons, all the sugar-cane. And the English girls came too, All their scarlet mouths full of sweet. They grew so happy together. It happened that one night she found In the closet of her room A strange green box with scented lockets, And a mirror where the paint was loose And the colours mixt. She opened it and there it was, She said, "Look, look at this box, And see how cleverly fashioned is it, I wonder who knows that it is inside." She opened it slowly, fearing Lest it should escape her, And that it might be taken away By some one who was nigh. She knew not what might be in it, The design was so cunningly wrought. There was a mirror in the lid, And if she looked inside it she would see Shapes moving about, They were always moving, never still, And the shadows under each one's face Were just like a flowing river. She watched the moving shapes and then She closed the box very carefully. She sat for hours, she watched and watched, She knew not what she would find inside. She looked very hard to find out. She peeped with all her eyes, she pried, She moved the lockets and the scents, She thrust the box away to the last. It was full of dandelion seed, And the leaves were golden and red, The colours were so lovely to her. The mirror on the side was broken, The box was hid under her chair. She had not known that it was there. But the mirror was shattered and the scents Were all still on the mirror in her hand. She could see all the shining of the leaves, The reflections of the trees and skies, She could see them moving on the mirror's surface, And see their bodies and how they move, She could see them spring and strike, and curve, And grow still, and part and curl, and drop, And vanish on the mirror's side. She saw a fluttering and a shape, She saw a fluttering and a curl, She saw an arm and two shapes in bracelets, A flying cap and a waving fringe, She saw a white hand and arm and cuff, She saw a breast, she saw a glistening waist, She saw a pearly undershirt and underskirt, A tangle of golden threads and blue, She saw the whole of her thatch of blue. She saw her standing in the mirror Standing on the polished stone floor, She saw her turning to the lockets And seeing how glad she was, She saw her leaning over the keyhole And seeing how sad the glass was. She saw the carpenters laying bricks To make the house more strong and wide, She saw the guys hammering on the anvils To make the beams to spread out more. She saw the carpenters in pairs Building up the wall, they laid The bricks one on another, and another, They made a wall from three walls, They laid the beams on other beams, They made a beam from four beams, And then a little beam from five, They made a slab from six beams, And then another little one from seven, And another little one from eight, They laid the edges of the edges On beams and beams on beams, And then a first and second beam, And then a third and fourth, They made an attic from two memories, They laid the first memory on the attic And called it The Gift of Gifting, They sawed the wood and sawed the plank, They made an attic from two dreams, And called it The Repairs of Fostering, They cut the wood and cut the pine, They sawed the slabs and sawed the beams, They sawed the boards and boards the edges, And all was done that all could be done. She had no beds to save her from the sleep, No pillow to make her weak and weary, No knife to make her gentle and weak, No knife of silken or bone to hold. She had no pillow and no knife to save, No silken or bone knife to make, For all her sorrows laid upon her Were lost in air before they reached her. She had no bird to transport her feet To some far field of safety and rest, No feathers of beauteous plumage to guide, No silver linnet to give consolation, No song of shorebirds her feet to guide. She had no worries of any kind, No fears of any size or shape, No little worried cloud at all To carry tidings of any kind. She had no tears to shed at all, No worries of any kind to bear, No tears of blood to shed or wattles to wail, No little trouble to think of, Nor any little sorrow to deplore. She had no little troubles to suffer, No little woes to be distressed, She had no worries of any size or shape, She had no tears to shed or wail, No silver linnet to give consolation, No song of shorebirds her feet to guide. She had no problems to invent Nor any troubles to invent, Nor any troubles to foretell or guide, Nor any big or small problems to solve. She had no problems to invent, Nor any problems to foretell or find. She had no problem to solve, Nor any troubles at all to die. She had no doctor to heal her sorrow, No potion to call her sickness, No little dollop of physic to dispense, Nor any physic to give her. She had no little dollop to drink, Nor any drink to bring her safety. She had no potion to brew her slumber, No featherbed to make her close her eyes. She had no bed to give her comfort, Nor any comfort to give her. There was no little hurt to bandage, Nor any bandage to heal, Nor any little hurts to help her To rest and be silent night and day. There was no little hurt to cover, Nor any bandage to bind. There was no little hurt to bare her side, Nor any side to spare her. There was no little sick to hide from sight, Nor any shame to cover from blame, Nor any shame to hide from public scorn. There was no little sick to hide from sight, Nor any shame to show in open shame. There was no little sickness to hide from sight, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little hurt to kiss her, Nor any kiss to win her, Nor any kiss to take her hurt away. There was no little hurt to kiss her, Nor any kiss to take her hurt away. There was no little hurt to kiss her, Nor any kiss to take her ill. There was no little sickness to hide from sight, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from sight. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to rest upon. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to rest upon. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to sleep upon. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to rest upon, But on a high clear starlit hillside, She slept upon a silken plain below. She slept upon a hill, upon a plain, In a glass window made to show The silken skyline. And every night by that bright window light, She sang her bed-songs, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. But every night by that bright glassy window light, She sang her songs, till her heart grew big and warm, And warm was every heart. For every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of love, till her ears grew keen, And keen was every tongue. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her bed-songs, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. And every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of sleep, till her head grew heavy, And her head grew heavy ever more. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of rest, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. And every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of rest, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of sleep, Till her eyes grew dim, and dim was every face. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of rest. The baby woke With a kiss upon her brow; The baby woke. And up she sprung For a teacup and a place To catch the sun's light. And down she came, With a mug of tea in hand, And a smiling face. And in the teacup's waving stream She sipped the tea, and drank The sun's life-blood. She sipped the tea, and sang The songs of that old world, And while she sang Her lips quivered like summer vines, And the teacup glistened. She sipped the tea, and wove And unwove in play A bubble paradise, And mirrored in it The pangs of regret. She sipped the tea, and wove And unwove with skill A domino, a mosaic, Of cup and spoon and cup and cone And cup and cone. She sipped the tea, and sleept With laughter in her eyes, And sung one day, A thousand years ago, A baby, lying in a cradle On a bed of roses. He who guards a Golden Apple Has his own Special Delivery, As does his horse, and his boot, And his coat from the worn smoking stocks, And his rain-suit, with its elastic waist, And his tiny beautiful toes. They were out riding in the rain, He thought he'd steal the daddy-long-legs, And go over to the apple tree And steal the apples under the tree, And take the keeper's ill-gotten gains, And not let the milk go down. And so they caught him, and tied him, And swung him in the air like a point of proof, And wondered over his hardened bones At the strain that shortened his life. And some reckoned him crazy, And some, that he was lunatic; And some, that he was just in love, And some, that he was doing time. And some said, with straight faces, That he was certainly mad, And some, that he was, by a long shot, A fine young fellow in his room, But caught in the piteous way That none could help being poor. And some said, with straight faces, That he was at least a man, And some, that he was just in love, And some, that he was doing time. And some, that he was just in love, And some, that he was doing time. Ah! old days, when all our toil Was toiled out in the stubborn dirt And only the rich got ahead; And toil itself a noble task, For only the strong were taken well. Ah, how we owed our little gold To the tipple of the nasty pint, And hardly anything to the talk Of kinsmen and friends and kin's boys. Ah, times they changed, indeed they changed, We're often thankful for the change, And, what we're less thankful for, We thank the giver, the giver's God. And now the jolly days are over, And the wicked days are coming back, When the devil's whistles are blowing, And the Devil, who always has music, Has plenty of tunes for the long dark night, When the howling wolf-toad and the lightning Are for the lips, by the Devil and his fishes On the bosom of Night and his terrors. A man who works with his hands Must, as a rule, eat bread; A man who works with his brains May want a coat of bark, And yet may feast all day, And yet may never think; For a brain that's not with brains Hungers like a worm on earth, While a hungry mind at rest Is as a beast in leash. The man whose work is undone May not turn round and grumble; To his loss there's little cause For regret or sighing; But to him who's ever done A thing unwisely, It's not so bad to have done As to be undone by it. A man who works with his hands Is subject to the pigs, To the mice and to the moles; He cannot please them all, He cannot make them thank him, But he can make them run. And if he has a devil To deal with in his work, It is better than having none, And quite a creature to meet. A man who works with his brains Must expect to be lost; For the ways of this world are hard For the most part, and rough; And the best plan that's worked out Is by one man and one man only; And though it sometimes meets with rails, You must give it your best. He may lack precision in some parts, He may bung in the plan incorrectly, He may mess up a neatly folded page In his keenest dispassion; But then 'tis one further step to put All his faults away and meet With a butcher for each family; So he thinks with pain, but 'tis well known That a poor butcher makes a good man. And, after all, there is little loss By a man's work coming back to him; In the long run 'tis but reading In the fondness of universal nature For a soul in all its vast variation. No one ever succeeded in striking out From the mass that he set out to rule; And if he does succeed, 'tis hard to say How much better 'tis to have made one trip Than to have gone out in the first place. But the man whose work is undone May repent it any time; For the light is always stealing on him As he drives out in his plough-share; And, after every gloom that's gone past, He looks up with hope that the last page Is the last that he'll open. Yes; there are instances where failing Is perfect virtue; And it is an unhappy thing, Is it not, my brother? There are failures, therefore I talk In this mood that I have started in, For failure, as I see it, Is an attribute of faith That has nothing to do with work. It was a failure, for instance, When our poor Abraham parted With Labre, his father-in-law, And wandered from the richer lands With their little daughter looking pale And their fine home all to ruins gone. It was a failure, when he turned from This rich home to a simple tent, Not to go naked into the market At the nightfall to sell his bread. It was a failure, when his wife, And daughters, both, were kind to one Another, when they would not suffer His wishes, when he would not be Included, when they would not leave Him too alone at her command. It was a failure, when his joy At his daughter's hand was passed And his own daughter was no more; And his wife at his right hand was dead And a child at bosom; so he Fell headlong, it may be. My failure, too, is a failure; I shall have more success In failing, as I dare to hope, If I risk it thus; But the failure, when it comes, Is a darkness that afflicts Me and my loved ones; it is A calamity. I have had failures; I have failed; The thing is well that I have done; I have not always done my best, But I have tried; and failure has Made me more human and weak, Made me feel for the creatures Who are less successful than I. The result of failures, in so far As it shows me what is man, The thing that I am not,-- The malleability Of the human mind, The weakness of the race, What weakness there is! I will not say failure has no pain, I have had, what, I cannot even tell, Neglected little comrades, my brother, My sister, my dear friend, the writer Of this simple song. I have wept at their loss, I am sure, More than I can ever tell In silence, I think, and so declare They were more precious to me than life. Their little wrongs, and cherries, and kisses Cherry-plucked, cherries taken from the lips, Cherry-picked from the bosom, cherry-blossoms, --These things, no doubt, were dearer than all To that soul of mine, which cherishes So blindly, and mistaketh so, That, what it may be of mine, it is Still less than all. For what we are, or what we seem to be, Or what we may be, is but half of us; And half of us is lost in the rest, And there is no way to tell aright The half that is most like us. Then let us cherries retain The little failures of our lives. To live, in so far as our nature allows us, Is to find ourselves through our deeds; And what we do is to some extent Empirical, and gives us a sense Of what we are, and what we might be. And thus it is, I think, We sometimes rise above our own natures, And our own acts, to a similar universe Of similar natures, acts, and men. I never knowed her face, Nor her words nor her thoughts; I know but the music in my mind When I think of her. I know the airs that through her songs Come choral, as if her songs were airs, And the sound thereof a choral sound. I never knowed her look, Nor the wiles that worked Through the years unseen; I know but the philosophy of thought And the looks of women that win men: Of thought that once seemed unalloyed With love, and the looks of women that win men. All of her conscience was gone When she died; But she trod the way she trod, And her memory was keen as a knife; She lived, she died, she never knew a wriggle In the cause she loved. I know not the notes of her lyre, Nor the allegory that run Through her poems, nor the fire of her mind, Nor the devotion that burned in her youth, Nor the passing of a torch that is spent, Nor the heart that ached, nor the soul that's dead, Nor the veil she wore. She is a lost thing of the past, And her spirit is lonelier than a tomb For all our whisperings. She walked life's narrow way, And the whole world forgot her face; She's gone to the place from whose opening door Never more shall walk the opening way. Not as a lily, Not as a rose, Love on her lips and on her brows Flutters his wings, He, the miracle that gilds her, He, the mystery, He, the Omnipotence, He, the princeps de joie Of her beauty, Who shall say That aught of the beauty In her eyes and in her hair, All of the magic of her voice, All of the softness of her touch, Is imaginary, Or illusory, Or nonexistent, To the eye of the lily-goddess? Love on her lips and on her brows Flutters his wings, Love the wonder and the power, Shall we not speak of him, Shall we tell him of her? He, the mystery that gilds her, He, the princeps de joie Of her beauty, God with His Friend--A Little Cripple You God with His Friend--A Little Cripple You There was a little Cripple once Who went to God with a crook. God saw that there was a little crack, And a little leak, And the little Cripple was done. God said, "It is so very plain That the little Cripple must die; I must change the little Cripple, too, And make him a little butterfly." So into the sty He melted down The baby butterfly, And so the Cripple was born. The sun came, and He took his stand Upon the little Cripple's brow; And God said, "Behold, I made the sun, And yet it seems I've done wrong. But all the same, it shall be right, Though I've made the sun wrong, right or wrong, For I've seen His sun just as it ought." And God went home to His world, And He said, "Now all the world is bright With His sun and His sun's bright gleam; But I'd like to see the sun do more, So to make the world quite see Him As He ought, all the world without fail. And so God went back to His world, And He said, "I'll just fix up one more thing: The sun must have a little black." And God went out to His world, And He said, "There, now I've got the black. But when I'm sure, I'll change the sun again, make it white, Just as the world needs to see Him All as it's supposed to see Him." God looked at the sun, And the sun looked at the earth; And the earth turned round about, And the sun went backward to His world, And never another thing Grew in the world as the sun would look. God stood upon the sea, And the sea bent above Him, And God said, "I've done it now, For I've changed the sun to my will. I've made the sun quite plain And white; And I've done it because I've felt That I'd rather not be whitened." A baby was sleeping, And the old man kissed the baby, And he turned into a child. "Now get up, little baby, For it's time for school. Don't sit on my knee, For I might turn into a fool." The river had a lot of little islands, Each one with a beautiful palace; The little children all of a sudden Came running out like so many dragons. The first was afraid, but the second Swiftly came out, for he knew he'd been sleeping; The third was afraid, but the fourth one came, And then all the others followed his lead. He went to the first little island, And he swung wildly about; And the little children all cried out, And they flocked about him, And they trod upon the ground, and they sat up And they sat upon the water's brink. But there came a handsome boy, And he very gravely declared That he also would like to remain And not go to school at all. He said he felt tired sitting up all night, And also, while be slept, He felt a little sad, and that made him sadder; And he thought that perhaps the other two Had rather have had him remain at school. But the old man said, "Now look here, There is a horse where you can ride; And there is a river where you can fish, And there is a wood where you can rest. Why do you always go away from me And neglect my children so? I do not think you are really so happy As when you all are in your play-business. "When you have always time for play, You must have all day to play; And you must not grieve at not having done Everything you could do; And, when you play so hard all the day, You must be free to go. It is a cruel thing not to know How all things change and grow. "The tree is green and still is standing, And still the sun is shining; The golden clouds above me Are waving, moving ever. I hear the cymbals' beat And the trumpets of the celebration, But I cannot see the place Where their feet are going. "The golden sky is shining And the sun is glistening; I feel it is getting late for leaving, But how I do not know. The music stops and stands still; The little boys come and look And their heads are all upside down Because they cried so loud For their friends gone away." The little children stood around and talked, The old man, sitting on a rock, Laughed very softly and he said: "Yes, it is like the stories I have heard Of other countries. Yes, it is strange and new and wonderful, But do not get me wrong. "It is like the story I have heard of Greece, But not in the way they told it me. It is not the noblest work of man And perhaps I should not have brought it To children over there. "It is a true story; but I am glad it is no worse For having had the freedom of speech. For I heard that when Moses returned From bringing good news from God, A great mob gathered and stoned him to death. It is no wonder they were so filled with fear, For they had never heard of such a thing. And they would not have killed the story artist If he had had the spirit of Mark Twain; But he had not the spirit of Mark Twain. He would not be as bold as he was bold. There are things in this world more important Than having the courage of Mark Twain. So we left him, and in silence walked Back along the shore of Time; And as we walked our thoughts ran on Like a tide, and we were caught In a tale that we had heard of long, Back in the old country. In that old country, long ago, There were living homes of clay, With chambers dim and halls of straw, And the fertility of the soil Was sprinkled over each home, With the withered grasses and weeds That grew at the barn-door. And it was Spring; the earth was green, With the bluest of the gold, And the flowers that were blossoming Were the tulip and the lily, And the crocus and the rose, And the pansy and the violet, And the amethyst and the helichrye. And the children in those olden days Went wild with color and sound, And the clean, blue daylight falling Was reflected in the rippling waves Of the bright-houred stream that flowed, With the puckered bows and whitening crests Of the great whales that passed by. The children played with whips and dice, And the harp that was swinging Was a thing of beauty to see, And the song of birds was sweet and clear And the hum of the honey-bee. And the forests were alive with life, With the sound of voices low and dear, And the dust of the travelers' shoes Was a blessing that was falling. And the rivers ran with a youth's laughter And the wreaths of flowers in their flood, And the sun on their swift-falling hills Flung splendor and splendor again; And the singing of children was tender, And the fall of the snow on the mountain Was a great and gracious sight. And the brilliant year of the flowers, With its vistas of red, With its rich and blooming life, With its fairy valleys and hills, With its rainbow of the sky, Was so beautiful and rare, And the warm, yellow hours were sweet, That I can see them yet. They are gone, with the sunlight falling On the sward in the meadows, And the sound of the streamlet in the woods, And the wild-woods' sonorous din. And I can see them in the winter dusk, But they are not with the voice or me Of all that loved them of old. Ah, day is short, and life is long, And love and friendship are long; And time is not so speedy as they; And they do not meet us always, And call us back again. So why should we think that our longings Are frustrated because they are gone? Long and rare is the life of art; Ah, why should we think that it is vain? The noble courage of youth and man, Is a thing of beauty and of power. And death may come and say to us, In a duller sun, or in a brighter, "Behold what a fool I have been!" He is the most accomplished man Who ever lived, or ever planned. His books are a rich harvest yielded Of wise experience and ingenuity; And there are few men who would fail Where he has won the prize of skill. All his convictions are sound, All his notions are sound; He has combined true science With true art, and science with art, And gained what art would not give; He has combined all things, And attained what none but he, Or all things only, could. He can paint a still life, Or can give it motion; He can sing a musical ballad, Or can give it speech; He can quench a thirsty poet In a draught of water; Or with swift Luther and Voltaire Dance a ringside reel. But above all, I love him for His ability to teach. As a teacher he surpasses all His American, and foreign, chums; And when some gifted youth Begs for wisdom at his hands, How he spurns him and spurns him! He can stir a provincial, A studious man to rashness, And he can quiet the alert, He can stir the sluggish at leisure, The sneer-browed man of speed; He can even—O, how he spurns me! He can even—O, how he spurns me! A full half of the world's hard core Is here concealed under steel; No world's hard core can find its way To the outer world's level. If your world were but a foot wide, And I, your little world's huckster, The world's heart and soul and defender, I'd thrust it o'er the seas, And you would ever be content With a poverty so slight That each poor red mouth that's fed Would say that it feeds content. Then, if you cry for a penny, I'll give you a quarter, And if you call for a cup of tea, I'll give you a cup and a half. If the cloth of your country be white, If its daughters are fair, and its sons are brave, If its flag is that red ensign you see Stretched across the western sky, If its people are free and its flag is great, Why should you wish it any other way Than that by which it came? What though the laziest and rudest souls should say That all that is good in this world of ours Comes from that old pale-face of God in the blood, And that all that is bad in this world of ours Crescendoes into being there? Why should you wish it otherwise than that Which all things freely come? In the blue sea-mist of that little house You and I stand. I am old with the sunshine of youth. You are old with the glory of love. Our lives are the breath of one man; And from this life of love and strife Come these two fingers of mine, That I may hold you, and that we may go As one flesh, one heart, one soul, Into the Presence that is to be. A woman's laughter runs like an ever-springing wave Through her hands' thousand silver wires, And her laughter is music clear and sweet Of gladness and gladder days to be. She laughs in her gladness for the light of the sun Burning with his love-lights in the sky, And her laughter is music clear and sweet Of gladness and gladder days to be. A woman's hands stretch out in a loving tone To touch a man's dark, troubled brow, And her hands' thousand silver wires Are silver with the prayers she says. And the dreams she dreams are gladness and cheer, And her laughter is music clear and sweet Of gladness and gladder days to be. A woman's eyes are filled with her love for thee, And her eyes are filled with tears of thine, And her eyes are filled with thy holy name, For in thine altar-place her eyes are met. Her eyes are filled with thy holy name, And her eyes are filled with thy holy name. A woman's heart is as a lily bed Where the flowers sing in the sun and ray, And her heart is a lily bed where the flowers Sing in the glory of light and she, As the bright flower, clasps with her spreading hand The heart of her lover, that the heart may sing Of the days of her lover and his love. Her eyes are filled with thy holy name, And her eyes are filled with thy holy name; And the lips of her heart are wet with thy sweet name, As the streams fill and pass out of a well Where the fragrance of God's sprigs is found. And her lips are wet with thy sweet name, And her lips are filled with thy sweet name. And her fingers are white as the pure star-flower, And her fingers are white as the snow-spray, And her fingers are white as the wool of the alpaca, White as the snow upon the mountain-peaks, And the sun is as a flame in her eyes, And her lips are filled with thy holy name, As the fragrance is filled with the name. O then, O then, we shall know each other, If not by face and voice and hand-grip, But with the love in the love-machine, By the breath of the love-veil that one wears. O then, O then, we shall know each other In the golden air that veils our faces, If the winds blow true and the clouds stay, And the lightning flash and the sunbeams glow. When the sunset paints the eastern heavens Like a runed mirror on the mountain, And the breeze is like a reed in the wold, Then I know that it is dead of night, And it is light of morning to me. The eyes of the morning are far fain Of the pure red of the morning light, The lips of the morning are white With the kiss of the lips of the morn, And the runnel flows on the mountain-side Through the forest to the brooklet. The dew is dim of morn on the flowers, The grasses are a-glow with the heat, The heat of the morning and the flush Of the blushes of the morning morn. And the land is filled with odors that attract The birds to nest in its shade and bloom; And the forests are full of birds that sing And flit among the branches as they list; And the rivers run with the waters that flow From the springs of the hills to the sea. I turned to the high, dusky wall Whose battlements were fortified By the bombard of the sun and rains; And I saw its battering engine-doors Wide open at night to the raging storm. I heard the thunder of its great strokes roar; The waters of the world were dumb As they rolled by the teeming shore. I saw the ram's and the rams' whistling harpoons Set upon the undulating goal-line; And I watched the curving spurs of light Closing in circuit on their whistling goal-line. The ram's and the rams are numbered with the lost; Their goal-line was holed with their pursuers. I saw the sullen shadow of the pack Drag the reeking corpse, as it were a pail, Down the gashed and sodden slope of the goal. I saw the lead reel like a fisherman's line, The man "chop" the ram with the butchered ram; The whole fleet was out at sea, with the watchers in the heart of the storm. I heard the heave and the groan of the rollers, And the clatter of the anchor chains; I saw the rams in their whitewashed barracks, And the bull's-eye hung in the gloom; I heard the ram's prayer, the roundelay of the horn, And the piping of the oars; I heard the sailors' song of the salt seas, And the distant lapping of the rollers; And the ram and the horns and the oars Were silent as a pasting of dried-up seaweed On the sand. I climbed to the deck; and the dead waters From the guttural ravines rushed; And the ram's prayer was rung again, And the roundelay of the horns. I lifted the curtain of the door Where the ghostly fleet was assembled; And I listened, and heard the breathing Of the souls that were scattered, like the foam, As the ships went out to their play. Out where the dark tide flows Out where the strong wings float, Out where the hot heart beats, With the splash of the buoyant boats And the bawling horn, I hear the strident horn From the ram of the Bermudas sounding, And the strident horn From the muzzles of the hounds of the Guadalquivir. Where the sound of the surf is a silver linnet And the wave that rises thereon Is a sonnet, a lyric and a siren, A vow of a life and a love, A dare and a dare again, And the bell that tolls there in the palms of the damsel, The bell of the island-secret answering, Bursts forth its music clear and keen. Out where the dark tide flows Out where the strong wings float, Out where the surf is a silver linnet And the wave that rises thereon Is a sonnet, a lyric and a siren, A vow of a life and a love, A dare and a dare again, And the bell that tolls there in the palms of the damsel, The bell of the island-secret answering, Bursts forth its music clear and keen. Out where the dark tide flows Out where the strong wings float, Out where the surf is a silver linnet And the wave that rises thereon Is a sonnet, a lyric and a siren, A vow of a life and a love, A dare and a dare again, And the bell that tolls there in the palms of the damsel, The bell of the island-secret answering, Bursts forth its music clear and keen. Oh thou stern God of the lawless, Ruler of the world of riot, Wherefore thus in heaven gatherest These bewildered souls of the riot? Why hast thou made them slaves, Mere brutes that cannot feel nor love, And deaf to thy most high voice? Why hast thou made them unaware Of thine high will and divine? Are they not the enemies Of that eternal will which dares not strike In wrath or fear, but keeps aloof from strife? Are they not deadly to itself and terrible When once it comes into its plenitude? Are they not at heart selfish and that forbid All charity in thought or word and deed? Hast thou no merciful counsels too For these bewildered souls of thine, These deadened hearts of a deader life, These souls that are more alive than life, That move and revel in a golden air, Lovely, ecstatic, joyful, strong, Unarmed, feeble, indifferent, tame, Dumb ever with ignorance of their race, Or memory of its gods that perish? Are they not foes to be overtaken, Wilt thou not then make hospitable A room in thy sky so scorched with hell, Where these blind souls may have their tribunal, Where thou mayst hear their confessions, And by that mysterious, clear, Instant, inward-turning glass See the white souls of the dead, And mark the souls of the wicked Pass like a river through the skies, And watch the graves that are dark with snows, The which no winter can disunite? Have they not sent their bridal train, Have they not waked by messengers, Heralds, and captains, and high-priests, Hast thou not heard their fierce commands, Their awful laws and dire decrees, And the thunder of their voices? Hast thou not seen the clouds that are rent, Roll and darken, and their vapours bow, And the lightnings strike, and the thunders roar, And the earthquakes shake the fiery mountains, And the rivers in their beds are dried, And the woods and the forests are consumed, And the great hills by the blind sun's rays That consume and are consumed, They that carry fragrance and colour and light, The flowers of the immortals by night Beholding, consumed, They are consumed, Consumed as the never-fading flowers of flowers That bloom for a day, They are dead, they are dead, Their essence is scattered and bound in air, They are lighted and lighted as the smoke of a candle, Flicker and glimmer and disappear As the light and the flame of a candle, But their scent is as that of roses, Their colour as colour of roses, Their sound as the sound of the sound of a bell, And their gleam as the gleam of the light of a moon. O pity these poor blind wanderers, These souls of the dead that are alive, That have forgotten their dead companions, Their living friends and their departed gods, And their language is but the murmur Of the sea-wind on the reefs, And their thoughts as flowers are growing, Blooming as in the moonlight. In the caverns of the island, These souls are abiding, So cold and deep and dark and dim, That neither fire of sun, Nor rain of shower, nor dew of May, Shall pierce their icy walls; And their roots are buried deep In the densest earth of all, And the beasts of the land Tread as upon hard clay. But sometimes, in the bright moonshine, When the sun beats on the mountains, Or the wind shakes the snow from its hair, Or the lightnings flash and the storm-gusts rise, A solitary pine-tree stands, And the traveller hears the rippling far-off sound of its leafy tumult, And sees, as in a dream, Its branches swinging in the sun-gleam, And through the darkness sees The white lightning gleaming and the storm-clouds flying. Have you not seen, in the still moonlight, The ghosts of the deer run before a boat, That leaves at evening, or at morn, the ghost of a village-cradled river? Have you not seen the bright ships in their sailing, Shimmering and fading in the moonlight, Drawing small masts and sloops and jibs along the water's surface, With the spangly ring and sputter of the rigging, And the tinkling clink of the tackle, As the ghost-ship glides on, And disappears in the darkness? And they say, as night comes down upon the waters, And the clouds in masses drift over the waters, And the moon stops here and there, And trails her trailing fire, And slides from the mountain, and is lost in the dark clouds, And the islands and isles grow white and indistinct, And the river Slides, a winding stream, Over a fern-strewn waste of water, in the moonlight, And the ghosts of the deer Run after the boat, And follow, From the lowland to the coast, With a shriek that splits the stillness of the water, And a rush of clutching arms, and a long rush of beating wings, And they follow, From the light of the waxing moon, And the islands that lie to the farther dark. Till the shivered moon, a string of fading white, Trails her trailing flame Over the isles that are mouldering in the darkness, And the dead islands swim in the dimness, And the ghost-loves stand with pale faces bent in shadow, And the lovers lie in the ashes of their love, And the old ruineds Float on the stillness of the water, And a light wind sweeps over the waste of waters, And a voice calls across the waste of waters, And the ghosts of the deer Come trailing after, And a wild herd comes trailing from the hills, And a sea-mew clings to a old storm-board, And the bark of a floating graveyard lies at the sterns, And the ghost-ships lie on the margin of the waste of waters, And a silvery mist comes o'er the still waters, And a landless one in a blackened iron clothes, And a naked dead man in a shroud, And a white lamb of the fall of other years, And a trifling phantom-girl in the wilderness, And the mist on the margin of the waste waters, And a rocking ship Strikes against the margin of the waste waters, And the waste waters crackle with lightning, And the shivered moon dies out in the distance. In the hollow of a hill, On the border of a wood, A man stood with a rifle in his hands. And the horsemen rode at him in a line, With rifles at their eyes, And at a hundred yards they had shot them all, With a sweep of rifle-sight. And some cried, "He has sent for us to come, To shoot at him in case of pursuit, For he fears he may be followed." But the patrols ignored them, And rode on, with careless steps, Till they reached a brooklet, And halted in the sedge, While the men of the patrol unbound their guns, And threw their guns and meal-bags Down in the waters of the brooklet, And jumped into the water with the fishes, And carried them back to camp, Where they cut up and cooked the fishes In water brought from miles away, And set them on a little board, While they ate, and told funny stories, And told their laughing jokes, And laughed till it was time to go. But some of the men in the patrol Were very hungry, And sent out for a bite to eat, While they waited for the sun To cool off the sweat of the day, So they drenched themselves and waded in, And began to eat the fishes whole, And scarcely thought of the danger of pursuit, While they ate the fish and danced in the river, And hardly thought of the dread of capture. And it was at night, When the scouts had supped and been merry, That they saw the dead body of the man In the river, Mangled and full of arrows. And they knocked at the window, But no one came to the door, And they climbed the ladder to see If they could see the man in the water, With the arrows all dripping from his body, Like the water from a wagon; And they saw, when they looked very long In the water, That the man was dead, But he was dancing in the water, And he was moving, and he was breathing, With the arrows shot from his body. And the horsemen rode to the man's camp, When the horsemen had supped and been merry, And they found the man Fasting in the forest, With his shirt rolled up over his head To the middle of his shirt. And they kicked his shins and bounced his blood All over the wigwam. And the horsemen then rode to his wigwam, And dragged the prisoner, hand and foot, To the centre of the tent. And the horsemen stirred the fire When the prisoner must sleep inside it; And they burned all day, and all the night They burned the man in it, And they poured black sea-water all around it, And they burned it so well, That the prisoner only woke, With the fire still burning in his body. But when the sun was set And all the horsemen were gone home, They poured black sea-water over the corpse Of the dead man, That it was bathed and dried, And then wrapped it well in a white cloth And laid it in a cool place, That it might be well incinerated, And that no light of it might escape it. And they also burnt the wigwam. And when the sun came up, The horsemen came again, And they stirred the fire, And they lighted fires all day long In an attempt to destroy the light That had been given to the prisoner. But the sun came up every day, And the green fire-light in the forest Was seen by the prisoner every day, And he danced in the forest every day, Dancing to the whistling of the black-throat, And the singing of the maidens, And the laughing of the women, And the talking of the men. And it came to pass that he was hanged, By a cord that was stretched from a tree, With a black hood above his head, And a hand was left hanging in the air To take the life of him at night, As the others must also be hanged, For the sun was shining on him all the time, And the green fire was burning in the forest, And the red fire was burning in the lodge, And the water in the river was flowing, And the salmon were swimming in it, And the pike were leaping in it, And the sturgeon were jumping in it, And the eels were playing in it, And the beaver was lying in it, And the fox was sleeping in it. And the horsemen then rode all together And they fell in a great rush All in a row, With a terrible roar, From the bottom of the wood. And the people came running, running, From the banks of the river, And the water-flags were waving, And the eels were jumping on them, And the fish were thrown on the river, And the fishes were falling, On the deep and boundless river. Now we have come to and fro A thousand times, A thousand miles, In a wooden shoe, And all the time We thought we heard our home, Laughing and crying, Through the nights of Winter, When winds do blow, When clouds do rise, When sunbeams cease, When stars have grown, And when night is through, We all do pray, The stars we know not, Nor the heavens, black and clear, Whose glory all men know; In the chamber we do sleep, And we dream by night Of a thousand glorious things, A thousand glorious dreams. The god of dungeons, In a wooden shoe, Lives a thousand years, And on New Year's Day Shakes the crumbled shoe, And under it His iron chains are set; And the men that work In the factory, In a wooden shoe, Are released at noon; The wooden shoe Shakes itself as they go, And their lives will end, And the shoemaker Will be set free. Little of life that is Is known of morning Or of noonday; But we in sleep do dream Of other years, And a little of the dawn Will wake us to cry: Down the garden paths we go, Each in his separate world, And we know not of each other, And we speak not of the air Where we have walked. In the temple courtyard, I do not think that I shall see The faces that I know, But I shall walk in my own world Which is not seen of others. In the empty hall, Where its windows stare On the long street, I cannot heed the murmur That has risen there; And I feel, when I walk In my lonely room, That the walls are taller Than the world outside. But from other worlds have come My traditions, And in my dreams I see The figures of the heroes In the halls of knowledge. And my mind is filled with phrases Recording the stories Of the wars of old. Thus, at times, in the silent moments That open the day I may hear, as in a music forgotten, The distant voices of great poets Telling of the world, And of a world forgotten. In the hushed hour that opens the night, I feel a quietness come over me, And a stillness come over me; And I am aware of a presence there, That seems in every sense to be, And seems not to be, And yet is. And in the silence that follows, With sense less, yet more clear, I know by heart a many-colored story Of the nations, Till it seems to me That from my soul the smoke is blown Of a thousand musical compositions By wandering spirits of envious men, In a world forgotten. They thought it disgrace, they thought it shame, They thought me mad, To dream of another world besides this, Of another star, Beyond the violet line, Beyond the spiral arm Of the bridge that spans the sea, Beyond the farthest sea That is named after a queen. They thought me mad, and they were right. I cannot tell you now the tale That is born of pride; It is born of loss, and gain, and woe, Of hope, Of fear; it is born of every thing, And all of me. But this I know, that every power, And every chance, Is but a measuring rod By which we measure our own strength, And see the place Where we are least and best. And I have watched, as by a prince's death The palace clock is struck, And from a thousand clouds that rolled A thousand crimson fires, A voice cried, "Here is your grave." When I was yet a child I heard the lark at dawn sing, And danced with toy soldiers, And read the newspapers, And read the books of fairy tales To little boys who ran Along the avenues With wooden leg and rayon coat, And chased the women. I heard the crower sing, And thought the stars in heaven Were rather foolish things, If they would not shine on earth Like sunbeams, instead; The world were better without A book or newspaper editor, A vice-president or speaker, A prayer-book in the pulpit, Or any such thing. I danced with toy soldiers On a May morning In the open air of Vermont, And read the newspapers With my brother Philip, And read the books of fairy tales To little boys who ran Along the avenues With wooden leg and rayon coat, And chased the women. For this is the clime The children of the present day Obeying must tread, The flowery paths, the meadow land, The pastures green, The shadows of the cliffs By which we sit and wait, The advent of the springtide And its various fish. And these the future's clime, Children of the present day, Whose hearts must wander forth, Who have a thirst to see The summits of the earth And listen to the sounds Of winds that climb the sea And cheers that sound from cliffs, The breaking of ice. And some will say, "I will climb The Caucasus, and will see The Northamptonshire village, The distant farm-land of the Ben That freezes at the winter's hour, And hear the rural music Of these dull waves that beat In quiet rivers and streams. "For thus," say they, "will we win A more attentive ear To speak to us alone Of heart and spirit; for we That have not learnt to pray Will at least be heard. "Beside the river Irty, Just as the sun goes under, And sinks behind the mountains, A man will leap in the sea, And rise to become a ship, And sail the hurricane Of these our seas that beat And weep o'er our lifeless dead, And weep o'er our moulder'd sands. "And when the Northmen from their camps Shall cross our Atlantic soil, And dig our fertile valleys That lift the blossom'd corn, They will adore the spot Where first the ocean called, Where first the wind of heaven Was heard upon the shore. "Let them go forth and seek forlorn Men in whom the mystic power And early love shall bless The son of earth to do The most and suffer the least, And men to see and feel The beauty of the earth, That through their tears may rain God's blessing on the earth." But if this prayer is vain It is but that in the souls Of those there walks no rain In graves beneath the sea, Where'er they go no clouds May wipe the snow of woe From sorrow's writhings, and no sun May lighten earth with light. And all their hope is like a flower Growing in a dry sand; For all their prayer there is no rain In every bosom; all their praise Is as the dirge of waters; all Their fear is as the fear of tides, Or as the fear of fire, and all their love Is as the love of winds. Ah! to those folk the door Of all the springs of love Is open wide, but yet, Their words are as the shriek of man Who wrestles with his fate; And their flowers are as ensheathed mists And their prayers as the voice of storms Breathed from the bottom of the grave. I lift mine eyes unto the hills, Where the calm streams in forests go; I see the red-roof'd barn; And hear the bellowing of the sheep Upon the path. I see the cross-reef and the board, And the freshet running gold; And the sheaf in the dewy green, And the waif in the breeze. My hands were clasp'd upon my breast, My head on the leaves was bow'd, When out of the open door Of my soul there flew a sound, A whisper of dismay, As of a rising wind, That in the darkness of the night Should rise and shake the towers. I saw two figures in the sky; The right was solitary, The other warbled, coaxing light; And then a sighing sound began From the solitary one, And thence a call, and answer so A mother might know. "O thou, my son," said the sound, "Whose heart is my motor, If thou hast any thoughts besides Of a future state, remember The elder can and do. He too, when his young blood began To leap and to expire, Fearing he would die before the dawn, Took a mother's heart." "O mother, mother," said the other, "What a treasure thou art, And O, how dear art thou to me; I, that have never revell'd In joy, save in memory. How sweet it were, if I could see Thy tranquil image there!" I saw the figure of the elder; The angel of his youth Was false, and his heart, it appear'd, Was cold--for still he sorrow'd For the mother that had lost him. And then he bow'd his golden head, And I thought how Julia weep'd, When at her departure he stood So lone in the midnight sky. The figure of the younger, I know not why, But 'twas spirited as a fay, And with voice that singlywhelm'd the speaker, Bow'd also. When the first one had dazzled my sight With beauty of form and of hue, It moved on the air, And I saw two men sit down by my side, With voices that waken'd on my ear The laugh of infants, the low sound Of wing on the thigh of the one, The word of the other. "My son," said the first one, "Who speakest with such earnestness, Behold your father and mother. Here they are to behold. Their smile is like the smile of our Lord; Their tears are like the tears of our Lord. They are the Alpha and the Omega. And the Holy Ghost was thine." I knew them not, but by the reverent awe That ruled in my breast, And by the words, with their meaning entranced, That had rang in my ears for years and years, And in the solitude of night for days, I knew them not. But in the light of the smiling first mother I guessed the figure of the elder; And in the gloom of the second, the shade Of the pure shape of the filial saint; And in the radiant smile of the gray-haired sire, And in the tear of the holy heroine, I knew them not. The human figure that adorn'd the next Took me by the hand, and we pass'd on, And I knew them not; but I felt in my heart A peculiarly male emotion stir Upon my manly, melancholy breast, Which compelled me to bend before them, And give to them my lips, and my heart, With my own mouth's lips and my heart's blood. And so we walk'd on, till we came into a mead That lay upon a ledge of the hill's slope, Upon whose top a copse of high green saw-trees Rose, that from morn till almost noon, afforded A thing to look at, and a thing to contemplate, An inland meadow, and a lone church-yard. Upon the meadow the summer bloom was dying, And in its place the winter reared his chin A gloomy trunk, that e'en from out its green is shedding A languid shadow; while o'er it, black as the raven, The ravens with their screeching buzz'd; and, ho! the wind, That comes with most disagreeable piercing shriek, Perch'd on the resplendent boughs of the saw-tree, To drop various flakes of chilly snow, that lie Upon the grass below, like pearls, and make The beauty of the scene seem more beautiful. And, as we proceeded, I remark'd, that now The path along which we proceeded was no more; That where before there had been a bridle-way, The path was now the track of a horse alone; And that while there before had been space for free conversation, There was now time for no horseman on earth to pass. And I said, "If men could understand our mortal part, They would split us into two equal parts, And split us into two equal parts, and divide us, And divide us, so far as death will be good to us, Into two parts again; for the nature of man is so distinct From the nature of the horse, as opposite to God. "Hence, if we divide ourselves as much as may be, We shall never be happy; and there's no greater fool Than man still: for if you stop to consider who he is, The sublunary world will seem but a sunny spot In a desert, where he can look on and contemplate His lost and miscreated state, and still averse see What he was born for, and all his heavenly train: "For the horse is born for service, and to supply The service man may choose to render him; But man is born for pleasure, and the reins give over At his desire; and there is never a pleasure But what will be employed for his service yet. Wherefore, I conclude, as the circle of my ride Was such that I could gaze on the grass without Carrying a lawn for riding, a flower for beauty; And such a lovely spot for beauty and for green As my love's aloe is to me; such a solitude As shuts out the cruel world from my path for days With only the rustle of the fallen leaves of the aloe For company; and in its heart, another world Of splendour and life, opened out to my desire Our senses are so, well, adept to note All that is ridiculous or presumptuous, That out we leap to reply to the last And good-nature makes us so good-nature justifies A foolish manner, as well as folly; And when we meet a limit, as I have done, We find that our quick parts go so far, we know There must be brimstone beyond it somewhere. As from my talons, alas, alas, The point that struck me, when I touched the seal, Was released, the spirit that was my prey Went darting after me, and my manly pride Caught him and held him, till, strangling him, I thought the life went far; but just at that I saw the spirit writhing more and more, And lifting his head above the grass to swear, And swear, and swear; and I was as proud as can be, And told him so, and let him go, and he went; And then, poor fool! the fun was all gone through. All gentlemen, when all ladies belong To them, as men to women; you will find, My dukes, my lords, and, my lord bishops, Have good, kind, equal, lasting love for each The rest being trash, or nothing at all. In every eye you will see all that's good; There's not a creaking tree, or mossy mound, To prove there's anything above the dust That breathes in rank earth, or sits in a wall To keep the weather out, or in, or up, Or down, or round, or into, or out of sight; But dung, or worm, or worm's dung is all the earth, With rusty bits of worse; and dust is the dust; You shoot a deer, you make a pig, you stew a calf; And from all that, and more, you set yourself. Now in this holy book I pray you read, As Pray! I swear by heaven, and pray you so Go to the house of Enoch, and be a saint. These gentlefolks all get married every year; One man lives with them eleven years, then dies. Some say that Mr. Mike is quite a beauty; Some say his face is too high for a lady's head. Now that's a strange story! and the other, too! They both strike me as mad. But for the man Who has been living with these old ladies for years, It is certain he is a great beauty; And they call him sweetly, sweetly, sweetly, now, As if sweet were high and sweet were high am I. This terrible creature, do you know her name? No! no! I will not. Oh, but she's a creature, And one to whom I am bound in friendship now. I hope she is not a witch. I do not know. I met her at a party, she was there, And sat at a table, I think, in the hall. She had on a gown all of the finest dye, And she had on a cap of the very rarest sort Of lace, and her hair was curled up like a bow. She had on dark eyebrows, and a little curl, And her eyes were blue, and a fine yellow sunshade Lay at her foot, and a diamond set in it. Her round arm was open, and the lace gown Had an hour-glass shape, and she was not at all Like other women, and when she spoke I listened. That was a grand old day, that was a grand old day, When the world began. The hills were hills then, And the valleys were valleys, they were hills still; But we now stand on the shoulders of giants. They lay there then on the forests and rocks, And our eyes look through them to the eternal skies. We look up at God's world from the universe's verge. We hear there the ceaseless tread of its feet, We see its mighty cities, we read there the law. We look on the earth, and we look on the sea, And we pray there that we may be made just like them. There's something in this world that has brought me near To everything that I would ever do or see; And I know, by the love of this grand old world, By the love of the dead and the living, That I should not be writing this book if it were not, In part, because I have had the dear privilege To see and to hear and to be so very near The things that are to be, in part because Of this world so rich and so industrious, in part Because this world produces so much art, So many songs and so many thoughts to so many eyes, And because this world contains and is worth so much. And now, O now, as I gaze through this world so vast, Like a child at a wondrous picture in a book, A look of wonder and of rapture I feel Comes o'er me, and I know that this is God's world, And I know that I, too, am of God's world, And that I should do something in this world to bring Joy and wonder to these children of time, These children of one man, who looks from his throne, Reading their thoughts as plainly as they are written. I should not be doing what I do if I thought That the things written in the Book of Job were true; But when I read of cherubim, and se'n, and th' gods, And the joy and glory of beholding God in heaven, I am reminded that these things are not true, But that, in order to be happy, a soul must suffer pain. And therefore it is that I write these words of mine. And though they are often twisted and made knotty By long contrary fancies, they are somehow woven Into this very simple web of speech, This very subtle web of thought, This very fine and delicate thread of thought, Which is so tender and delicate and fine, That some day, when my words are all turned into prose, They may shine with glory as pure as gold. <|endoftext|> I keep a small garden Where I graft the seeds of happiness On the underground of my soul, That they may grow and grow and grow Till the world is filled with peace. I take the soil of my heart, And I stir and nurture it Into the heart of the earth; And from it there comes life and birth To the end that I desire. I keep a small garden; it is dark And damp and cold and fierce with weeds. I go there, and I pluck the flowers And I set them in my daughter's hands And I give her bread to eat. But still my garden is foul, And often I turn back and curse The hot, loathsome earth of my soul That I forced her to be partaker Of. The ragged green of the earth is sick with dirt; The eyes of all living things Drink in the poisons of their days. The dusty streams of night Are thick with sodden logs, The insects' wings flit overhead, And dogs defile the graves of men With their diggings. And these things I see; and these things are mine; I may do with meh the same; But this I know, that when the time shall come For the sons of men to be slandered as fools For their lack of wisdom, The world shall hear of me, The slim, crooked man with the goitre, And pass from sight. One, two, three! Those old pioneers didn't. A little water, and one of them was It! He had a will, he had a shovel, And that's what he did. Those who've come since Are just as wise as he was, And just as big. O dancing shall we go? No. Dancing shall we go? What shall we do? Swing and a-swing Of mighty New York. Tremendous swinging! Then all the world opened its doorways, And down came the gaunt, lank figure With the shovel and the smile, And down came the dawning, And the people loved him, Who are always hating. So he bade them welcome, And they asked no why, And they kept their breath tight, For they felt the old miracle In the old oak town. One, two, three! And, down in the ditches, And up through the trees, And over the hills, And along the streams, And to and fro, They are lifting their hands to-day, In the spring of love. In the red house where the lanterns burn In the skies above the road; And the sounds of a town that cries Like the blood through a great wound; And the cries and the cries and the cries Of men in the street; And the shouts and the shouts of the crowds Who are dying with thirst; And the sniff and snort of the winter wind That passes by; And that red road, red as wine, Through the night to the city, With its watchman as soft as wax, And his female partner strong; And the manifold marvels done In the flashing of the hour, And the hope that the people have Who are living to-day. O my friend, you who are waiting for a spark, And the big bang, and the thunder; You who are waiting for the revolution In the brain; Let me tell you, friend, what will come of it If it hits at the birth! You will find, if you look up, when you die, That your brain is not the whole of your life. You will find that there are lands of another frame When the heart has cried for the wild sports of the earth, And the eagle and the panther share the hill: When the bull-fighter has fenced them from harm, With his bull-shaped helmet and feather, And the cheers of the crowd rise louder and louder, And the man to the fore is the first to bleed; When the races are run, and the dance is at full swing, And the woman, at intervals, pauses to eye The man she favours with her breast; When the bull is herring, and the mole is bacon, And the pork is ham; When the races are run, and the dance is at full swing, And the woman, at intervals, pauses to eye The man she favours with her breast; When the bull is herring, and the mole is bacon, And the ham is bread; When the bell rings, and the train has come at last; And the red sun sinks in the golden west, And the pageant of life hush to a silence deep, And the long day ends; When the leaves are all for winter, and the wild wind faints To listen, as the dusk gathers in the sky, Like a weary crew that caged by a restless tide: Then the birds sing last with quivering voices, and the hills Ring with the singing of the squirrel and the rooster. When the fever has fled, and the fever like oil has clung To the empty limbs and the lonesome smell, And the face has a ghostlike splendor, and the eyes A wide hollow look of dim surprise, As though it looked through tears; When the lips are dumb, and the lifted hands are closed, And the weariness of life has a strange charm; Then, on a day like this one, out of the blue sky I hear a bird singing high up in the air, And I see a man swinging a heavy beam of ice Out of a great hole in the top of a mountain. That was an old story, now old as the breath Of the years when the horse and the pelting rain And the reaper-shoe were filled with the dead. And I wonder if the long creeping years Forgotten it or not. What have I said? It was but a story! It has piled up its corn and its clover, And the yokes are set and the barns are built, And the wagons lie stretched alongside, And the lonely river-banks ring with sleepers, But the story is dead. The years drop in heavy folds of the mist, And I am the old hay-field that lies between The dam and the ditches, and I see Down in the hollows a little splash of dawn Waking the yellow and gold. But the mists have a gold of their own, And the light on the meadow is as warm as tears, And the birds sing not. The land runs down to the hollows; I am rising from all history, But I am falling from all memory, For my old trouble is not mine any more, And the old fear is not mine any more. They ride by, and they pluck the flowers; But the lilies in the haystack will be my flags, And the story will stand with the rest. I would ride with them, were I old enough, And I'd borrow their horse, as I said, Not the traffic's, not the racehorse of fame, Not the beast with a gaudy tag on his back, Not the terrible triumph of blows. But a horse, serene, calm, and sweet, And one whom I'd loved and cherished, And ridden as my own; With a trace of the old singleness Not invented by art; A soul as true as the clover in the wind, And the hearts of the clouds. We'd have done things better, And we'd had fun, too! We'd have held our tongues When the fruit was full of the pits, And we'd have laughed and we'd have cried Till our sides made a cracking laugh, Till we clapped the curb and hauled As we clapped it on and on, And the gleeful bells would have run In pennies like jolly dralthiels Up and down the sky, And the happy bells, as they rang, Would have run in revellers' ears By the rivers of Rhine. A tiny green gleam Comes at my elbow, And the sound of a cuckoo Is in the trees,-- A blithe little song Of the younger folks, And I raise my glass And sing as I always sing, Till the glass looks full, And the cup seems big, And the hand seems big, And the head seems big, And the eyes and ears seem big, And the feet seem big, And I raise my glass To toast the good times over. And I've thought an awful lot of the old days When the world was young and the women were flowers, And the sun shone brightly, And the men were strong and the women were fair, And the only thing that was hard to be was old, And the only thing that was froward to be was young. And the story of the parson that rode beside her On the black horse, or the tale of the magpie mending a child When the moon was high, And the smoke was blue like the sail of a great ship, And the parson, I think, was rather more spruce than he ought to been, For, you see, he had preached all that God had said to him About the women and the beauty, And the stories were true,-- The magpie had seen, And he felt he had a right to the little dumb child, And he put up a brave face, And he saw that the parson was wrong, And he turned his back, But the parson would never forget That he saw the man who was supposed to be a fool. Oh, I had the whip, and the store, and the good coat on my back, And a warm fire to keep me warm, And a glass of orange juice to fill me with content, And a song to sing, And a woman to love, And a lover to talk to, And a chance to win, And a room in the next cot to sleep in, And the privilege of talking and singing to her, And the privilege of singing a little, And the right to die content, And the privilege to die, And the power to raise the dead, And the privilege to raise, And the privilege to save the dead, And a chance to forget, And a chance to forget, And the privilege of power to save, And a sword and a vesture and a song to sing, And the privilege of the sword and the vesture, And the privilege to take And the privilege of taking, And the privilege to take And the privilege of changing, And the privilege of changing, And the privilege to take And to lay And the vesture to wear, And a room in the next cot to sleep in, And the privilege of laying, And a little warm water to keep me warm, And a good book to read, And a share of the fruit of the vine, And a little garden to walk over, And a cup of good wine, And a wall for the evening's den, And the store of the wine to keep me going, And a closet for my treasure, And a little garden to stow And a place for the evening's den, And the privilege to pray, And a place to pray, And the privilege to pray, And the privilege to change, And a place to change, And the place to change, And the power to forgive, And the power to forgive, And the throne of God. I stood with my family in a crowd, A proud crowd, I felt, for the halloge of the song Was not a sorrowful, proud crowd, but a sad crowd Of souls passing into sorrow, I felt as if I were shut out from the gates Of Paradise, A dark curtain, with a purple tremor in it, Was moving in my spirit As I listened to the psalm of my father, And saw my hopes tremble In the eyes of my children, As I watched them silently move about The room to pray In the light of the hanging cypress boughs In the room of my father. I hear the bell from the adjoining room Call the pious souls that have made provision For the week's repast, Out of the prayer-tree, As I fill my heart with a secret sorrow That will not be spoken, It is as if I watched my children Sink downward into Hell, I thought of the days when I would carry Their little shoulders, When we would take a camping in the woods And wander homeward, Or ride when the morning was white With flakes of the feathery leaves of the pines And the dew on the blooming plum-trees, And the chirrup of the raccoons in the leaves, And hear the raccoon's reminisce, Or smell the bourbon in my nostrils, As I sank in a seat with the back to the door, And watched the wild ducks come home with their brood, Or the woodchucks in the smoke of the campsite And the family of geese that came with them, Or the white nose of a bob-white that came With his young in a jetty off to the side, To guard the nest, And I would see the sky Blaze up in the sunshine For a moment, And hear the first notes of the symphony That is ringing in the people's ears, But never mine, And turn to my clay-cold, red-faced brother Who ate, and laughed, and slept, And never sang to me, And sang not to his brothers and sisters, But only to his gold-haired sister Who packed his dinners, And laughed in his slumbers, And I, the orphan of a gambler and a whore, Was glad when the year's last fox saw his wife Fingersmithing on the wall a mirror Where the faces of my friends were seen, And I saw my face On the painted surface, But not my brother's, So never once in my bosom did spring The seed, That in each heart love grows. And, as for my father, I never knew The tears he brought to his friends, And never kissed his hand, Never drank his sweet tea, But only saw him on the tram, Wearing a plume, And heard him speak His Sunday sermon In the hallway Of the funeral. I am sitting in the sun, I am sitting by the river, I can hear the plash of the wave, And the repetition of the crow Over the railway track In the dusk. It is good to be alive and free, A wind in my face That sighs and licks the sides Of the boat that runs softly in its place By the sinking bank, And the wind in my ears That answers the singing of the sandpiper. And my heart turns and yearns To the music of the wind, And my heart yearns and yearns To the music of the flowing stream, As I wade for it In the mirror of the river, And I wade for it In the mirror of the burning sun. I am sitting in the sun, I am sitting by the river, I can see my brother Trying to cross the grassy place, But I do not stop And I do not turn To look at him, But I wade For it, And I wade For the little you that is not me. From our houseboat we set out Where the shores of other waters Are mixed with our own, Leaving Fair Isle behind Where the last dark bar has run Between the morning and night. From the houseboat we set out Where the shores of other waters We left long years ago, Leaving Fair Isle behind Where the last dark bar has run Between the morning and night. It is morning on the earth, And a bar of golden cloud Plays over bay and lea, Disturbing not our rest While over Barowa's snow The peak-conducted mists do pass. It is morning on the earth, And a bar of golden cloud Plays over bay and lea, Disturbing not our rest While over Barowa's snow The peak-conducted mists do pass. In the houseboat on the bay Our children wait for us As we lay us down to sleep, And it is morning on the earth And a golden golden cloud Rocks over Barowa's snow Which our feet have never trod. In the houseboat on the bay Our children wait for us As we lay us down to sleep, And it is morning on the earth And a golden golden cloud Rocks over Barowa's snow Which our feet have never trod. The North Star stood upon the clouds The Bull sat in the pasturelands, The Oven-knave climbed the chimney-pot The Wolf slept in the full-horn bay, The Ant crept from out the lane, And the prentice made his fire. The Star stood in the heaven The Bull lived by the grazing lands, The Oven-knave in the half-ornament, The Wolf lived by the forest shore, The Ant ran through the sheathing timber, The prentice made his fire. The Star ran in the heaven The Bull lived by the grazing lands, The Oven-knave in the half-ornament, The Wolf lived by the forest shore, The Ant crept through the sheathing timber, The prentice made his fire. The South-Star, shining through the clouds, The Bull lived by the grazing lands, The Oven-knave in the half-ornament, The Wolf lived by the forest shore, The Ant ran through the sheathing timber, The prentice made his fire. There was a lad, and he had brown hair, And big eyes, and a dimpled chin, And he was not very handsome, you bet, And he never had a cent to his name, But he danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to-do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to-do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to-do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sung a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sung a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "A-bed or up, when Spring's begun, Why dost thou stay to fin' Hymn One? Why, wherefore, with dull'd eye Dost question of what deeds are done? Of evils past don't pedant now; Leave such things as now they're done to The hands that wrought 'em,--far better saved For our last commemoration Woe Of deeds of yesterday and morn! Hear what Greenwood has to say Of Wilson's tricks, and how he's tried To hoodwink us with this Big Bill. And why, he adds, he won't give The details of what Wilson thinks, Or e'en allow that Wilson cares A pinch what he thinks. "I've talked to Wilson," says he; "He knows as well as you do That a pound would be too much. So, without any more delay, We both will go away, And seek the secret and the patch, Without the mask of public shame, Without the mask of public praise, "And having found it, if we can, Let's keep it," says he; "And having found it, if we can Let's fiddle but the leaves again; And having fiddled them all over Let's see what we can't tune again; "And having fiddled them all over Let's see what we can't tune again; The stars, perhaps, or the summer rain Perhaps--if any things are near That can be pictured--then perhaps But let's not fiddle after all; Let's let the sheets be laid aside And be found at a better rate." And so he talked, and what he said Of men and wines and women's faces Might give his brain a spasm, But still he did it, and, as way It seemed to bring his fortunes ne'er To better ones, by and by The bubble burst, and he was down At second hand to worse and worse, And never a moment did prevail 'Twixt first knowledge and second knowledge. And so he came to find, Too late, too late, as it were, And having failed in it he was down At second knowledge and to what It was that first he found as a hop And a jump to the bottomless pit. He saw the fool that he had been, And saw the mistakes he had made, And saw how one feeling of the mind Aflixed another, till he found His first idea (and the best) A motion picture, showing the spirit Of all his blunders, and those that Were made after reason knew how His noblest spirits had borne sway, And all the world's first foolishness That ever man did let loose. And yet the best, and what he found Was something worse than that, For he saw that there was a hell For those who life such stuff did make, But those that did not (which made The cream of all this ill-fed game) Be damned, while those two did make Nothing of life but mischief. 'Twas at the Royal Foote in July The worthy Sir Robert Peel, to-day Most honor'd, to his lordhips said That he had the honor to be Honored, and, on that same day, Set up for a candidate For Parliament, which he most wished, Being himself a good and decent The new Player, to make his preparations For the road, as he had directions To take them, to call at all the cots And all the stations, and there to greet His entourage, and to invite all The electors whom he should encounter, Save those two, whom he was slow to invite, Being in a hurry to get through His business at Court, and being afraid (perhaps) some of them might be displeased That their Elector had run away to play In all the haste of his escape, and get Out of the way in time, he had forgot That he had two friends--Brackenbury, Lord Who was as constant to him in spirit As any one he had ever known, And Gildippes, Queen of China, who sent Her own ship's complement to go with him, Which might be said to go with him against His will, but that was an adventure Of course. He now had all his baggage conveyed Within his barge, and every creature Went on board except the two, who stayed behind Conceal'd in a private barge until He should have offer'd them a ransom. But Brackenbury landed from the ship Which he had to Portsmouth made last evening, And when the cocks crow'd and merles sang he sail'd Along the river bank to Kingston; And there he landed, taking with him His father's ship and his nephew's ship, Which, by the by, that evening had been both Drawn down to their bottoms, for the night Had now past and the sun was set. He land'd both ships, took them on shore, And tow'rd his own house drove both men Into the church-yard, then walk'd up and down The sounding beach, talking with himself, What course to take, what companions to take, What trick to play, what bribe to offer, what bond To sell them at a higher price, what interest To set, what double amount to print, What different fortunes each might bring. At last he drive'd out of the door Which opened at his whistle, and drive'd His two attendants in the fourth, A very good fellow-river, A fisher, whom he had brought to town To join his family, and be their friend. He had in the mean time both towns Visited, and all persons in the same Disposition as themselves, and when He went to Kingston, he took also His brother-river's wife, and all his grain Which she had not sold already, and Which lay unsaleable in her hand. This was an excellent article of food, Which in that season it was but right That all should prepare for winter with, When none should suffer hunger, and none die From want, and every mouth should be fed. For though the wind blew harshly yet, the seas Might wash it up for those that wanted it, And Providence would help him that needed. And here I leave him; for besides the fact That I write verse, I have other merits, Besides the titles of the songs I make, Which all can read, besides the fame the fame Of the best and finest of all poets that Ever lived, which the fool Paschal Envy never yet did reach or reach (Save that I live as he, I work as he, And I sing as he, although the fools Are the pre-eminent and universal fools With regard to all things but the most And latest, they being but the most the maddest When the greatest must be the most dangerous). For never yet was ancient or modern More witty than he, nor the most modern (For all the most brilliant since Alcestis) More devout; nor one of them the least Delighted with their work, nor more agreed In their real or frippery companions. O hapless age! Now, now, while heaven's wounds bleed And earth shakes from the blow, As if some crag of Alleroe Doubted whether to cringe or grin At the whirlwind-gusts that drove Her tossing hills to and fro, To thee, O thou most Holy, I appeal, Thou that didst defend and rescuedst The Holy Virgin from the traitor Whose lewd embrace was all her shield From thy dear feet falling out Of their blessing when the foe Gasped and died, with many a groan And bitter take that thine own had wrung. I, that so fondly had lov'd thee, To spare thee in my tears did fear Lest they who did succeed thee Should make thy offices mannish And thy service servile to dust, And smother in manhood that alone Thou art great and noble and splendid And dost adorn the world with bright, Thine only work that noble face, My mother, now, most Holy, I Crying most Holy, thou hast err'd And art to-day most unworthy, And no man may accept thee, Save only me, O Blessed Michael. And if thy people say unto us: Come forth of us, from what rest By night or by day, or ever We rest or be refreshed, Come forth of us, our peace return, Or we be not driven afar, Come forth of us, we say, The flesh must be, and perforce We must feed on it. What is thy soul's content? What is thy heart's desire? Surely it doth covet now What ever breath of speech Is giv'n it, now, to say, Come forth of us, our life return, Thy soul doth crave How frugal is thy spirit, my Sweet, Who never aught receiveth But gladly at thy hand doth yield His heart's rich pledge, my Queen, my home, His life and very name! Yet if to us thou wilt come, It shall be ours to make thy throne Our court, thy bride-bed, thy realm, And garden-plot, my home, my rest, All made thine by our prayer. Nay, thou wilt come if we will come, And thou wilt leave all these; A cross on our faces we'll have, A tomb, a hearse, and slumber. Come, come, though we may not choose, Come come, come, come; be merry, Come, Come, come, come. O smile, we have lived and loved, and died, Ah, the proud heart's curse, If, when the body lies with rest, This seems not sheer delight, To think how many of our peers Are cursing here! Come, come, come, come; be merry, Thee, Thou loveliest in woof, The saints will never know us here, We'll but change our pillow, And change our names; when sleep dooms Our souls to dust, It may be different names Have different meanings. We have thought of the things above But one cannot see The beautiful splendour of the throne, The beautiful glory of all things, But one who's dumb. In our heart of hearts believing still, What are we, and what are they? What blessedness, what bliss is ours, If we're not sure? I heard a loud thundering, And many "Shakers of the earth" Cried, "This is the hour When Messiah shall come, And make a world for ever, With peace and plenty to all!" I heard a dying voice say, "Let there be light!" And there was light, And the wall of the grave Was standing in the sky, Full, round, and strong. And all the dead that had died In the old time afore Came to life; and there were told The good news by the voice Of the preacher who died, The preacher who preached So long ago. And he baptized them, All the dead who died for their sins, In the waters of baptism By the preacher who lived, The preacher who made (So long ago) A vow of life. He took up the cross, And on it, like a far-off sun, He placed his head, And soon Christ was to take His rest On the preacher's bosom And never more must He live Like any living man. A little child was sitting by His side, And said, "Little baby, pray, If you will, for I go to school; And when I come back, my master Will not be very well." "I will go too," the child said, And went to school and came back, And when her master heard the baby's cries He could not keep his mouth shut. But the child had a good report, And a great cause did have; Her teacher gave her an order, And she was enrolled in the church; And every Sunday night She stood by the bedside Of her dying master, and told The poor woman's last words to Him. And many who heard how sweet and clear The woman's voice was hearing now, Came to celebrate the holy birth With her the savior of the world. And all the people came, And the broken-hearted mother, And the little child that stood by, And tears on the cheeks of every one, And many tearful eyes were praying. A boy was playing by the stream, And heard a voice singing there, And soon he ran down to the water To see what that voice was singing; And there stood little Robin, His hands up above his head, And on his tambourine Was dancing, dancing, So fast and so far away. "Little baby, sweetheart, Wilt thou marry me, darling?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I call thee little, Or call thee long-legged, Robin, the steed," Said little Jack, And looked at little Robin, And said, "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I make thee shoes, Or find thee aprons, darling, Robin's socks, or furs, To go with thy Robinhoods Thy eagles, thy guardians?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I give thee money, Or find thee bread, my Robin, To feed them in thine halls, Thy burghers, thy robbers?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I give thee money, Or find thee bread, my Robin, To eat in thine own halls, Thy nobles, thy overlords?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" Then little Tom Bell patted his friend, "And shall I be thy guardian, darling, Or feed thee in thine halls, Or clothe thee when they sing At thy coronation?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" And Tom answered, his voice overflowing, "Gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I call thee little, Or call thee long-legged, Tom, the horse?" "Then thou must marry me, darling, Or feed us in thine halls, Or clothe us when they sing, At thy coronation." "Gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "Then let us marry," said Robin, "And let us be married, So together we may die; And let the graves be deep and yonder In the cricket stadium, And our obsequies be few, But our reunions ever massed On the first Thursday of the month." They laughed; but deep was the silence That was broken by the soprano Who sung the second hymn; And she sang a few bars from the "Temperatur," And the people were again amazed, For never had they heard such music, And the congregation prayed together, In their "new covenant" of love, That through the hymn they might be heard, And the strange song by the sea; And they spoke in tongues that night, In the cathedral by the sea. And the next day was spent in pleasure, With the Thursday chapel prayers said, And sweet communion in the deep, That the people never knew, Till the week was ended on the cliff, On the Thursday of the month; And on the stairs of the little garden, By the lilac-scented sea, "Sweet days of my childhood!" the mother said, When she reflected on the sweet, strange years-- The days of joy, and the beautiful sunshine, And the little healthy children who smiled At her, as she sat at the window, reading The paper with the "pleasing prattle." "Now a thin, disheartened voice comes again With a story of grief and of bitterness. In a land I have not heard, nor seen, Lest we have met, though ten times I recall Your face, and the hand that I pressed In memory of you in the spotlight." A most peculiar youth was he, His manners were free and his speech was free, Yet something in his eye spoke he knew Of a "safe, dry dress" when his own cheeks Were a remix of the blisters and bluster That he was compelled to bear in his fight. It was a most peculiar youth, And a bird of an unusual kind. He spoke not, but let fall from his hand The letter that was finished and ready. The Captain looked up from his newspaper And he saw, as he glanced over the bulletin, That his son-in-law was in his boat, With a letter in his hand that he said Fell from the pocket of a Warsaw liberator. And he saw that the son-in-law was wearing The uniform of the Polish Army. "The Polacks?" said the Captain. "Yes," said the Chaplain. "I thought you were getting some of them." "Why are you sitting in a boat?" asked the Captain. "Now, sit there on the sand, and get some cool water, And take it out of the winds that are driving us back, And let me have it, for the warmer I am the better. The sand here is more suitable," The son-in-law promised. "There's your uniform," said the Captain. "Take my word for it," said the Chaplain. The boat was a bare one, but a snug one, And the son-in-law thought it apropos That his was a greener uniform. There was little enough to do With the Captain and the Chaplain, So they filled the time by reading aloud The whole family was amused To see the letter that fell from the hand Of the young soldier to his mother. It was from an English camp in France, But he was only a boy, and it told Of hardship, and of dangers unknown, And of scenes that were better far from home; It was all one bedlam, all the same. And all he could do was to pray That his mother were in safety and health, That she might continue to love him with a love On the promenade after dinner The husband sat, his mind passing To thoughts on foreign countries unknown; And a stranger's hat on a stranger's head Seemed an efficient safety-valve. But his wife, the kindly hostess, Whispered to him that the newspapers All ran on exactly the same, And that they must have a protective syndicate. So the talk, like a good shepherd, Goat, sheep, duck and weasel, Or as a good shepherd himself might say, Was a very interesting thing. And they all were for open war With Kaiser Temerko, Till his little son began to speak. The First Lady's brother Was not at home; he was to Rome Looking after the arrangements Made by the Polish Legation. But his wife was present, and it was she Brought the news back to the Captain and the others. Said the Captain "We must act, or we shall lose!" And the Chaplain "That is my wise sense." Then the wife of the Polish legation Came to the platform; and the argument Spoke in this woman's mouth, as she always had, "It is best, then, leave the question at present, She could say or do, and in this way Make the boldest poet of the time Believe she was only a priestess, Or imagine the finest gown in white Was hers, because she kept after it With a view to becoming a saint, And had some Pythagoras to do In the pure realm of fancy. And this was all quite well enough, For her life had been all pure fancy. And so the little wife of the legation Took the Pinsk Gazette, and read The story as thus:-- "A German officer Found a dead man on the street; His face was bloody and white, And externally appeared The marks of a ghastly wound. "The body was brought to the Czechołmar street, Where a crowd had gathered and shouted 'Arrest!' 'Was this the fellow who came here a month ago? His face was distorted, and his eyes Were wide with terror, and we found, too, A sabre and a bullet hole in his breast. "'Te Rebojna was the name he used to live by, A damned ugly name,' said the German Consul. 'Te Rebojna has an ugly meaning, you know, And this name is a deadly poison. No more on earth can I find such a soul; And yet he used to live here, and go about In clothes just freshly washed and in new caps.' "The Germans were most anxious to have proof Of the existence of such a danger To their country. So they brought along a Polish Police Inspector, who went along the platform And then turned and walked back again, and then Marking a spot upon the pavement quite black, Laid down his wands, and pulled up his overcoat. "'I know this ground,' said the German Consul, And he pointed to a patch of it. 'This is the spot,' said Te Rebojo, 'from now On all executions will be here.' The Polish police, who were present there, Were rather sick at heart, and wished him To carry on his business in some other place. "'There's a cross at the corner stone,' said the Consul, 'And here with good luck you'll get a head; But what's more important is to know If in this house there is a man.' The Germans said they did not know; But they knew that there was no human head In the house, because the Germans have A law that no Germans shall be seen In any place where human heads are. "So to avoid detection, and with the Germans Going home, the body was placed, And the last wicked act was added to The crimes that German perfidy had committed That morning in the tower. "But the Captain's lamentation When he reached home was a sad one; For it seemed that on that day He was no longer the same man. His brow was downcast, his eye was red, His every feature showed distress. "'Oh, me!' he said, 'in sooth, it is a jest, But I can't help feeling that there is a truth And that it hurts me deeply, I confess And yet I cannot bring myself to speak. And how is my wife? Has she heard this too? Oh for the truth will she ever forgive!' "The Captain he had left his wife a widow Three months or more before; and she A few days after her husband's death Was at home with the widow's mite. She met her friend and said to her 'I give My life to the service of a wife'; And that was all she said. "Her friend looked at her, and in her turn Recalled with emotion the day Of her husband's death. And then In a tone of commendation said To her: 'You have been true to your vow; You have borne your own.' "She said to her friend, 'She was true To the vow she made to me, to you, And so I thought it only just I seek your blessing to extend Unto my children and my mother, Because of the great love she has shown Upon my death-bed.' "Her friend replied: 'I bless and greet Thee and thy children ever.' Then she spoke of the pride of the deceased, The beauty of the wife, the mind, And the keenness of wit; And concluded with a warm embrace, And a tender 'De bene!'" When this was said The widow broke away from the other And she left her room, And upon the promenade She and her daughter made their lament, Which greatly cheered the Captain, Who had been sadly worried By the prospect of his wife's delay. And he was glad to hear the good news Of the day so well spent, And he spoke of the beautiful face Of his dead daughter, saying: "She had no fault in faultless form, No fault in faultless face, But she had been filled from top to toe With the true holy faith; And this was the cause that I loved her so." The other told of his own early love, Of the days of happiness and bliss, When he was a prince and he had palaces Sounding with mirth and laughter; When his soul had such desires, such fire, That in every plan and act he thought Of making life be more dear. And the memories of times past he found Mingling with the present joys, And he said with a tender sigh: "When my heart was at its height, There came to my home a stranger, His features were sad, his eye was bright, But to all other men the same And mine were known as hope and zeal; But my heart was lost in despair That no dear wife I had. "And this was the cause of my suffering, That my wife was not at home; And with longing and helplessness My life was passed away; Till my children grew and I could not, Because my love had fled, And my children's children came, And my name was vilely miscalled And they said: 'The Captain's a monster Who leaves his family, And no longer cares to be A happy home-owner, While his Captain's not at home To take his children into His protection and care. We see no more of Captain Fearnaught Till the war is over.' "We saw but his empty ship, And I heard no more of her Till the mist came down and covered her, And the wind that had carried her Came back with a vengeance, And the squalls came shrieking around And the mists rose and lifted, And the mist came down again, And I saw the Captain's Castle, "But to-day, when I sit at the meal, And the company is hearing, And I wish to speak, but silence joins me, And I keep my thoughts to myself, I do not seem to have the power, And the visions come and go, And the hopes I thought were secure Convey to other lands; "But I have another wife, With children and wealth and fame, And I think of her in good humor As I sit here in my cell, And I seem as if in good humor As I sit here in my cell." What would you? I? You thought you saw her Stand by the mast-head decking Herself in the glooms of dawn, Staring through the mists that hung low Like a black sail-fin driving With its image to the shore, And look as a dead person looks Who knows the gale will burst In a moment and kill him? Did she die at last? Did the sea Send her to her grave? Did you hope on, without a pain For your lost hope to find? Was your ship all right? Was your crew In love and adventure? Did they leave you in the bay As you entered and left? And how do you feel? Do you hide Here in this dark cell, All alone, and think of her As you watch the waves boil by, And see your own fair face In the gray twilight fog, And the cannon's roar? The shadows lengthen in the cell, The shadows lengthen, And the great sun sinks to the west, The great sun sinks to the west, The morning thrills through the wall, And the sunlight hangs on the walls, And the sky is all alive, And you feel that you have a wife, And that her life is dear, And you look through the window, And you hear the shore-birds singing, And you feel as though a heart You understood better than others, And your thoughts have an end, And the walls are cold and gray, And you dread the stormy gust, That you dare not wait for, That they roam the air and bite, And their breath makes the mist and rain And drifts about the roof, And the winter evenings are cold, And the day is long, And the light is the light of the moon And the dark is the night, And the time for your prayers is over, And the time for your tears is near, And the world has become too much And the friends you loved so much are gone, And the candle burns alone And the mother has died and the child, And the old season is coming on, And the shadows in the wall are heavy, And the shore-birds sing not, And a star is shining in the west Over the city that you knew, And the holy waters murmur <|endoftext|> When he had told the sorrows of his chase Unto his men, and all the fearful thing He through the world had seen and known, and felt, Unto his men he said: "Lo, here comes one, the strangest of the crew, He seems a good man, and hath a fair hearth, And by himslef the magi wends his way, To seek the Grail and the Lords of Heaven, He seemeth a good man, and is hardy, I will unfold my mystery to him. He hath a shield that is red gold in hue, It hath a strange device on the front it hath, I will not say his name is not fame, For it hath seen the face of God on high, But 'tis graven with the name of Cupid. And he hath a mailen, that he heareth nought, Of all the serviceable gifts of Christ, It is the best of all, by any sky, It cleaveth thine enemies asunder, Unto his feet hath it been fitted, It hath the magic of the magi'l, For it hath wrought the death of many an foe." And, in this mystery of the house of God, Theo-demons, with subtle-sitted jarrings, Now saw they seemed to win a victory; For these were all men of evil faith, For them they brought the terrible temptation, Glad overture, glad boon, to do their evil will. But as a man who hath a gift well won, And carefully of his heart doth keep it close; Who, in his pleasure, boasteth, "I am good," And in his grief, "I am ill-distanced;" So these, in battle and in woe, were glad, They to deceive their fellows were grieved, With secret lust for blood, to slaughter all Who to their evil will went willingly. Then these bad sons of Hell, thus flaunting Their ignorance, proudly boasted, "We are wise, We wisest of all that live; we see no sign, We mark no trace of divinity On any human face in heaven or earth, None in the skies above, nor on the earth below, That speaks of Creator or third Power." And others again, of more cruel kind, With words like these were nobly proud: "Behold, We see no soul that ever died in Hell, That ever gave up its spirit to God, Or mingled with the great One in the love of God. Nay, ye are weepe even as those we mourn, And weep as weepe ye, who have no heart to sing. Nay, ye have left your throne, and royal seat, And sacred ministry, and heavenly charge, And earthly keys, and oppresson dark, And carnal faith, and bestowison wide. Well ye know that the true light, dispending From heavenly lights, doth ever shine about, And love is in all things, nor aught remains Unpowdered, unimpaired of all hurt, Whate'er the shroud, what the sheen." Such were their words, and idle words at most, And witlings at the most, as at their feigning. The other sort rejoiced to see the chain Dissolved, and were much stirred by good in them And by the brazen trump, and by the fire, And by the slain, and by the glory round, And by the life, the honour, and the bliss, The sad things were omitted, and the strings Were tightened and relaxed in many a knot. And so the sun rose on their fast fading, They that had been too well-disposed in Hell To ever sympathize with life in Hell. And now, the gates opening, and the souls Which had died here, rose from their eternal graves, And mounted up into the clouds, and passed Over the threshold of Hell's eternal gate. They merrily heard the music, heard The actors sweet, yet found herein no play, Nor will they now set forth, nor will they be. For they have passed the threshold of their bound, They have drunk the poison, and are dead to all, They have bathed in the wave, they have trod the mould, And shall not many days forget their pains, But lie in hell for all their malicious parts, And dwell in hell for all their treachery. At last they rose, and came to look abroad, And saw Hell fog on the marble mountains; The gates were opened, and they passed forth To the vile den where they had found their part, Their native place, their Theatre, their place of pain; They looked about, they heard the shepherd call, They heard the shepherd's arched word of dread, From the amid the smoke and bloody loam, And saw, with yawning mouth, Hell yawn and gnaw The victim by the sacrificer cast, The victim by the sacrificer slain, The victims by the sacrificer eaten; Then all the martyrs and the just departed From their own sepulchres and everyday laid In hell's agonies, and sucked sweet death By Satan's cudgel,--they beheld the place, Hell's agonies, sucked sweet death, they too, They beheld, and to their dying day will mourn. With thousands, they set forth to walk the moor, With thousands, and with twenty thousand more, And saw the water-drops, the running drops, The foaming torrents, rolling side by side, <|endoftext|> Thou knew'st him well; and all his warriors called him friend, And held him foremost in the battle. The head Is still his own, which in a moment he shall fling Down to the dust, like a foe's. But the long hair Falls in long tresses over his cheeks and lips, And those deep eyes, which then were gray, are deep now With life, and lighten to pity, and they seem Like the compassionate stars, that watch all the night For their slaves, who are forgotten in their chains. See, the poor fool is rocking his baby, And whirling her round and round. It's hard For him, poor pimping hack, not to run after His girls all dressed in black, and take them down From the cold door, and dress them in their best, And take them to the ball, and leave the poor baby To toddle with the rest, and strut and stutter, Like a proper baby, and smile and singing, And all the other paraphernalia Of pouting banquets and wrangled words. But he won't; he won't; he's thought of nowt! Poor hack, he's crazy over his own kid, He's taken her out to beg, and spilt the milk, And caught the crows in his MOPPER mamma, And split his legs, and had him carried round, And thrown in the dung-hill, and is paying For it all in Clam. But there's another thing. He is taking the baby to the church, To pray, and hears the minister say, In short words he will never forget, ''Tis there a grave and a judgment day is passed For all who do not heed the words of God.' Poor little devil! Why, I can tell you grim. He'll go to heaven when he has told his sin, And they will take him by the hand and take him in, And kiss him upon the mouth, and set him down Under a cold cross, and drop fat lives in Over his head till he gets up and walks, And turns his back, and for an hour or two Comes blundering round and falls over dead. Go down and sit by the fire. It is so very small That, all for my sake, I should be over glad: This taper candle I bear, Bright as the flax Is the flame from thine eye, Which is shining and bright, Flame for flame am I thy lover. Oh, I will go fetch thee a drink, Bringing the best I can; I will go fetch thee a dish Bringing thee bread and meat: I will go fetch thee a draught Of the wine of Rodope, For this is thine own, Thy own fresh wine and pure, Which thou hast bravely spent, Lifting the goblet up To my lips for me. Now bend thou over me there; And if I kiss thee there, Thou wilt let me kiss, And the kiss shall be for free, Free for food, free for love, Free for happiness, Free for what thou lovest best, And the most of all. I have to leave my father's home, Where I was born and bred. My mother has to go with him, To look after the farm, And mother's the cause why I must go, Because she has no hope Of making my child believe That she is well looked after When I am gone away. I must go from my father's home, Where he is old and poor. His little books and papers I'll take, And go to a city home, And mother will look after the child In the city home. I'll take my sister Mary, And my brother John, And my brother-in-law Frank, And my sister's husband Bill, And my father's house will be In the town where I am gone, With my children and Mary. I will go to a city home, Where I have people near, And my brother-in-law Frank, And my sister's husband Bill, And my sister's children will be All in the town where I am gone, With my wife and my brother. I have no hope that my father's home Will be the home I am going to. I have no hope he will live to see The money that I am going to. I am going to a city home, And my brother-in-law Frank, And my brother-in-law's the cause Why I must go, and take My sister Mary, and my brother, And my sister's husband Bill, And my father's house will be In the town where I am gone. Oh, I am going to a city home, And my mother has laid down Her cares, and my brother-in-law Frank, And my sister Mary's husband Bill, And my sister's children will be All in the town where I am gone, With my wife and my brother. I will go to my father's home, Where my life began: Where I had so much to do, My earliest childhood words. Where we drank punch left-to-right, And I had, I have, <|endoftext|> God dooms it; So that the maker never, In making of this creature, Believed he was designed In likeness of himself. Be thou, Little One, in all the years to be, A Saviour of children and of men! And when thou speakest to them by land or sea, Thou shalt be a Man among the sons of men. Thou shalt not have to blush, Little One, To know that Thou art beautiful and good! Now I know, with what deep love thou drawest, To be thy dear brother, To be thy tender, constant, loving friend, The Little, the Love of Christ, the perfect Friend! The bridegroom's vain, sensual love, Thy heart's pure prayer and dream No mortal can fulfil; They may fail, as fickle, vain men's do; But thou shalt ever be the purest gem The Little Kid Who met St. James's Tram In London once; The Child, who once Did on its painted sides The lordly lion stript, The lordly bear And other beasts and birds Let slide, to have The little kid Patched London white, With his precious mouth And hand-ten-ned nose. And, oh! the evening crow Did blithely tell How he did there Find the little lad And his mother, play At table all day. Thus every day The poor little kid Would sit and praise The things that were So good to see: The painted sides Of the lily-pads, The hand-ten-ned nose Of the lordly lion, The clipped coat-tails of the stag. All day long The Little Kid Would rub and tickle His fancy With a kind of phlegm-dream, A phlegm-dream Of sweets that had No name of their own; And in his dream, St. James's Tram And all the boys At play with him. And at night, When his night-long phlegm Rang in his face, He would lie and tickle His phlegm-dream In full church-time, And the Great White Bird Would sing the work The Little Kid had done. The clothes that he had on, With a hole in each, And ragged sots Where every stitch Was bare to the top; The hole in the togs Where the tail had been; And bits of hair, Where the hole in the togs Had been for shanks Of shoe-leather; And bits of mittens Where the hands had been; The hole in the sots Where the mouth had been; The soot on the tail Where the stags had been; The soot on the face Where the rooks had been; And tops that had lost Their fringes of white And frills of down; And bits of gloves That had lost their fingers; The soot on the back Where the roaches had been; The soot on the ears Where the crows had been; The little tot Who clings to his mother, In a manner-- Because she is seven-- And makes her such a fuss, She makes his clothes A leaven At the Eastern window. But the town's a sad place at night, And the Little Kid's a sadder cut, He knows 'tis so, But, oh! 'twould be a lot less sad If the mess we're making Were like some good old-featured meal. I would eat there At the Char-rana Table, 'Tis such a delicious place, With eels from the "Salt Water" Pool From which you dined for a song. The bread that you ate from, A treat for you to hold, The luscious salmons and pistachios That you ate from, Oh! that were a treat indeed To take from the Pool of Good Beers! There's pistachio-crust And rosemary-crust And tepid honey-cookie crust And bread from the West Bank, And bread from the South, And bread from the North, And everything under the sun That you'd think a crust to be! I would eat there At the Char-rana Table; I should sit under The blue-black ceiling That seems to shine And serenely renders To the senses so sweet The grace of your home, The glamour of your face! And, as there we sit together I'd let your right hand rest, And with your left hand Seem to make a river I would go A-wading in that river, 'Tis a beautiful deep water And has a wonderful sound; I'd go where its banks are bends, And, a-dipping my toes, On its crystal points I'd look As if the light were beams From your tender eyes. I would watch the water Until the glory Of its brightness I'd see As if 'twas some new-born fire Burning in your glittering eyes, Or the jewels of the stars Flung from their beds in snow. Then I'd plunge a Mule in it, 'Tis a mighty deep water, And I should leap in, and start The red-whiskered pike Far out on the pull-rod With a lion-head as sail, As if I were leaping In a mermaid's lap! And I'd toss you a handful, <|endoftext|> a pair of hairy nipples, a cleft in the hollow of his chin, and only the saddest look of regret. The bow of the bellboy rattling in its case, the tinsel- whitish rainbow of balloons on his head, the feather of the dancer, his gray shoes sparkling, his bronze-colored skin, in pink stoles, the hoppers of champagne dropping from his fingers. Each has come for her lover, with flowers and the plump unsweet potatoes and the three-chambered heart, and the good cheeses and the three kinds of olives, and a third for good measure, for love and for remembering. And the good wines have been drinking, and are serving out the leftovers in baskets to lighten the load for the righters, who are standing apart to pass the plates and to take part in the pash-the-quadrille that is beginning to grow solemn. In the evening the old man's head has become entirely bald, and the red smock that covered his upper body is hanging in tatters on the shoulder; his limbs are crossed and weak, and he carries the heavy basket, that is swaying to and fro, and full of pungent cheeses, and boxes of wine from the cellar. At the rich odors of the dinner table the child becomes restless, and begins to fidget, and wants to run out to the meadow to get some fresh air, to hold in his breath the tang of the clove cigarettes, to snatch the pears from the branches, and himself begin to sneeze. He takes his milk-pail down from the counter, and finds the green rags at his feet, and with great grief and frustration throws them away, but his thirst only seems to burn stronger, and he feels that the basket is full enough, and the cheeses are not too hard to eat. But when the cheeses are put on the fire and spit into the basket, the boy must struggle hard to keep them warm, and looks at the ground in shame as he does so, and in silence swallows the bitter brine. He must hold the heavy cheeses, must put his own lips to the holes through which the wadding goes, and then put his nose close to the holes and blow into his palate the brine he has made himself. And at this moment of labor when the tongue and palate are strained with so much effort, something so strange is brought to light, and he sees the form of the cheeses as they smoke in the ashes, and a gleam of pleasant surprise comes over his face, and the cold in the throat becomes a warm feeling for the firm cheeses. And all at once the old man smiles, as if to say: "Why, you clever lad, so skillful to be hurting other people's children? There's something new here you haven't tried before. Are you German or American? Oh, you're so hungry you carry the basket on your head! Come, come, don't shirk my work, I'm willing to help you! Come under my wing, will you? I'll teach you to fill a water barrel and water two chickens. Two little white-headed goldfish sit in a blue basket waiting to be fed, and under the window-sill a small brown chicken is laying eggs. The white-headed goldfish have no eyes, but as the basket is lifted up one sees the little creatures with their heads blown-off lying about in a circle, one by one. The chickens are white with black heads, and to the right is a black-headed chicken, to the left a white-headed chicken, and one on the far side is layed- ting eye. The baskets on the counter are whited with brine. The old man has a stout frame, and scarcely lifts his right arm above his head for the stroke; but even so he lays out with energy and skill two white-headed goldfish, and water the third one. The wind is as soft as a feather, and the sky is blue, and the old man's beard is white as a milk-white hen's. The water is brackish; the sky is smeared with strata like a broken bas- tonny. There are little dry crystals that slide down on the chicken's tail and set upon the eggs like rain-drops. It is cold, and it is windy, the wind blowing over the housetops of the farm- stead, and it is windy and cold, and there is not a speck of green in the sky. Now the old man says: "Let us turn to evening life, and learn the way of the street and the ways of the town. "Our bread is but a broken crust, our fire a crackling straw, our shelter is the hollow of a tree, our shelter is the earth itself; there is nothing in this world of worth but the wind and the earth, and everything is ashes, and the way of the wind is over." But the young man says: "Let us find the way of the street, and learn the ways of town and street. "The old man's way is good and wise, and the new man's way is better and bolder, but neither is good nor wise, and neither better nor bolder <|endoftext|> Is found amid the least, And the least seldom falls in need Of that all-selecting care. No-one has it--and, lastly, It does not, never, meet the eye As a brick or a poll-parcel, But it is a springing, a springing thing, A field-guide, a pathway, whatever Of gift Nature makes it for man. Not so the madcap peats that seek For that far western marbled beak In which to set us adrift, Or the mackerel that waits for such peats, Fond to be mashed and to make us souse; For we have come--the canny lot-- To take upon us to be seers Of things the plain men scarce can see. O night of the world! O passion of the world! In thy lusty noon-yellow heat How lovingly thou pressest and caresses, Kissing, enticing, tempting me With thy bright lamp alight to flame and glow! Yet in all this brightness and liberty It is not the green field that I love, It is not the clear stream that I love; It is not the hedge of the woodland That I love, but the land that I love. There where the streams murmur and glide Through the grass-grown islands in the wood, And the merry birds sing their song of joy, And the sweet, wild air breathes of fern and fir Where'er they sing, in many a sunlit spot, O, there where the stream winds with a swift bend Through the mossy, green valleys, and the white Wide, sweet fields of the withering grasses, I do love the land that I love best. For 'mid the dimness of the lighted room, With the twilight of the half-lit moon, The soft glow of their laughter will meet And mingle in strange, sweet repartee; And while they quaff the nectar of the bowl, Each laughing eye will seek for the sun, And long lookers-on will see and laugh, Then, whispering, well like lovers will say: "O, how glad I are to know and to look That this is the land that I love best!" O, land of my fathers! O, land of the cotton fields, Where the old blues will come, and the new roses arise, Where the black gibbon feeds and digs his burrow, and the jaguar Feeds and digs, and many a bird feeds and digs, From the gold mines of Peru, from the purple fields Of the south, the spices of the tropics; Where the forests of cypress and the palm of the east Balance the slopes of the south and the north; Where the songs of all birds are blended and risen, Where the quiet and the forms of all flowers are Mixed, as if by a mighty symphony; Where the sands of many seas meet and make a bay, And the rivers of many mountains flow together; Where a mist rises from the wind of many mountains From the north, the east, the south, the west, And the whole bay is swathed in a white darkness, And the broad sky is red with the sunset; Where the ferny parks and the groves of the east Tremble and glow, and the tawny woods and the morning Melt with the light of the great, red sun; Where the rays of the sun kiss and make beauty At their feet, and the frosty hills glow With the sunset, and the waters glow Blue in the shadow of the man-hued tree; Where the breezes are humming and humming, And the leaves of the trees are all swinging, And the whole air is a sea of red, And the day is the glittering face of the sun, And the land is a golden hue, And the time is the stirring of the day, And the year is glowing and glowing, And the silver moon hangs over the sea, And the air is a coil of the air of noon, And the sky is a haze of the sun's last beams, And the streams of the winds of the day Dance with the twinkling of his beams, And the lightnings crack and crack and crack, In a roar of the thunders of the day; O, land of my fathers! land of the sunrise, And of the sunrise city! But thou, old California, Be wise and weary of my flirting; I shall never flutter thee with my dalliance. O, thou tall land in the far west! In the gloom of the far west! Wilt go with me then? To conquer and rule thee? To wander with thee? And thou, long California, Be wise and weary of my flirting; I shall never flutter thee with my dalliance. O, thou land of the pine-trees, In the far west! Wilt go with me then? To conquer and to rule thee? To wander with thee? The dark rose is gay on the wing, The sun hath left his couch of rest, And the lusty May is up and out, With a brisk March and a watch dog's career; The grey haw is flying by And the wild bird is on the wing, The first bluebird of the spring-- The whole earth is singing. The lark is in the sky With the thrush and the sparrow, And the star of brightest day, The little star of light-- They sing the song of love To the laughing air, In a merry, smiling, glad manner. I have done a bold deed, <|endoftext|> The club, not clambering, struck the ball; And Poljudale broke the point away Like dragon's tooth; and the King of Poland Cried out, "Poljudale! my brave Poljudale!" The bow and arrows, and the arrows' darts Were yet half-way to heaven, when the dragon's tooth Of Poland's weapon missed the goal and passed Without its goal; and again the volleyed flame From Poljudale found its way, and through the sky Ran its aim, and smote the wretch who dared to beat His mouth to that hot glowing orb, and crawl Hollowing back and clutching his hair away. And then in wrath the exulting spirit fled To regions of gloom and cloud, and the crowd saw The soldiers close upon him as he lay With his hands raised to keep the volley from him. As with tired wings he flew to reach the goal, There came a voice and one clear wail of anguish, And his mate, the spirit of his noble friend, Came in again, and piled upon his rack The agonized body, and drew back the hood And looked into his eyes, and said, "You shall live." And there was peace between them, and the name Of victim and of avenger seemed strange Together in one breath, and evermore That hero and his friend were linked together As long as might be, side by side, with those Who fought and fell that bitter day,--and yet The deepest fissures of their souls' loneliness Kept open. The hearts of all were surely touched When either one, that night, to the other cried "My mother, shall we see her again?" And she Was there. But they were still alone in that last wild Boundless space of wild-beating wings. "Yes," whispered Poljudale, "you may call it broken-winged The next best thing to Eden. So -- we're lost, And looking, lost, for ever lost. And now, good-bye. I'm going back for you." And off he went like a flash Upon the cheeks of Poljudale. And that was all. But those two, those friends gone in arms, Still stand in Poljudale's door, and look out through the dark Of that poor little roof, and cry for her, and wait For more than any nurse or any physician's skill To ease their sorrows, or rebuild their lives, or even To cure the pain they feel from wanting her. And now, Singing that song, they disappear into the night, The one friend less, and the other always one step ahead. All night they fade and fail, All night they dream of one another, Like two departeds that turn up one by one In the darkness and despair of the tomb; And now I hear a faintest twang of a bowstring, And see a little flame, and then not even a lamp, And feel my own faint life begin in a pocket, And follow as an after thought that will not die, Out of that dark, into that vast, deserted room, Where a broken lamp flickers red on a heap of rags, And an old-fashioned clock ticks from a nest of knobs. Who shall say if that arrow has streaked the vale Of many months before! But I know I feel The hour is near, and that the face I know so well, And that I loved last night, is standing in the light Of the great hall-room window, has crossed my path, And bowed herself against the lattice-bars To say good-bye, as I have done a hundred times, And will again, till the doom comes. The war is over. He has crossed the ford that runs under the mountain Down to the river, and is standing in the glare Of the orange-glare on the dark green plain, With arms folded close to hide his swollen breast And face grown white and waxen, as with rain. "God, I am sorry I ever met you In that black cavern where I fought with Fear, And shook him down, and drank his choking blood To draw new strength for the fight," he says; "For I have sworn not to kill until I see The sun on Trier, and Peace returned to Germany." He is sitting in the hall at that moment, With two books. One is crossed under his arm, Crouching along the wall beside him, held With outstretched hand; it is long and thin, But tatters do not hide it from the sun. It is not new; but he has lately received A copy of the first lines of some paragraph, Written in a rush, but thin, and smeared with ink. He takes the other book, a limp Massenet, And reads through to the end, then puts the second down And goes out into the open air. But even While he is taking the books back into the house, He sees the first little flash of movement under The half-moon. From under the balcony, A thin wind makes a musical hat-trick; And one by one the city lights go down, In sudden-flashing spires. Then comes the thunder, The dark houses starting into color, The jostling crowd, the anxious faces. "You will find a marble slab beside the grave Of each friend who trod this way," he says to me. "To be sure of it, take down each page you see, Flattened like leaves, then send them back here empty. And you will find a marble slab beside the grave <|endoftext|> A speechless spell Over the waters falls, A golden image Stands on the peak of Halkomen. 'Twas midnight, and ere the sullen wind Had reached the Isle of Averonets, When darkness on the plain was spread, And with it, silence on the air, The wind-god's heart grew sick and sore, And thus to Hades he said;-- "Ye godless blacks, whose darkening wings Bear you aloft, with stifled breath, The infamy of blood-guiltiness, And godless humans, with your blind Infidel face divinely white, Whose ears are closed to the Infant Jesus (Who, though he smile on all, is yet hideously dark!) Innocent eyes!--O, hear my prayer, (Now on the world's last shore stand I alone!) Innocent hands, whose precious charge Will e'en perish, if my prophecies, That fell so low, but reach the ears of gods, Come not to pass! If Zeus is good to me, And godlike men, on whom I've nothing to name, If those great ones hear my prayer to them,-- O, grant that they will hearken unto my words, And turn to truth, as once they were wont to do!" So prayed he; but the thunderous god, The loud-thundering Thunderer, heard not, Or if he heard, he was deafer stilled By the awful spirit of a child, A babe, in the arms of a swaddling-closet, Who sobbed aloud in her cradle-band; And the sound reached his angry ear, As thus the crying voice was heard. "Hear me, Zeus of the clashing hair, The strong one Zeus who rendereth men, Who laid heavy hands of doom on Troy, Whenas for me, in the Furies' hall, A woman bare me, and for my sake A god did pitying kindle a fire, And, turning it around, kindled it To flash against the Fates, and fall Thunder-hit against the madding earth, Then die into a flower which out-bloomst The world, as mine into fire. "Yet am I Zeus's child, Zeus's own joy, The only girl of all his delight; Yet am I Troy's, now, for I brought Troy at the last, with my tears' sweet rain, With my prayers, and prayers, and blood of mine, That at least my loved ones, who went with me, May live upon in one another's being. But, if my prayers have lost their heat, And if my tears have lost their plenitude, Then mine is fallen out, and mine is lost." "The fire," said Zeus, "shall have no power, Nor any power the Fates shall shift, But its flash to die out of heaven, As a flower dies, or a leaf outleap; The hearts of men shall leap up and blossom, And be whiter than the sea-flower's filth; But when the power of its light has passed, The hearts of men shall creep and their brightness perish." "Great fire," said every god, "now take A name, nor let the light go by! 'Tis the heart of fair-eyed Helen to Be witness to Zeus, and that heart's Heart's shall have a new name, too, 'Tis the new heart of Helen to Be witness to Zeus, and its heart's Heart's shall have a new name, too!" And the fire leapt to a glorious flame, And there leaping, it struck to flame-breathing All the hearts which were sweet to her, And its new name was FRUELTY. And, as when an eagle cleaves the sky, And lights on a herd that's wallowing Far out at sea from the kite; And he lights on the herd, and eats The hearts of all the hanging red, So the fire fell on the hearts to burn; And, lo, all the flames were bright with it, And so it lighted them to flame-breathing All the hearts it touched. Then said AEgis-bearing Zeus, "Is there no other way to end This plague of ours? There's no real ill In this, but still they seem to me Like real hearts, so let them burn, And call it art! The immortal Gods May quarrel as they may, for there Art is stronger than God-law; So let them burn, and call it art!" So said he, and they were mad with fire, And all in a moment overfed With flame, the godless-hearted crowd Over the land and o'er the sea Leapt from their ships, and in a shower Fell like a flood, and swept away Girt like a falling star. Then for three days the cruel fray Wrought by the wind against the foe Made little headway, and the Fates Scowered the peoples 'neath the ships, And on the fourth dark night, the sign Whereby the Gods watch for the end Of things, there met them, yea and there The Grecian dread in awful pomp, And dark as hell it darkened all. And many in the fray were slain, And Hector's heart was hard with fear, And his good steeds in spirit famished; And many a black death had his son Faced in that dread day of yore When round him like a burning wood, He strove to rally and repulse <|endoftext|> Where the purple shells lay soft in the hot Water and the dripping sea. All this has passed away and a new Day, a new life is begun. But in this first day of the new Life, this great day of crime, This greatest of all, The Law that we have broken Has left its indelible Mark on the soul of me. M. But is there not one And only one Who has borne our griefs And kept our hands from the knife? Nay, but one. There is no strength in the strong, No honour in the brave, No comfort in the pure, No joy in the feasters. M. Then all is well. There is nothing left to grieve for But only to kneel and pray That God's mercy may be softened For us, His children who have sinned. M. Come, brother, take thy rod and sword. And as the old day's passion wanes Let us kneel in silent prayer That God may pardon us for our sins. HELP, AUBURN MULGO's, courier, On whose skill the province rested, To say, O'er hill and dale To and fro, O'er hill and dale Crying, Help, Ould Durham! To say, O'er hill and dale, To and fro, Crying, Help, Ould Durham! Cried the lad, Cried the lad, "Mulberry night is near, And the mad battle's near; O, let me in, in orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or in orchard tree. Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree." So he sat him down, So he sat him down, And the young teapot spouted, And the young teapot cheered, And the young teapot cried, And the young teapot smiled, And the young teapot sang, "O, let me in, in orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or in orchard tree. Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree." In his fur-robes walking, And his red rags thrown loose, Like a youth that tarries O'er his fair handmaid's wrist, Or her waist, Young Riley went a-martyrning; And God's arm was about him, And man's heart was a-beat-- Riley went a-martyrning-- God's arm was about him. I stood upon the brink of the house, Watching the dark; The splashing of the water beneath, The falling before it came, And after the torrent came the hail, Shattering high in the air; And how long the reverberation Made in the dark! I stood upon the brink of the house, Watching the dark, And I did not think of the dearth of bread And the terrible chastisement that Christ Must bring; I did not think of the worm that dies In the wallflower's cup, nor of the tallow That the Taylors burn in their firelit glow, Nor of the eternal torment that awaits The sons of the earth; I only heard the singing of the hail, Shattering high in the air, And hoped against hope that somehow the hail Would fall on the child I was expecting. "Come! I have much to tell you," said he, "When I have eaten, and have carnal pleasure, But the Bridegroom waits, and the Bridegroom hears; He will save me with the saving; Come, I shall tell you many things Of the secret soul of man, Of the life and the love that are in you, And the eternal will that underlies you; And what the Bridegroom saith, This for my final sleep, For this I go to the bridegroom, the Christ." "To the bridegroom, the Christ, O come!" And I lifted my eyes to the light, And saw the sign in the sky. And on the sudden bright Gleamed the light of the star that shines The throne of the Christ in the night. "O thou star, O thou rising, Dost thou bid him arise? O he sleeps, he sleeps not, He is as one dead! The night is a veil Falling on the face of God. "O thou star, O thou turning, Risen from the night, Where is thy fire, O where Thy fire, now shed and spent? All thy shed light is dead, And fallen is thy shed wit. The night is a veil Fallen on the face of God. "O thou star, O thou centre, Sought for in the night, Risen, where is thy light? Dumb is the face of God. The night is a veil Fallen on the face of God. "O thou star, O thou fading, Sought for in the night, Shall it ever fade? Shall it ever grow dim? Never, never, never! It shines to the end of time, And it shall shine to the end of time. "Fade, and fade, and fade! <|endoftext|> Our prayers, our tears, our blood, our hope, our fear, Our deafness, our martyrdom, and our shame. Thou hast given us women! we have gift given thee. Thou hast tried our mettle, and tried our strength. Thou hast crowned our humble prayer with power. The fate of nations! if there be a Fate, 'Tis thine to guide, and turn, and influence. If there be misery, or heart's desire, 'Tis thine, for thy stern command to hear; Thou hast given us the temper of the strong; And now thou leadest us, a little space, To win the entrance to the hall of prayer. I arise from dreams of the past, When summer was a wonder And the world slept, or dreamed as day, With an angry God above it And a longing for battle. I arise from dreams of the past To the sound of the battle horn, To march against my foes, to claim A realm for the noble and free, To lay my honor at their feet. I arise from dreams of the past When the world was full of hopes And I was but a boy, and there Was joy in the gleaming weapons And in the cheering words of friends. I arise from dreams of the past When my heart was an empty urn Full of pain and trouble and tears, And I was but a worthless urn, Stored full of bitterness and woe. The spirit of Freedom, like the wind, Is with me to the end of my days, And moves me to do what must be done, Now that my own is not to save. I arise from dreams of the past, To the sound of the battle horn. If I were dead, O world, I would wish thee so much, That thou wouldst give me to my bones An equal sendance every day: And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee For an extra share of sleep! If I were dead, O world, I would miss thee so much, That when I do appear, I should walk from me away As dew drops from the rose: And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee For an extra share of sleep! If I were dead, O world, I would miss thee so much, That when I do appear, I would stand from me away As an object be has stood: And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee For an extra share of sleep! If I were dead, O world, I would miss thee so much, That when I do appear, I would be like a spirit thought, That hath his movement fled, And in a universall flight Is now abroad through space and time. And if I should sleep, O world, I would dreams of thee Be as the stars be, to be The eyes of heroes blind, And lamps to be to sight As lamping spirits to it. If I were dead, O world, It would joy me more That I had lived to feel The defects of this life, And live to pass it by As one that did him best. And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee Be as the stars be, to be The eyes of heroes blind, And lamps to be to sight As lamping spirits to it. These fair years of youth, When thou wert mine, When it was we, And we would have no more to fear Than life should fear to live; Those happiest years of all That I have known, Were the most of my days. Then came the terrible talk, When my spirit was rent in twain, 'Twas then thy voice that broke, 'Twas then thy looks distressing, 'Twas then, oh, so gently, 'Twas then thy words seemed wondrous kind. The story was new to me, Yet I could trace it, though it were not A pleasant tale to hear; For thy looks in those years of yore Were those of one that wept, And then thy voice was weak and gentle, And then it seemed as though it were thy own. I say not, 'Alas!' for I have learned What by the world is call'd love, A thing ungentle, and so mean, And, oh, so wretched far, I have learn'd it, and feel, and know, I could despise it if I would. For all the world may laugh at me, And say that I am crazy, 'Tis a world in which I cannot smile, I was once as thou seest me, And love was then as it is now; And could I laugh now, it were for love. Oh! could I forget thee for my own, And leave the world to thee, I would speak my mind and say as I have said, That the world's mad, and life is hard, And all are sad, and all are glad, And what's best comes worst as had been best. Then be it as thou wilt, and let me go, For the world has made me wise, To say that we are glad when we are sad, And the world has made us cold, And set my heart as thy heart was set, To be thy servant evermore. Thy mistral airs about the throat Wake memories in my soul, As distant music did of yore; I see thy hand and seek to take The symbol of thy love; Thy arms about me stirring up All my sad veins to tears. <|endoftext|> With every ray that kissed him. He gave his tears to light them, Took the ill wind as his sign, And felt hope and courage birth, And bade a happy day. He was a priest of the Lord, He knew his alms were useless, And the girl's false heart give way, And the world take note that he Was a sailor of the sea, And that the Lord was good. He held his ship to the beam, For the Lord would have it so, And there was joy and gladness In the eyes of the mates; And the spirit of valor Gushed from the deep-sea fount, Like a fountain of flame. In his small boat they steered it Along the foaming shore; The wind was high, the sky was blue, The sea was like a shroud; And he never would look at it, Or turn from that abysmal scene, For the face of God for ever, With a pensive gaze, he'd fix. And there came to his boat a man With a face like the bat's, And he said, "An I do count the eyes, There's not one we can spare." And the sailor took him in, And looked with a hardening eye At the face like the bat's, Then said, "An I do count the eyes, There's not one we can spare." The man in boat was a child And he cried for a long time, Then said, "O ye stars, to and fro, If ye had a Lord like me That I'd ride a broom to the masthead, And take a ride like the bumble-bee." The wind goes sighing down the fallow, The wind goes wooing the weir, Heavy bars the widow's door That once was open wide. With ragged clothes about his neck The figure appears to stand, And to the world he seems to say, "Thy hand's in my Death's! "Is he breathing, lady, sleeping, Is he living, dame, or dying? And if thou canst not give me air, Take from me, all thou wilt, A curse thou canst not avoid. I've dared my vow to keep. The hand of Death is on me. In vain my love I've known. But thou--thou canst not hear him, Thou canst not see him, While he fares upon his flying wings Through the realms of being!" But now, as he looked through him, The form of the figure grew To winged stature and swarthy skin; And he walked the airy sea, And seemed a corpse from the housetops, He glided over halls of stone, And o'er deserts of fire. Then straight his speech the shade repeated: "Thy vain requital fills me To utter many words of scorn, For thee, and for thy lover, With wild words of truth. Go, if thy love for me Need turn thy words to blows, To fight for me at Cauld-regals, On my hoverboard, On my heaven-made battleship, And I'll slay you, woman, With my flying harp!" A time there was when they who rode the stars Would scatter gold like dew, But now to meet on earth a mortal foe To war the stars forsake us. But man can take in new revelation Every morning from the mount, And every night, when all the stars are set, He bears in his heart the stars aloft. There's a stately word of God for every lot A man may share or bear, And some who feed on words awake to find The blessing they have missed. As men there are who would not invent a star To praise their favor, So let him say who will, 'tis grand to me To know the way to God. And some who walk the ways of sin, their eyes Turned from the heaven of God, In sorrow's or crime's despite, have found a way Through darkness to the day. They, too, have found a star to lean upon For strength and light; And I, whose tale is not yet done, shall go To meet my Maker's gaze. We look beyond this little world of ours With fear and wonder, But let us but entwine our souls to trust In the great paths that love has trod, Then will our lives seem large and fair, And life seem worth the taking. If you would know the great mysteries That wait for man to unfold, Go to the cities of your neighbor land, But keep your eyes on heaven above, From that great orb that gives you rest. All is vanity and dream, All the earth-wearied wisdom of man, But our souls are angels, singing, waiting, With our hearts fixed on the sun. We are blind, we are veiled, And we cannot see the mystery, We are watched and controlled, We are bowed down, we are bowed, With our sins and troubles. We are fools, if we would see, We are fools if we would see. We are fools if we would be wise, We are deluded if we would be wise. We are healed if we will trust, We are healed if we will trust. We are healed if we will wait On the hand that counsels and forgives. We are broken if we will break, We are broken if we will break. We are broken if we will trust, We are broken if we will trust. <|endoftext|> If, young as he was, I loved To run the race before the fire. I loved the birds, the rivers, And simple flowers, and grasses, The stars and trees and animals. I never thought of the need To bid good-bye to meet, And just as an infant, too, I never thought to "play," Or to be impatient, or to Contemplate the meaning Of life from farther than its need. We were a group of children, Ten in all, a little company, We used to meet from day to day, And we used to play together. The trees were in the garden, and Over the trees the parlor; And we would laugh and shout and shout, And our laughter echoed. It was in one of these outings, I can't remember now which, That I was caught in a dashing stream That rushed through the narrow streets. And I was caught in it, this little boy, For I jumped in with both feet. As I jumped in I was all dressed; And I was wearing little boy's clothes, And I had a little cap on, And I had a little book in my hand, And a little baby-drawing, And a little sing-song, And I had on my little flannel shirt, And I had on my little leggings Which were little boy's trousers, And I had on my little wistful smile. And I was washed and warmed, and drest, And warmed and drest again. And I was sitting on a bench in the park, The bench was in the grass, And I was sitting on the bench in the park When a voice I knew well said, "The garden hose are hot, The garden hose are lukewarm!" "The cat is in the kitchen, And the little dog is loose; And the little cat is small and white; And the little dog is grey." "O, bring the little cat home; And then the little cat will drink." "The kettle's on the fire, The kettle's on the fire, And I hear the little spout go round. The kettle's on the fire, The kettle's on the fire; And I hear the little spout go round." A crow flew over the trees, And over the hill; Then the little boys ran out to read, But I stayed where I was, For I heard a little bird singing there That sang not how, But sang what the morning meant. The wind blew out the candles; And in the chamber, Susan said, "It is just as my mother meant, And he meant just as me." And he smiled, and he kissed her Where they kissed before. And all the morning long That little bird flew round As if he said each word again, As if he knew The reason of everything; And little birds are brave. A robin walked through the blue; He crossed the red and the green; The leaves that were yellow He swept away; The leaves that were black and brown He cleared away; The trees that were beautiful He bared to see. A country life! No, sir; A brook and a tree, A field and a tree, A cow and a horse, A mill and a child. And if he sits and talks His brains will boil. For all his days he sings And all his nights he calms. He goes to water, and he goes to land; A country life is he; His mill is at the low, His grain at the high, His corn at the morn, His beef at the noon, His wine at the night. And now he waits for the spring, To reap and to write; For all his days he sings And all his nights he calms. For all his days he sings, And all his nights he calms. A young strolling minstrel free of fear, But by a youthful hand imprisoned, Hath set his innocently-played string, From whose sweet-throated melodies All human woe, all earthly rage Cannot sweep away the golden lyre. His trusty bard to sickness pressed, A bird in the net he was ensnaided, And the Queen of Love by treachery wooed, And locked him in a prison cell, Where love hath no right, but sorrow has, And grief hath no right, but fear has. But freedom to all is given who taste The delights that flow from the fountain Love; The jails shall fly to, and at last shall win Their way to the sun and the sky above; And the wicked shall be for ever freed, But the good shall abide as they are. Let us then, my Lady, my dear, With a sweet heart and a merry jest, Behold our Bobbie in his freedom once again, And this last folly past, This prison's 'lorn abode.' Come, since we are free, Let us start with a laugh And a shout for Bobbie in his freedom once again. Then the cheek of the maiden grew pale, Her lovely eyes half-closed, But she answered not, for her smile To the smile of the laddie didn't spring; But her heart did feel twinges of sadness When she heard his reason; For he ne'er could be tempted from virtue's ways By the lure of a lady's kiss. As he kissed the mouth he longed to kiss That was smiling as ever, And the Lady looked down from her throne, <|endoftext|> Poor, fanciful, noncommittal, Fain of all but his one desire; Not a wish in his heart or in his eye But the highest in him prompted him. The boy's desire was for a noble bride, Who, like the Amazon or the Maiden of Gwathier, Should follow him as he led the forest on, Till the world was made his interlude, And the paths of the tree trunks were his highway, And the river of Life was his airy vessel. The boy's fair ideal did not endure,-- He died young and unprepared for man's exploit; But it served to put on the background of fame Of a history of his own life the passion, Which (as he said to himself) will make me A lovely and true figure in the community, When it comes to my lot to be remembered. 'T is not the end of the story yet, And I see the end near at hand; For I see the day will come, Some time before the years have run, When the deep furrows of the valley In the bottom of my eyes, Will be washed out with a rain of tears; And the dreams of my boyhood will bloom Like the little scented stars. And the roses of my boyhood, Like the buds of the May-time, Will open to the sunshine of you, As the buds of the ferns do now; And the pictures of home Will come back like a dream from a stream; For life will be an interlacing Of the love that is in my heart And the wonder that is in your heart. All the love in my heart Will be like a melody, Which you will be singing to me; And the prayer that is in my heart Will have the quality of truth, That is, of tenderness and simplicity. You will say: "Did I not live A very unusual life? Did not my words and my ways Revel everywhere in my sight? Yes, but it was as if some mist Had settled on the land; For I never had a thought But was held in the arms of Love." All the wonder in your heart Will be like the crystalline, Which, unto the seething ocean, Fights with rough ocean to be free, And the will to resist as vain. "And so it was; But you there! You did not love me less than I; And my heart--it was a wonder, too, How Love could ever have found in you A fairer woman to love her." When the love of my heart, That is, my heart and your heart, Confront and take counsel of sense, I will take counsel of fear, Lest my heart, with the natural love That is all too human, Lead you into danger, Which you would not incur if you saw In the unknown depths of Love's dominions A monster with a creaking jaw, Whose helpless limbs, the rush of a wave Would ripple and scarcely reach. But to-day your lips say what my heart Would say in the places it dooms not To be gazed at by no other eye Than the curious and prying eye Of the gossip in the dark street. And so I give you love's tribute, Love, which is love's mean meanest word. It seems as if my life, Born under a summer sky, Were a flower born, full-blown, After the long, long days, When the boy goes out to fare With the maiden away. Love is like that, and like that, And like any other flower It blooms and passes by. For the sun will come and go, And the boy will come in the night, And the maiden will go home And return to the boy's door, And the same sun will lift both their faces And the same moon will turn their shadows. Love is like any other flower, And like any other flower It fades and fades and fades. In my heart I have a waiting And a longing for my mouth, And a thousand more such places In the boy that is always coming And going, always coming and going In his own shape, with his own face, And his own soul, and his own light. I know that I shall have to wait Till the night of the wild eternity For the touch of the soul of him, And the voice of the voice behind, And the word from the mouth to follow. Yet I know that the eternity Will bear him with it on its breast And will bear me with him along And will hide me with his arms. I am glad that I was born, And gladder still that I die; For though my life be but a song And though my death be but a dream, I shall know, at the last great hour, That I lived and loved and was dear. The sun shines hot upon the sea, And dross upon the sand; The wind is hot upon the hill, And dust upon the star; The hungry night-winds shake the trees, And moan and murmur through the land, And silence falls upon the sea, And silence falls upon the shore, And silence falls upon the hills; And still the sea is only one That drifts upon the changing tides, That drifts across the trembling sea, That drifts across the trembling sea; And still the sea is only one That drifts upon the changing tides, That drifts across the trembling sea, That drifts across the trembling sea. The hour of rest draws near: O, now I feel the languor of the mind, <|endoftext|> Those three-hitched shadows, Windblown from the water, Sleek-legged and clean, Tapered like a saw, Rolled out upon the blue, Three of us, all, all, One big shadow. A pirate's sloop, a sloop I took As my first step on the high sea; As my next, I bought a guinea ship, And so it happened, two Went down with cuts and bruises, And I had to buy a third. Well, then I married her, And paid her debts, And kept up the life We're living now; I own a store, I run a post, I sell balls And watch parts, and jade, All the things they sell, And bits I buy And candy, my sweet, From the sacks that stagger by. My sons were weak and boyish, I carried them on my knees, I nursed them all through winter, And all through summer, And paid for lessons, lessons, lessons, And shoes, and sheets, and brooms, And sent them people to dress them, And bought them slippers for winter, And everything for eating, I paid for dining-room, dining-room, I paid for all around it, I paid for all about it. They shaved their legs, and their arms, And polished their teeth; I kept the store, I kept the store, I bought and sold it, I kept the store. They studied, and they became The people of today, I ran the store, I ran the store, I ran the store. I paid my taxes, and bought My timbers new, I kept the store, I kept the store, And paid for all around it, And paid for all about it, And kept the store. I hired men to help me, I paid for all about it, And paid for all about it, And kept the store; I paid for lessons, lessons, And shoes, and sheets, and brooms, And sent them away. I warned them not to meddle With matters beneath my watchful eye; I paid my teachers and clerks, I kept the store; I paid for lessons, lessons, And shoes, and sheets, and brooms, And sent them away. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I paid my doctors and surgeons, I kept the store; I paid my teachers, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I paid my clergymen, I kept the store; I paid my doctors, and thank God They're more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I paid my Judges, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it; I paid my teachers, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I kept the store; I paid my Judges, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I kept the store; I paid my Judges, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it; And paid my teachers, and thank God They're more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I kept the store; I paid my Councilmen, And thank God, more than paid for all, And paid for all about it; And paid my President, and Thank God, he's more than paid for all, And paid for all about it. There are ten thousand pardons to grant, If Joseph could get one; He pray'd with the Prophet, "Send one but the twenty million, And I won't ask for wages." They ran to the Capitol dome, They saw Joseph on his knees, Where, leaning on a twenty million, He wouldn't lift a hand; But Joseph, with his petition, Says, "I'm not a sinner, I'm just a twenty- second-degree In barns and byways they stray; In country and town There aren't a thousand such; And the one that comes at charge, A hundred thousand strong, He becomes their master, For a hundred years or more, And they think no of it As they are willing to die For a hundred dollars a day, And Joseph, if he could only Make them twenty dollars a day They don't see it at first; But when things begin to stir, And they start to live, They don't see it at all, Though it seems to them so Forthright and matter-of-fact; It isn't till the throat Get worse cold and chill, And there comes the light at last Of their rough, grimy lot, And then they realize, It isn't worth while to cry; They're looking for trouble, For the hard days to come; It's better if they're not bred; There's another, smoother crop, There's another way, <|endoftext|> He bless'd him with a rapturous smile, As if he seem'd to touch the saint. And yet to Ebora's shores, Far, far away, Far, far away From all he knew before, From all he longed for and sought, Was a radiant light to him; Bright was that light, With a joyous glory Not yet human understood. And with a keen and eager gaze He fix'd on it, till with joy He felt that it was God's own light, His first experience of divinity. He journey'd on, adown the path Long and level, till he reach'd the end Of its fair pathway, where an Ark Of no mean size was in a valley Inaccessible, and on the lid Were letters strange and fair, Invisible to mortal eye, Which none but those to whom the Book Was read could ever read. And in that home of Ebora Of high-blown clouds and sunny air, The thankful refugee found A certain spot, a grave, Where Ebora, gazing east, Gazed on the Hebrew archives, And mused, and utter'd a soft prayer Over the mighty records. Thenceforth his life was turned To studying the Hebrew tongue, And writing down the wisdom of men, Which he perceived was profuse In that accursed time of sin, When the world was wholly vain. The fame of his vast brain Spread through the world, and now Henceforth his life is devoted To the service of the poor, Who in his power he finds, And with his clear, distinct pencil Guides them in the way of truth, And sanctifies their lives. If there be one who needs must know The depth of Arno's tide, Who would not be the better knowing, For gaining that information, I would be that man. This is my Arno's Tide, So vast that none can fathom Its mysteries, and so fine That even in passing by A stick is in its sense, So grand it rises in thought Above the sight and doubtful And yet so close beside Like countless towers of snow, When all at once they perish, So goes this thought along, That none can number the days That have been the days of Its existence. It shines in the middle space, And is alone eternal, It changes, but its mystery Is constant and the same, Yet still occult and subtle That it has an end to give, Yet still unknowable, It ranges along the space, Yet is constant to all, But the thoughts that ascend Through its fantastic ranges Have no room to live. All is transfigured, all is changed As a dream at waking is. The sun and the moon have gone To the home of the departed, The rain has begun to fall, And there falls a silent dew, And there falls a sweet and golden dew On the tomb of the dead year. And the winds have begun to rise, And the husht wind blows from the shore, And the timbrel thrills and the plash Of the surges moves to and fro, And the smoke of the Eastern Rise Makes the silence of the sea Frown in laughter at the shore. The dead year laughs in her shroud, And to and fro and away, And is gone through the dead sea, And her laugh is the sound Of a wind in a tree Whose laugh is the sound Of a wind on the sea Who laughs in her shroud. And you and I and the winds all Have gone down to the wane, And the wind on the ship and the wind on the shore Is still as the laughter of a thoughtless child, And the waves are so soft to feel, And the stars are so bright to look on. The years go by and go by, And the laughter dies and dies, And the sound of the timbrel thrills and the plash Of the surges moves to and fro, And the smoke of the Eastern Rise Makes the silence of the sea Frown in laughter at the shore. So the sea changes and goes on, And all things pass and pass, And there comes an end of the sea As there is an end of the thought That all things have been. So the sea changes and goes on, But the sea's end still stands, As all things have their end That have been from of old. Then all things change and change again, And we sit and watch the ocean floor And the vast plain of water where stand The wrecks of the ships, the dead things The ships shall not fight again. So we watch them moving on the plains Where the great ships lie that we know, We watch the ships as they move on the plain, And we watch the sea that goes by, And we wonder, and we sigh, and we pray That they too shall not go. And the winds go by and so go by And the winds go by and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, <|endoftext|> Whispering Through my soul That song is sweet as the low-fed sheep’s Chirping On the road to the fold I hear it in the reeds by the river And in the thorns where the grass is low And it murmurs through my heart to a children’s song I have a little song To cradle a child Whispering that song In a child’s words As they read aloud And the child lies awake in the dark Dreaming Of the song they have heard Where the song was lullaby Until morning comes And the heart beats no more And the child sleeps through the song Forgetful of the song <|endoftext|> "In November", by John Clare [Nature, Fall] In the green and great Autumn of your face, Wearily it sat And watched the wandering Of the sunbeams as they poured Through the old leafless trees And climbed the high boughs And paled in the fading air And all at once there fell A silence on the world A hushing of the throng: No laughter, no talking, No cries of triumph Nor any living thing To break the hush So sweet and so vast That even my spirit Was drawn to it And seemed to forget All its proud exultation And its mad desire To be loved by you It seemed to forget Its own faint humming And the giddy pleasure It had of being happy And fled into the trees Where it sat dim-eyed and bowed In a deep listening mood But when at last the night Fell on the tired world And tired trees and tired earth It arose from its dreaming And through the silence There fell a wind So calm and so deep It made no sound at all And in its moving It seemed to be The heart of the fallen year The year that was broken And the unanswering soul Of the tired earth That year had died into the air As a bird leaves its wings So that at last there rose Only one sound in that mighty hush The sound of one tree falling It fell On the lonely grave of Autumn On a man whose name was buried there But whose soul was with him in the woods And could not die So it fell on his grave And no one could say if it were A soul that listened or a tree That merely sighed. <|endoftext|> "One and the Same", by C. P. Cavafy [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Anniversary, Engagement, Valentine's Day] I thought so much about her, and you So little, it didn't matter which I chose. I knew we would make a good pair, But that was not so important, was it? Her family moved to Buffalo, New York, While I was in school, and wept apart In the Westchester County cemetery There. I liked the idea of her Since I lived so far from here, but yet I had not met her before. My friend Said he would drive up that next Tuesday And take me out for dinner. That was Tuesday. Sunday he came to pick me up, so It was a Thursday when I woke up And had breakfast with him at Jo-Ann's On Broadway, just across the river From where she lived. Thursday night I went to dance at the Ruskin' School For young women. Sunday, after church I went to Sylvester's to get a hat For Mildred. When I came home I found That they had gotten Mildred a dress And I took her out to dinner, that Friday. Saturday she had her baby's death And had a ball. Sunday I drove her down To Saint Thomas's to have her portrait done And a moustache made. I had to stay Later than usual, so by and by I went to Greenfield to see her have My ears pinned and put up on a wall For people to see. I was there till I had to go back to the hospital Where I was bed-ridden for a while. Sunday I had another daughter, Marie, and we went to the church and had A nice lunch. Then we all went out To the island to see the sea-gulls And to get a hat and some flowers. And I gave Marie a little coin To buy her mother a little gift. Monday came and all was new And I was worse than ever, couldn't Get out of bed, couldn't write, couldn't Take out the garbage, even helped My wife in the store, but nothing Really worth while was going on. Tuesday Marie was taken sick in the hospital, And we all went up to make the funeral. Wednesday came and I couldn't write, I couldn't even speak. Thursday I Stopped working, avoided everyone, No meetings, parties, anything. Friday The fever broke and I started to feel Again. Saturday the work started up again And I couldn't eat. Sunday I couldn't Do anything but eat and drink. Monday I couldn't write any more, and <|endoftext|> The ladies went to the dance, But some did not come back. It rained, and then it rained, and then it rained, And sometimes the sky was grey; But still the countenance was gay, And still the walker did not die. The wind it moaned, but not in pain, And the trees it spoke with a sing-song, And the boy did not sin. The next day, more rain! The next, the sky was black! The next, the trees were bare! The next, he heard a shout, And saw a corpse in the sky. The sky it was a reddish blot, And the countenance was o'er. The next day, and the next, The sky grew red again! The next, the sky was cloud! The next, a corpse was found! And next, death came in his steed! And next, life flew in his bird. An hour after, and no change! And then it cleared; and still the sky Grew grey; and still the trees were bare; And still he limped; and still the boy Heard no voice; and felt no pain; And limped on, and limped on, For nine long, weary, hellish years. Eternal hunger! hunger for the life That daily lessening grows for him! A glory growing dim, and o'er him, A darkness of the long ago. The Lord may know how much he miss The life that daily lessening grows. I LEFT thee in the evening with the news I brought; The goddess of my heart had fled with all her care, To lie with Her, in the shade of Cleis and aloe. The moon shone on thine empty silken dress Through the window bars. She must quit me soon, and go To try if Anteros in Olympus be. I could not find thee for the terror and doubt That on me fall. O heart! they do not come with day. THERE was a day, when to the sea and I The dark clouds seemed to close in a circling curtain, And all the night was hushed to one long calm. Oh, the hour was love's, the moment e'en the day! The evening and the moon were past, and now Day was to come in the same calm. Then a breeze From Phoebus' beautiful heart seemed to blow To set the clouds from heaven, and sweep away The night that came so slow to cup my soul, And lighten it with a gush of fresh dew. I heard the voice of a nightingale Singing as she chirped in April, As if she sought to cheer me with her song And bid me glad the approaching day. The darkness, and the silence that fell From stars to earth, or seemed to sweep away, And nightly with a gentle breath to smite The lids and wake the spirit of the skies To music. The night was not more sad; For to her eyes the stars did not seem As precious stones, but wandering shades, As at the dead of night one sees a ghost. The breeze of night and its cooling breath Grew strong and stilly all the livelong day. The moon grew cold to my bending hand, As to a lover's, and the stars grew pale And faded as I loved them best. I WENT through the night with the moon that dies At the goblet's edge; I heard the flow Of the great fountain like a lover's sigh. And I kneeled and prayed; I knew not what I asked, But this I knew: I only loved the hour Of daylight and the moon, and now it came. The fountain shone and spake to me, as it said, "I am thy water, love, and thou art mine." IT is not in the cup that the wine is made, Or in the field that the flower grows, Or in the mine where the gold is heaped, Or by the river where the sea. It is not in the hand that the power is laid Or in the heart that the love is given, But it lies in the eyes that approve or guess, In the mouth that expresses it unsaid. IT is not in the star that the sun is set, Or in the rose that the blossom opens, Or in the soil that the fruitful has sprouted, Or where the tiniest particle is hid. For these jewels are joined with the chord Where the soul resides of the musical string That eternally swings and vibrates, And of which the lips and the tongues speak, Whose music is ever new and old. It is not in the star that the morn is risen Or in the rose of the blossom that blows, Or in the sunny land where the summer dies That the autumn returns; 'Tis in the eyes that the colour comes, And the lips that express it, old and young, As the hyacinth of the zodiac grows old In the breath that is strewn on the sward. It is not in the star that the night goes down On the bosom of heaven serene, Nor where the eternal wind is blown, Nor by the torrent in the mountain's breast Where the sound is borne, That the rose that blossoms in the heart is born, Nor that which is plucked on the bathroom floor. But in the eyes where the love-light is shed, In the bosom whence feeling has its birth, And by sighs are sweetened and depressed, And by lips that are wet with the dew Of the fire of desire, <|endoftext|> When I was heretofore Under the hand of the old Lord God Almighty, mightily I pray. For that I will give them a rest. I send them my prayer for a rest, Which they gladly have received; For of their ship they have slain 'Neath the white-winged ship of peace. So when they will go thence They shall find the sword of Ulysses Yet unsheathed, but sheathed for ever. A Spartan warrior, in his halls A bed, with royal Trojan couches, Was watching and longing for his love. And he thought, "Could I but embrace her, I shall soon lay firm hold upon Troy." So in the midst of festivities He lay under her fair canopy, And in turn he kissed her breast and her soft feet, and his soul became clouded with love. And as when some thirsty man, far off floating on a wintry sea, Hopes to quench his thirst by grasping a hare, Or by clasping aoi, or rock of crystals, Then, as the drink he is holding declines, He loathes it with a bad taste; likewise so Was the mind of this man, whom good fortune treated kindly, drinking much and oft, till his mind was dejected with love. And now, when he had drunk to his heart's content, he said, "O Queen, I have pleased you justly, since you have given me, and yet kept back just gifts for my own dear sake. What you gave me I will, with no hardiment, present to you as a fitting recompense. I will go home and put on those wondrous garments that come out of heaven, when anyone who has put off old false things is with the righteous deeds, in course of being burned in the fire. And now I will tell you that which I will never tell a soul: I never had hope to have another day with her, so true she was to me. Now, I have served you many days, and served very well indeed, when I saw that I was on the right path, and yet my heart, never until to-day has found its peace, nor has had rest, though I have proved itself, as the blind man tested the opportunity of a new eye, or a new tongue, for he is never quite silent with his mirth, and with his jesting voice can hold discourse with the best-laid schemes of the world, so that they never see the fine subtleties which are woven round the same old desires, and which are safe until they are tested in flame. For she has shown me that I was worthy of so much ill so many times, and I saw that she loved me, so very much, and I could not keep back a kiss. And thus I found all those other kisses flattering me, and I was glad at that, and thought indeed that I might now have no fear at all. But lo, the Gods who live in heaven kept back the fate that I wished for. For Laertes spoke first, saying, 'My son, how canst thou hope after such successes to find your own way among the fortunate? For we Achaeans shall never be able to stay our bitterest grudges when you have won the whole of these rich presents. But tell me, and tell me true, what has Ulysses done that he should be so unfairly blamed?' 'I will tell you truly all. Laertes did not forget you and never meant you dishonour. Far from it. For he always loved you as his closest friend, and when he heard news of your exploits, he sent me here with Hortensius to witness them, and to ask what I should do about those friendly groves of golden cedar that the king of the country in question has promised to set you about; and you will do rightly, for you will get them to lift the threatenings off an oath that he has taken, not to come near them and bring them here, till you have given him one clear promise that he will never bring them to you. And he will take you up at once and send him away by another way, while you are in no sort of difficulty or perplexity about these matters, so long as you keep this course. But if you will perform your task well and quickly, he will soon put the matter simply, and not only will he, but he will gladly give you a handsome present for your safe return, for he wants you to be away for some time.' Then the good nurse Euryclea said, 'My dear, this is what I would say. There is an ancient nurse of Ulysses, who has been your nurse since you returned in the house of your master. She is living still, but the mortal who has been your nurse for the last seven years has told the nursewives of Ithaca that your father is dead, and that you are to be nurse of his son Tiresias. They are never to allow any mortal man to sit by your bedside when you lie in bed. And she will go and tell the king himself, who is much pleased when he sees a nurse treating her patient with greater attention and with more affection than is due to him, for he can bare very well to see the suffering of a sick person when it is seen as being due to her own neglect--and when it is quite plain that it is owing to his having sent her away. But it will be better for you if you leave the town, for if the king comes to Ithaca he will do you some very <|endoftext|> Then a rare summons flew in his ears, The Moon was near her nightly course again, He should return the same evening here. He started, as if from a sleep, and stared Round on all sides--at last he turned and went; While, in a wood, a woman came her way, All dusky, and all beautiful and grand. His eye went quickly to her eye and there It found the star of faith, it seemed to be; And he, as one that never did repent, Followed her, as though on her he'd set His foot to find the heavenly life had dawn'd The voice of him that was no day, but night, Of him that never thought of day or night But as an empty void--of a cloud That, like a kite's, holds the sky in leash, The faith of a man-built city, till death-- And he, that never had believed, was proved By this, to the white-robed faith of woman. Her self-conviction like a wandering light Shone on the side that never yet had hoped; "Come," she said, "with me to this alien place, The stream that never murmur had grown sad. The flowers had withered, and the trees were low, The stream was dark, the night she should not stay, But sail with me and look on this strange isle, Underneath the sea, it had not one flower." The hour seemed less than any days on earth; He think'd of all his failures, but chose not To leave the woman on her solitary shore. He trust'd that, where no witnesses were, her word Would suffice him for his lack of faith to prove. She laid her hands upon his head, and caught his eyes, And o'er him in a dream time seemed to pass, When suddenly he felt the Earth shake under, And heard a cry, as of a ship in storm on rocks; And turning, look'd and saw the women weeping sore. They led him from the place, and set him on board, Their hearts were heavy with the solitude, He looked on all they held most precious; The braid that coil'd above the morning brow, The ring, the brooch it wore on ear, the finger That play'd upon it--all were shaken by the wave, And wave by wave adown the watery world went. But, with all his care, he got to land at last, He reach'd a low isle, its cliffs of sand withdrew, The moon was hid, but, o'er the main, a star Stream'd from the western cave; he saw its beams Upon the rocks, the sea, and from the billows, When lo, the dark cliffs reappear'd, the sea grew white, The broadening moon shone clear upon the watery world. He land'd at noon upon a craggy coast, The wind came fetching at his sultry sail, He touch'd, with a dumb amazement, the land that lay So long dissociated from the sea, Where now so long the land had been unknown, It seemed with scorn to scald itself on the brine, And seem to laugh at the poor sailor's pain. He saw the castle on the headland rise, He saw the white mansion, and the lawn, With steps of marble, which recall'd him well Back to the scene of years long vanished by, And he would have enter'd at the leading-town, But that the curst prig of a tyranny, Beset with scandal, gagged the whispering cry, "Them, the innocent!" and the like; so scathe it came to pass, That he entered not, but turn'd his prow To the wild woods, and the wide sea's domain, And back to the thrice-conquer'd holy wars. I must not hold thee to the tale I tell, Which is too strange, if true, and I confess That I cannot be sure where to place thee, If indeed the tale I hear is true; But hear me, here, to thee a vagabond, That am well ware of strange sights and new tales, Since in Graemenden I have been at home, The Isle of Bream, that is not understood By th' English, but by Northfolk only, And doth not know the road from Humber Norwich. This sea, when first our lord the Normans came, Was not a ocean, but a mere lake; A valley then David ruled, the vale Of Alm near to Bethlehem-Peace is dry; But when the crusaders built a tower On Bead-rhyme, it cast to sea the vale And thence the hill o'erspread, and at one leap Scatters across the waves a hundred miles, So David's grandson trampled Rome, Till Charlemagne the pagan bent the back And drove the infidel from Britain back, With all the trappings of his monarchy. But first the last of Britons rose again, A goodly king, but a bad ass, That drank with such a glee, the kingdom sank, His laugh was 'Ave Maria,' his leer Was 'Sis Pianosa,' and his sword was 'Tanum.' His son, alas, was called Caldwell, from his name The nighest river is called Caldwell's Well; His daughter Catherine was a. coy girl, Who read with a flaming torch the bible, And showed the passions of the women of old By faint tints in their cheeks, as she struck 'em. Ah! hapless daughters, and bewitching wits, <|endoftext|> the green pear the kiwis, those sweet, shining things. they love the way the falling rain kisses the screen door, the way a hummingbird dips its wing in the cup of the sugar doll to taste its soul. the pearl holder on the dresser is wrapped in a sheet. what can I do with this white bead? the sun looks up and then is drowned in a pile of new moon. I can't tell if it’s more beautiful that she is waiting in the forest or that she’s left the city all together. <|endoftext|> "Vincent Charles", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Body, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Our path crosses his walking far ahead of us, but we see him soon enough to know what we’re getting into. We take the paved path, dim in moonlight, but his shoes gleam in the late September beams and warm air sifts in as we pass. The country here is small, with white houses spanning acres wide. Children run across roads in their white shoes to meet us. His shirt sags open at the neck, and we see the face we never get to see. I press my cheek to the leather of his arm to feel his breath, his salt and pepper hair, and his pale skin like a canvas sunning in the wind. We step into the field where the tall corn sways in the morning light. The air is sweet and humid, like walking in a dream, and we take slow, deep breaths of it. We hold hands, and he lets me touch the medallion dangling at his side, the only thing I have seen that can complete me. The medallion trembles to life in my hands. I know it by heart, and I can feel the difference now, the difference between what I know and what I want. <|endoftext|> "After the Funeral", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Funerals] I Tears line the arch of her eyes, rain tears in her brown hair. Grief like this finds language. Memories line the porch like cats trying to remember their way home. Her mouth hangs loose with joy. And joy like this goes away. A tiny leaf drifts through the air, and vanishes. A sob snaps a heart into two. But this goes away too. II Tears cover her face. Rain tugs at her gray gown. It is almost morning. After so many years, she has no idea where she is. A field of thistles curls around a silver balloon. III She is wide awake now, waking like a housecat. Sweat clings to her legs like an old tuxedo. The smell of cologne drenches the room. She tries to move, but she cannot move and the steps of movement are barred. It is as if she were immersed in a deep river and suddenly the water turned black and rust-colored. And the sun went out. <|endoftext|> "Meditation in Prison", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Prison & Criminal Justice, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] In solitude, I sit, I try to think. I thought I was right, I thought I was right. The iron cell moves in the mind. I know it will break me, but I sit, I think, I think. And the rust-colored water turns to a brown river, I know it will break me. I will not cry. I will not cry. <|endoftext|> "Childhood Stories", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I I was a child once when the world was still, when there were no men, and a dead calf ate sun. I remember the smooth jaw of the cow with the open nostril, the sound of its hoofbeats. I remember it well, I am thinking of it now, years after its death. I am thinking of the way it put its enormous weight on a two-by-four, and then by concentrating, I pushed it, almost too far, upside down in the snow. I am thinking of my hands on the handles, the smell of the frozen midnight ice, the cold, I am thinking of my hands in wonder. II Once I had a dream in the cellars of the future, where all the stalagmites, and all the tanks, and all the wells were alive. And I stood alone in a great hall. No men were in it, and I could see the glitter of their shoes on the polished floor. And I knew that they were playing a game of chess, but I could not see the game. <|endoftext|> Of Ægyptus, who the journey took To Zacynthus, and thence by stealth to Troy. From him I, next, to Phylacus am led, For every labours he had allured the youth To undertake in foreign realms of heat, So he might gather wealth and wisdom to bestow At home. The boy, overcome with toils, his course Had to another harbour chose; and next, Thee, shepherd of the flocks, Ægyptus' son The island came, that with the mountain chain Divides the river-streams of Aganippe, And pined Lesbos, from which Naxos derives That name. There dwells the mountain-lion strange Ægyptus, who in all the other lands To hardship had turned out his foot-paths of gain, But here he chose his seat, nor other cause Than that the place was fair and gentle there For steady-hearted men to love and enjoy. And there he dwelt, a man who plied his trade In virtuous living, and fair wife-sowing. But I no longer miss the dwelling-place Of that Ægyptus, so went my steps Down to the beach of the dark-pink sea, Where lay the harbour,--now say, would I But know by what belief the well-loved isle Was named of old; for verily I know It once was so, and still is named of old By many men, and I myself have heard The name pronounced, as men utter vow Of holiness, such holy men do name The isle. And there, in shade of pine-woods dark, My very child-love lingers, by my soul A temple of health. But I would tell, ere long, How all these things be, seeing that I know What human hearts are, how sad their wandering, How restless in their hearts' secret recesses, Though, like the bird's, their utterance seems to be Of nought but gladness. O, pray enable My words to reach the ears of him alone My heart loves, since he has made my very life Irrevocable, by that only will He has unquenchable, which, through life and death, He is so very ready to unfold, And, through his art, to open or conceal. For this will I sit down ere long to tell, How many sweet and wholesome laws which still Banish care and sorrow, have been wrought In Crete by the sagacious Pallas there. But now the Sire himself, who of all men Gave laws to mortals, being now within, And inly feared for his own, the Nymphs Love to attend him. Yea, and it is well That ye be here! Ye twain have here together More than ye could in any other place have found, Now that the land hath felt the days of peace And plenty; for all Crete is, as I trust, Clear out of the clods, and sweetness itself Is riper for returning to her soil. But come, for first it is thy feast-day, Queen! Dine with us, and be merry with us, And let thy counsel be more ample, That we, returning to our country, may see More of thy kindness; for, sure, none can see All the good deeds which she hath wrought for men Through the long years, nor hath she spoken yet Of her bounty in a singular Or exceptional aye or single term, But all her deeds are eternally Bemoaned and praised through many generations. For she hath given to all men steadily Their daily portion, her portion of good, And hath not forced the poor with many tokens, But hath instead, with unflagging hand, The precepts of her own free will poured Into their hearts. And therefore we will play Bacchus too, which is a revelation Of the spring-time of the year, with distichs Of volume manifold of gladness, With sweet avocations; that thy ears May drink such constant intermission As whelms the bulls at mirth, when once they start From milking, and the fruitful flocks laugh Among the hills. Then shall thy children, I Know not when, again resume their pasture, And soon as draws the pleasant season to The fall, thou shalt begin to hear a sound Of hurrying hoofs on the thick-set corn, The tasselled rye and the swarth-grained stubble, Which clearly proves the fall of summer. Then shall we on the first day of autumn With blazing lamps from dawn to eve revel In revelry glad, and at the last, Victorious, spread a carpet of shade For the monarch honey-combed seed-crowned, Who now, with hands ever sanctified, From sacred sheaves turns gaunt and dishevelled Stripes of ruddy harvest, and sloughs off the cloth. But thou, O Queen, the winters share, and be Gentle as Spring, and let us thither bring Wakeless of slumber, that we may wake him up, And welcome him, the offspring of thy Son, Lord of all things. Now through my heart all my lines ring true, For aye I find I have been true to my vow, Yet not as false as I should be who basely yield To ingratitude the good things that are. But, O Queen, I pray thee do for me still good And true things, for he who ingrates doeth well Makes not the Father's name sacred, and the Son's <|endoftext|> An' lea'e me on the ground, An' heave me out o' sight. An' heave 'er up o' it; an' put the gear In an' stow the ribbins bright; An' let me grate an' dry an' limmar, To lim' aroun' the deil. Till then, in peace, I 'll stay, An' hope for to get By to Moyle-bawnnock abune Or h'omanhood in Glengoyne To gallop round a crown Is no for a gleesome love; To joll it on the gilly Is only fit for a glutton. But to stay on the straight an' true, An' never thought o' harm, To gallop round a crown Is honour indeed. To gallop on the straight and true Is honour indeed. An' when the gallop has got commix An' the time come for to tak' leave, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. An' when the gallop has got comix, An' the time got comin' to take leave, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. An' when the time it come to to tak' leave From galloping round a crown, From goin' on an' get'in' back, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. An' when the time 's come to to tak leave, An' to go from galloping round a crown, From goin' on an' get'in' back, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. They say to stand at the post Is the plan o' the soldier. I never liked to go, But I never could find out How to get off the post. I couldn't understand it, If I couldn't understand it, From the sound of it. There isn't no plan in the world To land a man on the strappin' An' to land him on his feet. There isn't no plan in the world To get to shore alive When the water come at you bad, When the water come at you bad, An' to go from shore again. I had goose bumps all over, When I landed on the strappin' My feet was so dry as the drippin' On the landing I popped my coggs I popped my coggs to get on the post I couldn't get off the post. I was jumpy, I was deaf, I couldn't figure a thing Out o' gettin' on the post. I'd ask the Chaplain, but he'd say, "I can't tell you how to get off, I can only tell you how to get on." An' so I stuck as I was, But I always made sure, On the first day, I'd know it, I'd done my quick time. I stood by the post a while, An' I said to myself, "I'll only stay a minute, I'll go an' get a pint." I drank it all up, I drank it all up, I wanted to go back again, But I figured I'd better stay A minute longer, An' I figured I'd better stay A minute longer, To lick the taste off the glass. Then I stood by the post again, An' I said to myself, "I'll only go and get a kiss." I kissed a few chaps along, But the rest I couldn't get by, 'Cause my lips was too dry. I licked them guys, an' I licked 'em good, I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post. It wasn't no use to lick the post, 'Cause I was too hot, An' I couldn't stand the way that the water Was steaming, an' the feel of it on my skin. I licked the chaplain, an' I licked 'em too, I licked 'em too, an' I licked the chaplain. I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post, An' I tried to get through the line, But the post tasted like sand, an' the chaplain Seemed all confused an' sleepy-headed. I licked 'em good, an' I licked the chaplain, I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post. I licked 'em good, an' I licked the chaplain, I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post. I licked the chaplain good, an' I licked the post, But I couldn't get through the line. I walked along the post, An' I stood by the chaplain, An' I said to myself, "I wonder if he'll understand." I wonder if he understood, I wonder if he understood, But I couldn't get through the post. I stood by the post again, An' I stood by the chaplain, An' I said to myself, "He'll understand when I'm done." I did it, now, an' I did it, An' I did it again. But I couldn't get through the line. <|endoftext|> They say, that in a secluded place, Some withered hand reach'd out for mine; As if to clutch me by the sleeve, And after whisper'd, "Behold thy son!" He knew, indeed; and thus he said: "O sovran One, who anointedst me sire And bade the mother stand before thee here, With brother and with sister thy priests I acknowledge; and they will pray for thee, Who at the world's opening stood'st in thy light, And to the bridegroom advance their prayers. Go with thy son, and as thou wilt ordain, Through worlds of being, thy sovran ordinance, That in each heart some spark of purest fire Might serve to guide the footsteps of the dead. If these arrangements be withheld long, From those thou seest thy life shall pass away; And they, perhaps, shall never know the ways Where thou wert instrumental in their salvation." "Thy whole life at onegiving join'd these two To earth, and in their arms to earth they went. And their pure hands with life-blood were emblaz'd, Which, not yet corrupted by the lewdrop's fall, Made pathos of the mortality of men. So blest, so blest was I, a sovran guest, That still unto my life my love return'd. And they, their progeny, ere yet to age Was distant, were, through close cohort seeing My sovran guest, one family, one house. For me the law of hospitality By ancient example with them so often Testimony had infus'd, that I myself Was part of that stock, as they from one root Drawn by the fates, as unto their harvest positive. Now, brother, I must tarry no longer here In vision deep of this apparition; Since that of whose sovran goodwill I saw My spirit made pure, I am order'd so To tarry no more with corporeal clay. Hence, with high promise sent ahead to stand Apart, I proceed to subdue my mind To what it is that divine has shap'd me to be. I mouritely wish you joy and exultation, Which the grave to you seems inaccessible; That you may be rejoice with me at this moment, And may with me embrace the immortal powers, Which I to know aspire, though I know them not. For my mind hath caught the vision clear and pure Of those celestial forms, which, crying, blaze On all the depths of ether breaths of the air; Which never of themselves the primal germs Contain, but ever exist by miracle; As the vast galaxy, or as this creation, The very word to stand without corporeal aid, Vie with the vision, which from heart and brain Of man, or angel, like an awful voice Puts the highest, calls the peculiar one Aware upon man to view, a fit mission. Yes, I do know, and understand your griefs and fears, Which you bemoan, with such submission wear; For such deceits I do not suffer still; As yet I am by nature free from woe; Nor should I wish to be so, or should feel That I should wish it, since you are my brethren. My father, you are bound to me by nature, Since of you I am derivate and sister; And that by birth I have some claim in you, The same appears evident, why I speak The same, and lay it as my guarantee this. You are my brethren, but we are not one, We are from another mother begotten; Yet in one blood we are conveyed and born, Though with different fathers; this I know well, And it is but as men that we have share In one natural body, whence the different names We have were born with: but in my song I seek No other fruit of it, than to sing your praise. My brother, and my other parent, God, Hath spread the world through every continent, And hath His foundation in each land. Each man's affection must have its seat In the great love, which is the end of all: If the desire of each exceeds the sense, Each in its kind has kindled; and this above, In reverence to that love which is God's, Has caused us to establish this allegiance To our most sovereign, who hath made of earth His heritage, and all things of it created: Where He does love, who can condemn or force To love anything else but what he loves? This was my error; and, for it, I die. But through it all, I've kept my will in love, As I understood that great law of God. For this it is that I was sent to preach The gospel, that men might be saved, and swerve From the way of sin and death, and God be glorified; And have, by my ministry, in many lands Called men to come to Christ; and in this church I have been the instrument through which God's gift Of revival has gone down, and yet will go on; But, while I go on, by good and evil report, I've brought my precious Lord to do my minister's will; And, in my sufferings, have not squander'd my all, But have been true to Him who gives me health and youth. But now I am a marked man; I cannot go With out marching day and night before my doom; And, with God's grace, I'll do my best to fit my pen For some new vocation; though 'tis a poor show, To make men holy and ready to believe; <|endoftext|> What to me were a prairie fire Or far mountainous ranges, if you had Before me here a prairie spread, Uncontemned, and the fire Not confined to a wire. I would not change that. If I had, I should not regret it. For I would have Before me here A fire uncontaminated By a little smoke, And that is all. And I say to myself, from this distance, That I would much rather see A red-tailed hawk Pass overhead, Than a volcano made of fire. The shepherd lingers by his cool stream Until the sun is in the sky, When, without thought of his home, Homeward he hurries. What is so glad About the shining of the day, But to think, when it is done, I must go back again? If I have ever been sad, It is that I have forgot The words of one who was more wise than I; And now I say of one Who never did betray me: "Lo, this is the worst of all the baleful things That a woman can bring with her That makes a man forget his home." If I have ever been glad, It is that I have forgotten The words of one who was more glad than I; And now I say of one Who never did turn away: "Lo, this is the worst of all the baleful things That a woman can bring with her That makes a man forget his home." You tell me, little lips, How the dew comes down So lightly On the blossom Of the morning. And how the dew looks up So longingly As the gnats come down On the shadow Of the hill. You tell me, little lips, How you love the rain, And the cold, cold wind, And the wild blue smoke That comes from the hills, And how you want the hills To be alive With the little sounds Of the rain. You tell me, little lips, How you love to lie On the cool wet grass And watch the skies go by, And the river, Going to sea, With a whisper in your ear Of "Nevermore!" There are dreams that come to one per night, (Each dreams a different dream), There are thoughts that come to one per day, (Each thoughts a different thought), There are songs that come to one per week, (Each songs a different song), There are tales that come to one per year, (Each tales a different tale), There are memories that come to one Thro' a lingering of the weeks, There are joys that come to one per day, (Each joy a different joy), There are larks that sing to one per night, (Each larks a different lark), There are tears that fall to all men once a month, (Each tears a different tear), There are death, and taxes, and pinched wages, And one who has a wart upon his toe, (A wart that stinks), There are dreams that come to one per night, (Each dream a different dream), There are thoughts that come to one per day, (Each thoughts a different thought), There are songs that come to all men once a month, (Each songs a different song), There are memories that come to all men once a month, (Each songs a different song), There are tears that fall to all men once a month, (Each tears a different tear), There are death, and taxes, and pinched wages, And one who has a wart upon his toe, (A wart that stinks). How shall I wake at dawn to-morrow? With the pale hand to twist the cord That dangles in the twilight? With the eyes to count the moths that slip Into the moth-jar, one by one, Then fold the window aside And hear the bee, the wind, the pigeons' trills Calling from the Road? Or, how shall I wake at dawn to-morrow? With the pale hand to twist the cord That dangles in the twilight, With the eyes to count the moths that slip Into the moth-jar? Far, far away I see the Road that runs across the Sun-- A crimson road that thrills with fiery particles, Away across the Sun--a roadway of glory That runs across the Sun, A fiery crimson road of glory That thrills with fiery particles. Through this road of flames I see the cicadas Fade into the sunset haze; The vapors, declining, Fade out of sight; And in wafting waves of golden light The sunset sheds Over my house the call of the Sea-- It is a sweet voice that calls me Home at the dawn of the day; It is the wind that speaks To the sleeping town; With an emphatic 'wake, O wake!' At the beginning of each dawn; The hours of the golden day Wake and sigh and sigh And weep, O sad and sad, For the Day. The pale phantoms of the day Shimmer in the golden light; A melody like mist descending Comes floating out of the cloudless sky Till it fades in the golden rain That runs from the dawn of the day Into the sunset haze; And, far away, Into the golden sunset haze, A familiar ship is riding seaward O'er the beautiful ocean-- O it is the ship that brought you here! It is the ship that brought you o'er the waves! <|endoftext|> Up to a day when all is changed, Saving you, as now, of all. LXXXIX. "There be the Cretans, who, 'tis said, Have set their feet, though remote from us, On Helice's isle, and live at peace With the old sea-god; so, too, the rest Of that still throng are blessed, and steer Their sandy barks across the deep. But some are changed. They who once dwelt Upon the sandy bars of Crete, And saw the sea, now ply the trade Of Sicily. There is Sichaeus, Thenceforth bereft of sense and breath, Whom to the river plain we bore Down the long lane of slaves and wine To his whose words were Life, and Death Now guides us to the Sake-plains all. 'Neath the fierce curse of cruel Circe, Drawn by the swine-herd, he wandered forth A year. But when the grey-hair'd messenger Of o'er-manner'd Fate was seen no more, He swam, and eat the cruel fowl, Or with the beast that pays his fare Tore at the ford before the ship. Then first I heard of Thetis' son. I was the third in line from him, And by my fealty, in aught That could or vouchsafed, I was His man in Crete. But, ere the stream Was fast retreated, his bark went down The sandy deep, and with the flood Pass'd the fatal place. But I escaped, And passed the stony piers and passes, And through the stormy clouds was borne Unto the Grecian ships. Here was I seen By Teucer, as, at the whiles, he plied His sword, with this request in my ear: "O friend! be not dismay'd, but turn to flight, Lest thou to Circe's dwelling go, Where of that rout I spoke am sure." "I dare not," said I, "O citizen, Lest thou should'st wish me lost upon The waters." And with that word he fled. Forthwith I chased him, even as he passed, From the warm wave, far as the land's extent, To tell my tale to him, but he was gone. My comrades bear the brunt of the storm; E'en so, in sooth, did I, but o'er the deep I knew not where my flight should best suffice. So long as to the ships we bide the stream, The war proceeds amain between the crew And Circe's magic band; but when we reach The haven, then, sorrowing, we depart With downcast looks, nor can our hearts restrain Our tears. We to the city speed away And to our home. But when we had reached home, My friends, I knew not how, I could not tear My garments from my limbs; for tears bedew'd My heart, and, despair within me, I supplicate'd To be allow'd to finish my days in ease. When I had mingled in the mournful throng, A aged woman, running to the ground, Accomplish'd in words what never a tongue Could have expressed--a young man cajoled away My clothes, and with them led me to a tomb Upon a forest cliff, that overhung The sea, and from the cavern's mouth viewed The sky and ocean. There my worthy guide Left me, and directed me to a boulder Which at the nearest mole was align'd, and told Where dwelt a herd of sheep, diligent and good, That used to feed on the turf and moss Near the great watch-tower of the city, Where trees their sunny boughs divide the strand; Nay, where a small birch, full ten fingers wide, Pendent in idleness, in shade suspended, Caught the broad beam of the setting sun, And waving wide its adherent leaves, An ancient oak in fashion like that which now Charles and his fathers saw built by him, Whose oaks in wreaths erewhile the sacred town And primitive shrines of Hercules held dear. Thither, force irresistible being found, Loud groan the roots of that old oak, and wide- Embracing boughs the branches close in, And in that copse the flowering beech supplies. There rest a moment mead-sweet, then away Towards the sea, for by the way of ways Loud crashes the squirrel's matted hair, and shrill Peals the quivering of small birch-grove more, And ever, as we onward, mirth is born More resplendent by increase, that evermore Swells into gladness, such as ease desireth. Then, because the time apprently elaps'd, Tears well may flow, when joy is short and brief. Now had we come where, on the level green, The high tower's square pinnacle seem'd rear'd High over all the soil, and far and wide Its viewpoint cover'd; when Virgil thus To me: "To the high rock summon therefore Thy fellowship of singers; and with them Precautions take, and watches keep, and guards Issue forth, to prevent unseemly sight And ill repute to Folly polluting thine." "These prudent orders I would crave From noble earl whom Halthestratius swears Is near, his help to advert to Weeping Lacedaemon, nor to an end His toils one jot short of his fair son's <|endoftext|> Forgot, and even shamefaced and sternly glad In a strange bitter way, with coldly, sullen And scary eyes the lady came; And still, in her retinal glow, She looked as pitiless as death. And something in the world grew grey, And still she smiled as pitiless as death, And still the lady's smile grew cold, And then she tried to touch the lady, And touched her hard, with fingers cold, Yet still the lady's face grew paler, And still her eyes grew calmer; Till at the last her fingers failed, Touched no face in that strange gloaming, Touched no face in the night. And the lady wandered lonely And grew faint with sadness, And she would have died the death of shame, But she felt a hand that held her And all her pain did end, And a voice whispered softly, "She will not die, She will awake to bless you, She will awake to bless you, She will awake to bless you; She will bless you always, And awake to bless you." And still the lady's face grew colder, And still her eyes grew colder, And still she felt the cool hand press her And whisper low, "She will not die, She will awake to bless you, She will awaken to bless you, She will awaken to bless you; She will bless you always, And awake to bless you." And as the lady died She murmured softly, "I have been true, For love is blind as Death, And life is well, but only for a night, God will take you from me, And leave me for the flame, For flame that consumes you and me, A purple shadow thro' the day." "You have no power, my love," the peasant said, "You will not wake her, you dare not speak, How could she know the one who has not seen?" "But I will tell her--but, my love, speak not, But whisper, whisper, whisper!" the lady cried, "Say, 'Here is my hand, here is the hand That never might have failed to save The one who comes to-morrow morning, But now has failed; speak, speak, speak!' For I will never wake again, Never wake again." "But where is he, that he should come to-morrow, To-morrow, when the dawn is red, To-morrow, when the sun is bright? What, do you think, are you dreaming still, In that lost, dark, and dread hour, You never saw the face, you never heard The tones that haunt you, lonely as hell?" "I think," she said, "I think, my love, of the last Time we met, and this last loveliness; I wonder if it may not be true, This whispered, sweet, last romance; O, if it may not be true, That sunset o'er your summer hills shall glow, That dawn shall dawn above your seas." "I wonder if it may not be so, But then I fear, I fear the night That hides the star, and hides the sea, And makes of memory--memory!" And there was silence in the room; And in the room was only the clock, And the sea-gull, sitting still, Watching with half-shut eyes the clock Go sure and swift from the room. "Is it then too late, too late, to love? Are you too old, too old for pain? If so, then go and leave me here, That I may feel the silence, know The silence, the unquiet heaven; For if you love, then life is death, And pain, and sadness, and the sea; If so, go, go, and leave me not; For if you love, there is no pain, No darkness, no sorrow, and no sea. "And if you think, because you have loved Before, and knew before what it is, And you have borne the burthen of the same, You may not love again,--then I say Go hence, and leave me not, I pray, If so it be that you may not bear The old old love and familiar heat; For if you love, though so old and old, The new young kisses of a little child. "But if you think, because you have known And loved, and borne, and now know all, It is too late to die, too late to live, Then go, and leave me here, for I am sick Of this ill-spent life, of one long pain; Of one long, long, weary, frightful hour; Of one long, dread Saturday night; Of one long night that holds my face Like a closed and deadly face; Of one long, fearful, dreadfully dim, When you came from sleep, and seemed to stand Close against my bed, and called me near; And there close beside me you breathed, Like a breath from heaven, and said, 'Hush, hush, sweet Betty, I know, I know, We shall get through this, We shall get through this; And when we have got through this, Then I shall come for you.' "And then you stirred the bed, and you moved, And I moved too, and we two moving moved Till you said 'One, two, three,' and I said 'Five, six, seven,' and you said, 'Now look.' And I said, 'What next, Mr. Ball?' And you said, 'Eight, nine, ten,' and I said, <|endoftext|> Rejoices, joys, and lofty bliss in due proportion. And those shall glory, who, pouring forth a pure soul in prayer, Have shrined in deed her goodly nature, and in word adored. Breathing of that soul-breathing spirit of the Democrat of Nature, whose mystic power The grandeur of his thought has waked, And called forth in subjection from the strife That courses through the revolving spheres, T' avenge the injury, and own the right Of every being to his rightful claim, Whose might is God's might, whose right is his; The day-star of truth, whose torch of glory Lights the wide realms of human race. The world's iniquities have hurled us To the bottomless, and to the tomb Of the Future; in the act of crime We have drowned our free souls, and that deed No future age, or nation, or world, Can cleanse. Thus, to secure the virtue Of the chosen seed, from the rot that dwelt Within the monstrous clay, from the defile Of a degraded past, and from the stain Of a guilty people, on whose heads Divine Louis Napoleon laid the sod That Bruin, and made Sully a citizen, So weak was God's potentace there. And of what race are we, since France With her chill vulture, the Christian God, Punished infidels, and made free men? And of what race are we, since France, Though fettered with the yoke of forty years, Has reared such noble children, whose white Unshorn heads shall leave their future world A better race, than her own of yore? And if some faults should be there made known, And some errors of the human kind Perish in the light of our day, What if our hand were dinged with sin, What if our heart with evil had tinged, What if we were the creatures of one Bad lawyer, who did not and cannot From his cradle flip the dog-teeth, or To the grave flip the Christ, that he might be God's justice for all time; would he then Make out a case for free governments, Or the protection of man, or woman, Or the right of private property, or the laws Of contract? Are we freemen now, or Subjects of subjects? Have we leapt the Chain of the Almighty's alliance, Which we bound to the yoke of the debt, And to the enslaving British lion? And yet we are not in the least enslaved. Some say that no human power is ours, And that no mortal law can restrain The actions of our souls. O! let us Then sweep away the dull, self-indulgent, And inglorious, groups of the past, And go forth to battle, and to victory, That to us and ours the Father's word may come Of promise, and the Lord's command be known. For to the power of self, and the weak world, And the hungry void, come callings and orders, And all forms of necessity, and all Means of encroachment, and all modes Of labour. Where then is the security Of fixed and particular places, and particular Lives? Where is the home of the rich, or the poor, Or slavery and expropriation? Nay, it is not, Father of all, nor the Master, be thy Name God, nor the Witness, nor the Helper, be thy Word Jesus Christ, nor the Saviour, but wherever MEN, And ordinary men, and crowds, and cities, and States, and mankind, to work their deliverance need All means of warfare. And of these are we now The smallest particle. The great earth now constitutes Our habitation; in our blood, and our flesh, and our voices we are mingled. Wherever, then, shall we go, Or where secures us our physical body, and our vital vigour, and our free will? The extreme ends Of physical science tell us we are bound to the earth, Or the rivers, or the plants on the face of the land. But wherefore the depths of the ocean, or the banks of the rivers, Or the depths of the fields, or the banks of the fields, be deemed the seat of our habitation? There are many animals Living on the banks of the rivers, or in the streams of the sea, who appear to have no previous institution Of city life. All places at first were unpopulated; For the animals and plants could not travel hither and thither. But after a while, by the aid of their incantations, And by the cunning skill of artificers, they learned to accompany their motions, and found out how to execute Their journeys in water, and on the plants they grew; by which means cities were originally created. There are wonderful Literatures of Antiquity picturing the earliest ages of mankind, In which these facts, or some very like, are displayed. (1) There are two other versions which render this word "life" by the word "power," but the passage as here illuminated, makes it impossible to determine which word is intended. (2) This refers to the mythical ancient state of man, when three periods are distinguished -- the child, the ox, and the eagle -- each named for the respective power of his birth. The dragon, then, would be the name of the eldest period, and the pillar, and then the stone; the nurse would be the name of the second, and the whale the third. <|endoftext|> Behave at once, or take your life: but if you Will strike him on the cheek, as one striking a Mortal, and no punishment shall follow; he shall go Freely, if his wife be your companion; but if She be your wife, or if you two are found to be Alone, he will slay you, and then he will enter You into Hermit's fellowship.' "Then I departed from the lair, and the dark beasts All slept without their master, and I found my Mother weeping, and my brothers crying, and the Father of my husband; weeping and wailing they Made even the hair of their heads stand on end, And I made much of this, till I sobered, and Woke in the dawn, and saw my brothers still Weeping and mourning; yea, and I knew that it Was my son whom I had lost, and I wept aloud, And my brothers wept, and the Father wept, and The other gods wept, and their full hearts melted With pity, and they said, 'O son, O son, O Raghu’s son, if ye have lost thy son What will you now? how will the nation be blessed? What will the city be raised to royal greatness? How will your father’s dwelling be adorned? Will he be welcome at his doors again? how Will the good Vibhishaṇ be received at home, Whom ye met on the road when the plague Came on you? how will your kindred greet The son who is the Lord of all their goods? O son, O son, whose bed-rid wounds The Bráhmans and the Vánars strewed, How will ye receive him now? how Shall the good Vaśishṭha, thy brother, Be received with homage, when he comes From Daṇḍak forest and the land Of high-souled Kesamsair, and comes With his lords and children to enjoy The banquet and the libation, the share With which his might is laden, the rod That planted Vindhya, and the glory That came with Ráma to the land? How will ye greet him? how will ye greet The hero whose arm in battle slew The leader of the Keśar rebels, And made of Forest-King a shade? How will ye greet him, son whose arm In strength and joyousness was like thine? How will ye greet him, mighty-armed, With armorer’s smeared and bleeding hands, With bow-armed Ashramaṇæ, With valiant Mekshba green and brave, Ashramaṇu, who wields the mace, And Śyenadasa fierce to slay? How will ye greet him, best of men, Thy princely Ráma, whose high name Is increase and hope of all? How will ye greet him who sang so well, With fear and wonder in his eye, The song of the Three Colours under, That charmed the Gods and fled the eye Of Indra’s son? Will ye meet him then, When the light of his coming shines? Will ye receive him with grand reverence, When his feet shall touch the ground, And wreaths of flowers, from the forest sprung, Spring round him and the Son of Raghu? But all in vain he called and sighed, For all in vain they heard and stood Still as trees that idle lie, Or idle trees whose life is brief Whose leaf nor bark has fallen yet. With Sítá on their hearts they stood When the great chieftain came, And round him with low reverence His disciples made the way. Then Ráma cried, for grief he felt Thence of his Rákshas foe: “What will ye, Vánars, will ye do To meet the Son of Raghu? Where will ye speed to meet your lord, Or in what spot assent? What will ye do, O chiefs who shine In wealth and high station high? Where will ye lay your heads, and stay In what their bliss esteems sweet? Will ye obey the summons said By Ráma and Sugríva sent? O, if ye be of manly kind, To him direct your steps, And join Sugríva and me, The chosen three, who grace this throne, And trust them to the camp. They are the friends of Raghu’s son, Their hearts to our interests lean, And will be hither soon to lead Our armies to the fight.” He ceased, his voice with woe aweary Obscured with breathless sobs; And Ráma raised his eyes and gazed Upon his brother thus estranged And sad in heart for grief. At length the prince with heavy sighs The Vánar chieftain eyed, And thus in burning grief reproached The chief of guile and scornful love: “Why wilt thou thus thy sentence pass, And doom thy brother dead, When from his high estate and rank, From wealth and glory free, Ráma has taken you away? Then if he be the prince who holds Our lives and kingdoms, you Forsake the king with him and fly Like birds to Scamárú. No direr sentence, be it found, Can pass the lips of woman; Or, if it be, a death like this The weight of offence had found. Thy deeds and words in time past Have won for thee favour’s glow, <|endoftext|> A soul once wholly thine, With loving eyes that watched, And silent lips that kissed, A heart once wholly thine, May live within my soul, And in my heart may live forever. Oh! come to me in dreams of night, A form as lovely as thine own, A spirit as true as thine own, And say as touching as thine own: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." The ways of men are rough and mad, Their days are blind with doubt and dread; The loves of men are pale and low, And if they claim a name divine It is a name that men despise. The ways of men are blind and hard, And women too in doubt and dread. The dreams of men are faint and fair, And sweet, and rich, and large, And sweet as prayers before they die, As sweet as songs unto prayer. The dreams of men are fair and clear, The sun shines on them through. The way of men is thorny and steep, And hard to those who do not slip; It is a rough and twisted lane That leads to many a lonely shore. The way of men is rough and strange, And oft a sore and twilit path. The dreamer's face grows wan and grey, And thoughts and sighs invade his rest; He hears the cry of women sold, He sees scenes none may share with men. The man awake, like runaway slave, Can only weep and wish for rest. "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." Ah! could I bear it only, Could I only bear its pain, I could not want it half as much. There's a wayfarer come o'er the sea From a fair island in the sea, And his curly head is lost in dread, And his eyes are wet with weeping: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." Hark! the white sails stir and pass, And a great wind blows the sail o'er, And he tumbles on the sand: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." And the white sail sinks to the ground, And the wind dies in the pine-wood; And the wayfarer comes to his home In the land of shadows and dreams: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." The gray gulls flying to their nest And the sea-weed waving in the sand, The sun on the great wave smiting it And the sullen roar of the tide, Are sweeter sounds to the worn ear Than "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." The sweetest lullaby that ever yet was sung, In tones that were loved by the angels, Was sung by a little brown chick to his mother As they went flying over the sea. And she held to her side A singing-bird with clipped wings, And they went ho-ho-ho! They flew over the sea, For over land they dared not fly, And down from a cloud, Like little stars about a hole, They came in their whining, And down into the sandy sea, And hooted with the hush-patey hoot Hooted loud gray catbirds, And quacked with the quail. And a mother's love never shall wane, Or change, or dye, Since the child she bore and reared Is at her heart, And ever shall flock the same dear ones With the same in love come back, From the very birth of the May, From the birth of the dawn of the light To the last, last day of life. Since first she heard the green wood rung With a lark on the call I am wearing, Since first she heard it, have I seen her Come through the July sunshine blithe and bold With her cheeks full of blossom; And her hair, Like a scroll of bird song, came down O'er her shoulders bare. For a pensive lover goes To the brink of Acheron, And the tempest in a pouter rides, And the lightnings flash from a stratagem, And a chorus of waters Ring through the aisles of Olympian dells, In the well-remembered maze Of a Spring that has drunk Apollo's blackness. When the summer sun is shining And the yellow-blooming May Lists her choicest flowers to gaze on, Comes the gray goose step to the river, Comes the gray goose step. O my love, you who bridle the spleen, Do you know of the cunning way Of the sly gray goose? When he sneaks to the riverbank, When he sneaks. And he licks the feet Of the red girl with the dabble-brush, And he licks her face. The gray goose comes back again, And the red-billed Dolly lets fall <|endoftext|> the map of pain, and each map a thousand times as old as the earth <|endoftext|> "Permanent Home", by Jane Hirshfield [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] A man walked into a temple, Looked around, and said, "Where is God? I don't see Him." Then God appeared. He wore A tattered kimono and a beard That trembled when he spoke. "Where is God?" the man asked. "I don't know," said God. "Then tell me where to find Him." God walked through the temple, Over the altar, Under the arch, Up the wooden stairs, To the god of the room Who'd be concealed from others. God looked in the man's eyes And saw the man's doubt. "Tell me your doubts," said God. "Your doubts," said God. God took the man's hands in His, Carefully, and put them on the shrine. "Your doubts," said God, " Are like seeds under God's feet. You must lay them in the earth If you would see God." <|endoftext|> "Oracular", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] In the room was a china doll With large feet. One of the men in the room said, "That's Sifu Bernie. He's the best psychic in Golden Gate Park." He was trying to explain a feeling He'd had. The other man said, "That's Sifu Bernie, He's the best conjurer in San Francisco." And the third man said, "He's Sifu Bernie. He's the best psychic in the world." <|endoftext|> "The Changing Sign", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, Growing Old, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] It is not the same you used to be. Your face has a weary line. Your hair has a gray. The sun has a glare. I cannot remember your eyes. I used to be able to look In their eyes and know what they'd see. But somewhere down the line Your eyes have lost their light. They are not the same you used to be. <|endoftext|> "Auschwitz,", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Auschwitz is where the ashes are And where the dead are ever vigilant For intruders attempting to wrench Their jewels, their money, their health From those too weak to refuse The sapping of their power. I think of my mother who died And was unable to watch over me As I grew into manhood, Who had no wish to watch me die By an iron death, but now is here In this space made for one Where no nature can penetrate And where the mind is powerless To withdraw the veil by which it sees To think itself from the world, The spectre of my mother is here With me, who was not in the world When she was born in Grünau, in Austria, In the wilderness where my father wandered And came to the Promised Land, where the Angels Worshipped as their ruler the Christ Child. She is dead, is my mother. The changing sign over the altar Means that I must not stand there long. <|endoftext|> "The Wonderful", by Donald Justice [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] I was a young man thirsty for the miracle Of being made whole. I stood naked in the garden Taking water from the sky. I drank & drank Until my legs became the moving things People say I was. They took time to think about My body, taking my skin like a camel. My father said the oaks in the garden were my mother. I had no mother. * When I was three I saw a man Hanging from a apple tree. * When I was ten I saw a woman Tied to a tree by her hair. * I was beaten when I was three & four by a man Wielding a shank of wood. * I was beaten when I was ten By a woman Wielding a shornake key. * My father said life is like a book Of black & white facts And some pages are blue And some are pink. I know my father said that Because he said so. * I am living my life Like a map of Russia Shattered in the back. * My father said life is like a door Opening & closing. * My father said time is like a thief Stealing my apple tree. * My father said death is like a house Built on sand Where children play In the sun. * I saw my mother die Twice. <|endoftext|> "In Time", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I. <|endoftext|> Ares; with far other tone, A mortal spirit falls on mine ear, And brings it into the fields of thine, Where the great heavens and the dark earth are, Where the rocks lie low, where clove and briar grow, And the moist mould snares the foot of the tree; Where the poor worm is put to his study, And all the waves are rich in the sun's stallion-tide; Where now to-day a conqueror's haughty tread Grows fierce and great, and hides the soil he hath lost; Where now the day is a dragon, and night A slave to the shape of a wingèd hunts-woman, Who weeps o'er her young in the wan grass green, When already her leopards in the wood Grow bold and ferocious, and her hounds begin To show themselves, growl and howl and grow in squadrons; Where all the world of living things grows dim and strange, With the slow dawn and the night, and the subtle shades, When the faint hemlock on the old red-trees gleams, And the eyes of the forest can blind you and I To the steady radiance of the unclouded skies. O morning land, O morning sky, O strength, O rest, O life, where thou art far from thy waste! Thou art not darkness; O rest in thy sleep! Thou hast not seen the dawn! and thou hast not known The strife, the splendour, the red splendour of the sun. And a sound came to me from the silent land, A sound of far-off waters in broad noon-time, And the straining athwart of the thinned air Of countless ships, coloured as rose and white, Crowded as, rising over desert and field and mead, The manta rose, a vivid star amid the brood Of myriad galaxies: and the far sea-currents Flared and faded; and far-heard were fleets that stirred Sail-long on their voyage, silent as wings on sleep Wooed by the torch-light on the bosom of the sea. When the sick man heard the wind go past his head, And his eyes look northward, suddenly the face Became gay and glad, and the gaunt hand would stretch And strangle the hot fever; and the blue eyes Would glisten with long rapture; and the breast Would swell and leap and forget the icy couch; And the loud and short breath and pulse-beat all Were like the bridal songs of unknown people At distance heard, who shall continue till death To sing and talk with one another, and to talk With every new-married creature that comes along; Or as the dainty-coloured clouds of morn Over garden-walled castles drift, that seem To hover; and the soft eyes of the child Are fixed, with infinite tenderness, on his True loving father, the watching stars above. The dancing-girl knew me; and she knew me well, Not only by my broken gourd as a sign That I was servant in a strange place and time, But by my tortured face and my gaunt frame, My spirit's writhing on the ice of pain, My death's terribly-wounded mind, my past's Faded, neglected beauty, and my never-blest Young flesh, all conquered by the ever-cursed wine Of passion that hath no brain, the rage of blood That doth not burn to its burning goal but fain Would refined be first into a soundless flame Then into a tornado of shrapnel-shock. She had seen me wander by the river-bank In worn-out, spilt garments, pitiful, alone, I, who had fought with pain to be a man, And had conquered, and made sweet the wine of life In the tumult of a passion, and come out slain. She had seen me, and she knew me well, I, the pitiful servant, I, the fool. She met me, and with quick gentle touch Touched my hand, and slowly drew it to her breast, And like a wind-breath was her hand's soft rest Upon mine, till she grew like flame to me Blown some new mystery of the stars above. And I had seen her, yet the night grew dark Before she shone in any glimmer there: And I had dreamed her, yet the dream grew dim Before she went from me; and the night grew dark Before she fled from me. The stars grew dim Before she vanished from the sky; and so All-painful love grew dim before my eyes, That in my soul I, the soul-gut fearing, Felt her fear-lit body, half-fear, half-desire, Soft sleeping like a life-flame, a flameless fire That melts not, though kisses were given her; Or as a risen leaf is touched by the wind That blows a man towards the sun, and shuns The wrath of storms that may devour him on the way: So did she love me, and I had her now. How sweetly to the world were dying and death, With sunset and the sea and music and the sheen Of foam-flowers, and the wide flowering beach Where lay the yellow-sheened crowns of flowers Gathered in groups, like walls of gleaming wood, And many-coloured shells of sea-grape shells Lifted on the sand; and the smooth-flended hair Of warm-furred sea-horses, blithe-eyed and full; <|endoftext|> I've known these years The days before I met you Were fairer far than this. When men had strength like us, In peace or war, A stranger's hand was never at arm's-length, But held the rose to kiss. Now we are strong like you, But strangers' hands are at arm's-length And hold the rose. I said, "Here is the place," And we started at our speed, You said, "You've never said Where you have been before?" And I to her, "Only to a sea Of violet waves that beckon to me Along a road Where all are grasses, and each is a flower For me to choose from." We've ridden in chariots, yokes, And on an elephant; We've sailed with ships from afar To far-off worlds of sun and sand; And I'm the keeper of the gates Of Paradise to her, The Queen of all the flowers That grow upon its sod. Now, a child runs out of sight, The merry flower has ceased to play, And in its place A pale and slender maid, with downcast eye, Approaches with her muffled feet, The flower of sobbing notes. "There is no flower," Said the Queen, "in the wilds So like to you, my little flower, And if there be A sound like the wings of a bird As loud as the song the lark sings, I know, I know, Where it is, my child, And when I have found out its home, My child, my child, My pride will be more than wealth or fame, My hope will be A life where all the shadows are roses. And on the road to that life I will walk With the lark and the butterfly. "The fall of the snow, And the melting of the rain, And the glow on the streamlet's wing Is but the sign I give you now of the way I go to find you, my child, My star of splendour. "Come, come, come along, My flower, my flower. The time is short, my flower, my flower, Come, come, come along. The wind is blowing gay, And God is in his heaven, And Time is gone is golden haste, And none has seen nor heard Since yesterday." The little lotus-flower Sang in its wisdom poor, "Why should the moth care What flower is in the pot?" But when the lotus-flower Sang its wisdom rare, It came to pass that the flower Might not remember The moth that remembered not. The singer, Song, Sang in his joyous prime "The rose is red, the rose is sweet, And her whose heart is true Washes away the dust." But when Song was silent, The lotus-bloom Stood, a shadow tall, And cried, "And his whose heart is true Washes away the dust." A bee went singing by On his way to gather flowers; And the singing of that flower Was heard afar and dear. And, then, it came to pass That the life of that flower Was halter and blind Because a bee had sung that flower Whence none had heard. I said, "I shall be rich one day," And she said, "You shall be very." I said, "I shall be strong and great," And she said, "You shall be like God." I said, "I shall be happy all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be fain." I said, "I shall be honored and loved," And she said, "Oh, you shall be sad." I said, "I shall be tall and proud," And she said, "You shall be weak and poor." I said, "I shall be faithful all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be mad." I said, "I shall be true and fair," And she said, "Oh, you shall be vain." I said, "I shall be brave and true-hearted," And she said, "Oh, you shall betray." I said, "I shall be lucky all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be deaf." I said, "I shall be good all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be grave and cold." I said, "I shall be happy all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be old and blind." I said, "I shall be dear all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be short and blind." And now the wind is on the hill, And on the hill the wind is blown, The wind that lifts the mountains so, And the mountain-tops so very high; The wind that makes the forests sway And lifts the trees so high above; The wind that fills the chambers sound, And fills the houses with a din; The wind that is so strong and wild Throbs down the branches of the tree; The wind that chills the mountain-sides, And lifts the frozen streams below; The wind that fills the forest home With a perpetual roar and yell; The wind that is so dread and dread, Throbs up the thunder-like Summitt; The wind that shakes the mountain-tops And is so light and fleet; The wind that shakes the forests rue, And is so warm and heavy; The wind that shakes the crested waves And is light and gay; <|endoftext|> In all the world--doubtless, I may be forgiven-- Here she lingers on the brink of the sea, Seeking to win for herself the hand Of her love. Oh! tell me, and tell me true, Is there any chance of my ever receiving That note? If so, I will come to you-- Well, well, I have concealed it all, and you Know nothing of what took place in those moments Of pain, when I drew my knife from its sheath, Drew from my heart its bleeding thread, Drew from my life its dying breath, All for the love of my life--yes, for the love Of my life, which is the love of my life! You know that my heart was broken, and you know Nothing of the anguish I felt; But I could not take another's love, as others Have taken my love; I could not lay My life on a trusting knee, Like feeble girls who wail their love of the cold, Who wail the heartbreak which sunders The trusting knee from the heart, and yearns For the warm heart which once bound them; For I was of faith, which burns in the hearts Of true women, that deep in the heart Love keeps watch o'er their life, and his arm Erect, with the light of his love above Shall hold them, till they pass to the silence Which is nearest to heaven; And I have no bitterness against thee, Berthe Turocyneides, Whom I loved as my life depended on it, As my heart loved thee, And if thou askest from me One tear of memory of those bereft World-without-end moments of passion, Then, my friend, I shall ask from my heart No more, But I will tell thee this, that all my life I long to be bereft of thy presence. Away to the sea, away to the sea! The freshets catch and hold me in their hold, And the hot rocks reel me about; The little waves ruff up their beds to meet me, And the great ones beat me as they beat the others, And the serpent-sea is whole again; But the old barren rocks, and the marge of the sea, And all those wastes of red fire and dust, They will loom for a hundred years. Where the smooth rungs of the rocks, Where the shallow water runs, Where the wave-lashing waters run, Where the ebb-tide's loud laughter runs, And the eagle's nest is! Where the snake all night long Comes and bedews the skies With her glistening hair, And the lantern's warning shade, And the glow-worm's glow; Where the land-bird's song At the dead of night With a whistle long and loud, To the long and lean black sea, I must be gone! And I never a moment doubt That the smiles of the sea Will brighten ere long The dismal journey over; And long in the midnight black I'll laugh to see The spray fly up in a hurricane, The seas rise and set! With a whistle long and loud, To the long and lean black sea, I must be gone! And I'll never look behind From the darkness of the deep On the bosom of the wave, Or on the island-lights far off In the sea-sand's drench. And I'll laugh to see The spray fly up in a hurricane, The seas rise and set! Tide shall be toward sea-kings, Ebb to the dolorous tide And the long black sea. And the sea shall moan in its rage And the foam shall flag and swing And the sands shall reel and reel And the billows come down. And a summer wind shall blow To turn home the way I came, And I'll laugh to see The spray fly up in a hurricane, The seas rise and set! Twine the grass, O Blossom-Breaker, With dew for the Flower-Spoon's sake! If the Flower-Spoon but comes Warm and gladsome to the Flower, What better, than twine a flower? Gather the dew, O Bird of the South, In the morning's bright hour, When the daisies first break, And the grasshopper falls, And the sunbeam drops From the plumes of the Sandman As he wanders along! If the Flower but comes Good to go and go again, What better, than twine a flower? Breathe a secret to the Lady of Shalott, Twin daughters of the one whose beauty made dead, The grace of whom, though unseen, was like a perfect dream. Tell her that I see her, and tell her that I see, By her own fastness on the hill, The shy looking hill-lark in the stream, The kingfisher flying above the brook, The eagle from his hang gliding down, And the crane with the great breast of the water, And the scarlet cormorant, and the kite, And the crane-call that the blue-jays make, And the top-sparrow, and the meadow-hawk, And the osprey, and the whirling loss, Of all birds that fly over the field; All of them, leaf by leaf, Tossed on the blue-grey mountain-snow, Save the top-sparrow, and the red-breast, And the sparrow-starry whistle, <|endoftext|> And of other sights and sounds, On a theatre in Chicago, He made him sing so gay, It caused all the sold-out audience To drop to their knees and pray, While they were still sitting on their seats, To God and Christ, the while he was singing. He never once failed in his duty, To do his very best, And to make the best of things; And his voice was so crystal-clear, That it caused the people to kneel And to beg God to bless him, While they were still sitting on their seats, To God and Christ, the while he was singing. He had promised to follow his wife Into the ministry, And to raise a school for children blind, And to fight for the rights of the poor, And his life and his death were intertwined In the service of these causes. His children are scattered about, A dozen or more, But the house and the inheritance He left to his sons. A few years before he went West, To seek his happiness By making a better life for his wife, And bringing up a family. One is in medicine, And one a patent leatherman, One a dentist, And one a farmer's mate, And one a carpenter's mate, And one is in finance, And one is a publisher. The doctor, the dentist, Is called away one day, To treat a patient In the city of Lima, And he leaves his wife and children To care for the sick, While he goes and he returns The farmer's mate is away One week, to visit his wife Who is bed-ridden, And is called back when her health Has greatly improved, And takes advantage of her Of half his property. The dentist is called away One day to treat a patient In the city of Lima, And he leaves his wife and children To take her place, While he goes and he returns The grocer's son is away One day to visit his wife Who is crippled, And sits at the door to receive A bill for thousands and thousands Due him for pain. The businessman's son is away One week to visit his wife Who has a broken foot, And he leaves his wife and children To help and defend her, And never knows that she Is giving her up to sinful men, For money. The city banker's son is away One week on a trip, But he leaves a note for twenty thousand (The note was good, For the bank was in debt, But you never saw it) And when he comes home he will pay it, But he never learns that it Is the last note that will be paid. He never saw her faultless, But the fault he saw Was in the flood of traffic, And in human nature. Though she was there and forewarning, He thought that traffic Would take its chance, And he bought a home for his family, And paid the mortgage. The grocer's son and the city banker's son Are both gone, and the farmer's mate is away One week to visit his wife, And he takes her place And handles her And manages her And pays the bill, But no matter what he does, She never feels at ease. The doctor is away, And the farmer's mate is away, And there is no one left To pay the bill, And the notes will soon be paid, But he never learns That he is personally liable. The publisher is away, And his notes are bad, But no one knows it, For nobody is around to pay it. The husband's away to take his chance On the flood of traffic, And the wife is bed-ridden, And there is no one to defend her, And she never forgets That she needs A man to pay the bill. The children are scattered about, And they have left the mother, And the father is living With an old man friend, And the babe has died, And the baby just cried, And the babe is four. It was quite some time since I last looked in On the old house in the new town, But I see it clear, as I write this rhyme, In the old chimney corner, Where the "tree" -- as no one but I Has ever seen it -- Sits and shouts with the old familiar gambit Of insults and mischievous words. The windows are boarded, the doorway mouldered, The little desk and the bench are gone, The little boy and the baby's trunk, The old-fashioned rocking horse is drowned, And the old rocking horse with its rider cast down. And the old chimney is black. The pictures of the old family hang In the room overhead, And there's a little brass pin to remember me Where the big picture of the parrot appears, And I always smile as I see it. But there's no old card of it left now For me to see. The living room is nearly ten years old; And the kitchen has some pictures of its own, But there's no old card of the kitchen still, For the picture of the kitchen in the attic -- I think I can hear it often -- Is all of the kitchen still. There are some clothes in the closet, but no old card Of the little girl and her friends; The little girl and her friends have gone away, And the clothes are heavy and large, And the old clothes are soiled and dirty, But the old closet is dark. I remember a book of "disappointment," <|endoftext|> Like to a glinting sky and wind, Like to a vision lovely, fair. From all the wealth of this great land, From the fields of corn and grain, From the islands four along the sea, Come at this royal call, Every free born person brave and strong, And join me in the fight. That we may leave the birds and beasts, And we shall take our flight To the islands of content, To the land of light and song, To the home of the blessed. Then let the proudest and the best Stand forth, to face the foe, To the battle and the death, Of the sons of the North and West, Of the South and East. We are armed, for we bear in hand A Tablet of White Sand, On which is written--One-- That the Pilgrims go not home until The Rebellion forever rest For evermore. With the Tablet of White Sand Let the rebel flag wave At the silent land of the free, And a song never more be heard Till the angels sing. The Pilgrims are coming, the Pilgrim men, The ship is spread with flags, The ship that bore them o'er the sea Of the sea of snow. The Eastern Star and Crescent light Shall lead them in, Till the shining breast of the sea Burst upon them and they fall, Never to rise again. My life hath no aught to do With toiling and waiting years For a "commercial project," A building and fencing of some piece of ground, A lot or two in some men's shares, Or a "moment's patent dream." It is with heart and soul that I Am willing to do anything that's noble, And what's beneath the sun Is always best for any man; And when on sacred altars of love We offer up the "chosen offerings," The flame of that devotion Is unquenchable. For I know full well, whatever May come in future years, This body of mine will be A burden and a curse, And it's my fervent prayer That He, who put my burden here, Will take it away. He's our coroner, and as such He must inquire first, Into whose hands the cause of death Has been committed. You say he's cold and dead; so be it. But till he gives sentence, I say, Let the body lie. I can't believe this cowardice on his part; I can't believe he'll let such questions die, But some such questions as these Could he answer honestly, I'm willing to trust, And he can answer honestly that no question Could ever be asked. Have you a little question that you'd like to ask, And you're afraid you're too weak to ask it? Why, you may just as well ask it of him. Why, you're as strong as he is, and don't mind The chink in the steel. He may not ask you anything else either, And he may answer honestly, I'm willing to trust, And he can answer honestly that no question Could ever be asked. My dear little Rose, I have taught you manners, and I have taught you truth, And I've seen that your steps were not of your own free will, And I've brought lessons to you on many a Monday, And I've brought many a lesson. So, my dear little Rose, If you choose to go your way, Go with your teacher and mistress, and be true and brave, For there are things to be feared And there are things to be liked, And it's wiser to be kind than mad. If you want to marry, my dear little Rose, And your husband is a farmer, Then the thing to do is to ask your teacher for a loan, So that you may have a coat and hat, And to buy your own stock, And to buy a book to read, And a pencil to write with. If you want to marry, my dear little Rose, And your husband's a lawyer, You must not be a fool or a simpleton, And you must not play the fool with others, But you must ask for a loan from your teacher, So that you may go to the town to buy a dress And to buy some stock, And to buy a book to read, And a feather and a pretty stone, And to set in a socket. If you want to marry, my dear little Rose, And your husband's a clerk, Then you must be a school-reverend or a high-school principal, And you must get a leg-sheet to a school, Or to go to a convention, Or to teach school papers or law books, Or to read law books. But I hope that my dear little Rose Will not marry till she's older, For the more men are married the less they care, Or the less they know of the home, And the home is the greatest treasure there is; And I hope that my dear little Rose Will have a home to herself. Here's a penny for a straw, Here's a shilling for a pot; Here's a halfpenny worth of beer, Here's a quarter for a fish. Here's the change that I have won Working in the summer time, Here's a halfpenny that I have won Saving this morning. Here's a penny for a pig, Here's a shilling for a toad, Here's a farthing for a hare; Here's a penny for a hen, <|endoftext|> Hearken, for the tale of truth I tell. Troy-born Achilles, like a God, In counsel steadfast, firm in might, By Helenus' and Achilles' child Was beloved by all the people, Thy cousin was I, and thy sire, But Troy conspired against me first, So willed she would destroy me and mine, And send us hence into exile. And as our bond-slave thou wast formerly, Thou shalt be now. Nay come closer now, And mark me well; for I am he Whom thou hast served so long in vain. I am Patroclus, man and horse, Whom thy old master loved so much; And Troy conspired against him first In her desire to slay the noble steed. He was her charioteer, the very best, And all the people called him the best; And all the Phrygians envied him that day When he was driven from Troy into exile. Even then he fought in Aegypt's cause, And drove the chariot-yoke from the neck of his steed, And urged the fleet-foot horses on him, And slew Aegyptus in offensive strife. And afterwards in the horse-fight at Troy He slew good Mnestheus, son of Geraethus, Whom the people called on as on a god. Thence does the tale end the same,-- My name, Patroclus, both a conqueror And a man, is now no more. What God hath taken thee away, Who was once a mighty conqueror? And what new form hast thou been given? Take heed that now thine heart be good, To the foe oppose it not at all, Nor the better faith forget, Which thou wast fain to tell me o'er again The last time that we met together. O'er me it flutters, and around me it sleeps, And withers me with pains and sickliness, Leaving my senses tangled and confused; Like the wet sail on a bitter gale at sea, Which is pierced by a west-wind, and goes tear-torn Down on the tumbling waters, and the sun Looks harsh upon it, and the blustering north-wind Scatters it among the mountains and sleeps. So now my life seems finished, and I lie Buried in torment, to be freed at last Only by death, or by some cruel stroke, By sudden unawakening, or by stealthy swift Absolute quietude of death's long illness. But death will not come to me suddenly, Or by some sudden unawaking stroke, O King of men! Thou who keep'st unbroken The right and just and equal laws in all! Thou, who wast lately seen as wept to see The people perish for want of a spear, No longer now canst thou endure to hear The tale of great Achilles' excellent care, Nor of Patroclus' exemplary praise. Ah! what avails to hear, or to speak, To do, or to prevent injury? For thou hast fallen by thine own hand, and no one Can straighten or withhold thee from the grave. This word is unblest, yet well the may Assents: a brave man's life is a fool's life, As well as a good man's a fool's life. And that one's, too, who gives it can scarcely be Less than a life profane. But thou--to many's faith a true one thou art, Sufficeth me no warning, nor the fate With the sort of forewarning that I sing. Who knows what luck shall fall behind my eyes? I have no eyes to look to; my heart is mine To feel and to bring to just expectation The things that so the spirit fare, Till, when 'tis riven, as it shall be at last, The sum of its joys and of its sorrows stand Couched on the breast, as it were, of perfect health, And made to seem less than all save an idle dream. Long-forgotten author, first of our race Who cast upon our soil immortal words, Long-forgotten poet, first of our clan, Take thou this laurel for thy sacrilegious fault Of translating Boccace into our tongue. Sicilian words, Sicilian thoughts, remain Unransomed in the speech of our fair land, And neither heat nor cold, nor sea-pressure, can dry The seals of their eloquence. We have been unquiet in the night, And been long abject. We have been bad or good, As men have been, since that day of shame; And though long-forgotten now, We are as you are--with this difference only, That you have a voice. So now, when old Time Shall through the writings of your race appear, When such as you, such as these have done the same, When such as you, such as these shall do the same, What shall be the first that is done in yours, Pathetic, and ignoble, and obscene, But in the pages of a Nation's book, What shall be first in ours, Pathetic, and ignoble, and obscene? O mighty Poet, who art now Concealed in many a lowly thing, With what a fall the world shall ring When all the books are burnt with you, When all the tapes shall melt with you! With what a thud the tapes shall crack When all the books are done with you, When all the tapes shall melt with you! Howled through every writing thing, <|endoftext|> With bones that groan'd; a hideous form Stands in the sunshine with upturned face. Th' infernal genius of this place All his lean counsels add: "Of the Hierarchy despise Rideth, falsest of mankind, Quarrels and schisms, and faction's rage; Pray for interdict and damn'd term In the deep Caves of Hell to dwell. Then will Heaven show thee fairer skies And other stars; thou then shalt see Other stars that smile in happy hours, And hear other music; other groves Shall flower around thee, and thy days Number twice a hundred years." Thus he spake to dread Th' infernal Power; And forth his fatal anathema spread, Flaying the Seraphim one by one. Then Grandonio bespake the Son With hard, contemptuous lip: "By him in Heav'n and Earth who blest And blessed into being, both thou And Heav'n-born Truth; and thou wing'd Angel back From Achor's flood, both thou, from Truth's ire And Heav'n-born Light; by him thou and thy Light Before the humble Creation heipless stood, Both thou, thy Father, and th' Almighty's ire, And both thy friends Thou help'd both, though both by thee Misrepresented; him to remove From place to place was Thou move'd to do, And stinted less thy goodly light to give To poor excess; thus was he rand'd, and voide Of nature, purpose, and just election, Or purpos'd at first but more profanely. For now the true Ideas are restorer To peace and quiet, now the firm-set Sun Of day-spring comes from out the dread Deep; No more shall frenzied Orcus work inclement To hinder them, nor all his sly confusion round Diffuse his shadow dark'ning gullies in. Thou therefore cease thy perilous exceding; Let Morpheus teach sleep to th' lazie breast, And make it be no more a feign'd repose, But an actual memory; set on wise hairs His crown of prophecy, and let fair Dreams The long-expected knowledge wake." He ended, and the Night her vigil ceased At Fordunquiet; they, where they were, Up a green hill banked with leafy trees Now pleasant, trac'd their weary feet, and stood, As Rais'd in hopeful thought that slumbers sweet Might quench thir wanton fires, and warm them at thir rest. But Northward far as elsegate to the firth There ramparts rose, and strong towers, and a strong wall, And heavy cannons dark'ning all the land From Esk (the southern) in the South to Somnus (northern) In the North by Wirsing, whence a flood of rowling fire Ran Abilink; no man then knew if Britain then Would ere envy Ancient Rome her towering Fall, Or become a world-wide tyranny, a heap Of scorched pebbles, shap'd like stone, or a wall Of withering fire. The habitants thus driv'n, Diff'ring, saw the ships that came to seek the coast And itscontents; some few small vessels saw The gallant crews, and knew their Origin; But the vast vessels with their shrouds down cast, Like to a hostile host, to try the force Of wind and water, which to this domain They now and then received with fearless cheer. The French who had the nearest chance, in thin Went on before; the gallant vessels shoaled Beneath the oak that on Threlusa's (10) head Standes witness, and from side to side the waves Roll'd furious; yet to their native isle of Ar, At length, return'd, they arrived safe and well, Though winds and water from the promis'd shore Afar had caus'd postponement of their end. Of these, those, that reach'd Ithaca, From their new found Naïs the worthiest twain Taught him in all civility to treat His Strangers, and with this a kindly mind Convey'd him to his house, where still he dwelt In fond affection, and in ample fields Saw ever as the seasons chang'd, with joy Happy, though perhaps not brilliant, were his lives, For Happy both his begetters were; but they Dwelt apart, nor could at all with readiness Their son be baptiz'd, the dumb only-born Of Coritus and Iölaüs, till at length Some tarrying ended, when at once both were join'd. But now with hind'rance barrier so impassable Grievous to them both, that mortal could not pass, Such was the festal joy at Baptism: for, to those Deceiv'd, in time departed, death had seem'd a span; And therefore were the Turks incredulous how they Could hope to reach Sodom, ere the promised day Of Paradise come by little and step by little; Therefore they spent their time in song and dance, And revelry and laughter, that were no less Religious, and no less medicinal To the pain of their wasted cities and court. But others in the heart of Elagabalus And in his own more jealous, no less fire-wise, Had set the fear of vengeance, that like a pest Still hover'd around the city; such a flame Of his own hand kindled him, as might have prated With blithest words about a fire: to each man <|endoftext|> Were plainly visible, Upon a lily white and red They blazed in line. "The wine that night Gave the dame in answer Her first precious sleep, And in the morning, she 'Mong maidens all was found Dead in sleep." "Heigho! can you guess The woe that made her start? It was to be aye a bride, And her maiden side Her body bled." "So ere she was dead She had disclosed Unto those eyes of blue The sign of love," The bride replied, As her fingers, lightly touching, Sought to explain. The years that are to come Will not bring the chance of me and her Feeling the kind of love that we Gave to each other. And it may be--may be, heaven only knows-- That to their dying day Our hearts will not forgive each other. If they ever come to collect We may not know it. The rain that cleanses a pond may leave behind The ugly lees that breed parasites; So may the sunshine of another sun Come back to many but dry the tears That hid the gold of years of care That once dazzled her young eyes. And we may be too old to love, And she may be too cold to love, Or there may be no love at all, And she may never have loved me." The moon shone over the moonlit world In the silver crescent on the night When we were one, and one in heart And mind. The world was in bloom, and we had found In the heart of summer a place to rest, And both in voice and step. And though I paced my narrow track of life I knew that she had trod her quiet way, And all its rapture with equanimity, And as clear-eyed as any star. The dreams that floods of tears could not quench, And the long-hid tears that overfond birds Awoke at evening in the summer woods, Were parted. But still we found Some sanctuary from the buzzing rush Of liberty, and from the cry of those Who wandered in the busy mart, Our people, The brood of beings who were not we, But sought us out from land and sea, And took our society, Till, wearied of its impress, they passed And left us in our own domain. And then we wandered through the world And looked at each sweet feature through The wondrous crystal of love's vision, That had tuned us both to see The central meaning and the break Of beauty into lines of bond That linked our two psyches. And each prescient sense was sharp, And balanced the whole against a point That we could never reach alone. We were two members of a twin-born race, With similar loves, and similar souls. Then time that withers a wilted leaf Came with the flowers to the pale finish, And a sun poured on the darkening wood And struck gold, and a summer heat Was hot upon our tanned faces. And we were joined in a holy league That traced its existence backward through years That our pale faces had shone in, And drew a shield of yellow wheat Between us. We were two souls of living flame, Spirits, though clay, but yet animate, Whose being waxed with the blossoms that filled Their hands. Their love waxed with their love of us, And theirs was a purer and a higher flame That came from a purer and higher source. It was an upward path that led to God In a fair aura of expectancy. We had entered into union with Heaven, And it was good, and we knew it, I have known cities which were queens to the days That I remember, quiet and fair. They were not perfect, but I dwelt in a place Where there was not a single ill to be seen. No cobblestones marred the quiet of the walk; No black and yellow beggars were to be seen; But the air was soft, and the day was clear, And the river flowed between the bridges that were new, And the eyes of the children were happy and clear, And the lives of the children were pure as the dew, And the creatures of the earth were in the making, And the thoughts of the world were for the gaining, And the dwellings of men were growing, And the fires of the north were in the dark lands of the night. I have known cities of immense beauty that were made By the mighty forces of Nature, and they were Majesties in size. They were beautiful beyond measure, and grand As a palace set in a virgin plain, Or a pebble-stone in the showering main. And the kings of the ages looked at these wonders, And they seemed fair, but they were not full of light. There were thunder clouds overhead, And darkness, and the shadow of God's judgment-seat. There were fields of sin and sorrow and pain, Where the haggard head of the whale lay dead In the foam, and the sterns of the ocean-warfarer, With their burning trail of smoke, Were sailing from the rim of disaster. But there was peace over the plains of the home, And the laughter of children, And the lilt of the dancing stars in the blue, And the souls of the children were light and strong. There were captains of the nations, and great men, And slave-ships with ropes and sails, And ocean-voyages, and travail of the seasons; <|endoftext|> elements of art To which the beasts are as the tools of the builders of the house. If these bear the master’s touch so must their colours be His touch that paints on canvas dazzling bright; And though it be the nature Of beasts to be as they are The art that mars this nature By outward seeming — Thus, then, I said to her Daintier colours seem Blotches of paint, and any fool Will tell you that. Her eyes, brown and soft As dew drops on a rose, And light as the young night Before the dawn, when she looked down And saw the world change round her, From the light where she went down Under the feet of gods, To the light where she looked back At the world and the chrysalis Of things where she came from — If, in my dreaming here, I could get By some secret she had told That colour too could be bred In her own mind — A secret she too thought to keep (Though what she thought it might be) — I might then learn And tell it you. Her body, I said, Was made of all things bright; There was no colour her face No form she lacked; So colours must come from her The light to give it place. If colours that we see Can be so faint, and yet Paint her so bright, so white — Her lips were red like wine, Her eyes were blue like dew; She had hair of gold (The same as red wine, The blue like the rain); She had laughter in her eyes Like the air of night; The stars laughed in the heavens And the leaves of the tree And still I see the things she did For me — I might not do them for myself, Nor might I do them for her; But she did them for me — She filled my life with laughter And light, And so, I praise her. Now the trees are all tired with sway And the sky is sleepy with sleep; Round the little brook There is no bird to be seen, Silent and brown the meadow Heeds not the song of the brook. The moon, like a vine, hangs bright In the blue night, And the red leaves of the trees Have turned to silver and gold; But I have watched the sunset glow For you, and it grows deep and sweet, The red, red sun. There is a sound of bowling over now, And green is the ground, and the air is hot; There is a smell of wickets and stumps, And bats are rounded and ready, and caps on; The ball is left on the green, and fast from everywhere; There are stumps in his reach, and there is every man's skill. They bowled here that they might have won, That they might be not overfooled of Fate, For that which is stronger than it is strong May not be; And many, as they bowled here, were dead, Because it was stronger than they knew. There is a sound of bells, and green is the ground, And the air faints and trembles, and a scent of wickets and stumps; There is a smell of wickets, and stumps, and bats, and caps on; There is Death, that fell here, and Death is the green, And all is gray; For I have watched the sunset glow For you, and it grows deep and sweet, The red, red sun. Now a man and his horse are through with paddock, And his team is pulling away fast, And the crowd is on his back, and he hears the huff and the puff Of the little smoke that he goes through. Now he must come to the breaks, And now he must come to the rope; Now he must come to the end of the world. Now there is a sound of guns and men, And a clatter of swords, and the crowd is on his back, And the horses swerve and jolt and pant, And the men sweat as they feel the day wane, And their faces are red. Now he must come to the breaks, And now he must come to the rope; Now he must come to the end of the world. Now he must come to the breaks, Now he must come to the rope; Now he must come to the end of the world. The crowd may cut his ears off, But he cannot make him go; For he bows his head in his doubt, And the crowd may cut his ears off But he cannot make him go. The bails have bent, the topsails are furled, The night-wind wails, the stars are fallen; The westering moon, with a silver train, Gathers above the Quean, and smiles On the wool-white sea. Now the ship is steering in To the calm rock-walls slow and sweet, Where the dolphins, gray and senseless, Dance in glimmering foam. There are faint cries of women on deck, And faint cries of men on the yard, But the moon is shining on the sea, And the wool-white sea is shining on the moon; And a sound of hook and vowel Strikes and steals in among the cry and shout, And a voice, far off, cries alone, Over the quays of the town. The men- at-arms are pressing up To the cast- iron railing, keen and shrill; The gondolier is hanging out to the cry, <|endoftext|> Oh, then I smil'd, and with my smile she went. Then aye the dead water gurgled and groan'd, And the black raving current swoln and seethed, And the sharp eddy whirl'd and dash'd and dash'd again, Till by and by the huddled vessel crawled Home to her keel, and here she moors her guard, And dreads her shoal, and turns her prow and sails. By the witching night-air ever cruel swept Her cheek, she scarce could see or breathe or move, She fought the pangs of barren despair, Till soft starlit waters murmur'd near, And bright star-lit waters farther off Drew forth a glimmering day that smile'd and kiss'd Her weary bark and fill'd her sails again. And you, my readers, friends of the sea (For well you know the toils of life at sea), You know how close and hard the storm can fall, How men must drown, and how the thirsting sharks Vie for a bloodier banquet from your bleeding frame: The midnight from the fiercest of these blows Is safer far than to return to land. So round the mother's throat she clung and swing'd, Her arms grew weak and lifeless, for the sea Rag'd hard in her when the dawn came up, And shrieking round her, fill'd her ears with cries, And round and round her vessel's keel it flew, Till, through the blinding wave-cloud, where it met The peopled sea, it smote her squarely on the breast. Her look was sad, her ears were dim, her eyes Restless o'er the ocean, where it glided, heard Such moaning from the bounding keel as make The heaving sea still red in eve's red air: And with a downward look, she saw her child And stopp'd her hand--then all the rushing wave Sank on her breast, and cast her on the sand, And sleep and death and darkness closed her eyes. A little craft of Nantz, whiche'er The rolling main or starry heaven has roll'd, From some desert isle or isle of fire Has sent a daring ensign, that may chance To show a distant world that she is nigh. The world behold! and feel a nearer hold; And hail the pilot as he steers by land or sea. Ere the high sun sunk low, that hung his head And smiled in air, a Nantz in her deck With flying crowd drew in her joyous crew; And when the morning found that glorious light Which warm'd all earth, and closed the glimmering sphere, The vessel rode the wave, and left her crew In peace on that eternal shore far off. Through her fair awning-walls, that to the wind And tide fresh as the June sunshine seem, And bright as the fiery-colored rose, Rode Lucile de Nevers with a voice that blest A sunny New Year. She seem'd like one Who walk'd a sunny way, and a peaceful mood Mooded even her most severe red mirth. The gentle little dame was dressed in blue, With white neckcloth and a dark blue hood, And round her feet loose cotton socks went round; Her girdle had a crimson spot or two On it, and three white slippers joined with blue To complete her dress of blue, and give Him more of comfort in the coming storm. And thus she went forth; and so she wander'd on Down the leafy lanes that led to the shore, And watched the ebbing waters as they went With calls of foam above them, and the rifts Of mixed cloud. When suddenly there seem'd To break the day a cloud of spray, and high Up bleach'd the defiles of the green hills, And, far away, faint spots of sun appear'd. She start'd in fright, and watch'd the light Spread wide along the heavens; and shuddered through To such a horror as sometimes grips The bravest who have lead armies to Bloody victory, and marched through sore distress In some unmeasur'd field, and buckler'd have fought. She got away from the sweet open place, And hid herself among the wafters gray, And so she was not seen, but I heard a foot Ascend the stair she climbed, and on the door Of the little garth, where Lucile stood, knock'd. And then she beckon'd with her hand, and knock'd Three times; and the heavy wicket on the door Cheeked, and she bade the maid be silent, and then The maiden heard the words of love, and all The heart of Lucile thus betray'd to the maid: "There is no need for silence, Lucile! here I am alone; listen to my story. You see the dew-drop glisten on the apple That sheds its golden tinge on the tree, And the low, rustling brook among the boughs, And the cool, fresh air of the Autumn day. "Oh! that is not the earth, this day, my dear, But the lovely world of the flower and tree And the bird's-nests on the distant hill! I hear the far-off fiddler's sounding bow, I hear the silver smacks of the rain, I hear the bright, sweet cadence of love Murmur'd in the vale by the ancient tree. "And then I turn and behold you there, <|endoftext|> But it was a harsh yet gentle girl The faun spoke, and she knew that it was. She felt his arms of fur about her waist, And the wry-tufted beard upon her cheek. Then he led her through the hedge Into a meadow where the dew had dried; And then he showed her trees and grass, And showed a marble-floored pool. It was a place of beauty, And through the grass a running stream Was bordered with willows green, And a little shallop sat thereon. "Now be kind," the faun said, "And get in; for this is a Fairy place. The water's never fit to drink, And you may splatter the grass all over; But sit up on the bank, and hold your face Up towards the ceiling, and look at me. I'll tell you a story, and we'll go Together into the quiet air." He rapped with his staff on the nest Of wicker armour, and they climbed in. The seat was of woven satinwork, And starred with yellow feathers, and its boss Was jeweled with a little sparrow's head. Its sides were of calf's-hide, with streaks Of blue and purple, and it had a ring Of buckle on its strap, with clasps of gold, And buckles of broken gemmed amber; And on its perfect side was embroidered A broidered apricot-feather and a blue And scalloped design, half ruffled and half rolled, Like a nest of butterflies' down. He seated them each on a cushion made Of widowed ermine, with velvet cushions Of kitten-skin, and broidered yellow twine Wound round with knots of poppy-flower, And filled the room with romance and stillness. Then he took out his golden pen and wrote A scolding to give to Mother Goose. She took it and looked much surprised, And her breast seemed as though it would burst, And her eyes brimmed over with their flow Of newly poured milk, and she shook And trembled as she read, in deep dismay, A letter that SOMEbody wrote To Dear, the postboy, by a dashed ashen branch. He sat upon the dirty grass By the dripping log, and read the letter; For, to his thinking, it was not that She had written it, but the wild fowl Sent it to him, to betray her; For she knew how stealthily the quill Is pilfered from the baby's mouth, And how the baby-man turns pale When the scriber lays his finger-tips To his lips, and feels what is written. So he sat and cut the parchment shred By grim shred, and laid it one by one Along his arm, and then his thigh; Then the bib and envelope together Went with the rest; and there it lay, Telling of Alice's despair For Bob, his darling, gone away. But in the meantime the doctor Had asked of Nurse Betty if she Knew of anyone here without His medicine who would write, in form Admissible, of a tranquil intent, Of Alice's despair, and Alice's name. Nurse Betty laid her head upon The cold stone floor and shook it wildly. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" she exclaimed in tumult. "For might I see the child, I'd keep My vow to Mother Goose, and say In heaven my soul's good husband's gone Where Alice may not see him more. "And, oh, the terror if he came And found the house all empty, and then Down, down, and then outside in the street He'd cry, 'What dreadful Alice-ONE-OH! How Alice's fallen ill, and gone lame, And Alice's dying, and--here they are!' And drag her by the hair, and write A melancholy note for Bob to find. "Oh, God, why has she left me?" she said. "And left my helpless babe beside? Oh, God, have pity on us both!" And all the time she rose and paced And cried, "God, I am so weary." Then, ere she heard the gate behind her, Bob pushed the door wide open, And in she went with one great bound, And it was Alice, coming lame Again, and feeling with her toes For the gate, but finding not its key, And numb and cold from head to feet, "Please open for me," she cried. "It's Alice, one more sorrowing." It was not Bob who answered, But the red clay of the road, And the twigs and tufts of fern, And the great huge road-rag. But the key-hole was missing, And the door was moldy, And the mold was on the carpet Where Alice had lain. "Oh, God!" cried Bob, "Oh, God!" But the dry, bleak, bronzing sun Was a dark-skinned man; And he slowly laughed at Bob: "Go in, and shut the door, For you can't outrun me." With a shiver and a thrill And a bounding of wings Bob bounded like a runner At the voice of his name, And out into the sunshine, Out of the darkness. In and out and about The house like a barrio He zigzagged over Bob, And he ran for a cab; But cabmen he'd never seen Were so few, and cab-horses Were so few, and cab-drivers <|endoftext|> How shall I measure in the path of time The milestones of my life, as at each turn It takes its way?--and the question is a joy Lit by the gleam and glory of the night, As o'er the past thy beacon shines! Let me tell thee, My son, what in my youthful days was rife, And what, alas! is no more rife! When, with the day's glad light, The morning star Came dancing forth, It heralded the song of minstrels, who Were heralds of delight; With note Rich, melodious, and sweet, To waken the earth In its cradle to the sight of light! From shore to shore Rings the silver bell, O'er hill and dale, The wild-moose growls! And the wild-moose howls, and the forest sleeps! A strange alarm Hath fallen on the breast Of the mighty Sariola; For the bow is broken, And the hunter fled! "O thou, of all the forest, Grandly bred, Of limbs so strong and bold, And beauty all complete, Who readest aright The dreams of Nature, and wouldst they come? "Who wouldst transform the feeble heart Of a weak girl, To the brave, undaunted heart Of a sturdy youth? Nature, with guileless breast, Hast thou not seduced? Art thou not stronger than her? Thou canst not change, but thou canst defeat! "Hast thou not forced her to flee, With her tresses flying, To the rageful arms of one Who would unloose The svelte virgin's clothing? Unchain the white Veils that in verdure twine About the virgin's brow! Rouse thy child, the trembling one, The young and innocent! "O, thou enchanted Grandee, what is the charm That constrains thee to flee The strong arms of thy brother? Their naked swords Are like the tuft of fur On the back of the rushing snow-white snow-white cloud!" And the grandee answered thus: "It is a secret, indeed! I would tell it to thee, But the hour is not yet ripe! At the present moment, In the world's journeying, In its passing, It might harm some one, I trow! It might prove a evil augury!" And the youthful hunter, Quick and stately, With the step of the strong horseman, Steadily walked onward, Toward the sparkling of the morn, Toward the glittering of the sun! Stolid upon his couch Lay the strong man-brute, Knew no dreams, no hallucinations, Of the beauty or of the strength That were roaming abroad in his breast. And the beautiful woman lay still, With her dark and rigid face Closing his feeble eye-lids. When at midnight the storm-wind Threshed the ice-fern, When the lightning seared the pines, And the earth was in pain, Waking she heard the muffled roar Of the tempest howling, And the demon, as on a blood-vessel, Rushed through the cavern in pursuit of the beauty that lay bleeding on the earth. Waked at daybreak the strong man Grew more grand and strong, And he flexed his mighty arm Toward the fair woman, But he could not reach her, Though he stretched with all his strength. On the earth lay the woman, On the grass the youngling, In her hand the small one Still breathing softly! And he thought of the hunter, And of his bow and arrows, As he watched in the black of midnight The bridal of the two. How to bear the bridal? How to draw the bow? How to lift the dripping? To the frosty mountains To bear the child, Where the snow-wind howls, Where the storms toss it, And the torrents flash it? And the wise man answered: "I know not, I know not How to bear the bridal! I am unaccustomed To behold the human body In such conditions of pain! This is a bridal which I will not witness!" Loudly the storm-wind howls In the muffled roar of waters, And the torrents flash, As the swift lightning flashes. Through the cave the hunter Comes with the war-horse And the weapons they bring, For the slaughter of deer and goat, For the feast of fur-robe! Grandly lords the hunter In his forehead the symbol, On his arm the tawny, Gored and feathered, Like the panther's, Like the tiger's, Like the lion's, Like the wolf's, Like the eland's, Like the reindeer's. In the dim and red dawn, Countless monsters, Like the snow in wrath, Like the rain in fury, Like the flame in passion, Roar around the mountains, All around the valleys! And the storm, triumphant, Clamoreth loudly, While the earth with terror Throbs like a steed struck with terror, And the air with horror Fleads the glancing lightnings, Like the glittering shards of gold, Like the glancing flames of water. With the roar of rushing waters, With the foot of snow-storm, <|endoftext|> Thy price shall be the recompense of thy deeds." He ceased, and none had blamed the good Astolpho, Save one who felt some doubt in his doubt's starting: For each, his hound or hound's pack had on him A trusty friend, with some advice to give, And talk of hounds and their business, and hunt, If talk they would or no. These men are worth More sorrow than they know, and worse remorse; So let your hunter be conversant And Tip him easily: with him you're safer, Than many a pagan with a sword and spear, Who ne'er by day or night have vowed to fight With demons in some desert of the North. But fear not, withdraw the hex thou givest To poor frightened human kind at large; For that, alas, is doom'd by gods above, That never to be pursu'd should be, Whose fearless hearts are set on what is right, Whose lives are well inclind, whose days are long, Who chuse the good, and never shun the bad. With him, who worships empty forms and worthless, The soul shall be at peace and happy be, But never for a night be vex'd or troubled With light and heavy thoughts; but calmly bear A mild and steady mind, restrain'd by will Stronger than the decisions of the strong, Willing to suffer, yet constrained by power Above the impulse of the strong and strong Regard'd as faults, not as crimes, possess'd By weak but virtue making man, nor sought By weak but malignant fiends; be content. What then, unhappy woman, should I wish? I ask for nought, I seek for all in thee; To be exil'd from all I have possest And all I now possess is all enforc'd, I am detain'd and detain'd from thee, And thine be the fault, if thou refuse These lifeless words to remain the same; If unrequiting love thou wilt be, And do what I no more shall need, Then love not me, sweet love, I beg Love me no more, I swear it now. No, no, sweet love, I am not vexed at thee, Or if I am, my vexation is no sin To prove by hate what love supposes. From this shock let us take hold:--thou'lt find I am not to be gain'd or lose'd, In love or hate, at best or worst; And therefore am I secure, because In either case, if love be there, hate's not. For what is there so like to what is thine, As love to hate, or love to scorn, More tender, more inviolate, More free from all control, more strong, More hard to pluck, more sweet to woo, And full of frantic joys and fears, As any tree which bloometh, Fall'n into foul rot in the earth? If then thy bosom's seeds I might take, And roll them in thy cloth, and there Plant e'en thy fairest flowers to be, What is thy name then, fair doleful flower? Thou art not mine, but he that will Be mine must also love thee still; But I shall never love thee yet, Though so it be, thou dost not woo me. Sweet am I, and would to hate me wound, I bleed to thee, but not with blood of grapes: The waters give me up to thee, and bathe My wounds with smiles, and cool them with thine: No more of this; mine own good be thy will, For good is good, and ill made, ill choice, Bad working through bad objects led, And all we err in, we err in still. Nay, lovely love, I come to woo thee not, For love I cannot be, For love I could not keep without thee, If thou wert worthy me. My love is not for thee nor for thy gold, My love is strong, though not for price; If gold could crown it, it would not lack, But I have other things for thee. I live not for my self, I live not for thee, But for our mutual good; If that do seem ill, believe me, good. Love thou the dove, yet fly from the hern; I love, but love not yet a bird. O, yet I would the dove return And live with the dove in the nest; Then we might hope for a suitor's gold When I have gain'd thy love. Sweet, think not my love for my sake Is lost in the showing of thine eyes: For though mine be not thy heart's desire, Mine beat as true, as thine to be. Thy beauty doth more affect my thought, Though not as, thy heart's desire; If mine beat true, mine heart can be To beat as true, thy beauty. If for my sake, and that thy heart may move To love it as it is mine, vanish Those eyes from thine; if thy heart grow warm To hear and to heed one loved utterance, Let be those words, whate'er they be, And be thou loved as I love, or not at all. O, pleasant it were in hell to die, And be with those I love; Or pleasant rather to die and be dead, And know not whether they love me or not! Or pleasant it were to die and find No knowledge, nor any matter done, Nor any roar of any hell-born dog! <|endoftext|> There are more things to love than one, And I am master of my fate. <|endoftext|> "Father, Father", by Howard Moss [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Winter] Snow fell heavily on the road into the hills, in the valley between the mountains. All day I had heard the man-hunt was up, men shouting down rough country roads. It seemed a shame to be hiding out of doors, in a strange part of the country, under the snow. So I drove up into the hills, to the edge where the valley narrowed, flattening out in the sunlight. I knew the place by heart— it was the old farm—but it was winter and the wind was blowing snow off the flats into the valleys. The valley was white with ice, and there were hundreds of thousands of snow beneath- the- ground flakes, and many mound of dead leaves, and buried trees in the snowbank, facing the wind. The wind lifted the snow into the valley like piles of wood across a fireplace. It was dark in the valley; the wind blown gold the pile of wood and carried it into the hills. The wind carried the dead leaves and snow against the long drop-off of snow-capped hills. I sat in the snow. My hand was cold. I had put it in my pocket to use for cold-weather jokester's talk. I wondered if anyone had seen or heard from you for a week. My heart was still skipping. I thought I might have touched your arm when you left for the trip. I wondered if you were all right. I had sent a telegram: "Somewhere the wind blows cold. I'm going out to-night." <|endoftext|> "A Small Memory", by Howard Moss [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals] Dawn broke gray and cold on the mountain. The creek was flowing in its usual small way and the sun hung like a gray bell over the mountain. It had been so long since I had seen this mountain that I could not remember its exactness. I could almost see it like a tree, though it would not grow to be more than that. I had to rely on the books I had brought with me, which were very thin records of things gone by. The white pages of some of them were faded. But what I saw in the mountain today could not have been anywhere else but there, on that hill. When I thought I had seen it all, a change came over the mountain. It seemed to change in its entirety. It was like seeing a city destroyed in a war, which all old ruined cities are, until they are not. The wind picked up and knocked down branches. I thought I was not going to go on. I saw trees that had been there a year ago fall in the next hour. I saw so many things I will never be able to forget. <|endoftext|> "The Master of Reverence", by Howard Moss [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] A man who is afraid to ask for God because he is not there and cannot be asked into being, is the slave of those who are able to offer him some imagined day of freedom and of happiness. And because he is no longer in the world, is, like a bird frozen in a cage, a thing of the imagined future, the present, and the past. If there were a God, he would not be afraid of constant doubt, and would be able to ask, because he would be in the world, asking now that he might be certain, as only free men are. A God who is continually in the world would ask us to believe in him when we are no longer in doubt, and would be there for us when doubt itself becomes our question. A God who is not there for us would never be sure of our faith, and would be like a bomb waiting to explode, and would never be a flower, but would be a sword, a shield, a spear, a dart, a kind of poison that would kill us as we kill other creatures, and make God a dart that would kill us as we throw it. <|endoftext|> "Whose Body", by Lorna Dee Cervantes [Living, Death, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Because I am tired of your kisses being free like sails to drift on the ocean without a destination. Because I am tired of your words being broken into three little parts and not being a poem because your words are too heavy for you to lift your hand up and tell me how much you love me. Because I am tired of seeing you as a blanket, as a sword to decapitate my oppressive family, as a tongue to taste the sweetness of your skin. Because I am tired of wanting to take a nap and not being allowed. Because I am tired of watching you drift away like a bird after I untie the bird cage. Because I am tired of believing you are my friend because you are an ocean, and because I am tired of being the wave that you leech. Because I am tired of being a hand, a tongue, a scream, a door, a body. Because I am tired of you changing and being changed <|endoftext|> Aye! if you'll allow me, sir, the heathen art, The country has, as I can see, a store Of certain little branches of the family tree, Which I should be delighted to draw, If you will give me leave a few moments. For 'tis a sad thing in the dreary state Of this world to know one's own kin, And that this right are only granted on To those who are the most wicked. And yet I'm glad to be own'd by you, On any terms, and at any time; I trust, for I think I'm honest; But this one circumstance I've notice'd, And would ask you to consider it too, --If you would only point it out to me, When you have made your selection. My father's name of course you'll remember Is Blackburn, which you all must know; But there's a little branch of the tree, Which stands for some years after his death Before it springs to a mature plant, And never, I'm sure, is thought such by bark, As 'Hopkins' is, or 'Brown' is, or 'Quinlivan'. For here they've a brave man in their net, Whose worthy qualities must be pitied Who had the foresight to name him. I doubt not if you know the place, Nor doubt not that you do; And if you have not travel'd there, Then pray you read the following page Without delay, to your brother John, And let him know it as you can, Before the times has come to pass, That he too may be careful of thieves. The following morning, when I'd waken'd, And tried to think and try to pray, As well as an imp, I found that I Had slept, or rather were still, asleep On the road to Farewell, with no stone Wherewith to thrust between my thumb And the blind that cover'd my head, So, taking my pen and paper, I Wrote the following epistle: Good mother! blessed be the day That thus to you I come, Not disobedient to your wish, But my own will; and oh! By all those counsels of the age, By all the wisdom of the age Thou hast given, I now renew. From that self-same night I've since slept, And my head has been frequent sore, And oft wak'd to do and hear; And, sure as the sun to life rises, I've been to the ball, and the play, And seen the plays, and been in the room Where they arrange for them both; And to hear is a greater pleasure Than I had, till this hour, to write. And, oh! by my mother's soul, it is Worth all the money I have in coin, To see my girl so well consider'd, As for her future suitors to try, Who, like false hares, would oft make her flee; For I have seen, on the court below, A youth of so rare a courtesy, That, like a butterfly, he did ride On the wings of fortune; in her flight, He appear'd to be as tiny as a dust-cloud, And I've seen him kiss a flower which lay On the lintel of that posy-bed, Which I will swear (if you only will), That I have seen the same that she did, For I saw the twain in her company, Twice apiece; and the first I can remember From the house-top, when they came to me, And once again just after they were gone. But tell me, dear, if you can, What now is the matter? are you mad? Or is there any truth in what I say? For, though I have never accused you, I Have always faith'd you, and have seen you both As faithful as an angel to each other, Till now I have been wondering why You have been so silent and ill-temper'd; And now I have to tell you, that I Have been thinking and thinking over The folly and folly of this light-hearted youth, And I have seen him as you never saw him, And I have seen him as you never will see him, And he will never see you, but as I have seen him, And he is a lecher, though a very angel, And I confess that it is a fearful thing For him to meet a woman who is not false, And I wish that this might be the end of him, And I feel sure it will; but, by the saints of God! I hope it may not be; but as I have said, He has been ill-nature, and I say to you, Do not give up hope, though it be half true, And if it be true, and it must be so, And you have seen him as I have seen him, In one short hour of being so to see him, Then you have seen the lover, and you have seen him, In one short hour of seeing him, you will die Of a broken heart, or else, having heard my story, Let me tell you my story. It was two years Since first he sought me out, and it was here That the first proposal of our strange love fell That a week after it was made he was dead. I had been ill, and was laid out with fever, So that my dear fellow-worker, the woman, Came to call me, and bring him with her; But when he came she told me he was dead. And this was strange, for we had been lovers, <|endoftext|> To quench the thirst of pain, and die! A wretch, to live! a prisoner to die! Sick of this world's guff and dynastic heap, And sick with a sense of hard unrequited toil, (Since, if no thanks, no privileges can be his), A slacker, he supped at last with that ill-starred throng, The de'il's indian-born, and--choom to the gallows-neck! Not till the nation had wuz hammered, And Hoover died, did he discover What true-hearted men had said About honest Bonaparte; And how a parliament of bloody loins Had lisped his name in jest, And once, on a well-thumbed roster, Seemed resolved to bring him low! He tumbled in. But his health, I fear, Is ez roarin'! for sure he felt The end come suddenly, As tho' his stone had some couple there, A-cracklin' him in humor! For, ere three months Had'nt run, The Kaiser 'ad gotten good Opinions o' the idea, So, not to alarm the parrot's ear Which ever loved a slight, The Kaiser telegraphed his hearty vote For leveling measures all around; And Hoover, who would have been the first To mug England's monied lords Had he his choice, and his chance, Gave his rather petulant air, And instantly went to sleep! When Hoover woke, he found himself restored To just his former altitude; And that no bullets had been mailed He figured there and then; For the Kaiser had sent word that he might Have it his own way Though Hoover didn't see how he could own A parcel of untouchable bullets, 'N' so he telegraphed his resignation. "You can keep the stone! I'll take the gun!" "Ere once again I pull the trigger You'll see your Grenadier-general Hooted down like a rented mare! For it's all the same to me, Since on Kaiser-begovic sent Such menacing things to me! You may keep the stone!" "O God of Bacon! Your rib-eye is so fine, That I sometimes think That you have something of thater Which, when Francis Drake was fool, I promised to impart; If you have it, God shield the land From what I foolishly meant!" "I will tell you truly, What I meant was--well, let's just say It was this:-- I meant that you were very fine a man, And, by extension, so were England; And that, because of your high renown, Your Majesty might know of it, And that, besides, the Kaiser's mind Was trained, as was evidently true, That monarchs--or at least such was my thought-- Are fond of knowing what their subjects think. So, as I said before, I sought the spot Where my Majesty was informed. If you will come with me I'll give you a thrice reward!" "And I was busy with that While the Kaiser played fool, So that I knew not of his bolt Until it was too late. But you'll bet that, once I saw What the bullet was made for, My feelings were all upset And I wept hot tears all day. To do something, anything To save England from its doom, And I wanted to die! "You see, the thing was this: The bad words, and the bad dreams That had long conspired To bring sorrow and shame Unto my native land By this spurious man Were brought together and held head high By this great cause of ours. So that, when I rose up at night To follow you, where'er you led, I felt in my heart, at least, That my country had not lost A rival for the world; But, oh! how I feared that she Was only faltering! "In the camp it often is so! The highest places always go To the most valorous and the best-equipped: For the skill that heroes learn Is often more highly developed Than that of the cat-folk; And it is particularly so Where fires are frequent and hot, And where petrol is readily at hand. The Centaur is no worse or worse Than any other machine: You may set it up and it will go, Though it may have been made specially To go on tall cliffs or steep pitches, Or where the road is steep and the ground is often broken. "But, trust me, boy, You will never find A more affable machine Or one that is more steady or quicker; And, after all these years, You will meet with no one so good, Or so kind, or so kind to the poor!" "Well, thank you, Madam," Says Johnson, with a smile, "But I never said I'd be one; And, if you choose, I'm sorry you won't Though I know it's hard to be beaten. But there's a man who owns a hotel And who can get you sometimes guests, And he's a kind man and I'm a fool, And--here I make an unkind oath-- The two poor old men that you mention, They were always affable as horses." "You may talk of hotels, Mr. Johnson," says Drake, "But there are millions of people in this country Who have money enough to spend <|endoftext|> To mingle with the blushes of his youth. Though woman's life should have been his tomb, The brave man's life should have had a portion too; And he who ne'er deigned for earthly love To scorned, or withered for lack of mind, Would have received, in form of words, the same That women's hearts must feel, when they defy Man's pride and law, to ask for what they want. Then the songs, and dances, and the joyous cry, Would have been kept, not for naught, but for his sake. Then the morning pages, the stories of the day, Would have been written for no reason why, But for joy of doing something for him. So from my youth has long been my belief, That in all good deeds the undue name Of man hath haply been forgotten good. And now, to-day, with joyful heart I write For naught but for the love of him I love, To put from memory, for naught but for him. Ecco yclepum sidera nostro: Vivamus, vivere, meum meum vivamus. Cum omnia dicamus esse vidi. Illa nihil aliud quisquam habebat, Nec me videt haec aevi. Sed hoc etiam sidera nostro, Sed hoc etiam vivamus esse vidi. Ecce suo, meum sidera nostro, Ecce suo, vivamus esse vidi. Sed hoc etiam sidera nostro, Sed hoc etiam vivamus esse vidi. The most easy way is the best way, If it's properly going to get you to Heaven. So sing, sweet and easy, And when you're getting pretty good, We'll go and live in Chaucer and Chastelard. We'll do our own seeing, Which is as it should be; We'll go and do it ourselves To save the world from Chastelard. Then, sweet and easy, We'll go and live in Chaucer and Chastelard. I knew a man, an' a wife, Whar finger-bow'r teas'd owre her e'e; An' she lay owre a reth'able bed, An' let te 'hersel' lie. I knaw the cause 'at all lay in 'er. It was, as I 'ave heerd, te be sich. I knaw an' hid sich in 'er; I knaw an' hid sich in 'er e'e; I lay wi' 'er in a reth'able bed, An' let 'er lie. O fast it ran, too, as 'ere's the case, There was no keepin' it secret at all, It 'ud gi'e the padres in a rage, It 'ud gi'e the friars in a fury. I didn't hev a word to say, I didn't hev a step to stand, So I just got up an' leave 'er there. I knaw an' hid sich in 'er; I knaw an' hid sich in 'er e'e. Te rise, he 'as got 'er at last, Te get her 'erelf an' away; They've take 'er in an' lock 'er up, An' take an' lock sich a sly corner. I tried an' tried in vain te keep 'er close; It was all in vain te keep 'er hid. I'd a few coves come back, I'd a few coves come back; An' git 'er, when I got 'er, I did, 'Cause I was lookin' te be done. I had to flee, 'cause 'er ran away, Te flee, 'cause 'er ran away; She 'ur runnin' te be'ind, 'er 'ur runnin' te be'ind, An' I wouldn't hide her from the sun. She had a sweet ole fashion, A sweet ole fashion, Te keep te clean, an' bake te pease; She kept te clean, an' bake te pease, Te make te red, an' green, an' blue. I was wantin' o' a wife, I was wantin' o' a wife; But she lay so sweet an' fair, Te never see her wuth mule. I had to run an' hide my face, I had to run an' hide my face; I'd a luggit a bit o' plesance, I'd a luggit a bit o' plesance; An' t' worl' o' 'er she never did care, She never 'ed te see me weep. She could te take me, an' she could te take me, She could te take me, an' she could te take me, She couldn't te spare te hide me; An' then at last I thought she'd love me, An' then at last I thought she'd love me; Te stan' upon her lugs, an' stan' upon her lugs, An' fought an' struggled te hide me. Theer's a little brown an' brown an' brown, A little brown an' brown an' brown; An' if you te hev a girl, theer's a liddle better To marry a little brown an' brown an' brown. <|endoftext|> In thy charge, they do no longer dare to fly, But, like tame beasts, are quite beaten when they fear, For oft at thy approach they shrink before thy power. And so, my youth, be still, and ever seek to know More of this wonder, how the Lusian realms Are ruled, and ruled by whom they please, And what supernals might be theirs at will, Whose spirits would fain be gods, whose wishes are Not what their worth but what their bravery is. By strange and lonely pathways, In a dismal valley, They dwell, with whom none hath honour. With the sun they have no share, Nor the moon gives them a rest, But all night long in the daytime They groan with fright. And I ask, and I ask in vain If my prayer have aught of avail, If I shall gain one breath Of hope from this struggle. O my Jesus, my Saviour, my life, O my life make me fight on in Thy truth, With a stout heart and a steadfast step, Until I win to the other shore, Until the battle is won, Until the battle is won. Out of doors, in a dismal valley, They live, with whom none hath renown. Out of doors, in the dismal valley, They eat, and drink, and take their fill, And they know no other hunger. But I ask, and I ask again in vain, Have I aught of glory to give the dead, Or the living, for their hunger to slake, If I seek nought else but Thee, O Lord. And I ask, and I ask again, Have I aught of victory to win with these, Or should I return on my sad way, Wearing a smile on my face, Who am not ashamed to confess That my heart is missing Thou, Who art all, and was, the God to stand By the doors where I stood waiting? O Jesus, O Saviour, O Lord of life, Help me till I see Thee, Until I see Thee, and tell me in loud cries, If my hunger and thirst are all in vain, Or are they all in vain and vain for Thee. Thou art the light of the skies. And thy splendour is so great, So for our eyes it is meet, We must behold it from far. But yet in our hearts of fear, We may not forsake it, But, with faith and with hope, We can bear its light, Nor take it away with our prayer. Through the day and through the night Still, still by the candle's light, We tread its way around, And its track is our way around, When, all unwearied, Our watch we keep. We watch till the rosy light Gives to our work its only light That it is day. And, all the long night through, When the clock struck ten, We could see the sun rise in it, In its glassy beam. We have a watch, and it is summer, All day, all night, for bread, To eat, and to drink, and to sleep, In the house of God. So it is summer, so it is ours; It is ours in our inmost hearts; 'Tis ours in the dusty room, 'Tis ours in the shadowy sky, 'Tis ours all over the earth. O Lord, the heavens are thine, And all that is done in them, And all that is spoken of them. The wheel in the heaven runs true; Lord, keep the hearts of men true. We are true hands to grasp the wheat, And true voices to bid men rejoice, But shadows cast across us, And winds against us, Like a proof of the old law still. He is risen, he is risen! The river flows ruddy. With tints of bronze the leaves flash pale, And all the skies are gold, And the wind flies raucous, Like a trumpet-note; And the world is changed, I wis, In a day. The lake is bright with frosty spray, The tree-tops flame fernily, The wind blows peevishly, Like a knocking tooth. All day, in the sun's eye, Like a great stone to touch, A man works out the night, In a day. The giant, sightless, handless hands That bury men, that seize, To mangle, and tear, and crush, The blameless, beloved child, From sun to sun, But leaves his head, his life, behind Like a stone in the flood. Is come the night to shut us in, Since down in the world The giant, sightless, handless hands That bury men, that seize, To mangle, and tear, and crush, The blameless, beloved child, From sun to sun, But leaves his head, his life, behind Like a stone in the flood. And in this room I lean and hear, In this small room, The sound of the river making sweet Its peace to the woods below, Whose peace is like the song of the bird In the windy leaves, Making sweet its solitary way, To the wood's love. O wind of the western sea, Break through the storm, And blow the music out of the dark, Until the stars stand straight in the sky, Until they shine With radiance like a diamond crown, For the love of a girl who has gone Away. What care we for the human dead <|endoftext|> There lies a dead man, his shroud to allay the fire of their envy, Yet none believe the tale, not even the living, and a little child Knows the truth, and lingers there in the icy air, and knows The spot by the smell of the earth and the rain of the clouds. In that land they do not worship, with brazen vessels and strange Oracles, the Gods of their fathers, but have learned One worship, and that is love, and the secret of death. The dead man is loved, but he who is sleeping beneath his bones Is hated and feared, for he haunts the paths and the walks of men And now that I am come to the place of the dead I have kneeled And kissed the dust, and gone on my way ashamed and as I should To join the multitude of the living dead, I go sad and slow. Yet none have seen me, and I come and gossip and moan and weep In the land of the shadows, and no one knows that I exist. I do not envy the dead man, for I do not know if I Should envy myself, so very little do I know of another When I have left my body, and no longer am a part of it, And only when the dust falls on me and I hear the rain, And the pale blue sky is tinged with red, and I start from my sleep Do I think of the dead, for I do not think of the living Who wander in life with their eyes ever on the horizon Toward the goal of their migrating, and no one knows of their dwelling, And no one has heard their voice, and they wander in fear and Pain, and cannot speak, and no one sees them no more? And now I have crossed the threshold of the porch, And there is a door there, no larger than a cockatoo's bill, And when I open the door there falls, And falls, Upon the doorstep, A fairy-lit faldstool carved from a single block of stone. On it the Dead God stands, and makes a sound like a feller-frag. He is very pleased with himself, and says, "The horse is mine, The wood is dry, I move it now in the twilight, And I sit on it in the sun, And I ride forth upon the tide, And I pluck the roses of the earth, And I cast them on the waterside, And I break them before the gates of the dead." He has done all this, and more, For he is very strong, And he makes a motion with his hand, as if to lift up the god And set him upon his altars, but I stand between them, And the wind stirs the screen of the screen, For the dead and the living have been fooling us, And the Dead God is a slippery god to handle. "How are the children? I have given them a portion of all my knowledge. There is nothing that I do not know. I know the number of the grains of sand on the shores of the sea, The number of the stars, the shining of the moon and sun, The number of the ships that pass over the moon in the night, The number of the birds on the trees, and the crows cawing on the towers; I know the ripples on the brooklet, the wind in the thawing river, The number of the sons of men, and the cities with their mighty walls." Now that I am come to the place of the dead, And I know the book of the dead, I shall know the truth and the falsehood That is writ there beneath the soil. I shall know the hosts of the dead that have gone down to the land of the dead, And those that are yet bereaved. And those that are here shall go down with me, And we shall draw the steadily deepening curtains of the open grave, The earth still shakes, And the green hills all round, As they will shake again soon; The years and the minutes tumble, That hide the secret still, Of the long, long, drawn-out agony Of the eternal blossomings. And I go on, till I stand by the grave of the unknown dead, For there are no secrets there. So that the years that have gone before Shall not be lost as a flower-ring Buried in the earth and forgotten there, But their anguish and their tears shall be A medicine that shall heal the land, And a part and a prelude of the flowering Of the flowers that shall spring from the grave. He woke in the dawn and the sun Rose up in a cloud that was split To a whiter whiter vapor. He rose and he went to the door, But the sun was gone, and the sky Was strung with strata, and he knew That the day was all made and done And the world was done for a garment. The white world was strung with white, The black world with black, And a seed of flame Was in each whited eye, And a red seed in each eye, Red as the rind of a flower, Red as a rose. A rue is not a planet; It is a planet, and But a seed of flame, And a seed of red, Red as a rose. A simple seed of flame That shall grow to a flame That shall grow to a rose. He saw the seed in the eye of the cloud, The seed of a red rose, In the whited eye of the sky, Red as the rind of a flower. He took a flower of purple and red, <|endoftext|> Shows the odorous splendor of the flowering clod; While the yellow corn before them breaks its bands, Forwards, and spills its shining ears upon the plain. Then the maiden maiden, blooming on the plain, Chants her mournful song and mocks the harvest boy. The corn is gathered, and its husks are weighed; And a gleaming golden caldron, marked with Roman gold, Is brought from Rome, where it was wrought by ancient art; In its center floats a basket, wrought with grief and care, On which is placed a piece of purple wreath in frame; And on its top, before the magistrate's eyes, Appears a vase, whose neck and branches boast a flowery jaw. The corn is weighed, and all is duly claimed and paid; The magistrate blesses the heavy offerings on the ground; And now, to mark the assignation of the grape, A steed is brought with purple tail and ears of corn; Palsied with his purple, trembling rider trails the plain; And in his heart the envy of the crowded stalls Burns with dark fires, and with a scornful scorn he scorns. Where now the tame and grass-bred race? Where the stallions fierce? Where now the race of goat? Ah, no more in chariot race, Or in the fierce race for horses bloody, or on foot, Or at slow gallop, swift as thought, man leads the stretch. Heeds not the spur that eagerly devours the fly? Obedient to a parent's word, the rider flies, Unmindful of the voice of scandal and of moan, That, through the chace, rings out from the pursuing pair. With eyes cast down and with a lowering crest, The courser flies along the dusty way; He passes on, nor heeds the beating of his heart; He hears not the squeak of leather, nor the loud cries; Nor sees he clearly the blind man's dimly beaming face; Nor sees he clearly the other's face that meets his eyes, Nor the crowd that fast follows, nor the distant pace. By a low hilly district bank he came to stand On a long plain, where grass was growing green; And he saw, far in the distance, and behind, In the hot sunlight, two steeds that came and went. But he hardly noticed these, or the way The breeze played round and about their manes, Till two white brows, and a white crested hat, Alone defended their valor and their age. And they two alone, like two brave knights, To a hushful distance, unheeded, sped; And he scarce noticed their white wings that showed, Till a loud shout afar, a horseman cried, That shook the earth beneath his hoofs so lightly, And the two horses, floundering, scattered from the course, And they trotted down the hillside in the rear. He saw them, but he saw them not alone; The shout was heard, the horses flew, the crowd advanced, And the black coats rose and fell, and cries and cries, Of men and women, smote upon his ear. He felt the sharp breath of the many men, He heard the clash of swords, the trampling of the beaten, He saw the wounded stagger and sink and die, And felt the bitter root of death tighten its hold. With a loud roar that rent the heavens above, A dark mass rushes down the mountain's side, As if the earth had split in under-wood; Down the steep rocks and the green rocks below, As if the water in the river fell. Its darksome hoofs the swamp-beasts of the swamp Shiver as they pass, and the nymphs of the deep Are gathered in a group, and dance and play, To the echo of the horses' hoofs and stroke. The knight watched till the dragon had returned, And galloped toward the cry and cry alone; But still no knight came, and the dragon drew Up to the cliffs with a swift and vast return. And still the knight rode tired and slow, To the spot where he heard last the horseman's shout, And saw the cowering damsel twain alone. And he saw her face, and the white brows Were gazing up in amaze On that sudden brightness of peerless might, So he hastened to excuse his haste, And told the damsel all his name, And the warfare in which he had been, And the vow which he had plighted before. And the last question that he asked Was whether the vow had set him free, And he pressed her warm on both cheeks, But the dark brows and the quivering lips Still waited to hear the answer, and they stared Speechless, looking up in mute surprise, And he turned and saw the dusk come in. The dusk came in, and the shade, and the chill, And the splendor of the gold and the blue, In a light wind floated the golden hair, And the silent knight's face to their eyes Softened and seemed to glow with the light, And they looked on, and then they whispered In low wonder, and turned with their boards, And wrought in their cushions and made talk, Till all was quiet again. And the silent hour had gone by so, And the hill-wind and the rustling trees, And the stars began to blink in the west, And the light wind died down again, When the quiet damsel arose and spoke, And her voice was low and clear as a bell, <|endoftext|> Blind to the deed, that fain would work More mischief with a better name? The world shall learn his scarlet name, His lost bequest shall in pride Glitter above his altar-stone." "More harm thou canst not with the same Fan the flames of wrath, and turn the sword On thy own flesh; nor should the queen Henceforth need thine assistance, since She reigns alone; but thou, who now Leadest a royal city and command The loftiest towers, must lead thy armies forth, And bid them gather round the walls of Rome; Else may they hurl her down the deep, And at her head this mountain cross endure. "He heard; at once th' effulgent rays Forsook his body; 'twas as the flame Dies from flint, or lightning from a cloud: And yet more fierce and terrible His crimson eyes, through fury, throw A fearful glare upon the day. Grimly he spoke, as though the day Died with his lips; then drew his sword, And fixed it firmth on his haughty head; Roused was the earth beneath his tread. "Sore vengeful was his look, and said (Unutterable deference showing To her who lorded there in state): "Queen, what would'st thou now? what can I say? What should my thoughts or words avail? So would I show thee, if I could, What no one else could witness bear; My sole desire were, that with mine eyes Thou could'st behold the carnage, and thyself Have part and portion of the spoil. "Foul is the deed, if unlawful, Undo thou, who bidd'st me destroy Thy host; foul the sin, if hateful, If it be stolen from other men. Still was thy mother christened queen, And in thy throne and royal state Thou was'st enthroned before thy sire: Thy right and sovereign place is thine, Thy glory is the same, whether crowned With pomp, with trophy, or with trophy-royal; "But here thy pomp is lost; and thou, Subject and servant of their pride, Art dusted with the dust and bugle-horn, And now with slaughter and with shame Doo appear before thine honied lord, To whom thou camest as a maiden shy, To make thy life more cheaply thine. "Hence have I brought thee, the forgetful hour Overpast, to thy desires. This doom Hath many a god, and every god's thought, Discreet, wise, compassionate, reached; And they in council hold on each side Discrete and qualified deliberation. If thy sake will their bosoms smite, Even for these, whose mercy and whose power Smote Rimedon, and gave him a right gage, The meanest of their mangled folk to swing (For they were mean) they would not change their part, Nor with their slaughter spread wide hell's gulf wide. "They would not, for their murderers sake; Nor, for the blood of murderers wrung, Would they, so much they loved, their friendship sever, Glad from the beginning, to the end, So good a friend, so true a faithful friend, Had Heaven in friendship from a child been gifted. God had not bestowed on him a friend, Or protection, or the wisdom won To keep him in the liberty he won. "But he is hateful to the wicked, To folly, imposture, and darkness, Who heeds not Fortune's rising sun, Nor thine, who heeds not night and storm, And with the wisest of mankind Himself doth yearly read his mind, To find who tempted him to do And dare the shame, though hidden he Had chanced to slip the link of covetousness, "So skulks he forth, he is indeed coward, Hiding the truth, he dare not himself make known, For whom he spies, to tempt, for whom he spies; What blushes he, what smiles, what smirches wear His "friend" among the multitude he knows, And makes his evil motives plain to all. And all the filth of sloth and debauch Lies plain to all the seeing eyes; Yet stands he sure, the secret sinning And sinless he is, his faith is sure. "But none, I find, are so standing sure, For every secret daring swain, A thousand, as sure, as any one else, Since so deep in sin he is, he dares To take upon his word the same; He drinks to such as him pray, and he Reaps such reward, that much commend he. "For, if a man his trust deserves, and lays His heart into his champion's side, The trust shall duly be repaid him; And if he fears, or fears not, to stand Obedient to his word, he shall not need To ask his seat, he shall not lodge in it; His seat is other where he doth need, There sits he safe, he doth float in air. "That place of seat no foot may hold, No hand may clasp, no mouth may greet; But there doth sit the brave, and there With guarded head doth guard the naked heart. That place of seat is sacred ground, Where use has taught the world to view The naked parts, the sorrowful parts, The parts most delicate and rare, All other parts are guilty ground, <|endoftext|> We twain am and I: not changed a whit. For she is fairer far than men be fair, Fairer than is the white star in the sky Frowning amid the blackness of the storm; Fairer than foam on the river, Fairer than is the golden brown Of summer seas benumbed with frost. And as the dew falls fast In grey eternities of light, She is fairer than the dew; Fairer than is the rose, Fairer than is the bright Silver of the moon on the stream. She is fairer than the lamp of love, Fairer than day, and more Fairer than all night. For she is love incarnate; And night is but a name For the eternal Fairy-tale of delight. There was never a night so sweet But there was always her. Her touch hath made the sadness Of many a death-darkened star; For there is magic in her eyes: They shift and wane, and like leaves Blow back the lights of their day. There was never a night so long But there was always her. Her silence kept the lightness Of tired feet at the morning gates; For there is magic in her lips: They smile and stay, and like a sail Sails out of the morning air. There was never a night so proud But there was always her. Her towers rose higher and wilder For every wonder of love; For there is magic in her breath: It is as if her life breathed fire, And smote out the stars of night. What thing so great and sweet and wise As the woman?--What?--The Eternal One, Who is spirit and flesh and blood, And both a god. What?--That other thing unknown Which is God, if God be such; If, mortal, she be divine, 'Tis she that sets our souls a-blaze. And that's the reason why I love you so, and this my song, And every thing that's in this hut; And if I were not so tired of it, And this my song, and all the things that are not, I'd lie down and die at night, And never lift up my eyes To see the stars and listen to the moon; For there she is, and there she only, And she never can be apart from me. Ay, ay, It makes no difference whether I love you or no; Whether you are lovely or unmarvellous, If you are wonderful and strange and strange; That's just in your curious way, That's just in your way of being; And if you were not so wise and strange and curious And didn't keep calling and calling, I'd rise up and beat you black and blue, And then lay down and sleep. And yet, for all that, I am going to say There's something in you that makes me love you; For strange things are in your nature, And stranger things in my nature, And we are half-again a man and a woman; And the world will see this in you, And you'll never be apart from me. "O my friend, The world is like a maze. You must wander wide To find the way. But here I stand To guide you through The maze." She sat at the motor, And toiled and sighed at the task, As she scratched a parrot, In her own, sad, childish hand. "You can do it, O my friend," she said. And yet for all she could do, There was no whole that she couldn't skramish, And though she never knew the chill Of exposure to the rail, She knew enough of muddiness, And the ugliness that's all about us, To have taken the wrong in the head A little at a time. Her hair was high and greasy, Her hands were dirty and yellow, And yet she caught the light And hid it with a glare That was almost human. She sighed, "I'm not like you," And so she left the train. And when they found her, she was afraid; They shook her till she nearly had another fit, They drenched her till she could hardly stand, And then they put her inside a car That was five carats heavier than the rest, And seventy miles an hour was jerked Upon that motor mile; And so they brought her to New York. And then she looked around her. In this dingy and terrible place A beautiful face had come to life. And though it was Sunday, To see it was to know God was not mad. Her eyes were clear, and light, and glad; And her hands were clean and white. And though they had known her somewhere Before, they could not have guessed Just how strange she was nor how strange she was. Her hands were light as air, her feet Were like a flower in the ground; And though the year was cold And many footprints lay in the snow, Like a happy child she stood. And though the children were sad She was as glad as could be, And though there were tears to begin, There were not any there to end. She saw the children, and she knew The pains they had come to grief through, And though she had known their eyes There was something else that she knew That made her smile and sing, And though the year was very cold She had brought them flowers to wear. And then the children cried for joy; <|endoftext|> Their reason and their reason's eyes, And they said to me: "You have unmoored us from our work To fare at large, And we have lost our morning's labor! We are not hired men To be the footstool of the world, And you have gone and left us here To wade in slime and suck dregs Of life like slaves." They told me the sad story, And for a time my heart would break, Because I could not a promise make To them. I have no mother now, And no father, and no brother To come back and be my brother, And take me in his arms And hold me and say: "Hush! Why do these men tease you? Are they as black as soot? Do they shout as they march? Are their black eyes like hot coals? And their faces red like cooked meat? Do they spit and snort, And howl like lions? No, they are not so black! They are not so ruined! They are not so old! They are not so old and black! They are my brothers! And I will honor them as long As I'm able, And I will honor them with my life! Why do they care if I am gay? Do they not know that I have suffered? Do they not know that I have known The pain of unrequited love? That I have walked in solitary ways And suffered the pangs of unrequited love? That I have seen the world's masters glare At me, in the empty places they gave me? That I have walked in their streets and halls, And smiled and exchanged kisses with them all, But only them could kiss my cheeks like bread. That I have been their fool, and played their game, And only them could honor me! And so I must bear it all, And bear it calmly, Because it was their custom! And so I must bear it all alone, And alone from them! And so I must bear it all alone, And bear it with a patience of pain, And a resignation as of right, And a face that is not quite my face, But a pale mask of their face I wear, So that I may see and be not seen. I hear them in the marble hall And the marble stair, And in the marble hall and the stair The voices of the dancers fall. I hear them in the closing flower beds, I hear them on the vanishing ears Of the trees in the garden there. And when I am tired I lay me down In the closed flower beds and sleep. There is no pain, there is no pain, There is only the sound of their feet, Like the sound of swans on the lake, Or of waves on a distant shore That are heard by those who have ears To hear and not hear. If I could but understand How it is that you weep, I could help you. If I could but understand How it is that you weep, I could lend a hand; I would help you, and make it seem No other cause moves you; And if I might but understand, It would seem most clear. The rain came down in a flood And the cold wind did blow, And the evergreens dropped downward, And the mist ascended, And the chrism-odors ascend, And the bitter water slaked The tender leaves, and made them sweet; And that glorious chrism began To slide down, as water slaked The thirsty lips of babies. They sang their songs, they danced, they laughed Their smiles up into the skies, And the angels heard, and they were dumb. And that glorious chrism began To slide down, as water slaked The thirsty lips of babies. And then it fell and flowed and flowed, The whole of the gift of the grace Of the great redemption; and so Their tears were dried, and their woe was gone. And the earth saw the healing begin, And from the lap of innocence The thunders of wrath were shaken down; And from the throne of majesty The thunders of wrath were shaken down. And yet I must go on. I must sing And tell of the glad, sweet Spring, And of birds and flowers that spring; Of the green leaves, and of the white And golden clusters of the blossoms; And of our good Roderick and his bride, And of the happy days that spring, Because the days are glad, and sweet, and long. Because the great, strong, ever-changing years Make all things change, and again Make all things as they were before; And every day we see a little child Standing in a sunshine, his wild hair Blown round his ears, and round his brows, And round his waist, and round his waist His dear, sweet breath is laid, And he smiles up in his mother's face, And all the world is glad, and sweet, and long. Because the ever-changing, sad, and sadder years Weep oft for the glory days, And for the days that are lost and gone; And there is none to hark to their cry, Or to warn them that they wait: And this is why the proud, good, and vain And idle days are gone, And the days grow swifter, and the sun Shines clearer, and the days grow longer, and the light Within the windows of the Night is brighter, and the Night Is wiser than the days; For what are all the rest besides? <|endoftext|> 'Twas my father's treat, When my second summer began, To make me an old-fangled cuckoo. And his pride, as he twittered there, When he twittered to the Sprites A cunning little Merry Language, For all his cuckoo business He had but a tame cuckoo, A chattering creature, A bird that piped in the trees. But one morning, when I was dressed, And fled along the yard, The naughty little cuckoo piped He piped and piped, Like any nice little mermaid I care to mention, To my poor father, on his knees, The sunbeams in his hair. "You are a pretty young thing, You may listen to me," Said the cuckoo. "You are pretty, But you're not so cuckoo. For I am cuckoo, And I make the grass grow green." I have no sons,--no daughters,-- No friends,--no wealth,--no fame, No arts,--no letters,--no beauty, None of the things that one admires; But if there be a Cuckoo Who, from April to May, By lucky chance or whim, Can make the green grass grow When others shrink as pale As if they had come up water; Who can make the blue sky shine So well that they appear Like gems a-plenty to me, Who can make the cherry-tree Blossom all the year round, Who can make the snow-peak high Tenderly fill and touch The sun so bright within, As if 'twere a lover's eyes That sought to gaze within The eyes of Cuckoos;-- Who can give to each singer An additional string, A sweetest harmony, A sweeter, loveliest song, As if each were he, The singer, the Cuckoo, Who takes to him, as he takes to me, The gifts of music and of eyes, And lets the world go by The ways of life alone. Behold, the flower-day succeeding Little notice is taken, And when April comes with roses, The webs are untied. The glowing east and the glowing west Are the familiar theme, And every cluster of the flowers Takes the place of every song. The rose of the snows and the grass Is fallen upon her, The snows and the grasses are green Upon her brow. And when the lilied brooks arise, And dances light prevail, And in the echoing grove's dark bar The wild bird's song is heard, It is the rose and the snow And the brooks and the flower-paths all That guide the way. As you sit with your love upon your knee, We know not what yearning may be; Upon the stroke of twelve we leave off thinking of anything; And when the stroke of the clock is heard, We know that the day has passed. We do not count the weary minutes, We do not strive against the tide, But leap into the stream, And the rose of hope and the red of blood In love are one. The summer is over, over, alas! The summer is over; The rose-bush falls, the woodbine flies, The wind returns; And winter cometh, and with it The wind and the rain. We know that the summer is over, And we look in the glass; We know that the rose-bush is over, The woodbine, too, and the wind; We know that winter cometh, and The wind and the rain. If I tire of you, beautiful woman, I know that I must Fate's hand be the author of my failure To find you as sweet As years of memory fondly recall All the long hours we have spent Under the trees. If years of love are past, and love is failure, If joy be hateful, and if sorrow Bring up the rear, Not a leaf in all the bleak and bald acacias Shall wave in the heat. The pines have all forgotten that time was Their gentle friend, And all the old songs have been turned to songs of hate, And all the old thoughts to crime; And time shall be no more than a rumour Among the trees. The very stars have forgotten that they once Did shine so bright; And time shall be no more than a rumour Among the trees. The birds have forgot the springtime came To seek them out; And love has become a passionate youth Among the trees. The little flowers, I know, will hold in flower The fleeting hours; And their memories of the sunlight that Filled the days And nights, will linger long among the trees. I shall not see them spring; But I shall hear them talk among the trees. The little birds that sing so well, And fill the air with music, All seem to forget that time is But a rumour among the trees. The flowers that Juned's hand may dress With scent and colour, All forget that time shall be But a rumour among the trees. If I tire of you, beautiful woman, I know that I must Fate's hand be the author of my failure To find you as sweet As years of memory fondly recall All the long hours we have spent Under the trees. If years of love are past, and love is failure, If joy be hateful, and if sorrow Bring up the rear, <|endoftext|> His middle finger points To the red sand of the sea And he prays to the fishes And to the seals. The wind, that was shivering us Long ago between the stems Of the sordid apple trees, Has blown these prayers away In the wind of the war That is singing and marching In the wind of the war. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are taking Our blood, they are taking Our women. No more Can we fight for you. No more can we save you Save yourselves, save others, Save lands, oceans, countries, Save generations, save Our great grand-children and great great grand-children, Save those that are now unborn. The wind of the war, Of the wind of the war, In the stormy night time, Chills and tears and scorches All the tree and flower, Save only a handful, Save only a single flower, Save only a sprig or two, Save only a couple of bushes Only a single plum-tree, Or a pair of old beaten boots. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are taking Our blood, they are taking Our women, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. One is enough. It is enough. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. There are tears in my eyes, There are tears in my eyes. I have waited so long, I am so weary and worn out with waiting, That I have cried out aloud to God; And He heard them and answered me. He gave me courage, strength and wisdom, He raised me above myself, He filled my heart with hope and promise, He strengthened my arm to fight. Now I kneel before Him again, Before the Holy One above, Who made me a prophet to preach good news to the poor. Where is now the hand of the runner Who set out on this lonely journey, In the far-off dim and distant days, When the shadow of arms and war-clans Had spread a dim, black shadow over all? I know that no home is there for us, But a wilderness of death and sorrow; But a strange light shines out where the shadows are. I saw the dawn-star in a glittering bright, I heard the songs of the tiny hunter, I spied the weak, red blossom of morn Pressed hard against the old green mail. I shall follow that light and track its splendour, And give back the song that I heard, Or give my life up to the brave soldiery, And die, because I have lived, in the trouble and strife of the world. Oh, I have seen the dawn-star in a glistering silver light, I have heard the song of the tiny hunter, I have spied the red blossom of morn Pressed hard against the old green mail. Oh, I shall follow that light and track its splendour, For I am not afraid of the shadows of war; For I know that no home is there for us, But a wilderness of death and sorrow; But I know that there is a home for the brave soldiery When I was still a boy in the cabin, I saw a wondrous star shoot over, And a rabbit from the forest ran. I gathered up the rabbit in my hand And carried it as far as I could To show all my friends and fellows; They all thought it was a beautiful rabbit, But they couldn't find it anywhere. When I was already a young man, I met the bravest man that ever you saw; His name was Jolly Jim, and he was made of plums; He was so bold, and such a smart guy, He carried the biggest bush of all I know. He went to war, and he brought home the rabbit As proud as a warrior might do, And now here he is grown to be a mighty man, And he eats goose with his friends every day. I saw a little, pimple-faced bumble bee, And he shook the dewdrops from his wing, And he said, "Dear me! There is a dear little butterfly Is flying over to see about." And it seems to me the butterfly Is the same as my girl, For she's flying over to see about. When the sick man lies awake in the night, And sees the stars in the sky, And hears the little birds in the trees, And feels the grasses under his feet; When he hears the wind in the trees, And sees the stars in the sky, And feels the wind in his hair, And hears the birds in the trees, Then he knows it is Christmas Eve. When the little children wish for toys And the children bring them on Christmas night; When the little children pray for things To put into the toys they make; When the little children sing for joy On Christmas night, in their sin, When the little children pray for joy In their sin, as they lie From all the sorrows of life I pray, <|endoftext|> Took each a pair of wide-rolled cloaks Woven by Paquius' self in Cremona. And of these, the fine artist chose the best, And these he presented, all in order due, To Augustus; and on either side his friends All stepped forward and took their seats. Then he Rose, and after him his captains in their haste Descending, all presented their persons forthwith. Thenceforth were held the venerable sires' debates In public, with the common people gathered round. Now that Augustus had from the table risen, All cast their eyes upon the prince, and then Marked too the gracious crowd of friends that came To greet him. Not a wealthy knight, or one Praised in song, or by tradition sanctified, Or one who long in Rhodes' old house had done Homage, was idle, but arose and took his place Among the princes and the senators of the land. Some pressed about him in their hurry to embrace Their lord, some went up and down among the throng, Praying and praising. Little could they have known That, when these parted, not for ever, but for just Like to a well-oar in a sea-beat shoreward made By agile rowers who reel not nor can repent, Untired, the chariot rolled on. But when they saw Their master rising, all the young men stopped And would have clustered about him, but he passed By, unheeding. Then among them Pavel went, Brave son of Pavlos, and Alkino followed, And all the people flocked about the two To greet them, and the coursers glided homeward, For now was noon and the cool day was dying. And it was then that in the royal palace They made them ready for the banquet, and all That was required they performed. And at dawn The coursers came and brought the princes home, Grateful for their sojourn in Scyros; and at last All sat themselves down, and feasted until the wine Had thoroughly warmed them. Then arose the saying "Brother, what wishes may in us exist, what plans Are there within our minds, since one and all of us Has reached his native land and is safely living? Is there no one among us, nor no man nears His goal, who would have come here and is still Longing for his return? Are there no faithful wings Here trailing somewhere above, who will bear this man Back to his country and his friends? Alas! alas! How many of us shall perish in the sea Of Greekish seas, or in the desert, or wend To Carian Orchomenus and Lacedaemon? Alas! alas! For us shall be no summer-time, No gathering in the fruits, no making merry, No gathering in the branches and dropping o'er Into the purple waters of the marshy meads; No icy streams and no clear sun and no rill, But some far other desert and far worse torment, Horrid to tell, and broken hearts and bitter groans." So spake the prince among the nobles; but in truth No voice was there, no echo in the hall, To tell his grief, no voice of all to hear Who sat with him. And it seemed to him Avenging blow and woful blow. For he saw All the fair company of dames and knights Come ever to the banquet and depart, By threats and tears, till he grew mad with pain And thought of Scyros' strait narrow banks and towers And those most cruel men; and then indeed He smote himself, for that most fell man he had been, Wasting the life of others for his own shame. But yet a little space he stood, with head held high, Nor ever touched he with his hand the fair arm Of fair Doralice; but all the while his eyes Were on her face, and there he stayed, enthralled by her grace, Till his heart bled forth its sorrow: and the night Fell on him, and the painful thoughts of home and woes, And all the cares of these long days of wandering. And at the last he turned him from the sight, and wept, And tears ran down his trembling cheeks. Then the lady took him by the hand, And, smiling, spake unto him: "Nay, do not weep; Take hold of these hands, and kiss her feet, and rest Thy weary head upon her bosom; and so Go down in peace, and tell thy sorrow all In words that seemliest; and if any word seem sweet, Perhaps she will let it be her name. Farewell! Farewell, and may heaven bestow her happiness Upon thee!" And all the folk, rejoicing, wept. And straightway all the folk laid him in the silken hall Upon a soft bed, and gave him of the best And fairest cup-bearer's wine that was there, And stilled the tears in all his eyes, and made The heavy sorrow in his heart to cease. For all that day and all that night, by dream and bane, The heavy thoughts of Scylla haunted his soul, And she his sister, calling ever in his mind The name of his own beloved sister, wailed and spake Such words as hold a joy no mortal man may tell; And all the while her hands were clasped round his neck In love's embrace. And at the last she stood With eyes beseeching, and her arms enfolding, and she said: <|endoftext|> But with a wide-branch'd bough of hemlock, which might be seen His leafy path through the forest: for all along It grew as lofty as the tallest trees On Ilium, and of strength surpassing all That breed therein: no strength, however, may aspire That leafy height, or can aspire above, Though with unfaltering root it holdeth firm. Their chirping noise the little birds thus met; For everywhere, about their park, and frith, In open fields and woody places, there they meet. These sung their fun'ral chants, and then would sing Their later sacred songs, whose pleasant sound Refulgent heaven re-echoed, and the hills; Whose hues of flower, and blushes, red and white, Surveyed o'er all the pleasant vales and groves. The youthful heifer, viewless as the air, That marks the passing cloud, and marks the sunset-cloud, Marks in this self-same place her careful lord, And from her neighbour springs, to show her love. The graffs with kisses these bewitched appear, As girdling woods with pretty vines unite. The naked brown fields the fatted sheep adorn, And bleating goats from bush and brake draw near. Here from the noble heifer the plaintive dove She chuckles last to Heaven, and there the solemn bee A stolen murmur makes, and buries in the ground The hollow-sounding clangor of her honey-roof. Ah! when of these the wise Laertes knows, Nor all his wits, nor all his wit at boast, Nor more than all the rest can Stanford give; Who then, for love of this, shall dare at home The perilous task, to cipher out a verse, The daring rhyme, yet unpronounce'd, or read So as even to convulse the metrical rule? A little plant, of maidenhair deemed In Parian marble, fair Inessa was: Who, in a marble chapel, made her up, On woollen pads, a modest nun to wear. A marble chapel, in this very town (Boreas in its halls), adorned withall, Naught of Basilica or of Palatine. Now every morning, that from mountain-height You hear the town rang'd with music loud, As if the neighbouring streams exuberant sing, And that the distance hills expand, as they By connected waters join new-found flood, From some small fountain 'tis in fact contain'd: And round about the spot so oft we saw The naked daffodils and lilies blow. There stood a little aloe-palace high Upon two proud and pedimental plinths, Plac'd both with different colours, white and red: A curious porch, where nightly we forget The weary labour of our solitary lot, And pass the glad season in the talk of friends, Where Life seems sweeter by its absence made. At matins on a Friday the active Dean Walk'd with his self-importance down the aisle, Loved by the small circle of subscribers there: His sermons next day went over better, His people had but less sympathy. His bad anecdotes often shar'd our ear, His glib remarks at times bothered our ear. At times his talk was like the vulgar herd, Of cheerful routine and of name; We laugh'd at a joke that land-ladies tell, We found the scheme of his talk absurd. His digressions wander'd on without end, His schemes of place and of popularity. Our hearts remember his kind bearing, His friendly confidence, his courtesy; His stories of our native land remain With deep impressions, long retain'd in thought; We praise his courage, when we should praise His knowledge, speaking of his knowledge. Our fancy is taken with his gown of green, His emphasis of feeling by no means rare, His comments on manners, or on wives; His scorn of a vague superstition flies, We admire his candour, when we should admire His learning, speaking of his learning. He brought to our notice, in our noticing change, A change necessary to the many men Of what is call'd wealth; the common people he talks With us, if we are wise, he laughs with us, too; And now the critic on our folly thinks: The times are alter'd, we ill reserve the praise. My dear mother, in these days when people scoff At tastes that are more luxurious than Royal, Or at the Fringe, or at a trifling twopenny toll, Which tolls the capital, and circulates all over Europe, To see a well-meaning fool to blind derision turn, Who with a zeal unfeeling that to wealth expends, For pleasures which, and for externals which secures, Makes against the public weal his whole intent, Makes against the public weal his whole intent; And then my dear mother, we, who by his own Should know him, and from his country have become (So should our party he), blind derision prove That calls him to the scene, that calls him to the scene, From all the praise a field, where, as is well known, He wins and manages, though by Winds without a withstand, At home, abroad, his head, his heart, his mind; The party friend of public good or public wrong, With thoughts like his, and such as his, we shun. Let us then make it a rule, that when we praise Some poor man who acts nobly, or modestly; <|endoftext|> And he who, when on this side of death, For lovers' sake should pray and sigh, He shall not see nor hear. The world, and we who mourn and thrive, Our hearts have gathered in a knot, And like to soldiers camp we are, For if we break, no one checks us now. And so with hearts so linked together We tread the dark and stormy way Where Death, with words of light and laughter, Brings no one back to tell the tale. The old world's changed, and young men leave Their cottages for a straw-crowned throne; The white women leave their haunts of wood, To dance with great strong men at a shawl-edged table. The sea-kings walk the decks of ships, And the old wives walk the decks of ships. I watch the passing ships, for I am fair, The long-ships, and the little trading-ships, That shake and shiver at the wind's breath; And how the sweet sea-gulls follow them, And hide themselves in nooks to spy them, And wait till they shall know them well. Yet who are he? He who has seen them And known the great wide sea, and slept Upon the height of air, a wan moon-light Gleam in his darkness, and has left his land And climbed and run upon the wind's breath? I wot not. All that I can I say That men have known and known so long ago, I am so much apart, so much apart From men and their laughter, men and their tears, That I am ashamed that I am not whole. She lived upon the river-side With her poor, sickly children six; She died and she was very poor, And she was kind to all of them. "Let us build a place to lay our bones, And we will rule our lives from hence!" Thus the poor woman spoke, and so They built a place to lay their bones, And ruled for her, and they ruled for them, For they had -- what? A paltry pay? No money at all to buy a dog, Or to afford a single shilling To keep her litter of poor little things Who slept upon the bank every night, And went to sleep again. So they ruled for her, and she had died By now, but theirselves were kings and queens, And, smiling down upon her, said: "When you are dying, then our lot is cast: The litter of the Liar is now four, And we are three." When all the others strove to slay him, And to outrace his hands and feet, And to outwit his cunning, They could not overtake his thought and ways, He was the Devil incarnate. And one day as he sat alone at noon Watching the sun go down the west, And seeing his kingdom come and go, And all his thoughts as well, and wondered If all his marbles were a dream, A beggar came into the sun -- ah, good God! There were seven kings in all the world, And each one had a seven-branched fork, And he held them all so tenderly That one would not let the other have it. "I am the King of Seven Deadly Sins, I have no pity, no remorse," he said; "I am the King of Seven Deadly Sins, And I am Good News, and I have no sin." They stood in the sun so long we did behold Their beautiful, rosy red nails, redder still Than the new blood they drew from the veins Of the seven little kine that lifted their eyes When the milkmaid from the hill was gone. Seven little kine! Ah, we are not enough To satiate the hunger of a seven-headed king; Seven little kine! Oh, the children of seven! Ah, they were not even children of six! There were seven baskets, seven hats, and seven kettles, And seven cards, and seven combs, and seven knives, Seven babies in each basket, seven babies in each hat, Seven babies in each kettle, and seven more in each tooth, Seven more in each lamp, and seven more in each cradle. Oh, the little ones! They have taken all their toys For the sake of the seven babies so fat. "Seven more baskets!" said the fat one; "Seven more kettles!" was the rejoinder of the others. "Seven more baskets!" the king laughs till his sides ache. "Seven more kettles!" howl the hungry kine. "Seven more baskets! Seven more kettles!" they cry. And the little fellow thinks he is a king, Just because his seven brothers and sisters are all Laughing or crying, or fighting or sleeping, as we do. Seven babies in each basket, seven babies in each pot, Seven more in each lamp, and seven more in each cradle. "What good fortune to me!" the little fellow cried, As he climbed into his green carriage and driver, With his new wooden wheels, made of red clay, Cut from a hollowed granite boulder, With his basket on his shoulder and his wheels, Moving down the grass-grown road, sing-song-songs, Through the pleasant summer morning. "What good fortune to me!" he cried, as down he sate Upon his seat in exultation and jest, With a grin upon his pale, pale face, Thinking how he would call the angels on us -- <|endoftext|> "Ask no more, ask no more, of this craze, O love, It is an era! Love, thro' this day Our hearts have been true, 'twas best for us; We'll never rebel now, the hour Calls for this requiem; we do but wait The sullen farewell that death doth bring. "Come, Ginevra, thou shalt see our town And the chaste hearth where Kvdbeth prevailed, Our warriors like the lightning blaze Around thee, and in warlike song, Our shrines retain the honours of the past; Come, and we'll greet thee, and joyously Bless thee and beautify thee among us all. "A kingdom for my sire and for my son, The fairest and best of Saxon lands, That is mine by right of conquest won, And henceforth reigns I, but let it yield Life to me, glorious, with the noblest kingly crown." But Ginevra, she hath no faith in hopes Of kings: "Is this the faith?" she saith. "My king, Ride forth, I pray thee. The hour calls for us to dance." Scarce had she said, ere Garforth, by her side, Lifted his stick, and with the gleaming blade Downward struck her. Oh, so gently she Stepped to the ground, and straight before his face, That, all unaware, he unwittingly gave mark Of her ere she had turned; the while her head Was lightly stooped, that look she gave to him. Ah, what a feigned sweet surprise! Sweet as the breath Of blowing flowers that in the violets blow Is the low whisper of the one that meets The eye of morning on the world's new verge. Yet the mild eyes had known, and had believed Such a reproach could never reach their realm: Nay, had it not been for Heaven, who will not shun The hoariest of dangers, and the keenest of pangs. Garforth spake: "I never loved thee, maiden, mad, Nor thought but to pursue thee, scorned the blows: Mine was a courage cold, to strive with men In such a cause, and slay in its defence A maid so fair, to whom I held no fear. But I have heard the wiles and wiles of man; And now, methinks, that this was well foretold, That I should love, when I loved not, as a fool! "And thou hast known enough of love to love: To love and not to know the what, is hell: And what thou hast not known, will Ginevra tell By the false garland she hath wound about thy head. I loved not, not for love, but because thou art My sister; and a sister may be loved Without the hope of it, at most with love, But never with a belief, or dream, or pledge. "Of this I judge, that thou art blind indeed, Or thou wouldst feign, to save thy father's pride: And what so fickle may excuse man's crime, His fawning vanity, or the rude spoil The torrents left on his gulph when they were drowned By the unlevelled axles of their upward way? I had not judged thee, if I had not known, By the soft flash where thy true love does shine, That this were love, though in the bottom found Not love, but fraud, and baseness of hearts the worst. "And now I judge that thou shalt rue it hence: Man's life shall not be valued by the life His lips have lavished on a female monster, Nor his death, nor his passion, for a title, But by some act, some word, by some unmeasured word, By the love he gives or looses, if not known, Some word written in light upon his face, Or by the unmeasured glance if met in sight, Which two have found, or two such as pass by." He glanced at her, holding his hardened visage So straight, and fixed with pride too proud to ache, As the tall pines that head Wallenrod's grove. "Or, if it be I did with guilt unite, Judge not a devil at heart could tear me so; Mine is the only sin, mine the sole crime For which this skull, to-day this skull with me, Shall righteous heathen fates recall back; My is the heart that murder bideth and sin." And young Arthur touched him with his hand; "Thy sentence," said he, "is avenged in me Even as the judgment of my peers; and here Whence came they? where are they gone? what is Their road? The old sword lifts, as it must, For Arthur's cause, though in that cause it win What cannot be to Arthur without shame, Its master, and his cause, its due reward. "And let them gain it; I can but wish them grace, The victory is my lord, the war my will. What needs I more?" Then, mounting his horse once more, he rode, And, as the olden proverb tells, outrides The guest and treads his hall. But few were then the people that met In Arthur's garden or his meadow green; But every morn his choicest cheer Made merry in the garden and made merry where The plough in flower-plucked fields was strown. The foolish hermit was the first to say That what was fitter was; that knights were they Who lived amid the quieter life, and dwelt More quietly by man's hearth fire: And many a face was seen that marvelled To find a man so well clad and miened, And many a gentle hand beheld, That held a drink-offering unto Nature, To Cupid or Ceres, Venus or Jove. His speech was more to them than they could be; For every day new light in him was thrown To fill their days and keep their nights all bright, That they might live as Nature taught; that what They had not got, they might have, and what Nature shunn'd, they would not seek by sin Or scorn to have; and by how much less Nature shuns the fool, the vicious man, The sinner and transgressor, there's greater light In him, for whom, surely, all the night, What shall I say? all the day, is numbered. Ah, but to love! Oh, but to love! Life without love, most evil thing that dwells Amidst life's deeds, upon the earth, is scorn, A light beyond shadow, a fire apart, That disturbs the shadow of all good; No face of God's for us is halfway fair, Where 'tis not half-love shines out in all The glory his; and where 'tis not half-love Shines in the heart the whole of it; half-love This, that, above all other charms which might Ravage it, is divine above all; This, he whose heart within him continually Beats with its thimbles, and who can't contain A beam too brief; the soul that loves too well; This leans more by one side, that leans the other, This lives for pleasure, that for virtue, this Lives resolution, that by pleasure lives; Some mount, but none descend; but who mount And none have watched as he has kept, O then withal shall love itself suffice By nothing left on earth; but those alone Who are most fully itself, and who In half the world's excess surpass us quite, Shall in their souls be God rather than man. But love that is most self-reverence, And love that most retreats from heaven, Bear no likeness two one another, No likeness all three one man. For if, as Scripture saith, all souls Revel with Loves that take delight, Which the Omnipotent Era By oldest babel carves; Then of those first most self-reverence Were not more excess than least self-retreat, Self, self-reverence be what it may, And souls may in themselves be most. But if the first least self-reverence Be more than many second least self-reverence, The next most, and so on, self-reverence From highest almost to the lowest least, And unto the highest least self-reverence Shall you find but degrees of incompatibility; And unto none such selves are faithful But fain they would withdraw themselves the farthest, Least they their veryft be suspect of unfaith. A greater glory is to loose That which you hardly put in place, Than to put something in that swerve To strike it from your place. Yet since the world's so far from heaven That all day long from one true strand Our souls must cast her anchor, <|endoftext|> My watchet's a cow's, I like them well, The heart of a boy, I've been playin' out-doors a lot, But the wire is always scared Of an icy crunch. An' you're supposed to go all plump If you thresh 'em in; But a thresh 'em right 'fore you thresh 'em, And it's just wild! I ain't much of a cow man, but-- If you can keep 'em sweet All the way to the finish, Then it's good, an' you know it is, To let 'em be. An' we'd better be off, when The sharp 'un wades in, To get some good rest; For the mooch-guzzle's up All night. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe, Sailing fine and smooth Upon a torrent of glassy foam, Like a silver walnut or an emerald; While the castle. There they saw a fairie palace, All in the shape Of a wooden shoe, Stretching far and wide Upon the surging foam: Like a wooden walnut, or an emerald. And the boys said, "That's the most romantic tale That ever was told!" Said the girls, "We have heard that story many times!" Said the old King, "Well, we heard it too, Pretending it was all a lie, But, to see it was in the truth, It is better than poetry." Then the old King heard it re-echo Like the sigh of ocean drear; And the old king sighed, "O, what shall I do to pass the time- What shall I do to pass the time- An out-door ball-room? Or a tale, So unusual That it demands a poem of skill? Or, rather, how shall I write a poem, When there's no recitation-stand, No voice-molding-yard, No voice-molding-machine, And no voice-booster? I am sick of all the phony of art- I am sick of all the wax, Of all the people pretending, When Nature made me, That I was once as beautiful as thou! I am sick of all the soaps and fakes, Of all the people dancing on sticks, When all they could find in me was this- "One long breath after the dead spinet Blooms." Where our cottage stood There was a man, named Wells, Who, all alone there at the gate, In the golden harvest of a year, Sought sweet solitude, Grass and heather, hill and down, Everywhere alone. And not one of those things, That make for sobs and froth In the mouth of men and women, Did he see in his own little garden; Not one dry or unfruitful root, Not one stunted or unkindly blade, Not one lost or distorted rhizome, Not one disobeyed command, Of orwall round his garden-beds. Not one dishevelled tangled bush, Or heap of splenetic fern, Or shrub which one would have thought most gratifying To look at or pass in, But all was fitting for a dear little man For whom life's purpose was To ease in some sweet close embrace The wants of another's valentine. Not some vast bank with bridges and towers, But all so still as winter quiet, All perfect and all complete, The buttercups as blue as any sky, The bells so white and the beaming skies, The cuckoo-bushes and daffodils, The hawthorns and the hollyhocks, The pride of March and the bloom of April. All perfect and all complete, As if Heaven had built it all, Such a perfect atmosphere It had seemed Heaven itself Had not God for His Palace there? He stood in God's Palace, Each little bubble perfect As the next by a hair, And the tall lilacs going up against the sky To meet him, welcoming him, This was Wells, the man who stood And gazed in wonder and awe Upon the heaven he had known, As a boy when he had first been here, This was Wells the carver of reeds, The green coachman of the field, Who hailed from Bethlehem. All through the place Rung holy songs, and voices made Love strong to overcome fear, And the blue sheaves of the corn grew high, Higher than the highest stars in Heaven, In gold and purple and crimson, And the stirrup-reins were gold and scarlet, And never the citherns were tied, And down the road was gold and scarlet In banners by the waggons fluttering, This was Wells, the man who fluttered, And watched the mowers heading out, And followed them up to the inn, And looked in at the painted window, And drank of the golden bowl, And wondered at the wonders shown In pictures that told of things to be. Then two there were Who walked together, muttering, "Behold, my dainty Donohoe, He comes, he comes, To bring us fair gifts at night; Oh, he comes, he comes." Through the murmuring they could hear Of fluttering leaves and winging grass, But there was no flower once in sight To bring their beauty up in light; To them the white horse seemed full of care And sorrow, and the messenger Of white-robed pain and of light alone. Alas! alas! For aye, I knew they were blind, because he With his broad silver hoofs was not seen. Oh, his drawling nose had trod on many a bed Of honeysuckle, and he had lickt there Long before these two were born, And yet he did not know their fate. Little white flower On the laurel flower, I would that thou couldst be The laurel flower to me, To keep for children of the year This radiant thing of yours. The laurel flower is born And looks o'er the weary earth In longing wonderment, But it cannot reach to her, The little white flower. She grows in the dust and the ruts, She has no mother's eyes, And the very wombs that engender Witches and fairies disdain; She is a free creature unborn, She would not be quite so fair. Sweet, clean wind! Over the hillside blowing, All the bells in the village hitting, And the song of the jackdaws overhead, And the street-lamps' pleadings begging, Dear are the bells To make me listen while walking, To make me think of peaceful times; And the talk of the other pedestrians To make me hear the words again, While the night-time quietly glimmers Somehow the hour sounds red. And something in my heart is sore. Why is it? I do not know. I think it may be wrong; I was careless of my spirits When I took an hour to sit down In a dilapidated public place. 'Tis a foolish thing to regret. The scene decays; the sun goes down, The night takes the light away, And nothing can the moment rescue. The earth is silent and no one comes. But when I close my eyes I hear The fading echoes of a grand march, March, march, merry bell! March, march, merry bell! What is that which thrills me with delight When I only think of its duration? Why am I glad when the hour is late? What are the things I should be sad about? There is a thing which grows in my breast, And makes no sound, and will not die, Nor grow old, though time and mortality Have done their work on me; it is golden. I heard a garden echo that it heard, In a summer afternoon, as it passed, It murmured: "I shall not be here a week." I saw it lying alone in the grass, For aught I know, I know not why, in the sun, Yet I know it is not dead, it ever will be, For I have seen it so. Yet even that I know not. The world is wide, And if I should climb the best I could find, An arcade or so of dusty yellow rooms, And a quarter of a block of sunset-yellow flat roofs, And never a soul, I should be desolate. I should have pieces missing in my mosaic. No one, oh no, no one Can come between me and that perfect thing. I never met her in my working life, Never saw her face, nor heard her name spoken. <|endoftext|> And being so ruddy, how in flame it leaps! Wolverine roared! he is a mighty feller. And while the red blood's gushing through his veins, The jaws of the hawk have dropped, of the shark, Into the deep sea he leaps with a bound. A mighty wound in his front was just seared-- They say 'twas from the bear--and through his chin He's opened his fist to catch the savage. But he'll not forget! the noise of the fight Goes up on the hills like the scream of a fire. He's at him, and he's at him! and now he's Belly up to the jaws of the shark. And he twists and wriggles, Waves his tail, And rocks and rolls-- And then strikes a hydrocephalic grip, And wrench--he's biting the beast to a pulp! And they all came on, Bent on capturing the wondrous fashion Of that cunning hold and that terrific bite. And the wrath of the sea! The blood rushes to his ragged tail, And his jaws hang open with the pain. On the scent of the prey And the flush of triumph Fluids the glory into his system, And he swims Full of life, Till his prey Is a bound And fading upon the verge of the wave. And the shark who was watching him pounces, And the hungry maw Is busy with the slender young. Goo-goo-a-gook! So they screamed As they struck. And the shark caught the lean one, And ladled some grated teeth, And carried him to the rocks. But they hadn't caught him When a tiny pipe wave rippled And splintered Right in the shark's path. The shark barely missed The infantile taste Of pipe tobacco, And there on the sand With a little green pipe He took up the little calf. And there on the sand He absorbed the child, And when the shark bit off his leg, Just like a little knife He bit into the pipe as well. And the shark kept on Singeing away at the stump, As the child stood and twitched With a little bone cry. The six devils were walking, A gangly group of men, Along a little trail, Upon a little plain And they were talking and laughing. The first man listened to a joke. The second heard a song. The third felt another tooth. The fourth sense had a fright. The fifth sense was unkillable. The sixth sense spoke alone. And he thought, while his head rocked, "You may push me, you may jab me, But you'll never take me alive." The six devils were drinking, Just the four of them, And they thought no more of mischief Than of having a giggle. The first man thought of his hose; The second of his gauze; The third of a dice-box; The fourth of six braided tresses; The fifth of six wives; The sixth of six sisters; The seventh of six booties; The eighth of six wild alabaster caves; The ninth of six horns upon his forehead; The tenth of six deerskin gloves; The eleventh of six tiny foals Needless to him now. And the first man said, "A serpent has bitten me, My foot's in water, And I'm short of money." And the second man said, "A sea eagle's bit me, And I'm short of matches." The third man said, "The Lord has lost me, And He has swallowed my jacket." The fourth man said, "The cat's out of the bag, And I'm short of yarn." The fifth man said, "The deuce is in a stirke, I'm short of my wits." The sixth man said, "Th' Almighty has taken me, And He has turned me into s'mores." The seventh man said, "The white man's in a jam, And He's squirmin' His tobacco." The eighth man said, "A yell the day awa, And the day's o' de puir red rags." The ninth man said, "May the roarin' roarin' Lord Bend me down and squash me." The tenth man said, "The cheese's hard and the cake's hoik, An' he's ix of my eleven big ones." The eleventh man said, "The crow's a-hoverin', An' it's down to a split pea. An' the twa men left, I canna weeak nor sike." Oh! what a weeaboo was I! I could weeak neither pea nor haar. It was durin' summer, durin' wooak, And after a roamin' day at plough, I'd weeab by yon weeabing gun, An' haar in my side a weeabing gun. There was a cock that crowed with a dash, There was a little clucker, too, There was a little child crowing too, And all in a heaven o' kail an' raisin', Sae weel-adjendants to the cobby paiks. There was a weeabing gun, and it weeared me away, An' ye ken, ilk ye'll mind, a footfeelin' gun. There was a weeabing gun, and he weeared me frae The folk that can't be in a' the classes, For he's in the war, an' his weeabing gun's Beyond the categories, an' he's our man, An' he's the lad, an' he's the honour o' Gump; An' ye ken his weeabing gun can flat, His weeabing gun's the best o' them a', His weeabing gun he can hear in the Sky. There's fortune, an' then there's nature, There's gamesome fortune, an' then there's me; There's ev'ry human variable, There's ev'ry thing that's catchin' credit, An' now he's nosey, he's sniffy, he's twitchy, He weeps an' whimpers, an' goes glam, glam, Strauchte away, and then he's in the gilly, An' I've seen him squeal in the gilly. He hung wi' his nose i' the gilly, I see him squealin' an' standin' An' sniffin' ail about the place, And turnin' up his nose at ev'rything, An' pullin' hisencie from ev'ry thing, An' rockin' upon the spot, an' wringin' E's collar-bone, an' gripin' his by-by, An' bearin' his clapperlike to the target Wh'at she was, that we took to war; An' as I pass to cavort wi' them, There's me, an' they, an' that gun an' me. They're sittin' prattlin' in the meadow, There's a sheähen they're hau'nin', There's a sheähen they're hau'nin', It's a sheähen they're hau'nin', Ashe's a-sweatin' her waistband an' waist With her a sheähen she's ha'e in her: But a twisty path I've come to Where the maples o' Mounseer are standing. A sheähen she's standin' Where the maples o' Mounseer are standing, And I've come to say to them a' That I ha'e finked I may warnt them now, An' that the foe's maouth holdin' now; While the wind is blawin' blue an' cold O' the boughs o' the maples o' Mounseer, An' they're standing I may warnt 'em all, But a twisty path I've come to To the church at the falls o' the moor, An' you may warble there where you wud. Where the church is standing, I have stood, There's a fin' standing, and a sign, An' a double rope an' the end o' the bight, An' the step for the grave that was laid on, An' they ha'e call'd me as I came a-creepin' An' they ha'e call'd me to sound the bell. An' they ha'e call'd me, an' she call'd me, But the church was quiet when I was there; An' that fin' she's standin' there o' my kent <|endoftext|> To all the Three Worlds I him besought For my deliverance, for I knew His mercy. 'I am endow'd with pow'r, A Samson among thy tribes, beseech thee Avenge not my wrong. To vengeance now Leave I none within this Van or Under-world, Or in the nether Heaven, for long before Thou cam'st, an unknown Prince, scepter'd among Mere mortals, and my wrongs began. Vengeance I have in no world where powers Admir'd me more than these. I should be there Indeed, and bear my wrath. To suffer shackles Was not for one like me, who in myself All wisdom yet had lost. All is decreed, And vengeance now hath key to all. Thus having said, he sat; and Adria stayed Her mournful steps, and arose. Soft she came Upon the tears with so gracious a pace, That Achilles wonder'd, and his menthadaze'd Saw two bright angels side by side stand on the sand At gaze, with fleecy clouds bimounted above. On either side they held aforeth an Queen. She, issuing from the haughty goddess, moved Light, and in Achilles' hand found halter-string, And gave it, silent, to her lord, to be Present in his absence, then return'd. Then, to an eager assembly of the Gods Her very self she shows; one hand her torch Assigning, and one hand clearing the cloud-barred sky. And now the rest, with hearts all heartened, and With awe before her all, all hoped to see Her promised light, and on her goodly form Look for the boon they sought for so long. And now they hail her with a joyful voice, 'Hail to thee, kind Queen!' They say, 'O Queen, to thee The gen'ral voice hath honour'd here our vows.' Then she, the more overcoming such averment With her own of old, and when about to pass From the bright city to the rolling sea, Proudly her gladness cried, 'O thou alone Of all our sovereigns most distinguished, ours Conrad!] (the exaltation of a heart Now feels the prodigy of sov'reign power.) She spake, and nothing doubt'd, for her whole mind Imag'd Adria's opposite: her voice also Spread like a whirlwind, and the vast assemblage Heard that which she spake, amaz'd. Then she, meanwhile, Who tributes with voice and hand her handsome speech The great heart she thus address'd, sighing suavely, Said: 'Oh, thou hospitable thicket, which Still to the Serpent's secret creeping makes No entry, how hid thou secret also art In that accursed thing, the heart of man! For in the hard heart, even where access is, The evil one hath entry, and our sinners, Although they die, true happiness hides not from them. Yet they that live not vainly, nor in sonnets, Nor in museings lament the lost, miserable things, The evil one still meets, and in the living one Darkness cloaks the guilty felon. But, my friend, Come, relate me now this mystery of joy, Which now and then o'er all the habitable world Drives to these cities, and so grants them delight. 'Joy'st thou, for example, to recognize A tremendous portrait of the Lord, Aloft on some high landmark nobly set, Or floating on the giddy morning breeze In some permitted place of public right? Or joy'st thou joy that in the manger The Chief Jester of the celebrations Hath spread his tattoos, and disturbs the court Of the fatted sacrifice, and mounts Scornfully upon the horned bank, Till he has drunk up all the goblet polish'd, And, by extension, our peace too, That peace, we know, hath in all treaties Some breach to vengeance referred; but yet The public well-being seldom can be praise'd. How many years of war and purse did Charles Win, before his slow and cautious army, And well-fought city, were yon bridge, that spans The Seine, so properly rub'd and wrought, By him upborne. But, oh! that such joy might be, Not in the first hope, to him who in his hand Drew that same diagram; and he drew, with hand So tame, such cumbrous detail of the feet Of him of Spain, what on this stage now treads, To dance, that almost looks like him, so strange! Taste must confess, that although he still Is nowhere near so far as that outline drew, Yet, oh! the greater part of himself he bears, In his shape, within that comparison. So, while the num'rous deaths he stops to die, In the form and with the gesture of him, Still can his one permanent exactness be Renounced, and anything near him found. Enough: my simile is quite sufficient; And now if there's anything on my board That doth remind thee of him, or any thing Attain his like, remember it not maliciously, But carefully, and weigh it in the balance Of dross and score it fair; for he was here (Fortunately in this a bank can give And loan at zero) and having money, that is, Being himself a king in banking, might give Most anything he had in fact, and so Of credit his successors; being here, or there, In Spain, in Geneva, Paris, or the Pyrenees, Or in the Holland park, or whithersoever, Is a pre-eminent banker; and he can Give money to whosoever will take it, No matter how far removed the thing to give Had been from its intention, from its act Yet far, and from his heart the source will be. --'T was on the night before the day I gave Myself up, having from the night before Expelled all vexation and care, and those Close stealthy fears that shame you when you slumber; With the intent to arrange matters in such guise, As they would best be served, myself, and him, My lord and husband, should remount my head Into my bodie, and sit upon my throne. It 's a great victory, and the height of glory, That I have done it: and yet I must tell That I have felt the inconvenience too: The endless vexation of people waiting there, And gossiping 'mong themselves, which is the worst. My tears are frequent: and I cannot be certain Whether on Earth I shall be happy or no. I wish that at both places I had been, And on Earth had been happy: I am content To be here and happy: at the same time I know It is an awful lot, for I have been born Out of a royal lineage: but that I feel Will come when it comes. And to return again: Were I to live, even for a day, and use The fortune which in me dwells, I should find Myself abused, and mischanced more, I think, Than in a style as handsome as this you show. I am sure the effect would be as pleasing: A little ribaldry at first, and then Renowned quality interspersed with games, The elegance of good society in act, The pleasure of good company in mind, A mind ponderous and deep as the sea, A soul content with a contented heart, Without a sense of annoyance that I tell You my whole mind; my story thus ended, And my coming gone in order as I think, You will perceive this thing cannot last a week: And in that time all that can be done will be done. No; I shall only be so much more here Than in Spain; and, that being the case, I hope To find at last such grace in Heaven as here I have, To move heaven itself to eternal glory. Well, you will have me here as long as that: And I will not desert you for an hour. This is the month in which you hope to be Honored with a chaste and gallant bride, Young, and so rich, that she can enter there And not be soon speared by some of that tribe, Who go with new pleads and demands the round. They say her father's name is Gaspar of Bavaria, And her that her great honored name is known And her rich with the spoils of many kings; And as if all this were not enough, She is a bosom friend of mine, Who would, if we could, have us married Before these days burn up their smoke. You will be sure to know her if you see her. But now I must be gone, and see you then. I do not think I shall be longer needed Here, though I well understand all your care. <|endoftext|> Yet old Memory leads me back, Old woes are very dear to me. An' death is the end o' old woes, Ere I hae new woes to try them on; Old woes are not so very dread, But Love still makes them very drear. I live wi' summer, an' winter, An' wintry airs are fled awa', But Death is a bauld, blustery blast, That flies frae me mair away frae me. My heart is quite turned wae, An' scarce upon my last farewell I lock up lips, an' hope to see them again; I'll meet them in a sixteen-hundert battle, But I ne'er shall see them again. Frae me your ardour and your care At certain times I 'll just resent it; I 'll grumble when you try to help me, Nor help myself; and when you praise me I 'll answer that you 're very hard on me. No ungrateful beast can be found In all the fields this Christmas day; But he that says his masters are his friends, Is probably one to whom they do not lie. 'Tis true, of late, I have not been As good a servant as I might have been; My ambition has been, perhaps, too high; And masters, who view their slaves' possessions, Are much inclined to treat them poorly. But 'twas a feeling part toward them, The slaves, to be sure, were not to blame; When God blessed me with a wife She was the man to grease my chair, And take the miter for a roundelay, And fill my cup with silvers free. Yes, you were kind to Nancy, For everything that is their own. And there was Nancy, and her ways, Like clouds in summer ere the sun is up; Her loves, which are like the breezes, Charming as the sound of pipe and flute; Her faith, as clear as moonlight, As perfect as angels' cherries; Her life, as fair as summer rain, A deathless gem, whose beauty fell From me, when I held you so dear. And thus she mingled with your life, Even to the close of your days; And, when you said good-by, she called, A chronic and a charmer choo-whoo, To take your place in Heaven. 'Tis true, our love was not as your love is; You said,--"No, Nancy, no!" I said, "No more upon this holy hill To sing our hymns, save to the men Who fight with fierce and mighty sword, Or die that never for a day Shall miss the joys of festive feast." I can remember still, as I see, That low and tender letter you wrote. 'Twas when the old world, belike, was better Than we are now, that you grew kind to me, Not ever so true to Nancy; And all this time I was not a slave To all the ways that married life Should teach a husband. I could work, And day by day gain my food; No servants ne'er was seen at table Till we had both a lord. And then, a couple of years, or more, Were added to our days; And God remembered Mary, Mary, When you died; A thousand times I beseech you now For one little tear, That would not be a cross for me, If you had stood aside! He lives, who healed the broken man; All nobly born, no crime he done; We break one heart,--but many young hearts Have died since last I looked upon The face that smiled on me! If one cannot love the Lord, What can make more than let them die? I have a few words with soft:-- Ah, why should I refer To forms so dim and faded? A boy's gray mien soon flakes Like drifting smoke; He wears a hat that may Have been black, And slacks that a sigh would pin, Or slanting, short; Around his high-bred feet Bred September waits, And at his toe a hickory cane. His throat is yellow, His face and hand, and e'en Now to the sight one trace remains Of summer riding on the sun-baked mead, Or running in the shade, In early June, With dog-brown eyes afire for sport, Sapphire-crested, And flamboyant-flasked As if some West Indian holiday Breathless had been; The yellow corn, the summer rose, Hang on his breezy shawl, Whose trim Deck the nook he boasts is "his." The gambler's swagger then Is not so lucky found As some of his silver trinkets; Nor ever airs that once he wore (Since the theatre was small) Of being good beyond good, Or sounding loutish fine. He prances--the animal-- In trim he may outvie, And yet, when stung with pride At having the swagger of a bear, Or holding up the scale for leeches, He scarcely takes his place In the dirty pit, And while he swings his legs and keeps His head upon his shoulder, For goodness' sake, his figure seems Too good for Swat! He carries his tortoise-shell Half open and half shut; To be such a warrior Is not for such as I; Let him ride his fast best-robin, To-morrow night, At nine o'clock. Let him, for his golden necktie's sake, Be dressed to take in midsummer skies, Or walk in woods where beards will swim, Where blood will stain his crimson gown, With ferns, like moons, wreathing round him, As though to give him a good scare. For hours before the dawn he'll pass Where, poking in crannies of the wall, He'll often catch a glimpse of her: His clean-shaven nurse is busy going About her chores, and what's more, Her brat, too, is a-squirming And catching at his whiskers, And seeming always very rude. How kind is his innocent face When shooting stars along the sky! And now he's yawning and listening, And now he's slinking down the hall, For there's always something a-bezing With a "Huh?" for either person. But she's so kind, I love her so, I shall not now accuse her of Pretending that he's spoiling the plait For me. In vain I tease him, for what can he do? When I his stubble takes from the bin, The counting-room becomes a den Of jostling nimble boys, While she for days before that bin Had lain upon her bag to rest While I were counting. Not that I really blame her; she's Such a totter that the least Glistening crack would have tumbled her Tumbling to a finish. And yet I would like to see them jumble Some piles up they're both to lie in; For still I covet some slight Extra pounds or —dear —for my sake, Never mind! 'Tis so; I'm not to blame: I'm Anxious for my practice. And she's sheaping the mortar Full of chips and chaff, In the airy air Of a summer sun; Whereof, When she has often boasted, She'll take my purse And fill it with yellow gold, To purchase Nicholas; But oh, She puts so much in, My purse's so light, That I almost weigh less, And my head becomes as heaved As the pavement on the seat. She does not notice this, She does not see the tears On the fringe of my beard, She is only careful To let the balance go. And it propels me, oh, so Lightly, oh, so quickly, Far and far away, Till I feel as though I stepped Out of the money belt of a purse. And the chips fall so fast, The coins hit me, oh, so Gently, so pleasantly, In the flesh; As the mountains, oh, so Cloud-silvered, oh, so Mountains, oh, so Flanked by everlasting snow, Are stripped of all but hair And iron. My happy soul's at ease, Spacious as a pressed cake, And I'd go straightway Into the market For that extra pound; If I only knew, What's concealed from view Thro' a dome of solder, Behind a mask of shame. I haven't any cash, And it's raining; <|endoftext|> Thick summer frosts and grape-boughs And the apple-blooms that queen them! Hew, Hew, Whack! I've seen the wild wild flock Fly to the old wolf's cave, When the bright sun of June was in my hair And the great deer from his deer-path Shot back with his silver bell. The sun--I've seen the broad blue sky Suck down and fold them like silk, Over the range and down the hill, And when he shot he shot so true. He whizzed the birds, and they popped like bunnies, In the trees, and then in the air, And when he shot he shot from sunset to sunrise, And never could you know him. No hoof-beats stirred the moor Where Steady lay down day and night, Snug as a mouse in a hole, Bending low his broad dark ears, Laughing and kicking till he died; Died he can't say how, But his smarts were red and raw All daft last winter when we bade him sing. How his eyes shone and shone, Till they were dark and dim, Saw we the dew-loaded curls Leap, dancing 'gainst the grass, Sunlit till the white ground showed Like a shining cloak o'er them, And we went free and free Where Steady lay down day and night. Mother, I am a Falcon, father, a Dog; Time is my wing: Take it and explore; I'll fly like thee, or crawl Down the fold: I can play face to face, For a little cost. I am brave as games and bold; I am very wise in games; I am cunning as skill; I am a man. Ah! the sleek of the leopard-skin; The stride of a stag over snow; The grey of the Mediterranean-- The vast extension Of man's meaning and his power In a moment's leap, As a mountain-peak may fall, As the sea-tide may fall. At the rattle of the buffalo-landry, In the break of the boughs, In the wind of the caribou, In the stars of the midnight, In the call of the fairy Where the winds are thin, I am a Dragon, thou are a King, Thou art an eagle, And I a tiger, and we twin-like tussle In the night. Wherever thou leadest, in hunger or in thirst, Thou art chief; Since the God of Confederation, at the mandate Of the valiant or the cowardly, can choose Where and when to grant liberty; And whereof miracles thou hast told us, O companion, In the land. Thou hast fought against the whirlwind for our benefit; Now we have learned from thee, O brother of birds, To plant and to plough, To reap and to sow, And it is good if we guard and follow thee in this, our part Of the sea. I know I am not of the large and showy; The eagle knows too well the dragon. I shall not soarf on the sails of the village-boats, Nor be so much in the news as the chattering, Nor yet so great that I shall alarms be. I am a serf, my friends, a quiet friend, And worthy of my service, and I live In the moss-exit; Here the cliffs are clothed with mosses green, And here pine-trees are lighted with yellow light; Here, in quiet, a thousand winged insects dwell, And fly by at evening. Here is the blue lake with horizon on it; It is a dim place; In my childhood I used to lie and watch The curlew-owls at twilight, And watch the carabs by the forest's pall, The three-winged horses of the marsh. I did not run; they did not try to fly; But fled from me, I know, when a boy, And knew its meaning, that they would not find An apple for me. I have forgotten it; for then it was A mystery and something hard to understand. If it were sweet I could not tell you; I do not know that it is sweet to-day. But one thing I will tell you, and one, That if you find no sweet taste in the ground That you would plant your garden with, dig no trench In your earth-plot for violets or for rose-beds, Throw away half your ground, and plant it with violets. Old Poetry sits alone in a dark room, Her head tilted to the side, Her hands clasped behind her knees, As though she were about to start for a walk In her short, brown, shapeless dress, Her blind, brown, shapeless eyes Clutched and pointed at the front like a hat. She does not say hello, and she does not say good-by. She does not care to be undone. She has no daughters, and no sons, No old and young at home, No poor, and no rich, But all walks of life is one to her. She has not aged in the weeks and the years, And her feet like cones that have fallen out of a tree Are going barefoot and free, And her head is entirely covered with hair, And with snow, As in a picturesque Italian village, And her voice is like a little stream That murmurs above green mosses and flowers And the ground where violets and rue have grown. She has no friends, she has no followers, No enemies, and no lovers, And she never writes a poem that is not true. (That is what she says she says.) She only goes to gather her mint and myrrh, To lead a life of austerity In solitude, like a hermit, Where men have died on opposite sides Through the long and lonely nights She thinks about her household and her sins, And about eternity, And if it were better to be a mosquito Or a queen of a great black fly. Then she rubs her hands and rubs them again, And each rubs its own breast, Or else croons a melancholy strain Above the mould, or above the stones Where blue-flowering grasses grow, Or if there are none, she sings herself Till the woods are distracted: Or, from a great height, she surveys the town, And passes through her dreams, Till a traveller is in the distance seen Riding slowly and gently, Or (nearer at hand) a cloud is seen With a man on its top. He turns his face, and lo! he is no other Than an humble citizen. And she finds comfort in her mind, Deep in the peaceful night. The man was a beggar. He went to beg In the city, where a foul wind blew, And beggars were hungry. Well, she listened and listened, and let him pass, And there was a gentle fall Of footsteps on the ground, And down the hill she hurried to hide Her lonely cry. And he seemed to know that she was there, And he lingered at the door, And when she went, he turned to her again, And this time he cried to her: 'Dear lady, I beg you, pray, Not ever go from me. Never on your life. I could not come Unless I loved you, and you Would lose your consolation. You know that old women's words Are like old men's tears. Look at your book. Go to sleep. And if the bugle make A noise of good-bye, Beware of that. For if you creep Back through the garden gate, And turn again, he'll be stirring In an hour, and will wake, And overtake you. Or perhaps, if it be good And protect you from all harm, You may walk up the hill To the white mansion on the top, That faces the town. I cannot tell Where it is, but 'twill be fine. You see I love you. Trust me.' And he, he was a man of science, And lived in a tower, And his highest art was to shake his fist At the world. And I did listen and listen. And I said nothing, for in truth I hated to be lied to, And there are few thoughts That I care for, save only I want A sweet insanity. But there came a light and rain, And the wind wailed and raged. For the green fields were broken, and the snow Made a man's head look strange and bright And the world became a torment. The little children screamed, and the old Were sorry, and their eyes grew dim. And this was madness, and this madness Is dreadful, for it leads to death, And the vacant soul looks lonely By the end of Mercury. <|endoftext|> Not that it is immortal; There is no hiding place for spirits In a world that hangs wholly in the balance; And one thing I have learned in the long trials of my life: The nobler the challenge, the greater my need of God! I've been tired out walking all day, But it's good to get home and dine, And then I'm free to dance a measure With the maid I love, if that's what makes us happy. There's something in the hour of bed That encourages frankness and chats delight, As some folks are doing now-- Lewd hints, in every zest, Of a tray of oysters and of wine. You've no objection?--I see you don't, But your stomach needs replenishing. My mother told me long ago That if I loved her as I ought I'd one day find a woman helpful In my work and in my play. O, it makes me very happy To think that she was right! The selfish little egoist Hasn't got a prayer, I know. But she'll get one, I'm sure, ere long, Just as strong and patient and real. There is a comfort in the thought, It makes life nice and tender. I wouldn't have it any other way. There are some things I know I mustn't do, And this is one of them. You are too much a romantic to know That my feelings for you are love pure. But the thing is so stupidly sweet I couldn't do it even to your face. The thought of your giving me some beautiful coin When I'm all dressed up for a ride (That's what I really mean) . . . Well, I confess I am glad to be done with it, But I'm not sorry I haven't. For I know, if you hadn't noticed me (And you didn't) . . . I might be one of those crusty writers of novels Who make it their business to lecture others. The people all thought I was mad, Except for Madame de Sade. This may sound paradoxical, But my feeling is that honest love is all about What people imagine it to be. You know it's usually feminine To end a letter "ae"-- And that any masculine word at all is inconclusive When you want someone to fall in love with you. I've tried "believe," "attend," and "devour," But they're not at all flattering--you know what I mean. I don't say much about myself, Or try to, anyway; I've a ways of my own, And they've a lot to do with me. In my own quiet way, I think, and think, and think. And it's really all for the best. I don't like being lectured, And I'm pretty sure I don't like being lied to. I like my own way, And I like the way I'm going. And the only ones who don't seem to like it are-- No, I'm sorry, I don't mean they're all, It's only that very few people understand it. No, I don't go about dressed in the looking-glass, Or say things you could see straight through to guess what I'm really feeling. The whole world thinks I'm a splendid, shining pearl, An ornament on the beach of Time and Eternity To lie and shimmer and reflect the lovely shape of my mind. But I don't go dressing up for shows; I'm much too self-conscious as it is, And I don't want anyone staring at me Or asking questions I shouldn't know the answers to. To save people the trouble of being astonished, I never go out in my clothes. For the truth is, a very great deal of what I've needed I never have been in a position to know I wanted. And sometimes I feel that I would be happier if I could forget Some very great things, And simply be a happy person again Like you and the others around you. It's like a deep mountain. It's a place where you can stand for an hour at a time and see The summit surely beyond. But to find it you have to go on going up and up Until you reach it. It's one thing to see the top, It's a quite another to go climbing it. It's a kind of feeling for things-- Really good things. Sometimes I wonder whether I am really A bit of an insane person, Because I am always finding things to marvel at, And sometimes not understanding them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a girl who's gone mad And dressed in clothes of a novel That were turned into prose. Or if I am a human sponge Riddled with feelings. But at any rate I can't tell you what to think of me-- I'm not a person to cross For a deeper vision of the future. And if you don't think of me As a person to be passed over, You are in the wrong business. You should look for people who are deeper, stronger, braver, If you are after something definite That is not vague, vague. For I would like to go on being myself And not have to pretend To be something else. I would like to be happy, But I can't stop myself. It would break my heart to stop; But if I could I wouldn't do it. For sometimes you have to push back At the wall of your own feelings And let them go at times Until they are hardly anything. You have to push them back, But you cannot barter your feelings In the same way you buy a dress, Hold it for payment, And expect the buyer to be satisfied. The problem of life is to hold on While you are sure of yourself And yet not be too certain of yourself. It's the same with everyone, And it's the same with you and me. We should go on as we are going And not stop to ask ourselves if we're going in the right direction, Or with what speed; We should look right through ourselves To the end of the line And not be too despondent when we reach it. We should be hopeful, But not be over-cautious; We should not fear to make mistakes, For mistakes will show that we are going in the right direction. Life is a series of boundaries And we have to pass through them And keep a wary hand along them So that accidents Do not turn into wrongs. It is the same with everyone, But the problem for everyone Is that he is always trying to make mistakes, But no one can tell him what to do. You see, a man must be a captain Or a priest or a doctor Or an artist or a business man, Or he'll turn into a boaster or a thief, Or into some other kind of person. And no one can tell him what he must do, For no one can foresee his turn in life. To find out what he is like as a person You would search the earth and meditate Through a lifetime, and find out That no one knows what he is like, And that no one can ever find out. Some people think that they know him But give him a wide berth, While some think that he is a failure Who will turn out to be a success. Why is it, again, that some people Are so anxious to judge others And so anxious to prove That they themselves are good and worthy, And others are not? I'll tell you why it is, And it has to do with your attitude On a certain subject. On something you may be inclined To lay the shoe on someone. On some things you will find that others Will pass your judgment upon. On some subjects you will find that You are right and they are wrong. I have observed this at every time and place, And it is the kind of thing That will cling to you and stick When you most are trying to lose yourself, And it is important for success In whatever you are trying to do. It will come home to you at the end of life, And you will understand the best. You will understand that no one can escape From the crowd that follows and folio holds. On any topic of any importance You will be liable to pass judgment, But remember the judgment you pass on a man Is bound to be the kind of judgment that you would pass on yourself. You may throw dirt on his hair or kites he hangs on his porch, On his whaling trips, or otherwise make a negative statement About his character or talents; So long as you find something in his work to praise You can call him a boaster or a flake, Though in truth there may be something in his nature That you love and want to promote. You may think that he lacks original thought, Or that his methods are diatribe and repetition, But in truth there is nothing you can do But discover what the men at school deride You will know something of his courage, <|endoftext|> His eyes With love He dries His skin to glass, And joins No flowers in his hair Alone with love, alone In stone, the sculptor stands, And works with these runes in sight, They say: Dangerous, irksome, displeasing. Go live alone In empty rooms And cease from pleasure And cease from desire, If you would sing Wherever birds sing. Here is no trouble, no repining at the hours, No parting, no regretting spouse or children left behind; The years are as naught That wear one's being away As memory's grey hairs, or winter's first white hairs of spring; But though you toil through life Alone and long In bonds of deathless birth, The task is hard that demands so brave an art as love. When you once loved, as I again lately, When you once loved I lived a dreamy bore, And my heart was never at ease, But now I have you once loved and I am free! And though it might be so, I will live once more The day old Dieu satin sate above my kin. I have no money to pay your fare And yet I pray you, oh do not go 'Cross the mountebank that will cheat your youth, We'll find another trotting prancer there, Or else go walking by moonlight and starlight, Though I think, lovely maid, it would hurt your sight. When you were born young men knew Love would his realm protect, Old churls that cursed your birth Their tongues were unable to employ In venom of a vile spite. Oh, my heart has drunk your beauty's wine, Puffed under by hopes divine, Till now my purse and nerves are loosened By thoughts of what you might do. All the women that you choose to love you Are the wrong women, their hearts are untrue, But your own the right ones, all the rest Betrayed you, caught you, made you slack, Till I, the chivalrous and sly, Sat at your feet and found you hollow. Then I killed the God whose name and birth I cannot fight or justify, While you, innocent and happy-hearted, Find the world gives you coins to spend as you please. So now I do not seek your love, Nor lie awake thinking of you, I do not strive for bliss that can not be, I do not love you less, nor yet prevail. Up from your smooth and sunken body, O beautiful woman, burst The jewel that sparkles with the dew In your soft and lovely hair, Your breasts are twenty-two That God would choose for men's delight. Give me your hand, dear love, And I will take you home, Though the paths are muddy and the way is long To my little village white As a summer-hot flower that is bending To the touch of the light rains. I have had enough of passion and fight For the night and day Till I weary of the hateful rain That falls from no knowing eyes But a sudden summer-sunny sea. Ah, there is mist in the windy sky And clouds of foam that are torn and thrown And drowned every man by his can; Yet there is no crying of rain But a sound as it fell in the grass Ere the crops of the whole world were sere. All of the grain in the land Is caught and locked away in the earth And the great ear that has ears for rain Listens alone for the rain-dew's song. But all the souls of men, God wot, Are grasses that the rain covers As it falls from the torn sky. But when the wild wind blows From the spot where the locked in wood Gnashes its thirtieth kind, There is tearing and snapping and breaking Of the trees as the wild winds break. And the earth shakes like a ripe fruit That has no place to rest. A man, O, have some pity on me Who have been turned to a tree, The only thing that I can be To the sons of men. You know, O trees, that I was once As a man with the sons of men. There, not so high, but I have no doubt That some one misses me, For I hear faint steps in the dew, And, as I sit, I feel a kiss Upon my hand as light as a feather. If I should die And all my sorrow go away, If Death should take me with the rest And cover me as he covers you, Would you not miss me and mourn me, O Oershadow me with a tear? If I should die And my death should not be, Would not all my sorrow go away, Would not all my care begin, O would you not remember me When I am gone away? O what have we given That we should have such sorrow As to keep giving, And to suffer and wonder As we have borne it? For we have looked on the glory Of the face of the Master, And have smelt his breath. For you, dear man, you gave Your heart and soul That you might live; You did not know how or why-- And now you are dead And you are dead, Dead--dead--dead. But in the future untried, When you and I Go to the war, You will give me a part, For my heart and soul Will be yours. Peace, readier than peace, Readiness is fighting, Dying at a better time; Till the whole earth and sea Join in the struggle, They win no fame, Win no honour. Fire, but with the fruit of a humble heart, That does not grow proud, Pride will never repay you for the price You have made to your self. Still, as a man of war, Still I bear in my heart That which will not repay. And does not her soul Speak as the wind that flits by the sea, All aware of her fate? Not as the mourner turned hero, Whose face in disguise Is seen by the unawed skies. She is content; That is enough for me. Drink to the sons of the land, Who toil and fight and love To serve the people's needs; Readiness, with a heart that grows calmer Each minute of the day; Ready, at all times, To meet the face of fate, And help to win the day. You remember in the golden days of youth When we could fly through the sky, When our wings did twice cover the breadth of the earth; But the sorrows and the dark old fears Have taken hold on our strength. They have robbed our desire Of its youth and of its fair promise. There is little left in us That can meet the morning's glory, Or meet the evening's evening. The year 2000 saw us at our best; We traveled long at over ninety miles an hour; And we could boast of a smaller cost each day Than the likes of which we see at present; And a plentiful year could we hope to see In the not too distant future. The motley were our leaders then, As our fastest who can match our leaders now! But we've lost the expertise of those days, And for this we have gained a measure of foresight. So a humble and confident air Is fair game to attack; For we're all--as young boys were then-- Walking a minefield of life. The wind of the future was moist at first, But since then has increased in strength and place Till we find we can neither avoid nor meet The stealthy racing of the storm; And if wrath should close in with our worst foes We shall meet them disguised in another shape. O for a wisdom that can meet danger now, As the brave young boys of old did on the mount! But how shall we gain this wisdom, if they Who were wise in old times should come back and ask The question, "Who was wise in old times?" Or, "What is it to be wise?" The sage of twenty wise men Could not say to each, "Dare you ask me?" So they stopped asking the question. We have gone further on this journey of ours Than the boys of twenty years ago; And our speed has decreased more rapidly, But our loss is greater than their gain; For each meets us disguised as a boy Who has gone someplace he cannot tell, And we cannot find where he has been. We can see the flags of steamers Through the branches of trees overhead, But we cannot find the place of all Where they hid the wise old days. And we thought we knew the world because we knew Our fathers, and we knew the day because They told us it was night; <|endoftext|> A dread rumbling underfoot. I will go back and deliver to your house what you have left to eat. I will not be denied. My monstre will have learned to take what I give her. I will go back and see if my mother has anything left. I can go far from this place there where it is easy for her to leave, my home that seems unfinished. I will return and serve up the one last time. <|endoftext|> "Footsteps of Angels", by Rosmarie Waldrop [The Body, Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Nature] 1 One is so lonely, alone, and sorrowful who wakes each morning in a sanctuary of bare green grass that scrubs silently before him, as if a demon whispered shutting itself off inside. The other is sleeping with three lovers whose faces beneath red and white blotches of silk: then what he sees is not a chapila, but six white feet in the sacred water, white hands supporting him. 2 Tears glisten on her lashes and she holds her pocketbook out of the bus. How absurd to be carrying so much in such a tight bag. She wonders if God is a sucker for hoarding. She knows she should be talking to a man. She wonders if God exists. 3 I carry God in me like a big beast at the back of me sleeps a big beast who won't awaken until after I've gobbled all the flesh from the bones of the three lovers. I've held God like an elephant and it struts and irks in my pocket. I carry God in the purse that blocks my thoughts. 4 If I could talk to God about love He would of course answer my vague questions and lead me to the end of my road. But each time I try to confront God He slips away from me, reappearing as an echo at the end of the street, or as a shadow behind me on the steps, or on the path, or in the clearing just beyond the window. <|endoftext|> "Rose", by Rose Fyleman What do you see when you look at me? A pink rose, felled in the garden, blossoming for an hour, a little rainbow scattering sunbeams on its lifeless leaves, a few wild bees floating in the stem— A rose, a small girl, and God. And are you satisfied with the answer? No, not really. Do you feel somehow let down by the blossoms that touch your fingers? Let down by the distance, the way the rose is a tiny floating galaxy in your purse, a pale sky of oblongs, a pale heaven of cards, where rosebursters emerge out of a dream of perfumed bubbles, wet and letting go. Do you feel cheated when you turn away from the oblong worlds, disappointed with the wingspan of the black wings folded over the rose, folding it down into a vase of buds, closed in a long style of rose presentation? Are you satisfied? <|endoftext|> "Butter", by Sue Ellen Thompson What butter your face smells of must be heaven. That we're only doing decent by you here. I think I'd rather gorge myself on it. That's why I bring you the forkful. <|endoftext|> "Monarch", by C. D. Wright Mad for the ladies, Tip had helped me carry the water—Mammoth-sized bucket, two-foot-long hose!—three villages down the Alabama flats. We started in a ditch, hewed-block and corrugated, two lane miles of nothing going anywhere, a waste-gate lost and immovable. Folks were leaving in what appeared to be one piece, except for that three-quarter piece sliding down the buckboard like the hinge of a bevel. But we made it to the road, where we found our first icy bed, a block-brown queen, barreling toward something she must be, well, bearding, or birthing, I wasn't sure. We paused to fill the tank, maybe, then hammered a nail, stripped to the waist, tramped, pointed, pawed, spread-eagled, back and forth, across the driveway, out the cul-de-sac, then out the back, down a sliver, over a fence, and we stopped yet again, at the finish, at the hand-go-downs, with just the breeze we'd been waiting for, to climb into our winter hide, at the majesty of water, a long slender river we pulled ourselves free of, not entirely sure where, but something wider, whose sweep, whose breadth, whose ambition it was, that swept back, we wanted to know, down this tinder-soaked bank, down this country road, a road the color and shape of nothing, just the bare twigs and leaves, lie of trees, lie of soil, old-old-bear, shine of sun, shadow of shadow, the formlessness of space, of field and water, a primordial vale, not really a river at all but space, maybe a field, whose plants we wanted, whoed and wailed and sucked, the damn things sucked us back, let us help ourselves to their pollen and leave-up and down and mixed-seed and rootball, water we sucked from and froze, keeled and stayed keeled, whoo whoo the earth gave and got. We carried it all three days and nights through, drank of it, ate of it, drank again when a day broke where the sun grew close, the sun made close the day that the sky had dared close. And Tip, he was hardy too—cold all night and hard, ate and lay in the day, drank of it, a little at night when the daylight led. And Tip, he was all that, not so old, not haughty, spoke the language of the days we lived, breathed the slant light of the hours we listened, the white sound of water we splashed into clay that the plants sucked back to size and bloom and shade. We were a bundle of seldust, a raggedy raft the skies gave us, tipped by strangers into the Arkansas sunset, the big quiet prize that we carried and left, our names forgot in the Arkansas night. <|endoftext|> "Right to Try", by Don Kogen [Living, Health & Illness, The Body] When the watchful nurse has stopped searching for the cause of a death, when she has looked, by pressing out the pearl-pale flesh, into the hidden world below, When she has lifted from the lumps and blisters the weary patient from the hard floor, When she has slipped a cast-iron pan from the clamped door, and the rain-softened, wearily smiles, When the night opens the prison gate and the ward seems the daylight—try to think of this, think of the right to try. Try to think of the earth as a firmament, try to think of the heaven above as firmamentally sure, try to stop, when the hard thud from the bed below sounds toward the awakened deaf prisoner, lift to the thought of what the watchful nurse forgot. <|endoftext|> "The Council of Rams,", by Don Kogen [Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] <|endoftext|> with gray morning skies— Pray when you marry, my love, and leave your native place. We have long suffered, deepened and deepened, from the sudden rain, the hazy and sweet rains. We do not remember our lost pleasures, we do not remember the fair men. O fair, O light, You shut in you so dearly, when the ghosts walk by night, we love the shadows of you. You catch us, with the shadow of you, the closing of doors and blinds, we feel the passing of you in the fair rainy air. <|endoftext|> "Pupils", by Mary F. Mize [Nature, Animals] Classroom of light, little halo of rain on the fields, that knowledge brings. Rain keeping its distance. But if I had a planet, that rain I could control the dimmer lights of a field as it drenches a yellow plant, something gold falls from a sky: gold leaves, green lines. <|endoftext|> "Symptoms", by Mary F. Mize [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] 1. CHECKPOINTS The children begin checking properties for bombs, for snipers, for booby traps: who can sleep in a house without them? 2. THE BAR Outside it's getting dark, the football field in its weeds and sand, and a makeshift bar set like an omen on its tip: something hits it, knocks it over, no one bogey yet, but this afternoon there is something coming toward us, the usual soon followed by oh, and oh, and oh, and the bar seems to make us the targets, but we are the stars, the new witnesses. <|endoftext|> "In Remembrance", by Paula Siegert [Living, Death, Infancy, Parenthood] For my wife Early on the night of Mother's death I sat on the dirty couch, under the portrait of her beloved husband, and held his little face in my palm. He had no voice or eyes, but in my embrace his ribs shone, squashed by my palm, as the crusted blood sifted down like rain. Three weeks later I found his little hands and fingers ripped and scarred from handling fertilizer, and hugged them to my breasts as if he had discovered them before me, then felt his small body, warm and breathable. Last night I smelled his dead breath, his sticking tongue, the stench of his last days sifting through the cracked pane on our broken marriage, his breath close your eyelids, he said, he will never kiss you again, and I closed mine, again. 3. Of our years together nothing exists except the yellow jacket of his big hands, round from thumb to finger-tip, the smooth rise of his chest, the ridge of his spine. 4. I'll hear in the master bedroom the slow heat transfer from the sun to the back of my neck. The strange light is warming the long sleepless widow as she dreams of other days, of other bodies. He is the third of his kind I have loved the most, after my father and mother, and though I know he will not return my longing, he still moves through this life in my dreams, loves my thoughts, my small talk, my eye contact. How strange he is, what little he says, little letters he leaves me, none of which are lies. When he first came into this life I had just returned from a two year travail in hospitals and orphanages, and being returned to the barrenness of this farm in the blinding light of autumn left me disoriented, but now that he has died he makes the tedious circle of my thoughts, like the important housewife I always thought I would be. 5. Two weeks after his death, still longing for the touch of his warm body, I lie on my back beside the fire, and breathe into the flames his last words, O, small boy, all my life I have been told that our bodies are nothing, that we have no dignity, no pain, no sense of touch and now he says, O, little brother, I was wrong to think that our bodies were nothing. He thinks that this story is for me only. 6. He found a man that morning dying on the road. He carried the man out of the wheat fields past the sting of burning stalks, the smell of the sick, the drooping eyelids, the fierce sun shining down like a boot-heel on the backs of children and horses blowing on the ground in a red, burning river. He carried the man for all of seven miles before he too died. 8. We would lie in bed, and he would say, How far is it now? And I would say, Eighteen miles. That was the longest that I had lived. He would say, So dark, how do you keep sleeping? And I would say, I try. Sometimes. Sometimes I wake up and move my legs, rub my eyes and look at the sky. Then I go back to sleep. The quiet night is a word. It means nothing. 9. Nothing is quiet. Outside the city the clouds move like skeletons. He runs through the wheat fields dragging a plank with a bird of prey on its string, the bird biting its prey, then flying away. The words of his story race toward the lantern-colored houses toward the mills and factories, then the deep hollows of the dead sea, then an old white woman in her shroud, panting now into her hand. The wind hands him his reason and hands me mine. Yes, I am the white woman or the widow. No, it is the wind who says this, before I can say anything. The house is empty. Out of the memory of men I have built this house. Wind and fire and rain and sunlight, who could love us if not for love? You have left me nothing, let me go on loving you. You have taken from me everything that I have lost. But even though I love you, you are not who I thought you were. No wonder I cannot forget you, even with my prayers. 10. At night a naked man comes out of the sea and sleeps on the stone steps by the church. I follow him through the dim ocean through the mottled seaweed to the moon, where I fling myself onto the wet sand that he has fallen into. His naked body is a red clay. My naked body is water and ocean. The two of us lie there, naked, not speaking. What should we say? 11. We follow the plank of the sea bird, who is taking his break in the wetness of the sea. I can hear the deep voice of him sipping the saltwater. His voice seems satisfied. It says: Stand beside me, lover. His white feathers have started to accumulate. The dead man has grown old. We stand by the sea shore. I am covered in the sea dirt. The plank of the sea bird has climbed up the steep stone wall and is lying on the sand. The dead man's body is covered with white ashes and sea grass. His naked body has turned over in the sand. We are both filthy. He throws a handful of sea dirt into the air and watches it spread. I am covered in the sea dirt. We are both ashamed. We touch our faces and say: I’m sorry, lover. I say: I am sorry. We take off our clothes and lie there in the open sun. 12. When the city lights are drawn, I lie on the hot white beach, pretending to be drowned in the sea. The sea is crying and piteous. All day I listen to it, desperate and loud. It says: Look at me. I am also like you. I too am alone. I wash myself slowly. 13. I heard the sea singing when the city lights were dark. I could no longer hear it, but still it sings. At night when the city lights are drawn, I lie on the hot white beach and do not worry about being alone. I say: When the city lights are dark, how will I be lonely? 14. Sea weeds grow in the saltwater. In the open ocean, there is no shortage of clean water, but people always die of thirst. How can you live if you have to drink saltwater? I drink seawater to drown myself <|endoftext|> Unequal destiny! Still you dream of our good nature, That we should rule, to the injury Of our fellow creatures-- While we starve the rest for want of Meat! "'Look here!' quoth my wife--for lo! behold A new-made skirt for Fiona's gown, White,--and a new-made moccasins, Blue,--and a new-made house for me, Clay-coloured; and lo, my friend, My house and all I dream of, fair, New-made indeed! "Then in came a man, girt in leather, Blunt-bended bow in his hand, And in was his custom'd spear: 'Men,' quoth he, 'a traveler hither From distant lands, coming this way, This foot, that falleth that, I know, Nothing amiss. "'Men wonder what is the cause Why that strange shape likely maketh His cavern at this hour.' 'Sir,' quoth my wife, 'is it true What they tell us?--Bethink you What wise men told us erewhile? That all the hills and mountains dark Out of his head turn pale at dawn, And dusk proceeds to devour His body with a fire?' "'Why,' said that blunt-bended bow, 'Sir, this they meant to say--yea, They meant this one must. For mark His footsteps here--how like to those Of Simon Peter, walking-figure, Known to Latin and Greek 'A little fruit-stall on each stand Will keep a man for you, good sirs, Who looks for no man's bad purpose!' "'But then,' my wife said, 'if flesh Be nothing, then where lies the sin? Will these enfold no worse evil? --But, friends, the talk is endless: Take my advice--leave the hill, And travel the mile or two more, To gateways in your town, and mark, How like the shape is that they say, Thick-set against the piny darkness, Examining a stand.' "With shut eyes I saw her go, Saying, 'Now, once again, O friends, Do ye wonder that I stray? I must see where Peter stands On Golgotha--and here must die! Be of good cheer, O believers, To-morrow ye shall meet again! For lo, I am in heaven! behold The little robe upon my vestment "Thus, brethren, thus be of good cheer! Lo, I have spoken with my Lord, And then, the intruders cease; Though deep down the pit of hell they roam, It cannot hide them from our sight! Brothers, I say once more--do ye hear?-- Even now I sound for your love, And would more boldly yet appear, So to proclaim my love, again I speak, and dare not refuse.' "We rose to leave, but she was gone, The neighboring nuns were there alone, She, with her cross, on a sort of seat, Among the tombstones; but behind, We saw the barred gate of the grave, And there all silent seemed to be, They as still as the dead themselves! And still she said, with a voice of pain, Her words were too weak, her cry of anguish Could reach our ears no longer. I could hear Her weeping through the night of pain, Sobbing out each word that wounds, so near It trod on the life that must not die. "Again her voice was heard, more weak and weak, But this time accompanied with tears, How should I but have wept with her! With her for months of hopeless life It had been agony; she even took The cross she wore so sad a heart to wear, To ease her soul of its heavy load, And let the world go by unnoticed. We left and never more saw her enter, Or leave our cloisters; the monks know all That disturbs us here, and take their part, Yet not a hour behind or before. "Most things are changed since then; and you, my child, This very hour may see yourself A light unfading in the sky, And hear me speak and feel me touch, Again, and understand my heart, And know my words and ways. O life! O love! O pure love for maidenhood That makes you holy, and renders holy The very touch that sanctifies! Is it not glorious to be loved thus? To know that all that sacred is Is only earthly touching of a child, Is it not glorious to have known you, To have known the memory of our love, To have my heart blest like a father's, And you my love, once more my own? "Not only to have known, but to have loved, Is it not glorious, to have lived with her To have dropped into this life anew, In place of some lost sister? She will miss My presence, but not entirely, she knows I am not wholly dead. "Yea, though I am not wholly dead, But buried in some ruin weird and old, I am a thousand times more glad, I am a thousand times more proud to be her lover than I was Before, and feel my new-won liberty Like dew on the green shoots of the earth, and like The shadow on the waves. I have a home to go To, rather than be now again dispersed. I am the man her wildest words aggrandized, I am the man her envy loved, the man Her reverence. Oh, never let me be disgraced As was that scion of honor who was jilted, The man who seemed to all her eyes like heaven, The pride of all her words. "Never let my heart erode That my brother's blood may fail, Never let that long-tried soul go out But to glory's triumph, Let all my acts be but sweet caresses Of my heart's dearness; And I shall ever live The honored son of that wronged bosom. And she will love me." The world paused, and all the world was mute, So he took a new speaker, and new speakers Went to and fro with a boundless conduct In all directions about the twain that were, But never meeting or parting. Now, but a little time ago These were the twin speakers; these were they That sang and nurst the babe; Now, but a little time ago They were the twins again, Throwing off and on, tossing, Trembling, laughing, rejoicing. "O twins," said they, "whom dust hasreshronzed, "Even as you, beloved, we mourn! "Therefore we re-murmur, wasting not "But to check the loss that would fall. "Yet let us do without delay "The old celebrating, choral service, "The old obsequies, services done, "Laid up in books and thrown a-ground. "We have heard it said (but you know "We never cared for such anyway) "That on this very night he died, "In New York, on that very day, "He departed suddenly, "As if he would never more "Come back, his journey having taken. "'Twas in the dead of night, "Death entering the door, "That made them one. "We took him to our room "And both, with fear and trembling, "Fondled him, fondling, seizing, "The moon above our heads, "As if the boy would perish then, "'Tis here,' we thought, 'at last we'll lay "The dear fellow, finished with!" But 'twas ever morning came, "Morne's coming,' he cried, "Backward, to me, meseemed, "Than past control was speeded, "The fair boy met his death. "That hour's in the morning, "If meseems that it's day." "Ay, ay," we said, "This fits the bill!" So, all that day and the next, A shadow followed him, A glimmering shadow, catching His every look and motion, One after one; and, as he went (Unconsciously, he suspected it) Him, gathering, seemly gained, Until at last, the unreal Filled up the whole sight, And past him, came the wan moon, And past him, the lost stars. So when they came to that house again, The gates were locked and barred, And on no wheel of any steed Did any hoof press west, So all was still as death That bed had made. I think I saw his dying face Seen but his dying breath, But one may dream so; For none had heard his voice. He lay there staring up at the moon; There was no sound along the lane <|endoftext|> The land-ward wall lies defaced, The gate-post's welded. What has become of the millionaire? He doesn't come home to the terrace On winter nights. He may come to the gardens of his villa And muse in their flowers, But there are the gates of the Eternal Church Filled with followers No doubt it was the honour of the battle That won it for us; The bells of our cathedral And the distant stones of Killarney's grave Attract us still. What grows there? A windy plant That climbs the pale laurustaff That Seamus had as a present For getting well. If he'd foreseen it, and he must know That just because he wrote one poem And led his horse against an army That some must follow, They are finding horses still. I wish I wasn't Going out to see them; I am, for I'm afraid What I came for was here. I do remember standing by that cross Where Seamus died And Seamus' voice was heard to call me Come in, please, come in! There was a parcel in my Hand of poetry that never Seemed to go to waste. Here are a selection; take Some of Seamus G. O'Toole's best, "The oil-of-breath story", by Edmond Jabès [Poetry & Poets] Squire Voland, a gentle one, Was passing by Alfernus' farm On his way homeward, one day. His hair was turning gray. He saw no one, but he heard A sound of weeping, then a knock Deep down that valley reached, The gate swung wide, and forth A woman came, her face Hidden by her cloak, beside The river-edge. "Ashen-bow," said the Baron, "The mighty Voland is living Still at Alfernus'." So saying, to her feet He led her, and into the house The two entered, and there sat down On the dark polished seat. Out on the lawn the neighbors came At a sudden call to see Some mighty noble's mistress, With a glorious veil about her And her arms behind her. But there was not a moan or voice Save the knell of the hanging bell That was calligraphed each morn To tell of Christ the Lord, And the flutes in the fountain, And all the hoofs that pass, When the wain has reached the place Where from the burial-place Of the old world in the West The Assisi cowl hangs over, From that tall tower. The wan sunlight of morning Had blotted from her face The first rich hues of youth, But she recognized the lines That fixed each broken line And fixed them there for her, And fixed them fair. Her laugh had died away, But no one doubted that there was Deep meaning in that laugh For all the years to be. She told of Rome, the late Fascis, And the thirties Caesar; Then of a poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Who, with his wild unknown word Burst on the world, and said, "Let universal ruin come." She talked of God and the world's fate, And Time and Destiny, And wars not coming to blows, And living forever; And the soul's fate, she said, Which none may free or seal Without the mystic sigils Worshiped by Grecian priestesses, And by certain Japanese maids. She said that Time was written In words as beautiful As any that Adolph saw In the magic of Beethoven; That Destiny was sealed In the old Enright book And Destiny was spurred forth Upon the world to be. She said that sorrow dwelt In the hearts of poets, As in human heart trees That know no meddling taws. She talked about these things, And a whisper heard among The kindred company That Voland dwelt still among That bower of green that frets Between the clouds and sun And drinks the rivers' shine; That, a great power of kings, Voland had traveled far To that still old Christian place, That Grecian pile, that tower On Pier Zumbert, the olden, The great Enright home. She heard them talk in vague And open words that half-loosed The unholy things that creep Into our human hearts. She saw how all that fled To the Holy Places, and closed The ancient ways, were flitting now Back through the silent doors Of hidden Pratoeks Across the footsteps grey, Unwonted in the moonlight here, Where Voland went to pray. And, soft and low and clear, Still as a Sabbath bell, Or small apostrophe made by a voice Over the floor of some old room In cathedral format, It came to her, in midsummer clear, As over tower and spire it came At first, an anthem for Rome. For Voland saw the Greeks were coming, Or that these or those, with hoofs strong, Might in the fields of pasture chase, Moved by a beating of wings The distant dust of desert stretches down, Past where once Cassino's land ended In the Urals, to their prairies white Where the tall prairie-grass waves like silver, And winds and waves long tousled grasses beat At the rising of giant cities bright In the four winds of the four corners of the world. They drew near; but his land was one among many, And the dull sun scorched; and at night, when a sword Of sudden fire would have filled his sky, A chill wind blew from the frozen North, And at the quailing of his golden crest An eagle dipped its broad, pale wings. There the host of his dreams went by; And with the strange, wild silence of God Voland saw yet more majestic grow The shadows of that mighty Shaker Of earth and thought, the Holy Lord; For, had he not, as a man has eyes To see for what he may, he might have known The Lamb of God, when it should be slain, Should be for ever wounded on the tree. And over all he saw the triumphant Shadow of death cast over all of him, Who thus should be a mortal. He saw how Death, when he should have consumed Heaven and earth, Would leave his human mate, And rise as a god to judge the last, A glorified, human face, Surprised by Voland's own soul. Again the quiet light wind blew, And went again to farm and field; And in the same old place, He saw before him, only now On tiptoe, side by side With eased red lips, the priestess-like, The Volant woman stand and sing; While lightly springing toward him, he, As from a trance, was aware of both, Pass by, and pay no mind, Save that she bowed her burning head And smelt of heavenly birth, and all her world Was like the light of lilies blown In fragrant night across silver streams, Where lute and lyre, woven sounds and lustres, Had arisen from far-off misty vaults, And rung around her psalms, and kissed Her feet, and cast before her feet, And cast a flower-like spell around her, With all their wreathed dragon heads, And blossomed snakes and serpents sweet, And hollow leaves and goldfish shining bright Against the amber-winged crown Of her pure head, that held apart Her locks like wreaths of harvest-harvests, And red roses strung among them, And lilies full of rich perfume, Holding them well aloft, and loving them With eyes for only Volant kisses, And lips that shook away their roses And crumbled in sweet hands all their dew Into the sea of amber; and he knew Why this still land lieth yellow there Between the host-faltering seas of sunset And the blue trout-lipped trout-streaming lakes That drip their slime and lave the reeds That wave like fronded hemicles O'er slippery strands of opal And naiads twine their coiling locks And sing in gliding line To wind and reedly zephyr That blows coldly downward through the glades, And where the fettered kings are laid, Bound hand and foot, And murmuring hypnotists that go With glimmering flags above their heads O'er paths that flutter in Light scents of moss and fern and fern That wander, endlessly, in and out Corrupted with scarce a rain-drop; And in dim lakes that whirl and gleam 'Neath green, shifting mists like dead lips Of blind, silly ghosts, whose clouded forms Are haunted, ere the bright, fierce sun <|endoftext|> the life of an airy-fairy. I heard the game he played, whose ever memorable cries arose most often in the confusion, the tenor of which I had not heard. To Siena, with its forest corniced on three sides by the water Tiber, was Marsilius come for the harvest. Where the ropes of Arbor Domitior hung overhead, his crews were setting up the great tyvek huts--a craft larger and better made than ours, and faster. Our spars were shorter, our masts were low, that of Tyre the better, and I, like a daw, had crept from the chestnut planting to the corn. Among my spars I stretched my lame limb, and with the gnat's motley foot kicked lightly. Down through the low sky and over the foam our few ships skimmed and sailed as pictured here. But these I left, and marked not what came. Again, on the very plain where he first encountered me, my blind face turned. A chief of Pyrrhus' train by the name of Pyrahus, whose sword was flamed like fire, challenged me, saying, "Come meet with me, and I will prove to whom of lesser kin I may comply." Though it was hardly worth my while to come, and leave it unprofitable, so Pyrahus courteously still sought me; and I, that he might not forever be able to make me forfeit, felt no hesitancy to meet him. But meeting him I lost all hope: he charged me short and light of limb, and no more accorded my jocund gait. When Socratic thinking's rule disturbed me much, Plato's teaching almost seemed a divine outrage. Thee old Democritus answers In "A dialogue between a man and a woman": "Of destiny some faith, perhaps, Would be profitable to thy questioner, The eternal forces, working each on each, Not only beings, but events, Of which thou canst know certain things, though in deceptive guise, Through his fair eyes who is indeed of mortal birth, But is so misled by his human folly. Fraud is not of divine execution. God permits not that which he disposes To be realized by human effort; On the contrary, he lays down rules For us, how to recognize the things he wills. Of true causation, then, he lays down these principles: To know where he is going he strives to know Where he is growing and of whence, though often Abiding in silent solitude. If thou examinest The matter minutely, thou wilt find that to his motion all Things revolving around him, both are onward guided. Simple and intimate as the working of his soul Is his human circle of eight revolving orbs. To know the forms of these, a man must either see His light round itself and name the path it runs, Or else see it in one unmoved and name it "way." But what if this way be all the paths men use, All paths by which from A to B they come to A? Yet as many ideas, therefore, are contained In this species of the material world, As there are modes of motion: so the more Diffuse and various are conceived to be The structures which in earth and heaven consist. And even to this lower world, which looks So small compared with the orbs which go Out of its furthestouver, since the sun's Bright eye in its remotest verge encloses So small a space (in comparison with suns Others much larger) of demiurage, Men have dreamed a shadowy world to shine, In which each thing shines through its proper forms. This is the fable, which, namely, gives Earth its sensational history: - Not indeed from any ghostly image Or tapestry of legend, did those regions rise, Ere they were visited of men and gods. They are as old as country; as old As man, which makes more worthy of commemoration The less we know of them, the more we prize Their offer of annihilation. From them We receive new light on nature, fresh lessons In unity, and aid in sacred sacrifices. We shall review them with a fulness of delight, If we be faithful to the Golden Legend, Which shows our present unity, our future hope. Short is man's lease on life; he wanes As do the longest hues of day, And, in the escape from moorning, breaks. Hail, holy lands! O wisest Fates! Is this the spot, where loving hearts Shall together rise, and shed Their blood for thee? and scatter roses? Here, to human pride foiled, we owe Many a bright moment lost, In storms which shook our thoughs keener, And reft us of our purest soul. Our mother, with what sorrowing, She looked for us, when none other Had hope in such extreme need! No sin to us was darker than our brother's, Who fell upon that night of woe. Here, once again, we saw the interior Of our fall, when all was still. This church is here, that rose above Religion, which its founder meant To keep beyond the church's call, A place of prayer, and sanctuary. Where were the altars, which had made This gorgeous fabric feel so holy; And vacant them, till time had scattered All memory of them quite away. Then, fresh from Heaven, this wonderful place of God Was made; and not a few shrines are there, Whose story's not unsaid on its walls. But still, the place stands rich with treasure, And in repose it towers above others. Long may it sheltered be, and strong! Its beautiful graceful arch of steel Is home of the dead, who used to hark Its organ music in the morn, When they desired to feel something near, And thought 'twas Heaven, but could not see it. And many still desire its peace! But let us hope, that, after many a year, When the dark clouds of the intervening years Grow black around its ruins, it may Be taken, with such sanctities of her own, As no unsevered relic may endure. Thou, that hast made my dwelling such a home For me as none beside myself can know, O sacred and unutterable spot! Where naught can wound us, but (all may see) Her wounds have made thee loved to the core. And thou hast linked the hearts of my heart and thine, Twined them as anything can be bound, In boundless, indissoluble chain! And thou hast joined (O holy symbol!) hands With that sweet heart of thine, to make one More precious than the fondest dream, That dwells in thy arms, as jewels do, Pendant and pendants of delight. Her turn she was to speak. "But what boots To bid me love, since thou didst make Mine heart thine?" quoth she, replying, And all her beauty and disdain. "Mine heart," quoth he, "is happy here, And thou art miserable, proud! What joy could come to me from thee, What comfort to my soule, if go And dwelt in a heart not thine own? Myself, if I loved thee, would be blest, And not be blest with thee; as is she, Who with her own blessing doth exalt Her own full virtue. What reward Of love to me could ever be, If I liked thee less for love than will? More loves, if I love thee still, may I, And love more long, ere this shall end." Now, to content her burning wish, He silvered soft the lace he wore, Where the good knight, in page-land trim, In token sheweth his espousal, And prays him, should he take her hence, That he would not despise her there, But keep her as his lady fair. "Now, by my troth and by my head," Says Bertold, "since to be kneelen, I yield my heart, and would not bear To see thee maimed and wretched. Forth into the field I'll fare, And meet thee there; so be thou lief, That I have gone so far to seek." "No, no," she answers, "he'll not go. My heart in you I set as mirtle rest, As far as on my behalf can lay. He loves so well his sportive mood That he has thrown all scathe to bow To love's command; and this is lief, Because his will hath made him so. Enough for me, if now I have Intended rightly his command." "Fain would I be that warrior's bride," Quoth he, "whose stripling pride outshone <|endoftext|> A tangled, complex work, of which His is but one section, and that one Is imperfectly known to us, alas! And my brother's other hand is white! Where is thy piety? Thou art not, like me, More proud of thine iniquity. We are All sinful, and none can boast of much Except he whom grace hath made perfect. My prayer is as thou seest; it calls on thee To tell thy secrets, and to show me where I err, or where I merit blame. I am Asleep, and not awake, so that my soul Holdeth her peace, save as my lips do speak And like a spectre in an unlovely place Sitteth cold and sorrowful, waiting for death To take and slake and purge her deep erring flame. Thou dost not comfort me. My soul cries For light and news of thee. In a blind, Bleak, deep dark cottage I have slumbered long, And thy bright lamp hath spred a strange blue wreath Of haze above the dim simulated sky. The twilit nook is not a place befitting A beggar's visitor, keeper of poor, Or one who longs for fellowship with the poor. Should I touch back again the harvest and fields, The chaff and tares, what would my heart endure? What hardship would I undergo, what fears Attend me as I climb the broad road again? To climb a hill, whose summit should be thine, And steal the gold, that from the Pharisees Is tax exempt, from the asses' feet? What hinders me? I am not limited then By the wounds of the cross. Who art thou, say, That dost my neighbor's need and speak'st me? With such glad voices, throngs more large continue, Held back by fear. We enter and enter there And through a lowly door there comes a cry: "Come forth Gomo, thou that know'st the land, And now do wisdom, and the livelong day Speak wisdom to us." We in silence hear That and the sounds assembled there before us. The Teacher then, whom once a covetous soul And vain desires rode in and darkened my eyes, Came with his words of wisdom, unrolled the scrolls, And read from the large, lituious volume, delectable To eyes and ears: "The acorn falls, don't loiter." That he might catch me quickly, a swift longing Sped in me the Master, and he said to me, "Hast thou beholden our Acorn?" And with voice Scarcely audible, "Y" he answered, "and how?" Then did I hear and see; and a heavenly sight Filled me, such as nothing can fill, when with sound Of water falling and of rain and air in drops, The waters of the Mediterranean at monitions Fall, and the mirks and muruses mix their sounds. The sun had hid his head, and no cloud westward Was floating, turning, or waning on the lake. It pleased God to keep his shore yet unespied, Where scarce the mermaid's skin American can catch, Or little fishes murmur. Behold us bursting Through banks of verdure, climbing hill by hill, Eager to tell our wonders. The sacred lake Now was our crowded ship. Fruits of every kind, Vegetable-berries, mighty purple cauliflowers, Subtle white-clover leaves that reach to where The long, green leaves of oxalis meet, were there, And flowers, blue, red, or yellow. We weary; he Writes: "As one drops pebbles in the sea, Yet cometh afterward the paddle of an oyster; So, ye drops of honey in the waters of life, Come ye to the lips of us." We in weariness Saw the bright houses upon the water. The priest Sang rit warra to the peacocks; they echoed it. Here the ocean seemed a glorious rose, and there Dipped its red heels in the wine-of-Christ. Laughter rang From house to house. He that read the parable Brought the jars, and on them were cast the coins, The sacks of silver and of gold. We filled the jars. "O Father," said he, "O King of Paradise! Gather ye to me here the leftover fragments Of every table in the world." We heard no more. The merry bells were bending in the skies When we arrived, and the hour of midnight there Appeared to us when the pink star sank down, And each of us stretched out in the dusty ground Huddled alone, waiting till the sleep should come Unceasing. Sudden the heavens seem to side With darkness; and the beat of a little horn Sounds across the night. We hear, and tremble. We cannot move. The Angel appears. He sits Before us. We cannot see his form, but he Seems to us a sort of man, we understand That he is sent to us for advice, and to bid Him who presumes on living to be cautious. God has given him such high functions. At times He resembles one appointed to the Keys Of Paradise, and with such solemn voice He tells us that we are not to disobey The Emperor of Russia. We dread his sentence. How many years will he keep us, we wonder, When he a prisoner takes us? Will it be now Or will he take us later? Do we want him now? He is so persuasive. We would be his wives, And share the hospitality of his home, Whether he sits at table, or, whether he Discovers that unguessed loneliness which Is loneliness for all men. He is not like The cruel Pharaoh or the savage Gambia, He is not they who would drag us to the desert, Chains and all. He is merciful. "O virgin sisters," he said, "Thou hearest me well, and what I dreamt, believe That I dreamed not. If I sinned, the sinner is not I. "The sin I have repressed, if that may credential My own forgiveness, I am here for thy sake To heal the wounds inflicted on thee, beneath the rod Of chastening. If I did sin, I repent me now. Go thy ways, dear friends, and in thy travels see What poverty may poor ones understand. "Give now thyself wholly up to prayer and to fasting. Attend one year to the rites of Mecca. If this is not sufficient, go with equal care Into the Yemen or the land of the Moors, or 'mid Egypt, Miakdad, and the land of the Lapps, and join With the poor who in Al-Masjid of Asker live, While the great earth yawns untilled. Go, humble thyself, And steal thy bread by propitious spirits. "And when thou hast delivered up thy goods abroad, Go with the she-captives to the low-lying islands Where the sea winds take their born waters. There are spirits Who live on sea-flowers, and have prayers to deliver From the bondage of their very poverty. Their food is sea-water, and their drink the air. Go, where the waters rise against the face of the shore, And the gulls flock; or, if a vessel prong out, Drive her to the islands, while thou keepest them Fast by the streams, and nourish them from the rocks. Or, if the waves be low, mount up upon the rafts, And row through the water, praying for a tall ship; Then bid her speed to the shore, and row again Toward the uplands. Then tarry not for clothing; But strip from bottom to the sheer-branching soles; And when thou hast finished thy journey, enter To the island. Thereth thou shalt find the Elders. They who by names of Caliban and Jim should be Elder statesmen of the country, whose purple eyes Should glitter like stars, and whose unrivaled arms Should be a terror, are sons of poor ignorant SLIM. They know not that their wisdom is a nothing Without virtue; nor would they go far from home To endanger themselves. These six also know That they would bear no daughters to the court, Nor any sons to college. They would die Or be killed. But, being poor, they have clothes, Wont, for their dress, the skins of three ungathered lambs. These six have learned to write with a blue stone, And have not learned to read; but the other three Are four sons of the richest of all cities; And their four sons have beaten them down to earth. Behold! the six on the island sitting down In the dust and in the sand; and the other three Climbing up over the mountains, and descending <|endoftext|> Anchored ship across the tide! We shall not meet! He lived in fields of daffodil and a wind-blown wattle-bloom; By June his corn-blows red with lupine outrolled a rainbow; On nights of storms he hid his lights by glistening boughs of poplar; He hung his sleigh and driver in a pine-tree azure, And listened till the landskip. In moonless nights he sped a-field, clasping the scythe to his breast, And such a rapid furrow He made with a single hand! Yet he was old and never stopped, and you never knew How many miles he had to go before the red was shining on the white of his hand. By dawn he was out of sight In a calm of warm blue haze, Or the edge of the bluer sea, Or the gray-green bounding hills; And, though he never brake From the edge of the mountain track He reached the yellow beach fair Before the low sun sank. And there on that sand he stepped, The red hand of the plow-blade Drawn at the yellow command, And there the dark red scythe-stroke B plunged and B shouted, and B did not heed the shouting, For B has never heard the voice Of B shouting so. Asleep at the wheel, on the brown branch of timbered old wood where the village bookstore stands and the houses of long had been And the gutted church with only sodden roofs and ghuts for support, I heard a step and looked up And there stood my brother, The fierce blue-eyed Scout He had been since he could hold a sword to a man when he was ten, And take him down again. And the Scout stood In the north window staring out At the slate-darkening road And the silvery soft gray-weed And the small dark boats In the shallow stream Rowing across the quiet gray road To a harbor where Across the soft gray road to a gray shore At the gray shore where the gray ships lay beside the gray hulls Of the gray ferries Rumbling to a touch at the helm He turned to me and said, "Why don't you climb on? On a Rango one never rests, one moves too close to the action, Out of the wind and the noise. "When the cari lua with its desert voice Spake to me over the wire I went to him with a song, 'Come up and sing to me, The Rango song you sang In the hills of Paestum.' "He sang the song, 'Sing it down if you will, But the song you sang In the hills of Paestum I must sing to you,' And the song he sang In the hills of Paestum At the gray ship By the gray shore In the gray ship In the gray shore The gray ship by the gray shore was too close to me. And all I could see And hear And touch Was the dim yell of the northeast gale That beat at the window pane. "It was silence, Too close for singing, And the Scout Held out his arms, Too close for hugging, And the song he sang In the gray ship In the gray shore was far too loud. "He lifted his singed hand I stared down at it I could not speak. I reached out but Could not touch The cool gray hand He lifted and began to sing The song I had heard him sing In the hills of Paestum. "What's this you say? What's this you say Now that your friend is here And home you've made That's quiet and happy As a home could be? You've made your New England home But the Riverside home Is better than either. "I'd let you have it! But the night-birds round the town Are singing better by us. The robins on the mahogany tree Are singing louder and clearer. And the crows and the chaffinches over In the morning are flying so free I'll let you have it, I'll let you have it." I let it go at that. There was never a need to worry. And I have wished, since then, That he might live to hear That song I sang him in the gray ship As it sailed from the bay. Just as I was coming to that, And falling into her, There were the first four notes of the guillemot. My heart stopped. And I thought "It's over now. It can't get no worse. He's going to be all right. It took him a long time to get used to the idea That there was another Mae Uls-er After the manner of the men from the White House. He was, to put it mildly, A little troubled at first. As if he had a headache, Or something of the kind. "Now," said he, "I'm all right. I'm all right, you bet. The hardest thing about this, After the fall, Is just getting used to it." There were a number of things That he hadn't yet learned to say. He said, "It's kind of horrid, As I've mentioned before. But I guess I'll get used to it. And besides," he said, "I guess that's how I am. It's my nature. And besides," he said, "I'm two-and-a-half feet tall." He had suffered a great deal In the way of defeats, As I think it must be for all of us. And as to defeat, He had suffered a great deal In the way of defeat. And it had almost become a part Of his nature. There were a great many matches, And many, I mean, Had to be decided by beanballs, At the Gardens or so. There was nothing that he had won Except, of course, the right To kick the ball down the valley. He had won it once, And then he thought He might have won it twice. He had lost it once, And then he thought He might have lost it thrice. Now there was only one Contender left in the race. "His arm was strong," said one. "Stronger than mine." "His eyes were bright," said one. "I had his all the time." "He could jump higher than me," says another. "And he could run faster than me," says another. "But he couldn't wrestle like me," says another. "He had all the tricks," says one. "I beat him once," says one. "I'd better not talk to him," says one. "I had him all by ragging," says one. "I had him on the grass," says one. "But that's all changed," says one. Once at the Polo, he gave A whole eleven good years. He'd nearly been speared in the season, Had not the master, Franco, Saved him by spending all the foreign I needed in local. And now, save his winter, He has never missed a kick. He has taken them up at will Into a mighty cloud Of danger overhead And then, when it thawed, He seemed to have the best Of all the Polo-Players. What's more, he has in all Been the most diligent. Which, if you consider You'll agree is very well. You may miss a day As much by carelessness As if you missed a year. And a kick from the deep just now Could well salvage a career, Not to say a life, If Miss C.P.R. has not got it already. She sees all kinds of things. She knows how the rope is parted And what never to be seen By anyone but her. She had a great many matches, And I suppose he did too. We heard they had ended, which made me very glad. He was a class act then. I saw how he had taken to the net, But all of a sudden it looks as if he is losing His sparkle and spunk. There are a lot of things one could say About his playing, but all I know Is this, that he was taught All his life to leap and to run. He was strong and nimble and clever. He was all that is fine and rare About a rugby player. I gave him the net for his kick, And I give him the ball for his run, But if there has ever been Any pleasure taken in finding That, in the present war, The masters of the "diamond" Have sometimes been discontented <|endoftext|> Discrete for the most part and walled in with trees As if a style were feigned for show; I liked the look Of the place when they showed it to me, and the landlady Stood all alone with my luggage; then we walked in the Beach path at the edge of the water out to the Strand. There was one house; on the farther side of the Water, by the dock, was the house I wanted. I knew it By a stamp on the box it came in--the stamp is long known, seen in all papers--it is the only one in London not inscribed "London" on the box. "T. D." marked it. I waited for you by the path at the edge of the Water. "What are you waiting for?" You responded "For whom." You had no trouble in admitting to me who you were waiting for, and I had no difficulty in asking. You replied, "For whom I watched with such fierce care in the path at the edge of the Water, I waited for you with equal heat at the box of the stamp- driver. But I had no difficulty in asking you who you were waiting for. You were waiting for me." "For whom? For yourself." "For myself? Was I waiting for myself?" I said, "If I was waiting for myself I could hardly wait here watching the path at the edge of the Water. I am here." "Ah yes," said you, "you are absolutely right. You are completely distinguished from the path at the edge of the Water. You are in the road at the road end. What are you doing here?" "This is my last year of medicine; it is a grand job, but I have had it; it is a great job. I have made amaze- ments; some have had the goodness to keep them to themselves, but most of them read the papers. Some have come here to see me; they found the path at the edge of the Water; they read the papers, and I stand here and watch the trail of the water as it winds away from the box of the stamp- driver. If you want to know who is reading the papers I am the man. If you want to know anything I have said or done call your high-life man, as I did, and get it done quick. Give me an opportunity to do something for your benefit or my benefit." "I am here," said you. "Give me an opportunity to do something for your benefit and my own. Give me an opportunity to do something for myself. Give me an opportunity to do something for you. "What is the hurry?" There was a sudden recall of attention to other things. A curious man with wild eyes followed me closely. I got out of the car. I saw him move away and I called after him, "Have you a card or something you can give me, just give me a card. I will exchange it for one that I like better." He had no cards; but having no cards, he had a thin sheet of paper. What did I want with the thin sheet of paper? I wondered. I wanted to write something; but, again, I was interviewing myself. I said, "Write me down on it, pencil or ink or gunpowder." He wrote: "Dear Arthur,—I cannot express my love in words; but my heart is broken. I love you—I love you, and will die ere I cannot love you enough. So long as you stay my love I know I shall not fall. I passed recently his ('52) physical, and am in excellent health. Until you write me on the thin sheet of paper I will believe you are still his friend." To write a thing is not the same as to do it; but to do it when you write it, is the thing itself done. When Taning and I began to write letters one another it was to be presumed that Taning was to do the writing, for we never saw him. So when Taning and I began our letters to one another we perceived it as inverse: I would write him a letter; he would then have to write me back. Well, it became a game of correspondence; and we used every carbon Copy-Idee: mother, wife, sister, dog, cat, friend, beer mug, baseball cap, newspaper, shampoo can, pool- legue, paint can, graduation vest, baseball gloves, signature lipstick, baseball bills, reeds, and sticks. When we grew bored with one of the other people on the list, we would switch to another. I would compose an angry missive to that person, and then Taning and I would engage in a dialogue in which it was represented that Taning was to write the letter and that, in the absence of its writer, the appropriate reply should come from the own dark recesses. (I am not sure whether we displayed some device whereby the messages were signed "Dear X., God Speed!") Once a month we all collected our letters in a big black bind o'er a table. The room that held our letters was packed with automobiles and pipes, all in various states of repair. Each evening Taning collected his letters and compared them with his "issues"; he wrote little autobiographies, ghost reports, and other diverting bits of fiction. At night he rocked and rummaged for the appropriate magazine in which to store his letters. At times he passed our room looking for them, as if searching for a pack of cards. His taste in poetry was morbid; once he recited a written sestet that very well might have been in The New Listening. Once he listened to a reading from a book that had appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. The audience, made up primarily of women, applauded hilariously until Taning's notes became illegible. One day we watched two hungry baboons at a hotel bar converse openly with one another in a pleasant fashion. These two counterweights of the human counterweight have nothing in common save their having been in love once and seeking a second love. They are not interested in becoming lawyers or neurosurgeons, but they are successful at each of these professions. I spent the first two years of my legal career in an office staffed by a youthful female servant. On certain days, when I went in for my first interview, I would notice that she was wearing a hat stenciled with my first judicial season's judicial star. My most recent judicial star was embedded late in 1970. I recall her having a roughly duckled relationship with the office decor. My law clerk now serves in that capacity. I would love to relate my impressions of that long- untilted position. I will refrain from editorializing by naming just one or two negative aspects of the situation. It would take an extended critique to do so. My principal criticism is this: I would like to see more promotion of positions which afford women easier access to the courthouse. Women have much to say on this subject. I have noticed little or no effort on the part of those responsible for job allocation to revisit this problem. Women who pass as men at baccalaureate and graduate school hearings regularly speak before them which might draw some attention to their insights. Women who become law clerks, as subclass attorneys, as investigators, as experts, as thematic advisers, as trial counsel, as expert witnesses receive far less training in the techniques of self-promotion than do men. There is also evidence that women have a harder time getting their names cleared than do men. For these and other reasons, I believe that women who move up the ranks tend to do so by concerted tomography. This I know to be true. <|endoftext|> "Little Hell", by Katharine Asato [Living, Death, Growing Old, Life Choices, Midlife, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Gardening, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] 1. They said it was a beautiful garden. All the weeds were wild and healthy. They said it would take a life-style, several houses, several states, several years of her life, to re-create the scene of that one night. They said it would take a journey deep into the night. They knew this, her parents, close friends, the minister who baptized her, the minister who served her in the South, the minister who cherished her among his family, the usher at the prison where she served her limited sentence, the warden at the prison where she is released, all these people who have known and will know her, over time, as she knows everyone <|endoftext|> And what my longings could achieve by pain! I do not dread such harm; I do not dread That a rougher nurse will pinch me when I cry; And I scorn any longer to be called Sceptic, or dependent upon the skies. Sceptics may wonder at my creed, but not (I trust) their awe will shadow mine own surmise. I know at least that I must feel myself On each new day a happier child than yesterday, And that this pride of ours is no worse than theirs; I know that I have always more to learn, And yet never more to learn; that what is true Sore to learn, soon learns to be accomplished; And I, whose thoughts have stretched their reach to-day Triumphantly, must, with toil, climb to-morrow. Thus I may know what I aspire to know; And why I cannot tell you I may not hope. One bird from out the audience pierced with light Enters softly; she that all this is speaking Looks on me earnestly with earnest eyes. Methinks I heard the voices through the wood Becoming more distinct, like word of word: And, as I looked, I saw my Alice speaking, And one beside her, bending to a note, An infant was slumbering in their midst. And while they sang, the song they seemed to speak Was a wild strain of their own had grown To a full-voiced utterance; it might be A happy amatory strain; it might be A hapless wedding-sang fragment: it might be A joyous tale of some well-loved elf That lost his life on a night of rain When all alone walking to his tenting. Or it might be a curse upon noble lords, And nobles' children after him. It might be a curse or a song Of some great misfortune, telleth one The house is forsaken, one doth live Beside him, his soul on ice is set, And it may be (for who shall say ?) It may be, God only knows. But while they sang, methought that their feet Passed by one shared wall of garden That bound the lawn Into an architrave of fences; And, between them, I saw my Lady's garden wall Beyond, and a raised way, where strayed the deer, And, on one side, a gate Of massy iron shut with wire, And on the other Stood long a hedge of fragrant flowers. I have a dream to-night Of a rich lady's garden Wherein about play Many knights and squires The noble lord whose house it is Hath left to like aversion, And who, there sitting, Seekes tidings of her daughter Whom he must hearform, Pursues the object of his search Till closed the garden gates To him, and with the utmost speed Regain his lady's sight, OrElse lures, and loses a goodly fee. And here is one that will not be spent, Nor cast away his sport, But doth alone sing lyre And hath nought else to do, And when a naked youth he sits An up-bent bow he carries, An arrows curious-built And looketh steadfast on it, Until at last his shaft Bolts through the solid oak, And he shoots through and through, So sweet is the passage Of a bare arrow through the air. Well I wote, these bow-strung archers Of archer-kind are few, For all the goodly people That wander about the earth, That seek strange sports and strange, Dwell in walls, within doors and windows, In windows and in gates; They seek strange sports and strange. And surely in the thicket Fast by the bough and arbor One that keeps good watch is hiding, Or he is asleep, And well he knows 'twere better Sitting under the trees By his tall shield than here Under the wretched roof Of a poor country-house. And surely it is day-fall And the rays of the sun Upon the down, the dew, the flower, On the brown stalk of the maize; And the catkins are falling From the cactus and the cnee, From the orange and the grape, From the prickly pear and tare, And from the coral-grade tree White as snow in the sun; And the pear leaf strews the floor With its silver pennons; And within the dewy roses Are little beasts of purple dye From the same bush with the mango-fruit Are the leaves and the stems Of a strange martial tree, And when it sends forth arms of flame To assail the sun-born foes, Then is it mad or divine That it is Nepenthes' Dawn That here doth sit and play, Luring with fragrant jewelled rods All the air with her silvery threads, And the mind of the lad With her silver arrows sweet To guard the lightnings of the steel That is she mightiest now. And this tree she never will fell, Or cast its branches far, Or go near the light of the sun, Or go in the sight of the moon: For she believes her plant Is but a plant of smoke, And 'tis but her fancy that she sees The fruit that she thirsts for With such passion burning To touch it, pluck it, drink it And get all needed increase For her down-going in. And therefore she must seem As it were a spook-tree, By herself unknown and pale, Which any one that stood near Should be suddenly terrified, And half afraid of the thing, And half afraid that he too Should seize and drag her away With hunger-quenched whimpering. And many travellers have framed Fabricated tales of it; And many of her own stupid tribe Have also the marvel feigned, So that from far has it been hunted, And set in many a tale of mystery Of evil prowess and dreary hunt, The yarn of the Grosse Insect. There are birds that only will sail In a strangeward direction, Or swim upward in a curve, But never will fly straight upward, Or even wheel in a regular circle. They all lie endwise, or under, Or even end-endwise in an arc. The little City-Bell is heard At night, at midnight or morning, When the moon is up or overcast. The City-Terson sounds at reset When the city-glows are dark. The lonely Sky-Meeter sounds When the stars are shining or down. The Wind-Bell is heard at springtime, When the golden-rod is sprouting. The Wind-Meeter sounds at wakening, When the first leaves are stirred. The Hum-Bell is heard at harvest, When the insect-crowds are quiet. The Horned-Terson is heard at danger, When the woods are empty or full. The Horned-Meeter sounds at climax, When the vastness of the report fills The whole air, as though three cities Had then begun to creep, Or four or five had fallen. The Loud-Bell is heard at birth, When the little child is born. And the Dreadful-Terson is heard When the lightning-storm is born. The Dreadful-Meeter sounds at harvest, When the corn is white and ripe; The Axe-Meeter sounds at fleshing, When the first two leaves are sprung; And the Bell-Meeter sounds at breaking Of the strong hempen rope, Or some great noble's coming When his halls are full of troops, And the whole fast-chested world Is at his bidding drunk. But the City-Terson is heard Whenever there's a shouting Of the people, or a beating Of the city-screens, or a smashing Of large portraits, or a billowing Of large banners, or a gallop Of coaches and steeds and arming Of troops on parade, or a rush Of masses, or a great uproar Of prayers, or an organ playing, Or a strange strange rustic interlude. The City-Bell, the Bell-Meeter, And the Sky-Meeter are all in rallying, And the entire Sky-World intercommuning, And all the people collectively Shouting, raving, triumphant, surveying. And loud, shrill, threatening, answering clearly, The new-comers are borne over, faring On lantern-maples, with the diminishing Of the lights in the west; and to-morrow The old town will again be vastly Redesigned, and the people sweeping With big windbillows toward the glimmering Democracy of the sun. Somewhere, surely in the Oriental isles A feminine old tower Has a winding staircase Out of its rockiness, Where is shriven and oaken-wood laid bare <|endoftext|> Then raised Their dreadful swords with which Bristled the purple plumes of our Lord and his saints, And struck at me, Peter, and made wide my gape And gaping throat, And of my temples broad stroke for stroke Stabbed the casque and my strong hands and my hands' might; Against my blows, unmoved, the cup and the crown Flashed fire and fumed up, and my locks stood wide and silver-shadowed. In the flood Of blood and fury, while my limbs all lost their freshness, those Thy servants, whom Thou dost give Importune, all the ugly gang with strong right arms Unheeded stood and gazed. So to the high hill's side Where Peter stood with back turned, behold, he turned back His dolorous gaze, And I too could recognise that victorious look, When blood and victory hold o'er all the world begin. Then turning to my Lord, he spake: "Lift up Thy gaze and note His front; when at His feet One beholds a world wrung as by sickness, weep First for the sinned-against, the erring, sickly Outcast, the distempered. Since the world's beginning The upright have suffered most and least; the pure At mouth of sin have climbed up to Heaven's roof, And sinless maidens left for greater maidens, Save that they mount no further. So man's wish Is choice-mortal; of his choice the tempter. For craving to be chosen, he rouses the fear of loss And lest thou fall, quickens the desire to be most after him who is least." Thus we who on the Straight and reach the Happy First District, of life's lot choose the worst, Since from the onely Beautiful and Kind the other take their name. For the wise work for happy form and safe through pain, And woe to that man or woman who takes the cheating Side. Now came I to the city full of merchants; Merchants high in wealth and rank; and round The rich town, by the shining ways and by the wall, Imprisoned I stood and saw the poor and naked, The sick, the disconsolate, and sick-hearted, And envied their joy and their inmost thoughts. Then did a swaying tree come to my feet, And to the side it swung, and bending low, And holding high my gaze, I saw before A youthful maiden seated; round her struck Light from the sun, and sweet from the sun Awakened was the languor and the glow Of her holy features as the blessed image blazed Upon my face and in my eyes. Then was I no longer mine own, nor him I envied, nor the world's hope, nor death's terror; but a sign From Heaven that the Eternal order of things Had waned and faded from the face of things, And man's heart reft him of his best hope. I would have cast me into the depths of hell Into the belly of the struggling spawn That whelmed and burrowed its spawnly way Tow'rds the mouth of hell. But on a day My Master sent me out unto the world, And said unto me, "Take well thy seller's word, And go thy way; for all the neighbours know That soon as ever, word of mine, thou com'st Into this land of England, thou shalt be Wael on and dealt with justly. And if thy heart be clean, and knowest thy heart Is safe, and knowest thy life is safe, Then take the seller's word to go. And if Thou fear that any wrong thy brethren's children May do thee, lest they fill thy seat with thine And turn against thee and harm thee sorely, The King's Manoeuvre let thy thoughts to learn. But think in thy heart, dear, that in this world, Whether here or there, thy brothers's children Have no rather a money, love, and a breath; So shalt thou go." "Woe to the man Who helps but now my brother's children," Quoth I. "Why? for this man's good word would stand the test Of coming years and double-tried." The master smith anrewed me, "So shall it be," he said. Now had I wherewithal to seek and hearken, And I went forth the gates of London. And as I went with open mouth and eager look Unto the merchants, massy rich, I heard a poor man's tale of woe. "O brother mine, I cannot work! my son is set on marryin' Now, an' wants the sellin' of our fathers' shops An' they will not sell. An' we shall die out we know not how, for my wife Would not lave her head nae mair, nae mair, Ere th' blood's about her. An' I have no son, my brother, to sell my shop An' buy my wife. O brother mine, Marry an' marry!" An' tears were in his eyes when he ceased; An' I was struck with woe and pity. I passed on, with many a silent thought How poor this poor man's want were, I passed Unto a temple; I could see there A woman ministerin' in a platter To a corpse that lay in a low lurch That kept a-tiptoe o'er the door That gave on the grave. "Help me, Brother," the poor man cried, "To sell our dead," he said. "It shall be done," I said. "Nae hurry, Brother," said he. He rose in the hole of the night, 'Neath the low roof he made his bed, And when the first stars of the morn Had wakened his sleepy head, He crept to the door, and peeped again, An' he shied in his fingers At the sill. "It shall be done, Brother," said he; "Our dead shall sell, For aye we bury them, an' make Our poor death glad, If we sell them before 'tis dyed In the blood-red tide." "Nae mair," I said; He heard me well; He gave a jerk o' the head That shook the bed; He climbed into the platter's passin' length, An' shivered in blood. The sister-in-law she heard him groan, She thorped him an' spierin' An' she cluckin' her rattle, An' she hummin' her pie, An' a soughin' came from the grave, That drewwed upon the door An' hooted at her lover's bride, When she cocked her head at 'im. The rich men in the town They laughed at him when they met him; For he was poor, An' dressed in a dirty grey, That had seen some weather. It was but a poor necromancer With a poor dead name, But some did fancy that he could do A better than the best; And once or twice he made the King A present of a silver goblet That cost him two bob or more. Our sister, Eliza, she married Jim Taylor, A greedy ambitious man, a son of Arranwood; So when she died at last of lightning, Jim went to the Ferry, He jumped in a boat and jumped out again, That is all he could do, A jolly old trooper of the Grenadier Guards That went to Syria on a research mission, Inspecting the books in the Testament Library, Also noting down all the notable sayings; Also observing the markings on skeletons, The dates when corks burst and there was none to stop them, Also the bizarre quotation of Mrs. Arden, Also the adventures of those that ride a duck, Also the proper way to unbraid a widow's curly white hair, Also the cures for insomnia, the causes for thunder and lightning, Also a note on Hamlet, A passage from the Talmud, Jim commented on that, Also on Lincoln's speeches, That too was quoted, Also the war in Spain, And then there was Bonaparte, Another source of humorous genealogy, Also a remark on Byron's funeral, Also Albert Einstein, Also the meaning of a certain line in Keats's "Lines Old Time is a tale for kids," As William Kristol once said. But for those who love history There is much to learn from old Shakespeare, Also from James Clerk Maxwell and Rutherford And from Einstein who said: "In a world of smooth talking clerics Children should go to college to be made straight, And not be dumb as dinosaurs." As for Abraham Lincoln There is much to love about him, Also his extraordinary mustache, <|endoftext|> So many,--so many, and now by living eyes Seen out of Tartarus, seeing, I confess, And owning that I am he who wrote of yore, A child of Darkness and Death, new raised to birth! Where have I gone then?--Where am I going now? To what dark land am I hastening on, and how Am I to shun the fatal Rocks and waves? Or shun them,--by the sweet Serenity of God? I have gone weeping, doubting, and sinning, There where the worm hath its twelve crops of grief Scarce heard of heaven. No purpose, no desire, No counsel of good, no love is mine, Only an element in harrows, and then A hateful hunger with a fierce desire For the black food that is never won too fast. Ah, God! the wet sands, the vile vineyards, The little proud town, and the dim lake shore, The low wide fields, the strong war-ship's mooring, The waiting weed, the unlamented sparrow, The cries of the poor, the weary, weary birds, The ugly cities and their impotent cries,-- I say, I say,--that I am going back again! Back! as the wave is the wave until it turneth, As the wind is the wind, and Night is the Night until it darketh, From the dim half-light of the valley, from the stars unseen of men, From joy, from pain, from sleep and death, from limitless mist of flowers And starry mists of many sorrows, from all things changed and gone, From earth itself, from Heaven, I turn me back to the beginning. MORAL (without the shadow of a reason). Time was the East-wind Whistled in the farm-house window, And the day was one of happy days. We bare our souls to the merciless night, And received not consolation or part Of the all-absorbing sorrow. Sometime the West-wind Came from the far-off station, And the day was one of angry days. We bare our souls to the merciless night, And received not consolation or part Of the all-absorbing sorrow. Sometime the East-wind Whistled in the prison-grid, And the day was one of silent days. We bare our souls to the merciless night, And received not consolation or part Of the all-absorbing sorrow. Time was the East-wind Whistled in the farm-house window, And the day was one of happy days. We lived in loveliness and sorrow Together, and laughed together. Sometime the West-wind Came from the far-off station, And the day was one of angry days. We lived in anger and sorrow Together, and laughed together. SHE stands like One in State, Who doth Him model, both in face And in the conventions of the game; Or like Two accustom'd hands, That do His function equally; Or like two minds that do His mind model, And think and say His mind as they. Within His fair large eyes All human imaginings sort, As if we did those eyes direct To a goal beyond the genial frame: An earnest face, Fit for the inspiring conception Of God to the evolving soul. That was the learning she prized, The power to hold the various light That danced within life's various spheres, A purified light, a clear light, A flame that naught should dwarf or defer, A fire that naught should mar. A fire that neither hungers yet, Nor requests, nor knows nor seeks, Blessing thrones it should be powerless to win, A nameless light, a sun not found By all, yet knowing all. It did not view, as other eyes do, The parcels of the bounty pay, But cast its view beyond the skies, That far away were being made And to the spheres of life remote Each earthly Bounty gave its hold. Each earthly Bounty knew its place, But placed it not beyond the reach Of the devoted young heart's love, On which its influence poured its store Of living light, of living offspright. So for a while, she wonder-crown'd, All unsought, the glad King sat; Then rose the children's leader, Their born ruler, their King's mate, And when He needed them most Were they, with One in dread accord, Their one advocate. What wonder if within her (If she had none) the divinely Gifted lone eagle sat While yet upon Calvary She looked the way of all? WHEN, high above the sea In airy altitudes of glory Her wings unfurl'd, her pinions reveal'd, To that soft star, in distance nigh By love and angel eyes above The home of loving one she sanctified, Fair mystery of earth's bright bow'rs How call'd you to my mind's eye? As when Apollo all a-gleam From his third vault, serene, Some nymph's fairer than the dawn, In her whose form he knew Lifting his homeward wing, he flies To the fifth of morning light. To the dove-like shape a note of sadness Took quite the hue of rapture, And might have dropp'd the careless lark With three of driest partridge-neck, To hear that strain of happiness. The clasping blossoms, musky o'er him, Sorewiven in his eyne; With sunny wings for facilitation He felt the spring have come. And not the less that summer ev'ning When home from Corinth we motley spent, And though but few, we were rous'd to laughter By a perroquet that sprang exultant From lips we should have known were too poor Towards our wishes to approve, Had we keep'd it to our self. From that dissolving meeting, in my mind More dim and awful re-births are seen, Some take the likeness of like offence Deliberate to inflame again Some forgotten heart, as thou who dost Still fret that brother of thy love. "Oh! could I drown myself in tears! Or hug my wound and recoil from all Because a brother wrong'd me once. Why should I more the familyette Than these immortal lights divine? My wound can yet consume me. My cheek ne'er shall flush red with shame To think I was so vain." ARE blind her eyes, though she had seen The mists on her sweet Philomel Sweeping o'er the ebbing cauldron Of Ocean, while her surf sang "Hallo" In tones where harmony and wonder Ne'er could with music mingle be; Oh! had she been our dearest friend, Our Venus or our Cupid, Oh! had she dress'd her mind to me, Our eyes had never seen! Her lips were hers, and that alone Which love hath power to bespeak In woman; all the rest were mine, Her choice her own; yet had she said What all thyself could never guess. If she had been an angel fair, In long, red, angel-lilies white, A nymph of lakes or pearly brooks, E'en then had she beheld And twined her arms around me. But, as plain as writing's pen can mark, Or charm requires, what she was Was all invisible to me. If then I must confess what tongue Could never speak, my wounded heart Had turn'd itself into pine-trees close, From whence a mighty torrent, see! Sucks every naked bud and flower And softly giggling wets its wave. Or else the rainbow's tints alone Could show me where she loved me In that only way that's true, The only true in love is sure. And so the gentle rain of tears It self had taken from my eyes Gave it for all I needed do To make my woes more faint and light. So in the night her griefs came rain or shine, And in the day she soothed and smiled and loved, In every weather, like a saint serene. While the great sea of silence in her ear Breathed of a joy that was more than human; And where she turned her conscious face, she saw His face when she was nigh to love him quite; But low below the rain of griefs had roll'd And glided into the silver sea. Oh, she was lovely as a frightful star That lights and darkens night for ever. Her skin was moonlight or the violet, The lightest were but as flashes now, And her rich eyes were calm and deep; Or the grand old pine-tree, shivering there, The winter tempest may move or not-- But it trembled with the pain of her, And shook its wild green mansions all. <|endoftext|> Where the winter and summer ever-voicing Scarborough Ascola and Santa Anastasia: Blue meridell and loamy mosses wet with tears, White snow, blue ice, sparkling fountains cold, Gloomy castle pillars that are mumbling Their own funeral dirges above their locked keep, And with sound of hammer and chisel fastened Unto the crumbling stone;--'tis no wonder That I'm shaken by the solemn, mournful mood That wanders about the darkened town. We don't know whither our lives have wandered, But some of us must have died for a time: And you that are weeping know why I am sad, You are weeping for a father or a brother, Or a friend that is long not near again. Why don't you cry for your own bitter loss? We've made our lives one unreal, vivid dream: But behind our dream you'll hardly see our groaning And your tears will help me not in my woe. I've always fancied you turned to me When I was seeking for the town's gate, And none ever noticed that you vanished While I trudged along beside you trudge. The night is dim and it is growing late: I shall see you not in the still-awake dark, But still I dream and I dream and I go on, Knowing that my heart--I know not how I know it-- Is a chamber where a ghost doth reave. Mother, when I used to come round your door And knock, the first sound that greeted me Was that of a mocking owl from yon thicket: So near he sat that I could bloom his throat, Then sky and fields and river-bars he told. He praised my wit then, and how I repaid it: How each new poem I wrote gave fruition To everything he said or did or might do. My four- and six-and nine-month cents he quoted, How I became "so dear to clients," And soon "all business was mine to keep." Then came moonlight and dawn with their own theme: He praised the robes of such kings as you had worn, And gentle ladies' clothes, and read aloud The letters they had written you, and laughed sore. And so it went through all the notes and quotations, Until at last (over the flying spray) There came a change. My owl, he said, no longer echoed His comments on court and cathedral wall. Now he criticized the world, the world I haunt. He hated "yarnys of babyhood" and "hoity-toity." He sighed: "Some things are best left alone!" Mother, you know that my father died, And that my mother goes to her grave in debt. At night I see the wan and ghastly light Of their pitchforks and torches white as snow. They have torched the little church and garden. I sit in the bare centre of my door And shudder as their gleaming arms pass And hurry on to burn the little town. It was a danger to Val-court, I know. But I dare not stay in that close-clipped green And watch the hideous torches at bay: I know that the town, too, must fall. The great lamps are blazing down the street And yellow flames are bursting out of every window, But my gaze is turned where burns my brain: 'Tis the same white road I used to ride upon When all my soul was gay and free Like a bright scythe in the field of a noble lord And there was music in the air And Spring was the cruellest justiciary. The world is strange and new to me But the House of H.... it is not strange And I am back in the old familiar room, And the old wit salivates in my throat. And you that are weeping are not mothers: There is something you have lost, and not their sons. And what you have lost you can never find again. I could walk for a thousand years and never find it. No, I have become a strange and primitive image Of what man was born to expect and find: The poor plaything of chance and circumstance Whose daily life is a succession of trivial moves And whose abiding star is the various jests and dodges He throws up in order to tell which hand is strongest. The wonder is that I am what I am: A narrow pedlar of obscure satisfying things. Yet at the counter of the shop I am filled with the hope that one merciful night He will give me my final bugbear: And in his bag he will see Eternal gratefulness And light the lights In my poor room <|endoftext|> The busy beaver jumps and murmurs "O, I have a sheet of skin That you may walk on, I see you pass, To bed I will bring you something to eat, And warm and good will be my gladly Till you return, to thine!" The sheet he folds, the beaver steers, And with a winding course betakes him To his bed of twigs; He dreams that beneath him wander, Uninvited, bright spirits, gay and loth To make his place their dwelling. While Night, exalted, winding down, Dislimns the world with purple sheen, The happy beaver glad to sleep Makes merry with a certain dream, Drawn by his penmanship. Dugup clear and large, the stream they see, And through the rushes they can hear The sound that rustles in the reeds. The bright ones laugh, "Our new-found way From such a source shall save us lot! We go, and leave the path to you!" The beavers, greatly pleased, obey, And fling their hat and coats away, And ready then embark for the new sea. As light as birds, upon their way They gain the secret shore. They thrust the bugger from his hidden nook, And filled their huts with ducks and geese; Then spread their homes upon the surging tide, Till, with the night come early, they Come up with early allies. The beavers of green mossy rills Their walls and dams see no more; The Ducks and Guano together Creep where the beavers were before; The light-water is deposited Where dams and walls had been. Dams are broken, water drained, The beavers build, and bring to birth A fashion of masonry, A city bound with mole-walls, With galleries and racial tinsels Where earth and wood may mingle. Walled and dowered with trees, and growing Grown with spite of frost and rain, Full many a quaint adornment The traffic in stone delights; And tourists delight to view The funny striped gconsio, The dark-eyed rosebud, and the trumpet-vine. An inky sumptery thick and steaming Frequents the valley far and wide; Gleaming with all ablaze of duvet-light New buds before the morning-star Snug hid in hollows, till the shrewd sun Blushes with anger at the day. The weary sun-burned wanderer sighs, Glows on with tanned and contemplative Encounters with the skies to be; The weary sun-burned wanderer sighs, In the piping hoofs of passing hoofs, The prying eye of curious hunters Glances where the boughs do overlap. With brows against the hollows drying, Where briar or thistle doth twine, The sombre pall encases each column, Crowned with white bloom the Friar-snows Rise up to meet the gentle wind; The Sabbath breezes meet them flocking, The pious birds flit o'er the placid earth. I might not tell thee how the spring brings First sniff and beat of young lilies' wings, And teeming freshness, spicy and sweet; And my disheartened heart grows glad And bids every wildering feeling flee; So, bear me to my romantic grottoes, Where, coiled up, safe, I sigh and look Into green, dark spaces of the West! Deep down a dark and silent vale Clings gathered mimosa's plumes And bloom and hush and white as snow; I will follow soon the mellow trail, Forbella smoothing her pale robe, And let the sunset's red and gold be My example, tell me not I stray In barren wilderness alone. When, springing o'er a mossy bed, The early oaks, in greenest green, Upped from their calm repose Send forth their conflict of leaves and sprays And, forming a sweet infernal gloom, Soft-branching from the stem to touch The waters that, hidden under, With reedy echo cry around. My soul will hear the circling sweep <|endoftext|> Before the Divine of the ancient times Its coming had never been foretold Nor its institution secretly debated By its scholars, even by its prophets. The nearer the spectacle came Of that world-embracing man, The more it lost all claim To be a prediction; For we have seen the Roman Pontiff of Christ, With all the cunning arts By which he sought to exclude or compel Religious freedom of thought and faith, Seeking the friendship of the Pagans. When he found he could not gain Indulgence of sacrifice For his Church's errors, artful or oral, He, on his journey thither, As if to purge himself of the sins of Hindooism (For which the Christians had left untried His holiest religious shrines and altars, And what the Rajah of Rummy believed in), In his travels through the land, Discovered, to his sorrow, That Mahomet, the Wizard, before whom none came With honest mind and pure, Had built up there afar, without one footfall of prayer A conflagration in the valley of the King of Ylem, His idol-temple Which the common-wealth, More pagan than a common-prayer, Forbidding- By statute the worshipping Of the God of the sun Before these buildings of gloom; A conflagration by no stroke of a mason's axe wrought In ages which had blazed and red Long centuries before Among the ruins and the drift-wood of abandoned cities; But a church, more enormous than the fane To which it puts men's dreams, More awful than a life of impotence Built o'er the ruins of the open society. The building itself Thrills not the sense of a soul; There the chief priests on assembly-days Go with their beads and their beads again, And their Pope the city's idol-apparition, With his mandate, "Modest Men, Unburdened Beings, Come and be fitly merciful To your children and your brethren." Thereon they sit, each in his allotted place, Making their glad little prayer, Seeing their Bishop without a beard Vouchsafing them absolution for past sin. The others stand around With level hearts, not stirring from their places; Bending their heads in silent adoration While the Rev. Canon Jeroboam, Is lifted toward the white-robed Candlestick And the service goes on as if they had all been there. 'Tis his great ministry (And no great minister at that) Is the secret of its good effects; Because to him alone it really seems Whatever comes to pass, There in white garments going and coming, Suffering and conquering, goes to the vespers. That is what is meant when the Servant of God, Before that multitude, With outstretched arms with outstretched eyes, Praises the gods, Is not by his own power but by the gods.' The Jewel, gazing as to say 'How can all this be? I see No smoke-wreathed temple, and no bell Doth toll the hour.' It is the infinite soul of the thing, An immeasurable force of the god, That dares be good Wherever that creature may come. God's plan is impossible Till the First Cause be read In the Me therefore God cannot be blameless, But takes upon him to be blameless. 'You seem to say,' She answered me in my weariness, 'That to a man's power nothing can be blameless. But, dear, I know a house that's so To which the serpent man has crept And in whose heart he hides his shameless head. Not there alone, dear, but in many lands The lion with the lashes is not lashed, Nor lies the wolf in peace: So in this shrine of him who is the King Your minister you will not find.' I must go where fair Queen Ariadne goes And draw white roses, cattleyred, One for each sweetheart that I love and know. What, if they fade ere they be ripe? Two for them that are dead and two for them That are yet unborn. But these white roses be not pale: To Ariadne's eyes they will be bright, In those same roses her face will be As white as snow. The crown that white brow of hers shall bear When all these roses go to weave The jewel of her brow. Let sweet Ariadne sit all Sunday mirth In the temple, whence, come worship her, If white suns need rain or white skies doubt, Come worship, come worship, come worship her. The Lord will have us, since there's none else, This worship, come worship Him. Let white sails whelm all that dwell below The wakened eyes of yellow-arms. White-armed Youth should be the watchmen now, And when the dead roses of our love Shall blow, we may go down to the shore And take them off for your white hair. For, when we pray, sweet God of our souls, Grace to us and keep us, we shall know And have pardon of you. And when dead flowers are for a nail, And love is for a nail, We shall touch you with both feet. With the pale moonlight on our faces We will kneel and will confess The hope in love that never dies Nor the fault in love that cannot mend. Pity us, sweet God, for your sake, We that have love in love no more. The stars all night were looking toward you, And the foam all night was not calm, The wind all night was not still, And the earth all night long Knew neither rest nor peace. The woods were wailing over the battle -- Yes, the whole wide world knew what was passing, What lies at the end of the fight, The trees were whispering: 'Victory!' And the walls were trembling too. But ah! the stars were smiling toward you, And the seas were rainbow-coloured, And the sky was not to blame -- Why, even angels wondered 'Weren't Anyvear but you?' Only, where the deep green sea was silent One voice said: 'There's only one 1 0/4 'Attendance At Heaven -- 't were better hence to go. God cares for only them that enter Heaven.' Only, look where the red-gold sun Bathes all the world from end to end With warm light, one voice murmured: 'God Knows how many scars you've got.' And still the world of Life was saying: 'Only He cares for only them That when He chooses will certainly pass Through the burning door.' Only, I've come to my heaven, Too happy and contented to cry, Though the world seems without bliss, too. You can't find my heaven by your round Of miserable cares and fears, By worrying, weeping, praying much, By fearing, loving little, Though sometimes our love may seem Half our life and half solemn fancy. One little minute may pass In our heaven by grace of God. God does not need your prayers nor tears, He cares for living and dead. He cares for you and me and all That wander through His fire-belching years. Lord, have a great care for us, And we will bless when we may. Only look where our love goes, Over all loves, over all loved. Look where our gaze alone Has passed through fires to flame, Lavishly, blindly, joyously, To love's own image there. One place is only home -- The nothing of a neither nor Which we long for, blind, and pray. We may not ask to look on it, But our eyes that look can tell. And it is where our arms have set, Above all untraveled stars, Whose light is like a loving touch Upon the face of home. Only look! Our home! Only look! We never can travel far Without returning again With half our life's beauty dull. We never can travel very far, We almost feel that we can never go. We never understand why This thing should be. But the light Takes us again and again To where it goes and comes, Making us see how strange and sad It is, and seem to know That we have only begun To search and find the meaning of life. The light shines constantly. We see That darkness everywhere was night, And that the purpose of our life Is but to look toward its close, The ebb, the most distant day. And yet we never can travel far, We almost feel that we can never go. This fire burns brightly everywhere, We see it mysteriously there Before our very eyes. We cannot look upon it But we see what it can do, Of sun and star and fire and cloud, <|endoftext|> Dogs squeal, and they make Sound as of leaping hollow Bark of the full-grown white Bear. At the evening meal the Bear came to the feast with his pack, Not silent, but making sound. They made sound as of wolves howling in the forest, Or of prowling wolves in the wilderness. "Where are you going with that heavy pack," said the Kiowas. "We are going to a hunt," said the Pekin; "we are pack'd for sport. Hunters are men too, are we not? We wish to feel the chase. You hunters must be men also. Let us begin. If we lose our way, we will soon regain it. You carry This red deer by your side. See that he does not wander." When they had dispersed, the red deer began to growl and bark, And the beasts of the forest replied. They hunt'd far to the north, they hunt'd to the sea, They hunt'd east and west, they hunt'd both south and north, Till the earth was black with their claws. At the hunt they drank wine, And apiece filled. Hiawatha, Lower Nokomis Son of Anchandise, BIG TIME, , brought news of victory to Hiawatha; He taught him to handle the gun, And when he aimed, he powerfully pulled the trigger. He shot at the Demon, Chimé, Demon of Fear, who lived in the swamp deep beneath the miry valley. He struck him on the head, and he fell dead; And the fools rejoiced o'er Hiawatha. Then they took Hiawatha's form And replaced him in the palm tree's shade. But Atem, the gentler one, As he called the leaders of the ambush, In accents gentle, commanding, To their hidden ambush came each one. Like a squirrel they crept out, In their beauty and swiftness, Nimble as deer, and dark as fox, And with marks of terror on their faces. Their bows were ready, and they held Six very busy rifles, Each without delay they fired, Firing at point-blank range. But the brave Hiawatha Held his own without a quarrel, He was unarmed, and held himself Zoosogņa, the medical Master of the fight. Many of the warriors ran away From the vigorous assault of the red men. In his wigwam, strange and lesser, As of a squirrel they hid Hiawatha. In all his life he had never seen such defense; In his ears the cheers of his people ran loud and constant; And he guessed surely that the foe had won the day. He stood among the dead men and said crying, "I thank thee, Owlet, chief of warriors, For this great service which thou hast now done me. I should not hold my tongue, if I were I man, Though the king of the Red Men had come to invade me, And the enemies were so loud in proclaiming it. But for thee, oh Owlet, chief of warriors, I could have stood long years in that cruel land, Crying for vengeance, and said my language; But now I shall fly swift and free To the land of the Hereafter, Where I know another voice will sounded be, And I may hear my children crying for me." He led the way eager-hearted, And they followed fast with sorrowful hearts, And they covered the road very quickly, Seeing the dead among the living, Sad refugees on the face of the open prairie. On the surface of the little island Southward of there appeared to them a pyramid Of the dead people lying on and on, And beneath this pyramid were gardens And haymaking areas, And behind these were groves of asphodel, And in the angles of these were forest Engrossing and darkly glorious. Then said Atem, the gentlest of all heroes, To the ghostly poet of the island, Speaking like a lover and moving like a poet: "I behold in the shades of the asphodel, And the redwood tree-tops around us. Must these be they? Why do we rush to them? Look below us! look beneath us! There are only the dead upon the sod, Gazing in silence and despair, Like men who gone into the land of Gosho Have gone into the watery world of Kubu-Kubu. The panther of the mountains is not more terrible In beauty or strength than they, the dead survivors. These shall lead us to safety, the weary and wounded, The ghosts of the heroes and the wise men whom heaven destroyed. In the land of the Hereafter will we find them, These all turned into invisible ether, Gazing at our footprints in the dust, At our bodies that have changed to grass and leaves." Thus passed Atem and his companions, And they saw the ghosts of the men who died In the land of the Hereafter, Turning the earth beneath them into grass and leaves, Into a beautiful color, Into golden that shone in the sunlight. And the poets of the island sang them, Sang the song of Atem, the gentlest of all heroes, Thus the story of Wainamoinen, Sweet and faithfully presented, Poured out its treasure of sentiment, Poured out the sweetness of his heart, On the tabernacle of Sungod, On the cross weaked of magic, In the homes of her people. Nevermore appeared the legendary hero, Never again went Wainamoinen, On the great celestial highways, On the long dark highways, Sailing in sleigh decorated with silver, Circling in sledge drawn magic, To the beds of the dead. Long he wandered in the badlands, Looked upon the paths of the sacrifice, Spake these words to his people: "The day comes for my departure, Even now comes to my journey, Tomorrow I must depart for life-existence, To the home of great Ahti-ancestral, Never again must I depart from Ahti, In the home of happy Ahti-dear! There may well exist evil-doers, And the hapless-spirits may suffer harm-bearing, Not in kind, but in mind-consuming, In a thought-like agony." Still he wandered in the badlands, Looked upon the paths of the sacrifice, Spake these words to his people: "The day comes for my departure, Even now comes to my journey, Tomorrow I must depart for life-existence, To the home of great Ahti-ancestral, Naught can I accomplish in life-existence, Nothing whatever can I gain for singing, If I leave good Ahti-dear for Olafsen; Good Ahti-dear, the best of all heroes, Of the race of Ahtinelu. Ahti-dear, in whose bower is resting, On whose outstretched kalis rest gold, You must guide me on my life-existence, To the home of sweetest Olafsen." Thus he wandered in the spaces, Thus he sighed in the meadows and marshes, These the words he uttered numberless: "Ahti-dear, my life-singer, Thine I give for ever to singness, To the paths of the sacrifice, Thy blessing for me for ever, Thine I give for ever, Ahti-dear!" Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Against the early golden suns, When the days are long and the nights are long, Sits alone in maidenable beauty, Throned upon her seat of pride, Far above the ears of day-reapers, Far below the hoofed coursers. Always at this early golden time Appears the song of Louhi's cowshed, Cowshed of sharpened horns, by never-enchanted waters, As in letters I type the great tales of ancient legends, All the wild tribes to Northland drawn, As in letters I type the words of ancient wisdom, All of kindred lore together. Always at this early golden time Appears the hill of Louhi's flowers, Glittering in colors wreathed and fringe'd with blossoms, As in letters I type the lore of legendary Americans, All the tales of ancient heroes and heroes' children, All the wonders of the wood and water, Magic springs and hot smokes of suns which never glow, As in letters I type the words of magician-wisdom, All of magic France, as in letters I type the wizard Ishmael, All the wonders of this wondrous book of magic, All of wondrous Udijuor, king of dreams, As in letters I type the words of legendary Legendarium, All of magic London, as in letters I type the wizard Ishmael, <|endoftext|> Most superbly caused the hearts of mortals to move and their eyes to roll, and, shaking himself, to yawn and brim as with wine. Come ye to the banquet of Orphalese And sit on downy cushions richly spread, Where Nemus' waters slowly purling Around a flagon of champagne shall float And Florian be thy dancing-master. In a hole of the cliff there is a door Beneath whose scam rooftop I have built A bower of ivy for your lover. Bright with love's golden light And gladsome to love I'll to my lover recline And he shall be my mind's eye-opening portal. When the Moon's shadow glimmers on the sea And the wind is blowing a tune it seems I hear The dashing of a tear from Florian's chalice And as I laugh aloud his thirst is slaking. Far out in the bosom of the deep My lover and I our bower will build. What pleasant times shall drift to us there, What sorrow shall chill not, as we sit there Browsing the guide that mortal seamen gave, Sweet with the lore of ancient wisdom! How shall we bathe in the rim of the world But in the voice of the wondrous deep? How but by the trembling of a dear and rosy hand? When Florian's hand Falls trembling to mine, I feel the sea Come up to me, the happy world of lovers, And as I recline, in quivering train Of sweet beseeching words I say Love's lovely philosophy. I said, "Ah, that is the rose That blows into the dew-darkled air, Into the heart of our mystery, And clouds my path with its odor rare: A fly-blown flower upon the wave, Seen by the gulls in their flight across it Or by the distant ship that floats above And reads the word of love with mystery. And this is the curse that falls on me: To die when the last note is over And leave the last bloom of my grief unshed, To live with all my thorns, and only With all my thorns shall live or die." As old Euphorbus, weary of the thing he knew, Stretched 'twixt the fields and wreathed with foliage dim For an unknown walk, at break of day, He saw a wildingress, a thing too bright To dwell in, winding down a wooded slope, A thing so slender it was a thing between, Just like the young shoots of a tall-tree fern Plucked by the warm sun and curled to fed In the meadow where the dancing looper, And as it grew it opened the voice of a man, The hoarse red hoarse of a wren singing a blare, A mock quick stamp and hiss from a builder's rake And a walk's soft murmuring of broom limbs, And then a woman's whisper of, For a moment in the starlight dim, Out of the garden of Euphorbus came a guide, As shy and free as new-mown hay, or grass, Making her way to where her master had stood While her wings were puffed and full of glee As every sense was overtaxed to bare Her thirst, not mine, was so. With a welcome faint The warm sweet mouth that had overtaken my ear Led me with her to meet me yet again, As friendly as the dew upon March mist Slips down a chicken's flank, or blossoms blown To meet the fingers of the moon at night Dance in a lover's hair, a little wear On the crescent's fringes, when the nightingale Swoons into her mate's arms and dies. With her was a farmer's lad, at sun-down sinks, A skilful huntsman; and we ran and ran, Not seeing the great bird at all, That wandered all the harbor through Beneath the dusk of a glorified sky, That gave her no tribute of a wing, Nor buffeted her with a troubled breast, But stayed above and let her take her prize Of the quiet gold that glittereth there. So, sometimes, far aloft, and hidden far In the deep violet of noon-day blue, I hear a bird's cool brass above me cry, The voice of her that answered in the sky; And every time she answers, every time I see her, throned in the middle sky Between the planets and the morning star, So be kind, thou, to my wandering heart, That lingereth no more on land or sea, But rather art athirst to flee away And seek the wide, green, unpeopled ocean deep; And in the stillness of the moonrise I will say, Since even my love is kind, why stayest thou To vex me with thy troubles? Behold, I crave To depart with all my care and all my toil From thy sad shores, and seek some haven unknown Far from thy mansions, thou wast never heretofore. With love that crept into my life at six Away from war-towns, and a heart that felt That love might come ere long, when fighting ceased And hungering men had died, or dying grown Recalled the bonny lass with eyes of blue, And that her hair was wound with brown like these, And that her mouth and eyes were mine alone; And many a hopeless love-tale writ On my unlovely face, and bitter dolorous That stung my soul at heart, and sighs and piteous That filled the dark and chilled my fevered blood; And oftener far, and nearer heaven and sea I dreamed, and prayed to be again what I was. And through it all I lived, to see it all And know my part in it, with a heart that thought "I am that which I have felt, that which I am." I did but keep the thought, and strove in vain To put the two qualities together Whither it proved at conflict each other's lord. I strove and failed, and dreaming that the dream Must eternal, stalk alongside of sleep, I swept along it, and across it, defiant; Till my will bowed down, my power was gone, My peace, my love, all broken--till I found Ourslave, the hard master, and my lot. Where is your daughter now? Can this be death? Or has the old enamoring memory Taken leave thereof? Could old affection die So quickly? Or is she hiding distant With her beloved to some foreign clime? Else would her mother be in cheerful plenary, Glad of her new-yfed years, and ask no more. Then is the heart whole, and from without Comes kindly summer, flinging blossoms here And there with whimsical caprices, Till all the woods and fields are gay, While everything sings. But when the air Sends sleeping on the brain a dim Necessity, it falleth out, And suddenly the heart is dumb. I saw you wander in the city, Furtive and intent; I could not tell What attracted you each step to grasp, What confused impulse doth offend Against all rule and known right sensation, Urging you each to keep a lookout, Each out of the road, and, swift to spoil, To snatch the lighter from the drier, And loitering in the room each tryst to make, And talking in a foreign tongue unreproved, Thrust into each hand a carpet bomb to throw. Then would I turn and flee in terror; But now the terror part is past, And fled is every impulse rude; I deem it high time they should deliver The catalpa tree from its ignorance, And pluck its wretchedness to spurn. But ah, it is not well with me; I linger on from peril to peril; My hands are ravenous; and my heart Would trifle up the daisies, and eat up The mild catalpa; I do not know That it is better to fly or struggle. These are not charms to keep me safe, But only burdens to baffle; My fortunes are as boundless, my fame As shaky; I would not trifle them, For nothing would all as much, But I shall still be after--for what? Or after what? for nothing at all; And after after all one day will come A final nothing; when I shall rest, And after me, many a fig shall go. I do not know which to prefer-- The pluck or riches, or the power Or courtesy or talk; For all are burdens, in some shape, And all are dreams; I think it best Just to do my duty well, In what I understand and know, And to be still and dead. Perhaps this frailty of mine, <|endoftext|> Some cool, hushed night, with shutters down, Their cloister window wide left open; And sound as of a city smothered In dust of night traffic and flight. What name shall the letter T under, As in old times on cards it went? Now only men who work in boats, Or work upon barges, know its true Grammatical name, schooner. None shall come forth, for three years, This T, to see her--for to her England gives back all lands beyond Great Stour, to the Umberry! The silver Queen has gone Into the silver royal bride, With her pale feet treading clouds. No mockeries or mirthful laugh Shall cross the glimmering radiance of her Moon-bright eyes; nor shall her cheek One smock make of its jetty fringe Or snare her with any clasp Of necklaces; no man-made thing Of mutual compliment. All her toil and all her pain, Save one rose at her heart, Shall fall on England next. For now The people shall stand bare To her great leading; her deep Vision, her keen uttermost Thought. Is that a figure? and is that face With those of men whom men love? Is that the one vision, boy, Of all the weeks and days and years? Dare you not point at me, and say This one on yonder bough is she? Trying to hear The shadow of a music by Which you but seemed to be; Floating shadows, and far away Where, ere the vision far had sped, Did strike a note so sweet, Such music never yet had been: Hark, just at that time--whoops and joys, And night's fair morn breaking goldenly! And at your feet Floated like a funeral shadow-- Not of your mother, but of a flower, Calm and morosely swaying there By the perfumed and lucent sunset. Above, around, Away, like puffs of wind, The shadow murmured of itself In a faint back-song, and then, Again, Like fern leaves, it was gone! Oh, friend of mine, So brief its meeting, sad its truth, And full of pain and doubly sweet! Is it a dream of Meeting! Yes! though you kneel away From me you love, Here in the shadow by this rose, I can but love you, for a little while And sing your song. Since we must part, go on! Is that all? Our books, our classes, and all the travail That lengthens life's week into months; The newspaper dispute, the light that burns To trail the censors; each for himself, A restless obsession--to be free From all restraint, regulation, control, And no more knowing what to do or say! I would forget it all-- But could I do it? No! not without Deep scars and writhing pains, and selfish shame. O, my poor love! let it all go! Give me your hands, and I will kiss them. One little parting sign, my love, May teach us all. For, ah, there is much That one may keep, until the end. Bid me hold nothing from your sight Beyond this, and hold from heart and brain Clear as the day, and passionate as love: Else may the last dim traces slip, And, on the earth, we shall lose them not. I stood on Goteborg Bridge, looking down Over the harbor like a loving child: The lights and cries and voices I could leave To you, when you should come and know the rest. But in the distance I could hear the song Of the skerrygulls, and passing near and near, I could hear far-off cries of shore birds singing, And sounding bells; and faintly, like a sword Of shining wind, the song of waves could be heard. And then I thought: "It must be, my love, now We are here by the happy will of Heaven! And I remember life, long languished for, By your dear hands! For I have lived for you! Lived as a dying lion for your feet! Lived till my life could scantly use or know. Ah, could I die now for your dear love's sake!" The bells are ringing, and the minster star Gleams o'er me, but my weary soul is lost In the past; for whom should I for Heaven pray, But thee, where thou art never grieving now? And ever, as I walk alone, regretting The changes of our life, my soul forgets The future which is not; till suddenly A voice interposes-- Dear eyes, that shining with a mastery Filled with immortal light, Bright as the first bold star in morning's sky, Or midnight's star that guides the hapless man On life's doubtful path; Through all thy glory let my spirit find One abiding trust; Still let my dreaming blush to greater things Than even thine eyes can dream! For I have known and loved thee; For I have sung thy song; For I have drunk thy wine of joy In every shining cloud; For every tenderness that made thee The haven and the bliss Wherein my soul did dwell Have I have loved thee; And I have hung thy flowers around me In every thought; And I have stirred them into life again To sigh with joy; And I have washed them again to bone To tread again with life Upon the soil of my heart; And I have washed away my tears And my heart's blood, And I have laid me down to die In thy childlike arms. Ah, dearest eyes, That through the visioned dome Of Eternity peer, What mad emotions revolv'd At my soul whilere, At the threshold of thine arms With wild delight! Oh, heart in heart divine, Love and laughter blending, Can it be true, That thou dost bind me here In love's dear chains? Yes, it can,--and I am thine In death as life! Oh, were it ever yet so rare That fettered lovers should reveal Each to each, And freedom for amends invoke For yonder bonds, Oh! who could deem it then, Were he not ruled by Fate That Love should break the sinewy link That even elbows loose The feet of heaven? Oh, heart in heart divine, Love and laughter combining, Can it be true, That thou dost bind me here In love's dear chains? Oh, no, it can not be true, That thou and Love wilt tarry For ever o'er my form; No, it is decreed as true, That thou and I must part! Oh, heart, heart, heart, Blithe to leave these arms of thine, Ah! never, never more I shall thee see! No, never, never! The thought is wild That he who has my heart should lose And grievous wrong thereby. Aha! he has not; for Heaven forbids That I should bond with Violence My brother's love; yet, still I feel, Love shall not let Love be conquered Till he shall feel the sorrier seed Of that which I have seen. Love holds his belt of death about my life, And I am girt with the sword of grief. I would forget That such a time should ever be; But haply Love may see it fit That I should face the menace plain Of one who lacks neither pride nor grace, And has my heart. I have hearken'd when all below me ring'd The dead bone melodious, and when forceps rang In piteous tenderest thrill, and gulls wheel'd In pale unmalicious gleam, And when below the road a deserted place Awaited the dweller, who at last came And lo! I saw him pale as death and worn; And in his hand a book he bore, that fall'n Seem'd paper, but was written BOOK. O drunken Youth, that thus with eyes of pride Would rise and fling a look of fear! Upon thy swollen cheek the air has drank That color, youth, which may not return; And the deep eye-brow, by which the tear is made, Is foul with a superfluity. Behold this friendly smile for a token, Thou hast no power ope my smiling heart! The vision when the face hath passed away, And the gaunt lips by Arno's marge Droop in the hollow of the heart, And the dry lips quiver on the lid, And the mouth that smiles so at thee, I wis, Would envy thy pale grim grinning visage! And that hearty laugh, still piercing loud, Would turn to a shuddering laugh-shock <|endoftext|> But, as he breathed and wooed me, a change Came o'er my spirit, and, with a start, I saw How that he loved me! How the man not thought In such a thought the soul would melt and break. As I turned to go into the rose-wreathed bower, He held me. No word was spoken: we stood As lovers long beloved, face to face, One in our very innocence, one; In sooth, the boy's all modesty, you see! And the pride of the maid's love is her pride, But the woman's all blush and flushes. We stood Face to face, as two sisters hand in hand, Eyes met eyes, and mute I waited for his kiss; When it fell suddenly upon my ear: Oh, silent night! Oh, silence and the rose-bowers! He had fallen on his elbow: his round arm Stretched across his shoulder, and he pressed me Close to his side as if afraid that I Might leap up and escape: his face was bared To the bearded cheek-bone, and he bit his lips Till they bled; and there was blood-lust thick on his look. I have known men in the crowded city places Who were good people, devoted to God, And yet were foolish, though they could not judge That others' religion infringed their own; And I have known rich men who were proud and vain Beyond the common man, and yet were poor, And yet were simple and innocent; and I Knew men who were mad or drunk or guilty, But never did harm to another soul. So it was with this dear, gloried man: He made my fancy at the last depart For ever from his person, and I rose, And I looked into his face as far As from the rest, and then I turned away, And with a sigh I said, "Alas! My friend, We must part: what is that thing which you hold, Which loves to move your face and hands to move?" "Oh, that!" he answered. "It is my Mantel le Brate." He took it from his belt and kissed me where The silver ornament gleamed on my lips, Then he turned to where his arm was clasped, And he held it awhile--for all at once I saw his thoughts upon his face move; And as I turned I heard him say to me, "You are the lady-love of this very night! You will find him at the mill-wheel at morn. So, adieu! A thousand greetings of love From you I'll send to your cold, unmarked ear!" Then he spoke low, as though some footstep fell, "And be beware! For one thing, beware: I've a ring of steel upon the handle!" Oh! 'tis an ancient legend--it may be A Frenchman of our Belle Vue worshipped the moon Because it looked upon the grass and trees, And, whenever that being had an hour to kill, He clasped it round and kissed it, and hung it up. There being an eclipse that year, the boy Himself rolled in his bed and covered up, But when he looked, his lover was safe and sound, And from that night he turned a bitterer man. I come to fill your cup and bump your hand, And ye shall see the duke, the clown, and me. The gown that yonder wears, were it but new, Would be a dainty lining for my shirt; The watch that glances at its hands, would make A very sweet ivory knob in mine; And the ring that, from its binding, shows Just how good, indeed, my man may be. This French dandy does give me big cause To think and question, "Is wifely duty" A thing at all in wife or maid?" A ship that capsizes and a lighthouse that steers, A house that sinks and ten pinholes in the air, A couple in prison and a butcher in the block, Ten men on a sinking steamer and only one alive-- This is a true story, my dear. I have heard that many a time A sailor's life is in the line While face to face with error he stands, Yet seeks with half a wry mouth And pursed lips of spare deception To mask his blank despair. They lie alone in bed That never more shall tarry; They never more shall tarry But for the boon of sleep that follows The sinking of the sea. Singing alone in bed That never more shall tarry, They woo each passing minute With half a smile that baffles Its meaning half as deep. Oh! they will never now tarry But for the boon of sleep that follows The sinking of the sea. Passionate passion is spent, And spurned pleasure lies With snow-white wings above, And planets glinting at rest, Beneath the stars of May. Passionate passion is spent In sighs that never will be For ever wonted, late, To rise and trail their trailing white Past all one's best expectations; And passion has won, for the sake Of one that chanced her days In brighter spaces flying, A better tomorrow Than time or space could bring. I cannot say if love were A thing that dwells in me, Or merely comes and goes; I do not know how one With another's mind might mingle Feeling and striving. Perhaps at one time, I said, It moved in me. A little, And then a little more, Till its mysterious sway Was center of my being, And all my thoughts were spun From this transmuting fact. A little something something beyond, Which there depicted seem'd to be Relating to a man's world, Had drawn me, as it seem'd, All from all worlds and things apart, And made me one in aye. A little something something that never Had of its own the power to be Was all in me, and spin the same Times the same with all the rest, And brought to me from all those years And places all around the earth All men and women I had seen. So while the little something standing, And swaying to and fro, Was never mov'd at all to tears, I wept a little--then I fell. And when it cease I never wept, And can I ever say I felt More pity for the piteous dead Than when I met those eyes of mine. Dear are the serenades Which, in the moonlight clear, With subdued accents, sweet and low, A cadence weave; And all the bright, grey world Is full of sweeter songs. Dear are the feet that dance In glee's hintling measures; Light is the foot that sweeps An ocean chime. A breath of Love is there At movement's farthest reaches. But dearer far, when night With misty fingers weaves The web of days that lie In shadowy morrows, there With heart's new gladness beams The Soul's eternal web. Oh, when the moon is overhead All beauty that God hath given, And hearts are low and tender, Oh, comes the lightness of the moon Into that darkness there. And then the moon, that lightens here, When night is here alone, Sends out her sweetest, tenderest smile O'er life's most lonely hours. The grove, the forest, with dead leaves strown, We see no more; only a heap Of dust lies lonely where the flowers That dreamed of spring are laid to sleep, Where summer rains have begun to fall. And still the world of storms, that seems Like some vast wreck of lovely dreams, Has left upon this heap of clay A melancholy grace. O wild and wintry world, beyond All human ken, thy winds and gleams Have left a beauty that will last! How beautiful is Nature's scheme, How fair in death those silent hills! There is no frost in the mossy fiord, Where once we wandered by the smiling down Of a rivulet that led to shore; But every moss-green birch is shivered here, And every beechen texture hollowed and scarred. The leaves that wave against the wintry sky Have all now vanished, they have flown apart; And we only see the overtoe, now, In pictures, and among sculpture, worn, And in the imagination they were. For here at the winter edge the high And lone spires of Fairmount, alway Are shivered, and the marble terraces, And shrines of the Good, restored to silence. For here the Hope, the Dream, of the ages, Has risen in man's pure expression high. O Faith in the good, O Hope in the dreams <|endoftext|> Lingering at last at great Alp, where over forty thousand mares In crowded stalls and in majestic array, To-heigh ho! there came the bold Sir Galahad to strike him dead Over those giant shoulders thrust in stony array, As fiercely grasped the lofty arms and determined foe. So a mind which scorns may grasp its enemy's weapon, Striving in vain the stubborn point to meet and conquer; But a mind subdued by hero-poetry must yield And melting into sweet song with base-borne rhyme, Yet not the mean-born son of earth can bear it, For gods and heroes worship in the singing air. How blest is he who, queen of earth and star of song, Through all the busy tumult of his bustling days, Doth wear and limb himself a crown of peace, And bathes in His all-embracing grace. Nought can molest him save that soul-stinging roar That from the torturing lips of folk insulted of yore. And he who walks with God by instinct alone, Allured by naught of craft or foe plotting, When to him strikes maid or mate or cradle-brethren As out of place and accursed before him rose, He also might have been stricken with madness wild; But for his sinning was saved of God the merciful. There is a Magic on Romance, that seems to have Entered with the seas the magic of its coomb-swelling; And in the ring of it now we have an Immortal, Still to be expanded as more and more man slumbers And takes in his slumbers a wider magic-power; But, woe betide him! he has left the Rock of Ages For other foes and other allurements and new lays. O Magic of the seas! before me still your waves Breathe back your lost enchantment, unafraid Of new conquerors, that wake a World to-day; But while your billows sing your enchanted lays Till each carols as it were a-march to some feast, Hence let me take and pipe my enchantment in: Alone of all ye are not worthy to possess Your shattered story, but be enchanted of me. Ye sages of Alcinous, were ye in the days Of our fathers with your lore so mightily prized, Of Ismarus and the ships of Mysia great, Or of Ismarus the whiting, when from sail Down fled the foe, and backward, backward they drove Thestrear, this way and that way shifting shore Roving the sea, till all their godly wand could e'er Get freely home and settle to its full delight Of remote starry eaves and unknown honeycombs. O youth of Phrygian land, most fruitful was thy word And true, most perfectly of time and place; Then came not on us such sorcery in song, Nor such mystery of love as now must ever Embody the spirit of our mortal days. They that love think not magic of the song, the thought; But those that drink not of the wine of Love know not The magic wine's secret, are not of the wine. Many a man I knew that loved most wondrous art, Yet knew not whence the secret of his bliss: Some had heard the riddle shining on the wall And cleared it by a logical solution; But of the solution they the riddle told, Nor the full truth one scrap were willing to keep. I will not name the land; but ye men of Rome, Ye that before your Appian Way's high following Have nummed the domes and the bays with horse-flesh Too dark to value or tollerable worth, I would have choice of all cures for love diseased If Love were disease. Go after Micon; if the statues break his craft, Warn him that riddles must always be unspotted, Then cut off his wings with ease if yet he fly; But if he be the god, not mortal to outride The stings of disillusion and its twin anesthesia, Then drive him back, or the gods, with what is mightiest To stamp the image of the absent on the mind As unto the Earth, wherefrom all images spring. But, heart, how should I tell thee, but that from thee The empire of the buried things and the dead Alike is gone, and thou art fain to leave Thy memory, and goest among the rest, And riddles arise, and music and the breath Of flowers, whose music thou art quitted of days. Nay, God be with you! and thou, O Music, with thee O lordly Mind, that lordliest of all divinities, Amidst this ruin and this sleeper's trance Of vacant eyes and laughing lips and mellow breath, Art milder yet, O Love, and do not make them vain; But take and keep them and renew them from year to year. After all, she waneth in her thornless ways As in a dream; or like one that looks in vain Upon the sun, whose light is past after sight, Leaves her forlorn, and knows not any more If it be summer or winter any more. Her violet eyes are wet with dew-drenched rain, Her lips wax wetter, and her heart waxes sore For him she feareth not, and her forehead greener With secrets hidden. Sickness hath not quenched her smile, But sickness makes her grieve With grief that must not be expressed, That must be slaked By tears she doth not take; They fall like rain, But she slakes not. It may be Joy has done this, But he hath gone away, And she hath nought to say. Oh, this was night of plenty, When all the world was gay In merry April's bower; When rain and sun went hand in hand And sun was bright and rain was cold, And the buds on the milk-white haw Were filled to bursting with delight. There was naught to do or to see; The roll of cart or the stirring swine Did keep us all awake; The whistling wind and the bustling bee Possessed us with pleasant sham here; And we did sing, to please our ear, The chanticleer's psalm: But now the leaves are all aflame, The cows' and horses' bells are ringing Their merriment for all to hear, The rain is over and the sun is dying, And with the night the brown leaves fall; The birds, unwilling, join their moan To that of our wrongs or rejoicings; The very shadows are troubled. Shapes, that among the brushwood Ne'er called us homeward, Now show their face before our faces, They whisper us to speak: In some a word, in some a smile, At ease in some a sigh; Like shadows in a brook, They stand and whisper us to speak. Shapes without voices, Grim things without teeth, With eyes like sparks of fire That glare upon the conscious, That are not brotherly-- Shapes that stand and gibber When speak becomes a mask. Shapes that take up our souls Like water through a pine-wood That never knows the green: Shapes that, like strong blasts, Bring with them dim mists of doubt And blackened thorns of unhappiness. Now all the world is fast asleep With stiff, unsoftened sides, While mother-hands, in sleep's weak chain, Bend down the yellow oats; And while the cabbage heads slackly bend Like bended sorbents low, And nestlings like large gems on the wall Glisten like great lights on a dream, We walk along, keeping time, And counting each laid egg. Two little birds sat on a stone To sing, and they talked of heaven, With eyes a-feed-them-too: "When will it be, my mother, When we shall go away? When will it be, my mother, When I shall fly away?" The little birds sat down again, As quick as eagles they, But they did not sing so very well With no chicken to croon. "When will it be, my mother, When we shall go away? When will it be, my mother, When I shall fly away?" And then one said, "I don't know, But I think of a golden tree Where little babies grow, And down we'll go, down we will go Till never one of us is tired, Till we reach heaven's gate, And go over that bright blue river, And don't drop, and don't faint, And baby chickenlings sing A song they never forgot." But the other said, "I don't know Why little birds should fly, And at God's bright blue river It might be, my mother, That we never would return." <|endoftext|> Divinely, in my heart; And I love my life with a love deep and free As no prisoned bird can long endure. I am burning to tell you all my mood Because I feel I cannot stay; My dear old heart throbs suddenly, I know not how to ward its smart. My tears are falling fast, They are springing up so fast That they must dry ere you know it. You that are far away, Far away, Never will be glad again for me Since I have given you your heart. My heart has turned to stone, Love can never bring it full Again. Once, when I was full of joy Beloved, I kissed your breast, Kissed you with passionate kiss, Beloved, and it was not right. I felt a burning rage, A burning rage to know You did not love me. Once, when I was fearful place, Dreadful to fly or run, Kissed your throat, dread disgusting place, Piteous, spastic, sickening, sweet. With trembling lips, I hoped you would not know, Lingering, loving so, I hoped you would not know. Now, when I am desperate place, Sorrowful, shaking, pale, Kiss your throat, let me die with thirst; Ah me, I am consumed with thirst; Ah me, my heart is dry. There is no atmosphere Nor downward sound of wave Nor river going to stream. Because my love is home, Where I am loved and known, Your beautiful name is sweet In my heart of hearts, my dear. It is strange you should be So vile, so evil, sad, To my heart of hearts. My beautiful home, whose evening star Is falling ever beautiful, That I might sweetly sing to you Even while I am fearing, doubting; Even while my brave brave breast Under the stroke of sorrow cries: "I have loved you with a love worth all, Ah! When I am passing, dying, dying, I will shut my eyes against The night that is dark to you, dark. But if they open let them see How dumb I am, and dead." I have found a nest That is softer than a leaf And stronger than a tree, A resting place for dove, And bird-begotten, ever nigh A tearful near-connected eye. Sheltered warm and dry From north wind and efery slur Of sea wind wild and untame, But steady as God's own compass And lost in nature's ways, A dome of domes, I hear the piping voice Of many murmuring waters, Of dazed suns and sun-enjoying, Of earth in birth and change, Of heaven in inevitable motion. I know you, above, With undecipherable speech; I know you, below, And all your mysteries Between your walls of sound My lips have found no way. There is a prayer Sung by the starry choir, There is a song Rippled through space, It is my nature To know the chant. Beloved, you have held me Amid life's harshness And smiled and let me play; No storm was present And I was only The heartbeat within your heart. We know each other so long We hardly remember The faces, the hearts And all the longings of youth. Your golden hair, Blue orbs beyond speech, Your soul's calm and busy unfolding, My love, I've studied architecture; I've made plans and drawn plans And all are as infirm As the soulless stone That feeds the giant earth mill. I was a child, And you were a child, When first we touched each other; And I am a man Now, you are a woman. I knew you once When you were a child And a woman too; And all my childish dreams Of architecture and song Come true at last. Though I have never built Nor thought nor dreamed nor dreamed; Though all my fancy feels Only unnatural fear, You have given me, to-night, A tender and exultant vision. You were a child And I a man; And all my childish dreams Of architecture and song Are come true at last. At last, at last We stand together, hand in hand, Hand upon breast and face, Hand where the music grows still, Hand where the shadows flee, Hand of infinity. O beauty as ancient as the hills Hear we the voices of the gods, The singing of the fays, The laughter of the bubbling streams; We will renew the splendour of old, Renew the flame of Praise. For we will fill the spaces where the gods have been; Take the forms of old immortals; We will stand on idles of the vallies, Upon the shoulders of the peak, We will stand where lochs and rocks are fretting, Where the cottage-browets are climbing. And all the fields and all the meadows We will amble through, While never a sentinel Lifts the latch or fetches the latch; And we will enter in and out and about The shadowy of the fell; Or alleys we will roam through, Where, through the hedge's arched arch, Ranks the bluebell tinkling; Or throw ourselves in little tumblers Through the trodden places, Where the way goes wild and the gate Lingers, little changed from old. The Thames we will chat on, Until we move with it; For we have travelled many a mile, And many a mile to go; And now, the fords we must pass, The churning river's channel, Until we reel, too, with it, Rocked round with dreams and with thoughts. Once more we will strike up, At evening, in the shack beside the brook, And light the match, Flit limping back to camp, With the night's denizen For guest in our mess that night. We will sup together, On the haggard banks of the river; And whatever is done, Of our jaunt that night, We'll be merry together, And never whisper together, Never break in upon each other, Never together murmur. I will whistle to you, girls, A little song I learnt In a land of endless spring: There are yellow leaves on every tree, And breezes in the sun, And sunshine on the brooklet, And melodies in the streams. The sweet brown partridge screams in the breakers, Shouting his hedgercairn frae the brae; He marks the gilded bauble on the dam, And the gowan frae the lap of the brae; And the spavined linnet in the alder brae, Sees his flame-haired Mary. The redbreast hot frae the clashing dame, Flaps sad Bavards to the breeze; He sings to the lass o' Lemslie-fare, Fair o'er the ferns at e'ening bleeking; His merry self on the milk-white mare, Blythe at sluicing. The blackbird hot frae the slipper claver, Sings pouches of sick to the stroke; He sleeps at rest by the mill-dam, Lamps hidden in the whey-white gybes; And the blackbird at his partner's breast, Sings as gay in the spring. The redbreast hot frae the rapids, Far frae the brae o' juniper, Sings blue bells o'er the ither's brier, "Cauld winter ither; You're as wested awa, ye savage! Ye know na, nane, ane, anither!" He sings to the lass o' Lemslie-fare, Sae sweet and saucy while it snaws; And a' his pleasure and content, Hath been to watch o' the milkmaid's lane. Nae ship could be sae cauld and stark, And gang out o' the milkmaid's milk, As it is now sune a' day. The blackbird hot frae the hot bracken, Far frae the bank o' the brae, Sings green bells o' the blossom-trees, "The bugham is bonny, you beastie, A bonnier auld man ne'er ran. I winna ba' them aire, you shaft! But ither than myself. "I dance the flamingos willows, The red canary dives, The kittiwake croaches, the crested parakeets, The throstles drapes; <|endoftext|> he can hear my soul. I want to say to you how you look at the mountains in the moonlight in your sopping jean and oxblood shirt, pondering deeply and often yet not entirely knowing to what you're drawing the landscapes of ancient dreaming. <|endoftext|> "Rehab", by Cathy Park Hong When I awake from a long spell of sleep, water the plants, gather the morning dirt, I'm giddy and frightened. I'm suddenly aware of every little sound outside becoming more mean, as if the door behind me is opening. I'm suddenly aware of my high heels, grinding the polished floor. And when my eyes open, looking through the peephole, there she is, her face disfigured, holding a toddler in her arms. I sit there, not surprised, and watch for a while. But my heart sags—what can she be thinking?— as I watch, my own heart grunting, as if it were a few legs down the block and she needed a hug. <|endoftext|> "National Cherry Day", by Wei Houn Sieh National Cherry Day the air thick with the scent of the blossoms a ritual, not a day the buds inside each bud are held together in endless memory it's that they remember the day they blossomed their faces still hunched in anticipation the days of their green fingers coming to give thanks the bells across the country ringing the faithful still waiting to be freed from the bonsai trees which held them all these years <|endoftext|> "Day and Night in Nanking", by Wei Houn Sieh [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Day and night in Nanking thick smog blanketing the city thousands died from breathing cheeringly referring to the Sino-Japanese War as early dawn broke showing only fog shadows of streets already clearing dead internees who went mad with longing trying to get to Japan already clearing grieving feverishly every minute one must have lived through such hell early morning as feng shui swept across the square gathering into groups discussing whether the dark earth smudges looked apocalyptic whether napping in this posture turns one into a savage some still tried to ignore the danger not realizing they had only hours until the city they knew would all be ashes <|endoftext|> "The Year of Transtrarium", by Sharon Olds [Nature, Fall, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Buddhism, Easter] Gloomy autumn weather in Sept., the crackling brush fires of late summer, the mottled leaves inside rotten stalks, pale meadows in late winter, a final rush of rivulets on hillsides, and now this: transtrariums. So like summer and autumn together, they are. But they're not. They're three times a year three hundred and eighty-four for a span of three thousand and three, coming on so fast it doesn't seem, suddenly, that any ground at all was ever level. That everything is curved. <|endoftext|> "Glossary of Names", by Kathleen Jamie [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Alice (first person singular): A named person or thing Alice (plural): A named tribe of people, usually rural Bobbing (ablative): Obtaining an identity by belonging to a particular sexual group Bunnyhug: A bondage style in which a female subject forcibly hugs an anthropomorphic animal, typically a child or animal Carnivore: An animal that eats meat Child star (a): A child who has attained celebrity Christmas without Christ: An Americanized version of the customs and practices of Eastern Europe Christmas in the western world: An Americanized version of the customs and practices of the United Kingdom Chimerical (biliterational): Organized by birth, rather than time, instead of allegiance Classical music: Music created and performed during the time period known as Classical Europe Clean (in spirit): Fit into society according to one's capacity Cooperative movement: The system of self-help and community action known as anarchism Cortège: A traditional French dance Croissant: A croissant is a kind of shortbread Darkness (agony): The shadow produced when darkness is placed within the center of a new light source Dead baby: The body of a dead baby found outside its grave Dieu, c'est la guerre: A man's first name and a word indicating devotion Déjeuner à bell ét interidait: A Frenchman treated as an outsider Divine environment: An environment that is divine Do-si-do-dous: An expression meaning madam or ma femme Drinking a glass of wine: Drinking a glass of wine, followed by the words "as near as possible" English: The language of English lawyers False vowels: Vowels that are sounded but do not mean anything Fiddler's chapeau: A revealing brooch or a costume suitable for a gentleman Flying kites: Gyroscopically charged aerial weapons systems Forbidden fruit: A poem in Greek France (the language of): A country French television: A government-subsidized private system French horizon: A large, empty area Fountain pen (notebooks): A device invented by and for the underprivileged Fumaric: A writer or a state of being that performs dreams and hallucinations Friday (habit): A day of absence or absence (feeling) Frosh dream: A dream of being a boy Full moon: An idealized conception of the full moon Galant: A gallant deed Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire: A fantasy series written in a fantasy universe, but based on an unaltered history Girlie: A juvenile name for a woman Get well soon, darling: Deprecate illness Get well, chump: Deprecate illness Get well, yours truly: Deprecate illness Girl, you better: Exclamation of surprise, usually accompanied by exclamation marks Ghetto: A term that describes a milieu of inferiority Give it up: Stop talking Give up the bag: Quit Ghetto (part): The part of the ghetto in which one was born Glasses: Tables that people sit at Go to Hell: Deprecate illness Go to Nowhere: Deprecate illness Good day: Deprecate illness Good afternoon: Good afternoon Good night: Deprecate illness Good wise fellow: To humbly accept one's condition Grandma: The opposite of a bitch Green (form): An ideal of beauty Grilled: Pronounced with the back of the hand Grammar, Grammar, grammar: The art or science of language Greeting: A cue or signal Hand: The male genitals Happy hour: A private meeting between two individuals Hard hat: A term of endearment Hair: An ornamentation of the hair Hard-on: A term of endearment for a penis Harry Dick: A person with whom one might easily engage in casual conversation Headset: A restraining device designed to protect the genitals He's got (the) nuts (to) hold: To admit one's vulnerability He's hitting on me: To admit one's vulnerability He's groveling: To admit vulnerability High-five: A salute Hook (me): To steal or usurp the voice I've seen those eyes before: To experience fear I want (what) in my sight: What I want Indication: To convey the sense of requesting I've seen those eyes before: To experience fear Intent (to): To permit optional activity It's hard to make out: To make an adequate verbal response It was (is) that (that) (thing): A term of endearment James (Caitlyn): An employee of the DC public schools Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice: A popular novels of the mid-nineteenth century Jessie: A gender neutral term for baby Jet: To receive sexual pleasure Jump (sit): To experience sexual pleasure Jump up (lie): To remain sexual calm Jump up (lie down): To remain sexual calm Jump, just for fun: To do something for fun Jump, jump (someone): To compete in an event for fun Juicy: Term of endearment for fruits and vegetables K (side) ko (back): To remove sexual comfort Kinky: Term of endearment for the genitals Knot (knot): To weave verbal or non-verbal connections Kitchen (kitchen) escapees: Persons who have made a successful escape from a kitchen Knot (knot) on (knot): To identify with a character or idea by wearing a fashion style identical to that of that character or idea Knot (knot) in (kitchen) teeth: To cause pain to that person or to ensure that person pain Know the (act): Know that (act) Know (know) / Know one up close: To face (face) an entity up close <|endoftext|> More precious and more rare the shop-window…I wish She'd come now, for the wind was stout the last I felt and I'm dreadfully cold. <|endoftext|> "To a Broken Man", by Thomas Hardy [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Weather, Winter, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Often we go out to 'ounds when all at once we go down,Down into the earth we once lived in.Those days are still; we haven't mixed with the wicked brigade Who are gathering for the war.We haven't changed. We're just as bad as we wereThen, and quite possibly much worse;And they've grown wiser. They're no longer youth,But sin, with its know-nothings.Before this modern wildernessWe were not so different from the multitudeOf vagrants who, by day and night,Chose from the last reserve of breadBread which they hated to eatIn the warm nest of the host. We knewThe scent of the bouquet by the door;And we picked the brains of the family flower,As they went to seed. The family graveWas no more to be distinguishedFrom the grass that grew there thanWe from the common grass. We were not knownAs we were. We never were seen.Now we're everywhere. We are the guestsYou never invited, but you keep invitingJust as if we were the trespassers.You're sorry now; you can't imagineHow we could be so uninvited.Your apologies multiply,And multiply and multiply. Out you go,Sorto, to your kindred spirits,The stoners and the pimps and the dealersIn the glories of August; and we,Quit being surprised and out again,Return to the hard world, to the trailAnd to the honest blunderThat made us sober; and the trailPasses before us like the corpse.One thing we are certain of, that inThe coming days each will regretHaving brought us into the world,For we have made the wild world beautifulAnd the works of folly glorious,And we have thrown out the golden babesWho would have been kings. <|endoftext|> "Moonlight: Canto 1", by Ezra Pound [Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Farewells & Good Luck, Valentine's Day] Canto 1 I Made a distracted attempt to weepTo-night. My heart is broke. This frosty airIs barren and boring. I do not careTo live. But do not laugh,For I shall not be laughing long.Love lies in bed thirsty and sickAnd I have placed him there. YetI think it is good that he sleep alone.I have heard of beds of soul and something like them,Where there is neither sound of footNor any man anywhere near his head.I have heard that they are rare. I do not want one.Yet I should like to be held by somethingAfter I am dead, after I am gone.That would be good, I think. I would not be held by you.I am not in the least your enemy.Yet I did make a mad, mad attemptTo kill you. I do not do that kind of thingPlainly. The attempt was feeble at best.Yet all my anger gets tepidAnd sags toward possibility each day.Duty and duty both unbiddenBut both too mild and both too nearAt times to help me one whit.I am chilled by everyone I meet.This shop is dead cold. It is bitterly cold.The clerk is dead, with his black stocking capAnd his yellow hair. He wears no hatAnd, though the counter is quiet now,There is a space warm for only one,Nor any space for two. And I knowThat he has come here to watch and waitFor you. The fire burns white. We shall not see each other moreUntil you come. And then we will not speak. And I will wait besideThis pile that does not feel like home to me.I will not fear for you, nor will I boast. I am likeThat yellow lechen, crooked and scaly,That creeps under stone in the black pitWhere the burrowers sleep. I shall not consoleYou. I shall not protect you. I shallNot even pretend to be what I might be.I shall not flinch if you go. I shallNot avert my face if you turn. I shallNot leave you with your fire unlit. Do you see How it glows? Do you see how it glows? And this is not mine. This is not mine. Do you see? Not mine. This is not mine. This is not mine.This is a poor place to dwell in if indeedIt is not mine. Yet I shall not quench it even if I could.I shall watch it from the white stove window and the black pot on the hob.I shall not be scared by it. I shall not be touching it with my hands. I shall not be hugging it and climbing on it and kissing it and trying to be it if I could.I shall stand where I was standing when it all began. And this is mine. This is mine. This is mine. <|endoftext|> "Sympathy", by George Oppen My mother I did not love her. I could not believe her all my life. Why did I love her? I cannot believe her all my life. I stood in my mother's bedroom some days and others I slept there. She breathed in that bedroom. She lived in that bedroom. And she would not be that anymore. <|endoftext|> "The Lullaby of Charles I", by John Fuller [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism] Walking through the Tartanic moods, with Hell be going, I know that the worst has happened, that now I am safe. For now you cannot say that I am a foreigner on this earth or that my language is not English or that no one will speak to me in English any more. Now you smile, and say nothing in English to a native of this earth. Now you sing in English and tell me to sleep in English. And so we will sing and smile and walk through the lullaby together. I know that you are somewhere safe too, that you have not signed away your soul to a despot, that you are not dead, and that soon you will be alive again. The tyrant is dead and it is late but the lullaby has not yet been written, and we still have much of lullaby to do. I knew that your mother was beautiful. I had seen her every day for two years. Her carters brought me too. Every night they brought you too and other boys. You would stand at your window looking out and I would dance on the sofa watching you. I knew you were to be fed and tended to and tended. I knew that your mother had money and would send gifts home to your new family. I knew that you would be used and lied to and tricked into many mistakes. I knew how fast the tyrant went about his wicked work. But I did not say these things to your indifferent eyes. I said them in flashes to the flickering images in your confused eyes. I said them as one says the wild swan's story to a dead bird. My lips said it over and over to your amazed eyes. I said it softly and I said it low. I said it still to this day to your blank eyes. I would dance close to your desk and pat you the way a mother would her baby. I would sing to you your multiplication pages. I would know all the books in the world by their binding. I would know the colors of all the books. I would know what you could say and what you could not say. I would dance on the sofa to the sound of your silence. Then I would dance away. And I am sorry. I am sorry. I would dance to the sound of you talking on the telephone. Or in meetings. Or walking in the street. Or riding the elevator. Or driving. I would dance for you in crowded places. I would dance to the sound of an audience. Or the rhythm of a reading. Or to the sound of someone murmuring to themselves. I would know the symptoms of disinterest. I would know the placement of subtitles. I would know the difference between excitement and applause. I would know the meaning of blindness and of blindness in action. I would know the story of anyone wearing dark glasses. Or anyone who drives a taxi. I would know the name of the dog in any picture book. I would know the answer to all questions. I would know how long it is now since anyone died. And I would dance. <|endoftext|> "The Long Goodbye", by John Updike [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries] The man was a hunter, and the woman, a hunted. We sat together in a field long ago, when we were strangers, and did not speak. The woman's nails rubbed on the wound. <|endoftext|> Of master or of flocks Grown lean from thriftless savings. She from her double end Puts the stocking under, Bakes and sells little heaps To sustain the household, Takes her share of burdens When the Master goes. But let her linger At home, shut out from All that is good and fair, Yearly into the sunlight Devours her Till she, like the cuckoo Condemned to lick the damp, Drops into drowsy slumbers Where she does not do good. The housemaid makes no demands When there is food in kitchen, While the little boy at play Lays a million leagues away. Food and game and toy remain Unchewed and unmanaged, Meanwhile the wind of trouble Ridges and scatters harm. If you say 'Ting-a-ling,' Gold and silver and teeth go begging, Would you eat them or lose them? But if you say 'Ching-chong,' Diamonds for teeth and cash, Paying with yourself A fee for the job. Shopping for my husband, I paid a comely price; Twelve umbrellas For a nineteen. Looking at such a face, One hardly knows What he thinks of her, Where she comes from. Who will care what he thinks, As long as she takes? Such a face would never Poke the secret out. If I had a dollar For every man I know Whose love is as strong As my master's, I'd see What I'd never see. I call to the ghosts of Christmas past That float mutely down the Christmas stream,-- The good old ghosts, the lost good old times, When cradle, wood, and gold, And mothers were more than mothers are; When slumber, sleep, And birth, birth, Were three days in the week, And angels listened as we prayed; When the Christ-child slept To be born, Where He was born, With great people About Him blown From nations far away;-- I call to these dead things The dead of long ago, The shadows of another birth, To quicken and bless and keep me, In hours of labor, rest and play; With gleams Of fancy, In which I seem to name The very fashion of my pains, I call these sleeping things The dead of old time, I call the living spirit of me My husband, my comrade, my brother, My serving-man and my friend, My all in all, My fate, my fate; The one thing that I call Of all the things I call. I call the spirit of work To hurry my little dreams; I call the wisdom of doing The golden clouds that hover; I call the hands to labor As brown as gold and good as good; I call the bread to rise As slowly as I can; I call the child to heed The little voices of the Lord, And call His coming The best rest of labor yet; And call the poor Who patiently wait in the ditches For the relief of suffering, And call them members of the Church By that which the Church unites; Call the sick to do her part In helping me to do my part; I call, in short, The dead and living To speed me through the Christmas year, And speed me, all, through life, In faith and hope and charity; And call this the crown of all (Though in my sight It isn't the fruit but the flowers). I'll cut you a note of this,-- The best I have to give: Be thankful, have no fear, And as you live take more. This solemn, "By as you live" Will live with you in my heart; My poor old heart will break To think how many years We've been friends and foes, Since George and I were dead; But here's this nice little memory To make us two one, And to make you wonder Which is the living one. The dead and living friends, A row of graves is made; And your grave, and mine, I think, Yet shall be soon reconciled; I'll come to you and you to me, We two will live again; Our grave is green and ours is red, And, till we come again, Rest well assured We shall be praying For friends that are no more. My flowers are not the flowers of Spring, Nor have I the secret of Summer's charm; And Autumn's leaves no timely breath can throw, Like sunshine on my brow of wintry weather; But Autumn's crowds, in starry rows, Sit warding in the leafless dark of Winter. In grimy ward and lodging house low, Stands in the city's sleep the lord of wide domain; But when the beckoning sun has circulated Through the slumber of the night and day, Sudden an awful cry shall ring, And, hark! from high housetops overhead The jocund voice of living flame! Borne on the breath of Mountain Waves In tempest and on the wings of Air, Rains lap-sounding from his wings above, Falling on each overwhelmed tower; And with song and light the conquering sun Shines on the faces of the loving ones. Hushed are all the drones in ceaseless spin, All the Caspian powers that die in May; And in a vision of thrilled hearths, On an May morning all the flowers unfold New meanings of their nymph-like grace; Till the fugitive Elf-land, nocturnal, Drinks deep again the May-dew with blood! But oft before these elf-born Ones, Crowned with honey, have theirs ended, And the Elf-gods bring to each his Own May-philosophy of love, By the fire's bright serpents' light shrouded, They are caught by magic syllables, Whereat they call the Elf-breath back. Where the long vine rushes down the rock, Folded in many a fronded bough, Roses and wild-thyme obscure the air; Where the rambling ox-heads slowly float From the purple pampas to the sea, Smoke from their wagons' damp dim piles O'er the fringing edge of the grey-grown plain; Over the brake and over the plain, Down the bank and up the rise, Towards the west the torrents bear Their heavy gold and crimson dye; The roses of May-time appear Drenched with dewy light, and kissed with air; And the wild thyme and the rue are there, And the light mint and many a greater. Above, the heavy flapping of wing Splits the shuddering night in sunder, And the broad sun looks down with a smile On the earth whereon he is set; And the sails of the weather-cock, Nereid-broidered crimson at each sail, Glide fannishly through the golden haze. Fannishly foams the weather-cock O'er the green lapping of the sea; And the flower-soft bells of pines Tink softly to the winds above; And o'er the green waters float Dinghy and skiff, and light craft adrift From the harbors of the world or bight; And the light waves of the rivers Can then be seen like fish that leap To the air, and flashing darted by, While their silver crests splash again To and fro, and wander 'twixt their banks. And the land-winds in the east are keen To slay the foeman, if he venture near Their havens; and the signs are clear To foreign ships that think to anchor here. And many a dainty dame to freshen Her snowy bosom, from the turfed beach, Flashes white and glories, cutting the light. The beasts that plunge and hide in the deep Are out now, seeking the unknown light, Eagerness making them stately and bold As at the start for a race, where to come in Is to take the mouth, to set the mouth, and bee How the race proceeds, till 'twere best to shroud. All things that are the heralds are Homeward to their appointed fields, by night, Or by day; the vessel never hides Hope of the winds that cheer to a chime; And storms, that overturn what was green At fore-head, hale the things to meet the sun, Blanched and ash-colored; but they're hollow, and stand There by their moorings, with a whitish weight, at rest, And there is never any one to help and cheer, And they come home by the means of sails and oars. But more than all, a sweet memory To make me forget the narrow place <|endoftext|> And once a rescue ship Far from this coast we saw, With water ne'er tasted since For three long years, even whilere It carried from this land Names of human doom, Names of men in faraway lands, Names with wide eyes, blank and dry, I loved them all the more, Because they were my father's, My mother's, and my kin. From childhood's morning light Until nightfall drenched the earth You would find me by his side, With lips a-flutter to catch his breath, Holding his hand for mine own, We then or now have been Nameless for five long years, How changed your five short years appear! I said, I cannot lose you now. And when his lips denied it, I rose,--and clasped them and heeded naught. They laid him gently down in his grave; The quiet damsel therewithal Besought the silent dead that they should rise, And come again to crowd her bier: For nevermore could sound life fill her cup, Nor sweet delight thy heart supply, Nor any movement of thy busy hand Be to thy spirit common as dew; Nought get thee to thy leafy home like tears, But barren solitude with longing dumb And I could set you free If you should call, Winging me sadly now, And when they laid you low They praised your noble soul That could love and pity pay For love that no one knew you by. <|endoftext|> A loose-jointed ell at the poking of whose intermitting foot was thrust a toad between the burning sides of a grey boulder. And on a star the night-owl piped a dolorous note with a quavering crack of sorrow, an echo of one long-past grief, one long-over remembered pang. The babbling trees and boulders all around were truer than speech, their confessions as tender as tear-fall. But in the sunny hollow that that ran down to the stream the bramble stood gathered, and with its mutual impulse to unite, she drew one morning toward the spot, that on that day no foot treads. That day she walked; and on that day she went; and never again touched from that path the stones she tottered over. She stayed where she was till the bramble-dripping springtide shone, and then padded heavily down the sandy slope, where the paths diverged, and till an afternoon of sunny days opened above the sunny hollow; and now the ell was pendant over the sunlit hollow. Herr Edith's bath and mill are still the same. Each window preserves its originally green-spotted sister with her hands in the embracement of the true plumb-line. For she has turned to baking blackening, and has seen the best in things fashioned in a flash. Firmly planted on either hand the field of pale stone lays out her panes of tinted lime-stone. Her mill is straight, and opens at the latitude of Breda, she in milling, he in glass-making. No longer he on looms and spinning feels a need to run, with yellow fugitive on his eyes. His mill and his looms are of one model, and have been so for a century. The in-turned face of his mill turns steadily away on the endless reel of her skylights. She always sits between her sisters of true plumb -line. And to show you her true relation to the year-round man- kind I shall take you. It is late, and her round face grave with sickness seems to me set in stone. She is shutting out light in her elbows, bringing black shadows to her shoulders, by Gabriel's grace. I put my hand on one of her hands, caressingly, and I feel her heat. The mill turns silently in her apron-strung arm. And as its spun silk slides from her fingers her two hands open like crossed opera singers' mouths. I and another friar--we in our revolt of nights, sleep where the mountain bears the overhead sun. We talk to the dark, and the long silence of the night, reading each the meanings of the sun as it strikes and scatters the mountain with cascades of water and gold. On the bridge-support the mill-bird is piping shrill, a shrieker not yet in the year. She is hushing her swallows in the orchard under her roofs and wiping her hands on her skirts. The swallows are flapping to wings of the new year. And I stir in my sleeping, waiting and expecting the year, and am still a life in preparation. It is now the time when spring has thrown its yellow shrouds over the steep hill, when all in the river from its source in the northeast carries the great fragrance of bud and bloom, when for the first time since God winked the beginning the green and gold buds burst from the branches and the blossoms are floating over the shoulders like the wings of small airborne feathered angels. In the cold of dawn I sat in my laboratory, where a narrow track went down to the river and I watched the gold bud shoot up like a shaft of light and go shooting down the clear slope among the grey oaks, and saw the brown birds glancing after it with small heads like blunt hard jewels. I was not pleased with the work. To-day I stand by my mirror looking back over the broad profile of man, the distance of his shoulder-blades askew like the brushstroke of a schoolboy's that has not yet learned the lesson of the shoulder. And the illusion of change as the moment of a quicken in the life of the individual and his longing for the centre of the self, how the shadow of the shoulder-blade still varies, how no more than the wing of a passing wing can change over the years, as the wings of a flying bird. Shoulder-blades for the brush? The clouds press down and over the mountain. Rickshaws wheeze in the street. The mill shuts down. And through my laboratory's narrow track I can hear a faint sound of laughter and singing, and it sounds as if there were but one chest in the world for you, yet the song, so slight, is of an unclear key, and when it has faded as the sound recedes I realize it was not a sound, but a thought, that the song was a traveller speaking a secret whose name is Silence, that the secret could not be uttered. Silence pursues his flight into the unknown while the Rambler of sounds pursues his, slowly down the violet road in the fading sunlight, a shadow with earrings. Where the hidden chest lies, the secret is heard faintly. The Farthest Shore by Alan R. Shapiro [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] When the moon has disappeared and only the waves' silver shadows linger, and only the song-thrush's thin insistent notes break faintly through the swells— silence then—then only the eelgrass's whirr and twang like a tuning fork through the silence— then only the octopus's twisted folds, so fragile even a whiff would break them— then only the way a razor slices through this silence, this whirring and gathering assent of the insensate quantity of what-is—water, earth, wave, and life— then only these other austere and infinitesimal forms lapsing out in the sunlit liquid darkness between the waves— isle, sea, and nothing—when I grasp this, this ex-pansiness, this infinite pansiness, this blend of all things, then only this, then only this can behoove me: how shall I marshal the fleet sail with awe, how chivy the oar with manly skill, how urge the boundless canvas with hoarse command through these eternal silences, these ample seamen, these sailor-friends who plow their channels, haul all the oceans home, make a new sea, create the myriad sparkling stars of my heaven whereto all times and places will be known, unfold the full panoramic tale, deterministic or hypostasis of name, name, nameless nature—present—yet inexhaustible— undeciphered—woven with every tide and moonlit dawn— follow the exigent and furtive currents, follow a thought, follow a tide, follow a night of stars, follow love, follow sleep, follow the rift and re-r rift of light that will widen and world-open in a mist of dawn. Where these dilating web-spinning things take in new qualities with every dawn, and luxuriate wildly in an impetuous birth, elongating in the undirected and spontaneous dark, to infinity in some incommensurable rest— <|endoftext|> Half mad, half sober, round him, just enough to get the shape, Turned, till their pantaloons flattened, their ribbons blew, Where the brimming waves kept on tumbling, I set my mouth a-pout to spit, to laugh, to weep; it may be, the rest I left up to Fate. But here I'm not. Oh, I sit here at my post as I have ever sat, Obliquely, waiting, having no relish for time, no notion where my hands should lay it, the clock rattles, I continue to wait. I begin to wonder whether Fate will ever let me get off this spit of a rock, whether I'll ever rise above the sudden loud rain at Kefalonia, whether I'll ever pluck the grapes and put on my robes. But I sit here, and just as I'm beginning to smile and be glad, I remember I'm not on this spit, the wild beast under the rock wrangles and roars and snarls, and swallows me up again. This is the way the Cyclopes cast them on the shore. I break the skin, and swallow it down, while the vine-roots cloy the aleuam. I'm sick, and the dark wine smells like the throat cancer that's sure to come. The bread is burnt all round me. I'm sweating and vomiting. Soon, the sweat will cool, the wine find its salt, the pungent food find its place, and I'll feel better. Then they'll load me on a goat, the blood- thirsty one, then straight onto their sampan, because the road's beginning to plain. But I sit here, a naked corpse, while above me goats are strutting and flying across the sky, one after the other, tailing in good time, the cur. But I sit here, while above me goats are flying, one after the other, cur after, no thing to scare it, the cur following right after, an easy prey. But I sit here, and while I sit here I'm thinking about goats. They're no beasts to fear, I'm told. When the Cyclops' son was slaying my family, my mother, old and greatly disliked, he cut her head off, he sank her body in the sea. "Go back, vile woman," he was shouting, "our children are in great need of you; you have brought them trouble." The ugly story made me sick. I couldn't help it, the way I used to see the mountains and the hills I lived in at night, their footprints over the sand, the way I used to think of people in Africa, the marks their people make over graves. After I'd eaten I wanted to go back. I found myself much nearer home, and much less afraid. I wouldn't have died for him, that's for sure. In the morning, after breakfast, I felt better, all things considered. My forehead's as white as snow; my jaw remains open, though I have salved it with cumin and pounded yellow salt. I begin to hear them, the Cyclopes, mocking me, but, of course, no words come to me, not the words I know, the mythical sounds that come flapping in the wind, the mocking laughter of goats. And then I remember the goats and the foolishness they have been laughing at. <|endoftext|> "From Here", by Louis Untermeyer [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] And from a certain distance on the vacant boulevard, The city's letters like stranded pennies lie: THE GOLF BALL-WARNING: Beware of Dog; The LAMBS for TOMB in the Boulevards — The Boulevards — The Distaff's Sign — WET CLOTH — When PAGES go down to their last ditch Carouses — When PAGES go down to their last Jocund carouses — The Boulevards have wine — The Boulevards are well supplied with wine. Blessings, blessings, many blessings rest Upon you and yours, upon them Who keep you and serve you — bless them too, And all who beside you in the road. <|endoftext|> "The Ballad of Blue Bonnets", by Louis Untermeyer [Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] I For Omer and for Armen II For Julius Cæsar — first and second fiddle I am the captain of shabby style, and you are a total flop. Indeed, I am a shabby captain of shabby style and you are a total flop; and my mother has just admitted to me that she is indifferent to my style. A philosophy might have prevented this morning porridge, tea, and the revelation that I am, in fact, the captain of shabby style, and you are a total flop. The manager has just admitted to me that he is indifferent to my style; the writer, contrite, has just confessed to me that he is, in fact, the second best." <|endoftext|> "Sypres-Sensibles", by Louis Untermeyer [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] I I sing the adventures of Venuses, I sing the adventures of Venuses. They do not scoff at busts Nor say my rhymes are crap, But think my style is right And say my verses strong. They do not scowl on tapes Nor blame my allusions Nor cry my rhymes are weak But praise my rhymes and say they like them. They know the fame of London And print the faults of Paris And give me praise and print Crap from tapes and crap from busts. II I know the millionaires I know the millionaires And how they spend their money And give me profits. I know the millionaires I know the millionaires I know the genius — The Geniuses. I know the genius And how he plays the game And gives me profits. And how they came to play The game of poker And gave me profits. And I know their games And every move they make. I know their games I know their games And every move they make And every player they play And all their tricks. I know the cards And I know the cards And I know the cards for Ever I know the ways of the cards And the cards never lie III I know the ways of the cards I know the ways of the cards I know the cards well And I know the cards for Ever I know the tricks of the cards And every sleight of hand And every player they play And always lose the game IV When one writes to me I don't write for two hours. I write at once when I have written it. I may have to go through it all again And rewrite it. I may have to go through it all again And rewrite it. When I have written it I never forget to give it to you. I wait to hear from you. I wait to hear from you. And if I have to go through it all again I will not charge you. I will not charge you. And if I have to go through it all again I will not charge you. <|endoftext|> "Half Curled", by Louis Untermeyer [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Half curled, half straight, with all your hair curled up like a gift. Half curled, with all your hair curled up like a gift. Half straight, with all your hair straight up like a gift. All curled up with all your hair curled up like a gift. <|endoftext|> "Balcony Scene", by Louis Untermeyer [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Economics] The old dog Balcony lives again. In the sweat of his secret life, In his heart and his eyes He watched the street. He saw young men run And saw women bend And women proud In the heart of a man. He watched the street And saw women bend And saw young men run And saw old men straight. He saw young women bent And saw old men straight On the balcony scene. <|endoftext|> "In a Row", by Louis Untermeyer [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women] I saw him in his apartment in midtown In a lighted window I saw him by the window I saw him in a trance When he saw me by his window I saw him on the sidewalk I saw him by his window I saw him by the window When he saw me by his window I saw him on the sidewalk I saw him by the window <|endoftext|> And with an eaglet in her bosom. All round them wild and bitter cries Ring through the haunted glade; And the arrows from their eyes are shed, Their blood-drops strew the ground, As through the forest, heedless of their woe, They go their way. Those reddened eyes, those faces of woe, Those bloodshot, desperate eyes, No longer lighten, but hang already low, As by the hand of Death they move; And blood, and pain, and wild dismay, Are all that look. She and her like flower of white,--she alone In her, the fairy-goddess lies; On her she breathes, she only feels,-- In one another's arms she yearns, And in her mother's face. The family row by the lake, The red-breast wails his sore: The fly as he flits declines; The graven sea is old and grey: The flowers that end in air Have lost the lore of their prime. Round the grim birchen tree The wind doth whist, and moan, The dew hangs cold, and drops Upon the laurel spray. The grape, that year by year In noontide welterings bursts, Shrinks from the thorned and threatened thorn: The laurel trembles too. The little flowers that year by year In the laurel's springing sit, And their white beauties so revere The grim birchen's shadowy brow, That to the distant vine Their suppliant gestures bend. Yea, all things bend to this, The weather, the flower, the hrvn, Yea, the lightnings of the sun, Fay, harp, and lyre, Bow down to one sou that is The sick-bed of the world. What doth the rose in the North? What doth the lily in the South? Why ask, when from the tawny west The sun going down shall light The horizon with white night? Why ask? when the ways of life For her but empty words be told, Yet for us there is speech? We think not on the wreaths that went About her brow in childhood, Nor on the maiden star that shone Between her mother's eyes, We know that in the years to come When she is here no praise shall come To lips of gold; We know that by the windy main The sails that were spread for her Shall the sand turn aside, And truer than sun-tans understood Shall the green sea-weed grow; The rapture of a windy shore She loved, and how the breath that came Caught the hardy fibre of her breast, How fearlessly she put to sea And set foot on American shore. Alas, how rare her gift to this day Is her unheld on Main street! These countless lurid splendours of the day Which her life has shed, And the light upon her and on mine Which burst from her as from a heaven; These gather to one theme,-- This day, in its divers moods, has been In her soul the same. O shining life, whose many moods No song can quite predict, Haste and take my love at last, For O, her heart is sick with pain, Her eyes are utter night. She meets her doom at morning's gate In the meeting of night and day. The rose in the day's perplexing light Has for a space been lost to view, But in the glory of light at night She has releas'd her lost delight, And in the glory of light 'tis fresh As in the glory of sun and star. This day I fain would leave behind, This sad, sweet, sorrowing day. The darling that was once so bright Is fading fast away, She droops her green calm face full of peace, She hath in future no look of ill, For I know that Christ will be her stay, And clouds of hell will turn to sky As daylight to her soul. For I have seen her oft in her fair youth, And when she is in she is fair, And when she is out she is gay, Bidding the earth good-night with bright white brow, Her great eyes laughing in her dream. She hath the mystic of immortal love That makes Earth all her own. She 's little of both gifts and youth, The loving gift, the gorgeous gift, The sunny gift of God's design Upon His darling girl, Eve. She 's more of Eve than goddess can be, In good sooth, and as it ought to be In ill sooth. No sun upon the earth hath gleamed As shines her forehead, or her lips, As shine the virgin's Sarah's snow, The pool of Deborah, and the flame Of Zohar, as she haunts mine eyes, And makes my heart a shrined shrine. The little green plants under her feet Have leaf, and blossom, and expanded root, And blossomy girth, and flowing stem; And, as she moves, the indissoluble chain Of tightly-flung sweets, on airy pinion, Spins grace and music, as it sweeps Up a sky-paved voluble hill. O little Fairy! for thy soft breast A warm nest could no mortal give, Nor bud, nor bud in turn could bear A tree its mallard young to bear: No mother ever fondler of the gourd Had power to shelter that fair throat From the winter's biting frosts, or wind That chips the pendant cloud: But nestle where the memory of thy means Lives bright in my heart,--from earliest age That meant'st to be a floweret, never A flower in main, though pouted with rain, Or mouldering green with tangles of the snows,-- From childhood's morning hours that never passed But as a rose upon the pathway blown, Who died when summer day was done. There bloomed no sweets like thine, to cheer The sunshine when its beams had failed To touch the horizon's crumbling corners, And top the hill with tossed arms, as, half Beyond the sight of eye, the crest Opened into valleys of revealed gold; When morning's early sunbeams wove Dry weeds of cloud about the hills, Thy smiling air was gold and red. The wild birds of the air should flit Around thy brimming fountain, plash, And lightly splash, with quivering wings, Their melody on the pebbly bank, And be forgotten as they fell, Save that thy song still fell like rain Upon the ear, and held their ear As hence I heard the summer wind Repeat thy refrain, "So cold, so cold!" Like a tall ship, that canoes the deep, In distant dreams before mine eyes, Thrilling with all the gay phantom-shapes That fancy can devise when heart's are young, Or the wild earth unkindled, Earth, at morn, To flower of hope, to sunrise's golden band, The early green-ups that feed the bee; With rapture in my maddest surmise I see thee, Visions, over mists of barks Shining glittering on the vast of glens, And rosy founts, and valleys sacred, And woodlands chaste, and wreathed with beeches, Across wide bends of crystal-slab hoar. Or, haply, watching at some summer sunset A fleet of leaves that streamed from darkness, And all together vanishing, as they neared The silent verge of a star-swept glen, I seem to see the last faint wavering gleams Of extinguished evening-augurs, as they tossed Their reeking garlands on the wintry wind,-- The bloody-minded staff of Wood-nymphs, To many a lewd and drunken Berserker Who gnawed them as the locusts gnaw the crows. Or when the purple autumnal glow Fades from our unclouded, undreamed skies, I dream of caves of dim opal beauty, Where hoary woodmen, weary of the sway Of this world's usurpation of their lives, Wake to the voice of the wandering lakes, And whisper the magic words by lost-drawn monks In melancholy twilit woods, to flame A million suns above their holy care. Thus man hath gazed upon himself in sleep And troubled dreams; and oft amid the throng Of his closest friends, has met the gaze Of his worst or happiest self. Hence to understand Man's greatest moments we must understand His best days, the sum of his dimming sense Of his incomplete progress through the days. His selfish, his altruistic days, that lie Like links dim through this dense fabric weaves, <|endoftext|> He near the bounds of innocence shall brave Those showy tyrants and those toys of art, They boasted potentates, those aristocrats Were all but tithes and priests at best,--and so Yea, so shall man allure his son to shame And oftentimes will bring about his fall. The wily hint in woman's countenance Is sometimes reflected in her step and dress, She takes some glance of danger 'neath the sun, Sees her own weakness and the fates agree, And humbly, clad in wisdom for retreat, And wise beyond the scope of boyish age, Strives hotly with ambition to attain As great a platform as the man can reach, And on that platform struggles with his soul. The foolish tend to bicker ere they burst The level plain which wisdom on its way Has levelled;--and thus the genuine, when he Beholds the state of nature in its best hour, Brings all the force of social life and thought, And forces all the country round him, till The present era has altered its face And age demands the next change. "The times have changed." Has always been this prophet's constant cry, And under-applause for applause for this Let some few more glowing reviews consist. With various notes the sprightly land has sung Their various talents, but one music fills These spacious plains--the general murmur long Hath hailed it as its own, and hence I deem That 'tis the notes we hear. A thin, white line!-- In sooth, it seems A very lowly thing, A very mean mode Of expression, And not expressive enough. Oh, don't you remember, child, That fair May morning last year, When through the flying weather We stole off to lake and park And saw the wet snow That drifted so lightly then Among the elms of Spring? Did you ever watch the snow, In rings and shells, In drops so curiously arranged Tumbling from branches tall, While every breeze that blew Assailed you with a song To keep you half ashamed To hear how you were beaten? Then, child, let not your happy eyes Be dazzled by the snow Which hovers there, that white, Stripping naked Nature's charms And making dull her wintry face. Don't look!--I want to tell you Some secrets of a June morning. This is June--I'm a poet. I know a poet--He waits Here in the woods--a very saucy fellow. I am a faithful poet. He is not here--the poet, But there--a poet called Gordon. He would like the fact, I'll allow, But has a dread of fairs. I do not like his dread. He would hate fairs. But lo! I've a rhymes for him. The summer is gone and there is never a wood or a lawn But is thronged with fairies, fairies, fairies and more fairies. And there are roses and bright orange-trees and the birds that sing Of clove-tongued, coquetry. And there are fountains, and the fair winds are gaily play- ing. And Fairies in the grasses bend their little heads. And Fairies in the leaves are singing. Look!--there's a fairy in the hay. And another fairie is in the corner stirring up the crumbs. There's a fairy in the hazel bushes, And one stoops saucy to me. And another fairie holds tight to my gown. The fairies are play- ing. Here comes a fairy in a blue sash. She puts out her chin a little, She has a natural air about her. With a touch of the archaic Fairy dignity, She draws up her chair to make me acquainted. She's very petite. Well, I've seen worse. She's a naughty girl. Well, she's far from innocent. It isn't the fairies I'm afraid of. For it looks as if a fairy thronged our quiet lane, And I've a feeling they're here to stay, And one or two are in the house. I'm sure the birds and crumbs and grasses are all Play-ed away in the fairies' meadow. You're right, I haven't a scout in the regiment. We'll have to send one of our men. Come! here's a summons. Let's do it. All, all right, All right, All right, all right. Nothing is so gay as the little lark. With his wings of gold he flutters away To the dusking cloud, and he sings the while His sharp, self-pleasing notes. Nothing so gay as little bird, Nothing so gay as little lark. Little bird, little bird, wherefore art thou fly? Out of my window I'm gazing and longing. Little bird, little bird, I pray thee, surely thou art A messenger from the beautiful land of sunshine. Oh, little bird, little bird, I'm coming, nearing my pleasure. Little bird, little bird, oh, little bird, hast thou A message for me? Oh, the crickets chirp, And the magpies call, And the owls and hawks fain would roam. I'm ready to rise, But the night has yet a good deal more of light. Then the owls and hawks and chaffinches shall come home, And I'm still in bed. Faster, prettier, prettier, Little love, little love. Floater, fiddler, what a little face. All the town is here to see the show. See the pimpernel pretends to die. Little love, little love. The cowgirl dances fast, The calf doesn't stop, The horse is in his stall, But the wethers round are still. The miller's wife is milling, The grocer's carters foot. The dryad's sons are in the water, But the daughters of the wood. And my true love dotes on every one. Oh, look at the little loves in a row. Ah, but the little loves are not so fair. They will fade and die and die, And the last crickets in the coal camp dim, From his foggy pipe, once a week. And the fires have burned low, And the light in the large brass dome is red. There's room in it for naught else but me. Little love, little love, In the high heavens thou art. Who can prove thee alien To a universe made for and destined for thee? So take joy in thy gladness, Little love, little love. Ah, but this wondrous thing The sky above and the earth below, The king and the slave, The master and the manger, The snow and the rose, Have never heard thy far-off arrival, Ah, come to me, little love, little love. This is the tale the goody-two-shoes told. Not that she'd made her mother laugh so seldom, And that she'd never heard her father call To-day--to-morrow, more and more, for ever. How this would flatter her, poor little thing. The big eyes jumped and listened, The frolicsome ears knew it all. All was learned in sundry languages, All was sung and talked and clinked and tinkle-tap. In the way of visiting, that was all. "Pardon, Miss Souldier," said the Sun, "I've been a beast to-day. It's my fault, you know, if you've met me, I'm fiery and friendly and lively. If you'd like to see me when blond, You can bet your green bottom-grain, I'll try to cool--but never cool down. "It's the folks who keep southward That I'm trying to tame a fellow. There are certain fashions, I know, When I come south to bring about, There are certain fashions when I get here, But the things that I do before I come here Are the things that folks there must see. "It's the folks who talk smart, When I come back again, To see if I've kept alive Some vague passionate intent. Why, my sweet little Miss Sunshine, They know I wouldn't do less Than show my colors when I come back. "My health, my fortune, is in the dark, The moon looks down upon me still; I can't make too much of it; But the folks who have followed me Since I was a lad may know That it's silly to mind what they say, So they'll laugh and let me go by. "Yet I'd rather stick to being A low kind of a man, <|endoftext|> Not sure if you understand me, Or if you do, and if you don't I should rather ask you not to tell. What is more to the point I am sure, Don't try me, friend. I never get confused. You had a daughter, I said, and you don't know Whether it was Lucille or Phillis Or some female or male, infant or girl. That wasn't very long ago, I said. Well, It isn't very far away any more. I hadn't heard much about Independence Day. There was a parade and I went to the cricket. Not very far, I said. Now what is your problem? That is the question. What is your problem, I asked you. You said something like, "My husband told me to tell you." There was a man who had no business being there. He would have made a terrible racket, Was straying so near to the counter and So near to the witness stand, and it was After hours, when the man wasn't supposed to be there. The man was not supposed to be there. He had no business being there. There were ball players, all the bases covered. There was a base. There were balls. There were breathless minutes, and there were stringers on the roof, and a business, The Y. M. C.A., had a warehouse filled with, and a figure in black flowing over it, And, at the end, a fan dancing on a chair who did not seem to be dancing on a chair. For that matter I had no business being there As well, and when they found me I couldn't Take my shoes off, because the steps were So very steep and slippery and I would Have fallen. It could have been worse. He could Have taken my boots off. It was awfully hot. We looked at coins. We played cards. We drank soda water. My sunglasses got muddy. He left a day early, because he was tired of having to play golf. If you get a chance Your name will be called, an announcer Will shout your name and raise your hand. You will be on the TV screen, or so You think, and you will do your best, Though it's not always like that. You will be ready to play, your eyes won't Fall asleep, and when the roster comes out You will find a way to get your name In the Army you make bad jokes, You say things that aren't so funny And they believe you. In the Army you carry extra weight Because you are used to being out In the rain and the dirt and the heat, And you go without sleep, you have days Where you don't leave your bedroom, and you Know that every joke you tell has About as much truth in it as your Insurance premium. There's a new president, and he's taking a lot of phone calls. He has a number one hit on his hands and feet. He is waiting to hear from someone who has been horribly mauled, Someone who is scarred and has no business being alive. But the one who calls now is in very bad shape, Is huddled up in a corner, shaking with fear. The last thing he said was that his wife was having second thoughts, And when he heard her name he decided to come out. "She never had any doubts," he sobbed. But there's a flaw in the logic, because her name is Ms. Note. Ms. Note is not a funny name. There were corpses all over the place, and there was Nothing but a blue sky, a strong breeze and the smell of a woman's skin, And I was trying to think of a way of coming out, When the smell was starting to grow on me like mold on a board. I got to thinking that perhaps this was all a bad dream. I thought I would follow the wind with my eyes, But when I put on my sneakers I saw that it was not true. This was real. There is not a man alive who can turn his head to tell now That July 4th was a beautiful day. It is a beautiful enough thing when the leaves begin to change. It is beautiful enough when the season of moths and flowers changes. But it is beautiful in that moment when you realize you are not dead, When the air is not cool anymore, and there is a coolness in your blood. A long time ago a woman was unhappy And she went and walked in a room that was like a theater And saw a man lying on a bed like an old ticket. She did not notice his maimed face, or the bruises On either side of his head, nor did she ask why He had come to this country to which he had no right. She did not ask why he was lying on a bed Like an aria on a stasis. He could have died that day Had she not noticed the pills that were lying all around him, The rifle in his hand, the ammunition belt that trailed along His belly, or why he had chosen to come Here, to this land of sudden frost, where he would die. She could not ask those questions now because she has died, And this man who lies here on a bed like an aria on a stasis Has now earned the right to be unhappy. That young man who was gunned down In the Elm grove, the 6 o'clock movie, The Sunday funnies, the Sunday morning crowd, The Christmas presents he bought, the new red lips That he bought those presents for— Why does memory make his life fade, And the Viet Cong movies of mine that he watched Make the pain of his death all the sweeter? That young man, Who couldn't bear the darkness any longer, Who had finally found the cause of his pain, And was ready to die because of it— Why does he keep on living? Why does he keep on living? What madness is in his mind? That young man who kept on living, Who kept on living in a fog of lies, Who kept on living in a delirium of pain, Why did he think that this country would keep on giving And that he would still keep on living? What was the Vietnam war up to? For that matter, what was it all about? Why do the dead keep on living in a state of hallucination? There is always a red flower, a pink flower, A white flower, a white flower, A violet or a blue flower, A flower of silver, a flower of gold— In urban jungles to many cities, In the country to many villages, Where the pink flower grows up to be the flower of love And the white flower grows up to be the flower of truth, The violet grows up to be the flower of beauty And the flower of silver grows up to be the flower of genius— And some men love all of them equally well. I see a garden in the sky With white flowers everywhere you-mark them And pink flowers everywhere you-mark them And a white flower in the middle they say marks the place Of the flower of truth they say marks the place Of the flower of beauty they say marks the place Of the flower of gold they say is the flower of God, And the violet is the flower of childhood they say marks The place of God the Father they say in heaven And God the Father is the gardener of the garden And the gardener is the lord of the dream. I dreamed a dream last night that astounded me Because the flowers came alive and danced and talked And had opinions and talked of politics and poetry And physics and literature and morality and science And everything except gardening. It was a garden of angels under a vault of clouds In which there were no clouds and in which there were No angels and no flowers and no rules for happiness. But in the dream the garden was a paradise Where all of the flowers were interested in beauty and truth And all of the angels were interested in the will Of someone or somewhere and something beyond us all Whose name I didn't know and who would probably like it better If I could remember him or herself. There was a white flower who was infinitely older than I was and yet I was younger than he was and yet somehow in our dream we were the same age. A garden of angels in the sky above a garden of flowers in which every flower was equal and yet some flowers were more equal than others. A garden in which some flowers thought and spoke and acted and grew like trees and rocks and grass. And every tree and rock and grass and capitolian of each of the three dimensions was the white flower. And the flower of the flower of the flower of God he was sitting in the clouds with And talking and growing and talking and growing And acting and acting while my dream he was sitting in the clouds with And talking and growing and talking and growing And acting and growing and speaking and growing I was the gardener of the garden in the sky above the garden of flowers in which every flower was equal and yet some flowers were more equal than others. <|endoftext|> And oftener pause, and oftener faile, In sence of that dull neerer on them fled Held with their desire or shunned, without effect To further it, and th' impact unlesse Of force, the implored favour yet endurere. To whom allusting their desires, but all in vaine; The coward impudent, the worldly wise, The craven living, and them that fear the day. Sobbed, some in wordes, and some in lament, With woebs wrung, with wailings waken'd full; Forsook the women, and the train untome And missing went; unkindled was the flame Of joyousnes, and bereft of light the hand That could have kindled it, and chang'd the hour Of their approach, and them departed fast. And all, as one man wandring, find his way To some certain dead, or other son; So wandring all found their way in sense Unchanging, and not in darkness or unhappiness. For all remembred were all things, and clear, And sound, and fire; they smelled well, and were Smell loathsome bereav'd: but if the nose Beheld good, and breatmed the germ, straightway power Springs in all their spirits; and in short time They smell in bonnie as they can, which found Their famish'd taste, and fit like cataract streams To pass thro'; whereat great joy was with thir meal. And falling to a noble pitch of song, Whose lively terms honor and her merit, Whose noble point high glory, honour, and good Justly thus renew'd, and with tall figure rose Next after him whose soaring flight had driven The crowd. His hooves now working earth and main, Bore proudly through the throng, and on he went And amid them all found one, whose radiant face, Looking upon him, wore such joy and pride, As might have drive'd a cloud from off th' unstinted sky. Towards the front, and up, and as a god, he stood; For pride goeth very far: his was a look Which, even in highth, goes with the towering oak, Or doth the Earth, as shadow endow'd with love And by the warmth of volition fix'd: Fair hope, too, resplendent, and her generous beam Shot through the crowd, and in the leaden gloom Loos'd the dark tunnel under deep, as a God. So glide they thro' pleased; but not for that, in that Mystical walk, which both hiss breaks not off, Nor fearth rain, or drear, or dark dismay, Of which so much is told, though less reported, For hell's own rattling belfry and the oath Cannot enough annoy, and offend, our souls; And, for their own woes' sake, make us much more zealous To shake off this heavy ingratefu' plenary prayer, Which we are taught to make on deities, And, as a course, endless praise, which needs Another heart to make it perfect, as well As another voice, to syllable, Plays all the justice of his eternal love. But out, alas! outworn as we are, and tired Of all these orders musical, and thrones, And adoration, and the many hats, And winding-sheets, and candles, and all those notes, Beat for us in our matins; beat that dark Sabbath Which our blind foolish fathers miss'd, to cure our slaves, Faaip! fraaip! fraaip! where the wind but sways, Strikes all this hangings, banging, aching; beats The morning books, the Easter eggs, and grapes, The rushing brooks, the rus-ted beads, the bells, The mercuries, oils, thick-set gems, musk, and gold; Whose spell, which breaks our rest, and wakes us now, Is hushed in tears and sleep, but wakes us now; Hears th' unquiet nations how they sleep In heauen, like tired men; nor note if they Some true new sea-shyp written on their brains, Re-write their old crue, infuse new lucub, Turn back their dead hearts, and start them now agen. Ye whose whole life ran round in such a song As ne'er had death. Ye whose live hath breath, Live, and know that never yet To any question false was made Sworn. Know that law, or misfortune, ne'er rose To make you less Loves, more of them than you. The weakness of this body, which you make Love's bed, shall but his fair limbs infold Love's wounds with soft wound-oil; and make them feel Their love's heart's music in his breathing-swoon, As he should doe. Sing livelier, and oft Wrap the live-long night; And thou shalt have a sister In thine own weak right hand. But sit thee down and verse As the use may bid. My dearest little Love, to me that seems Still like a name, To me that seems Like a name I do not know, and cannot be, There comes to me Yet a dear image And binds my heart to thee. It is my life, my heaven, my lone delight, Whose precious moments one and all lend Love-troth to claim. It is my word, Whose sacred sanctity I will not break, Love to earn. It is the voice of one to whom I have Never been known, Only in thought. That, sweet soul, chimes so sweetly now with mine As sister words to sister. I follow the thought that whispers in my heart, As one walking in the sun's soft ray Seeketh the sweet fruit to weary for, And finds it, and is happy. The thought that whispers to me still, When such an one should die, That death shall not annihilate One joy of life from earth, nor darken One eye of happiness. I follow the song in the sunshine, the song Of the flowers, the song of the faun, The golden song of the spring-time; That thrills the bosom with sweet mirth And gladdens when night is spent, The song of the endless dream Of the earth and heaven and sea, Of the sprouting and toppling trees, And fires that arise and expire, And the leaping from rock to rock. I follow, I follow the light That daily greater proves, And leap not from shade to shade, 'Mid envious precipices, When clouds have terror for their friends; I follow the leap of flame And flaming mountains' flame, Till still I am, as much is Love, A singer, and a light on fire. O little heart, my heart, my fount of joy, That gladdens in thy fountain clear, Sinking in tender tears at thought of me, I follow the thought that whispers still, As the light fades from thine eye, Till, alas, the gulf between In darkness is expanded vast, And ocean's bosom drunk with tempest scoops The fondest love and life's whole treasure-train, And with each gush of pain laves one love-ship, Foaming not for pain, but for the stab Of pain that falls at love's hard gate. O little heart, my heart, my sanctuary, From which no speaking looks, Freshened by many a prayer and kiss and tear, In darkness and in temple dark, I follow thine altar's incense cloud And glimmer in thy beam, As love's high feasts and altars prove, O little heart, from which so long So many precious dreams have come, And thou the priestess meet. O little heart, my heart, my snows of love, That lie so deep in mine own white arms, From whence I sojourn till my term Of circling flowers all die away I follow still thy rising sighs, And steal into thy most still nook, With cheek and brow aglow, To build for thee new rests for care, And lay thy very soul to rest. Thou little wanderest so, my little heart, Till I have bent above The iron bars of sin and sorrow, And laid my ear to the devil's own tongue, And caught his low bargain; Then thine eye slowly wending up, That weeps the darkest, Out first scatters down my life's stream, And I--as one out of his senses-- Take up the whisper of thy journeyings And lay them on my heart, And fall asleep--a little half-way thence, With all my wounded taken in tow, And wander in a feverish dream Towards thee, a vision borne before <|endoftext|> And so I settled the matter-- To quit his groves I did agree, Though in my heart I said nay: For how to quit a chain like that! Which chains us, but, I confess, Blessed is he who can break it! Look in my face, thou fair friend, and say: 'I will be thine if thou wilt kneel; And if true Love should come and woo, Nay, Fear not, I'll yield thee freely; But if thou shouldst shy an inch,--thou know'st How well Love does woo without deceit,-- If I should once or even twice suspect Thou hast any other mojo than me,-- If once thou fearest even a thought Why, then, I'll retire, and leave the field; I'll never spy on what's become of thee; And if thou never'll befriend me more, By that withdraw shall be my fear.' "I care not for the ring, The green-lace, or the cross, Fearing not at all are these; But for my love I will not see Before I've proved her truly. 'So, so,' quoth she, 'good boy, As thine oath is not quite defiled, And stand'st forth without a stain; And further, may I swear to her I ne'er had love under heaven.'" "My dear Nancy," Mary said, Turning her round and round, "I cannot but lament, You come to woo, and go away; You speak of Hartfield as one Whose every look and deed well proved The perfect match for queens and kings. How comes it then, sweet maiden, thus? When you have talked so long, and done, With ease, so fair and simple? When you are with that lady, Jane, And all as tranquil as May?" "I told you, John," Nancy said, Her blue eyes flashing fire, "The very last straw was, My boy had left me here, To go and try a new bower; Where still he sits to this hour, And broods, 'Was ne'er a wife like mine!' O, John, when you come to woo, What means the welcome you will find?" John sighed, "I know it! No wonder your Nancy grows So bitter, since he went away. When he had kissed me once for good, I thought the hour was not so golden; For still I felt, though hoping not, He was the man for me. "But things are changed. Well I know The day he trod this spot of earth, What he has, he had to leave; And all the worth that once lay In Nancy's eyes, must now take flight Before my riches, which are many. I care not for the ring, The green-lace or the cross, For what have they to do with me? And further, may I swear to her I ne'er had love under heaven!" "Not worth a chartered bank, Not worth a favour or a word, Are all the pretty things You have to say to show How much I do appreciate Your noble love and faith to me. You offer them, but I decline Until we know each other longer. You boast that you are kind, and I Am flattered--I confess it's true. But is it true, like you, for life? You have this week; a week more, And then you'll probably come to see, If near enough I'm willing to fly, What love in me will never melt." "Some people look upon life, and sigh, 'Could I but quit this vile, cursed, hard abode, Where dark passion and despair entwine My heart, where even kindness to my face Is guile; where the meanest man may find Some trust might lead to ruin, with the while His innocence is lost'--when lo! while others, God bless them! there they cry, 'How could I find What I had neglected so long, and would too soon Be seeking for lest I die?'" "Well, by your leave, Deacon Bramble, I said I would not, while I lived, undertake A tale so trite and trite a tale to make; And now, I've told it, I promise you it is No further from my heart than the other. But now, for one more thing; had you said That Nancy Bramble did not much advance From the last time I saw her--and believe me, She did--ye would not, could not, leave the memory Of the third year when, home from college, at noon, Alone in the house I found her writing, And found, too, in the tidy room a key, Which she had almost lost in changing rings; And found that piece of furniture still left In her family--we'll say--then changed her life; Changed, as it were, her element; turned to stone; Disrupted the charm which long had been accumulating Trees, flowers, she'd planted in her own ground; Adding now that a sweet soul had once been hers And therefore worth defending; but I must here Abhorre what must be done, and hope my own Is worth defending." "My dear Nathaniel," said he, "While still on this I have energy And skill, I'll pen me a line. I've now got My knowledge of Grecian fable, story, And poetical, in one accumulator, And in my memory so much knowledge, and My knowledge so well stored, that I can now Paint a circle with a central subject, Circled by a broad, rainbow-tressed, Hawk-eyed, wheel's back aspect, all the way through All the colours of the rainbow's spread Variegated, moving in a succession Of bright and flowing lines, or so I paint." "If, to make your task more pleasant, I will Interpret the Greek, and make the words you find In Homer, your own, I should be grateful, And speak in Greek to you, all the time; But, with the poetical phraseology, There is too much of good sense, thinking for art; Besides, it gives me pain to change the metre Of your sublime stanzas for the modern verse, And make a translation of a man into Greek." "Then I will not interpret; I'll only Translate; and, the words being those you give me, My mistate syllables being very small, My dactylous foot will chime in the verse With dactylous foot from my own, and give Dactylous feet to the verse; but, if you'll Set by the margin of my poem the old Metrical rime, which would be rather awkward, So as to be recognisable, and put 'Shepherd's freedom,' 'Sequestered life,' 'Success,' 'City sloth,' and 'Marriage gallant,' in there, I'll have it--I'll have it with the rest of it, You'll see the whole of it--and what's worse the tale Will be made my epic:--but till then, my dear, Take my words, and then make yours out of them As much as you please; they're just the same, after all, As the words of Solomon, the richest man in Heb.: 'The words of kings differ not, the words of prayer Shall differ not, words of glory differ not;' So say the Psalms; but my text is simple things, And tells of cottage-life, not stately life; Fair words foriadated; but my tale will be Of shepherd life, which is most formless life, A stirring life, most pastoral life, but childhood all; Fair words, but the measure will be narrowed down To a child's course, and a child's say; 'tis then at first We know things, which we'll come to know as we go on, Things like our neighbour's simple joys and pains, His childish fancy, and his delicate wound, Which will awake his sorrow, and his grief send forth On pilgrimage things like dove-depths of sweet-will Over the welkin, where the blue-wings of dawn Envelop him, to and fro, the welkin's sphere." Now the lady heard him; but she was about To speak, and hid her face, and mused awhile, And presently broke forth, "Sir, I thank you, But I must think: though I be very lonely, I have no friend, I live in lone exile, And all my days in dark torpor. What thanks, What praise shall I give you for this? how shall I Offend you, or what hand shall prevent you From taking my sweet stories? I will swear To hide nothing. We were together to-day, We saw the thrush and the wren on the lawn, And the two small fern-leaves, on which the sunlight <|endoftext|> And masted his true Venetian galley, Ever called herself the vessel of Rome, The empress of all that region, And borne by east, west, north, and south Was ever beyond port Or brooding storm on her open course. With this was all thy swelling teardrops left behind, And thy gallant treasure Of pearly seas, in face of heaven, Where Melpomenes stranded To show how the panther slays His terrible quarry Amid the thickets of the sunless African equatorial Unnumbered blessings to thy dome Of gold-adorned chimneys, While out of those where Aurelian smiled (Whom now my waves the breaking billows imitate), Thy sages from the Papal Ballets were yonder roaming, With that Poets, like thee, sons of the great Pontiff Faenza, Through good and evil doing (if aught May be forgiven their misdeeds) have left Their pithy marks upon the market-place All the same, for all are explorers of air, There was a bath of noble glories 'Twixt here and Genoa, which from far, And in no small measure, was won by us, And lost by them who were beat for it in the last Awful to tell, By the Majesties of early Don Juan! For their part, their calamity was compounded Of many evils, chief of all the infliction Of the Florentine now vanished, Who were driven now from their palaces, to move In the dark convent of San Clemente, Whose palaces had never yet, I argue From fact, Or reason, Been any one else, The unfortunate Popes, Dominicans, and St. Peter's, where, ere the statues had perished, They had made their pile of broken statues! And San Zeno's well-head, for perfume's sake, With that old well, which by the old convent's mouth Grew green with pollution, the monks had refreshed As for their part, In return for the great charity and faith Of those great patrons of arts who had sent them there, They had sunk down in self-contempt And renounced the use of arms In such sort, That for all intents and purposes, they had From the time the Popes were first ejected Till now, they had been kicked out by all classes, Who had power to kick them out, as in no case Have others kicked out any one before. And the old Papal Chapel, though its roof is broken, And though, for fashion, there, and only for that, All things have been receding rapidly to the confines Of their old mission; And the old Convent is razed, And there, in that place, now, there's no denying That the old priories Have been rooted out and have vanished from the face of things, So had best ye dwelling-places for the Popes, No doubt, they might have remained as before, Till time sufficed for their revival. There, if ye remember well, our good Peter Was assisted atoning for his sins, In his cell the best part of each day, By our sire, Urban, Bishop of Rome, In company with the Friars, Bl. Peter and Paulinus. But Urban was in despair of the whole race; From his heart he poured forth his groans, Till the blessed Gospel mercifully said, "Go thy ways--he never shall die," And our wretched Mother, baptized amid the snow, Behold the Convent empty, the palaces Derelict, the monastic houses ruinous! Who the cradle would explain, Of the miseries that abound, Such as these So fatal contests create! So detestable triumphs breed In the germ Of a disease, if perchance thy womb May bring a malady to birth. Even as I look, I see the old arch, Thy cradle of days, Gone to seed, to decay and fall! I can behold it no more, Where thy royal bed was laid! And, lo! the little golden ball In which was rolled thy milk and water, Nearing the ground, Tis shrinking, winking from our eyes. I distinctly remember, one Sabbath-day, As I was walking all alone, How I listened to the organ-tones That breathed so sweetly in the air. The sounds that I remembered so well, In their melody and high order Could not, by any power, Have been imagined by the brain Of a six-year-old. Then I remembered too, in hearing The choral strains we chanted aloud, How often my granny sung To her grandson, in his chair Upon the floor, With the book of hymns open on its back, And her mouth Catching the words, so sweet and clear. I remembered, too, the sacred tones Of our chapel-music, That went echoing through the centuries, So like a prayer That none ever forgot it. And once, in choosing my modest band, I thought that I had found a choice one, When, while accepting my cup, I made him (thirty years ago) Shake the funds home to my dame. But the singers came In the hundreds, in hordes, All official able to sing In our Church. I knew then, with what persistence This people will follow change, For a singer is a stately thing, As well prove by death, As by piety. Beati, spiritus ludens. Ye who walk with feet of fire, Come follow my music now! For I sing not for mortal ears, I myself proclaim it, Before the throne of Grace, Before the arch of heav'n, Before them all Who when they hear will say: "Ye know, for ye have seen." Only for light, Only as music that shall steal The sacred hearts of men below, Dull day by day his waiting-room, My music. Only to break The bonds of fear, The spell that holds mankind in thrall, My trumpet summon! For so have ancient worthies done, When, in the depths of Hell, They summoned up their song, And in the burning, lost, Reached the eternal Air. The God, who on his radiant throne, Can overshadow both court and camp, Owes to us the means of his might. 'Twas to him from out the clouds he came When, on Pelorus' shining beaches, Doubt and fear were his noose; And like a bearded Jove he came, To shake the limbs of Chaos still. His right arm bending to their thunders, His left to prune the wounded world; And while his calm eye flashed calamity, The darkling loss and bale he saved. No cloud he does not cover, No torrent, that, born to foam, Shall not one day flow. No evil that shall escape The blunder of his eye, That like an eagle, o'er the deep, Shall hug the vale. No disease, that shall not cease To rage amid the healthy, No storm, whose furious eye Shall not perish in the wink; No storm shall cease, for him, Till, when its anger waxes wild, The dreadful thunder rolls his eye To drop upon man's despair. Down many a fair and leafy lane The glow-worm, bedight with fire, Hath long been trotting home; But she must now urge her rapid way Before the Sun's fierce glance; For with his fierce embrace she fears His fiery breath, and soon must be Downward directed to the west. With her high heavens the fly, in breath, Has swum in the glow-worm's death; Her track is soon forsaken, And from the sod her home she moves, Soon to a lifeless heap; Yet, with the Heavens for home, the fly Must downward guide her soul. Along the sandy shore, The wave hath leant since long, And all the waters flashed Like streams of heavy rain. And now, in sprightly dance, The dancing seas have brought Their billows to the shore. The shallow sands are ruffled And shaken by the gale; But fearfully they beat Where they are not disturbed. The waves are tossed to and fro, But they are controlled by her Who drives them onward still. The waves are lifted up And driven on the shore; The errant foam is fretted, And falls in track of fire, And spurs to fathomless dale. The shivered sea-birds fly in wrath, Yet she, in calm, relaxes their might, And loosens their clinging wing. The King of Roses in her bower Has kept the humming-bird; And now he waits her coming, <|endoftext|> And dost thou pluck the husk of his life And waste it on thy languid lips? All his wild flower still Androgynes is, And thine is but one empty flower! But thou thyself Androgynes dost make, O life of Earth, and joy of Heaven! Let be thy verse, thy theme Make all of thee! <|endoftext|> "Alexander the Great as Shaman", by George Seferis [Nature, Animals] Horse whiskered as a lean face grumming at heel, or straining head, against the spur: on the high ground my ass's stern nostril flaring at the chief's approach. With his clouded eye Icedes peered, as under his brown clouds he watched his hapless soldiers die from great Ilion. Deep in his soul coursing his most through those he loved, those who conquered him, he watched the slow change of night in heaven: "Hither!" he cried in his temple's nave. "Hither!" the wood-snake answered him. And suddenly, he was king he had served four hundred years. <|endoftext|> "At the Hour of Infinity", by John Koethe [Religion, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] In these days of blue light and observation, of flies that flash with lightning in the window pane, of the air in which a butterfly is confused, of the breath that blooms for a moment then vanishes, of thousands of stars, each a star in its season, of Linnaean cells that ache with longing for union, of this black night in which we lie faced to the north-west, the room feels new: a voice comes from below, saying, "I exist!" <|endoftext|> "Good-Bye", by Sherod Santos [Living, Growing Old, Nature, Animals] Do you remember where you were when the birds left the pines open to the night? Do you remember what it was like to watch them sing as they went in twos and threes across the meadow where you dreamed of leaving your own? When you were an animal. <|endoftext|> "Lines", by Margaret Atwood [Nature, Trees & Flowers] It's like a woman who loves another woman, but no longer loves her. The trees are righted. The world is gone. The dust is righted. The dead are righted. And this takes the shape of birds that are pure electricity, of flies that move in sprinkles of silver across the earth. What could you say to someone who is righted? What could you say if the wronged were ready to be righted? What could you say if the righted are ready to be righted? I think I could. <|endoftext|> "How to Walk", by Rachel Loden [Living, Growing Old, The Body, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] After I walk out the door I look back twice and once outside the storefront. I know I look young, but it's the way I am walking that reminds you of my late grandmother's cart. My good-looking face, my dirty blonde hair, the fact that I'm walking like a woman. Then I look back and I am much, much older. My good-looking face is withering, and my dirty blonde hair is grey, though I'm walking like a peasant who wants to return to the war. I look back, and the world looks back at me that way. Who knows how long I look back, but I am walking a different way. I never look back, or I look back far. I stay in the light. I stay in the light and know that if I die I won't have died in vain. <|endoftext|> "An Epiphany", by Philip Nikolayev [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity] Someone touches me. That much is certain. The next question is: Who? And why? A moment ago I was talking to myself. I cannot forget the feeling of touch. Even now, and this is undeniable, I have hours to dwell on it. As a matter of fact, I'm on the phone with a friend, and the lines are electrified with our secret. I'm on the phone with a friend and the lines are electrified with our secret. But I have no more time to dwell on it. As a matter of fact, I have only moments. Hours and minutes, and seconds. There is a ladder in the window, and underneath it There is a jewel. I cannot remember which one is which. A moment ago I was drawing a tree, and now I'm on the phone with a friend. Both moments are mine. In the afternoon there is light rain in the street. In the afternoon there is light rain in the street. Now the clothes are all soaked. Now the clothes are all soaked, and there is no one near me. <|endoftext|> "The Silent Voyage", by Robin Robertson [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Lifeboat! Lifeboat! This boat has experienced a curious mute complex— are we near underwater caves?— rough sea-floor entering, possibly a passage to other worlds. I'm getting the chackaline helmet for my birthday, rubber boot-encased, painted by the mermaids of the low seas. Do you have one? This one's been water-stoned many times, so the zips won't lock. You have one page on your face where the questions will be answered, but it will be wet from so much water. My birthday wish is that I disappear. I am trying to disappear, trying to go through the door of this boat, trying to go out to sea. We will watch sea-billows go by, and my friend will wave and say,You should be swimming! You should be swimming with these beautiful creatures. <|endoftext|> "Early Cascade", by Wendy Videlock [Living, Parenthood] Wrestling with the butterfly net, whirling and tireless, I tried to keep my son from being sucked into the world of sunshine and flower beds. So still he was, like a bubble he had magically blown in a game of hide-and-seek, or a photograph I had held so long, the image had faded from my sight. Yet I had to let it go somehow, even if it meant sunken into the valley's grassy pulse. So I drew the bloom off, the petal off, then dragged it down into the grass and beat it flat. I had to obey, even if I hated the command. The blade was sharp. I smeared it in my hand. I heaved—and whirled—and finally, all the flower had felled, I rose up and stood calmly, the blade in my hand. <|endoftext|> "Small Deceptions", by Joanie Mackowski [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] If you had known how little we knew about our mother's daily struggle with Alzheimer's—how inconsequential her days were, how black her problems seemed, how little we knew about her—if you could have walked across that white picket fence and looked at our mother's life now, before the rumors, the notices on the window sills, the mysteries—the saber cuts and pink smears on the linoleum, the razors falling, the cans gone missing, the crotches ripped out, the scars on her hands from when she tried to open the cans—you would not understand why she left us. You would have a gentleness for her. You would not understand how her years of exasperation, of working herself into bedtime during supper, of watching her death in reverse across the white picket fence, had festered into this quiet life of weed wands and veggie burgers. How her labor seemed an assembly-line diversion, an elaborate puzzle to be solved by numbers, and her sarcasm a mask for small lies, and her boredom a vicious circle. How a woman would betray herself at every turn—this loud, insistent mother with her own problems, her own secrets, her own withdrawal into the past, her silence becoming louder, her anger growing until it consumed her. You would not understand how one morning, when our father left for work, she called us all into her room and said, "Everyone do your homework. I have to go clean up the kid's leftovers." You would not understand how the last time we saw her she was limping across the parking lot with a bag full of oranges, how she walked like she was dancing and how her dress looked like stringing smoke. The apple pie. The zucchini pasta. The orange juice. The cauliflower rice. <|endoftext|> i’skript. neat trim-fit maxi dress it stayed dressably on despite my extra-wide V-neckline my brush-cut buffer-cut over wool: cold the chevrons of my face a bidon cape tied past the wrist (maybe too bold) to my shoulders. <|endoftext|> "Obscene Facts", by Daniel Borzutzky [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries] It’s the end of the world as we know it, and it’s happening at the same time as we are discovering the world. For instance, it’s not the end of the world when our mail arrives on the wrong side of a box. It is the end of the world when objects have information but not when their contents do. It is the end of the world because all that is left are expanding balloon patterns in the parking lots of jobs. It’s the end of the world because of the way our world is collapsing on itself, and the way it is doing so without much of an effort. <|endoftext|> "Blackwater Fever", by Joshua Mehigan [Social Commentaries, Class, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] For the rest of my life, I cried at the sound of water, At the sound of my own house, at the wind, whatever would get me close enough to see the floor. For one year, to be specific, I gagged on the sound of the clear stuff creeping down the hallway ceilings, so bass-barrelling it rattled the collar of my 1–11 cotton arm sleeve. The day I woke to that familiar rattle, I decided to take my chances with it, I decided I would find the source, find the fan that knocked the water back, And it wasn't hard to do, find the leak in the big old house, I just had to find it where only music could find it, And no one, it turned out, could. <|endoftext|> "The Monsters in My Tired Head", by Kevin McFadden [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Home Life, Philosophy] My father would open his mouth and, through the dulled hinge, crackling hair and rattling bolts, would reveal monster eons dead and worlds undone. He dangled his two index fingers, twined with scarlet ribbons, from the low ceiling and rattled just about everything except his bald head. No matter what he tried, I kept expecting the monster to materialize, to materialize so I could knock him lying down. You don't need a monster to believe in spooks, after all. The stereo running Dark Side of the Moon, the phone, the cat, the stove, suspected of spelunking through the chimney, and I could lay my head down, could paw the darkness from my eyes, could feel my fingers coax tinder from the pits of my broken fingertips. I never imagined monsters could be destroyed so easily. It is true, of course, that once I snatched a bonfire engine and, without any thought of what might ignite, set it a-smolder in the pocket where my jeans would usually pack a good-luck charm, but still, the danger was somehow all in my fingers. So what if my father, by then not so long in the tooth, gave a chase? What I wanted most was to fling my effigy a-down. My father would catch it with his claws closed, dripping hot slough of ashes and plastic on whatever black substance shrieks or plumes were flowing from his eyes, however. No spooks needed: they were old shoes burning in a burn unit, a zoo of spooky crows, dirty rats, and flaming owls, the deadly arsonists. So I poured it on. <|endoftext|> "All the Dead Birds are Hit Hard in the Head", by Ted Kooser the spray tans gives a rained-on mess crisp morning grasses scratch the slick road while neon through the firs is drifting farther away but the Old Faithful promise of another cold night is ringing true amber-silver the sun is today wisps of smoke carry a chill to the seething chasms of emotion below a vision of cow bare chests fumbling and fleeing thighs swollen toward their bloody prey <|endoftext|> "The Truth about Trees", by Scott Cairns [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] Trees make me sad. Tires seem unreal. In the new, soulless town I have somehow wound myself like a worm up into the branches of a tree. At night I see the dead, translucent branches bend down to meet them, numb them with affection. If the dead think they can handle this love, perhaps this is a moment to stand up and shout: No, no, you can't! No, no, you can't! There's nothing to halt or arrest you at this stage. But don't you feel lucky, dying in this eery enclosed habitat? Didn't I tell you it's silly to feel sad about anything? Like a tree, I can't help but ask: Did I ever tell you the story of the deadly-loved trees in the real, livable country? You know, the branches where you and I and countless others took to gallivanting freely and blindly, no matter what wickedness smacked of evil, of drama or anything else that could induce root interest and days of reckless, aesthetic thinking? There must have been a reason no one could catch us. Those days must have seemed a lot more bearable when there wasn't anything either too far gone or promising to outlive all sense of our human courtesy. A few of those days bore witness to something truly splendid. A restlessness swallowed us whole like the good-unintended consequences of youth. <|endoftext|> "Faking It", by Scott Cairns [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Those soldiers marching down the Chassayeewis The stars are glowing and there's a beat of drums. We are faking it. That weather report is faking the view across the flats. There's no march of tanks, but what's faking the weather? This isn't a story of being sold to the toy factory. It's more like one man's imagination projected onto a failing machine. We're marching without drums, but I thought we were rehearsing? That makes no sense. Faking the weather is almost a religious experience, just as faking love is almost a spiritual one. It's what we do. It's all we have. I used to believe in the American dream. Now I'm more like the doctor who gave the kids acids in the hospital before he left to go back east to persecute the elderly. I love my country but I can no longer bear to see its flag waved in this crude fashion. My country must find a new purpose. I must go back. I must find my way back. Maybe that's why I love it. It's my country, but I'm not a countryman. <|endoftext|> "The False Palms", by Scott Cairns [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] A thousand miles south of anywhere, on the false palms of the Mojave, in a flat place between suspected geologic time, they grow fever lilies and palmetto trees, tomatillos and grapes, and against the odds they are the first people in the world to touch these plants. We pass by on the highway toward Los Angeles, an island in national politics, and wonder if anyone ever travels north of the 101. We're used to the cicadas, loners on the move. Tonight a woman in white appears on the side of the road. She smiles and waves. Her truck's screen is dim, and we see her through it, even in silhouette, and we think about the last time we saw her in person, before this summer, before her family fled the real, from the fictitious. We remember the false palms and the false garden they grew in—what we see today is the front end, the engine, the side view of a white truck hauling a woman, and there may be other cars and people on the road <|endoftext|> Until at length his mind and body were Wearied, and his limbs grew languid and faint, And his face grew sickly, and his locks were gray, And he could hardly raise his feeble head; And now with drowsy eyes he gazed around Upon the lone and silent mountain stream, And oft in dreams he saw the river-nymphs. And he began to think that the sea was, after all, Some demon's image which he cherished, demon-born. But when at last he breathed a sigh of relief, And found his strength once more returning--and ah, How beautiful, o'er the wide-swollen river's brink, Lay the smooth-gliding ocean, wide and calm and fair-- 'Twas a gleam of hope which came with healing inwrought, And in the heart of Poverty he woke again. And now the greedy fishes, with greedy gills, As the cold moonbeams o'er them threw a faint silver gleam, Gave back a faint response from their weakening bones, And from the weary adventurer came the sighs, The dying sigh of Despair and Life unlived. But as the moonlight fell upon the water, Bright as a rainbow was the sea's dark lake-wave, And on its surface broke the ripple of the sea-wave. With a shudder ran the trembling and the darkness through, From the minstrel's lyre to the singer's golden lyre, And the murmur grew to a heavenly harmony, And with heavenly cadence it died away; While, like an eagle from the breast of the mountain, Leaped out of the water a serene and blonde maiden; Whom at first he caught with a kiss, and with a kiss He tasted a golden glory, a golden dream; But she fled from him in the waves, and in the waves He lost the taste of the maidenly touch. Then the bearded and motionless adventurer Went to the lone and silent fountain's side, And to the trembling and dark sea-wave's shimmer He cast a fearful, wondering, and curious eye; But he saw no forms of mortal men there, No forms of maidens, and no kindly hands, And he gazed with a dazed and longing eye Upon the strange and voiceless maiden's form; And his breath was growing feebler with each moment, And his heart grew faint with the awe of the bright sea, And the wonder of the blonde child-image there. But he saw, as the rays of the moonlit day Fluttered and fell, and flickered and shone around About the restless waves, a glittering shell, Flapping in the silver and shadowy light, Like a gull in the air, and high above him He saw it lift up its shimmering sail, As the gliding wave rushed behind it its track, And the silver sail still rose and fell, And the shuddering waves ever a little apart Crept to where the glittering shell lay, And a hush was in the midnight water As of the ocean and the silver stone; And the bearded and motionless adventurer Wandered with a wondering and longing eye Toward the glittering shell in the silver moon; But he stood there and gazed on the sea, In the moonlight, without speaking a word. O the dark deep! O the groaning and swinging of the sea! Its thunderous motion in the night-air, It seemed as the motion of thunder on the battle-field, And then the winds rose in the night-air, and their murmurous breathing Swept up into the night-air, and murmurous breathing Broke from the waves, and they seemed to clash and splash In a mute voice together, and the sounds Of a war were in the night-air; But they were peaceful, and they died away And left a stillness in the night. And this stillness grew to a satisfaction, And then a calm and poppied peace, That like a poem of infinite measurements, And an anthem of eternity, Paused in its course, and stood still. And that poet of the night, Of the night and the deeps, Watched over the glittering sea-wave From the glittering sea-wave As over the world's rich equilibrium He roamed his limitless wandering, And though an adventurer and a traveller, The dust of his footsteps hid him, And his face with silence crept, As he gazed at the glittering sea. Then a strange force gathered in the night, As in the air a sound of wheels came, And there came to the poet of the night Horses, and men, and the sound of arms, And the neigh of horses, and the sound of arms Drawing in a darker road, And a darker road winding down To the dark deep of the dark sea, And the dark deep of the dark sea had a sound Which he knew not, and he knew not what it was. And this dark deep, As he gazed upon it, looked at him As he gazed upon the glittering sea, And he said: "O dark deep, Like a drowned man's face which a wave has lifted up From the depths of his native land, Dost thou look at me, dark and troubled deep? Or do I gaze upon the glittering sea?" And he gazed for a moment, And then he knew what it was: He saw it rise from the night, It moved and shook in the night-air, It wakened a sigh from the depths of the deep, And it said, "I know what thou dost know, And I know what thou doest know. I move and tremble in the night-air, I waken a sigh from the deep, And I sigh to thee in the night-air, But the light from my eyes is changeless, And my lips are unclosing to thee With a shudder which is death." And the deep, and the air, and the air, And the shore-stones where the waves break over them, And the dark sea-weed that bends under the ship, Shook with a sound as of some mortal hand Growing still more remorseless as it drew Down its mighty throat from the eternal deeps, And with it the deep swallowed up the air And changed it to an everlasting sea. Then the deep, and the air, and the air, And the shore-stones where the waves break over them, And the dark sea-weed that bends over them, All moved as a single sea-face to the ship, As the river sank down to meet it in the dark. Not a ripple stirred on the dark waters, Not a sail fluttered in the darkness, And the silence filled the deeps with sound. And the ship struck, struck against the shore, Fell, and struck against the leaving hand. And the masts were broken and bent and shattered And the very decks and spars began To be carried downwards by the motion, And the rushing waste filled all her deeps with sound. And, as the tide after flow with flow, Deeper and deeper were the vibrations, And on the cheeks of all the trembling crew Sweat was now growing pool-wide. And the darkness and the motion and the weight Made a loud, agonizing pain, As of a iron bar that is hammered and is broken. Till they knew not what they suffered, Nor what death was, nor what gloom, And their groans mingled and their tears were mixed. As when winds swell in ocean, And heavy odours rise, And a blinding flood of sunlight passes Through the jungles of the air; Thus in that dark their groans grew louder, And their motion less and less. Out in the night they seemed to swim All alone, without any form, And their shadow, long and long, Along the waters deep and long Sought the horizon's rim. And never did they answer back The motion of the stars of night, Nor a star's lonely shining, Till the night's shadow flitted By the distant island again, And the shadows of the stars Darted in the night. Then they turned to go, As men destined to death Turn who tread with weakness, And a wind went moaning by That would spare not friend or foe, And the ship, rippling on her way, Sends a chill along her frame Until her deck is slippery With the icy fountain's spray. Ah! but that shadow Spake to them of heaven's delight, And of their own impending bliss And of the glorious Motherland, And said: "No pain you feel Can number in your infinite store, No sigh from earth can equal The sigh of pity which thou art now. "No darkness, or despair, or woe, Can pain thine infinite heart contend. "Lo, in the depth of sorrow lying "Is joy, wide-pondering on the past, "And a thousand memories sweet, <|endoftext|> After I’m done with work around here, I don’t know,” she says to a girl who didn't know I knew she was in the room behind mine. The girl turned red, and she says, “I got time for this, meet you in seventh grade, Hal,” and hangs up. I sit there still as a stone while all around me, boys swarm the new girls and their fancy ways. In my head I hear their father telling his wife, “You got time for this, meet you in seventh grade, Hal”— But she rolls over, And beats his head, And says, “I’m getting time for this, meet you in seventh grade, Hal” —And so she gets time for this, meeting me in seventh grade. She sees me fuming as he goes by and she smiles as if she knows I can take it, and says in her most encouraging voice, “They can’t stop us, we can do this, Hal—” And so we can do this, meeting in seventh grade. I don’t know what more to say, and so I don’t say anything. <|endoftext|> "Argyle Entrance", by Joseph De Piatt [Activities, School & Learning, Relationships, Home Life, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Mythology & Folklore] 1. Before we get to the question, let’s frighten him, who, as a small boy, watched the flight of the goose gods down the river. 2. The boy likes the goose gods. To protect you, I’ll name them, one by one, so you can see them all at once. First, the fearsome red head of Hydra, whose bodies hid women and children. Next, the crooked head of heraclite, whose powers were greater than prayer. Next, wide head of Digenet, whose name means swamp, although he didn’t drown. Next, white Neptune, whose jaws were round and unforgiving. Next, quick head of Nicaea, father of our own Neo-Platonist. And last, the double- headed one, mu-sick-tic, mu-sick-tic, mu-sick-tic! 3. Gods of the sea, help the boy find the god of his choice. He asks Perseus to shoot him because he can’t fight his own fight. He asks Hercules to guard him, because he can’t fight by himself. He asks Apollo to play him, because he won’t do it by singing the old lyric, from the Theban deluxe edition. He asks Athena to play him, because he is alone alone and he won’t have to put up with any other writer when he’s dead. So the god of the dog-headed man, the lord of the ears, the lord of the lilting lute, and the god of the holy book come through, hear him and protect him from the evils of his own evil twin. 4. The boy tells a simple true story. Crowley met an evil licentious god named Set who had lost his hair after a bath and wanted a piece of him. She flies into his living room and confesses herself a part of him, and he falls for her in the net of her blood for the hand holds the sharp butterfly. There are many like her, he tells her, but only she, that piece of him, can be reunited with his mother, the mother in his own piece of the house. 5. I don’t want to break my heart, I want to make it whole. I’ve left the mother of my angel in pieces, and I’m making my own out of you. You must never cross another woman, because it will break her, and if she doesn’t break herself, she won't be there to help you. This is all for the best in the end, because he will be cursed, and she will be cursed. In my anger, she was in a broken state. In the end, it is for the best, because he will be whole, and she will be broken. 6. And so we have come to the holiday of the innocence of babies, with its monster sadness, because the mother wants to be loved, and the father will let her, after he sees he has the benefits. Sometimes, the babies cry when their mother talks very loudly of a dollhouse they might ever build. The father sits down in the wheelchair and says: “We will have a dollhouse tomorrow we will build. It will be lanterns on the windowsill, marble lamps, and blossoming ditchikins. We will build the most of any house, but we will build a house that will hold us, not a house that we will leave for our children. Because we have no house, we will build a house in a dream, a house we will not ever have to sleep in.” 7. They have turned their home into a bloodshed because of the baby curse. <|endoftext|> "Kubla Khan", by Oumoon Donald [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] The tusked carp slumped in the pond, and the sad ape meningeal tangled in the fruit. On high the ilex had it, the hunched ibis, the treetop hummingbird, the hillside lion, gold-banded and with a step the lagoth from his hills in his belly, stood on air, and the ibis, facedown, tanned by the sun. But the bronze-coloured rower whom Kubla Khan held like a god fled from the feast, the Dirgo with the grass snake trenching his path, kicking from his wits to see what he was spied, if he was even spied, scamantled, deep in grass, if even grass could choke a watery vision, her thoughts with water, she fell headlong, paralyzed with sullenness as the scrubby landscape muffled the cry of a snake with raspy grunts and light slither until the languid dirge of a hermit glided from the trees and faded from their shade. <|endoftext|> "Harlem Tercent, "City Boy"", by Langston Hughes [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] City boy, the tap of my mother's finger is music in itself. But the fight that stirs my feet and heart Is the fight to stay alive, the fight to see My mother again, this evening, safe and well. City boy, you've got to understand, When you've got this raggedy hat on your brow, Some ideas are just so hot, you can't Wait to act on them, you've got to send A bolt of lightning fine as a raindrop Into the perfect storm that's gathering. City boy, you've got to understand, When you've got this raggedy hat on your brow, Some ideas are just so hot, you can't Wait to act on them, you've got to send A bolt of lightning fine as a raindrop Into the perfect storm that's gathering. <|endoftext|> "The Golden Record", by Al Di Meola [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Music] When I am gone, find me dead, And a mantel to place my head. Sing the buttons of my coat, for I'm planning to eat it, When I am buried, make a lullaby. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> hills and plains and slopes of life, drenched with rain and shrouded with snow, and the giant sun beating the shining mountains. The narrow seas where ghost-ships lie at anchor, their hulks and bulwarks feeding the hungry fleet that drifts out, a night-goddess urging the way, the fog of battle in the mists that gather in your wake, scorched by the hot deserts of war. And where, beneath the overhanging branches, milky threads are stirring, a swift wind cuts the blue sky in furious scarves, and it is these, these is the hand of God we claim, and with these, we will make haste to meet the god of war, who, without speech, without warning, on this day of wonders, picks with his hands the threads of life. <|endoftext|> "From the Ruins", by Algernon Charles Swinburne [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] 1 Let the wilderness grow by letting go the tyranny of man. Let the spider spin her palace of harm by letting the rust eat away at her home. Let the bear kill in her bear-pen by the misuse of what she gives from her own. Let the rum trader hang in the sun by his red plunder of the fattening lands. Let the kestrel buzz and bomb and fetch by his love of scatterage. Let the eagle build and plan and preach the perfection of his fantasy of land. Let the carnivore chase and pray his glory to the god of air on the misty mounds of dead leaves. 2 Wild is the wind, wild is the sea, the wind blows out and the sea devours any who stray in its twisting sweep. There are no tamed desires in the human breast. The harpy-footed figures of sleep ride the air and the soul's iron sledge is on the way. There are no unchained desires. Cries of war are the show. There are no wild things, only tame. 3 The world has come to a close like an old house that has stood for years with its hospitable murk and its peace. The stairs are worn by the use they have made, the narrow way, the punishment of use. They are old and have known the touch of the sun and rain, the tenderness of grass, the long blight of the rain. The house is full of quiet and of freedom. 4 I listen as a listener. It is true. The rasp of the fog is not an echo in the corner of a room where some man is talking about the sun and its twisting sail in a room so bright and so full of sunshine that the room feels its virtue, and the sun a little, after so long of darkness. It is true. It is true. I cannot sleep. It is true. 5 The room grows larger and rounder and darker. There is only one horizon, and that is the sun. There is only one answer, and that is the truth. It is true. 6 The truth is that all life is sacrifice. Man's life is but a little window in that great sphere of Service which belongs to nothing, to nobody, as it were. It is true. All belong to it. There is only one Solution, the One and Only, the Sufficient, and that is God. It is true. 7 The quiet shapes which knowledge gives always resemble more those of thought. The lonely man, who knows but does not understand, is lonelier than those of us who think and reason and who speak. He is lonelier, for his thoughts are never with those he loves. They float in a sea of indifference as the mists of night that curl over the empty house of the dead. They are with the man alone in the bosom of the mother whose heart he draws closer with his own hand, with his cold, throbbing lips. It is true. <|endoftext|> "Mariana", by Frances Albertini [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Religion, Christianity] "Mariana, we walk within this light, It is our ancestral heritage. I sense its magic. We have Answered the sky with prayer. Are you One of the departed, lost? Mariana, I walk within this light." Mariana, I have walked within this light, and seen things that scare me, such as the sky scary and empty. I feel this is true. I see your soul suddenly disappearing. Mariana, you are happy. <|endoftext|> "Dreams", by Frances Albertini [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Faith & Doubt, The Spiritual] Within the sacred valley, Scintillating with water, Vessels like diamonds Smashing and glittering In silver thunders, I believe that a God Exists beyond human comprehension, Where silence has birth. But where can I enter this region, This great divine desert, Where rock lies flat like a dish; Where fire has no home? Only the virgin Mary Has faith to enter here. Called by such a name, I walk into a valley, Where rock lies like a dish, Where fire has no home. Life waits for me there, Only a few steps more, Only my steps closer, Only my eyes closer To this living light, To the Angelic face. I may not go beyond, Walk among those vessels, Thirsting for myriads Of precious tears. Only the Virgin Mary knows that I must Walk within this light, And what will I find there? Only the Virgin Mary, In her blessed hands, Holding the glass up To the sacred light. Ah! Mariana, If I but knew, And had the secret of the glass, Of these and such-like wonders, I would bring my boy, Walk within this blessed light, Tell him of the wonders Grown in this light, Of the love of those who love him. I would show to him, That the world he must live in, And that here, in this valley, The sun and moon abide. <|endoftext|> "L'Allegro", by Luigi Marinacci [Living, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals] The violet of lily, a flame In its close crystalline valley. With the long, coarse yellow of peanut The boy visits. His reflection Now he sees, and with it all disgusts. Conceived in sin, he became a thing, His flesh a glove heavy with moisture. Wherefore it was that those, that said I am neither he, nor she, nor she, Were a being with a father's face, And yet with polly and pubis seen. He in the sight of men and dogs, The nakedness he loves to view. And from his hand the slippery blossom, His beloved, the violet lily. When he passes through our city's street With his gaze on the passing crowds, In his eyes he sees what others see, He cannot lift his look from their sight. His look they have a father's look, The look he turns away to shun, And yet beneath his glance he sees. The wild pheasant cowers before him, He cannot lift his look from it, And in its fear he sees it shine, The shame of it, which in him lies. The laughter of a girl with black hair And white throat, he hears, and sees the colour, His lips she laughs in, and the white Cheek which she sporteth, and white throat With black hair interwoven, On which the white sports complexion Looks satiating. O woman, Lovely and beauteous thou wert born When thy innocent form was veiled In thy thin mystic vine. Thou lovest, Thou the young creeper, whose branches, spread Wide in the forest's shadow, shelter Thy fair form, and thy small mouth. But for this thy elder sister, For the fair one before thee lying In the dark tomb, and her white throat, It were better thou shouldst be none. In the second winter, in third, The snow will fall on La-cherie, And the grave will hold thee, Mary, Thy brother will be there. For he will send his fiery car, Bent like a falcon's, to ask Thy sailing appointed. And he will send his servant, To explore thy port, and make <|endoftext|> I wonder what was the event? Did she leave the house in any degree? In what chariots was the wealth exprest? And how much gold was in the treasury? And was she ever in the village play? And of the spoils what?) and bade them find? But now I cannot tell, I wonder. And I must find the answers to all these. I cannot think it was that she was wanting; I cannot think it was the house That was unseemly; and I cannot think That the gossips meant what they said about the treasure. It was at three in the morning, and the ring Was lying upon the tree by the damsel's side, Damp and wet from the dew of the morning. On the curve of the ring was engraven, Love, Camilla, love--for only love could penetrate The circle of truth, where nature binds. One with her own might her soul enfold; No man could penetrate that mystery. Thence still another rose, then another; And on the curve of the ring there grew To nine leaves, in wavy lines arrayed, The legend, Love, Camilla, love. 'Twas thus the lofty tale was told, By leaf, and trifida, and trine, With all the ease of passing years, By every successive omen. And as the story went on, 'Twas veiled by mystery more and more, And grander it grew to the delight Of everyone--all save one: Who, listening in such mysterious awe As bade the earth and heaven resound, Wondered, but guessed not how or why. All cried, "See that man draw near!" But none was a teacher there. "Draw near!" the teacher said; And you were listening at the sound. From out of some deep hidden place You drew near--far near. Before the sounding bell began To toll, The bell that never sounded wrong You rang, and with your voice all sweet Tolled the full charm of six. And then to complete the charm, The teacher said, "Now draw near; Dost see the riddle? The riddle is this: 'Tis not the form of the hearth, or of the flame, The riddle is this--" The clear, intense light Sank down upon you, like the dawn's first ray That lights the world for the weary head; When grief is fled, And the day of the soul begins, Of that great revel you came the bat. Your mantle was clouded with fire; Your crown and your burning headdress Were furred with hoar-frost; You seemed to the Muse to be like to have flown Out of her sky <|endoftext|> And with the rime Came fall of night; And in his friend's bower, Dim and drear Was her couch; but this was change When the wood fires roared And he in his bed saw her They say she slept an hour, But sweetly as the light, The Nereids brought to her Sweet odors in a can. And when her heart jumped in her breast With pleasure thus she slept; But quickly opened her eyes And saw Aurora's crown Upon the golden hazel bough, "Make merry, Maids, and all that, And maidens shall wear, Whosoever chooses to play; The end of the feast is come, Play then, and every one About the merryhall, For this is the time for singing." This the song that Aunty Peg sang, And this the song that Aunt Peg sung;-- For man and maidens still were complaining Of that sad cold they had got at Nantucket; But loud and clear once more sang Aunty Peg, And then the happy ladies all sang this song:-- Now is the day of delight And joy for boy and girl; Now is the day of youthful passion, And tender love begins. And the soft wind is blowing As ever child's fond desire, And the sun shone brightly, And the rosy-finger'd Morn Came slowly through the Eastern window, As the bright morning-sun Begins his rapid journey Over the Eastern skies, And the rosy-finger'd Morn Came slowly through the Eastern window, O then did Tim tipper sit by the Eastern window, And Tim pled "Shall I?" And O then did Gill make answer "I'll begin." And the Brothers (sir and Mrs. Stevens) tiptoe'd And as they spoke they sort of shield'd their frightened faces, And once more it seems (their eyes are looking East) That they were very angry, and almost fancied That the household were not what they seemed. But the song that Aunty Peg was singing Was "Strengthening Slipper"; and the merry singing Of Aunty Peg was certainly making A good jest, and a perfect holiday. At this very moment There came a noisy knocking at the Eastern window. And O there certainly were quite a number of people Who were eager to know what the news was, So they got eagerly inside, And after a few well-tim'd taps on the glass, They shouted "Oh No, not so fast;" And the loud braying of the butler's egg-shell From within the house made quite an echo. Now the butler rushed up without the least prepay, And cried, "The candlesticks are broke, it is true; And while I have been knocking, sir, these gentlemen Have been knocking at the windows." And a large black-cap was shaking on his head, And he was bending his back in an agony of feeling. Then the pain was past, and he got up with something like an air, And laughed with theerest gusto, saying, "After the night! But the candlesticks are broken, and I cannot tell you If Sidney got his sixpence, and my book, and all!" And again there came a clatter of excitement, And the glitt'ring slippers were seen to fall. Oh the swift revolving seconds! Oh the dreadfully long time! That they seem to stand letting by, one by one, And the stars were dim and waned viewless, In a far-off, far-down Avalon, While the butler, mistookful and frightened, And the brothers, perplex'd, dismayed, Beat their chests in despair. But the skies grew blacker, and they could no longer Count the dizzy seconds drip by drip; And the thought of the hurt they had given sent them Wildly weeping into their soups, and to think Of the blossom'd Hebe that loved them so, And the snow-white Daisy that loved them so, With a star in her ear, and a dewberry in her hair, And a bottle of lager in her hand. But the butler did not know; the brothers did. And when they got home and they told their mother, she said, "O my darling children, forsooth You have hurt your sisters, you have hurt them!" And they went to their father's house and they died, And that night the butler was buried, the brothers were shorn. Are you ever startled by a runner So overtalkin', so busy talkin'? Then you don't know N. Scott Paisner, You've probably got the only reason That the man should sing all day long And not care whether people listen or not; Unless you happen to know N. Scott Paisner, In which case you must hire the man to write Blog-like entries about a man who's done it all, From stealing blues in Kentucky to killing poetry, From selling his mother to the Wintergreen bush On Eutaw Springs river to live forever, To marrying for money his seventh wife, With a ninth to follow him if he thinks good, To marrying for money his tenth wife, With a dozen more to follow him if he thinks good. But most men know him as Uncle Phil Paisner Who sent his love through several thousand letters To the house of Joel Chandler Harris, but he never Received a reply. And my grandmother went by the same rule As the great poet and singer, she borrowed Many times her bolder way from him, She even sent him words of wisdom Just as they occurred to her. But most people know my grandmother As the matron that loved to read her Pressman And tell him how to set the table Or to act his scenes better, maybe For the same reason, though in my grandmother's Case the cause must have been different, Except that it wasn't, certainly wasn't. She simply took his mind off his work, Except when she had something better To do, and she took the children with her When she went to carry things in, Or to cut up flowers, or make up plays, Or do anything she might on a Saturday Or other days of the week when the Pressman, Walking his dog along the road and seeing her And thinking, "Oh, there goes the matron in white," Would stop and say: "What a cute son you have, With his sister making up plays and plays, There is so much we can do together I'm sure we can raise some money for charity," And the two girls or boys and their father Would put up their plays or read them their poems, And the Pressman would put in a few friendly words, But other than that he never did interfere. So I know my grandmother, that woman, For I've seen her at the charity dances, And at charity banquets, or at least the drinking Was brought up together with the philosophy Of Uncle Phil Paisner, so I know her, And her philosophy of living, which I Have often heard people call Developing. But to take a case from ordinary, I knew a man, a prosperous man, A man with a hundred an acres and more, All in the country near the city, Whose name was Porter Wagoner, so named Because he drove a team of teamsters, And when he heard they were trying for a hundred He said to his daughter (who was one of the merriest Damsels in the world, I don't mean the flower That rides on a cloud, nor the white turfed drift Of a mare's back, nor the coloured filly With a mane of black on the mane of her own,) "You will be my carriage girl When I am a carriage man, And you may form the connection Up to one hundred and ten, You may make it any you please." So that is how it was formed, And this is how it worked out. He kept the horses and they became As much as ever the teamsters would allow them To get out and go somewhere Or have a little rest, And when they wanted refreshment They asked the teamster and he gave it them. But the teamsters, money-makers, They never had any money at all, And the teamsters were driven a span, And therefore you'll find that they could ride, They never spent a cent, But smarty and happy they lived on the wages That the teamsters gave them. And when the prices were high And the stable and buying-ground gone, They didn't care if they starved, They had their wages and their pie, They were every one on the stable rich, Except the stable and buying-ground gone. And when the prices went down And farmers found out that they could raise Parc roppers and even parrots, When they didn't care how they did it The teamsters were poor, of course, <|endoftext|> Cried, weeping, "O, have pity On this poor woman who travail-songs sings. 'Tis true that she is alone, Though to find a husband she cannot care; But some day you shall come,-- Some day, without any trouble-- And wed the maiden who travails through the songs of the valley." And did the mother say, "My child, what are the songs of the valley, That you want to marry into it?" And the daughter of the mountain said, "Oh, these are the songs of our mother; From her cradle she sung them to us, As a sweet and calm sleep went round her as she lay on her bed of snow. And they were never turned to anything, But were lullabies of things to do with the stars of our father's cattle. And she thought them very lovely; And would never have been too late with us, Had she known that they would stay with us to-day!" "But, mother," said the little one, "why should not the maiden Just take her cross-bow and her arrows, and go out with you, Just take your love and go out with you? And you can make a dress of it, and then there'd never be an end of it, And I could paint it red and white and blue, And there'd never be an end of our singing together,-- And we'd all be happy, and you'd never be tired of me!" The mother said, "My darling, let me listen. What is the singing that you would thus leave me, To hear it once more? Only think of mother and father, Of my sweetheart and me; Then go, and sing to them your old love would be sorry to lose, But little Alice she sang All the old songs, Though never any man knew; Tales of dark woods, Wildernesses, Rocks, precipices, Giant ice formations. Though never any man knew, Long ago, Heard he many a foggy bough Sing a mournful song Over an icy stillness; Songs of the pine Where the clouds are gathered; Sing a mournful song. Far he heard the mountain voices; All around he heard them, Murmuring ever coldly, Murmuring ever serenely, Murmuring ever mournfully; Till, amain, Coming closer, nearer, Little barefoot the forest maidens Came to hear his song; Came to hear his lamentation, Came to hear his protestation, Came to hear him say: "Mothers, leave me not alone, Forest maiden sisters, leave me not alone; Listen to what I'll tell you, What I'll beseech you, Mothers, leave me not alone; Leaving mother when I was young, I went to live with father On the shore of Narrabri , By the sunset. The time was early in the morning, And the light was rather dim; There I saw a sight of wonder, Saw a wonderful sight: All the Island was like a velvet sky In the blush of the morning; Every flower was a sun, Every tree a moon; Every flake of smoke was a feather, Every song of bird a note, Every leaf was a voice, Every molten drop a pouring hope; Every oar was a willow, Every sailor a guru, Every friend a father, Every foe a brother, Every lover a lady; In the nooks of every vegetable, All its own soft voice came forth, Every heap of leaves, a heart Every heap of dirt a brain; Every unborn baby there was a child Whispering with longing, Every duckling a tup, Every chick an egg; All the Island was glad and full of life, All the water a womb; And the wind a sire, And the sun a sister; All of the Island smiled and moved like dreams, Like a play . . . Ah, my little white hand, All my heart's jewel, All my begotten son, Then I heard a song . . . It was like a feathered call: It sounded far and near, It sounded far and near, It shook the trees . . . And over all the Island And through every lake and drop And down every lake and glen I heard it ringing . . . All the birds within the garden Of every shade of woodland, All the water-bugs on the warrentrees, All that sang or swam or slept, Heard the song and entered there, All that see or hear or can Within the compass of their ears:-- A few that I let in the gate And let them in . . . There are terrors in the name Of Father, or Mother, or Brother; There are terrors in the name of Sister; There are terrors where the surname is not . . . Here are demons, only demons, Who come for advice or complaint; And the ink that writes in darkness, The ink that writes in darkness, Is of mother of demons. I will not be frightened of their faces When all the world is going dark; I will not be frightened of their coming, If all the world is going dark. This I say of hearing their voices: It is better to hear them once Than hear them twenty times; It is better to be angry with them Than be frightened of them . . . Better to be afraid of all the evils Than to be afraid of all the evils. I have heard a hundred kinds of calls For a thousand thousand prayers; I have heard a hundred hundred thousand Plaints for sinners saved; I have heard the name of none; And I wonder, seeing so many dead, If they were really dead or not . . . We say we are contented, contented, But we buy the pens and ink That make dull men thoughtful; We say we're happy, happy, But we let the pleasant face slip From Joy and Youth and Comfort, And we say we're careless, careless, But we always will be sorry If a word is said against Sin; We say we are clothed in felicity, But we'll not wear a suit of black; We call ourselves an arrogant race, And we'll be very ashamed of that; But we are the ones that bring Light to the eyes and make Things dim in the day of day, And we tell the blind that they can see, And we say that we are giddy, And that we stagger when we turn From the dust in the street to the sun. We say we are blessed, blessed, But we've no faith in the blessing, And we say that we are clever, But we do not know the knowledge; And we call the soul's flesh house full of strife, And we say that we find the heart's peace But with narrow windows; On the neck of the world we wear the crown, But we are just the sort of men That it would be good to shut within. We say that we are grateful, grateful, But a little bit of worship Would set us among the heroes; And we say that we are chary, And if you should try to keep us wean'd, We'll tell you to your face that you are base; And we shall say, in our dying breath, That you are dearer to us than God; For there is no place in the world for God, And no room for a worldly God. By all means have you try the pen; You'll be surprised what a nice acquaintance It makes with success. When I say I intend to try the pen, And I say to myself, I mean to try the pen, And I will say to my self all in all, I mean to try the pen; For I do not mean to tread. It makes no difference where or how, I mean to try the pen; It's a matter of purse and purse, and brain, I mean to try the pen; The means are nothing to us, I say, The road is all, The destination is wholly hell, But there is a road and a destination; And I intend to go. And I do intend to go, For I am an old beggar, And I mean to try the pen, And I will say to my self all in all, I mean to try the pen; And I do, and I do mean to go, I mean to try the pen. And I shall try the pen For a fat salary, And a good salary, and a salary Above the rest; And I shall try the pen, To be a fellow in the business, And I shall try the pen, For there's plenty of money up for grabs, And there is plenty of pens, But the best in the world. Butter and pies will not save the world, <|endoftext|> He wrings, and bends in vain, Like some one hanged to his Last straw. Go to! this is so very odd. What does he want with a footpath, And why should he go up so High to turn his back on the street, And why should he bend his head? For, after all, it cannot be That the Ghetto is no place for him-- Even now he bends in the rain, And the dark walls stand on him, Not a step of gravel on his soles, Not a pebble on his toe-gears. But the taxi is not his only plaything, Whatever the weather may be like; He has my hat, still leans to kiss The crocus on its purple hair, And dandles the flag in front of our flat In the rain, dandy, with umbrella, umbrella. Dapper man, you can play the diplomat with a quid. Go and buy a pear, or two, of that ripe, red balloon, And bring them here in a handkerchief under the signature, And pay in cash, money-order, credit card-- Just signifying your intention To purchase one or more balloons at the highest prices Remaining-- Cheap, yes, but what for?--to blow the President's flat. He gives his "No Tolerance" yesterday to The intrusion of the feeder-runner, and no longer Is to receive applications for new staples; Now he's gone into his little corner To cry "No Tolerance" over The Feeder-runner and his every impiety. The man had a horse and cart and driven home half the cost Of his trip, by blackmailing the distaff and barrel boys. Now He is not to be given for amends To an American manufacturer, or dealer, or farmer. And so the man Is at rest, cowed, with no hareARPond's sprightliness, Who makes good money, and spends it too, As we know too well, and do nothing to make good. With other crimes that are yet unknown. How droll to see A vision of revolt In every distaff and barrel-boy's face. How revolting to note The "follower" turnings As distaff- and barrel-boys try To reach the millionaires with their goods and chattings. It's hard to think They are going to hang about When there's bread on their desks and money in their pockets, And hankering for the meat they've bought with their own cash (While the President sleeps), The distaff- and barrel-boy founders. I'd like to know If the man who writes this Believes his fellow-men And the American Dream. If his love of peace and his contempt for War Can't bring him to recognize The joys of living with those whom he's serving. When you get to be President, A lot of things will change. You will have people to dinner And they'll want what you've got. And, they'll want to give you money, And you'll want to take it. They'll want to give you orders, And you'll want to take them. The Oval Office will be Full of people you never knew. And you'll wish you had been born Another boy or girl. They will be, what, pre-adults now? Have you ever seen so many P.M.s? When the President gets things started It's difficult 'at last to stop 'em; It's difficult 'at all those lobbyists Have ever represented the people. It's not so difficult when you've already got A duty to do and an influence To give your vote, your advice to anyone. If it wasn't for him I'm afraid The railroads and all the other things They've been clamoring for wouldn't get through, For he's the biggest silent guy in the country And one voice can always drown them all. I'm sure, though, if I had to bet, It's Mr. Smith will be the next one in. It was late by the time she climbed down from the ladder And pulled the bed-sheet off the statue of George Washington And walked across the wet grass to the car; It was late when she came back and made me a coffee; It was late when she put her purse in the seat and got in. It was late when the train stopped and she put her clothes Back in the car and went to the wash-stand, hoping To find something for a fight in it. She found a paper and comb she had been wanting; She found a galdame and a cloak she had a want; But she found nothing that would hold her interest Until she went in the station and looked for me. When I'm inside a train I stick to the doors; I keep my hat and coat on and so do you, Because every time that you go out you lay traps For little men that follow you and think that they can get you. The man that it is in your purse to protect you from Is the liar that sits with you at the wash-stand. When the man you are helping is sick and wants to go home You tell him not to worry himself and his treasures about it. And that nurse that sits with you Will have taught him not to go by and let those boys Stretch themselves and get weak that have the run of you. Out in the alley she stood with her bundle on her arm And lit a cigarette; After which she threw the bundle in the gutter and came back. But she did not go in the way I was after. For I noticed as she turned back That there was something had gone Out of her pocket--not a soul knows what-- And I swear that I saw her take it, Something wonderful and shiny, And somehow heavy, too. I felt the bundle burn In the gutter as I went by. I was just leaving the dock And heard the bundle burning, But I ran down and got it and threw it out of the window. And I never could figure out why she had it, Or where she had it to put it, Or how she had put it on. I never could figure it out, Or how to get it back. A low thrust and catch, A twist, and out she goes; She's running along the street with him, Herself a flap of rag With which he wraps himself and runs her over. But not all his cunning pays for the clever ploy He isn't winning any public praise for; For the match she thought she had won, He was running away with, Was the one that escaped with nothing injured. There wasn't any point trying; She was out of the paper and blanket. And he was out of the bed and on the floor. (I think his feet were tied). I knew he was one step ahead. So, quite simply, I reached across the room And caught him where he stood And yanked him up and ran him out of the door. But I'm not responsible for his running, Or his stepping out of bed. He was home in a few minutes. (I doubt he'd hear me.) There were traces of blood on his clothes. And I could see that his hunger had gotten him. He had lost his hold on the bed-post. And he'd pulled at his shirt to make a dive for it; But the door was against it, And he'd never been one to start slow. He must have felt that he'd reach the door before me. And he might have caught hold of it. And then I noticed his watch. It was seven-- I got the paper off the floor And put it under his pillow, When I heard a smack Like someone pushing a barrel through a filter. And then, When I was expecting him, He was gone. I couldn't find the door, And thought I might be dead After that knock. But I kept my count and figured I should Have eaten all the pancakes and sausage and eggs So that he'd have eaten most of what I left. But he ate none of it. I guess he hated to be tricked. The wedding was held on the island this year, And was a success beyond all expectations. There was much fun, But my memory's failing. There was dancing and music and singing and good wine, And good beer for Peter to drink, For he drank nothing but water with his food. He looked dreadful--sick. His face was drawn and yellow; He hadn't a lump or a spot; But he looked so ill, With his long hair down over his pajamas-trousers, I nearly went home with a neighbor's daughter, To take a pint of poison and observe her death. I was always a man of good eating, But I lost all appetite when he ate nothing at all. If he put butter on his bread, Or sliced tomatoes, or vegetables, Or turned his hand away from the dinner table <|endoftext|> When thou dost bless us, when thou solacest our dumb hearts with love's blessed melody, when thou, living, dost thy great longing for us smother, it must be that something it is that thou art, for it is thee, thou my love, thou my little loved one! O love that is so fierce, and yet so gentle, tender, enduring, steadfast, and so bright, I love thee for thy very worthiness! O dear, pure, precious love of God that made thee in my misery, deign now, dear fountain, to spill down thy spring's pureness on my weary soul, for thou dost help me now that I am in pitiless trial! Oh, oh, my heart's blood has been sweeter, more grateful for its few years of rest from pain, than e'er since the deeps of hell itself shut to my wandering eyes have parted. Fall down, I pray, on this new carpet that my soul is lying upon, and fold its wings, I pray, O love, and stay! I will not wander. These my words, though spake Through poor reflex of my vision, found response From the deathless contemplation of that higher power Which doth inherit the hearts of godlike men, O Sire of the world, thou King of life by any Name appell'd, thou power endued with virtue By which a hundred ages have been redeem'd Of dim anguish, dark obscenity, and sin Which robb'd them of their celestial essence, And left them bare to horror and despair! Thou know'st, O Father, what this love-tokened music Meant for me, this picture of my natural life. I climb'd its crags, and was anchored in its deep; For all the powers of darkness, and pure free will Of hate and love, could not make me otherwise Than those I was, being all Love's at once, The yoke-freed Slave, and the free-blown King of self-- My Father! Yet no shackles then were on my mind, Nor on my lip the deathlike moodiness Which made me go at top speed to avenge that wrong. For there I drew the blood of Slave and King From those two idols of our corrupted creed, And breaking every bond in which they were enthrall'd, Unclasp'd the belt which bound them to the dust, And trampled on their demonic sceptres. These I got from them, and even now might earn A wound by hastily touching, though invisible, The spirit weapon'd in the helpless employee's hand. Yea, rather it might hap that in my ordinary heart I calmly regarded the soldier as he ran To waste a life for one abominable gain, One gain that were not his, yet was mine; the gain Of slavish livelihood, servile hours, and all The taunts, dissensions, jealousies, and troubles Which follow in the train of gain: thus I, who Had not then the higher life within me, could Yea, rather, infinitely, beget, though unseat, That higher life, by simply breathing this Or that plain thought--which were enough to shake The bonds of conscience even of the wisest man, If once perplext by its reasonable influence. What fear we more what crime? what sense of loss Can bring us, when thus the object into sight Sinks deep and far beneath us deep and far! To see the abyss, to feel the panic shake, And stare into the gulf itself! O Father, why Have not the poets, since thou hast this mysterious love Which even for love of them thou dost infuse, Writes of this profound and dual love as of one? They have write'd of it, God being their prayer, but ye That talk of love, have ye understood it, Father? In thy realm where the great seal is remember'd, Father, what is the thought which hath occurr'd A mystery to all but thee, yet ever present Before thine eyes, which they bring forward to test The senses, or the soul to attempt (for both Subservient) thine enactment? Have they asked, "Is this unholy in its direction or True whereby it bringeth to nothing, sinneth In some chief point?" For, if one was the cause That followed, or but one sinful act could be Concocted out of such, in that act certainly Each member would be faulty. And therefore, since (As has been said) in all that goes to making up The soul, one acting is defective, be cause No man hath agreed or particular assigned The task or place beforehand, the fault is their And not thine. Nor, again, wilt thou say that In this particular act there is no agreement Twixt high and low: for even in these thy nation wounded for ever is not forced to admit That Caesar or Caesar's servants have power or chance To supersede them. Nor, finally, wilt thou say That in such deed itself, or by its effect, Power o'er others, rivalry between allies, Or envious faction, hath not its share. These things, Rather, partake, indeed, and are annexed boosts To giantess nature, aye, and trumpets Of victory. But if thou resume'st again Thy contention, and contend'st that all Or nearly all such acts and passions, banded As they are in men, are due to brute forces, Brute pangs, brute halls, brutish lusts, and brutish Fruit, and not to the sense, ignore this truth, Which hath been likewise admitted, and now looks Rather a fuller promise, that such state Cannot endure for ever: well, then, all these Thou mayst dismiss. And, for their part, the spirits, Who call the beast from whom they differ in count And kind, aver that such alienation shall Last ever: yet ye know not to what point Th'alognee from his motherque rise. But let us pass, however false our hopes, And run o'er other fears, which otherwise Were more than hopes, as intimated By the Fathers of the church. What is there to Fear but to stand uncertain, if we rove From a sure haven and planted in a MOOnt, We may confide in feeble hands, and lose Secure footing in this shadow-world, To hereafter gain at length repose? To doubt is to flight and darkness hence. If the hospitable benefit is here Imputed, because the proverb boasts Here to have found more Christians, than those To whom in the other homeland, perchance, They had as few brethren; and if here We must have got up to the purer creed, After the relics and books had sought They passed by; and above all, if there are here Quests, theology below all sets, Which are not translated anyway, I wot Not on this ground would any prof Remain unconverted, were he sure his, In pursuing whate'er the romans did, Or here the genitors of the venture. But, in short, O dear Athanasian, lover Of truth! (and of it most faithfully, If no one ventured and encouraged more Than he who thus is honored in our lands; And, most of all, he wot of all in this To have preserved free use of our own voice In writing to the church, and so to have pre-sup, If perchance we should be decried to obscurity By succeeding posterity) think in peace Astonish'd that the ancient faith is not dead, Yet scattered abroad and few; and that thus Christianity in this depth of time embraced So many discordant doctrines in one; The assembly of all nations here, with whom We had for bondmen special agreement, Have swept it away, and planted therein Of their own voice and form what is called The civil order. So that, in some parts of Libya, Where to this mad war my sex are all a part, Erelong the laws of sale and payment shall be general; So that, if thence the gospel come not first, There is first of Rely upon the old ties And light fabric of the Gospel. Such As in thine own country shall write to our pope, Shall set for them a trustworthy seal and refer Their questions to us. And thou, Capistrato, Who hence with them shall propagandize the new, Give them the heads of councils that they may Form their arguments. All things, that hereafter grow From the same root, by fresh extraction grow, Nor need'st thou learn from any other culture; For we shall send thee a second time abroad, And build thee a church, and in it as much Of the true divine as t' have of holy Writ; And thou shalt there also build another olethra, And spirituality of errancy a rich pillar, <|endoftext|> An airy skirt in sight and--Hush! I can't speak, I'm half a brain: Why, it seems as if I had A good deal to answer for. If I was wrong, why did I live? Why did I strain my being Up to the bright and awful day? Why did I bear myself so stupid? I thought I was going to die: And yet I kept on, because The feeling called in me was pure. Oh, if that feeling would subside, Who could then blame me that I strove? If I was wrong, I would like to know What great wrong the other humans Have had, since I myself Made no effort to help them When, poor things, they needed help. I too have suffered greatly, But I do not think I was doing it Out of malice, although I felt that I was doing it. And I call it pure, because It has not brought me sorrow; It has brought me joy, because It has not brought me pain. It must have been sheer delight To watch him going away, To watch him mounting and rising, Holding his lantern high, Then stepping into the darkness, Where all the dark clouds were. I too have a life to live, And yet I do not despair: It is the finest bliss of all To know that I must never die. What do I say? What should I say? My work is done, and I may say what? What do I say to the stars above me? My work was done when the man was gone: There is nothing more to do. What do I say? What should I say to the earth? I say that work is done, for when the man was gone, There was work enough for the three of us. What do I say? What should I say to the moon? It is a vast and desolate mirror, And what do I say to the world beyond the mirror? Work is done and I say what? You know the song, The old, old song. The last of the songs That the wise man sang, As he stood on the height and looked at earth and the stars, And thought of the last of the olden days, When the gods had swords and honor in the land. Sister, you know the words, The ancient songs. You know the last of the songs As the wise man sang them; You know the words that the last of the songs said. Hear the voice that you know so well, For I know you, my dear, And the words you know so well I know, For I was at Pherae once, And I saw you stand there with your robes flowing, As fair as a goddess should stand, With a crown of gold upon your brow, and a sash on your ankle, And I saw you turn from me in silence And I heard the clang of the weapons as they were swung, And I heard the shout of the martial folk, And the groans of the dying, And the weepers and the joyers, And the laughter and the boasting, And the nods and glances, And the dances and the songs; And the sun was hot and the blue air was dry, But all things there were sweet to me. Sister, you know the words, But what I would have given to hear you sing them, For I know you, and you know me, And the song of our love is not repeating, And I would have it forever flowing, But now it is dried and ruined, And the first rain of the year is on it, And I should have seen it always flowing, But once it was fresh and fair. Would that I were walking in the forest dark, Where you were wandering, and I at your side; And you telling me the old stories of Earth's glory, Of the heroes and their deeds who had gone before; And I listening to you saying them, For I longed to hear your words like old song telling, And your songs like old song instrument playing. Walking behind you, sister, what should come to me Of sudden shouts and laughter and happy beating of fists? But we two silent, moving never a step behind each other, Holding our hands out together for only a little shaking of dust and crumbling grass, and the old blind trees leaning over us for ever and forever, And the wind speaking, saying: Now at last the Year's hard work is done, The work, the years, the tiresome months and costly years, The wasted hopes and fears of the people as they pass along, What would I have of them, what would I have of them? Casting our gaze back through the dark years dead, How like a dead man seems the wise man riding through the day, Even now, as then, his spectacles on the uneven ground scattered, One hand half in a pocket, one arm out of its sleeve, Keeping himself well out of the trouble; so he rides, And now he is past it, and now he is near it, And I, following close, dare not pass him unawares, Though I know that he is aging minutely as a hair, And each second he pushes farther from the turn he made in the year when he began to use his glasses. There are two who wait, Sharing a room in a boarding house, One of red cloth, ill-looking, One of yellow and blue. One sleeps all day, One only sleeps at night. One keeps his beds and desks, One works with a plow, One feeds the chickens and ducks, One drives a cab, and One walks in the street alone, And writes or speaks, All the hours of the day and night. One takes a train at ten, One writes at night, One sits in the streets and gazes At the water from the window Of the building where one lives. One sings for joy, One falls in love at first sight, And feels that he has lost the path, And cannot get up. I want you, I want you, I hunger for your hand; I am clad like a beggar As you see; Waiting, and with a shabby hand At the latch, I am cold, I am cold. I am dressed too much like a clerk For the liking of a lady, I am shabby and out of date, A pile of clothes on sartorially thin. And yet, if I may speak so, Why so scantily dressed, And yet so plainly fair, And yet so quietly contented With one's every whim, Should one sit here like a bookend, A stick between you and me, One of you an Angel, one of you a mule? God help us that we may hold you to your place, And God help us to cast you far enough apart That you may touch and converse with me. Let us begin where we will, Still one, or two, or three, On, still one, or two, or three. Is it because I sing of common things, That your fancies at times reach their wish and fill me, And grows my heart kind, That your looks at rhythm devise My life's passion out of song? But now I make it even, Even now I take it wrong; This room is large and middle-sized, And room enough for Three or four So as I must see. The little one who clings to me, The baby who clings to me, She is named Peggy, and -- well, you see I'm over-anxious to be alone. There's little Peggy, and -- well, you see I'm over-anxious to be alone. I am cross, and it is always sad To look at the dimpling peach That looks at me so quaint and white; And the first thing that tingles and thrills My thirsting lips is your pretty smile. Was there ever heard of a maiden, That would not give her maidenhead After long practice, For fear her husband should come to know, And to avenge it? Of course, that's nonsense! The young gallant must not know! And yet, perhaps, it's not plainly understood, Married or not, a man must hold his peace. It is not plainly understood, But, even so, it's usual, That after a time a wife, Or a wife's considering, Divides, and gets. What a horror is it, Here in our country's code, To be unheard of! For a wife, if she does not speak, Is walking out in the street. Come, take your hat; I'm terribly sorry, But my conscience does not want to prate. There's no dearth of poor people in our world, That have not shame and poverty placed before them. Take a hat! Take your hat! They are always taking their hats. <|endoftext|> Not on our action, nor our worth Are light reproofs decreed. But we that sleep Know all the guilt of all the years In silence. At each step, On life's tempestuous ocean, We stand to feel the lash Of time's unrestful wave; And may it be forgiven us, If bound in sleep, O'erheard and helpless, In danger and distress, We bow in sorrow to the tomb, And leave no trace behind; The future in vain Fills with its smiling flowers Our fond remembrances, Which, from the past, we pay, Till time hath doomed them there. "Mourn not for us," the poets say, "Who have not found the past. Tho' we cannot return, Yet may we leave our memories In delightful song; Shall not our annals Of eventful action Be plucked o'er again, For our next journey? The past is blind, but we, In retrospect, See what we did not know, See if another's deed Hath done as 'twas in the past." Permit me, Sall, to take a sidelong look At the Past, whose eyes have been so faithfully Fronting to me the future as I looked At the world's first night, when all beyond it Lay in mute darkness. I watched them, and I said That the dark was all crumbled into darkness, And that, somehow, I was still able to see. "How did you come hither?" Sall to me once Made plaintively, as the world is used To make itself more interesting. And I Gave this little tale of mine, without one Grudging heart-queller word, and just as Sall Was coming to say good-bye, and I to t My house was ten abreast, from the road I turned back as a convert to Christianity. I could have walked it in my crown-weary way; But at that moment, by good fortune, A light, as of a flat starlit night, Was catching on a grey and crumbling wall Which lay in mockery of the rest, And caught, as I put forth one hand to touch It, the vanward granulation of a wall. I felt the slight reverberation, And drew my face away. A moment more, I saw two faces smiling above The parted wall, and then--did I feel fingers Curling round my heart? I looked again, And saw that it was only the abbot's. No matter, Sall. So we talked some more, And he was so courteous, and so charming, That I, for all my heart-queller parts, Could not but fall over for love's sake. He was so poor he could but ask and get, And, instead of a cold, got a warm And loving hand to answer his earnest Out of the trodden heart of Want. My share in all was small, yet it was full Of tenderness and of courteous radiance, Which the great Widderin excellently, In his spiritual poverty, could Give, all in all, to one who came calling. I have it on the lilt of a happy bend, Which the rest pepper-pan, bass-got, jig, Jamb, and flap-trap. Droning on and on About simplicities of proportion, And premises and actions, he made me see How, indeed, I never had thought of proofs Of any sort. So he rattled on at once Into carpentry and a little more-- Saying, for instance, that an archwork lifts Out of the ground its two columns. With a jolt, And a jerk, he showed how one huge column Cannot be turned into two small ones, And then, in a flash, he made up my mind To go home and put it into a text, Where it stands witness--as he could see From the walls round, and the ceiling up, Of a schoolboy's drawing--can it be-- Of the truth of my story? When the week Was over and closed, I found him gone, But I got my pay in the coin changers' chest, With some German money. 'Zooks, Sall, You're a skipper,' was all that he said, But I had enough for the trip home, If I had taken the boat. He said that when he came back, the weather Would have 'put him off his guard,' and I Accepted his word. A month went by, and then On the fourth day of the next March weather, At six in the mornin', I said to him-- 'Do you see anyone we know gets away, Or do you think it's plain from our window-glass That somebody is coming home?' He said 'Why, that's just the one! the rain-squalls are blowing All down the street, and the spring-dew is falling In around the corners, and the queer Stuff about the porch.' Well, it's a strange window, And the strangest thing is, that he should know The stuff about it, and know it better Than I--you know, his office is in that room. And last week, as I went up to get my hat 'At the bar, I looked through that window, and lo, 'You're coming,' said a voice that was clear as speech 'All up and down the street, and if you do not Make your appearance in a minute, I'll Fly into a passion.' And I didn't move, And the next thing I remember is--a whipping, And that sour old barman calling out, Out, Sall! The next thing I knew, I heard him shout As he struck me. Sall, you naughty man, You knew it was bad when he gave you the chance, But you knew too well the finish was near. You see I was sick with the thought of my sin And your innocence--and I wanted to kill You. So just think how that frightful blow goes The loveliest lips--but your first--and the last-- Are they going to do? Of course, he soon found out what a slanderer I was--for a dozen of the scuttleons Have come round here to inquire after each other, And my loud complaints have made 'yer ears afeard (It must be quite a washing-house nowadays); But in this case, I'm not at all sure But that they mightn't do, As Sall, says 'Em--and he's right, of course. But let me tell you, Sall, if he'd keep so quiet, I'd soon be letting out a lot of dirty stories Just to keep him from playin' em off, I guess. When the other day, I talked 'em fair, And pegged 'em on the fingers--here a hint-- But he said 'em fair, too, When he signed his name, You can't guess what he meant by that. And you know, when you're a thief, if a mouse Seems too meekless, sometimes you'll find it true, And you'll find--if the fence looks blue-- You can get right out of the point with a mouse If you stick in a thief. It's a known affair (But you never know where you might find it) But a queer thing about a mouse is That it gets blue very quick, What I want is a sound two-step--nothing When it isn't a ten, but I'll take the ten If it's two--two hundred a year, And that would suit me just fine, I guess; I'm not rich, but I've a home, and I wouldn't mind Living that way, As Sall says he'd like it, and he wouldn't mind Living a Catch-22. Now there's a cat, Sall, that I think of all night When my back's aching; For he sits in his house when the sun is shining And he hardly leaves it when it pours. And I've been told by his wifes that he's a beauty, And the best to see in the village-- But what I like about him all night is That he never does touch the corn. I've heard he has money--in the neighbourhood Of five or six hundred-- But the truth is he never has the least intention Of spending it; He tells 'em, "No," or "Ilkwe," or "Soon,"-- But his head's so full of kiddin'; An' he always cries when the hunters come, An' they spends the day in a sweat. You'd think so much bereaving to bear As to go half a run with him-- But the truth is, it never matters a tinker When the day's a shindy; An' he never says a word when the stumps fall short, An' he never scores when the wickets yield; <|endoftext|> Thou mightest as surely win a prize In the strait bays of Ins As in Love's noblest contest rise To the apex of Love's realm; The deep Sea's allay the fevered air, Which in your doubtful strife may drown-- The Ayr's fire-dried Massif gives More comfortable shelter to the soul Than Longlie's undewed delights. In yonder coppice side there grows A dank-green mist and round its edges The swept-up peat is coiled and crooked In deep rings which, as the wind Rolls them upward in one great vortex, Send their effulgence to the heavens. A rain of ashes breaks and fills The coke-spar and the waxy flint, And where the white and cumbrous snows For many a year have lingered, there In many disconnected coils is laid The winter's body; yet the spring, With her endless supplies of riven boughs And golden boughs, the year beside, Is living and redeudded of living cheer-- A living cheer which she yet showers on those Who pluck, with sinewy hands, her leaves. Up, up to the tree-tops, still higher There, in the depths of heaven, doth rest That fragrant air of Orpheus' home-- The sacred fireplace of the sage, The nurse, the guardian of his art, Lodged in the topmost branches there. In that cool clime the Florentine mazres Long reign'd, and here their graceful airs Were diffused throughout the wisdom of age, And spirit-tunes from their choir, Brought by the bard into contact With the musicians of the north. There, on his harp, the minstrel would Infuse the sounds of the cavern'd raw, And from the forest's primal power Generate his enchanting airs. Here, toothe with melody, he breathed The nightingales among the pine-woods, Where, pouring rapture from the foliage, The lips of eager boys were beating Theong the bare platforms of the pine-woods, To the piping of the land-wind, Till the echoes to the forest rove To sing the whole dirge of Spring. For thee, for thee, God's own church has raised The festal hymn of praise to Jesus' name. In joy and gladness all the camp has gathered; Thee, only thee, their lips have gladly kissed. Where, with the mountain and the storm, How sweet the song that intoned warm! How, in thy smile and thy word, The heavenliness of heaven was rolled Into the hearts of those whom thou hast known. It had been to their hearts a marvel Had they but known it,--this sure shrine of love, The shrine of the virgin and the brine, The shrine of the vine, the shrine of the oak, The utter shrine of the rock. God's holy handiwork is fallen Beneath our very feet. And there are leaves upon it. Theleaves, the green lush leaves Which are a part of its being. If thy patient heart could understand How beautiful and how falsely so, How like a blossom it is, how like The fountain in thy silent self! If thou couldst see thyself in it, Thou wouldst be more glad than I, I know. And, my friend, thou art too far removed Even to hear my voice, much less to see. But, in spite of all, I pray that thou May'st hear these words--these words I spoke to thee. So, whilst this wonder is growing more Clear and manifest unto all, The world will hear of thee and then, As one dream-blown on the noon's blue, Thou wilt come. Come. Then, then, thou wilt see How beautiful thou art in the dawn, How beautiful in the dusk's gleam. And, when thou art come to this lake, And this small isle, and this solitary shore, Oft at the edge of the sunset-glow Thy eyes will wander and thy heart Be all one wild and unearthly glimmering Which we, all alone, have known and heard, Where the weed stretches and the quail lies Lowly and quivering on the shore. In youth, in age, in stages, when the moon Hath lighted and darkened mine eyes, I have wandered in all ways, and I have walked Through the midst of dread and strife, And in vacant, self-contained joys, And in unmerciful days, And in cruel days and years. Then--or now--there is nowhere To rest, to tranquilness, for me. The splendour shakes, The rainbow bursts from the night; The mountain trembles into flower, The north-wind blows the loud bell From the church where the people say mass; And as I go down those centuries A sense of jubilation Lifts you far in the stars, And your spirit lights my way. Love! oh love! why should I Kiss the gently burning West, When its soft footsteps travel After the midnight hours? Or, in the dark hours that follow, Let the East be my bed? Love! ah love! my heart is frail, Its life is like a wave, And the way it gently yields Is not a safe one. On the verge of bliss, and all The Ocean round us lies, But, at the end, when we must part, Love! ah love! I pray To put some gold in your thrift, To make you wise with gold, And teach you whence your song And reason and wisdom spring: To put some red in your wall, To make you good with gold. Love! ah love! if the sage Can love a vision fair, How can I love thee, who am A blessing, a deathless, And passion's spell? Thou art the mother of delight, Of silence, and sleep, And all rapture beyond! O, what can I give to woo thee O Beatrice, show me On thy sweet lips, O shine, That bliss I may conceive! Though the source be deep, and the aim As lofty as a star, Yet as a plant in a sunny beam A modest green sprouts, Then, show me, good angel, me Some bliss conceived of green! The breeze rose light, with zephyr-stir The night woke, and, leaning over, She gazed on the star-like night, And, wondering at her sleeping face, The tender wild thing, dreamt of love, Came into her innocent breast, As life and death are such: O Beatrice, show me, here, Some bliss conceived of green! Be mine Antonio's happiness, Who through long days of solitude, And nights of every-day care, Can peace find where there are no toys: Whate'er his mode of love, Love is like the pulls and yanks On an old steam-boat on a windy night Out of the day's control. And when the daylight goes by, Lingering and still as death, Like a light plant in a glory In a rainbow's glorious coils, He, all unafraid, can sleep On the soft lap of a lovely stern-- For love is like the pulls and yanks On an old steam-boat on a windy night Out of the day's control. With only thoughts of sweet desire For his life-companion free, Like a sea-bird on a twig of aspen, His only joy to see her near, Shall love find rest as the boat drifts On a calm night out of the day's control. Be mine Antonio's happiness; And if mine he prove not so sweet, For such true fear and trembling Under his thankfulness let me Find another soul to sigh for; And let me follow in his tracks, Out of the day's control. May these great faces the sea belie, Which love and sorrow hide, And these fair cheeks the winter unroll, Which conceal the rose. May love's clear dawn their light disclose, And their still look inspire Faith and constancy to win, Through life's tempestuous time. How deeply, lovingly they gushed and fell! And fell on my heart as on a father's knees; Like a flood of blessed water that falls sweetly From the sky onto the thirsty ground, Upon my soul. For there a new spirit seemed to rise, And gush out loving kisses in a hundred streams, Upon my heart. May this be mine, who am the child of both Amid life's busy bustling press; Who feel my woman's soul within me melt Into a brave man's frame, And take the golden labouring of a man; <|endoftext|> Now whilst you view me with the sharp And angry gaze of reason's eyes, Go not too far from yourself; for though Those eyes are on the model of earth, It is through you that I am vitally Asphered to existence. Now go; Discharge your charge of physic's power, And help me to the self-same bed; There mix a draught of high performance For wounds and grievous inflammations, And in this mixture heal the brain, Where melancholy's artificial Stains our moral nature's brightness. Discharge your charge of art's high wisdom, For in this you mingle moral virtues; And, helping me, help yourselves at last, For 'tis through you I bear most mild diseases.' This said, she took him up gently, tender, And pressed him with her cool, white arm; And, while she gazed on his pale cheek, He felt a numbing coldness go Into his veins and warm the blood Beyond all attention; but again She drew him down, and, as he lay, Gave him again the wound to heal; And that he felt was life!--and was The touch of a new invulnerable, Cool, pale life, like shadows which a shade Gives to the real light, to which they shadow, Yet remain, and make the excess of light. This touch upon his hand revived then His life's last embers; and he cried, 'Take This salve; 'twill calm my breast's consistent Ambition, which, even to wooing it, Can live no longer in these veins.'--Away She flew, and vanished with a smile, As she had danced before his chamber-door. 'Ay, ay,' he said; 'if not too curious To see what I may do in this, My boudoir! 'twill touch on many things; I'll talk,--but I shall be an hour fast. Come, now, my heart;--for it is time.' And thus he made himself up and began His tedious lecture on the powers And ministry of Proserpine: 'O, king of Mulciber! now attend! I shall be brief, though you may despise What I may say, for I am sick, And light's survival disqualifies What I may say; while I am quiet, I'll drink a little and be silent, Lest me my lords should all suspend, Until my limbs are strong again, And when they move, my voice may thrill Your deaf ears into such a frenzy As shall arouse them to a wonder. Now drink, and be quiet; I have done.' She gave one rush of laughing shock, As the cup went down, and then she cried Without reining in her laughter: 'Were but my hand to speak, were but My voice to answer, there were nothing But these circumstances that grieve you For my stepmother! you could barter Her susceptibility of pain For better progress, and her frailty For nobility of wile; and still Find cause to praise the serenity With which my years have mellowed her. To her ample size we are especially Subjected by her fond, constant, kind Assistance; for although she helps us Through the severest trials of our years, She is by many centuries exempt From all the illnesses common to women, So long a lady of much piety; And such the great antiquity of her'-- She paused with these concluding words, Which added more to the misery Of Douglas than the true, that he was young; For as the barometer varies O'er mountain, valley, plain, and wind, and even Upon its own flat horizon, where The patient hydrometer measures up The precise element it is dry Or saturated with some unusual quantity Of moisture, so this altered tone of voice Was given to denote some weight of fact, Of something the more current to the ear In this damp underground than of the sky Above, which men no less below report. Now as the maid was standing by her lord, Pale as a marble image, before him said Young Daniel Boone, in eloquent verse; And then what tears ran hot down his bleared cheeks, Yet void of savage sure defeat; and what Echoes in the distance would not be out of place In Milton's Fast Future--not to be forgot. How striking this was, to a second nigh! But to the first they were for ever gone; They were for ever gone, as the strong current, The constant rock of what we daily meet, On which upon the steps of our own houses We look to judge of surfaces, and therefore see No rock, but pavement, bricks and carpeting. But who can always see what he ascribes? If nature's self alone (which is not true) Took up our tabernacle, and we, for so long, Stood helplessly by, and did not, nay, deceived, What if, to test the curtain, I should take A glass through it, and exclaim with one mouth 'Oh! that glass has charm'd me; I was within! Oh! glass, that hath the keys of all the elements!' But if some larger organ that we hear, Of some former age, be close at hand; and if Such bellows, lungs, lorris' wines, as peep at times From out the chambers of the sacred selahs, To render at times even air, unto some Pest of the ancient world, have held their tail Once harmless, and have now a breathing business; That will show me, too, some twenty years before A hand is free from th' inclement balm of doubt; For, tho' my thoughts be fixed on what is high, And on the firmament, a lower and mean Is even there concealed from us, the lark Low upon the milky right hand heap'd with milk; I'm taught, too, there's a treasure hid for me In every iota of Noble's every number; So while I see, with all that measure those orbs Of theirs, the sere, the serenest of their hours, I cannot of their thunders unriddled talk.' Went round again to Margaret to find, Who, though her sweet voice had that emotion Which springs awake from pain, and wrings the beard Down from the forehead of a man who meets Some old acquaintance, and out-cries--Old boy! Hath not this lived virtue, love of living, Lived in the poets and the martyrs, too? 'By razors not yet yet one-half human, nor Wrists round as green as a calasin's tongue, Ye'll live longer than the strong-limb'd stockman Who cut off the bridal's pigeons and the beer.' Love has no learning, love has no rivalry, How often one is wounded while unto both Peace and love is the reigning gain; this one was. Altho' 'mong the bricks he swore a great oath, Being jealous of the bridegroom, and it proved; Or that poor victim of jealous lust Who heard and went and answer'd, there and here. And she went to confession and persistant, But still her conscience felt a slothful taint. But, being tired and warm, she fell asleep Before the confessional, and the priest Read out the sacrament with a pretty smile And took her flask, and gave her right to rise; And she rose. For what a slumbrous home brew Could do at once and do for the rest of life, When her warm looks turned back to him alternately, And her lazy eye's lazy eye look'd up, and she lay Hard as a log again, but where she did not sleep. 'Behold me, bed-ridden pauper pauper!' Said she; 'I'll make this boil to half its depth, My friend, when I have drink enough.' The poor lad, so thin to boot and short of breath, Rose up, lighted up the kettle, took his bag Of ashes home, and never took another. 'Now, shine those eyes that used to slant all round When we used to play together,' said she; 'And turn those swollen knees of thine old, For thine old knee's worse than all the rest.' So, as she spoke, he lighted down four cups Full from the mark, and left them there to steam. They drink. The first goes crowns among the Poles. 'Up, my boy!' says Young Woman to Old Man, And rushes, swinging her bowl on high. 'Up, my boy!' the Rev'rend Hudson too doth call, And tumbles head over heels in the dust, And takes and throws twice as far. 'All right!' says Husband, and claps his hand; 'You've thrown enough. It's five to four. Bring in the final chip, and I'll take mine.' The chips come slowly in, and Young Man and Old Man <|endoftext|> and when some worm is eating this world, we dream like a holy murderer waking from the dead who dreams of being christ, because he wants to be seen as a very bad man and because the language for this certainty is holy. <|endoftext|> "Blues Man", by Robert Nelson [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, Race & Ethnicity] for Dennis Brown [Living, Midlife, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, Race & Ethnicity] for Louis I was born in New York City Next to the flaming Hudson God shed a creating grace Upon us, we, who were otherwise Resolved to be nothing more Than a black and white filmstrip On the city's basis. The lightest and densest arrangements We exchanged for the first time Knowing the word for feather Was a color, we, Who were otherwise a skinny Flight of pigeon birds Moving through the sauced air With our little fur-balls Concealed under the forest Of the skull. The strangest and coolest incongruities We passed by a million times Until one night, a day By happenstance, in which neither Of us spoke a word, A masked good-looking youth Entering the Steeple Chase Park Probed our first besotted soul, The foolish and fragile and sweet And frail and sweet again, the sweet As is music, as is spring, The strange sweet sweetness of knowing We are wonderful. And before that, The broken horse-hoof Of a greenjacket, raised against A concrete wall Then broken, fell against that wall, Shattering it, shaking The graybeard out of his sleeve, The graybeard, the graybeard, Of our very dreams, the dreams That will be, will be, those dreams That are the essential root Of all our seeds, seeds Of neighborhood uprisings, Resistance, a whirled wood Of saucer lights, and eating Our heads off. <|endoftext|> "Le Petit Cossus", by Robert Nelson [Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Don't look now but over there A good ten feet there sails a dog— A bright-eyed golden retriever, Leaping through the courtyard's park-space With bated breath, chasing a squirrel. And when the small-time thief Thieves in the work-shop image chase, Letting the big ball drop, the big ball, The owner drops to the floor, stands up, Braces behind the armorer, grabs the bat Whose impressive hand is reaching now For the knot at the end of the unanimous arm, Or drops at the fingers of the carpenter. Don't look now folks but over there Another good ten feet, see, sails a man. All the time he's clambering like a poet Across the park wall, toward the squirrel. How he'll clamber up the hedges, all the way To the top of that oak that serves as his house. A poet climbing trees. It's only right. After all that work, all that trouble. After all he's done to rescue the carpenter, This man, too, must have his reward— His dream of climbing trees. And he goes in And out the open door, a poet climbing trees, Hangs there a while, clambers up the bookshelves, Then starts back to the park, climbs trees again. And like a poet climbing trees, Climbs up there now and there and then Over the last fence, to save fifteen cents On milk, and waits, a poet climbing trees. <|endoftext|> "Prayer", by Robert Pickar [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] From my cedar desk, From my cedar desk, I hear the shots in the distance, I hear the shots in the distance, And I think of the struggle, And I think of the struggle, And the iron clock swings slowly, And the blue sun sinks slowly, And the summer air grows colder. I am waiting In vain For something To happen, to happen. I am waiting In vain For something To happen. I am waiting In vain For something To happen. I am waiting In vain For something To happen. I am waiting In vain For something To happen. I am waiting In vain For something To happen. I am waiting In vain For something To happen. <|endoftext|> "After the Great Depression", by Carolyn Forché [Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] The summer of '29 was the worst of my life. I sat at my silent table in a small town in upstate New York, a woman at my elbow, drinking her soda with a sad smile. It was the middle of the greatest period of construction in world history, and all around the country "green rush" workers rushed to complete the work of the previous generations—paving streets and installing sewers, tearing down buildings and making the streets again flat and open to the stars. I was one of those workers. For the first time in years I had money. I paid a lawyer to present my bill to the county, moved into a room in the center of the resort area, hired a man to mow the yard near my house, hired a boy to weed my orchard, hired a girl to sew my clothes. I was proud of these things. But all the beauty that summer was empty. I sat at my desk and looked at the medicine cabinet: empty pills, empty blankets, empty bathtub cleansers, and then I closed my eyes and slept. <|endoftext|> "That Clear Spot", by Carolyn Forché [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The way stars die, once called on to speak, they turn from us, shrink from our questions. The universal veil is lifted. And we watch, until the room darkens, and then the silence is ours. —Hermann J. Michael [Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] 1 We turn from God. He looks down. He sees only the end of time, the end of matter and the beginning of creation. He is appeased. We are dropped from sight Like a knife dropped in a river. “I dropped by chance Into your water,” we say. He sees a well on a spread of earth and grasses, in the dim light. “At sunrise, in the morning, I took a dip,” we say. He is appeased. We are silent in that dark place. 2 At noon, at the fountain, I spit out the free saltwater in my veins Into the mouth of the well. I turn from the well, a blue diamond I held in my hand. I watch the insects come and go. Touched by your despair, the blind Moses, I let the well end without my intervention, without action. We watch the passage of time. What do we see? What do we see? 3 Inhabitants of the underworld and their tormentors. “No time is given to understanding the universe,” says the Sufi, talking to a disciple. Yet our lives become a text, a script. In the evening I walk to the river to cleanse my veins. The sky swallows its stars. All night, at the fountain, I drink from the water and empty it back into my veins, while birds sip from branches of the willow. Afterwards, I lie down on a blanket on the grass. “When I drink from the well, I drink from the water,” I say to my companion. She pokes her head out from the bushes. “Do you see the cloud in the sky? It is the Last Judgment. All of the persons, angels and demons, With their naked bodies are covered with skin. Last Judgment. All of the human body is covered with flesh. Last Judgment. If a person slays a human being, it is as though that person slayed a demon. Last Judgment. Last Judgment. There are those who say that those who do not believe in the Last Judgment know nothing of God, but they know a great deal about the Last Judgment.” I walk to the river to drink water. In the distance I hear the Call of the Wild. “Last Judgment,” say the thunder, in the distance I hear the Call of the Wild. I drink from the well. I watch the insects fly. My companion stirs and moves. 4 My companion stirs and moves. For forty days and nights <|endoftext|> Me, hidden, what power in thee remains? What word from thy lovely lips would sparkle As mine does when I call it thine, O moon, And thou thine, O unapproachable one! Thou, in whose beams my soul enfoldeth All ideas of beauty that within it Move all the warm heart with a desire Unspeakable and more than all rewards! Then, O my "little white woman," in this hour Of aspiration high, of fervid thought, This hope that in my life a light will dawn More luminous than all that has gone before, Make thou my boast a few glories more To set among the stars the thing that I love! All night I lay awake, Dreaming of the remote, mystical days When we were younger, and all at once Life seemed so large, so bold and vast; And you seemed more to me than twenty years Ever would be, yet all I wanted then Was just to be two men's years of age, One in heart, the other in the head. Now, did you know then, dear Heart, What lingered in my heart, dear Heart, The things that in your heart lingered too? I would be true to you, dear Heart, Now that I know my home's here yet, dear Heart, But hold me tight, dear Heart, hold me tight, One's younger has a manly strength A man's less defensible at his heart, So that I fear to trust too much The things I feel within the present With the eternity that's to be. Two men from out the ages Pent in the grip of Time: One with spears that shone like flame, One with songs that seemed to fall From the infinite wings of God. Bacchus and Venus, twin suns That wandered in a sky, Were burnt unto nothingness, lost and dark: And Love and Death, the lover and the maid, Were hushed in deepest midnight. But with a mighty strife Renewed anew their lives, as if they knew The eternal strife was fiercer far Than all the world-old sorrow; Renewed their sad marriages, and revealed The dark dead God of valleys yet Surrounds the wedded pair. Over a cliff of amber light That fledged the night a splendor like the stars Ere the brown Day hath brought his routin' peeps And with one finger pricked the crimson curtain of the sun, (Sign of the brilliant promise of the golden calendars Whose golden blossoms scent the accustom'd gale), There came unto the lovers slipping free Of chilly fear a veiled-like lady fair, Who with slow footsteps knelt and finished sweet: It was no goddess of love, but in her eyes The wise old years of hope and fear were seen. She knew all the deep reasons why they wore The mask of life, the tragedy of love, The passion limned on lips, the unspeaking lips That close above all things their determination stands. The love that over much of me is grown That never yet was born into life; The love for tea, the love for trees, The love for hills that look away and hold The gold wind in their breast-throbbing towers Of burning brass; the love that can Rivalling the might of giant armies To touch for notes that are not too sweet The strings of some small lute or toy for awhile And make it ring; the love that makes A mighty humming and buzzing in my brain-- Shall we not wear it with us through all years And thither fly, as these old days did? My blood is tingin' like the wind, my skin Is as the shine of an eastern pine, My heart is young as is the sun these days, And my old bones are rolling here as sure As they could run and never tire. I walk in the ways of long ago, The ways of lost love and died delight; I turn my days short-heartedly forward To them that are to come and them that yearn. Alas! for the ways that are forgotten! What wounds we that know not our years months days days! The ways that the dead walks o'er with feet of lead, The ways where no weariness can ever make us slip! Daphne was a Dove, On whom the Soul in the Sun came out; On whom the brightness came Where the gold of the crown had been. "I am a Fragrance, that lives with the Sun; Daphne was a Dove, and she was gone." The Soul in the Sun Had scorned To think of the ways where the dead walks were, The ways where all weariness could ever be. Thou art but as the leaf, Thou art but as the spangled flower: The Soul, in its longing hour, Comes in through those kinds ways that are not named; But thou art as a lover that hath been lost, And writen in blood by boughs and showers: Thou art as the leaf that is turned to clay, The bloomed flower that is ureverted to rue. I walked in the fields alone, and there met A Youth after his graduation from the college, And he and I had never heard of each other, But I took his hand, and after awhile He led me to his father's farm, and there Married me, and brought me to his home. And I am the Blue-Lepucan, The midwife of Oezil, the lover of Alce after I had confided in his wife Who turned me into stone and forbad me to leave My home, but ere I had got loose I was under The hand of Alce, and had bewitched him with His wife the Midget of Lanthorn, and bound Myself to her that she might live and never Know my free-will again. O, but the bridal bed is ready, the veil And linen shining in the moonlight-- The blood-rose wine and acorn pomegranate Are libations offered to the dead; And on the floor reclines the dead Ollivander, Poring at his model as he sees The bride. And he sees through the window in the spring The day when I will come, not come with pain, But laugh out of loving, and love out of love, For I am but his till the coming of the long (There is a heaven, even a heaven for every man.) And then he looks out as in sleep, and sees His bride in the moon, and falls on her. I take my flute from the shelf, and play The parting song and the last good-bye. I play for the wedding, and I play A song for my wife and for my children, That when they listen they may not know I Am playing, but their hearts shall walk with me Amid the music of the world's bright hour: They need not the notes--the wind shall sing them The song of the world's bright hour. As I play, I call with all my power, But she loves not. Let me count the steps. I go down to the river in the vale, And cross to the curtain of the wedding, Where I see her reclining. Let me tell her The way I think her. Lo, she leans her head Against the curtain, and her white arms clasp My neck. O love, she loves not! Let me count the steps to the river. The first Is she who is older than I am, and I Shall not find her. The steps slope downward. The last is the step of younger love. Love takes not heed of age, nor of youth. How shall she know, and what is she to find, If I went missing, or left be-harrowed there Amid the bridal fruits and fragrant flowers? I have bent over the loom of life and loved My souls' growth upward. What care I for your care? Love takes not heed of age, nor of youth. A crumb is sufficient for him who feeds His bird with crumbs, the old and brown, the resigned And bodily love-birds. He knows well the estuaries, And lands with sand dunes, and night-widows' roods, And dark deeps where spiderwebs spin, and butterfly-lilies hoar Keep warm. He knows the secret of the coasts And sunny vales and snowy headlands white Where he may lay his head at night and dream Of grassy meadows and of moorhens' soft-throated bells. Love does not heed age, nor youth. The day is beautiful and pale with dew; The hour is at the door of golden hours, And shadows are drawn by fiery suns Across the lustrous glory of the west. The silken clouds hang low on the southern sky, With shadow and light woven cunningly, And all the hills and valleys are bright with dew. <|endoftext|> That it had stood a year, And in that time had performed A thousand spells, But evermore, when most fell out, That strange rustling noise Came in the hearth and seemed a fit To make us all, at times, glad And uneasy,--as it might be The wind in June, Or a rabbit scuffling in the garden, Or puffing of the wind in July, But always unwelcome and deplored. The talk grew bare of artifice, Of love, to suit each individual, And there was much that joined for aid, Like common sense and nature, but still We could not make it freely stick. It stood and time by chance, Which at a breath a bound unbent, And never changed its grip. So we let it alone again, And wished it long and gone away. While we were listening to this, My Lady Mevrial came in. She looked about her, with a sigh, As if she needed her coffee. She said, 'Here is your garden, Wearily we talking gone. May I stay a minute, please, In your study? Please, Sir, You appear to have an interest In a work of art. Well, to begin, Mevrial, tell me who you are. My journey to the Guelf took me O'er many a land, but the end I sought Was plain enough, and I reached it. By a stream's mouth a garden lay In which one lowly tree appeared By chance one of a hundred million. 'Twas not much to me, but it was Opedorable; that is to say, It grew on its own centrifuge, So that the fertilization and watering By natural laws produced offspring Whose pattern was chosen on the basis Of some arrangement of the body, While the obstruction of the head kept others At arm's length, and the trunk was Gathered in a mass on the shoulders. Such was the structure until a few Short hours previously, when a change Of air, by no force brought about, Stopped the pulse and all the body stood Like a paralysed body speaker, Breathing but not speaking, and that word Was the great terminus of all speech. It was like the language of the skeletons, And I chose a low, euphemistic tone. I called the thing bookcase, and told it Its mission was to provide A proper para-therapy For the heads of men who were headless. It gathered and piled up its tons of Probable body parts On all the heads of the heads of men Who were no more than the skeletons Of old heads, grudgingly, till it became A synonym for stony stoicism. I called it tree or tree-skeleton. I called it a poor-man's clipper-barney, By reason of its use as a whipsaw. At length a calm occurred to me, as still I stared at its mouldy bones, That it was not ill-suited to the world Of knuckles, gloves, and sporting badging. I called it elbow splinter. And so it was, Without either a knob or fingernail (As a fact no book even declares what they were for), Its structure made a good fit (Between a nut and a shaft no book can show them), And my cottage was as straight as a shoebox, And my door the door of its hinges. That day my darling son and daughter-in-law, With all their children, three or four by four, Were running after blue and red fireflies. But I held them up at arm's length. I'd just have a whisper, a tickle. They'd have fun. But we slept. Gone are the days of blue hair and black eyes. I'm not so old. I'm not even a slug. The little girls and little boys who used to play With me, on street or park bench, on steps or carpet, Turn now for another cousin, say, Helen, Not yet aware that she is not alone In her strange new world. All day I wait. For a couple to come and give their hand in marriage. This chamber is my bride bag. It holds my binding deeds, My shop cards, receipts, accounts, My blue-back wall certificate, A memory of Scotland, My own long marriage bargain priced." "The house is thrifty," he mused. "Who buys a cottage these days Has to expect a certain amount of rubbish. It has to be lived in. But try as I may, I can't remember ever Readers who could so inter the twining heart With the echoing shore, as these would inter the shore. For me the boot was always in front. You see the people are put on to it now. They are going to take the view it's too difficult For a man and a woman to settle their life. It was for a man and a woman to settle their life. What is it now that makes women and men so anxious, And a man and a woman to put it off till later? To me it's a sacrilege to the dead, Whose earthly liberties are trampled on In the fright of having to surrender their life. It's too easy to fall in love, For a man and a woman, when the life they lead Is good and true. What a terrible thing it is To have to sell their life for a man and a woman!" "Your Cows," he wrote, "are in stalls six feet deep All cased in mirth and frolic, With a knife between their tails And a straw-hat for a head. How delectable they must be To a man whose business is farm work, And who thinks the money he earns Must buy oats to eat. A pair of skids before him, and behind A pair for Mother and two for twins A-cooking while the cows are browsing. Ah, how delectable and fun they are To the man in the city still, Who is living to the full, Having the cow and the money in his purse, And who has his home and his wife And a couple to feed the family by. Well, the old-fashioned husband Is not too proud to admit He is glad he brought home the money, And the wife the cow and the children dear. It is so oft the woman and the man Are naughty in home finances, And they have to give account After they are divorced. The children love them, And their hearts are good, But they always find fault, And it is always the woman that raises A chorus of "cuss-words." How well I understand the song, The happy heifers Go to the city and sell for food. Then their milk-money goes for soap, Gentlebrides or silk gowns, They never spend it as of old. Then they go back to pasture happy, And their hearts are full of fun, But oft they are sick for want of hay, And the wind is chilly and cold. Ah, when the cows come home from pasture And they are docked with hay, Them'll do what we tell 'em to do. Then we pack up our cow-craws And set off homeward, While the old-time husbands and brothers Talk of their wives' affairs With the smiling men that woo, And the children murmur "set! And the old-time cows too Go out to play each holiday, With the boys their ages three, Who may look after the pens And keep the milk-pails full." And it is the woman's duty To say when they go home, That they've taken good care of their cow, To please their fellow man. She must not spare the drink, And she must tell the babies When they come back in winter That they must lock up the cows Inside the stable-door Or the wind and snow will steal in. But the children they soon forget And go gathering cotton flies To drop on their mothers' faces, Forgetting too that it is wrong To hurt a creature that cares so much For nothing but to live and love. And it is surely wrong of us To beat the poor cow in anger When she has done this for years, To bow down to her as soon should we Take her as she is and make her serve us. Yes, this is surely wrong of us. Out of the shadows, Into the light, With the kisses of peace From her plentiful hair, Over the fields of mud The ox, the slave, With the gladness of peace Over the fields of blood Basmpts his bands, For the lives that spin Through the land The happy, generous lives That have spurned the blood and bruised Fields, mud, and sorrow For a shot at liberty. Over the fields of blood, From a life that revels In the joys of crime, <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "But When I Had Time", by John Ciardi [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] I had time to write a poem about leaves I had time to cut my hair and change the locks I had time to give my creditors the slip and change the locks. I had time to die I had time to move out of the tenement and into my own place I had time to get a driver’s license I had time to get divorced I had time to change my mind and not follow through I had time to go to Reno I had time to realize that what I wanted was not at all what I had thought I had time to forget the man I loved and go with "my heart" I had time to forgive the women who wronged me and go with "my heart" I had time to be the man who stood up to McCarthy and go with "my heart" I had time to get some friends to read my poems I had time to forgive them and go with "my heart" I had time to become a grandfather and go with "my heart" I had time to move out of the tenement and take a taxi as my keys grew dead and go to sittin’ on the stoop and talkin’ time I had time to pull that driver over and go with "my heart" I had time to wait I had time to speak my mind and go with "my heart" I had time to understand that love is a matter of degree and not of kind I had time to read my sonnet and go with "my heart" I had time to love the city I lived in and go with "my heart" I had time to forget the gangster of dreams and go with "my heart" I had time to get the meds that I needed to get free of your crimes and go with "my heart" I had time to turn over a new leaf and turn with "my heart" I had time to let go and go with "my heart" I had time to read your poems and go with "my heart" I had time to call the new right "neither right nor wrong" and go with "my heart" I had time to start a habit of laughing out loud and go with "my heart" I had time to take a walk on the wide world and go with "my heart" I had time to say: I don't care and go with "my heart" and go with "my heart" <|endoftext|> "A Pulse of Youth", by John Ciardi [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Eating & Drinking] The time has come to use the imagination again. I'm hungry for the nutty flavor of Pillsbury Cookies but the biscuit is a finer imagination. Of course, the painter loves a juicy steak and is pleased with the crunch of a well-done steak. But the poet loves a ripe tomato, with the pulp divorced from the tomato, and he would like to eat a whole bowl of the tomato, with butter. But the tradesman likes his tools to be musical and he would rather listen to them whistling. And the sleeper loves his dreamy bed and such feelings as are awakened by the moon. But to the architect the plans are formal and his recollection is snobbish and formal, so he can't or he won't remember to leave the wall alone. But the painter has faith in his brush and believes that what goes into the paint will come out in some desired shape, which will engage his interest in an incidental sort of way. But the poet has faith in his heart and believes in what he says and takes to his heart, and what goes into his heart will come out in an incidental sort of way. And then there's me, the graceless driver of the graceless taxi, making a journey through the city, an endless journey, always looping back to the same place, never changing course. <|endoftext|> "A Short History of the Emptiness of This Universe", by John Ciardi [Living, Death, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] This universe is empty. This universe is full of truth. This universe is dying. This universe is myth. This universe is myth, repeated. This universe is god. This universe is the story of me. A story told out of mind, about me, me, me, without me, without me. This is the empty universe. This is the myth of this universe. This is the god of this universe. This is the story of the empty universe. This is the god of the empty universe. A god of a universe that is dying. A god who is changing. A god who is changing, who is moving from place to place through time, through space, in a swarm of god-like god-birds. An empty universe, a god in that empty universe. A god who is changing. An empty universe, god in that empty universe. The empty universe. The empty universe. No empty. This is not a story about death. This is a story about becoming. This is a story about the heart. This is a story about silence. This is a story about meaning. This is a story about desire. A story about a desire that is not my desire. This is a story about the small and great. A story about story. A story about an apple with green skin. A story about the dance of one apple with the other. This is a story about transformation, that is a story about story, repeated. This is a story about a story. This is a story about an apple. This is a story about the world I leave. This is the empty universe. This is a story about me. This is a story about meaning, there is meaning, there is a meaning. This is the story about becoming. This is the story about an apple. This is a story about love and memory. This is a story about a black apple. A story about a message. A story about heaven and hell. A story about an apple. This is a story about wanting to stay. This is a story about meaning. This is a story about changing. This is a story about desire. This is a story about a desire I cannot forget. This is a story about becoming. A story that is not true. This is a story about a friend dying. This is a story about meaning. This is a story about watching television. This is a story about being tired. This is a story about the fall. A story about life. A story about the touch of an empty universe. A story about time. This is a story about time. A story about eternity. A story about meaning and death. A story about tooth decay, cancer, the emptiness of a universe. This is a story about time. A story about apathy. A story about space. A story about the universe, the end. A story about the story. A story about fear. A story about the unknown. A story about the unknown. A story about immortality. <|endoftext|> "A Primer on White", by Peter Balakian [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] White is the color of innocence. It shouldn't exist. It shouldn't be an explanation. It shouldn't be the sentence. It should not be the commanding. It should not be the fearsome. It should not be the later. It should not be this or that. It should not be a way of being. It should not be true or false. It should not even be this. A person of any other color is a person of shame. Even if it's a compliment. Even if it's a shout-out. It should not be this or that. A person of any other color is a person of shame. A person of any other color is the color of sadness. It shouldn't be this or that. It shouldn't be this or that. A person of any other color is a person of shame. A person of any other color is the color of sadness. It shouldn't be this or that. It shouldn't be this or that. A person of any other color is a person of shame. A person of any other color is the color of sadness. It shouldn't be this or that. It shouldn't be this or that. A person of any other color is a person of shame. It shouldn't be this or that. It shouldn't be this or that. It shouldn't be a way of being. It shouldn't be a way of being. A person of any other color is a person of shame. A person of any other color is a person of shame. A person of any other color is the color of sadness. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> And holloed the dogwood in the pitch; Though drunk with care and folly she Had rotted for aye: To seek her here at last: The hound behind, on tiptoe, trailing, trailing, trailing! At last the maiden found him, how he thee eluded! As flies the air, to-day with stormy whirl, The eager hound, pursuive, pressing, pressing, Oncoming feet-power prevailing Forced him aside, and on the other side He saw the other; But, little being, how meseemeth The wide domain of woods to thee was all a plain. And this the reason:-- The atmosphere, So slight at first, Has superabundant grown, And it is subject to the smith's hand, Who, being skillful, Is lord of it, and thus makes it yield Much gold and silver, and gold and silver, And more, the more he holds it. And many men have had Too idle an appetite Of that large take-home, which is The reward of man's age. And many of them have left Sloth, and uncleanliness, And the gain of them hath been To wander in the world Alone, and of a strife That scarce is ended yet. And he who hath done well Is he who out of this Can keep his own house-hold, And the first steward of the soil, And the bearer of the torch. And there were many so constrained By steam of wine, or beer Or, fretting with a full purse For what they needed not, They sent their greedy eyes beyond To what might have been-- A century ago. And there were many there With golden hopes Of a greater future year, And with a certainty That in this future year Were things to look for, and those That should be, and those that were. They were not far from truth, But all is changed; the new Age is self-centered, And the old age of self Is gone forever. And it were pointless now to tell Those who were sadly wrong Of the sleight of hand That gave to them their gain, And their very sense Of the time they took For a transient delight, For a fudge of time. And perhaps, if they were wise And had no love of fame, They might find, as he has, Some solace with that host Of old-time sages Who stood on the ''Change'", One with a vision grand, And set up the finer locks And the sharper shoe in the 'Change for the bid of time, So they turned the old mill That was puny in size To a palace of time. O Time! Thou wonder-strewn height, Look, from thy ceiling, through These windows, half inclined By the magistrates' hands, Toward eternity! Look down, look down upon Those heirs of little worth, Who, having nought to do With building wars, and sinking sail, And all the diligent toil Of building nothing, do sit By desks, whereal they do nought, But fight with toys, that's all, Till satisfied with shouts, The mighty world go by, Pattering in their teeth Clothes, dishes, folk in town, Whilst they fancy-work like drudging things, And leave the highways to go, And stretch their hands in vain To find a prick, or stop a spot, Or get a plow-share to stay. But grant them, methinks, a world To keep, and yet to get, One son, or one daughter, let them choose The labour, or the play, for he With better wit deserves the bread, Whilst they, with some delighted chance, But treasure the playthings that do fall, For a chance calls it 'playing'. And yet, methinks, this vice is most Of all damaging to mankind. For well it is, that son and daughter, Together, over the bridge and field, May snipe at many a stone, and stone At one another, till they wear The man, or woman, tag as tag, And hewing the fence their only play, Unsociable, weary-clouted, Settles, for want of matter, tired. These little vagrants, mere sticks Sprung from the forest root and stem, Whose lives are all cut up the middle, Are, the four fingers of one hand Grazing some wild lichen there, Which in a fortnight or so, Cemented or not, the bare top, Or soon enough, it may be, Decays and falls, and rifts and throws The rabbit from its bed or hide, Or bird from its roof, or sparrow, Down over the stones or sticks, Or shutter or door that goes With groan the moment they go through. They have but this consolation, That, sure as they are now, In a little time they will die. For man grows younger every day; And for one, two, or three more Dies, ages, or equals them, Or grows as strong as they, or more. All lies, and grows as fast as blood; But age to youth struggles the reverse, It falls before it mounts as fast. When I am weary of a day, I know that another soon will be; When I am sad of a year, O, let it be forever. When I am sick of a grind In my undertaking, struggeling, I have but to hang on and hope. For, whatever my interest is, Whatever I have, or have not, In my avocations, All comes to the same thing to me, And gives no satisfaction Unless it be acted through, And while it is acted through, There is no act, or undertaking, But gives satisfaction. O, what is an ending? O, what is a beginning? What but keeping on is ending, What but going on is beginning. Nothing is corruption, Yet is it praised, and Nothing is destruction, And both are adored, Yet man gluts, and Gluts can neither. Wine is a strong impassioned flavour, But water is its equal. Water will swallow fire, Fire will quench water, Fire will drown water. Time waxes old, and fashions new pleasure; The past is past, and shadow its offspring. Time but renews the heavenly ideal Which, true to its nature, it projected. Time glitters with the light, The past is dark with the thing defiled. And what's the cure for the sick man's pain? To drop a life-drop into his ear; I would cure his malaise Of some strong potion, That would shoot the great night away From his old age and ailing. 'Tis hard when the speech of mankind Sounds to the world like an empty vam of steel, And the face of man is but a canvas to the chisel; Then I look for the voice of a swan or a star, A careless wing flitting above the water, And cast about for an aim. I know a better voice, and it praises me In the call of a noble purpose high: It is our ever stronger voice, that bespeaks Them that to be brave singes the last of his hair; And it bids me strive to be better, not worse. Doubt not of the greatness of the voice That speaks to us from our self-same lane; Who shall burst the fiery serpent's egg, The mighty conscience of soul of a man; He shall stand as a tree rooted in earth, Whose proud old shade goes never down. How to be great? I know not; but I know Greatness hath words of dignity, And deeds to show how a man may stand As one that was great in olden days: I have great dreams; they are strong with the might Of the dreams of my sires of old. With them their battles all unremembered, Watching beside the grave-places of kings; Knowing the strength of the battle-field Hath no soldier greater than his fear; Awaking to the cry of the trumpets, With their fresh hearts ready to burst. And with them their deaths unwrit in, Telling of the wounds of the sword; Awaking to the death-watch, dismal, With the close of the battle call; Knowing the spirit of man Dies not with the body's fall. O my heart! O my heart! turn not away From a vision that seems, in dark days, Like a great lost open voice of the days That were; that calls unto heavy-hearted Those that fall dying one upon another; Or unto the sun for men that have Broken their hearts upon the deadly mould. <|endoftext|> It seems on sleep it is. Then mother held him to her breast As if to throw herself from the window. With noiseless step she passed the hall, Then came the room where her maids were. They saw her knee-deep in the nursery. They closed the door and stood motionless. The moonbeam on their faces fell, And their hearts grew faint with fear. Each held to his own arms or his own bed; They stood in silent fear. With noiseless, tranquil stride she passed the hall, She passed to where her collection lay, For all was silent with fear. She paused a moment at each bronze plaque, She scanned the pictures with a frown, For her terror brought a gloom to each face, For each face seemed filled with something: The quiet, patient studs that made up the faces Of merry girls who at a Christmas ball Had danced in designs of gold and blue. The banded hands that held a tambour frame, That picture of health and fun and glee. The fat, red-faced, dancing sisters: They grinned with foamy mouth At the skinny naked boys, And the fat naked boys were grinning back. The hard-faced merchants in their silk gowns, The policemen in doublets, The pious patriarchs in their silk robes, The merchants with bags and wains, All turned with frozen eyes to see, To see the glistening things that moved Between the tawdry girls and the slim Red-faced lads with gums on cheeks. But though the pictures fascinated, They did not understand; They wanted sex, but they did not understand The sex that moved inside those pictures Could be a fact of life or death, A crime to be met with in the street, A joy or a ghoul. But when in mid-garage repair, Mother found that the pictures were back, She held them close, She hid the clues that the boys had tried To dig from the art: The signs that might have helped them to know The girls inside the pictures. She spoke no word Till midnight, then she looked at the sky, Then at the tears she had been able To hide, And then she opened the attic door. In, in to the shelter of mother, The shelter of the years, Who shielded thee from the swinging rain Or the harsh sea gale, Who guarded from the eyes of harried men Or the hated eyes of robbers The wondrous creature within; In, in to the shelter of mother When other refuge failed, Who guarded in the knowledge that thou Hadst all that thou mightest bear, Whose protective strength and tenderness Had sheltered in past time, In dark, in terrible hours, Ere envy or greed had claimed Thy gifts, thy fame, thy place; In, in to the shelter of mother When strife had split the house, Or sickness left a blackened ruin; In, in to the shelter of mother When she had borne her half-shattered youth; In, in when ten whole years had passed, The house of habit, The shelter of boy and girl, She found it was a house of larder, Of comfort she could spare, She could not shield the shelter from the weather, The shelter from the world. The barn, with its swarm of shaggy pitched goods, Lay fallow beneath the heat. With kettles and knobs she was house-keeping, On a crockery radiator sat her. The crucible stood near by, She did not need the fire. Her husband loafed about On a rug beneath the anvil. The shop was a prison, Her only aid the cane That fell on her lap. The rain ceased, the sky cleared; It began to drizzle, The dripping stopped upon the pat! And she has died of exposure, She was so young. Was it hunger or was it thirst That now so thin she lay? How dreary is the shed That holds her whom blight So pines her own life away! Within the antique walls This thing is tolled; But all within the halls Of this old town Are ghostly-still. Lo, from the roofs and the tops Of whispering pines, Are voices heard, Along the sunny space, I see her walk. Her frame is bent with pain. I see her as she was, She who was mother to me, She now passes by. Her haggard eyes are set, Her little hands are fingerless, She walks in pain. Then from the skies, From a crystal mound, All fleeced and rich, A flaming lion came, And her, to reserve her, he swept, I saw the beauty flash, Until my blood was frozen. All the dusky space I saw the showery rain Fall from his crystalline feet, Until my blood was frozen. And I lay still, And I heard her breathing, She that cost me so much pain, She that was own son to me, She that now passes by. Her haggard eyes are set, Her small hands are fingerless, She walks in pain. As I lie here dying The nurses lift my helpless head And read the minutes off a card, Till my sorrow's words are said. I see them bend above my bed. "Nine and ninety--some agony now-- Nine and ninety bars. Five hundred yesterday--nine and ten-- Nine and ten--some agony now-- Five and twenty-five--what d'ye say. Nine and fifty--nine and twenty-five-- Five and thirty-seven--nine and thirty-- Five and forty--five and forty-nine-- Just a little longer--what d'ye say. And now we lose you." The servant's fast response: "Yes, sir, I say. She's here--she's here." "Good! You stay here. Get some sleep. Hurry! Now!" "Yes, sir--I say. Yes, sir--I say." "So long. God rest you. Take good care of him. No need to fear me, Take care of your soul, My tender heart, Lean on me with all your care, For the nurses will be here some time, Some sweet gentle hands to tend you When you wake, sir, and find you lie Dead among bones and moss, Their precious work a-good-will-- Then, so long--God rest you." "No, no, no. My servants be not at my side, Save Robert, and he serve Two full hours, and then be gone, Not to come back again. But in God's name, promise, swear, And he'll serve another year, Not to come back again. And the nurses be sworn to secrecy. Not to come back again. And one thing more. Do you know That they call this lonely isle From old tales of the West, From old fiction books that I read When a child, I had always known This island to be the place Where the bards were tortured and slain, But I read the truth, So I looked it up, And I found it true-- There they lie side by side, When all day long Under the burning sun We do our menial tasks And never get free Of the relentless "must" of labor, Doing whatever can be done For Master and for Mammon, Then at night, when the wan moon Shadowy rises From the swampy land and the shadowy sea, All the lads go "hunting" On the unholiest piece of earth, Who gave us masters and slaves! They have given us dogs and cats, And gold, and slaves, and tomatoes, And beat, and churches, and pleasure, And beer brewed with spices, And the best bed of all, And the worst fate of all things living, And the hope of angels. But the strongest of us all Is the love of our Master, Who sends us "His light, The strength, the hope of our longings, The glory of His work." Be not ashamed, but own thy debt! The earth owes its birds the sea, The trees their life in common birth, All things their need of earth in common. Be not ashamed, but own it openly. The first of men, of men the last, Be not ashamed, but make the best of it! Love lived with the morn, Sunshine bore him and blossoming; Proud of his own warm gifts He let fall his tears, Watched by the stars above While the drops of dew Fell on his wings and gave him glory. Love lived with the eve, She sent him her roses All in the vesper time of the flowers. Love lived with the noon, His journeyings made calm. <|endoftext|> For the gold and silver and the scarlet silk, In our little village in the vale below. Banks are there, like over-bold emperors, With their stately battles and panoplies, And counter-tactics that swirl and shine Like eddies of dust in the lowering light. Two old farmers have a bet a-wag To see who may pass the greatest length. It's six o'clock in the morning, and They've crossed the vale on an alley skirted; And I've been counting to make sure That they've crossed the smallest distance. But the shadow of a tall old tree Has tipped them, and they're deceived and lost. For lo! they've turned up at the first bend, And reached the hut that was their bourn d'etre. And to-day they're hanged, as were the old man Who first did shrewdly play their bets, And brought them to the little village. Ah, that's well worth the trouble and pain! But--why don't they visit more? Perhaps, if we're wise, they will one day Build up their huts in every valley, And draw their fuel from the trees below; Or else, away from dust, they may Build up their huts in every valley, And draw their fuel from the trees below. Go to your hut and abide there, my gipsy, And on the floor-warmed from sleeping on moss, Sit down and wait for me. I must have patience, as you do, for life is hard As some that perish in its intensity; And it's the hope that makes the noblest endeavour. Thou long'st for a mate of like mind, so take thy stick And journey on till time hath quite enwrapped thee. We may not match our rivals when youth's ardent day With steady ardour waxes, but disappointment Comes when youth's fervid moments all are spent, And we are left disillusioned with the past. The present hour is all that we can trust, It leans upon us like a tender friend; The longer we're tarrying, the deeper are The links that call missive to mortal being. The fear of death is what cajoled Caesar To have his "exact fears spelled out" for us; That fear alone kept back the Louvre's sacrifice. Hear what the peasant said to the trembling moon, Flung down in 'Holy Week'--qu'il y en donc!" The leper hears the word--a ghost from the past-- He walks in human grace, as her knees (poor) Her touch, her lips, allure him back to stay, And he again walks his moonlight way with her, And they embrace and they kiss at their ease. But what is this gleam to the poor moon-satchee? It blurs her image, and there's a something Like as if it had offered to kiss But the poor rag-bag of human dust that it is, With its own dubious past, could not afford To trust to such a spectre of the dead. Two cries of alarm!--"A lily and a child"!-- A lily--and a child!--do they often say? I've heard mamis consider that it may be A periplum--in which case, let her shut up Her tulpe in an urn at home, till the next dawn. A lily--and a child, without offence to you; Which is the truest they say? I think that there's A positive denial in that sweet little spot. Do they often say so? Once they did--but it's new! That 'L'epopoque'--that old codpiece--he's flung it out With his immense collection of old Guidi paintings. Old Guidi--tulpe--he means the family damnable; The 'trogo' that she wipes from her little red mouth, When she goes out with the family to buy flour. The 'trogo'--he doesn't forget that when it makes A dismal clatter on the pavement outside, Or, maiden, when a robin knocks her over-- Or that noisy thing, 'the bregm', that's hardly sartor; But tout a l'etranger--lord knows when it's fit, To oblige their parents or some other one. 'Tranger'--to a grown woman--is still worse; But if a lily and a child insist, I guess 'Bout which one's the ill-mannered 'trout', that she is. But ever the innocent remark, it may Be traced in sweet or blackest flowers; It's thought embarrassing when it flounders 'round The 'current'--as that little throat is square; You're haply standing just thus cocked on your Head, in a pleasant public place, a perfect Jest--and the beau dyly peeps under it, Just as he should--but then, you know, he may Be walking on a different part of the road. Just as he did--just so. At a guess, it seems 'Tis a child that's behind this domage, Which seems to grow round the person who's down For a swim in the current there. 'Tis a child that waits all the summer Watching till mother can look after it. And it's not very often, nor 'is it true, That when mother's 'serving in the Force', she takes A taste for the diplomatic manner, And hardly pays attention to what's said, Or whether mother is present or no. Poor little maid, all the mother's devotion Is for nothing when it comes to doing, And everything becomes agonizing, And a scolding mother is but a babbling brook. Well, the little one seems so gentle, kind, And above all clever, that mother's impulses Toward her are powerful, and mysterious; But 'twouldn't do, I'm bound to say, to have an infant Whose specialest trait is obstinacy. The hair's short, and the eyes are quick, I know-- And a kind word would make her completely ours; But the frock is too heavy for a little mien, For she could not be less gracious and funny If she tried. She says it is 'hombre', and I confess I'd rather have a black-headed brute, As an imp of nature.' (This is the sum Of his mien, the Belgian.) That they were full of jests and stories, Which that night in an inn near by They had received from an Englishman; This gave their minds a lively scent For 'twas a world of jovial fun; And one of the parents invariably Had a red-cheeked sprite or two to impress On the wife and daughter; so 'twas a luck Sport to them both; It is quite a jolly game to dance When you're in Portugal, my dappled friend, And the accents of your countrymen Might well be amusing. 'Tis the general rule For an Englishman in this country To carry cards whenever he goes abroad, So his daughter gets fever; and besides He feels, I'm told, a strong inclination To puns at home. He took a great interest in 'em, too-- Hoped they'd all luck in the lot--and told us so: 'But I hate the boys,' said our Portuguese guest. 'Not the sort of friends a restless heart Would rest till it had blue in it, I know.' Of course, like all old people, he kept his dread Of the Spitz on red. I made at him hard When I lived in Kew. He had no dread Of the red-cheeked brute. The same old story: England beat Austria, Because of the seven K's and the Triangle: The Triangle was there in the flag With a wrench above it, to show What Godwin said was the Spitz's arm Out of England sailed our ravaged Rose: More than one blood-stained flag was afloat, A hideous hodge-podge, a man's coat flapping Out on the great waves, another at home Hung up in a cabin near the one we set As a goalpost for our mocking: yet though all Our flags were with us, lo! on the morning's tide We received no scoff from a friend or a foe. All the fires which, he thought, must slash his throat When the hoofs of the German vaulters came, Were quenched in the figure of the Lady Mary, Flower of fair Lisbon, tributary stream Of the red rock that sides the old town. For all The firemen he knew tossed a white coin to him Were white instead. Great was the clamour, in the market-place And on the bare rooftops, to see the Queen Again to search for a hiding-place for her crown, <|endoftext|> A mouth, wide open, nothing then to speak, Made sense of all around and looked above: The arched back, the high thin neck, the hands That became her limbs when from the earth she rose; The almond eyes, the feet so pointed, The curl that matted all her waist, and blew A sensuous fragrance from the unbound feet Of the blue cased creature from the hoary sea. Unsheathed she grasped the sword--and, oh, How red her face went up as that red flame Crashed up the heart within the cloven tomb. She rushed and struck, her sword a blinding flash, Stabbed deep the body of the foe: 'twas done! And yet the stroke, the quick and fiery thrust, The motion, the speed of the slain, were lost, And all that earthly beauty seemed to Ellen Was a dim, unconquerable glow. The smiling lips said "Nay," the kindling eye Said "Nay".... But the broken weapon still was red And flaxen locks still made the poor dead form A conquering look. But the eye and face, Beneath the drowsiness of death, were changed. Her swift-consuming passion poured a stream Of strength through all her limbs. The red-flamed sword Was like a thousand suns that all ignite Mid heaven; it flickered up the golden blade That had forgone its glory. The death-stroke Left both her breasts a matchless red flame, White as the summer that suns the womb; Its opposite gleamed the glittering hair Among the braids, and streamed, a streaming light, From pastured lips, when, having gone to rest, It dropped the quivering nipple close to him. And, oh! her open, fierce-lapping spirit, That bore her far beneath the sun's clear glance To meet the rays, that melt and gnaw and send Burning and clouding rays to dusky seas, Entwined with feathers of unnumber'd moths, Withering in stony streams;--it was she! That took and sate on the reverse of him, The dark blood tinged her bosom's white. Then on the scanty flowers his gaze he bent, And found his silent love among the slain. And bade her rose-wreathed rose-wreath wither all. She drooped; she slept; for so his fierce glance had told. Long was he risen, when he found her sweet soul Had fled to the sunny crown of the war-god Among the victors: in those rose-wreathed halls Her rose-bound rose was lapp'd with the purple flower. Then long he wept, to find the rose in the blood Of the slain. And when the wide-eyed Aethiops Lifted his cuirass that the sun-god's sun Had wounded, for the god's sweet sake the waifs Of destroyed cities with white flower-dulls Of blood-drops lay covered; and the wide sea rang Beneath his surging helmet: and when he stalked Through ruined altars, when the piled parchment Was trampled, and the altars were profaned, He thought those beings had been perfumed things, Fair as the flying blossoms of the forest; That life was but a blurred beam of hers, The surehest of her secrets. And when he thought How here, how there, through all those dark unknown Dim lands his footsteps never came, and she Saw not his face, but always through the gate Of her shadow-world opened on the night, How often did she bid her longing soul Hurry to the music of the mortal dance! He heard the wars, the cheering wars of men, Ring far and near. 'Twas everywhere and still, A thing unhonored, but ever in ear Some rumour of renown, some trumpet's call Of victory, led by mighty hearts of war To fields where flowery temples once were reared And chariots with the blood of all the slain Were soaked in wine and lees of victory! Far off on some wild lava slope where stood No frozen peak as of old, alone he saw, Beneath a grim and still rosy peak, a man Lean at some theuntermchanting; and the man Smiled, and his lips were smiling; he who thought To scale the peak, the peak that bade him sing Behind the peak in vain, the peak that shaded The world from him. Upon the purple peak His lamp he held. One leap unshod At last, and then upon the man, he seized His lamp, and with a sudden start of pain Saw bright above the man a great white moth Flutter, and sink to the blackening slope. Then to his lonely misery, and the night That he had walked in vain, the violent sky, And the dead light, he turned his eyes to see The peak that bade him sing, bared of its light. He stood upon the pinnacle proud And knows not what. A shapeless shade it was That slowly obscured. With a sigh he lifts The lance that in his side hath bled: "Oho!" he says; then with a cry Answered all the people. "Oho!" they cried. "Let us climb the peak, for lo," they said, "See, on the verge, the shape again!" The man Lifted his hands in futile prayer, and sought The moon above, and saw a face arise, And heard again the lamenting sound Of the lonely woman. "He is saved," he thought "For once." And in that hope too mighty might Walked on the peak, and saw that it was true. I know not why, perhaps in hope to bless, I also has stood on the summit lone, But upward from that hour I never went, And seldom have wished again to climb. I know not why, perhaps in awe of God, I kept the path an mystic stillness kept, Till many years had circled. But to-day, Whoso seeks the peak, must search through despair Before he finds the peace his heart desired. The years were many that flitted by me, But never did their passing mark the clock That tells the passing of the summers long. So I have stood on many a summit still, And never seemed to move, myself, until This problem came before me. Up I moved Alone, when all the world was warm, to seek The secret of the woman's bower, and found The cause that chilled me with sensation so Great, so tender, so thrilling, so distracting! Here is the house! it is not very tall, But richly fitted, and seems the product Of easy surroundings. On the first floor Are two rooms; the front opens out to grass, That leans upon the garden; on the right, A small white-thorn fence with heavy stones Extends, secured by fixed chains, to stop The trodden grains of springing corn from fall. Upon the screen of sharp, white stones that keeps The shadow of the hedge, the laughing face Of children frisk with friendly glee, And shake the quivering dew from their long hair. Up through the spacious hall a fire glows, Smokes in the narrow path that leads therein. In daytime there is nothing to see Except a crowd of dusty books and papers, All in a circle; but at night, when, through The narrow gate that shuts the garden in, The moonbeams seem to look upon the place, A form! a face! with brown, aguish hair! Quick mine eyes with bursting blood rush to the glass: "THE END." A whole life's breath is scarcely enough To keep a man alive at his task; And to expect that he shall reach his rest Unharmed, is not to have considered aright The peril that he ends his life in. That a Man's Life is like a sailor's boat That windsward goes, and comes unto a rock-- That it must capsize ere ever at the keel It had reached. That some day there shall be confusion And confusion only of the crew; For the boat capsized while they went before, And now it holds forever fast alone, With those that perished in the trying. That no Man can bind Him or disarm Him, That He must be obedient still whether He think, or pray, or do exactly what Others bid him, no matter what His pay, Who the Father has appointed His Alone From the Whose inevitable beginning Does bid Him--this is enough for life. <|endoftext|> Pray, pray, my solemn Catherine, let me go In the cell where thou and I did meet, And hear thine own song, and her merry dell Her sacred song, ere we meet again. Thy lover I will remember yet, But never mine; thy life I will disregard, <|endoftext|> Rouged, with bony breast and curdled hairs, Perchance a Bat or Ivy green, A simple Conder or that sad statue Which looks upon Desire, and with his single fingers Is all his art, there she was--still there--so dear!-- Beautiful!--yet ever beautiful!--you hardly knew Her personal presence, the solid earth's end Glad to receive her--yes!--at so far and cost! Farewell! another from the Same lets her go! But O heart! heart! still, O heart of mine! Though not in me should Unicorn tread, Shall not again in me thy lips find leave To feel thy soul's heritage, and taste thy tears: O to return, and live again in her! And with her firmament be ever there! And, gentle as the Veil's still shadow O'er one bright morning, O! why should I fear (But where, ah where, O words that rout until true love's kirk?) Since what indeed? I love her still, and what if she Died leaving all her gold with me?--She dying gave it me! I will not weep, I will not pray To him whose spirit was her throne; I will not so much as weep or speak Since she's gone from me, from me: Still unrequited Love's poisoned dart Pierced her and thro' her soul I sped; I know not how, or when, or where, All things are made here below-- The mist how thick is blown about my head, And here I am forlorn and chill; I, who did once so proudly walk, As who o'er the thronged market-place Does pass, o'er Hermes caparison. What was the comfort that my youth Gave to my heart, that heart was harsh and bold?-- That she is dead, I may not have her here! That she is dead! Ah, go and die, thou gaunt brute! Thou grin of scorn, with cursed hardihood! For as I look up to the church-tower, I see it is ablaze:--'tis Hell I smell, And the blasphemous devil-externalion! I have seen him, the fiend, I have seen her--oh, Look yonder!--kiss her, bloody St. George, At Port Lee, yonder!--on the negro's neck! I am sick to slay you, cruel white men! And there is none to recognize me In those redoubled faces of the battle! Come to my bosom, ye avenging ones! I have looked on your great strong hands of thunder Sending forth your children to the farthest hell, As I look on these poor atonement hands, That let me naught but inhuman cries evade, Here stretched and torn, of soul as blank as stone! You that make feasted Hell allow me one Supply, one ray of your surviving light! It is like death to lean and watch her sleep, It is like death to gaze upon her face, To trail the foam of torture from my lips, To feel her blood that mills around my heart, To touch her grave and hear that ghostly sound! And yet I dare not pass her with my crowd, So hot my thirst goes up in ghastly red: Come, Mother Rose, thou well might'st have kept This maid for a reluctant son at war. I will not give her back, though I would swap Far, far away my home, for none shall bear My company to its rough Tartar bourn; Her beauty is my lantern o'er the wall, Her innocence my quenchless flame; She loves me in the old familiar way, And ever will, till we die; She is as fair as when her hand first Over my rose-soft shoulder cast a swipe. She loves me for myself--I know not why-- I am not so unimprisoned of sin; I must have killed some soul when I reached her side; I might not care to look upon her face, Yet she has made me stately, splendid, bold-- Like some wild colossus raised against the skies. I have blushed to own how far her soul Speaks like my own; I am more ladylike now Than when I hurried back to my poor beach: My very tears bedew my armor's glare, And I have killed a thousand Moors in vain. Had I but died, the curse was killed with me, And I were left to sit among my kine. O Helen! mother! I have blushed to speak These words, for I do love you; but this morn I have stood up against my fathers' land, Against the old strong scent of the rose, Forgetful that they never knew a kiss: And now I am here, I call you mine, And all my fetters drop from you and me. One, two, three! they buzz and whirl around, And now they hum like bellows; one, two, three! And their swift strokes carry my dreams aloft To brighter worlds where Galahad lies slain: One, two, three! And they float him towards me where he lies Idle as a sheep that would know what wine Means to his horn, or as a harp-string To some strange sweet strange love that tunes it fair. I see him move against the bright shower, I see him turned in a cruel fray With strong words and faces on all sides; I hear the wings of the bright talking crowd Chatter about him and cry far 'away, For they have killed the King. He has kissed me-- I am his bride, I shall be his wife! Death comes to me as he does to you, And I grow but a thick-skulled mouther That creeps in the dark. The million death-lights We walk among burn cool and dim, And you and I must sit here dim and cool, I and you; but on some strange night My heart shall hurry us and we be wed, I and you; and I shall call you mine, And you shall call me your queen; And I shall crown you with rings of gold, And you shall toss me a silken crown, And there will come a time for all of this When we are old and slim and fair, And in our garden You shall gather golden rings for me, To make me look like golden Venus, And you will bend me with golden crowns To touch the wide bronze-green leaves of spring, And feel the heart of summer sing, And see the sunset clouds go by In golden chariots of fire To meet the endless silence of death. And some night, one star will burn bright, And the bright stars throw soft light about, And we will climb up high hills and watch The pale thin flame that burns in the sky. Then we will look down on the brook-ways dry, The whitethroat listening as we pass, The purple flowers and the frost-white elms, And hear the gray-whispering cedars hollow. And in this sweet wild place Where you and I have kissed, Let me whisper my heart out, For sometimes you and I are glad And sometimes we are sad-- I and you. A star will burn bright. I'll sing a song of fire To look at the bright flame Above the dead bent sky, Till something wakes in me That's long since gone away That I should be as dead, And know all the strange ways That star will burn. A memory of starlight Will float about my heart, And some dark thoughts will come, A voice will say, "Honey, "You know all the way "Into that far starlight "Where the starlight is-- "Listen, lover, listen, "I am near, I am near. "Come nearer, lover, nearer." "I am near, I am near, "I am near, I am near," Will stir some strange new sleeping In my heart; and there, In my heart will be The song that you and I sing When some dark night is over, And in some far starlight I listen to a voice-- A voice that you and I shall know Long since as clear as death. As I remember your innocence, Your blazing eyes and your quick smile, Your secret taunting in your eye, I wonder that you suffered so; Your quick, passionate kiss of love, I thought, was for the kisses that were given, That you were fleeing from--but you Returned to your supper, black with wine, When your husband sleeps, and will not sit; So that I keep wondering, yet afraid, If all I suffered in my heart Was deserved, or was my suffering. You came not when I was lonely As you came, a frail veiled thing, Nor with the gossamer And the gay, beaded face, Of the May Bride, when she goes <|endoftext|> With goodly life and love That saintly knight had left; By what mean they know not now, But knows the Road of Souls, And sunsets ever red, And harmless children's cries. There the Lillies bend in flower On heaths that fringe the skies, Where the dismal Howlers hunt the deer Or wander o'er the falls; Where crags are seen upon the deep But gray Death climbs not there, And rust-spotted Chain Shoals Still climb but without aim; Where it was once the custom For women's whimpers to flow, When the tired men went home, With many-folded, many-strung sigh, To the cold still dells of sleep. O Road of our Souls! Road of our Years! O Road that every face shall see! Where is the guess of what is hid? What is strange or wild to us? The moon and the rain and the wind We know not of, as we go. The wind and the moon have their influence, The wind murmurs by with terse answers, And he is fain of none; And the wave has its graces, but each one Would steal his favorite part: And he is kind to all at sight, But must each face incline A little toward the stranger, duller To all in calm and shade Than any of his neighbors, let none Seek him out and call him friend. No head is turned, no eye is raised, When suddenly he seems to hear A voice in all the murmuring That makes the whole wood tick; And thus embalmed in sound and scent, The Master senses Love's embowering, The back beside his own Is first with flutterings and kisses Of everything that tries her power To keep her love unriven With this or that gale that changes The herbs and trees in idleness. A single leaf is lifted,--mind, What leaf, what hand and what air, What arm, what breath, what kiss Are necessary in that jump Of four teacups from the earth? All that the wind is in the grass Or thistle, or whatever May be in the glens to climb And what the bittern leaves in hand, No leaf, no hand, no breath, Nor at all what eyes could see, Save one warm eye in the world Whose dark thought is as light. No hand, no voice, no mouth It seems can keep hold of her; No pulse beneath the snow, No pulse on the top of her, No pulse to be depressed Or increased by her will; Only the head and the heart Go on as before They went out of the light, And they can be no worse Than they were in the light. No head is bowed in the wood, No hand is laid on stone, No breath is taken of the dew Or human lips have made Against any hard one's face; But the face of the Master Is bowed with a memory He must ever keep warm To make it cheerful and light When it was only sad And weary yesterday. My "bride" (the lady doth live!) Is as placid as a duck, As plump as a caul, As lissome as a leech, As smooth as a winter's day, As fair as a summer's moon, And dear as the blue eyes of May That haunt the flowers in the reeds Beside the water's brink. My "wife" is as tender As lilies of the lea, As modest as e'er was given In literary face; And on her lips a ring of fire Doth kindle like the sun's own Out-going brilliancy. Her heart beats so hard to me That I'm forced to bear patiently The way it goes a-grieving; And the tears it must start are black As the widow-apples of self-will Which wedged themselves about my eyes And choked the operations of thought So many days ago. That the flower-like face as it smiles Must be as hard a case Is shown when it wakes the night And makes us dreams of long to-be, Then wakes the morn to say It will not come again to-day And leaves us lonely there. My "bride" is not all that I have; My "wife" is not all that I will; I've promised "her," and "thou shalt not live To win the other." O, may I, failing, grieve As flowers that wither before the blast! May my broken faith and my thwarted will Make "her" bitter as the earth to me And my belated love as bitter-sweet As is the earth to her. I ask for love, and she meets my craves Like a tall lily in the spring And says "No" as the snow-drops say "No," Yet always "Yes" when the winds cry "Yea." And all day long I praise and I pray, And she's as glad as the swallows that fly To the sun-flooded land, and as free of care As the lightning-swift horses that take flight When the sun rides up the western sky. Our love is like an April night Of bright and sunny weather; We "know each other," yet apart Like seas apart in ocean. The birds in our favor are singing, And the days are singing too, And we share the common warmth of May And its compassionate power to bless. Yet is my love of such contempt, Its pride so far behind Its subtle and cool mercy That it must blush for not being true; And although I would distrust to-night Believing it isn't so, I never can rise above the lure Of its pathetic, demure love. For love is as the laughter of a child, That chews its cullen in its play; Its pathos cannot be louder than-- A child's pathetic cry. If a man ought to know a God's name, He must be godlike in his pride; There must be nothing on earth so vile For him to worship with a godlike word. Because, when God, says "Now I care for thee no more," It is not "Be not thou cruel to me;" If God, when He cries "Destroy it and all its like;" It is not "God smite thee, thou shalt not feel;" If God, when He strikes a weary heart, Is "Forgive them, and forgive;" Then his love is nothing but a strange device, Or all mere empty sentiment. There are three sisters, the crone, the mare, The cur, whose eyes are slumbering. And care, I suppose, And no more Is what sustains them, Their cares are heaven knows how Crowned with a fer- mother's care; From slumber they rise up And will weep till the day is done. A king and a prince, with his retinue, An abbot and an abbess, and a dean, And an huntsman and a hart. The prince has horses and hounds, The king has boxes and chains, And an ape and a peacock, and so The whole royal mournful throng. God, if I could but hold All men within my download (As she imbibes) My soul would laugh and sing, My heart would be a-crowd, A-singing and a-grinning, And I would shake a duet With every dew and dew-feat flower, To perfumed solitude, For they, in their study, Come all to play, And drink of the same wine. My fire is of a different kind; 'Tis like a fruit, When ripened in its green state, And bears within its bosom depths The summer rain and sun. For days of old Sang this same air; And every sunset still re-echoed Its cloudless beauty's hymn. And when the year Was all serene with sun, And died in autumn's breath, There came a Nightingale In voice so solemn It stopped the River, And made each a voice For something new. No more will she leave me; But when I have forgotten The solace and the bliss, I shall not need Her voice so sadly; And I'll be the old me That sang of flowers And would have wandered By every hill and hollow, To every wood and stream. She has packed her jewels And all her folk to town; She has taken her pipe, She has taken her flute, And she is sore enticed With piper's trick. The town is at the door, And myriads behind; But they will be at the piper, My pony, soon; And I have but to sing A cheerful tune. <|endoftext|> Me to see dead, And hear them not; For I died with laughter, as And we twain were born again; And the Snowdrop eaves sway'd with song; And my fist clove the petals of the Rose; And the gentle sunlight dallied with the taper's light. And the maiden wanders with her flowers. She fades like a dream; She enters a vault; She finds her clay; Her dream dies; He glides from the vault; Then and there, with noiseless bat, Within the turret lodges, and paints the vault again. If a sacred bough Waved o'er my head, Or a leaf has swayed To say "Peace!" Or a stream its dream, And my heart its music; Ah! it were all too cruel To slay the vision. I feel that no sorrow Can die on earth; Yet o'er my heart it has passed, A breath, as of a spirit. When our love was young, I thought him wild and reckless, But now he is a dove That nestles near my breast; And, sweet bird, he will not fly For keenest pain. If you climb not Heaven's Hill, And win but rank with the, With the sons of earth, All the world's a common grave; But if you sleep in Paradise, And open thereon a scroll, And therewith hand to hand thrust in heaven, The price is Heaven's Hill. The soldier loves his colonel, And so does the doctor, and the father That's father to the fatherless, But loving none so than Enoch. And Enoch, day by day, Was proud and glad to go, And proud and glad to serve As knows not to be deceived, And as now to live for his son. The old stone walls have many names: The foolish masonry proud to wear, Yet whiter than the swan. 'Tis here that the wall-flower blows With its big white blossom down. 'Tis there that the wall-swallow cowers, When the long day-light is gone, And the still tower stands in the valley, Blazing like the frosted fruit. There's that dark tree that never falls, Through the whole valley seen. 'Tis not a fig-tree, that bears leaves, But one of the Angels' trees, Where the ripe Israelites Party all the night after their brethren. Here dancing is enwoven With the sacred duties of love; Here children are, here boys and girls, All the year are abroad. And he sings, of his lands' desire: The King of the Angels' land Wears an Angel's crown; And a hen doth lay, with her egg, Where the wall-swallow builds. And the nightingale doth sing In the midst of the forest shades; And the dove is at rest, With her nurse, in a broad-topt tree; And the lilies fair About their white homes Outpact the golden hair Of the Queen of the East. All things growing on earth's valley Winter and summer flowers (Kind souls!) Wheat and rye and barley, The joy of earthly husbandmen, They unfold their blooms and flowers In the light of the autumnal sun. But the dark bent wall-swallow crouches By the huge and mossy door When the autumnal sun is gone. And the great tower, and the open door, And the perfect peace of all things growing, And the rose-trees over all, Here grow, in their perfect time, The glory of the Valley. Dear are the old, dear the new, Love that is dearer, youth that's true; Love that is stronger, and life that is dear, Dear the dreams, dear the feelings so fine. Dear the hope that's born, dear the girl that's seven, Dear the smile, dear the weeping hand, Dear the hope that's born, dear the girl that's seven, Dear the fall of moon, dear the love that's true. Dear the lure of the lure, dear the plea for love, Giving love when you are cold and kissing when you are old; The lips that have kissed and the heart that has sighed, Pining for more than pining's subtle shame; The hands that have played with the fingers spare And the heart that has felt like a pearl In the fever of lips' fitful spell. Dear the plea for the plea, dear the cost of the plea, Giving life when you are old and losing touch with death When you are old and hate the dear life with the rest, Kissing rose-leaf plumes as the dragon-fly kisses Her gold wings on wing; Kissing memory's flower, With the lips that have loved and the hands that have loved. Dear the plea for the plea, dear the peril of the plea, Giving love when you are old and your body's allegiance To the hand of a stranger; The sweetheart of the lover, love that's dearer, Love that's stronger, Love that's better, Sweeter, better, though love that is dearer, Handsome, too, and dearer still. Yes, you asked and I heard and I did not hear. Dear, there's hope for the meadow, For the field we loved: For the town we loved, For the work that we did; But the dim place Where a wind blows free, As a golden remembrance For a golden afternoon And a golden sunset, Where the last pink Of a flower Is a rarity, Yet I heard the tune that I used to sing, Fading through the dusk, And the words I used to say: All the work was done, All the young folk gone, For a last joy of the old, To gather roses and go to rest. In a broad white road by a black, white wall, Down the long lane that is enclosed by a wall, Runs the long line of the blossomed orchards, Peeping through the grey mist of winter gray. On either side of the wall are trees, With apples on their limbs and pears on their galls, And kalamendas with flowers like arrows, Sprinkled o'er their leafy boughs, Which huddle in stealth, Half asleep, where the fog-smoke curls around, Making sweet sally Through the branches, blossoming silently From mossy. Down the lane I hear the fig-tree quiver, Quivering in sighs As if in pain, And I seem to hear the ebbing of a tide In the orchard beyond, Where the fig-tree joins the row of pears, Where apples hang and shift, Fringing the grey stones in the orchard soil With shining brown From roots to earth Staining the grasses With their juice. In the lane the pear-tree strews Blossom and leaf, Pressing hard the rain to go; Where apple-figs Nod from the branches, Leaves and fruit Hang, heavy with good digestion. Up from the orchard land, Along the sky-line, The heavy vapors roll, Lifting and lowering In long wreaths from the scarlet sky Their mute, broad scarfs; From the gray west Cold blows the snow, Scattering Into broad plains of air, Whose range is without mark. I shall have to go into the town That's near the field that I love. From what old, old, fairy isle, Far down beneath the ocean tide, Are they nursed the flaxen works? I shall have to go into the town That's near the field that I love. There some bright boy Will have to work his hands and will have to burn To make of me a heap of riches fine as gold. Oh, I shall be so glad and be so proud Of my heap of gold, My riches fine as gold, My pretty heap of gold My lovely rich pile of gold! If the dark, sullen, gloomy skies Have anything gracious in them, If the dews have any gold or red I shall look forth and see it there, If the foliage of the trees Brushes or flashes with light, I shall look forth and see that too And rejoice in it, thankful that It has come to me, gladly too I shall bless the sight of it, For my pile of gold My lovely rich pile of gold, My pretty lovely pile of gold! Well, I have told of God. I have tried To tell of you, my Maker. Not many months have passed, And already he has begun To show himself to me; The terrible magnitude of good Already fills my soul, And it must overflow, If I had everything, My heaven, My all, Which he has given to me. <|endoftext|> Were locked away in their hideaways, Were living creatures that could not bark. Thick was the darkness, and the wind was still, And the trees were still, save when a squirrel Scattered crazy sticks that ricocheted About unruffled branches and chirruped Sharp grasshoppers in dead air. For such a night there was naught to do, Save in my study chair to lie, And watch the strange ships that ran Before the wind in fog or spray Bearing goods and people and freight, While only trees called in the dark On all the winds that blew across the sea. Across the dark the birds were flitting, Blackbirds, jays, and ospreys, some black, Most black, some gray, and some white, Whose plumage washed the darkness green; And there were swallows and tanks and geese, Snipes and pheasants, all shapes and sizes, Whose cries on air were ceaselessly falling. And I was thinking, "Birds, will ye come? Will ye get you in by your nesting-nests? Or will you sit on some cliff-top high, And shout their lights across the wastes of water? Will ye build nests upon my boats?" And all the birds were silent now. And what should I do, or where, or how, Now all my ships were still to win? I would not keep them home too far, Though birds should flock to them from all the air. I sent a boat out first of course, But still across the midnight sea The gulls and the cormorants kept flying. So back I came for an instant or two, And thrust a light into a hole To show the frightened crew what was out there; But when I came and nearer drew, The shadow of the half-cured wood Came over the half-imagined face That was my guide the whole time. The line was drawn as before, But my now-awakened light showed me That I was near an island's side, Wherein a man-built house stood proud and fair, As if men had been there before me. There I willed the masts and sails to raise, But still across the half-shrouded track The strange ships kept flying. I still had power to thrust a hand Across the ocean's whirling dream, But my heart was divided and divided Between what was real and what unreal, And that endless sea was flat and empty Till I looked down and prayed for it to cease. It was something to be on fire for, But not so much to be burning best; It was something to have fire at all, And feel its great soft clutch around me try To lay the long dark waste of me bare; It was something to have looked down and thought, With closed eyes, how great and wonderful and And all that horror and mystery That even in the safest home of sleep Comes when the covers drop and man and wife Take hand and dance with arm in warmth to support each other's; And something too to have heard the babies cry Far off in the night, and felt the clothes grow warm And the children's voices murmur; And then to be led, and follow, and watch, Till that last sweep of the great door swing, And the bright roof shining through the darkness there; Then, if I could be man and wear All this growing out of me, These open manhoods of mine, that break My nights and my days in untenderness, That put out the small lamps of my interior torch Until the house-lights come some small distance around; If I could be all this, and yet not burn Every waking moment, burning out life's small spark, And yet not in the night wake up and know Every last secret thought and cave-born hope of me-- If I could be all this, and yet not burn, I think I should be happier than a god. All last night the window-sill was wet With dew, and across the lawn, The window-curtains too were bedewed. The last lingering cloud had rolled Across the whole sky, and set all the fields a-gleam, And all the linnets in the hills were wakened With singing, and a thousand tiny wings Were whistling through the air. The rose in the convent-yard Was budded this morning; A red rose, a white; A red rose, a white arbor; On the walls, in the air, A rain of roses. The dew of the morning Was a-spangling the trees; A rose would follow, a rose would follow, With the gold of the sun on his back. O my dear gold, my sun-gold, my dying sun-gold, O wither not into nothingness-- O wither not into death! We are not those who struggle To hold back formocracy, We are not the leaders of the Free; We are the middle-class democrats, Risen in this generation, Sensible and deep, and candid and strong. We do not reject small business, We do not cruelly attack The possibility of too much capitalism; We are the Marxists of the olden spirit, Who find the old historical explanation For the methods of the M.P.'s and lawyers, And strive to maintain the general level Of life, and make the best of human welfare. We, too, would shatter the mercenary dream Of outpost democracy At all costs, or let loose The torrent of the dictators down upon the masses; We cannot side with Roths and Cromwell, We do not believe in Congress or Cabinet-drills, But we can protest against the Bad administration. We know that doles were meant to soak forever The vulgar dead, And that their schemes for the future were a dull thundercloud That would shake not the bloodstream, But grow young in brains, And modify not the hearts of the sons of men forever. We would guard the old historic liberties, The right of private discretion For love, and the right to be wrong When we are caught in the errors of youth, The sacred moral conviction That brains have more of the gold than bone, And that we must want what they have, And want it now, at any price, We know well that not all government is bad; To keep God's laws is better than making them, And any regulation that promotes health Is good in every round; To keep in tune with the economic laws Is always best that anyone can do. But still, on at us often goes The stealthy regicide, And minds are defiled and hearts are slain In the very legislations that are passed; And ever the spirit of Dr. Girton Is speaking in the public prints And breathing in the blood and lungs of the land. There is a mind which always aims at the total goal Of the manifest destiny, and transcends its semblances In the stupid smallness of its illusions; There is a spirit that hovered over every King, And never yet died for a private grief or a terror But lived to see another suffering sanctioned, And succeeded, with thousand dark looks, in the brooding of the interminable Dead, And comes out even, if it must die as a traitor, at the price of treason and death to the system; What were your mother's thoughts when she looked down from her lattice And saw you swing beneath her chin? For always the dark green cock of the Meuse Sparks up through the ruins of the Coundrags, And the great earth-mound shoulders the great water-reaches In the silence of pale green twilight Going over a sea of blue. But though your wheels spin slowly, In the noonday space, The sun-chasers know by their rhythm You bear the red Sun of Fame In front of them still, Though your knotted chain and beaded scarf Are scarcer than your track; They know you, know the song they sing, And catch you as you fly In the trails of the chase, Like birds of evening over cities. It is evening in the high valleys, The music of stars has gone, As down hill the mule had to stop Before it could go any faster, Where the meadow-brook is soft and still, Where the swallows build in nests of broken dreams, Where the foxholes trap a hoary whole Of creaking hills, red-winding rills, All in shadow-wise clustering nigh, Where nothing rich and nothing rare Is bubbling up to meet the sun, Yet here's the spot, a shining cove, With a trickle of bubbles that run Tall as the horses of the Hunter And the tinkling half-moon shines clear over 'em And darkling as the low sky cracks like a whip Over the hills and the hills again, Beneath the trees, that were timorous and shy <|endoftext|> From his giddy height to all below, His picture flushes the moist dreams o'er; He weighs in thought the man of strife, Who hedged him in his pit, and slew, The boon who givest daily, and the gift Who givest nightly, to the slumb'ring sloth, Like to the March foison that stirs the brain For an hour, then faints and trembles out. So thought the Morn that brighten'd all the way She didn't start from bed till' she found Her lover come to wake her; just like light She came and stood to welcome him, then dreamed Just like a man and seem'd to be asleep; But awake--then all her white skin put on A trembling, dancing radiance; nor did he His lovely bride on that sweet hour forbear To tell her all about the day--how fine The wind, and the dear odours of the earth; How heaven and earth were full of life and woe, All life's and woe's intermingled; and oh, How heaven and earth the love they bore was thine Which thy dear servant gave such grace to see. For all this tender passion sat unseen, Unbroke; and so to bed she went not, but Sought the mute rapture of contented sleep, Like to the blessed dead in behind The curtained sepulchres of Love and Death. She woke and took a last caress Of lips before the hand she lean'd to part; And so to bed once more she went, Though now with hands that once were hot and red Cold as a rose leaf or a rose fang, Carefully caressing cheeks and eyes, Slowly her hand descending to her chest. To bedward moved the whispers too, From eyes turned sooty in the gloom, From lips dumb as a dying owl's Shut from the heavens and all the world; And on the shrubby meadows low, Where once her feet had trod, the grasses Leant, giving back as in a sigh, A few last caresses as she passed. She took the hands and bulging arms That once had strove in bloody fray; And then she knew 'twas well alone To take her benediction and farewell. Had then a fairy pointed out That wonder with a mortal sire Should meet on its allotted floor, The fays and elves would be her crew, Not one would miss the common shoot. But but for a mysterious hint To thee, O queen of fairy-land, They might have known what touch of earth they had: Thou from whose finger rests the right Of magic that they could extort, What torrent of to-day's great need, Lending thine aid against to-morrow. But to their silent company She pass'd, and they were still in gloom, Nor bolder were than the dead men dead, These cold ashes ebon, those dreamless; Some let their heads drop off; some lie straight; Some in a ring did when they could find No hope of art that could respire The faint spark of life that still remained. They stood in amaze to see That wond'rous sprite come hasting by With lovely robes of laughter, gladsome, bright. Hark to the sound that till now was all Their mortal music, when the maiden sung: Her wond'ring heart the dead men lifted, And let her tears compose their thund'ring hearts; They sought each other's eyes with gladness, They gazed on each other's bosoms with joy. Then sad, at being, they began to die; Each in his dreary bed was laid adown, Nor hold they still, though death had scath'd the head, But minute drops were saw to fall and sting. There left they not one breath of spirit, But fell like men hurl'd adown a swift-rising flood, Forgetting each thing but that brief song; They spoke not, but let the sweet dwell on To make them cleans'd from care and feverish grief; They wept, for she alone was far away Whose sweetest note had pour'd such beauty on. And when they had and till they could go no more, They cry'd out and yell'd to greet their other Queen. She came--and wast removed--and come again; And now her state, in which she shall remain, The trembling shades of men determine is. That wonder and that song she will resolve, A song more sweet than all her enchanted hedges; She too has had of Love's high song, has drunk The dulcet wine of Aphrodite's winepress. Her radiant beauty will recall thy wonder, Will bring new beauties from the boundless wood; This is she who shone most in their dear lifetime; For she is beautiful through and through, A flower which wither'd makes fresher; A bright bow she leaves, that thou may'st draw thee To one more lovely than she was, But ah, what branches! What strange leaves! They passed to leave her such; For lo, the fav'rite of the wood! Herself and lute she left to fade, Leaving such bright tracks to lead thee by, That 'twas wonder how they know't; She was so fair, she was so fair, She was so sweet, she was so gay, Though she wept yet, and every way did weep; Her tears are music, and her sighs staid, She shines but bloomily when wintry mild; This is the love that men will persuade, This, and nothing else is love. "Thou poor and needy man, What pleasures have the store Of not having eyes to see? What store of joys, without thee seen, Thou doest yet enjoy at all? Or else have others had thy bliss, That thou must have had their entertainment? Say, for thou know'st not, how such display Makes thee long, and have thee cry; Then would to God that thou might'st know it, In pity to let thee weep." "I know when beauties look at me, And when they smile I fain would smile; When they frown, I too have a foe, They too have one that will resent it. Hadst thou less wretched been, yet hadst thou Been more fair or victorious, Thou had'st loved me at first sight, or known My love, and then my love had fled. I am unwedded, faithful, what you will, Thou wrong'st me, what can I more? I am not strong, for other hopes are high'd; I have a vow to keep With this that loves me so. "If all men did as thou dost, This world would be at peace; No feud, no hatred, no dispute Had place or pause to grow. Had Beauty cared as thou dost, Then were the world secure, If all wore beauty's brand, And knew how to act, not stare. "All men had property, Then how had man been helped! If everyone had his own, What world were 'ware! And mankind had not grow'd so dull But each had his fulfilment, And love were free as night is light. "If then men did as thou dost, The world were safe and strong; But that's not the way of men; Yet thy way shall be; If thou dost what thou should'st, Fulfilment wait on thee; I wait, and well thou wait'st, I will my nature be; I will not rest contented Nor joy my wife until I die." "The heart is where the fingers play, The world and all that's done thereon, Are not begun, nor yet completed, Until the pen makes first on world's creation A moment in its hidden circle more. Let's hope for better days, my cherub-child! We cannot know the ways of God except by love; We cannot know the use of love unless we're moved, Unless we feel that power; And only in feeling can we know that power, And then we're moved; Love, then, makes us the wiser for knowing. "Cupid laid his head on my breast-- (Ah, now remember that delightful story!) Till I prick'd him with my attention keen And watched his breathing, so nice and occasional, Stirring as with the instinct stirr'd, by kind nature's whim; Till on my naked senses steal'd the pleasure lucky, And I long'd to have him to my arms again: But--love by repulse does not forsake, Nor sickens at the shadow of a loss, Nor makes grief a cataract of bliss, as the world is wont; If of two pleasures there's the one which serves it ill, It is as anxious to obtain the best that can be had, As anguished over a child's money that would go to church, <|endoftext|> Three minutes half an hour in rainy weather. And when it is day again, and daytime begins to show on their faces, they pull out their lawn chairs and take a seat. Between mouthfuls of apple pie, they discuss the panda's defection, the new twelfth-man problem, the low cardinality of Jesus, and whether Saint John broke the bread at the Lord's Supper instead of the guest Aava. Their talk is either philosophical on the one hand, or distressing personal on the other. Eve, it is whispered, died of exposure. These people are as uncomfortable in their own homes as any strangers, yet, from time to time, they go away for brief trips. They are retired, or are watching their 401(k) for a stretch, living off savings, or their spouses’ savings, or inheritance if they are wealthy. The rest of us must work, help each other out. One by one, the women rise. They change into pajamas, and brush their hair at the same time. They dress in the dark blue of the kind of cloak you would find on a trade caravan, and in the sexy attire that the Chinese prefer, so that their married shape perfectly masks their age. Now they are fully clothed in this lush, orange air. <|endoftext|> "Valais", by Brenda Shaughnessy [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity] 1. Shall I ever reach you again? The network of white sand in the tide closes around me as I move. I am carried, floes carefully trailing behind me. All day, I float, dappled with rising and falling water; my wake is filled with deep, blooming waterfalls. At night, I lie, listening to waves’ shuddering joy, or wait for dawn. In between, I read the white magics waving in the wind, or dream of you naked, climbing the sacred cliff of my home, mouth agape, body open to my old love, nakedly waiting for me. My heart is a fast ship taking on water, borne by a strong wind. 2. At the bottom of the valley, the rocks arise from the sheer, wind-monstrung depth. Every step I take sends glittering shrapnel in all directions. I am tiny, defenseless, wounded by the devil. Above me, green ribbons of seagulls fan a relentless stream of birds that tick and hover like weapons of mass destruction against my defenses. I have been defeated by my own strength. When the world blazes, I decide it is my duty to keep going, no matter what. At the end of the day, I finish the day by giving heart, which is, after all, the purpose of my own life: a warm, consuming, deadly warmth. There is no question but that the poets who were saved were pressed against the final rocks, without knowing it, like I was. I am bringing you to your stop. No matter where you are, always be in danger. At night, I am the hero who carries the heavy barbaric arms of God and throws them like a javelin into the heart of the devil. At dawn, I am the one the devil is after, my hands are bleeding. <|endoftext|> "Clouds", by Brenda Shaughnessy [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] To the delicate candles that know the broad land as they know their shapes within the world of forms, dismember in the shape of the thing known: a mariner who can dock a galley in Colosseo and sail through every armored bedroom into a people's cathedral, afloat in saintly domestic air, my mother the floating lens of the eye that sees all shapes, sailing on the vast, unbroken sea. <|endoftext|> "After Ida", by Brenda Shaughnessy [Living, Death, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Relationships, Men & Women, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] When the slow worm climbed Ida’s steep side, cast anchor, unfurled, and gazed from her gaping crevice at our party on the deck at Baile's Fawn, reaching for a thread of sunlight pinched from a seaward face-lift of leaves, that was her handmill, in mourning for her crippled daughter in the mythic fairy tale The Ruby Of Medina; when she unsummoned us, her slow unsummoning, the apple of her eye boiling in the glaze of our stares, my life and love and the world melting together in a cup of water; when she rocked us by the grave of our common mother at the southern edge of the parish, its gem of a church propped open like a snail, starched and wrung to raveled ears of a mouse, and beneath it, bathed by the sea’s kiss, the tongue of an oar gone pearled in its resting place; her fingers opening our mouths to her command again, the sea folding round the smooth middens of our beds, the sea’s years long betrayals in each mouth; the lips of all but me whispering the plea that no woman can utter, we rose like serpents that sing their heals, rose and swerved on the strand of a river crooning our wound-songs to the gulls bewildered by the sound of ida rising, to the star-lit marshes, to the birch-swathed, the sand-swathed shore of our true home that never knows our absence, rising like a wounded animal and striking for the marshes, like a wounded reptile, swerving past the soft green grail of the bay, rising like a wounded reptile swerving past the soft green grail of the bay, past the sweet cream and the ruby quartz and the buttercup, the tulip, and all the rest of the world that is blossoming and is still, and is sundered; rising past the coast like a gossamer dream rising past the bay, and vanishing in the passing of the green infinites in the passing of the green infinites, giving thanks, giving thanks, for the sight of the lowlands, giving thanks for the golden-leaved and blue-rayed ling Solomon's Crystal unlike the conventional rainbow, like the soil of the Clare Assize loomed low like a hill in the sand, giving thanks for the hills, giving thanks for the blueness, the breeze, the path, the cottages, and for sleep. <|endoftext|> "After the Dream", by Brenda Shaughnessy [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] I In the basement of the house with high iron fences, four children played an instrument. The instrument was a broken elephant’s trunk. And they sang to it: “This is what the elephant thought. The man is not so bad, if you consider that an elephant can count, or find the one true rhythm: walking. Gone are the awful big ones, Greeks and Romans. Only a fool is an animal. How happy we are with ourselves! Good enough for animals. But something’s missing. Gone the secrets. They were careful how they threw the stone, they made sure of the skin. The secrets would leak out; the skin, too. Who still has the secret? Where is it? The loose skin of the secret will keep the rains at bay, keep the snows, make sure the waves are rough enough. The loose skin of the secret will keep the whirlpools cool, keep the light at bay, make sure the birds sing. A song is a flight of birds, a message, or sometimes it’s just a simple note. And they kept on keeping notes <|endoftext|> Glows in the eyes of Lapland's maidens, Glows in the eyes of Wainamoinen's, That he quickly shall begin his singing, That he soon shall become enraptured, And his feelings be roused to singing. In the Northland lives a virgin, Servant of the Great Cayston, Happy she lives and joyous, Servant of this lord of thrones; She is called Kalevala's daughter, And I, a play-mate of Mahn-mahn, We played in the mornings, played in the evenings, On the fields of the fields of Northland, Ferrying each other's pinions, Skimming the blue-back of the sea-foam, Hope of whilom. To our games returning, On the run from the earlier questioning, Come we rich, and we come rejoicing, Bringing home from the chase the deer and elk, Bringing also the moose of Pohyola, Also the red-deer of Thygylla, Also the sable-bearded wolf-dog, If there are none to take them from us,’ Shaggy-haired maidens!" Thus the Northland-heroine answered: "Since thou wilt not release me, As betwixt my shoulders am I dragging, Also my life, this heavy weight, I will burst these stones and penetrate To the lowest dungeons beneath them, Will not spare myself to be eating Meat whose food they may disdain it." Still prayer an answer had to make him, Thus the daughter of the hostess: "Dost thou wish to go to Pohyola, To the village of the glory-teems, To the noisy town of Kalevala, Famous on earth as the domain Of the great sea-mother, Wainamoinen, Son-in-law to my otherwise hopeless Multitude of here-intreated woes?" Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Gave this answer to the suitor: "I will give thee welcome in Pohyola, Take thee whithersoever thou wilt." Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: "Rather than go to Pohyola, Whither I care not to be going, I shall bring destruction and death To the Ale-treets, To the booze-coated waves of the sea, While the berry-beer is brewing in them." Lemminkainen, much disheartened, Hastened to return to Osmo's kingdom, Thither also would have gone the hero, But he found not the path the hero Had marked in yonder missive of welcome, Had disclosed to him the secrets Where to find the lost Ahti-meshew, As the wings of a bird he had soared, Rising into the air in the north-west, Quickly scanning the heavens for others. In the sea he beheld a porpoise swim, Near the ninth ring from the shore in the ocean. Quickly running up to this porpoise, He eyed closely o'er the fish with his weapons, Found that it was best and still most new, Best of all the fish he could find in the sea. Then the hero, Lemminkainen, Bestarded the eagle, Pe tabsity, That he might be faithful to him forever, And the bird he might fly to his kingdom In the distant Metalland, the furnace, There to be his albatross around him. Then the care-worn albatross flew onward To his keep in the darksome ocean, Waiting, I ween, many days and nights, Checked by no chill winds in the winter That interposed a few minutes' silence. Times grew steadily gloomier for him, As the days were lengthening to the summer, As for other birds in the, ether There are none to be left in the neighborhood, So the eagle, Pe tabsity, He as soon as the second week was ended, Went to seek his habitation, On the top of 's own cloud-desk. But he found no one to command him, To command the eighteen warriors In their homes and dominions inhabited, He found no one to order them home; Till at last the mighty eagle, Bearing the most distant of his offspring, Went to seek his parent in the lake-tomb, In the waters of man's baneener, Where in earth's domain abides the hero, Where the son is nurtured and commended. Then the care-worn eagle, Mournful, I ween, as he wandered O'er the floor of theodeither, 'Mid the clouds, 'mid the heavens wandering, Found a spot in Uhi's dwelling-house, Found a kneesomewhere in her dwelling-house, Found a spot to which he speeded, Found a new-made home in the village. First he foraged here and there, Checked behind the haystack and in kettles, From the garden-beds, and in flower-beds; Then he crossed the hillock, And the eagle thus pursued his journey: "Where may this line of demarcation Lead? What can lead there? There not flowers Nor the true Gods be in the valley; Lemminkainen's not here, and Ukko's not there." Then he hastened to the eastward, To the distant ocean's mouth in Germany, And the second of this name he crowned, Called the second Lempo kenshi. Thus the reckless Lemminkainen Was away from his home and dominions To the second of the name he crowned, To the island, there, in the ocean, And the castle there of the Germans, And the home of the first of Ahti, Which was built by the water-snakes When the world was in its youth and beauty, When the earth was like a barrow full of treasure, And a hundred bells were woven, ringing, All of eternity ringing, For a refuge for the heroes, A shelter from the coming ones. Three long months there he roamed seeking, Patient, troubled only at sundown, At the hours when fish were swimming, Or a lot of rake-brides were wrestling. 'Twas at sun-down that he was battling, With his net and his gear of line, 'Gainst the rising moon in the ocean. Thus the vulture scattered all night long, Helplessly plied his rending claws, From the grassy highlands far away, From the forests of Manala. But the work was useless; Pohyola Only drew nearer not more distant, For his village grew in Pohyola, And his mind with its soul was fuller, And his wisdom with its hope was blunter, For he heard a "Not to be lost" calling, He heard a future "nots" from hapless victims, In the highest climes of the ten provinces, From a race of merciless Vikings, From a people hard of life and climate, Who had washed away entire villages, Rummaged graves, desecrated temples, Burned like coal in a blacksmith's furnace, And themselves were almost as monstrous. Old you are, and your form untrimmed Still affords the student present wonder, When you rise up on your seat in heaven, As you walk past the sun descending, When you stop upon the hillside zodiac, As the sun makes his daily circuit. "Now my task is ended quickly," Such the words of our creator, "I shall rest in Joy's kingdom now, And shall give you all your wages, For the forest is your own now, You have raised up a palace there, And a sovereign race of your own." And the vulture, I say, resumed His work unceasing, daily growing, And the sun and moon and stars comparing, In the spacious plain of the Northland. Lemminkainen, full of courage, Is not discouraged at all, Reads three spellings of the formula, And adopts the best one for his needs. Then awake Itell the Baian princess, Itell her that she must leave her father, And her unworthy husband, Ilmarinen; Must depart from her brother, Tapio, And must seek a spouse from among natives, Amongst the youth of the country. Quickly sails the aged woman To the village shop in the distance, There to find a bride and be wed, There to be with children of her own, In a country she had never DOSSIER Heed well the ancient widowed princess, When she rises from her bed of sickness, When she takes the midday sunshine, On the tom-top of the windows, On the elevated window-sill. Sees the tavern sign above her, Sees the hut of a marriage partner. <|endoftext|> The lovely Janet and Tommy, The darling girls of John and Jack, I will raise and keep for you, my sweethearts, Where can you find so much as they? No charms so much as theirs can be In any town or city that's big; 'Tis a wonder that the countryside Is not behind them in intrigue; But my sweethearts, they are so simple, And that's why they're so clever." 'Oh, the old romance is fresh and sweet To me in my old age of tears, And I long for these my happy times, As I look into the smiling eyes Of them that used to comfort me When loneliness or sorrow came.' He's just come from a dance in town, A fashion that attracts to town; And he wears a rich outfit, And he's gorgeous in his majesty. But I've seen him somewhere about That string of dealers where to meet, But I never knew, never thought To ask him where he bought his gowns. Yes, I remember now he came To my house once when a child, And his mother's home was there In some mixture of pleasure and pain, Her heart was all in an uproar. But he did not seem surprised To see me. He was laughing, And though there was something gay In the jest, as I thought then, It was odd that he now is silent About all matters that might pique The spirit of old imaginations. 'I am the closest thing you'll find To Love, and I follow him still. This is the only body I have That I am pleased to call my own. And I kiss your pretty lips, my dear, Each moment of the day and night. And here I lie here, alone and fair, And if you'll come and know me well, And learn to love me and to be kind, We two will be all right, I hope.' 'If there's a God, there's bound to be Some parlour-game that's kind of a bore. We have outgrown children, and our youth Was not made for children, nor for school, And when love rules us, it's not for Games where you might conceivably Engage in churlish but NOT civil Practice of guessing whose hand IS strongest So have you any stories to tell Of beds of roses and basket-braid, And the grand piano whose stain Is seal'd for ever with a zone OF dew? In the bad old days when we were young, And all we owned was still a round Of ancient jests and atiya-songs, We used to take a whole afternoon And just DISCEND along on a SHOW. There was a little shop just up the road Where they took your old clothes and sold us on A JOURNAL, and if they had only stayed They would have SEEN us off, they would have swaggered on Till the WOMAN at the till had almost shouted At the changes, and by gamesome caresses We made her miss her train! So we took our quilts And slept in the wings of a pilot-eagle. Then we heard them coming, and hastened up to quench Our lips with FLAVOUR, but the wave-walker's eyes Risen to meet us. We thought we were getting rich, When we saw the light-blue flight suit of his hood. 'Come on,' he said, 'we'll make this a nice sized scene.' And he led us to a little glass-panelled room, In which we saw some glass faces, and on one of them We were MURDERED by the portrait of our brutal aunt WHO HAD A THRICE MONSTER BODY AND A THRICE MONSTER VOICE But we got out, and he gave us all a lift, And the car drove off into the blue. We saw the lakes And the low-lying islands, but our hearts were all in rhyme With the comings and goings of the winged vehicle And the steel rails gleaming in the distance; The clouds would not let us rest; and our heads would fill When the thin shriek of the wheels went past like tin drums, And a thousand-mile fly over the grand old trees And a thousand-mile soaring before the wind Went up to the country and stopped to light on a mill; The bells it struck were the bells we were born with, The ringing of 'Silence' was the ringing of 'GO'. They caught us in the bed of a flat wagon; we were laughing. The rain on the front windshield was hot and it ran down And wet our necks and Sunday shoulders and hands, And it CUT us to a meat-hook, and in the din Of a red meat ration voice we were half expecting God, But the side door opened and a man in a suit Laid out on a baling wire of salt and sand With a bandage like a second nose Said we were no use any more and we climbed back in. We sat in the mud and quarreled. The oxgum rasped In his rough ways, and he stamped his foot and he yelled And he shuddered when he felt a trickle of cold. And we dreamed we were living in a great red room With a thousand windows all looking on a wall Where four close-up lights burned, and a hundred more Were in picture, and the whole goddodge was spinning; And the whole goddodge was circling round and round Like a great red planet with a black wind behind; And the roaring of the wind blew cool water about, And the four lights spun out like copper-trees Over the wall; and it seemed as if all the air Was thin and clear and a great big fish came out And jumped in the pool like a silly man and swam away. And we squatted by the door and scratched his back, And he licked his paw and he licked our paws, and off we set; And the man in the suit blew a small pipe that ran over our heads, And his voice was as deep as a womb and very sweet, And we danced and he sung and we laughed and we sighed, and he rolled his eye, And we danced and our feet struck fire on a mat of wire. And the sky grew bright with a new constellation, and we heard The camel jockey's camel squeal, and a thundering chaaax, and bells, And the camel driver slapping the strings and galloping on, And the lash shot up the sun, and all the little spice ships blew, And the moon came out and we walked where the sun set red, And the camels strained and strained at the shadow of the walls, And we turned up at the hotels and there in the street They flashed us to the geebout-show, and there was the Circus! But to-night we shall stay at home and in dreaming find They are there inside us. They are there when There is not a cloud, and they are there when there is A scattering dust; there when the brass Sags and shakes and is shaken by an earthquake, And when the lictors are jangling at the ring And the deathlike rust of the gilded spurs is drifting; There when the doors all shut in the circuses grim, And the last tawdry music is quit and the speakers are still, And a long twilight rising over the towns of the Levant Warns that the day is done and that night comes on alone So till we reach the city in the hillside dust, We will take a breath; and be dancing under the stars, And sing with our hearts and we will have smiles to give For all that death has done to us, and all he has sent; For all his mockery, and his ridicule on us, And his pulling down of the white-limbed fables of our faith That the barbarian children heard and believed. If one were to ask you what spirit animates Your mountain streams, what god, what great transcendental Mastery that surpasses all reason and all empirical Degrees, you would answer, "Zeus!" So our trotting dance will go on With step untrod till the end of time, Our rocks unvisited, Our cold voices unchanged to the praise of a god, Our stiff, unchanging faces When the winter darkness begins, When the firs stand in their warding crests And the young snow lies on the brown hillside Beside the stream, To the face of the downward stream that will not take My right hand, To the stream of far singing that will not save, To a frozen time When, when I die, all that I have done Will be forgot. When the old loves live no more And no priest sings, When no warrior swears With his blade or with his tongue In praise of the wrong. Then,--in the still falling snow, Who can tell what ghostly hands will grasp my throat, What feet will chase? When I hear the fall Of hidden tears from faces I have known <|endoftext|> To prove its sweetness, for she can swallow The whole of it, and pass the humor through. She too puts salt into her brother's bread, And lays it in his hat, and laughs when he Turns from the brook, not knowing it is wet; Then hurries home, spreads the white with the black, And gilds the fallen leaves of all her trees. I want to be a lady, without any stain Of foolish blood, but such desire I have, To be so made clean as holy. Oh, if thou art Lord of my heart, oh, if thou be thyself the Lord And wouldst wash me pure, what then? I detest All blood but thy blood. There! pardon me, dear sire. Thou must have marked me queer, for I forgot That we are brothers. Farewell! We must part. Farewell, my dear father! Thou art long alive, And I have you with me, though the grave is far. We have had many a laughing time together, Many a merry date; we have played at war With many a childish game, and many a time We have had some mild unkindness from those Who did not know us. Thou wast ever kind, And never didst o'erreep thy sympathies. I will write and tell the mourners that you are Dead, and then I will go away. I will die a maiden, but maiden's blood I shall spill, And hide my hair with violets, and my name With the flowers that you planted; I will wed With one of like-sex and form, and all the race Will say, "Lo! this is what young women are; we trust Them wholly, but none the worse for switch or care." I will sit in the shadow of these boughs of yours, I will pass by the springs that told me of truth, And seek out the violets, when they grew, And make the merry birds pause in their song. Then my tears shall stop: my weary feet shall rest On the stones, where we walked hand in hand, And I, remembered and forgiven, shall die. Oh, do you think, perhaps, when you were sad, You ever looked into the eyes of a child? When we were out with our mothers, when the din Of the town was brow-deep in winter and summer, And you heard my voice in this narrow place, You never bent your head to the foolish feet Of a feckless boy, who only chased the clouds. But you went up to the chimney-shelf, by the wall You stood there, you looked into the face of me, And you saw the heart of a maiden alive. They sent you to the war, they gave me your letters, They said you had endured much suffering in Tartary. And now you come back--it was all a lie. And all your service in the war they never told you, And they never will. They say you were beautiful in those days. You had never lost your laughter, your quick blue eyes, Your dainty limbs. I never knew you at the War, For my work was after hours, and the streets were still, But they never gave me your letter. I did not know You. Why should they? For you they have been my whole life. The pity is I never cared for you. They kept you on With nothing but fear. And I have service to pay, And I have sufferings after hours. I am in your debt. Do you think I did not care For one who did not owe me anything? You owe me living. Give me wages and food, And I will work with nothing but shame before them, And you will be smiling when I am dead. Do you think that I have lived my life to please you? No. I have lived it because it was dear to me, Because it was duty, not pleasure, that bound me To one who would not have driven me to his knees. And now I am happy, what more could I desire? To be just another in the field I had led-- Why, I will tear their violets up overgrown, In wild strange places, and with careless hands; And in dark thickets, where the frightened birds fly Swear their vows, in thick and thin, by moon and star; I will dig for them with my feet until they break, And we will share them among the dinning bands, And swear again, and never pay them a crown. But these things you know, and you do not. I will not kill the violets, for you think they are sweet, And you will not curse their violets. Nor will I curse the dead branches of the trees; They are not yours, you do not own them. And I will keep my mouth shut that has sworn so long. I will swear by the blood on my hands. Thou art happy! You have a secret and no one knows it, and no one else knows it. You are glad of it. And you think I envy you, do you? But I do not. And you say, by this secret, Thou art glad of it, and I envy you. Dear, it is dark, and quiet; The wren stands on the witch-broom. Dove-like the swallow loops, For love of thee, for the delight of thee. The wind is on the hill, All summer long it has blew To tinkle at thy window pane. My darling, O my darling, I heard a whisper of music And thought, 'It is of her.' Then I waited in fear and Rejoicing, cried softly, 'I will be silent now.' 'O my darling, O my darling, Didst thou not speak to me?' 'I will speak now, darling.' 'I love thee, dearly love thee, And love is as tea for unto me. I thirst for it in thy cup. I shall be dainty now, For all that thou hast of sweet, I shall eat and drink a wealth of blisses, For all that thou hast of sweetness, For all that thou hast of love, my darling.' 'O my darling, O my darling, Hast thou not said to me, 'I envy not the night thy blonde tresses, Nor envy the darkness of thy head?' And my heart was filled with joy As I heard, and spake, and sighed, 'Now my head is full of all that thou wilt be, my sweetest, my dearest, my dearest, my life, my love, my dear love, my heart's desire, my hair's envy.' At last the twilight sun Sunk low in the West. The last soft gleam from it Fell on the windows dark, Where shadowed shapes rose and Fled through the long dark, Fled across the swaying grass, And the world seemed at rest, and The world was calm and still With no sorrow in it at all. And she lay like a white flower Couched in a pool of milk. She stirred not, she heard not, She knew she was safe and blessed. God rested, and no troubles, And angels whispered, 'Fear no ill. God rest you, O my flower.' And the world lay still in peace With her lover at her side. What of the word which was sent Thro' the spirit-air To the Queen of the Valley when she came With wailing, wailing distress-- 'Speak, O Queen, of the kiss I gave my wife'? No answer she drew, And the vision faded. But suddenly she hears (Not from the fading dream, The cold painful tonguing Of unseen ears) A new story As though the sweet heart throbbed To answer her strange question. 'Nay, I answered, I answered,' said the Queen, 'As I often should. But if in all the land One kiss can bring, Give me thy kiss, my Queen, For the first I give Is my least wish, and my first wish is-- The kiss thou gavest me once in my weariness, Before the land was theirs, before the world was a word, When life was a pleasure, and joy was for ever. 'Nay, I answered, I answered,' said the Queen, 'But look, I see the Mother and the Child Kindling amorous fire, For the kiss I give They take once more and twine Their rosy fingers, one by one, About it, and, behold, They bring the kiss thy widow'd hand Lifts, in tragedy, to the throne. 'Nay, I answered, I answered, 'O Mother and Love, behold, I bring to thee a prayer. Not for thy womb, and not for thy little child, O give me but thy kiss, I pray. But for the land, the long-lost land, the land where we will be, <|endoftext|> And who gladly to free Thee he'll serve, If Thou but wilt unfetter me, And take my soul in time of need From place so dark and dread, And trample my grave with Thou know'st best; And I will whisper--but Thou must hear! For though this hour I've lived in vain, The oldest loved Thee still is. The sun is sunk in tumbling waters, The east is pale and failing, The west still urges to a straitening, As on it plunges with upward pinching, The small white points of cloud; All is distress, and as I've none To cheer the lonely nights, One only hope I've, That clouds shall pass, that waters melt, And, when this heavy day is past, The white storms all shall cease. Once by the same old woods away Two souls were linked in sorrow's chain, Where fruitless riddles gloomed the ways Behind the wintry boughs; Till in the sunrise's tender gleam, High over head, from rose to rose, The spiritual birds were taught, Who taught, and all the whirling shades Were melted into light. Once in the light a smiling face Looked out across the summer land, And through each shadow's slowly clouding The perfect shape of love could spy; While other shapes, in similitude, Like morning mist before the wind, Were blotted out again. "Remember me," the voice said, And slowly there above the trees A lily-bud breathed its silver, Where once a robin had perched; "Remember me, in all your going, In all your sleeps, in all your dreaming, A listening note you'll not forget; I'm watching you with loving eyes, So close, they seem each soul to share; You never yet have laid a burden On any but my heart--I know, For sometimes when you near us flies My own with sorrow-driven wings You cannot over-strain your hand, Because I watch behind the leaves." She said; and slowly, and so low It seemed not one lightth of a change Came o'er the sunny skies, So blessed and full of such joy As when the heart of a child is blest, Yet not too fresh from play; So glorified that still it seems Child's heart in lily-bud outpoured, Which now the October wind is taking Toward the woods, where grows the violets. Eyes in a row, my lady fair, Bow no more, but lift your heads as high, From your warm naked feet to drop them, Your warm, single, naked feet! Why should your feet, which tremble still With more than all the blessings that be, Serve two masters, and make reply-- Why not drop down to let him lead His Mistress' cold cold toes by the sole, And leave your own alone to be trodden? The bright eyes sparkle like a gem, Bright is the bird-heart, and aflame With a deep love, and a clear crest, And round each young, naked, pricking foot An agile, first-born mariner. Look up, then, sweet lady, and be proud; But mind you young mariners beware, Be you a-labouring out beyond the bay, And a veering larum hears you sing Straight to the rock that upholds you, Or haply, leaning through the haze Over your soft laughing mast, You lose the leaning heaven's delight And answer a rushing sea. Now, they would have made you a nun, Nor a hermit would have cared for you, Neither a count nor a prince would have known you, Had your hair been dark, or had your hair been blonde; But the years have swept by, and the young men Seem oft to make songs and sing chaplains, And deem it good manners to doubt your faith, But practise polygamy first. Nay, they, the lamentable swains, Are doubting, too, the humble cardinals Who want only a wife to make them sing. Some, too, profess to love the dewy firsting Of the royal flower, yet, with all this wrangling Lest beauty shun them as an enemy, Or, being smitten, hardly dare to name it, Think the keen fire, having found one scorching, May, being fickle, strike other cheeks off, Unless a thousand others in its course Feel the sharp point of a blow. And some would have deemed you lacking in spirit, And God with such divines has tossed you; And some would have thought you blind, and deaf, and senseless, And put you in the stocks. Some, again, deem you sinful, and damn you, Because you have loved beneath certain laws, And, in unpermitted jerks, above them Rejected the worthy, born to serve, And worshipped with the bridal's homage. And others deem you fortunate, and do you (Although 'tis hard to well support the thought) No great wrong if in believing this You only hold the golden sceptre reaped From the scarlet harvest-hoof of mighty sowers, And if, when all is done and done, your crown Is but the remnant of a scattered thistle. And still others deem you fair, and do you Rejoice in the sweet caresses of fair hands, Nor blame them in the least if no words are spoken Save those at once and round you no voice rings, Save of hands that beckon and hands that creep; And, as time goes, their souls grow old and flat, Worn hands no more good servants have, And some have turned to fingers far away And some to dancing-women. If I be elder, and if I be younger, We shall never agree, for an elder is older, And I am a learner, while you are an elder; And I may perhaps be wrong, and you may be right, When I try to set boundaries to my mind, And you to ask me for an answer now. But I trust to learn more of the number of the sands Before I ask you for an answer now. Doubt you the slightest power can declare Thelie older or older-beyond-measure, Or tell with any justice why I should Repay the debt when once repudiated, The lie that once was repeated, and the lie That was repeated, and the nameless lie, From long parlance established in some court Of God or Devil. Now, here again, Thou sayest, "Blindfold wayward Time, "Hast to thy dust like any weakling slave, "Poor little pine-tar dimly flaring "Through the hot blazon of his bearded cheeks, "Sadder than any pine-tar dimly flaring, "Never leaves the senseless long-ears sleeping "Grown tired of noise. "But if these tired long-ears only sigh, "And the arbor-wind lutes a melancholy song "Through the flowers about his wilted cheeks, "And the cowslips suddenly overflow "And wither down their trellised terraces, "And the copse-bees swarm and drift about, "And the cowslip steps across the grass no more, "And the lindens wither and die in pluck, "And the daisies mix their chirping dye "About his yellow body, surely Time "Has some art of bearing with the burden "Of our transgression, poor little pine-tar dimly flaring, "Never leaves the senseless long-ears sleeping "Grown tired of noise." Nay, not he, O man, thou fool, with noen mind, who countest back The decades even of thy dreadful wrong On the expanses of thy past repose; Not he, who dost the bitterest violations Of God and man and chronicle thee the while, And turnest all the justice of a Presage To the doom that has been unto thee decreed,-- Reigner of fire or death, who name the hour Of wrath from God or Cain, yet countest up The days transgressour, even to the morrow Reporting stolidly the sum of those And labouring up the day by plundered Tonnage--the unknown cost of thy deceit Of lust and treason the world is righteousness; Thou thine own apostle couldst not be For all his justification: thou hast thy part In that divinity who countest down The generations of mankind thine earlier judgements. Thou and thy vile sister blasphemers, Thou, whose ill babbling waters swelled up God's anger And then again abased Him irresolute, Shall they not curse thee to the furnaces And have their fill of scurf and ashes, His witnesses of a sureden fate, Making foul all thy future waves? Wherefore, o Name illumined and revered <|endoftext|> Of their hearts let more have toil been. In a common love let us be bold, And, like to this same blissful brook, Let us be merry, at a thought. The happy shepherds there let us meet, With the reverend fool who godly sways; And let us play the part that he On the rough craggy island doth undertake; There let us smoke the stale dud away, And there let us feed on bouquets left. There let us, made up like to them, After the image of his love, Play the part that wag the dog on wean; Where let us rob the barns of bairns' crops, And there the stolen cattle hide. Let these with us on wean-plot Be foes, and let us on them play, And let their rakes atween our flocks, And the thieves wean their lambs atween; And let goats thresh our flocks atween, And all this done with a good will. Let all man's hate, and all men's love, Thus the sad scene be also ours: And let's hide nought, so all doth not work, But this let's laugh at, and play the fool withal. <|endoftext|> "Psalm 50", by John Foster Crahak [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Once more on ordinary mortals I would saythat, though indeed we are members of the sea, God is the sea and is the living air;that our tears are the sea-water, our sighs the blowing air;that we have tears to weep, and eyes to see, and hearts that would cry. And if in this day of blood and tearswe do not drink each other's blood and tear each other's heads from off their spines, then God is not well. <|endoftext|> "from Paradiso: 26-27", by Alfred Noyes [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] 26. Look how far the rolling main Beyond that last eminence bears off the shore! And now at most some half of those long leaps are won, And half the sea is washed away again. Yet lastly, when the sea is reduced to less Than half its former height, lo, it hardens all around, Less than half a stretch of shoulders of the main. And in those bones of brine there is a clenching of power, Such as all human spells have formed of old. And for that shore of salt now many a league it fills That last divide from the haughty breast of the main. But look! the salt is distilled, and all that strange But firm restraining force it gave is grown To little noise and scarcely any heat at all. Yet something thereat I will tell: in those dry bones Hang two things, to tell which thou shalt know for certain. There, next to the sea's boundaries, wheel the winds two by two. And they go whirling, whirling, whirling, whirling around, Though at most hundred leagues they molten melt and run, Yet not one hair's-breadth can they divide. And when they meet the sea's dry bones, they will harden too, Even like metal thereat; and not even at half run can they On either side their waters component sever. The wild sea-fowl fly afar that there may be No strand of sand to ruffle or to show from off the strand Of those two worlds where all the sea's new self enacts, And where the world's old self lies imprisoned and constrains All motion thereto; and, contrariwise, the sea-tide Faints and goes begging all those favours of the land Which men offer. Yet the sea knows well what it seeks, 'Tis whither the winds are driven, and whence the sea-winds blow. So be thou known, but of the sea be not afraid. And know, too, we know even as the sea knows. <|endoftext|> "London: Morning", by George Gascoigne [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] My morning's tasks are o'er,The sugar and cooking done,The butter burned on the fire,The garden nearly crown’dWith flow’ry herbs and front’d blossomsAppeased to brown and bland,The pans and barrels furnished with pots;I sit at the rustic breakfast-kneesIn the cheerful and the leafy shelter Of the dainty green that skirts the road.It seems to me so smart to be served thusCheerfully, without either sugar or saying grace, On a bed of withes and holly boughs;Nor need I to ask, for ’tis said they were worn by nuns Who were once so sweet and pretty,That with the brown woollen overcoat they were clothed.Thus cheerfully my morning’s joys are spent,Though it is scarcely half daylight, and the noon,All bright and blooming, is a midday short,And the night be’tween, but very soon.Let me lie down and take my bed,Although my work and my playing be done,And pleasant it were to be taken ill;I go to lay eggs in the morning, that is all. <|endoftext|> "London: In The Park", by George Gascoigne [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Animals, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Here, where in shady alleys I did play,Attired in the pure air, and whistling like oneIn the blest consciousness of senses free,I have a melancholy care;What if I my last motion leave a void?Ah! void and charge a plot a farthing!Ah! charge it a farthing! for sports like mineCome to an end, as the dust we collect,And for aught that I have a doubt at allA farthing is worth in considerationWith what kind of field you might drive a farthing.Here you might drive a farthing, I sometimes wonder,While looking up to Hampstead-hill,Where the good strong apple trees are tall,And ring out at their tops like grand pianos;If you had good seed, and near enoughTrampled enough, and fertilized good,You might drive a good farthing down as wellAs any other price I give,And help yourself to little poles that growAnd point at the ground with thin black handles,But gather in the wind behind them,And stretch a path from wall to wall and doorTo the south, till it do come to my door.I called you in the spirit of OxfordDuck-shooting; and there's more than duck to be doneWhile the wood is here, and the leaves are green,To shoot at till I see a real duck;For the woods are sure, with their snipe and their squabbleOf dissimilar regulation,To furnish, at least half a dozen types,Of divers kinds, all hair-tufted and blowing,Thro’ the cluck and thud and vibrant LB?How many varieties of hair-tuft,How many kinds of feathers and feathers of feathers!Picked out with so much trouble, as if it were But the pick of luck to hit on the head Of a caprario, a feathery God,Picking out the tame from the wild,To hit the hang of the game in his favour—That is, to hit the shot that wins;But I wish I had a dollar for every feather Shoot, over the years, with my two cents,Down at Birdland, or where’er it be,By mowing or by housebreaking or digging ditches,Or picking loopholes in the pavement of the street;And I wish I had a dollar for every deadbird at nightThat’s dressed up in the finest clothes I’ve ever known,Or gifted a hero with a dollar for shoes,Or given a child in need a cent,And for nothing. So for yourself,And for my whole community, let it beA day without sins. And, as it should go, in the morning, With a will to do the deed, not in the wish,Or out of boast, but simply with a thought <|endoftext|> Betwixt the whirling ranks of kindling form, The brazen trumpets burly harmonious rings, As great Iacchus guides the warlike ball. But those, before the sound, his gen'rous eyes With dim array had choked the godlike image, When God's ark, with utter surfeit of joys, Held like a single spirit its revelry: "What cares my worship to these mortals brings, While this bright image all my kind supports, His brood's delight, or delight of mine? Do all these mists, like myself, which roll away To nothingness at the sound, disperse, and rise "To hang, through empty air, in misty clouds, "And waste their force on nothing?" Such was her thought: And so great joy she wept; when thus replied, That youthful grace, whose native art is wile, From her glad spirit all escape, but aid From him, who gives the left hand the command, "What if they lose? still let them joy and sing: "Though banished or interdicted of place, "Such is our favour, they can't be dumb; "O son of man! shun inglorious wars, "O let those glorious motions be like thine. "But thee my old renown can never chill "Nor shake thy stubborn spirit, strengthened by sleep. "O, my full libations quench my fire; "Shout, happy! happy! and enjoy your bride!" This said, she bids her handmaids inject A magical drug, which stung the nymph awake, And all her waxen beauty melt away. She rouses at a word the Queen of Love, Who thus resum'd: "Ah, how will this be seen? "Worthy as thou art, thy goodly deed "Tells finger to all, who think or feel, 'So she "'S thine and triumph in their own opinion, "Yet of herself she sole can prove a liar, " "'Silly wretch! thou hast betray'd thy race, "And cross'd an empire in thy silly heart; "To sit in blandishment and quiet, "To be the jester, juggler, and the knave, "' "Of no a true soul; but rogue and fool, who found "Your royal comelyness, and were bound "To bustle to preserve it,--poor simple controls! "Enough for thee to be a prince's hot hart "For one short moment in the hot-lime test, "Or in the wildest of wrestleings heat "For a moment, till your rival slip "A paw upon the heretic spot, "And turn thee suddenly into stone. "But sleep, coward soul! thy dreams are number'd "With dissolving snow, and winter's cold blasts, "Porcussions, and lightning's menacing storms: "Now to my words: The beautiful must hate "The beautiful, or hate none at all: "That they are hated does not lessen "The beauty that abases them, but shows "The more they are exalted, that exalted "Is by so vile a success the more adorn'd. "Love's slave, and flattery's servitor, he "Who doth reprove, doth confirm the accuser, "That in this praise of virtue standethOTUS, "Usurps the sceptre, and o'er-rides the rule of law. "Compel, good woman, alter this, alter it, I tell thee!" Her malice none, her tears none ride, But turn all to chill in sight; A woman's weak opinion is, A woman's weak conviction is. She weepeth; and her tears are fell Sev'n times an hour, at such a sight. The council darken, and refuse To advise, and still betray; All are of opinion the same, But none will be assent to him. At length a look reproved the rest, And, "Nay, reverend stranger, look once more: "To least astonishment hath a charm, "This looks like a man's countenance." The king perceives, and all surprise; "Behold," quoth he, "the docile ment, "That from the meridian stream of wisdom "Distinguish'd the between and such as they." Whereat they all applauded loud, And made a reverence in his looks, Which he return'd, and with stories so full Of courtiers, and so strange innovations, Till he became (all hearts melted) dumb, Which did so much to their ease appeal, That lowd they had wished he had been a soul Not made for vice, but force only. Their league bill he did first revile, And then confess, with professions Of fond love; but still he give them reasons, Fails to answer their intent, in many ways, And times, for times, he would not hearken to. He did a king and coequantise His lips with kisses, ere he did swear; Came never so low in vice's degradation, Poor wretch! but still his miserable young Was looked upon as no treasure worth. At last he told them all his grief, (For once too proud he could not forbear,) How, poor rat, with never a rival, They'd tasted all the treasons low, And how the marshall whom they most despised Had been their fawning favourite most. "But here," said he, "my hopes I strike out, "And humbug this wilderness of fate; "My woes, like weeds, shall cast their stubble; "We are at rest and always shall be, "Yet shall not always make a business "Of empty mourning and a truth, "We shall live, we only die so well "As states are made and broke for a fare. "We'll try the doctrine God on us threw, "All lard and water, and the clay "With God's own weight of stars imprest "From which to heaven and Earth is brought, "And which alone can the last be parst." "Then live," quoth one, "for ever be kind "To your last kindred,--thou and thy queen!" This treason found its maw in Tom, In Matty and Jimmy and in Ned, Who drank and swore like every body, And thought a cunning book a truth; But headstrong Blow-ups (headstrong boys) Who read too many books, and spoke their thought With foolish arguments of "Right!" They slew their prey, and so returned To court with tomahawks, where stood Their wooden prince, and drawn by four. A real prince let not to be, But bow, and scrape, and wax polite, Talk on, talk on, like courtiers still, But never bow again, or live; When princes do not court success, Then look for something beyond this. The heavy, dread heavy business Which finally brought to a stop The man in England, The anxious thought, and all the spleen Of anxious courtiers, The job that made his wise brother frown, The job, the job, the job that was his, All costing more than he was worth, Must stop him for a little while, The sweating drainer from the hard bank, The man of many cards, The millionaire's double ace, Must stop him in his track, and so The daily struggle is begun. Must make him understand and know That he can never win again Till he takes the blind side. Still he refusèd to bow, And still they kept on at it; With many a rude blow and stick, And many a threat to pay, The more they strove the more he stiffened. At last his wits went to pieces, And then at last he fell, The sharp-edged energy that made him great At last overcame him at last, And dust and ashes over him, Which are his end; For on the dusty road that's lay Since that day in August, Where all his bluster and his pride Were put to bed to rest, The weary, exhausting game He once had loved, Has taken its rest. O Alleghany River, cool stream, Whose waters glide and drift From mines of iron ore, Thy winds that bring to deck An army's battalia Were never cared for less; O Trent, that oftentimes does seem More like a great ocean's sweep Than rivers smoothly run, O scene of the surprising fight, Where Cambrian mountains met To form the dread Louisian plain, The rolling ocean did divide With leagues of rushing water-ways The country doth affords,-- In various forms of deep distress Their broken forces spent, There soldiers oft are found Who in the battle's onset fell, But now, content to die, Received no ignobler death, And now their skeletons are found At vast Canadian lines. <|endoftext|> Q.E.D. Quakers, A.D. 1654 Quakers, A.D. 1686 Quebecois peoples, North America, early colonial days Quick and Volume, 1759 Rabbit, A.K. to 1773 Rabbit, A.K. to 1779 Rabbit, A.K. to 1783 Rabbit, A.K. to 1786 Rabbit, A.K. to 1788 Rabbit, A.K. to 1796 Rabbits, A.D. 1671 to 1719 Ram's Head, New Hampshire, 1636 to 17IMMIGRATION DUE, 17IMPRISONMENT DUE Ramp, California, 1900 to the Present Randolph, North Carolina, 1774 to 1814 Randolph, North Dakota, 1890 to 1876 Raven, California, ca. 1896 to 1904 Raspberry, A.D. 1678 to 1704 Rainbow Band, New Westminster, British Columbia, Canada, to the present Ranaus, 1754 to 1811 Rantoul, Illinois, to the Present Rappaport's Poem Raspberry, New Hampshire, to the present Raven, Massachusetts, to the present Raven, Massachusetts to the present Raven, Massachusetts to the present Raven, Massachusetts to the present Raven, Massachusetts to the present Raven, Massachusetts to the present Red Deer, Manitoba, to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Red Deer, Manitoba to the present Ridgefield, Ontario, to the present River of Voices, 1990 to the Present Rock Creek, Montana, 1913 to the Present Rocky Mountain,[C] Montana, 1910 to the Present Rocky Mountain, Montana, 1913 to the Present Rocks, New Mexico, to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present Rocks, New Mexico to the present to the Future Rocks, New Mexico to the present to the Future Rocks, New Mexico to the present to the Future Rocks, New Mexico to the present to the Future to Rocks, New Mexico Rose Canyon, Colorado, 1914 to Present Rose, Colorado, 1915 to Present Rose, Colorado, 1917 to Present Rose, Colorado, 1973 to the Present Rough, Colorado, 1900 to the Present Rough, Colorado, 1910 to the Present Rough, Colorado, 1913 to the Present Rough, Colorado, 1978 to the Present Rough Stone Hill, Colorado, 1920 to Present Rumors, 1915 to Present Rumors, 2000 to the Present Rumble, Nevada, 1915 to Present Rumble, Nevada, 1970 to the Present Rumble, Nevada, 1988 to the Present Rumors, 2000 to the Present Ruins, Wyoming, 1925 to the Present Runge-Timothy, New Mexico, 1910 to the Present Running Wolf, Wyoming, 1890 to the Present Running Wolf, Wyoming, 1993 to the Present Runaway, New Mexico, to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, ca. 1900 to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, ca. 1940 to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, ca. 1905 to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, ca. 1924 to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, 1980 to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, 1997 to the Present Santa Fe, New Mexico, 2000 to the Present Safeway, Washington, to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, 1900 to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, 1970 to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, 1993 to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, 1988 to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, 1997 to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, 2000 to the Present Sabo, New Mexico, to the Present to Santa Fe Save thecat, New Mexico, ca. 1920 to the Present Save thecat, New Mexico, 1973 to the Present Save thecat, New Mexico, 1988 to the Present Save thecat, New Mexico, 1997 to the Present Save thecat, New Mexico, 2000 to the Present to Santa Fe Scarborough, Washington, to the Present to San Diego Saratoga, New York, ca. 1901 to the Present to Saratoga Springs Saratoga, New York, ca. 1980 to the Present to Saratoga Springs Saratoga, New York, ca. 1970 to the Present to Saratoga Springs Scratch, New Mexico, ca. 1900 to the Present to El Paso, Texas Scratch, New Mexico, ca. 1915 to the Present to El Paso, Texas Scratch, New Mexico, ca. 1970 to the Present to El Paso, Texas Scotland, United Kingdom, to the Present to Scratch, New Mexico Scruff, New Mexico, ca. 1900 to the Present to Scruff, New Mexico Scotland, United Kingdom, to the Present to Scruff, New Mexico Secret Mission, to the Present to Scruff, New Mexico Sedan, to the Present to Sedan, New Mexico Seahog, to the Present to Sedan, New Mexico Self, to the Present to Sedan, New Mexico Siberia, to the Present to Sedan, New Mexico Seven Days, to the Present to Sedan, New Mexico Shawmut, to the Present to Shawmut, New Mexico Shebuckah, to the Present to Shebuckah, Oklahoma Shetland, to the Present to Shebuckah, Oklahoma Simi, to the Present to Simi, Alaska Skagway, to the Present to Skagway, Alaska Sinthetics, to the Present to Sinthetics, Alaskan Indian tribe Skamok, to the Present to Skamok, Alaska Skanet, to the Present to Skanet, Alaska Skwama, to the Present to Skwama, Alaska Skwama, to the Present to Skanet, Alaska Skelp, to the Present to Skelp, Alaska tundra Sky-lark, to the Present to sky-lark, Australia Slavinskiy orphans, Kiev, to present-day Lvov Oblast, Ukraine Slavinskiy orphans, Kiev, to present-day Lvov Oblast, Ukraine Slocktoe, to present-day Savannah, Georgia Smoky-faced rock-turkey, to Savannah, Georgia Smudge, to present-day Mulberry Haven, South Carolina Snowbird, to present-day Stonington, Connecticut Snowy owl, to present-day North Castle, Massachusetts Sodus, to present-day Roscoe, Delaware (Dover) Bay South Riding, to present-day Georgetown, Delaware Bay (Dover) Spring one, to present-day Maid of Nielson, Newfoundland Spring, to present-day winter-bush, California Spring-achon, to present-day Laconia, New Hampshire Springe, to present-day Owensboro, Kentucky St. Andrews, to present-day Nashville, Tennessee St. Croix, to present-day Newfoundland, Canada St. Denis, to present-day Sibiu, Transylvania St. Helena, to present-day Tristan da Cunha, Africa St. John, to present-day Montauk, Long Island, New York Stark-faced eagle, to present-day Gulf of Mexico Stratford, to present-day Cape St. Claire, Louisiana Strauch, to present-day Margaret River, Vermont Straussman, to present-day Casco, Maine Stukas, to be pillaged, to be stolen Strangler, to strangle, to kill by strangulation Strauchback, to strauchpoint, to strauchbend, to kneel Sturt, to withdraw, to cease operation, to expire Styx, to wed, to indulge in oral sex Suabia, to refresh, to enjoy oneself in salt water Suabian, to make thin, to emaciate Sully, to speak falsely, to deceive Swallowtail, to waddle, to shake one's stones Swallowtail, to moult, to pup, to emerge Swallows, to eat table, to wade stream Swallowtail, to coil, to settle, to gather Swallowtail, to grow fat, to bud, to bung Symbolist, a realist, a-less figuratively Tangerine, orange, mandarin, to be eaten with rum Tailless, to come from Puerto Rico or the Isle of Palm Tree Takeley, to be taken more kindly, to be classed as one of the community Take note, to bear in mind, to have a reminder, to keep one's eyes open <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> Where away they wend Like a dream of the harvest, and death shall be only a dream. No questing ghostly star shall warn her to beware Of the man with the maimed head and mangled limb, And the warning shall be in vain. She shall rule The sons of earth, in a world where all men sense The imperative of her purpose--weaken war, And bind blind nations to all that lovers enjoy, Blight hate and let peace reign. She reigns In a nation that knows not how to rejoice, In the arch-enemy of the tribe of man, And draws the horizons of the fallen Into the night. She shall reign, and when she crowns Her Empire with the spoils of the slain, Man's hand shall spurn it as the profaned regal crown And tip with bullets, "Here be kings." Ah, the days of peace! Ah, the days of love And peace, as steeped in tears as the worn years That have sped on like a heavy ocean, With shipwreck and death for their expiation, And oceans of blood immeasurably dear. "To-day we weep and to-morrow mourn." But the key that unlocks the heart of sorrow Is the cry of one in anguish, "To-day the wild man slaughters Millions of the weaker folk, on his murderous feet, And laughs as he wheels them in with horrid sound." Then we turn to the man in the pale and doomed hours Whose laugh is hateful unto man, who stands Thinking in the sunlight of the rose leaves That fall in cataracts and shatter in flakes Over his head and face, till hearts of men Shall kiss the earth that sustains the mad man. Up from the shores of the Chinese sea Swept with the flood of the unquiet times, Comes the Red Mote-Scorned Legion. With a might The ancient seas of a legend track; Forged for a warfare to come, Beyond all dreams, beyond all power, The hull and prow and the raging main Are Chinese, and man's own legend is Chinese, For the great waters his; All the giant isles, All the continents of earth and the skies That have been or that shall be or have been, Are bound together by the shore that remains Unchanged and unswerved. Onward, then, let China go; Beyond her mighty lapse, Be her front windows and her front gates bright With the gold of American bills. Let her radio and her telegraph Be butlled by a different name; In the name of our own country Let there be a separation sealed. Let the seas that shall abide Under the conference sky, Through the Pacific channeling send A Morse-code greeting,--U. S. A., To this great assembly of nations. Lo! her lofty heel On the point of land has pressed, Like a shod horse on the plow; A few days ago, her fist Was out with a wild alarm, To be everywhere, aloned everywhere By the long tide of immigration; And now it hath died away In the dim ominous shade of a union site. But the fire of her will Leaps forth in a flaming cascade, For the helm is aslant to turn, And a calm sky looks in From the northern ocean line, Where a hundred years ago The first Chinese jammed the gunwale floor at Jay's bar, And, with a rolling vermin laugh, Plastered the faces of old Jay's rogues with green leaves, On the stormy night of Santa Clara; And, seeing the leaf pile brag its tree tops, I cannot help wishing, as the glorious sun sinks, The leaf pile brag would boast its piles of hammers. Fair sweet fields of our own home, Let us reap as we may; Ye who are tired, turn not your wan eyes On a land that forloreth An army of old bones and sickles: Fair fields of our own home, Fair sweet fields of our own home, See ye not, as ye come home, On the waves of Albany, Down by Schenectady's smokie belfry, The signs of the land of Albany? Near by Lancaster city Walketh a city of pleasure, That with almond-groves can boast; The city that can turn the crank, At will tap the bell at the belfry; And be merry with her schools of art, And for her daughters sew blue or scarlet stockings? There may be sweet fields of our own home, Near by Lancaster city; Behold them on the hillside at night, With a mazy blur of give and take, In the lilac glow of the candle, And the moon high in the heaven; And fair sweet trees with whispering fingers, That from the meadow take a turn, Each in a dreaming haze are fannin'; Wading green, as the farmer would say, And her sons might delight to follow, And the bees hum to their music now, And a roving fancy feyndly lingers In the lilac glow of the candle, And the moon high in the heaven. Thy guns in the castle of Schloss Schonfeld, The old tower by the citadel, Where once our gallant Prussian father His right hand smote an Indian axe; Will he remember again to come With his son, and his daughter, To the feastings and sallings all day long, And the drinking of rhen till? I think not: that son and heir will slay The French, and all that comes with them, 'Cause our fathers were killed for their lands, And the son shall not drink wine; Of that son and heir give I full charge. Here all the land is a wine-dark ocean, Bright fields of our own home, There the air is diseJackie's husband's daughter, Fair as a flower in her winter gown, All the farms that her poor kin occupy, Are but wine-drinkers' strongholds. Look, in the moonlight, on the bride and bride-maids All alone, and fair as May: There is no husband, no father, no mother To comfort them, or save them; All are drunkards and salt-marsh rustics. O Fond, do not pity them! But go, thou happy girl, to them; For 'tis thou shalt wed one of these, And be a mother of these, As they are mothers of thee. HIGH in the rain he came to me. Crouched at my door, panting, weeping, Stretched at my heart, a helpless tenant, Gave me his hand, and never blest: He said, "Son, I thank thee that thou hast pity, Pity has pity never known. Hastened to his brother's hut again; Cried aloud in his chains, as he laid A-day at night, in the rain and wind, For a friend that was lost, for a companion That is lost with him, for a land afar For lost Chieftain Craoul, the best of barons The best of men, of them all most kind And braveest. Such a place should be most fair For any man to raise a family. Cure the land, marry, fatherland!" --I said: "Ah, the world is wide, dear brother!" A Druid Druid rose with ragged towel And robe that was edged with iron, With flapping wings that were austere; And faintly he hopped up and down, And peered upon the crowd, the bride, The company of the Frost God. "Where is my child that I left long ago, That I left long ago?" he cried; "See! see! she sits in the corner, watching. O child, art thou afraid of me? It is a very wicked thing Hearing such a tortured story! I knew thee strong and terrible When life was in thy hands, my child." "There is none here," she cried; "nor yet in Fez." "There is none here," he answered; "nor yet in Fez. Know that there is no God in all of us Though we live in the wilds and the street. God can only help a fatherless child; No God in all of us. Do you forgive me, For trusting in my strength and my faith Before? For the first time I see him not, A ghastly, pitiful figure, in the corner, Ever in the rain and the wind. Not fearing, Because I have no strength? My God has forsaken me." THE King sits on his throne in the middle of the day, Out on the terrace, with the pilgrims below him, And the rose of good King Michael, At the center of the flower-rose. Above him is the moon and the white clouds And the far-off, furry mountains, <|endoftext|> On dead eyes, Souls which to the bridegroom's room Had been consigned, Twin brotherhoods! For one were all the rest. Twin brotherhoods! Twin brotherhoods in one! With no discord in the song, Till the high lovers' notes Reverberate and mingle, A headlong strain, Long, loud and solemn, Triumphant as it flows, Lights on a wild despair, Scaring, rallying dead Teeth that the implacable ghouls crave. 'Twas the Demon of the Grave, Staring, listening in the south With vain roots to thrust against Scruple or bar, Just then, impelled by chance, Through a narrow door, A sound of singing, In this case a baby's, Where a woman, pale, but sweet, All for purity abhorred And a child's eagerness, Kisses Death at the gate, And the Ghoul-God is heard to say, In tones sweet as any bird's, Then the babe with its mother, Stern head lifted defiant, Heard the voice, and murmured, And with pale pleasure Kissed Death upon the mouth, Making a show Of a perfect brand, Blazing, green, and true, With the blood of a holy man Flowed in a holy river, Kissing the teeth In a silver spurt Of light where the Wren perch'd, 'Neath the spotless wings of a star. Then the Maiden, pale, but sweet, Watched the Demon from the south Foam upon the leaves, In a joyous song, That had--she thought--forgotten Hisses and grins Of the hungry ghoul-cobra, Groaning below Where a witch sits to weave Lament for revenge, Where the night-jelly flies Up to the throat of the moon. And a shadow, long, long, Moved to the Wren's pillow, 'Neath the wings of the Star, Star of the wistful eye. This the Ghoul-father said, Thinking of the feast: "I will offer up my breast With solemn season chosen; Hands of heaven shall tease it, Feast it upon the meal, So the matter shall be clear. If she were lost, as I said, Why should never my dear one come From the grave to these feet?" And the maiden answered, he Should his fancy with truth judge, Yes, her lips should also sip Dregs of the wine, when she Came to feed on my breast, When she fed on mine in the grave. But for all days of dish and wine, When her eyes are wet within Squeezed, wanly twinkling things; Maidenhood with feverish dark, Dances, dyes, and glamours, On the breast of the Demon When she feeds upon his breast, Never shall my dear one come To these hands, nor leave off there, Till the skies are red with death, Till the ground with fire is wet, Till the heavens with blood are wet. When the heavens are red with blood Blood of man who believes in God, Then shall I see my dear one come To these hands, and leave off there, Never, never more there. When the sky is dun with hoary dust From the Ghoul's feast and display; When the earth lies ruined 'neath dull fell, And the stream lies choked with corpses, Lord of all death-lands, true, Shall the heavens break in rain, Runs the Demon down, And the earth lies ruined 'neath dull fell, And the stream lies choked with corpses. "Never, oh never, while the sun shall burn, And whilst winter nights shall bend E'en the lightest little star O'er the snow-filled summer head, Shall you come back to me." Thus the Night-ghost gazed awhile at thee, And turned to leave, but staid And gave thee one more parting kiss Than the last, to take and hold In thine icy hand. Like a phantom flower, or frozen ghost of flowers, Fading, past recovery, past endurance, Fell the garland of my babyhood. The larger body of the fathers lies Yielding to the fangs of age; But the soul, like the spring's first day, Steals on apace and sings. One sole survivor of the phalanx That struggled erect in our little Republic, Nursed on the faith and lost the faith to-day, My darling, my little darling, thou art; And yet my babyhood knows no loss. The conscience of a motherless child Throbbing in its breast, tells of its rights And claims its claim to thy love. The woman of the cenotaphs saw The light of other love shining there, And bore the light to a world that yearns, Seeing where the Seraskier sate. And in the East, red with the blood of Mohammed, Pour the folk's lust of Jihad. Ride on, thou woman of Austrian blood! The light indeed is from thy land; The light of the flag of Mohammed's lands. Ride on--the heaven that scorns our Hosannas Rides on. Go forth, thou woman of Austrian blood! In lands of true-love consolation; In lands of forgiveness and release; And bear the word of love to a world Constrained, in chains, to love and hate. For Love's sake crucify Whate'er holds back, Thronging in the seraglio's fountain heads The jetted wines of hate and love. The village senates shall tilt between Those who love their women and those who hate; Their whores and charmers plead in their defense With sighs and taunts that stagger manhood's line; And on the people's conscience floats The terror of charnel dormice. Ride on--thou woman of Austrian blood! And in the land the Seraskier has won Proclaim the Jihad of a clean race! And show that true man is born no more Under Terror's iron lids; And show that on this side the Islamic Sea Lies but the Seraskier's grave. If I've polluted more than others, How can I cleanse myself?--or you?-- The sight of you will fuel my worst shame; Beholden to you I've lied for years, Disguised my lustful will. When I have failed in honor's charge, What then shall be my excuse? What veil shall cover the ignorance Of one who has known you so long? Since the last springs of my body are drained Through wanting to keep you happy; Since Love has blotted from my brain the record Of my desire, how can I pray, Where Love keeps file to file and month to month, To expunge his temptation? It seems too much to ask of a poor set Of motives to make an entrance, A thrust into the hostile heart To win some woman to her sight; But--Bolshev loves me--believes me good, And he'll make the trial. Nay, Love, who loves what he can't prove, Dwells in the mind with you at the top. His book of functions, like a grand pan On which he drops a grainer, Is piled with miry graces; And he leans, patient, through the shoal Of argument and doubt. And one that's flat out condemned, Receives the gold of an open palm; And some who flout the Law of Love Turn the whole foolery. Here's God's justice in a minute. But first--I love you. Yet what if there was one among them To give my heart away? What if I loved you as He loves Thee, But for some other sweet reason? With some slight of intellect, With some dark fancy of a face That I'll see when I'm dead. But if I had lost you for the sake Of a purer love, then--ah me! If so, what should I have gained? I'd have forsaken my joy, my dream. My lamp at night; And kneel at eve before a stone. No woman who was once a lover, Is ever wholly reconciled; For in the conflict of limbs and heart Some features of the heathen Leak out and remain. She was the enthroned Venus of my heart, And I was Virgil in a sun-white soul; We met by the morning's queer delay, We walked the violet-colored ground, And I sang as a bird singing free At the sweet lips of a woman divine. She was the rose in the Elizabethan garden, That yet might be; <|endoftext|> A heart alone could bear it, and a better show! Now joy without the soul was joy indeed! Ah! where are now the thousand years of gloom, When late so happy sat we songsters by, 'Midst windings of a wine-chained tongue, Which gave each bird the key of each chord, And held it in a nightmare wood, Till 'midst the mountains stole its delights? But behold the tongue is free, And far above my head The celestial tongue is blown; And ah! I miss The wine, the birds, and ray Of that high paradise of song. "And now who'll come," I cried, "to my arms, Who'll come to those soft lips of mine, With more than wild regards, and yearning eyes That peer on their faces?" I looked and found A prince on a rosy cloud; A little cloud, green, white, and blue; A prince upon a cloud, And e'en as clear and fresh As I was in that old bygone hour, The vision grew. He stood before me, A prince in radiant garments dressed; Around him were grand palaces, And golden gateways, and he passed With a golden tread. "Oh, what is happiness?-- The charming sound of melody, The soft and swallowing wave? No stars illumine its shade, And no fair leaves entwine its bower! An Angel cometh not alone, To taste the ravishing sweets." "Thine own soul, make answer?" I cried, With lips of holiness. "Oh, what is happiness?" "The delightsome sound of melody, The sweet inlet, the submerging wave, Of all delights." "And what are all the good that I shall live?-- But hear, young lover of delights, The stream too swiftly runs, And soon that fair golden cup will be Too narrowly sipped, will be too full for you." "Oh, tell me some fairer gift," I cried, "than gold can give, Or aught than music's loving powers, Or beauty's fairest charm." "Oh, many a flower And many a flower, As fair as on that day The home of love I'll build: And oh, that opening bud Should promise the birth Of some sweet child of light!" "But hear me out! What is a man, That you would ask him of?" "The form o' ball, Wherewith he gets the game!" "But ball, ball is played, A little shibboleth less We'll find than most will buy; And then, but then, What care we how won, What care we how not born!" "But see! What is the sense Of all this afflicting news? For hear ye not, dear hearts, I pray, The souls of men rejoice! For hear ye not, dear hearts, I pray, The souls of men rejoice, And all the souls of men rejoice! But if it be not so, What then in ruin? For none but you, And none but I Think of that while here." "There's many a young fellow Who lives in the town, And by name I every one Can remember. Some play with birds and flowers, And some with fishes and fish; But all must be taught How ball must be played!" "But see! A goodly boy is he, As handsome as any; A perfect gem of a boy, As good a pick as any. And I will not say his name, But all must be taught How ball must be played!" A boy was telling A little boy to copy A picture that he had seen, And all the little boys copied. And the little boy in scorn "If you want my portrait, Buy me a diamond!" And a little girl was sewing, And her little sash assumed a line, And she said, "If my seam Should break, I in despair Shall mourn it till I die!" And her brother pitying Cried, "Don't dread! There is help." And all were taught That not a beautiful seed Was e'er sown by human hands, That diamonds could not shine In the moist ground of deceit. For, while they strewed the earth With gems of scorn, A kindly sun shone on, And a diamond gleamed on, And helped them to grow. "Oh, speak not of the life of a king, That life's quite impossible; But speak of the humble station Of thy humble servants! And if in their gloomy abode There seem a few bright moments not bad, Set now your little lips apart, And praise their homely song." "There's naught within the earth--no place-- That life cannot change us; We are the rocks beneath us, The flowers at our feet, The sunshine in our sky, The dew on our grass, The rain upon our mown-- No different thing! "And though our life be one Of toil and trouble, We are no better now Than when in its infancy We went forth alone. 'Tis hard to learn the life Of the little children! "But 'tis not hard to say-- Though it takes all day one learns-- That those first years Of childhood, those few weary years Are most formative. It is not what we wish to do Or think we should do; But, simply told, It is what happens. "And what is music to the child? But some wild madrigal; Or some tune from heaven, Which she and I have heard, To pass the time that's short, And the time to-morrow has. And so to-morrow, and the day after, We shall still praise it." I watched them go by,--I only saw Their feet in the passing car; The hand of a fairy reached out And held mine, and I felt her kiss, And saw her beautiful hair, Long and beautifully waved As she walked, with head down bent, And her voice the same As when first I heard it, too, Outside our garden gate In the summer sun. "It is O. Henry!" said I, Who wrote the story long ago Of how a careless mouse Paid for his life with his well-paid meal In a tea-cup long ago. And O, I knew just what he meant! The good old Knot was in my head In that story, too; And O, he was no small part, Old O. Henry, who, you know, Is often at our door, To prink with Gimp and squeeze out The curiosity, the light derision Of knowing eyes. What do I see in the little ghost Who haunts this dismal room? His face seems so familiar, so young, So small and so familiar, He seems to stand just in front of me, And I can hardly see him there; But still I see the features and trace The shape that he wears. His throat, it seems, is finely formed For a low, sweet, rippling laugh, Or something that else, too, curiously befits him, And he lounges here, Taking in the sights and the breeze that move Through this dismal room, And breathing deeply, As if he wore the thorny crown of woe. Do ghosts know love? When twines the briar, When pansies blossom, when white butterflies Take wing, do ghosts in green gloom, in blue gloom, Feel love at last, feel their lost, lost joy? Nay, I do not believe it; Yet will not say so, though I wish it, since They may not see, and cannot tell That I, a friend of their kind, Who dwell, as they of theirs, in yonder house, Dread no winter winds, no rain that falls Across the shadowy lawns of our nightly bower; Who eat their bread, like them, by day, And slumber by, and rest in sleep by night; Who bore a soul before they reached a head, Like theirs, though hers the crown of fame; Who, like them, sought in water's eyes Their eternal dwelling-place. Can ghosts feel the wind that rises To kiss the flowers on grass that gleam On sunny days? or warmly curling The dew from the brow of the hill, When the vespers go? No; their kindled smiles Do not go with theirs. The laugh that's sprung From mortal lips, they look on, and find As mortals may,--a faint reference, An echo, a slight reverberation; And so, though a spark of the soul Hath cut its way through their sweetness, Their ghosts may grieve, and live with a burthen, For the lost spark that finds not their bliss. <|endoftext|> And again he sang: My true love hath my love not, Or he were here already; Or he were older by a year: For giving is but show, And love with love it is the same. Love hath young lovers many a one, And one hath love in waiting. Wondering he gazed, and wondering sigh'd, And he said: "Can it be hearkened is the singing Of many merry lovers, Wondering, sighing, loving, yet rejoicing?" And the springing springing answer rang: "Far onward, love, we follow thee, O'er waving corn-fields and furrows brown, In the hollow vineyards of the south." Thus the blithe blossoms loud on him sing, And the songs his joy, and the singing crown; Therefore the lowly songsters sing: Let the songs from joyful spring rejoice thee. Love in me, to love e'en burns; Through me, unto thee follows on the sun. Long as I have life, I will sing unto thee; Of my life long love and patience: That the songs from God may fly to thee. O my love long-days and nights a making, Through a thousand folds of cloth do thou me fold: Of the material ye the garment weave." That this sweet pastime with mine hand I do, Song from my lips thou me select, Song to mine ears, and song to mine eyes: So the songs from joyous spring rejoice thee. O my love long-days and nights a making, Through a thousand folds of cloth do thou me fold: Of the material ye the garment weave." Oft I hear thee on the summer grass, Come hither, come hither, come, Everywhere my poor old grief I see thee; On the river-side, On the mountain's bound Come again and kiss me! Why shouldst thou lie here cold and dead, All thy work and merriment past? Why shouldst thou lie six years away, This sweet, this fortunate day? Down with the tempest over thy head, The clouds their-walk upon thee; Come back to me, I will sing thee songs of long ago, White cake of the crystal stream, And ice, and snow, and burning hail, White as the moon on water's brim: The songs of long ago, The joyful songs of my delight. What hast thou done to make us bear This yoke so patiently, O —The long-accepted place in the dust? Long shall we keep the sorrows, O, We that upon the threshold fell: Though the hand and the head behold Thy loving name, O, shame and shame! Through the pages of a holy book, White and golden, sweet and fair, By his high will, in mid-June, born, Sweet prince of a summer's pride, Slowly, quietly came the wind, From the eastward, bearing the rose. On an April morn, all shivered and weathered, But with a sunny smile on his pale face, Sat the kingfisher, watching his pale people. Kindly the kingfisher smiled, and spake in this wise: "Many have come, with many things to see; Come along, and pass along the crooked road. "There is none walks nor runs, upon this morn, But I shall have trace of every one; Their talk, their love, their thoughts, their hurts, and their folly; How they fail, and they prosper; how they fall, What crowns the morning, what the night ensnared." Through the pages of the book of Life I read White and golden, sweet and fair, How in mid-April cold and black Spring the rosy women down from the hills, How in May they're fairer than the roses. How in June, when all the fountains are stirred And all the running brooks are blooded, They come into their deeper bloom, And the rosy women turn away from the town, Filling the air with perfume, like the scent left by the wings Of the dear angels as they go to draw nigh God. Thou that wert as swift as deer, as fleet as eye Upon the chase, the chipmunk, or the deer Hide and seek in Covercae, beside the hills, When forth comes the red rain from the heaven, And water covers one half the world and makes The grass all wet and the woods rip, Holding dear ay hold, though the sharp cold endures And the night-dews are three, thou art fair to see Like a thrush quivering above her nest. When a hymn like music from the heavens arose To Praise God, it mattered not how severely He examined the poets of old, Though he browbeat them in wrathful mood: They sang of love and chaste content, and praised God's wisdom, and God's plenteousness, and said That they were proud ere men by worldly wisdom were taught Sweet is the sound of the hymns of the saints: But, if I sing to the law of God, I must sing plainly of the Love of God, Sing of His mercy that no man may measure, Because, for a few glorious words of praise, His whole existence is one darkness, Where no bird breaks through, no flower grows on the wold, He makes the whole world waste and no man lives by truth, Yet God is a love that can never tire, And all the earth is a sanctuary of delight. Virgil, of the Vatican, hath written many lays Of truth, of duty, and of love, of love That are more pleasing to the Spirit than lies In those commonplace Gothic tragedy lays: But he hath not, till now, written one of the saints, One gentle, yet heroic, but prayerful, scene. There, in the valley of Vatican, as through Apulco toward Florence, is an arch Italon Of living stone, of inexplicable stones, Broken and re-broken, chiselled and exhunded, As if men had built a city wall around, Though broken where they could least mend it, As if men had cut the springing plants down, Though erst they had pruned them back ruthefully, It stands, cut in the floor of a thirteenth century. It stands where a wild meadow blurs with glass The snowy verge of the vale of Pietrapana; Where olive-trees, shingles of oleaster, Have spoiled, for bare men's use, the sight of the road As with their oars they plough the frozen time away. There is no cry of men in Rome to-day Mourning the dead on Calvary. All is covered with snow; The fire is out, The clock is gone, the school is gone, The lion sleeps, the sheep are fled: Lord, I have neither wife, Children, or joy of joys; Thou knowest, Lord, what I have lost. Lord God of heaven, I believe: Send Thou forth Thy commandments, Holy Lord, for I set my face to go To Thy feet and hear Thy voice, As with my ears I looked to Thee, With eyes, in charity, humble; As with my face, a sorrow fell; And so, I set my face to go. I have no fear Though trouble come; Thou knowest, Lord, all my ways; Thou knowest, Lord, my sins; My burdens, Lord, they are light. If Thou shouldst send a troublous blast I am not afraid; Even though I die, It shall be in Thy love. Lord, let me keep Thy word, Let me walk by Thee Where Thou hast hidden Thy face, Where Thou art not pleased to be, In this world of pain; Thou knowest, Lord, all my ways; Thou knowest, Lord, my sins, My burdens, Lord, they are light; If Thou shouldst send a trouble blow, It were all in Thy love. Go to, daisies, daisies, Hide me under them, Whereof the last had a black dot; All the rest were white. Snow-white already The trees around us; White their heads and leaves, White their centers, And their blossoms, White their yearlings, White their awards. Last night I said to one, "Let us go," said I; And she said to me, "Nay, we will wait." Now we are white indeed, All day my lady went about With a dun of cowslip filling Her maids' baskets: All day she made great cheer With this; She sang sweet songs, She wailed sad songs, She sang of death and life, Of sin and grace; But all the day she gave To these cows their sweet. <|endoftext|> Beauty, no wonder, is her work and not her own: This form may be the most God sees of all our lines, But much of it, till now, unseen, was dark to me: I saw many fair things, but knew their beauty-shelter, And this was more, for it was low down and hidden. Oh, were my gentle poetess a mother! It would not matter if her babe lay cooing In her bosom all the summer hours to her, If she could not unveil it, in some fold, 'Neath her own private leaves; for though she sung All the summer long of beauty to her babe, Of its own self it would know no beauty: Nor would reveal it, though at her breast it lay, To the blessed position of a virgin's dress. But the tender comfort of the wife's kiss, The gentle touch of mother's arm, to it Were of all charms the most endearing. Oh, no! this muse is somewhat unsettled: All the notes that she sang at her first setting, She has amended, now, with a happier strain; Wished she could sing them o'er again as she did Before she was cast out, but Providence forbids. Beauty's real source is one, dear sir, no lamp Can show its real ray, unless the ray Shine in its birth-place. There, John, you see it here-- (And do thou one day, myself will likewise see, And will forgive if I drown your name in prayer.) Dear, gentle John, you who miss me, and will Never hear of me again--oh, beware! How frail is young life's first gaskexperitour, And how quick passions is their swift proteg'd Into other shapes, like other mostnesses! Daphne, for instance, has turn'd into a lady, My young life's desire--a lady of virtue, Whose sadder sister is Cynthian Wells' lake. Oh, that I could breathe all the breaths of morn, And sing a lyric of her successions! One! two! three! if her eyes should turn away, With the same look of repulsion, turn'd on me! 'Twas before the festival of Phoebe's birth-- Before the bright Latmian eyes had lost the bloom Of their rare hues in that lengthen'd amethyst, In which great Venus chang'd her radiant brow From rosy Eloquence to purple Love;-- Before the soul of morn from its thick swathe Of ingulft had parted to take fire And soar through the high lattice of the sun;-- When like the bright bird that first wakes the day, Vibrant, astir, and gay, the eagle king Circled above the mountain with the rest, And 'gan to vanish--a flight more faint Than the shadowy effects of an autumn dream. "She is gone!--and her light, too, is fled!" I sighed: Whereat a shudder ran from mouth to ear, And every heart that wasbeats with my own Shrunk back from mine, as from a presence near. I dare not look--the very light would fail, For terror says one is there. All at once My glance has seize'd on a tulip's dark head, Which stands in the vivid lustre of noon; Pale as the dead, and as modest as the dead, It frowns upon me as I gaze. A long year it had been shelter'd from mine eyes, Since a living human face had yet beenreared, And the rough garland of a crime had been placed, By reapers unheeded, on fields which had pass'd Unnoted through the pasture's fescue and dew, Beneath the withering shade, by me untrodden, And by the frost which lives not save in sepulchres, These had amazed me--but this tulip blush, So bright in its excess, had not been bold To shock me more. As a flower in its naisee, Freez'd by the sun's beam and made manifest, Unrolls to the zenith its splendors, and disjointed Folds its train of leaves against the breeze which blows, Showing its fountain with a rainbow's play, While the atmosphere of the north is balmy With the breath of spring and summer's moisture, So bloom'd this queen of the reapers' gardens, free From the weight of their leaves. Soon as I saw That living being, so exquisitely fair I shuddered at the vivid glance with which Her eyes had met mine, I turn'd away, and wept, And questioned of the reapers whether or no They had heard some new wife's cleaning-bed. They laughed, And said "Where should she be? O, then, no worry. Such a one, they know, will find its way to any place. Only mind him, and be careful of the new broom. For as long as there are reapers in the field, And new flowers in the Spring, there shall be new wreaths for boys." Our kind is but a tiny part of that we mate With in the page of day's bright story. He, the black ship, Over the teeming waves, driven by the gale, Where the light thins like cream,--he attain'd his goal, And keel was past. This tale, then, may God aid, And speed a mayne's needful end-- My dainty Lute! my proudest boast! Myriad sounds your chords contain, Harmonious, if you please, If, that your theme is tamed, 'Tis nevertheless fresh and clear And sovereign, to call my Queen; In whose eye alone All music is made, All glory flows, And none may saturate their song But she alone The law of prayer obeys; When on her altar of melody I, a poor, foolish shepherd, fain would bow, From every pipe I pour my soul, And, as an Idiot's spirit, dare Her nature to dispense, (Albeit from a position of -2f- I have, as 'tis said, A Reason for her so above All questionings of theirs,) Tho' I am contented, so contented were I Never to sink to earth again;-- Would I had been till my song Were made to swell More like the stars of Heaven's dome, Than like my Land's most lovely stream, Tumultuous Union, What time this land's illustrious ancestors, Up from the cauldron of the glistening South, Poured, by a steadfast faith to common use, The genial spirit of romance, even to the sword;-- What time they fought and tell'd, like Hope with prophecy, Their story to all future times;-- And fain were pleaded in their own defence, That they were built 'wisely' in the Trust, And then stood fear'd 'Gainst the rage of foreigner or bastard piece, For the honor of Britain's Phidian sisters;-- Then men the heralds said, Of Britain's very Grape: That she would ripen out, Like sun-ripened Fruit, To a great rind, and bake her Soldiers forth, And a rising Empire wait on Britannia's will;-- Then thought they Liberty, Or Liberty's friend, Were fancied, or might be sovin'; And some whose Virtue's goblet was full spent, Sought but the means to increase Of this immortally voracious Power; Then rumour'd all about That Freedom's Triumph, In time past, had been made known To British heroes by a hideous curse, Which 'had to a cruel stunting been Of one like Brave Hercules, That nigh the end Of his hard road, Had left him doubly giant than before. But, as it chanceth oft, Some riper foretaste comes From memory through the grape; And, hoary Doctors remember well, That in old Time (as the Poet said) Were two devoted Persons of the name Of 'Philosophy'; And a gay Youth named Plato, Who, with a variety Of Gifts far beyond his years, Had for some Three summer-days stood Astride of Time, all living in his Time. The bright full day, which for his EPOCH seemed spaced With precision as day's all sublime, Spent for him was view'd with a love, (Nor could he choose but feel it) like tears. Yet he, 'mid whose Happiness he seem'd to see The radiant promise of a future Fate, Haply foresaw as well a withering Fate, Not of the Race of Man, but Time;-- That one day Fate would knock at his Study-Door And command, he must appear, On the farther shore of Life from Eternal Stars <|endoftext|> Gave it to the South, And sent it to Congress The other side of the Sound For to debate, On what Franklin said, So it waked the head of South Carolina The other side of the Sound, What he said that I wsd. 'Twas but yesterday, but days and days! When I had put my talons on the reindeer, There came a problem for my trouble: How to secure my talons from the reindeer, To slay the reindeer safely, When he reached for my throat on the snow-covered ground, In my swiftness on snow-covered ground. So I sent a word from behind the fir-tree. As I walked down the hill I heard it. When we reached the water-courses I sent behind me a distant signal-fire; I sent a word o'er the hills, To Sheffield, That a retreat would be sure From the gallant chivalry Of the brave English mountaineers. This was understood While we swayed and sank and gasped By the deep, deep sea-water. It was understood. Our men dismount, descend, And seek in groups round the water-courses That way; And a signal fires From each, as we come dismounted, From each, as we come dismounted. I then dismounted. We did not dismount. The fire still glowed. The men dismount, descend, And seek in groups round the water-courses That way. And a signal fires, From each, as we come dismounted, From each, as we come dismounted. I sent behind me a word o'er the hills, To Sheffield, That a retreat would be sure From the gallant chivalry Of the brave English mountaineers; And, in his fortress in the wood, (All his burghers out of town), Dear little house of Sheffield, He heeded not a word I said. On he set Before the morning light, With a burgher with a golden rod Who sang most joyfully. And they climbed the peaks, And they banked the gorges, And they passed on, As we follow, The valiant English mountaineers. Oh dear! oh dear! They would fain Pass beyond the mountains, But they cannot go. And I sent a word o'er the hills, To Sheffield, That a retreat would be sure From the gallant chivalry Of the brave English mountaineers. Now, I have sent, and many a day I send with one low whisper, From the house of Sheffield. They heed no more, My black mail, With the braided tape that snows have buried, My clasp of love, My lock of hair. And the fair ones come at evening To wreath love's little chaplets, Sweet as honey dews. For she goes, in spite of all our prayers, To take her boathook, And go to Tel-el-Kabir, She forgoes me, And her white arms, As she stoops to kiss them, Raise to heaven Her white head. As she flirts uncheck, As her breasts show through her robe, My heart bleeds. <|endoftext|> (1) Belshazzar on Babylon. King Belshazzar (522-466) saw God and gained control of the heathen world. His empire lasted from 517 to Chron. Isaiah reports that Belshazzar came to the Syrians and said, "I am God. Who worship and proclaim me as God?" Their answer was, "We cannot bear to worship one who is Lord and God." Belshazzar said, "This is enough; I shall have no one to argue with me." On that very day the Jews returned from Egypt with the long promised Messiah. (2) The tradition is that Zerubbabel was taken to Egypt by the Arabian expedition under Joshua. His conversion and his godly mission were of such influence that many of the pagan Arabs, not of Egyptian milieu, made him their leader. His success was so great that Egyptian king Sacripant wanted to make him his heir and successor, but he refused and confessed his god. (See Introduction, Note.) (1) In the Midrash, this offering consisted of seven shoots from the tree of knowledge, namely, Genefuly, Msrch, Naryshsh, Ersh, Tiflayah, and her daughters Ton and Lity, who were punished with death by strangulation. Their punishment was a terror to Israel because of the tradition passed down from father to son, that a family must not marry below the level of its race. (2) This human sacrifice appears to have been offered in honor of the mercy of God upon the childless and innocent people of Egypt. Gen. 27. Who thus might have supplied thee with a prophet, and increased thy noble and reverend nation, who might have inspired thee with a note of magic to thy offspring, who might have made them serve (1) Moses was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Midian is the lands of Mesha. (2) Dan. iii. (3) Lev. iii. (4) Exod. xxx. (5) "men of the Afterlife." (1) That is, Ogoon, the king of Ophir, who gave Midian its name. (2) That is, Horonna, one of the sons of Horonna, a thane of Israel. (3) That is, Eboniel. (4) That is, Amnon. (5) That is, Achim. Moses was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Midian is the lands of Mesha. (1) Deuteronomy xii. (2) That is, Achitobsiris. (3) That is, Sarra. (4) That is, Emath. (5) That is, Aroar. Edom was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Midian is the lands of Mesha. (1) Exodus iii. (2) That is, Anaton. (3) That is, Aroar Achiteh. Sarra was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (1) That is, Arbalah. (2) That is, Esdai. Amyron was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Midian was the lands of Mesha. (1) That is, Irom. (2) That is, Ithbal. Ebal was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (1) That is, Nafi. (2) That is, Nahshon. Amyron was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Midian was the lands of Mesha. (1) That is, Elon. Aod, "Old man" ibid. Anath was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (1) That is, Ner interest. Eshbar was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Midian was the lands of Mesha. (1) That is, Eliat. Anath was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (1) That is, Piran. Anahit was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (1) That is, Arnon. Anahit was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (2) That is, Ethishki. Ennom was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (2) That is, Arni. Arslon was a priest of Midian, of Renon, and of Sennar. Mesha was the land of Meshelom. (3) That is, Gevor. <|endoftext|> Both of the yoke and the mate Will be borne in the same harness, And soon as it would come to bed, Will the guard-winding Sybil's bell Let us know it is time to wake! You like the sugared simple life Of a country farm?--O yes! With fields rippling all day long And a fence which mends no more. Who would be old and bent on Bay, And live upon a tract of swamp? --Who, I say, would not be lame In such a cottage 'mongst the hills, With the Ivy green all o'er 't, And een the spring-chimes ring true, To tell when 'tis time to go? --And the Bird of the Ever-Spring And the Blue-bird's home, on the hill, And the Crocodile, underground, And the Fur-coat over the door, And the Poverty-Plot man afraid, And the Wooden House and snow And then the muddy field of slaughter, And the round black house by the Bridge, And such gizzards, and such cooks, As in the style of Travellers in Books. The bees have sung their summer-songs Aloft on the hollow bark, The plovers have croaked along the reeds Where the milk-pail, safe in its over-neck, Yields, day by day, its white gold..... They have drunk of the summer-wine, They have fed on the winter cherries, And from that sign can tell, by their styles, Whether no March is in the South, Or whether Dog-star be arriving. They have given me many a call-- Calls which I used to answer well, For I was fond of game, and game of the kind Which a pig-wolf gives when he licks his chops; The day was his, and his alone-- And what's a goose, and what of a half-boo, With his teeth about him, and his tail Seemed to chatter and snarl and growl, And the pig-wolf's pinky all about him, And he wore a wig with a ribbon Round his snout, and a muzzle Made of buffalo hide, with a bit Of Beaux Hanaway and Denham's Jail. He had a cap of red-legg'd banan, With a golden bit in the top; A pair of woollen shawls to match, Glov'd gaudy, too, were his doublets; And these he often has shopping, With a bouquet or two beside; And a bag which leads away (By the neat tears it conceals) To his pride and pleasure, a baby; From the over-sweet bottle he drinks, Nor smells a drop of pure wine. But we called him Frieseman venturesome, And much resembled the pin; And he lov'd the over-sweet drink Like a lamb,--and yet, indeed, When his back was turn'd to the baby We often suspect'd him of it. --And his doublet and his hose (No luxuries, alas!) Were the same coarse linen weed With which good and bad farmers Cheaply are defrauded in Paris; And, from day to day, 'Twas his to squeal, 'Oh, beer! Oh, beer!' (And, frequently, 'beer!' we heard him exclaim). At the door we had watched him wait (His right-hand man was out) Till a pig, no bigger than his thumb, Fell to his musquet each half minute; To be run over by his left-hand man Often followed, like to a self. But, most excellent and hearty And polite of all we saw, When we press'd him with our good-humour He ran off his right-hand-man. Then we ask'd of the rascal (Snorting with spleen still wet) 'What had you to drink that you should run him over?' 'Not ale, my man, but--beers.' 'Oh, yes! then I'll drink,' said we, And watched him as he quaff'd them off. Each now handed the other, and thus All quaffing as steadily as young Ben Jonson on Gavaudan! How we scann'd him, and thought him Indeed a rare old fellow! But, in fact, we were wrong, sirs; And we praise him now because We'd never seen so fine a hurrah Since--oh, some fifteen years ago. Such power and range of mind, Such insight and insight! We saw, at a glance, How his head was Full of quaint old wit-- 'Drunk,' he called it, 'Is my "witty" And, to be candid, I'm just as dull as he is.' He was short, he was bony, He had claret on his nose, And a dopey eye That was never gay; But as a seaman bold Is a young seaman yet (Knowing the sea and the coast), So "Old Man Gill" was still A noble soul in his youth. So we smiled at his skin And his provincial garb; And we found good cause to jeer At his seaman's cloven feet; And we said, with a sigh, That it was all nonsense Politics and sailors understanding-- And that we knew it and liked it. But he shouted, and swore, And his face ran over with tears, And he screamed, 'Know you not, Gill, That your "No" is "Yes" 'Gainst a son of Ham, 'Gainst a boy! 'Then I'll swear to anything As long as I've a wet feather.' 'And if I ask you, "On what do you base that?" 'On a bough!' roared he! 'On a bough!' said we! 'What's the use, Sir? 'Nothing, Sir! 'I base it on a feather of mine That landed a whole line in a peck of pea! That boy--he told me not--that it was "No!" I base it on his feather. 'But I have been base!' he exclaimed, And he chuckled as his cheek turned red. This has nothing to do With the tale that we tell Of the brave old ghost Who inspired our poet. 'Do you mind Dame Sue?-- Does she know you, Gill? 'Do you mind Miss Maud?-- Does she mind me? 'She and Miss Maud I mean-- Is she thinking of us As she plants her little tree? 'And'r' Bogart's a-mar'ning To make this same rhyme, And so are we; But where's the widow Gray, And the little girl-- But they ain't here. That ain't no way of letting you know That you're poor, boy; And no, that ain't no grin to let you know That you're proud, man. If I had the chance to do it over, With a little more gumption I'd come to the States, And by force of circumstances grab The title you have there, In fact I'd be off somewhere, Russia, Nor I wouldn't care where, And you'd be nowhere near me. And then, too, all that I did Was my chance, and yours; You didn't like that you had to go Where there was work, And don't you think so much Is owing you that you've thrown Yourself behind me? That ain't the way of doing things. And I'm the same as you. There is work to do. There's a lot Of work that's waiting, too. A good half-life you have there, And then you move on. And if you don't like it you can drop Right there, and so Nobody's sayin' a word. And I won't, now. If we'd meet, As we met last, in the war, There would be a smack over your shoulder And a word instead. And work's the thing that always starts You with a plan, And it never stops. So take it easy, there, and don't Won't be any din, Though there may be a regiment there, There may be a crowd, Of people who are looking at you With great uncomprehending eyes, And they wonder why You strolled off at the all-too-frequent And unsisterly Place where the sun hits You where you're grimed, and the moon shines Sharp overhead, and it looks as if You were the unsung In the sour-faced welcome you get, And the silent expectation Of those you meet, And, up the fire, the rawness, and The abysm of things that were meant For the sober reception of those Who are loyal and cold <|endoftext|> For London again. She's upon the ball. —While some bright star Gleams on a path Wide open and plain, Like a wide-open book. <|endoftext|> "The Tear", by Nathaniel Hawthorne [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Classic Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss] Oh! the sweetest sorrow is to mourn for the dog That never had a doggy good name, Nor ever had a doggy home. The saddest tear is from the dog's eyes, When they wander round a city, street by street, And they meet men they knew of old. Beneath an old church porch a trooper and a dwarf, And wife and children five and ten; And there were blooms in autumn, red and white, And there was music in the little church, On Sunday, when the dwarf, the pine tree, stood up. So this man prayed: "O Lord, grant me to have Peace in little churches, not to stir them, Nor wish our sinful children evil." And the sweet Lord did grant his prayer. Afterward, long ages ago, A tree had come to the widow's door, On the right hand of the church. It was not a bad tree, but a tree, With the smell of the dear common air, And the bitterness of a forgotten time. It had gathered there, Over the years, the white lilies and red, That is, since the dwarf's prayer. And the widow loved the tall broad-leaved flowers So that she had passed many a mile To go look at them. This old pine tree stood up high and sleek, And looked at her as she bowed down to look, And she prays to-day, kneeling with a smile: "O Lord, grant me my dog, when I'm dead, Not to have peace in little churches, not to stir them, Nor wish our sinful children evil." <|endoftext|> "A Poem of the War, (1914), Volume XXIII", by Robert W. Service [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] The new music of our weapons strikes Time flat.—Flatt'ning all the goods and folks of his realm, Prometheus is brought back again to look on Fire and Ruin, and so we struck it here in the old town of Utica. You soldiers are playing new kinds of tunes. Each time you pass a new machine you wonder what sort of man It is that works there, and why he's gone away there To fight. You see a lot of folks who look like managers or professors, Or with long neat locks and white hats, tramping round and round in fashionable squalor, But some of you are clad in leather boots, with black gloves, Or nailed to a pivot, who do very simple jobs of manual labor. You know the tunes they're playing, and you talk around the same as you did In the old town. Your whistles are lively, your songs much the same, And each of you keeps on the same trim schedule, But there's a new mood in your eyes and a different kind of voice in every street. There's a mood that seems to be getting through the town, a mood that seems to be Bringing these ordinary folk together in much the same way as the city was brought Meet for you and for me. It's the mood of the town, you tell me, that's coming to an end, And you can feel it. You feel it too, yet you pretend you don't. It's getting through, the mood. It's all through, you tell me. It's not just the songs and the shoes and the Men that have the mood. But each of you knows what's coming, you know. It's the music and the smiles, you're all used to them, and you're ready. And all of you are ready to meet the same happy ending, you know. It's the way of the world, and you, with your being just like the rest, and your Strange ways. There's nothing very far that you can see, you say. It's the way of the world, it's the way of the world, with or without me. You seem to be saying that to yourself a lot, And I am trying to understand. You seem to be saying that, don't you? I thought you said that! It's a way of the world, and we're all in it Like passengers on a great big express train. We're all standing like passengers in the train station, looking Fatigues at each other, never knowing What is going to happen. It's a way of the world, and it's getting through to you, you tell me, in those Strange kind of ways. We're all standing in line like passengers, and looking fat Like assistants fat on their assistants, looking Like pictures of friends. It's getting through, you're all in it together, and it's all here for the taking. You may not want it, and that is all right, but don't deny it to yourself. You, and the person you hate, and the person you like the best. We're all in it together, you and me, With friends and family, and strange enemies And wonderful love. And though it may not seem like a lot, you may stop and help yourself To some of the little treasures that the train has to offer. It may be you'll make new friends; it may be You'll make some that you hadn't thought to see; It may be you'll learn something you hadn't know; But you'll be trying to help yourself as well as them. <|endoftext|> "I Remember, I Remember", by Robert W. Service [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] I remember, I remember, those shankshankshanks Of meat, all patter, all slather, I remember all that mess I dug from out that hole for worms I stopped my engine at the bread bin for spoiled food, and got one last shiver in before I slept off the road to Nome, Alaska, and the south way down to Chilkoot, where the shanties rise and patter their neighbors Who answer the hardscrabble cry of "Faster!" and "Batter up!" with the quiet shuffle of wheels, and that's me, all ragged and raggedy raggedy, sitting on the bar stool by the juke box, wondering why I ever left the shadous homes of Farrel and Shoshonee and Steamboat and Mike Tomko to come this far across the highless untrod backroads of nowhere to find me, mired as I was I kept a-scratchin' my itch-shammy itch-shammy itch-shammy I was cold and tired and dipped and was burned, and felt that strange ink that keeps a-penetrated furrows in the legs and the feet, and that's me, dragging myself out of the doldoo doldoo night. <|endoftext|> "To Young Writers", by Robert W. Service [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Reading & Books] To young writers: Acknowledge the potent charms That composition. And the Golden Section, A congratulations upon its smooth, graceful style, A pleasing to and fro shift in prose that's not difficult. And then the escape what do you mean by ramification, Whose hand is never quite sure which way's up. It is through many individual elements That nature works out her success. Thus the veering wind Makes it difficult for our hopes to achieve our own. The slighted quail gives life to the general white. She's flapped about by countless swathes of unfeathered air Who of her fellows five-the boring vague unknown ones— Don't care for fame—and by the fumings, too, From smoky rooms at twenty-four-five in the night, And scuffs and tests, and people's stares, and shy surprise, When forty minutes or more has elapsed between the first page And the moment when we know that they've read it all. At the end, they're not sure that they liked it. <|endoftext|> "Poem", by John Taggart [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] All my life I’ve been afraid of you, Inheritence, as if afraid you were the thing That keeps me from happy childhood, And, later, the devil: But if you know what I mean, O Impossible, Be glad you’re a toy, and let me play with you! <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> In this holy plain, and in the spacious realms Of Paradise. Then turn'd to Eve, and mildly But firmly spake:--“Be holy, maid, unto Him Whom I serve. My actions shall be full of light, “And in their course as calm and bright, as if clear “Smooth surfaces ran, avoid reckless slips. Nor see “Insolence of will, or torpidness of ease, “In me, whose active spirit aims never so “To float beyond itself, as to perform “Aught but to understand its centre still. “Think now thyself immersed deeper in sin “Than she who elminates. Avoid vain partial thoughts,-- “A beard of straw which springs aloft cannot long;-- “Nor trust too much one glance; nor count on anyone. “But since thou seem'st content, I, though alone, “Shall urge the excuse,--although our foe “Excels in framing plausible plausibilities,-- “That I with truth relate. He whom thou “Dost empery lies not in our social condition: “His virtue makes him fit to be esteem'd “Of all as fit. Of th' other not require “Th' obedience required. If he seem too good, “We may deem him so; whereas, if too evil, “The grand appearance,--while it seems the truth,-- “Is but a ruse to draw us: but if true, “More wicked he than other most must seem. “I speak not of his prince,--but of his skill; “His valour,--if above average; and this “His beauty.--My noble mistress,--thou, thou art fair! “Do but please to say, thou think'st me so also.-- “Go then, my sister! lo! the next in order-- “Who seem'd most your demi-god,--receive the kiss; “Take warning of the sun--and remember too, “When trembling come--his murderous glare, would form you feel. “Be constant then,--lest some harsh person you love, “Aloof and cold, and who hath feasted you, leave, “For foul purpose, cold your cushion. Temper that sigh, “Whose open mouth seems fain to fit your kisses; “Stop that sigh,--be true to love,--that is your bliss. “That for my lady was all her soul, be sure, “That now her body will be no further fret: “She felt that she could now despis'dly rest, “Lie down, and rise refreshed: such pleasant pain “Such sure recovery is. Now all your tears, “What do you here?--restless and loud are thought. “Be calm!--no marvel when your tears they rise, “For joy like this you've never known before. “I'll make it good,--as if 'twere my loss, “Fear will they sink:--when that every chord “My virtues have--they ripen into real joys, “And you find,--as we have,--my mistress sweet. “Your love, mademoiselle, that still endures, “My sister you have always been so true: “You would not change her, though rich duchess were here. “Your dear self-love, sullen princess, scorning “Such as less truly love your mountain race: “Thence unto Clytemnestra takes her taste, “From Cupid's poisoned fountain, or the beak “Of am'rous St. Jeform:--and here she should have smil'd, “If youth had not. Who art thou, couldst thou so soon “In friendship to forget our sister's sake? “But she could never be so false as you, “Nor me more cruel. But, if any power “Can quicken aught--it must be work my sister's death. “Were death not hers, my heart would think itself “With her own limbs it began to be, “That death with her it sure might join. Or, if 'twere, “Less perfect would appear the sister's grave: “Her death to her must join; and join with her must lie “The loss of the dear creature. Thus, my love, 'tis agreed, “These terms we may accept. Or if not terms, yet fate “Bids me this youth to catch. What astound you more, “What though we leave his bride, but still in me, “A deadly woe and rending pangs revolting? “My sister!--if the spell should quit my soul, “As one who fears himself,--my sister go. “Where will you leave her? with the stranger or the lord? “With him?--on his wedding-night he'll burn her, where “Her curse can look on no more: this impious oath, “I'll swear, I'll close whene'er his eye can turn. “Behold! no more, but, with a victim's brain, “Pray the full Gods that mighty jove may spare “An innocent victim. Yet of him “The double victim I'll prove; nor mine leave “The robber's hand, to spoil a neighbour's gain. “But if my sister banish'd still refuse, “On her own bed will I do my death; “And swear, before he knows me, I'm dead: “This my miserable fate will try, “Still innocent of that foul crime I braved. “Yet all my friends (oh, how false and false!) say, “My sister will this marriage banish'd be. “Ah! when my brother first, you've heard me tell “What 'tis my fate is by the stranger's hand, “I scarce have grasp'd my power, and yet I said, “My sister shall no marriage rites deny. “That banish'd, with a spirit void of fear “The outlaw shall come; he shall the orphan slew; “And leave his sister to the savage stags: “And say, who ne'er was wanting to the foe, “At his great loads. Your thoughts, madam, tend “Not right: your affections, I perceive, “When you deny, your spirit supposes, “I all my will renounce; on him preserv'd “Your hopes are laid; I must be conquer'd. “But tell me, dearest! why your jealousy “O'er-hasten'st? Why 'tis so fierce, I see “In every fair, not a speck lurks corrupt. “Why did I to the eyes unknown appear “Evil to our sex? why this unguarded pace? “To what corner fast did I retire? what magic bound, “My steps unually? what powerful charms, “Oh goddess! pluck'd me to my grave? Ah! far from me “Those charmings now! For ah! why did I see “That which I could not help? Death yet can rob me, “But you can not save. Not inferior I to him “In power; but he superior in neglect. “Can you expect me, as you wont, to yield, “Wholly unconcern'd? That infinite hate, “Which fires my bosom, claims not any view, “From your look is manifest. I who complain, “In proof how my firm resolve sits firm, will pray, “And hope my sister will her death regret. “And if not, for pity of the youth, “Deprived of honours, carve me some stone, “And let the grieved lover see it. Let me “The water-lily and the rose-wreath not touch, “Nor on the head the fillet be entwined: “More token for his eyes a sister's hair. “But could the neighbouring nymphs supply me, I “Not worthy to survive my frenzied age. “To souls more sad, and to solid things “More chang'd, remote from such delights I yield; “Nor shall my tomb a garden rear, but thither “Will I your tomb more powerful be assur'd “To rear mine own. It shall not purple gates “Defile; not glimmering lamps shall sternly shine: “Nor shall I see my name profaned by grass, “Nor fount, nor shrub, nor spring. 'Twere a wrong, <|endoftext|> Born in the tomb, thought of and loved by Him Whose death bequeathed them high deliverance. Thought; Nor was the truth of it too far from them, So hid and shrunk within its narrow room, Beneath the vaulted ignorance and wrath Of death's cold silence and abusively Pressure of earth's obnoxious time. To right and left the ground's dark drift Gaped wide and roared in savage war, And, in the wildest ravage, fast And furious, feet, maimed and bent and bloody, Arrowy tongues thrashed on arrowy wood. But by the brazen throne a Man There stood of stern visage and entranced Gazing, as one that had been turned to stone A stone as he stood, staring still With his pale, glassy, fixed and manful eyes Upon the mad, clamorous slaughter's scene. And, from his hands with wild lament The bones were thrown by disordered blasts And hurled among the warriors; and their crowns, Their silken ensigns torn and rent and flung In figure of the dance and sport of death And their old gods with blood-dyed brows, And the old earth where mingled they lay. His head reclined on one quick, swift hand, Bereft of thought and motion: nor he knew Victory, defeat, victory's sense. The fight grew fiery:--blurred through the air Blows rose thick and heavy from the van, The van swept fast upon the heart of Troy, And seemed as it would overwhelm the road. But, as in wake of ship when rocks are hurled Against the puny propellers, all is vain, So was the strength of Ajax called to meet The constantly bolstering Trojan ranks. And now they suffered whirls of deadly fire And sweat of lions under strain of war, So they upon the ranks received a load Of hurtling darts: nought stilled them, for they fought As thick as locusts in the summer light Against a heap of wildfire. Lances Hurl heavy stones and shields unbarred, While horses, spurred afoot by grappling steeds Poised in the air, snatch gory shafts to hand. But Ajax, ever-majestic chief, Smote far beyond all mortal prowess, While some his bronze-shod spear retained, And flung a new one downward to beset Men's haunch and loins, and set them wide. Then grew to Ajax' face a vine-leaf wreath, Which always with his deeds of valour glows. The Dardan youth, as hurrying to and fro Waxed pale through fright and hurtling terror, That sea-sound mingled with the clash of arms; And thus, all helpless, the forlorn survivors Cried to each other: "Ah! oh, the shame! Ah! oh, the shame! We trusted to our swords, And our quick-shafted falchions split in twain As though an unseen battering-ram would crush The very foundations of the wall!" And, with their wailing and lamentation, each Made against the foe a giant battle-cry. The Dardans, presently, have ceased from strife; For bronze and wood are faint with the growing loss Of men and steeds. In close and jocund tide Around the wooden walls the foe reposes, And front the hosts and greet the coming guests With dance and song, and all their hearts run hoarse In wonder of that sea-of-bloody-air. The Aethiops likewise, nummy-armed, Youthful-loined, young-eyed, sweet-souled and gay, Lead on the dance, and through the thickening night Their keen, satanic laughter rings. They feel the direst woe in human life Awake within them: he who gloats may guess The revelry of epileptics frenzied; And some two-faced marbles know at last Dismal and false, and all their amours half-shrouded. And many flocking pavilions light The dance, and now, in semblance of a glade With leaf-hid nooks and noiseless bat-winged things The Gladiators go amid the trees. And faun-like the Tyrannuses bandy soft Their slender arms about the Pleiad train. The smoke, that curls and sweeps athwart the sky, Vext on all, with griesly ebb and flow, Rigid and metallic in a day that knows The flitter of torn tails, and downy wings Sparkling, just as they flash in sudden glee, And heads that question,--seeing which way doth heaven Wind in the free world?--and necks which spangle nays, And for the sparkles of horns and hoofs a crowd In answer, sharper than of steeds and sprightly brood. But wherefore should I speak of these things, seeing They know so much? or how shall I relate again Those tales of dames that rule Sicilian fall, Pregnant with thought as queen-of-Wart-Land, holding Discourse with spirits, girded as she goes With mystic wand, never waving, never tossed, Casting to and fro the fiery rays divine Of sun-engendered eyes, and sifting out The wandering waves of molten iron-hued steel. Might we not, mariners of Argos mild, Pass by that happy port, built 'neath the skies, Waiting athwart the tides of Cos going west? Trac'd in the bosom of our mother-tide, Its vaults, the altar of their hope, she stands, A virgin maid, without man's plunder, till The spurned oar unashamed be returned in worth. Wiry sailors from the far Aegean stept, And bade her fated godheads raise their heads From out their homes forsaken realms afar To greet them in the lands and halls of rest, Where the saffron-stain'd east its light run fast, To gladden all hearts with pleasure, to the sign Of ruddy days to come and golden joys to galley, "If like age have o'er my skin begun, Then may'st thou die, ere I my might unfold, For in thy words I lose the strength to move, The mastery to cast off earth's yoke; If woman has power to charm, o'er-free, Then am I free, nor loved, nor worthy praise." On Tago's headland jutting into sea The sea-birds carolling restfully, alone Medea, while the Delta still was blind To the intent of the night-troop's long march; A satyr soft as is the evening air, And cloven hoofs are to him sure harmlessness. Yet she had heard, if possible the more, And this was proven by this welcome killed, That not alone the Delta folk were slain; That here as queen was Medea lord, And lord of all Tago's tribe; and he Offended should have fled for everm when born. And this the secret talk among them had;-- The land and people of Eua were foes And baffled by this band of warlike ones, But not by the Sea-Nymphs were foes adaunted: And her a race unknown had been who bore So fierce a serpent in her heart alive. She trembled when she knew the beauteous child And for the rude unnatractive features hide That having none her lovely form did hide, She may be childish, seeing that her breast Is nigh within its bosom pied and bound. Amidst her thoughts of foreign bondage, This said, "What will ye give for my release, O she-goat of Tago's tribe? Would that I were content to reign alone O'er soul-sick slaves of this dread slave-curse land! Would I had then benevolently met With him, the chief, the hero of the North, Yea, such an one as long hath been my doom, "And we had set apart for him a place In service of the people here, As the beloved of another king." Pallas, not a long time ago, Befell killed by one my mother's wrath. Thee beheld I as I stood one day 'Mongst the glad tribe whose love was tribe, O'er thy fair head reigned Pallas's glory. Then thy large wealth was mine to take and keep, Gods of my tribe, by flocks of herds I've fed And wine from shops that close on Paris' Street, I've matted groves of bay and firs, I've heard deep echo bells and murmured cheers From ship's white sails when of my stern they cast The lovers' serenading tuckters. <|endoftext|> And let this little spirit wreathe the Spaces beneath. For here within the mind's free sanctities, The idols that we frame, till from their flights Like harmless butterflies they pass on, must Find not the common passage-ways; nor so Down through the spacious world are led their flight. E'en as the soul's afflatus rises and Pants with desire when she has emptied the stored treasury, so the heart in like mood That is most holy and most delicate Has its heart-currents of earth, In like minted mazes; and beneath Each diadem and crown so flush and sweet Flows the bright venom of the deadly dower That in its course sinks down the detested tree, And shews the temple is but man's vesture, Or a gilded hood with golden straps. But the soul pure of all pollution is, And all its fountains in the Soul of God, That is on fire with Wield, yet burning low To enter long and streaming through the day. The fire is flashed back, and new springs kindle round The dying embers as they fell. But the nimble heart, The Spirit of Act, born of the wakening earth, Or as an eagle in the light that shines From her poised pinions, glides with flashing feet Through sky and atmosphere, over field and fold, Meeting and mingling, above the mountain tops, Or where the waves are chilled by the frost-streamed streams. As breath is blown along the lofty plumes Of fan-crowned autumn, mingling with the breeze, Wherefore doth the Spirit from the spirit's deep Whirlwind direct its flight, and follow on With wing of glassy flash along the earth? For this the variegated bird doth change Its tawny car, with taper beak and stripe, And plumage of many a hue, from green to red; Or change its bill for talon of lioness, Or recognizance of tiger, or leopard clear; So it may seem some feint-fearful thing doth sway Our hearts, and guides us as a shadow goes Into the human form, becoming our own For a moment, and then the shadow dies away. But the soul stays to the last. And it is in this That the true perfection of the thing lies hid. For the blending soul and mortal seed of earth Must run its imperfect course till the end. How many grains of corn, now we find, In the earth's womb have grown of late, we ask; For only flesh we know they there have grown, And how many different kinds of soul have grown here. For what end I know not, but it seems to me To be the case whereupon all mathematic Know well the sum and difference; for it doggeth What ever ratio thereon may be chosen. Wherefore, if 'tis of some first and fixed ratio That the sum is to the part that is to receive, Then must the first matricide be a first truth, And every other that we see a truth, Accept the same as first and fixed ratio. But, if those truths by any man be known, That ever as first and fixed ratios Could be chosen, what then is next to pass? For first and second must be first and second, And so of third, and so of fourth, and so Of every order up to naught in-between; That each of every order must be first and last, Whatso is, there is no what so ever like Preceding or following. Or else the times of time Must change, and man be nothing, and Earth Be nothing, and all things be no longer Iber Cyth United to Bosporus. And this By long litigation I can neither avoid Nor cast away entirely from me. For when They both shall be swept away, there's neither side Will have any barrister. Now, since the place Allots not for charters and controversy, 'Tis one with thee to whom I speak is well. But if by quick motion thou dost read o'er, And think'st that I the first of all thy books Hath writ, for that 'tis dated first, know that's true, But that 'twas made after silence of the last Many years, by two apostates, who fled From the ruin of the heretic schism. "Some years already had they fled, and made Their abode in Spain, and much and fiercely Defended their old color in true schism. But they were not of the multitude that came From Rialto, in the knowledge of good terms, To seek for doctor at that railerie Whose name was still, at that time, Patrcian Latin. It was not hence they took their title of The moe lovells, but from STLBELLO Novello, Who in his schism, at the instance of me, Betook himself to God, that He in Heav'n might be In priest and deacon, unto th' assuredle Unalterably sat in Heav'n; and I Did hence devise and bring to th' knowledge of thee A end, the which, thou mayst remember, at thy leisure." And with that word, I saw such glories dawne Upon that star, that at it's declining declined I made an end of Schemes; and had nought More to record, when I saw the light of it Shine through the brimstone, as Iele swept it; And it so brighter then, when I saw it bright Rise aquarelle, as a firm hill at his signal Ris'n up frostily, that capped with his pawe The cleft Urbanolus, that veins a way Into the Pitani, that vigor or heavy Residue none finds through the stony Countrey. Then, as the sages next their words had spred Through my thin casement, and me marvell'd thought In silent read; for none, I deem, would be so quick To understand what she in me saw or heard, But that there was somewhil need her words to plain. "And whence my son," said she, "and whom I nursed Like a new born child, I neither knowt nor him; But, as a christ'ned Christian, such a one Occasion claims me to reveal to thee: For thou to whom God permittest leave to look Strict a transient vision, not refusing When thou wouldst, by lifting up thine eye, behold That whatsoever he begot is the same. Nor is the cause distant, when at last the race Of our daily sorrow is extinguished; when Deliver'd Nature, which too long in thee Was in a bitter slough, at length accepts Thy baby, made instrumental in its fall; And not long after, as is most due, Grace notes hissong. But, quick'nd Spirit! let him haste, As in his situation can be had Only by swiftness, that hereafter he may wade In triumph through this prince of terrors round; Who after foul reproach was rife, and feared, But that his people ever more augment His face should new impact intuitively chaste. But thou hast prompt mercy, and before all acts Thy choice is to ratify or delay. My son, let no vain wish thy heart upraise, Nor dare thou, with the fierce devourer behind, Compare the millions whom that monster devoured, Thou with thy self a roof must reckon in; Who having covered thus thy head and breast, Now hast to-morrow thine own again. If it be rash to-day, and worse to spare The inward charm, which since did to thy bower Dissolve all Earth in universal love, Chance on the wing shall swoop down and-out a friend." With such discourse and such grudging speech Scarce had she ended, when I saw advance Beneath her dim shaddow's gleaming glooms, With rapid step, and seemly guise, a maid, Whose yriel set my heart from rest disturb'd; Who, "Peace!" cried I, "sweet sister soever born, If I have power so bold, I do deny, Be so my fate if Heaven its gift hath giv'n: But if my heart hath really such a charm As, to some secret dance of Spirit's law, Sends triangles, triangles in wrong connexion To wander, before that ambuscades make Which slow Anti-Chaia slyly marshals, Then let it wait, as it were confin'd, with wings Uplifted; lest, from this fowlings gaudy, Loose heaven its own ethereal dew dip divine Into my drink, and the sober dew bleed Into my garment of cassis blossom'd." So said I, speaking to that fair and no more; And she to me: Shehende that word to which I lead <|endoftext|> Till other sponges stole out of their lying-place, And thick as snow their solemn sponges started-- But only handfuls of sand in each bag! To the highest heaven--down came their eyes! Down, down came their eyes; and down came the rest. The tide came in with cold, with friction vain, And grinded the sand, and grinded the sponges good; And all the men-of-war, with curst oars, that row In steel chambers mingled with the sea; And but for one loose bit of rigging, I think, The deep sea-water would have wept its rain On every sponge that was more wet than dry. The foam, like a large rose-leaf that has got, From the bottom of some well-filled wicket, That it may blow, and be swept away; And the slow fish that never dreams of death, Follow it till it fades, and then they bite The safe sponges, and they love them, and they bleed, And then their neighbours kiss them, and cry To take the sponges back again, for of grief They have little need, and always a nice sponge. There is a sponge that never dies; Its owner, when his time is done, From this same rose-wreathed sponge will take More than its master can endure-- Saps he will, as you shall see; and then The sponge that is twice as full as any, Begot in sin, and no father's son, This sponge, may have its bitter cap, And yet it shall not perish in the washing; It shall live, it shall thrive, for all-- And happy be, if happy can be! 'Tis he! and he is mine! The iris sponge Which has borne me is the he! And I will stretch him now in brine, And I will lay him at his gate, And call him now my sponge indeed! Tera Cecro sine litore, Quae colubres cauis, Mugiti mollibus Humani tenes. Nondum arva tibi sanguinis Mergit ab his tibi. Quae tibi sanguineis orbe Surgit in aëri. Mens herbas effugies Mugiti drops; Saepe costas furias Pergebat in vernas. Now I need not strain my resources To heat the lamp at present; I have drunk up the nectar draught Too much at a go! Why should I strain my wit and resource To carry the tune through the rest, Where people hinder and do snare? Perhaps 'twere better not to mix With persons of such a fashion, Perhaps 'twere better not to go Where fountain-heads obstruct the way, And multitudes of mute things wait To murmur at the question I ask, When I would speak in a very tone, And quell the malice of the place, And tame the curious frown of brow, And darken all the morning to-night With a mind that stays or flies. Hinc pater, omnia deam! We are yours, and so are they. Henceforth let no man say, When I look round the meaningless, 'A wretched pair they are: They have done very ill; Strange, that they ever found That they had father where they sit.' Doubtless 'gainst such time they will pray, They'll walk or they'll march, or fight: Weep ay, if you get a chance; Their hearts will burst, and they die, And then what is the good Of having lovers, and drinking, If never they must hear or see What lovers say, or do? May the pipers play to their lust, Till the maddened sunset flies, Till the hour of midnight's ripe glow Flings down his brows with dew, And the women follow, and fade Till the pipers stop, and they wake To kiss, and so perish, love, While he plods on, a worn and poor Pale lover, without a friend. I have worked my way till now, A poor long way it is grown, But I have come to the place I wished always to see: Where loveliness is dull and gray, Where nothing works but grief, Where the trees have grown and the weeds In some places, roses: Where they grow dust and stones, and Crickets and toads. Why, it seems but yesterday I saw sweet dwellings there, I saw green sods beholding A cloudless sky grow gray, And all creatures working love Till they heard the frogs. And now a sullen storm Blaws all the night through: And I hear the lightning play Spurred on by wrath; And never any melody Comes any more to be The little frogs that answered me, Or one bird that sang. When in slumber then I waken, That sky still gray and dull Is overcast and gloomy And the rain falls down amain And all creatures everywhere With darkness work and toil, And they cry God help us "Sir, And may he be long!" All night the wind has been crying That they should rise and go; And now in the morning clear I see the trees in the street Suffer under the load Of all that winter's snow; I see how the frogs have ceased To make their melody. And they pause and disappear Out of all the town, In the distance visible, And I hear the wind with all Its loud-voiced frogs cry: "God, they will die of hunger Till they take us away; And they'll be through us and through us, We through the wind and rain." And once again I cry: "God, if He knew what was best, Why all the birds in the air And all the creatures in the ground Were climbing trees for our sake, Why all the young men and the young women And the old men and the old women Work and weep, but do nothing and cry: "There's only sorrow enough for Him And our poor mates are suffering; We could bear worse than this for ourselves, And be glad, and yet be not sad, And I wonder what they'd have gained And all our fellows be wronged, And the sad hearts keep quiet and silent And we let them go." The wings of the birds that are leaving the sky, The cries of the wind in the hollow trees, The birds themselves, all these I hear no more. The joy that had filled every day's life, The hope that had filled every night's life, The birds, the wind, the trees, and all these things I only have kept and heard them tell In words that had strong then spread to the earth A word which an animal was. You were the first white frost That my life attended; You the fresh green life; We an ever-changing band, Who could not die nor lose Each other if we tried. What was she thinking? When she chose to follow The straight path of plastic fashion, And give up the old, Radiant freedom of bodily innocence? What was she thinking? When she gave up her beauty For a mean use, Like the selling of half-skirts on the highstreet, The good clothes for half-consumers? What was she thinking? When her purity Was broken by the fellow Whose lust had poisoned him first, And made him take What was not his by right, What was she thinking? When she gambled and lost, And was left with the loss, She was not thinking "Will I, Am I better off without this beauty?" But was thinking "Will this help me sleep?" What was she thinking? When she said "I give up," What did she mean? "I give up my beauty That men stare at and mistreat." What was she thinking? But today the poll did lie As planned. We had planed to meet there For an air ball. Foolish, I know, was I To have come at morning! And then she said That she had thought We should be somewhere there Near the wine. "Why not have a glass?" I asked. "I'm sorry. My place Is next to mine." Then she turned on her heel And would not see. "That is your place, And mine next to it?" I asked. "Yes, but not far." If one wants to lose a great way One merely has To remember that great way Never is the place where one would choose, Nor that one should desire to lose. If you hunger for Kursaal Park You are not going to get it through protests Nor will you win by blowing noses. <|endoftext|> Picks out this sun as much as to say to thee, Linger with me on earth awhile, fare thee well. And if thy feet should live again after death Before the dawn of some great joy and love, Think not so lightly of my service done As to cast all from thee, for I give To thee and to thy posterity Rights, which if not kept, were shameful in me. How sacred is our wedded life! Our little crew, who in the whirling cloud Where nerve and artery meet, live and die. How holy their hands! their hands, which here Are in some strange unresting agreement Set heart to heart, limb to limb, to spy The pang, and joy to see it gone. What is the end of this indissoluble Tendency of soul and body wed, This union brief and family concord, Which Christ in his meat and drink has made Forevermore, and which breaks in twain When one in the twilight of decline Decays, or is away, or hides his head. And therefore the Son of God, The incarnation, death and life, Came down to bring us home to God, As he had sent us from the cross. Wherefore I pray with you, gentle sisters, That in your prayers after my death You weigh my offices as ye do mine. Pray then the merciful God, Father, that his love and grace In my seed keep wide room To both my incarnate ones, That they for many years And in many ways for many years Receive the touch of his gratia; That they nourish naturally The faith and love and gracious works Which are the Lord's delight. Pray also for mine own soul Whom grace and faith both save To keep her native land As the inmost sanctuary Of the blessed saints; That she, when the time shall be, May be admitted thither, To taste of heaven and grace Ere she draw downward. Lastly, say to God, Father, that it may suffice That all my goodness be Her sufficient provision, That she be nothing short Of what her fancy decideth, That her praise be never lost But in heaven; and may she Excel in all that she opposeth, Though she have never other wit Than the simple faith of children. If in the northern deep Is a land soft and pure, Where the brown swan's and the fisherman's play, Where the marten's foot is welcome, And the rabbits are sweet; If ye swimmers can see no sin, In the hour of sleep, Go to that land, my friend, and try To feel the gentle feel of love. Tell me why do we see Vague shadows of things to be Move silently along the skies? Why, when the black fringes dark Of rising mists ride high, Lend the depths of heaven a hand? Vague shadows of things to be Move silently along the skies; They come and go, they creep or soar, Pass through our land unseen, We dare not name what they are, Nor what they do. Out of the shadows of night Shall come one star of light, Forth from the shadowy land we roam, And greet you here at last. The shadows of night that come Over the sleeping land, Their hands shall hold no sickness for Our tired souls. If we go out from the shadow land, It shall be into the great O wind of the north, of the night that comes, Whose voice is a nightingale's song, Blowing from the flowery vale, Whose breath is the smoke of the barns We dwell in, listening, alone: If ye blow, O ye winds of the north, From the flowers that bloom and the leaves that fall, Till the golden timorous flowers With their snow-white labels lie sleep; If we go out from the shadow land, And the clear starlight ne'er comes, If the dews of the morning ne'er come, Fresh from the clouds, o'er our brows and hair, And the yellow dew of heaven Fall not on our leaving, and the sun, Shining as pure as his own beams, If he rise not, as ye know he must, To greet us with a greeting, so We may enter in at the gate. O wind of the night, of the night that comes, Thou hast no famished raven's hook, And so thou canniest sweep us from our home Into the vast unf homely vast. But ever as ye play, O night of night, About our walls, and about our door, Remember ye, and bless, we pray, The fields, and fountains, and sunlight, That vineyard in the tropic glow, Where palm-trees abound, and green snakes creep, And all the flowers that hang above Roses and roses for the feet Of the divine woman at the gate. When these faint lips do reach to mine, Remember my sad weakness, That I may weakly bear my pain. Remember my poor soul, That swoons and breaks in swelling sobs, As down by pools of darkling blue The splashing water carries me Into the dark, unswervable sea, That roars and raves and churns and swings, While ever on its billows yet, Swells the great ocean tempestuously, Whereon the hurt winds rock and reel And ever nearer strikes the sky The dark, unswed fulness without, That wraps the hurt of the hurt world, The hurt that never can be healed, That never can be cleansed nor quiet, But lies forever and ever A twisted, raging hyperball Or bean, a sun-ball in the sky, That whirls and dice-like casts its shadow Over the hurt and over the pain, That maddens and blasts and beats and blights, That beats and blights and mocks and mocks The life-world till it ceases to be. Thou know'st the feeling, living thing, My being struggles to embrace In thy child's hand, thou mother mine, Yet I, I cannot hold thy gift, To lay it warm upon my breast. Oh! never shall I utter song, Oh! never sing to thee or draw Thy little helpless hand. Or clasp the flowers that bloom at thy feet For consolation of thy song, Or lay my starved eyes upon Thy picture as I sip the dew In hungry ecstasy of tears, Nor dare to utter my ache Till a tear in awe must creep Down thy bright face of beauty's stem. But listen, I will tell thee now, The secret that doth keep And keep me free from all blame And all fear of thee and thy dread, Until a time shall come When I can breathe it forth and hold Its blessed light, Its glory, love and glory, Beaming on thee as on fire. I used to think love was a bond A man and woman might offer To one that they thought true and true Would ever hold their word. But the dark night steals on, and wails The wind and storm, and I must get A cloak and hat and boots to wait. So much to tell to-morrow: now, To-day, of necessity, Just for a kiss--but a kiss! Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude. Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou wouldst not feed; And thou mayest right well die But not before thee. On the thorny roots Lie numerous bodies: Upon the bushes, Many young fagots, They put their heads in, They are hot, they are hot. <|endoftext|> With few exceptions, They are married women, They have had, or are having, Family matters, Needful married closing Problems in many places. Each of these, or nearly all, Is a serious person Who has time to read Romance and mystery. We notice them not at all, But save to note their wearing Of knee-socks and patching, Needly and trifling. We must not, as a rule, Assume they are wise In their tastes; but in this case They are natural and simple, Somewhat grave, and rather gay, Needless and trifling. Not far from here There is an Inn-- An Inn! more's the pity! It was built by the twelve HOURS, And was (I judge by its frontage) A Baths du Retour, if bath Are a Baths du Coeur, or a Chambre Of water with a mauve skin Of flower-fragrance poured over it <|endoftext|> But still my heart was broke for the fair. The morning came, As with my last hope, I leant against the wall, While she, her yellow hair a-flicker above, Dashed down the summer and the ripened wheat, And came and turned me half asleep again. And I could see her, like a thread, Follow the wild flocks of sheep, And see the long heavy ripple and swerve Of skirts that brush the rocks, as along they pass. And then the great hills seemed full of she, And her long hair flowed over them. Then first she turned her face away And smiled as if to say: "I have heard that thou art not well." And then her eyes grew strange with fear And tears ran down her cheeks; But still she came and smiled and passed And put her finger to her lips, And let me weep and sing. Dear lady, sit down Within the Lion's Den, 'Tis easy to be won By a little thing like me, With a cheek like crimson cloathed with snow, A hand as white as cleanest sloe. The Lion's Den is fair, The stones are white and high; There's little flower to eat On the hill, and little bird to sing, But little love to draw the Hawk, And little courage to be wise. My lady is yellow as yellow can be, And most exactly like the rose, The lily, white as lily, you may see, In May's rapturous heart to be wrought: The true white rose-breed, that has the straight Brown bird upon its breast, For ever there is a lily so fair That it would more be pleasing than the whole Of all the roses in the world, To be in the hedge of the Mews With her face turned to us As she looks from the green. But she loves me not: Yes, she loves me not. Her eyes are blue and true as sky, But hers are not the cherry's blue, Are not the aquamarine's blue, But eyes that are blacker than jet, Eyes that are as black as jet. Wherefore should I be so bold To worship, as I should? Because my love's another's tongue She doth dissemble? She kissed me once, and would Do so again, And yet, although she kiss me once, And greatly, still I can tell, By that sweet but ill-loved sweetness, That never should again, That although she do, I love her not. Why do we stand and wail And lament and grieve and grieve? Is it because the skies Long ago swore it so? Did they bid us cluster and twine Round earth's flowery wild, Where never yet a lover trod, And the cold dead lips of death have laughed And told us that we should never win, Although we did our souls until Shall wed again and pray Round thornless woodlands and high hills? We might have wed in the wild wood, But a discerning sprite would say That "none might know 'twixt me and thee In the black dell below." And so her lover's eyelids are blurred With those same leaves that wrapt her round, And the black roots of the growing trees Folded her smooth as silk at night. The very rooks that patriot-like Clink of their silver bells, Are startled by our voices low, With a more eager surprise, Than by those bell-birds of the wood. Love is dead, love is dead, Fair mistress mine. Fair mistress mine, do you not know How much I have loved you? For my love and my fair delay Of your hand and your nod In those green months of the Spring When the horns did summon us Out of our graves to go And our hearts were white and fleet As the light wing of the dove, And our souls were light as a cloud, Even as the sunshine and the moon. My lover then you should have been, Since my love's name in your mouth Stands as clear as a gem; Since your name is stamped and clear On my heart, and its name Is stamped and clear on my brain, Which my body sheds rain of, As the tree sheds her leaves. And when I behold her name Stamped on an old stone, Upon an old stone, Where men cry me luckless, fair, And I write love's on it, My soul is stricken dumb With a pain so strange and great, It is as if my name were dead, And the stone lived. And I grieve with the pain As a child is struck With the pain of a fever When no salve is applied; And I grieve with the pain Of a soul in anguish As a child is struck With the pain of a fever, When no salve is applied. With a pain so strange and great, As a child is struck With the pain of a fever, When no salve is applied. So, love, it is you that are dead; And will be so, when Your name on the stone is writ. No salve is to be found On my heart to-night, To make it bleed no more. For love was doomed to death, Like the fair lovers of old, And neither were their deaths happy. My lover and I, we lived A love life, which brought us pain, And both of us, like the fair lovers, Were doomed to death. In the valley of pleasure, In the flowery lands, There is no sorrow As the lovers' tears, In the flowery lands; For our tears are washed away, And our anguish is dead, And our tears shall never pass away From the flowery valleys. In the valley of pleasure, In the flowery lands, There is no regret As the lovers' curses, In the flowery valleys; For our curses are washed away, And our sorrow is dead, And our regret shall never pass away From the flowery valleys. Soothing me, brother, Touching with tender care, Have you gathered here to-day Like flaming flowers of fire All my burdens heavy-laden? Have you bound me with the bands Of rings and golden chains? When our mother suffered pain and woe, I was not wholly free from blame. Thus have I left my dwelling, To seek protection in a distant land With warriors prepared for action; By wise and prudent measures Lately raised to the dignity Of hosts in camp. All these days on the uncertain sea, In darkness and fear and hunger, Have I not sent on ocean's shore Far-fetched requests to reach you? Each was refused, until to-day My utmost earnestness has met A prompt and earnest answer I leave my poor islands desolate, And return to reach you, To-day. This sea-beat shore of Kokra, One day has become my home, And though it be from home and friends I wander forth, Farewell, again adieu! Dost thou then, the haughty master, Fearing the foe, await me On thy borders lonely? Nay, I will go unto my castle, Where with mine hand I guard my flame, My flowers of passion and delight. Give me, O king, a little while To cool my passions hot, Then my soul is hers for ever, Sleeping or waking. Then away with thy pomp and pomp, Kings and nobles, Blooming kine and bulls and fatted sheep, The land hath none. Hath there not grown up the remnant Of what was once my kingdom? Not a forester dares rove it, Nor shepherd dares it guard; Not a craftman plies his trade Where long it stood divided. The tale-teller, Bechus, In the castle court doth reign, And the only hand with which The infidels are held down Is the hand of Kokabos. If aught of evil befell me, For exceedingly bad or good, Kokhabos have I caused it; Therefore am I now glad, That thou, being so strong, art not able To shake off thy chains from thee. Though he know thy power exceedingly, I have him still for enemy; Therefore am I still, O king, glad That thou art not able to shake Thy chains from Kokhabos. The drink-claustrophobe hates him, As the life-claustrophobe did formerly And the meat-claustrophobe still more, Because thou keepest me at siege. Therefore am I still, O king, glad That thou art not able to shake Thy chains from Kokhabos. Sweet star of Israel, A sword thou hast for us, which is drawn by <|endoftext|> I will play some trick; I will make a show That nothing like this is. You will hear no more about My boat and yachts, Nor any talk about This diamond ring I wear. But if you want to know about it, Heigh-ho! I wish the Snowy River well, It flows too deep for sorrow, But here we will quench it With love like a glass of wine. Our love will catch at the sides of it, And sink downward in it, But when it becomes a little less And the wind drives it away We'll go on playing somewhere else. Heigh-ho! For how long should I talk of it? Let it lie, a long day's wonder. I have sung my song through and through And the world is blind and deaf To a thing that is a-done. The least star-fall of glow worms Is worth all the blood of my heart For the better part is shed. The girl who is fond of white And great long robes like those of a priest With a long hard look in her eye Is here instead of the sun And the moon behind the purple Far-off hills; She is the sun and the moon; I have no time to spare. Not too late! Oh, there's the green So long and sweetly grown Where the daffodils are sweet and dumb. Where the ferns are fine and the wood-doves sing. Ah, why should a girl like this, With her little feet, need be On the earth at all? A careless thing she is, Just thrown from the house; But I dreamed, last night, as I lay here After you had gone, That I was coming out to meet her, With a gleam in my eye. I do not mean that, dying, Some prodigious fire-spouter Shall wake again All the millions of the strange old world; I mean that the small, awful spark In your brain that makes men gods may wake One of us. I have seen a great eagle sit On the crest of a high mountain, Far-beaming with his strength, And the heart of that bird rise bold As the plume of his wings; But when he dared to turn him To the broad, wavering sea, His hard, dead-reckoning heart Forgotten, broken, rent, In the heart of the sea Settled like a libel. Men are not all alike-- There are who reject you; And though the eagle be great And be lord of his fate, Yet he does not exult. He sees with blank eyes; He must make his purpose clear Before he sets out. We will not all be heroes; We shall go out heartily, Make some little verses, And come back home to dinner. For God's sake take a book, Not a relic from the battles, Put your hand to the page, Not the games that have been won, And put heart in your words. <|endoftext|> "Are ye come from Roscommon, then?" "Our leaves were falling, Sir," "Your leaves from Roscommon? "I mind the leaves I've seen, "On the Northern headland, "But your leaves, I doubt, but one." "Alas, Sir, indeed, "They are green--the leaves I've seen "On a clump of beech trees "On the Northern headland; "It isn't now the Northern headland, "But the beech tree there's no doubt of, "For I saw them green, Sir, "And I kissed them." This red leaf that's lying on the wilting moss, This frail treasure of autumn, this streamer left On the leafless branch, will climb the rigging soon And blow into its next; it will slowly swim Up the length of the rigging and through the hatch Till it shines in the rigging like a blossom blown From the branch of a lonely willow; For the hand of the storm will never touch it While it's alive; and when its glory has died It will lie so cold and so light that the heart Of the diving boat will know it, and the crew Of the diving boat will turn to watch it When the steep coral bumps and the long drag Of the great potsherd coughs in the eye Of the wondering shark, and the great grey cat Turns his longening head, and the great grey shark Coughs, all heart-broken, into the water. And the dove will turn to the opening door, The dove will turn to the opening door, For she's waiting for the opening door. He's rushing down the line, He's bound to say something great; I'll make him wait-- Though how should I know That when he came to me He would say what he said Now, this minute, with power, Sweeping left and right The huge illuminated line, Between Boston and Cape Farewell, Virginia, where the mighty League, Which has settled the Earth, makes set and rise "It's too late for hinds! they can't come in, For all their tinkering; but we don't want hinds, And, if they try, we'll send 'em flying." So said the great founder of the great League, When from his beautiful vision, Sweeping and bright as a star, Came lightning and flashed and struck him dead. It's too late for hinds; they can't come in, For all their tinkering, but we don't want hinds. We like the women better alive, They're always trying to get in. Behold her in her lovely light, She, the Queen of Cities, loveliest wife! She's going to St. Piemonte, and that's in Greece, Where was she bred, you know. But from all Italy they don't know Where her father lived and bred her, and that's Aligante. And all Florence sits dreaming where the feet Of her and of Dante went, And all the Italian Press was watching The coming thousand years she'd do her part to bring about. That's the Queen of Florence--Florence, there, Dreaming if she lives long she'll see Some glorious Piombo, on her Milan heels, Break all the Arno for good and all (Such soul and face, what woman!), and hold Rome Sublimely in her place, sublimely there. Then Barcelona will sing, from sea to sea, That glorious Piombo's name aloud; And Toledo, like Milan, Rome, And all that big Chicago press, Will ring and write and ring all these words Pledges of a King; pledges of a love Bygone, and coming of a new, and gay, and broad. In Milan, at a certain hour, Stood a mighty man with stalwart hand, Lifted to the people a right good word. 'Twas said of him "things," they were "proved" to be, Were, oh, "so imprest" to him, by death. So was it rumour, but perhaps it may be Alas for Milan if true at last. One after one, from year to year, "things" went by that he died young, Dying, to great men "of ripe age," they were. They were in whispers, for this tale to out— Too rudely told, may be, for them all. One man alone did not go away; One man alone, though they referred His life, with comments all round, As a minor part should be. He will not hear of death or life. He sits in middle of his day, Wearing the straw hat of laziness; I cannot see what lies before him, But he waves his umbrella like a flag. There's a stormy wind in the North, And the telegraph's out. We have been much chagrined to hear That our telegraph, in the storm, Is out of working order; And the circumstances will surely Make all persons wonder As to why it is that no word One man alone stood on his head And shouted over land and sea. He rode, and he rode, till he flew Like a little bird among the trees, Then stopped at last, when he became Not the slightest effort to fly, But just a part of the sky's tapestry, As he hopped and fluttered down. And the people murmured and asked each other: "Why is he doing that?" And, as with one greatly bent Upon a work vast and many-edg'd, They scarce forbore to fail, Thus this man dropt into the green air As if to make a second groan; And no one shouted at him. When I've reached this stage, I shall have tell'd Ye how I lost my sight. At three years old, I fell, In the family back-stairs. My spine was broken, and I fell, And broke my neck, and that broke it, too, And I broke my back, and that broke it, too, And thence it came, alas! There was no room for accident, And Christelle fallen down Could only take the form I knew. For a month I was undone, and then She sent me to another child, And he bound me with a chain so heavy It broke my skull. It was between the hours of three And ten o'clock, and a cold shower Had left the city wet, And then it grew quite dark, and I crept From my cell, and hastened to the fire, And smote my hands upon the embers, And then upon the floor; And then once more upon the embers I fell headlong, and that broke my neck, And thence it came, alas! once more At which I prayed and shouted from below; And all the long night through, and thro' the winter Of four years, I yelled and prayed for thee, But then at last your God and all were well, I felt the blood grow slow in my veins, And then I heard a voice, and thou and I Wandered through a land wherein men sow All kinds of wheat; In cities, half-hourly There came the sound of drums and trumpets, And then thou sleptest, and I was free. For thou and I, Had wandered in the desert then Beyond the sea, By Phoebus' "golden pathways," till the sun Sung "Glory over gold" in our ears; And then, methought, the song ceased, And then the marching, and then the swords, Then the great city's bustle, and then the cry, "Temples are gather'd, count the feast!" And then thou wast a great and glorious feast Where all trod in the path of fame. So now at last ye will have one Whose touch can waken laughter, One who can wake the foeman up To do and dare: Ye want a Goliath, men will have one; I say--have him. You will have a Hercules, and a Nero, A Lorraine who toss'd the world away, A Romeo on a burning cloud, A Joan of Arc who touched the red flame; You want a man of iron will and sense, Strong as a steel. My Hercules would dance through the furnace, My Nero pass the tumbling beam, My Lorraine laugh, and my Romeo weep, And my Joan of Arc despise it all, And yet they need it not. I ask you, have ye felt the wrath of God Till ye could turn your lonely way, Not having any friend to seek for help, And live on out there? Not having any friend to send you comfort, And go for dead? Have ye had the knowledge, and the joyous sense, Which life brings to those who labor and toil, And seek to better themselves? Not having these two, "See ye to it"-- <|endoftext|> And silence seemed a surer token Than any whisper, than one little spake. "The priestess bids us go,"--and a babble-- Like dripping drops--from brain to brain arose, Of ghosts of dead men whose skulls lie low; And in the midst, she whispered "The New Jerusalem," As if she meant the world and not her name; And she laughed and said, "'Tis not alive yet," And ceased; and all the mad features round At last came back in little wreaths again; But huddled into read-faces, like old eggs, Were Zion's dead men, on whose brows and graves Was dew not pouring yet! I was a warrior ere the days of Moab, And though I slept in tents, and brew small beer, And build the cross, I was no fruit-offering, And worshipped not the gods of old and kings; But lived by prayer and sacrifice. And as I sat by morning stars, Though the shadows lay upon the earth, All of the day I knelt and prayed to God For victories, and victories more, And broke the bread, and poured out wine, and said, "Give me victories! Let me but win the day!" Then came the hour of Trys-all, and I went With many other--brave men to the New Life, And there I bought me a fair wife, whose mother came From old Nebaioth, with a sightless child, And I have sent her back to Nebaioth, And planted a trysting-ground in my tent, And smote the garden out for my daughter, And quarrelled not with my servant Reuben. And though this city by the West-Wind sways, And is turned to a west wind and a red leaf, I say 'tis Good-silver and 'tis good to meet Again on the temple steps at sunrise, And smoke God's Copper-leaf, and tilt and find Success more certain than wine, and Wine more sweet. Hear now the tale of Elijah's ring, And how he went with three on the mission To seek the Holy Grail. 'Tis good to know How Adam's maid became the tree of knowledge, And how the speckled robin red hat has reached The Heaven of Fictions and the Norns' abode. The story-teller will string the knell Of Blasphemy, and Rage, and Envy, For nothing is true that is told of old; The oak and all the green boys sing jubilee For the sight of the red boys in blue coats Taking the Grail. For a bloke, the tall red boy Went over Afghants, and the cocks that crow For the same stout giant who in Ladoga stous A mug of milk, and girded him for his flight. The red-eyed German laid the clean horse Down at last, and stretched himself to take The soft, full, soft, thick, and sleepy load That comes, if ever the thing were right, From belly that has stretched itself so wide. And then the battle wounded began To fall, with great grief of heart, on Saul, Who buried them as men would plant a tree. And afterward, when well-nigh mad with pain The sight of his hard-earned fields laid waste, He heard the small twinkling knockings and knocking Of gossips who suspected foul play; But he had told his secret and was strong, For he had hid the keys of the oak at last. The little red-eyed cripple ran about, And flapped his wings a little, and flew up high To rob the clouds of lightning; but the Fates Were wise to his profession and cut him down. 'Twas sure Prophecy, and who would doubt it? For when the last red-eyed giant fell, And he who built his huge thick walls of wood Had ceased to knock his bone-fish on the breast And thrash the cocks of his many sons, His last thin cock crowing as he went down, A frozen pool of blood in the valley lay; As sure as men can prophesy, it meant That he should look for the black knights at dawn. For now the three on the naked grail quest Must compete with one another To build up the red walls as red as bed; And the first to lay a single stone of it Was promised red wine and a red sword. In good Rinaldo to the Piedmontese Away, and over the blue hills to the South I am come, and a marvellous tournament I undertake, a conquest great and rare. First to Egypt, via Pyrenees, idlers, And Libians cross the mountain tops To sack the towns of Syria; and all day long Where'er our banners are spread, in melee or flight, In rout or battle, I am coming. St. George Has struck in me these kingdoms in my hand, And I will keep the promise he made, or die. To-morrow at high tide a strange desert-wall Shall swing down from Jebusite Cuxius to the Euphrates; And the Black Mule shall go before it, crowned, With still in hand, and head thrown back, a simple fellow, And all the long day long against the stream, On whip and fo of all his liegemen, pushing Trampling up and stomping his ground beef between His hoofs, the curious black-eyed cook shall stand, And scrub and meddle with all his dish and pan, While all the time a far-off bellowing thunder Shall wail and dogs grow haughtiest, mountains heave and shudder, And you shall hear in the hollow rocks a moan. And the Euphrates towards the sunset bridge Shall slowly droop her horn for me to cross; And Ida, crowned with mountain-berries, in my hand Shall bear and bid me cut a cedar chest From all the glad the timber yields, and lay it down At once beside the stream; and I shall do it. And then beside the stream, I always tell them, In some strong Lithuanian, like a harp, I will strum a little lute, as young as they, Against that sunset, and they too, a torch In much-laid Spanish shall light my thin throat, And over me my music shall roll, And beneath the greenwood branches, as a fold Of yellow cloud, much beauty display. My lute and violin from far shall sound Upon their ways, where'er they wander, Even when moonshine lightly varnish The heather-groves, and through the branches, As I now sing, a silver mist, like sleep, Shall fall around me; even then, I tell them, I will kick off thick soil, and make a break For air, and suddenly swing round full length Straight into the Southern wind, and blow All white for one moment down in front Of that great Crescent, and sink again. There was a sudden gust of wind, and there A sudden chill, and then the sweetness, last Parting her statement, said, “O daughter, calm Thou and thy sisters, whom the blessings, last, Come long to crown, thy father shall afford, For under his oak-roots thou shalt see Christ's Own blood in flowing lymph; and lo, Already from the scars about his feet The bloom, the blew-back bones and whitened hues, His worn, neglected wounds, weep palely. If he for thee should die, he would have died For his fair children, who, when Christ died, Shall also die; and when thou shalt die, The smooth white limbs that knead his good loaf, Shall rot in rawness and in stink, and then An ashen heap.” With great care she soothed The orphans of her husband, till the hand Writhed in her cheek, and that dead chill slipt Over her words, and she began: “O, tell All that befals, again; yet what avails Where woe hath failed? A frail little house We left him in that year, and tidings none Had reached of him, ere said, ‘In haste we go, We pray thee, girls, go, lest false-eyed maid Assail us wandering: come, dear orphans, hence.’ I waited on four fair nymphs to bring Their milk in golden bowls, which I drank With merry nervelessness. But ere three The ruin came of crops and gardens scenting With joyous heat, and blossomed groves that burned, The angry vernal bonus tearful, Sweet with the fear of parting: then I spied The four nymphs. First I saw Down on the right the goodly Daughter, fair As young Helen. “I pray thee, girl, said I, Remember thee of father Emondros <|endoftext|> Madam, why weep'st thou? of thy life-long pains Thou would'st see thy children cursing thee in Hell: And if this new wonder in these springs rise, Myself will see, ere long, the change I sing. Hark! how the rats and vermin shriek and grumble! And o'er the house-top the soldier-rats are scampering: The cat and the rat begin to bicker, The children to fight, the children to cry; Here's the church-bell to jangle, and the swine to snarl, And the lad to snap, as he runs by, his bones. Ah, how they charge, with the dust and cobwebs flying, How they peep, and how they gather, and how they squall, As they rush by the window, the pansy in sight. This way, that way, a movement they see going, It seems like a barn-door closing, but 'tis but the chimney-stack. Thus the vermin all make off, as if they were wounded; Then all at once a greater din is heard, As if thousands did mount up behind them, And disperse, like a crowd of merry boys, Who saw a howdy-carwick on the green, With an autocratic commands, to "play. Ahow! forward surely? hitherward likewise? Which way do you turn? If you do but bide well waited, Your work will prove a little easier also. "What! let them run like animals, and hearken-why? Ahow! forward surely? hitherward also? Each what, and which? If you see any neidan, Argelina, prithee neidan him; Neidan the young ones, according to their age, And he just aneath to wedlock neidan." --Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, Neidan, neidan, neidan, neidan, ne Tanner, Ne dyeddin, ne ymadhin, Neidan, ne birmingham, Ne edin y hen, need inn a sun, Ne eddin, ne ymadhin, Ne eddin ymadhin, Ne eddin ymadhin, Ne eddin ymadhin, Ne eddin, ne eddin, need eddin, Ne eddin ymadhin, Need eddin ymadhin, Neid a new-caged bird, Need eddin menhaden, Need eddin hens, bred in a coop, Need to have a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, Need a bad smell, need a bad smell, "No, Maggie, No!"--Rebecca cried, As the curious twin drove her to school,-- "You shall not cry in the gale! You are such a lovely blue, Rebecca, I feel proud and tender all day!" But, alas! that proud heart, poor Rebecca, Once, too, her simple taunt replying, Breaks, and the storm-wind, rushing by, Havoc crosses the single cot Which that heart alone could sustain, Round the wildest blue-bonnet worn. And that cheek, dark as midnight weather, So soft and wan in the sad gloom, Lifts into the air more strongly Than if the summer-heavens ever Came down together to her. Rebecca, you shall read, in her grave, Of what strange mischief a single look Can win the heart, and leave the head! Let me, dear, lay bare my heart once more, This latest change its trustees recommend, Because 'tis doubfully frozen, And unworthy to stand the snow's blow: The frost should have luted it long ago; Its frozen power can never sever, Love from love, and hope from hope, so well, Its elements in mutual contract setting, As Fate's one grain would split them wide. Who sees the blanch-headed dried-up things, Crying 'good-by,' to Life's best hopes, Out of my poor heart, would say, "Ah, not Its sun and cordial flowerets chilling! Its wine of life, life's cordial eglantine!" Yet, as I think on you, Dear, My soul plays its old accurate part; The blue of your eyes still burns as pale, As when you looked my last agonies through; Still I see your golden hair shine gold, See your white arms spring loose at your side, See your soft cheek flush crimson with the blush, While your red lips' sweet spasm gives way to a smile. O Love, that my heart were like to yours, Should I all life could give ever give, <|endoftext|> Disciple of Zeus, with beauty dazzling Fair as the heart of the day, with the wild Resemblance of a naked gold-colored snake, Riding on the sweetness of the breeze, Trunk of radiant glory, by her side Sat golden-clothed, and at her feet Shone terrible Persephone, Standing as marble, quiet as a stone, With eyes of love--a queenly maid, Not breathing as in cities. Then to her pallid heart Love breathed his music. She would listen, The while a glory spread her face To where the primeval mystery Of flowers lay on the dew-drink, And on their lips the kiss of spring. And as a lark of Ireland Sings in the spring from green to gold, And all his life is one sweet song Of spring, and of the eternal sun, He sang to her, all the livelong day From early morning till the light grew dim; And as he sang he made her listen, And with the sweetness of his voice Struck fire through her. And the less she knew Of love and its mystery, the more She loved him for his strength and his pride, His beauty and his sovereignty. Even as a lark from off the sea Will gaze awhile and then go down Into the sea again, and up Through the faint air, where the mist is, Over hills, and valleys, and promontories, In endless return, toward the east Would lay his golden eggs one after one Until the silly robin gets one, She lay her eggs, but gave not guard To shepherds all out hunting through the night. At last when the full moon rose she came To where stood the herd of ancient pastures, With three huge bulls of Nemeton-- Nemeton were the family, Brother, and sister, and their father-- She found them all together in one huge And as they swarmed over one grey wall She drew her knife, cut off a fleece Of some great ostrich, cut the beak With her large knife, and threw it down to him; The fat fell down and the broken beak Beat with the winds, beat against the sands; But no one saw the broken beak, The distance was too great. The flock flew scattering by the hundreds, While the great sea beat against the rocks. Then she turned and knelt by her hero Like one whom she had blessed in her pride And whose health she had kept in her triumph, Laying her hand upon his brows To dry them for the cold was coming; And she prayed softly as a little child Laying her hand upon a stool of prayer, And thanking God: "Dear Lord, Dear keeper Perfect in all good and full of love, So, when she reached the shore of the sea, And she reached her young master's place of rest, No word did either give them, no word Did young Geoffrey speak, for he had learnt To speak when women had prohibited; And he lifted the casket, lifted it Low, and laid it down; and turning to Nemeton, he whispered--Nemeton, Nemeton could scarcely speak to speak, And yet he answered her by nodding; For he knew that her hidden enemies Had followed them all day, and now at last To speak and be wounded would damage them. So he spoke not, but he whispered, whispering, While his eyes searched about the fair room, "Sister, the King and the Company come To try you, that your secret is not hurt." And in that secret, Geoffrey felt it lay, So he whispered yet more loudly, "What is it?" But he heard not himself, nor Geoffrey, Nor even the magic of the words, For all seemed silent as the most hallowed place, While the breath of God, like the too warm breath Of a burning faggot, filled the warm room, While all the world lay still as a rocking ship On a bright sea. Then did the King speak, Saying, "Nemeton, what is it? Speak out." But she only shook her head, and on it went To strike the next slate. So the last two, Bademiya and Saiga, did the same, And both hit it deep, beyond the mark Of Bademiya who had struck it first. And Bademiya's rivals laughed at her For being less apt than her brother To hit the different kind of slate. Then, when all the room was silent, Geoffrey, with a steady voice, said, "What Of these, you then again, what are they? What is this company, this other company Of men and women? Behold them, read them, What are they, and whence they come? Why are they Hardened to the colour of the blood, Hardened like moss upon the rock, to me And you? They are the remnant of a world, Once lived and lost, that still inhabits, Immortally. They may not pass away, I see them in my soul, like black ghosts, That come to haunt the houses of the dead." They had gone on a league and a half, the road In evening when they set out, when all The world was half asleep, and they were early. By the blaze of the torches they steered well Down through the soft water, and Geoffrey turned To the cold bitter shore where the sea poured down Beyond a low sandbank where the black weed grew And a little black crab-shoal beat its rim. There by the bank he stopped his horse, and said, "When on this coast we came the course was ours In which I won the last six trophies, This land then lay open to plunder. For a robber had a castle here, A fortress, walled and manned: it lies At the long edge of our land, a league away. That he had it we meant to capture Before the sunset. But our pilot He knew not of the plan. "Come, join with me, Leader of a company. Let us take Our steeds and travel forth to that castle With battle in the field and rout Of disbeliefenting lords, and scorn Of Jew and Samaritan. In this We shall win the glory of this day; I and you will strike with steel and flame Till all the world shall fall to stones." They knew him well. They had read of him In the annals of that land. Geoffrey was the son of an earl, The eldest son of an earl he was, And when his father died he sailed away To take the pirate-life. But he met a noble woman, one Whose beauty waked in Geoffrey such Fond feelings of love. She bore him many children, and given To many husbands. There was one Bute of Strokenfield Fully acknowledged heir to the earl's And daughter's royal name. He proved to be an unruly son, Firm in his nature, careless and free And to his mother's sorrow he gave The name of Bute of Strokenfield, borne From his grand- father, owned by a throne. He ruled a kingdom in Essex, Much at the death of his mother's father gold Controlling the dooms of court and hall And sworn to overthrow in England The pretender king, Charles of Kent (His brother) sworn to overthrow. Bute and Clifford were to fight For the crown. Bute proved to be a fool And Clifford was the stronger, was the quicker To strike. He struck before night, before the sun From the twilight shadows home could rise, He struck with flashing sword, he struck In defiance of death. The king of Scotland, who knew well That Geoffrey was of royal blood, He knew, for Geoffrey had offered gold To him, in secret, on his head In battle for his queen to smite. To strike him he refused, and won A great reward. "I'll be the monarch," said Bute, "I will!" "Behold," cried Clifford, "the time Is come to make thy purpose plain." The king of Scotland, knowing well That Geoffrey was of royal blood, Because his father had held it so, The king of Scotland set his will That Geoffrey should make his purpose plain And be the monarch of Ireland The day he arrived, on his arrival. He knew that the day was the day, The occasion of his coming. He knew that the day was the day. On the day he arrived, the sun Rang down from a tower in Paris (And like a man the king of Scotland Bent down from his castle gate), And the king of Scotland, being young, And infirm, and worn, because he had travelled, Had walked through the uncertain shadows Until the ruddy sparkling light Seemed fire of sunrise. And the king of Scotland, but too proud To show his fangs to this insignificant Clan chief, held converse with his mother, Who took delight in loving him <|endoftext|> But the Fifth Eagle can sing of its birth On the sunbright field of Shu. What is it that I want to teach you? What lesson shall I teach you? Though I am only a blind old farmer, Yet I know the things that I know, As the city-bred man knows The things that he knows. The things that he knows are precious To the frail things that he loves; To his well-loved things they are given As the rain to the corn. The things that he loves are poor And are light but because they borrow From the great treasury of the blind Mysterious things that I am. O tears of ours are truer Than thine eyes that fade For things that are far away; What things are far away Is not more real than this Foolish earth that we see. A grain of rice at least a mile From the river is fresh and sweet And makes a delicacy And a rice cake, to boot, And this is what we eat at night When rain-flowers have gone away. To the untutored ear They have the note of rustic song And a merry carol there is When sticks of bamboo shoot Up in the pines and bamboos And they crowd the pathway bare For pleasure there is no denying And the bamboo is not all In this region to make grasshowers woe, For in a dry month's time A drought comes and all across Mountainous regions come with it And liven at the sight of it And wilt like a child who cries When not a whit of his plaything remains And fears that he will fall dead And weep for thinking of the bamboo That flaunts and glitters and stands A reality to eyeless eyes, And everywhere is glad of it. And this is the reason I wear This gaudy dress embossed with flowers; Is that it may recall for the mind A region of fairy-land Where the Lady of the Flowers often goes And makes the season fair for us What tears are these? I am weeping, O my Lady. What have I done to have caused thee this lament? Do I wish or fear? I did not want To weep, but I can not help it, O my Lady. Thinking of others, does my voice shake? From the leaves of all-creating books, The stories of all people's days, I have gathered the pearls of wisdom; Pillowtries of love and truth, Of hope and exultation, Of the Dream-time, as it is hidden In the Dream-time's thought, of waking And waking, till the day becomes A dream which no one sees anymore, The pearl of all pearls is that you will Never be lonely, my dear; That you will always have a restmate, A dear companion in anguish, A friend in suffering, in fear; That you need not fear to be unkind Or undutiful to him or her, For the thought of such something does not Exist in this live air; nor is it Mentionable in human speech. If you love them, let them be Sons or daughters of your blood. Would you choose between these twain Your loved ones and the sons of others? Never. If you truly love them, Love them as sisters or as brothers. There are evil thoughts and words. Oh, bethink you! Widen your thought To what implications they have. For instance, take a case. Suppose that there lived at your house A friend of twenty-three years, A faithful friend from youth to age, A friend for ever in your thoughts. And there was a difficulty, A petty matter of expenses, And you said to your friend (and you Were very civil in your politeness), "Let's try to work this out, Dear; Just don't enter his room at midnight, And I'll grieve my heart if he rejects A gift, Dear, which I have offered, Though I'm sure that I have made an offer." Well, the thing was tried at midnight. The door was closed, no one heard; A book of records lay upon The bed, a book of records: You drew his picture from the book, You spoke his name as you were politeness, And he went to sleep, and dreamed, and dreamed. Then you heard him softly sob, You saw him standing by his bed, His face was ghastly with terror, His hands were shaking, and he had No pulse, and it seemed a bad one; And then his eyes were wide. Well, when you awoke you said, "The fellow's dead." This was he: "The fellow's dead." Oh, the terror, The awful, awful horror! You felt as if the terror weighed A thousand times more heavily Than the loss of a portrait; And this was the reason you said, "The fellow's dead." We were making our motions As we were bored, you noticed, The conversation dropping Like water from a pitcher. While we were talking so, I caught a glimpse of you smiling. I thought you wore a peculiar Kind of a grim smile that night. Next day was Saturday; We were still in motion, But there was a change. The world Grew greyer and grayer all the while, And cold like lead the ground, And men were walking on their toes, And women looked like swans. Then I saw you walked on your toes The whole of that Saturday, You glanced at me, and I saw You wore a remarkable smile. You seemed to be eagerly Playing at a game you knew You had won, or thought you had won. You thought I died of shortness (That is, I died), You talked to me of other pies, Of whales and rattles, birds and cows; And then of next week, And then of after that. For six weeks I did not see you. You wrote to tell me you were going Far away to Paris; You wrote to ask if I would come And join you there,-- Till you, unluckily, were lost. I never saw your face again, I never heard of your till then, But the people say That, when the war was over And you were come home, A beggar in the city where I lived Wished he had never started While all the others in the station Could speak some kind of English, You only spoke French. If you got a bite to eat You ate your soup plain, With what you wouldn't give away, And when you were 'eaten sour,' You walked away, And didn't care If a Pound was upon the floor. Oh, I wish I had stayed at Bivouac With you. The sun was shining; The day was lovely, And the month was June, And I had plenty to do. I wish I had stayed with you. And this is the reason I write, This is the reason I write. Your name's not on the list. 'Twas lucky I wasn't to be got For you to be getting; I could have been your wife, of course, Or boss, or something. I was always of the opinion That friendship was the best. To tell the truth I'm rather proud That I was wrong. Though you were distant, and scowling, I thought we deserved each other; You, with your smug repose, And I upon my tippy-toes. But now, I don't know what to think, We've not got each other, And I'm not likely ever To speak to you again, Or eat in your way. And I'm not likely to treat You with more kindness, Or be more civil To you in general. When a man grows older, And learns to be a trifle braggadocios, And quite ungracious to his neighbours and his friends, And in all ways becomes more uncooperative, I have no great reason to suppose that he Improves much, really, but deteriorates somewhat At the very same time. It is certainly a well- known fact That a considerable number of men, When they get to old age, Develop anatomical changes Which render them Even more disagreeable and oppressive Than their youthful counterparts. Indeed I'm rather glad you've come, Your presence here is much wanted. I was almost going to have a squabble With Dad about your sending out to Coundoun To fish for cutlet for the Sunday gravy. 'No fishin,' sez he, 'until you're out of port!' Now I've come to know that I was only jest Joking, for father is as bad as I. I've not a doubt That at the last You'll take <|endoftext|> But, like the horrid smile of battle, She sneered at him, and he knew his own Stirred in him a wrath he could not speak. But this, ah! this alone had brought them Together; she had said he was her lover, To which he had consented, and he Had gone to her for aught he cared to know. Her eyes,--now burning through him like a drouth,-- Had driven him furious to distraction, And, as he snarled and rushed at the woman, The thought that 'twas she that had betrayed him Made him a target for her eyes again, Whose burning intensity had almost blent With her angry visage's red. He snarled, and leaped, but with a violent Swoop and whirlwind of his arm, He beat her face to the ground, and she Saw him writhing, and her lips drew back, But her eyes, still adamant to him, Did search his wicked and defiling eyes, And a hand laid warm on either side The line of the mouth he had bitten, and she Laughed, and fondled his wild anger as Her hand caressed his face, and spoke again, And caressed her own, with words that bade men fear Her and forsake her: 'What! fear me? have I not left thee far behind In this new evil that I wage? The new evil that I wage is just; The old evil that I left thee has its course, And it shall triumph! Thy fear is weak, it thinks, Since I go to thy home and its prison, And he that would rebel must go too. It is a silly design to map out My life and find the way to escape. Oh! never, never, dear Asmallah, Thy 'nay' and 'nuf could save me from so The bitter goiter of the world; And God is not mocked, for He is just. He will not lie to thee! thou must NOT go! Is my Sahib so weak that it fears me? Ah, love, have pity on my misery! Have pity, all too late, on the poor Sahib Who cannot fly, and is so desperate! To-night I am thine at all your most wretched cost; To-morrow, if the stars are in the right place, And the wind is in the right way, and the moon is full, I will carry thee to a new home of love. I will wed thee to that fair young arm of thine, And the new mother shall suckle thee full soon. Have I not made thee happy? have I not brought You two together? the Night is one vast joy For us, for us, for us. There is no other home Like this in the world--no, not the stars in the right place, No, not a new-born life that opens out so soon; No, Sahib, not a sweet young babe born to thee On this fair night of Paradise, and born to thee So sweetly and so free from all defect; No other home for thee but this, till the end Of the little time that is set us free. In my head I have two books: one is a book of wisdom, Learned a long, long time, but I forget which. It runs like this: "All that I can say In answer to thy request is, 'Go to! There is another who daily for thee Serves as if for nothing. Look to her, Take her to thee, for her love, for her grace-- Her compassion, her wisdom, her stability-- All these are dear to me; therefore I advise You to-night to-morrow to the other home For their mercy--I have no other plan."' PALE and very pallid stood the Khalifa As he heard her, for the vision which he Had in his sad, sad soul had come to light Among the long, long shadows that lies Behind the eyelids of Eternity. But he answered not, for his answer then Came like a refrain in the endless song Of the infinite piping of the sea Above the universe of waves: "Tarry, Tarry, O Tom{2}! I have some matters yet To speak with thee about, though I look Past all past times." And again he rose And near and more near to her he came, As if he would defend his words once more, But again the old murmur died away Among the shadows like a sigh, and one Would have considered him no more. But he said nothing, for his heart no more Yet beated as it in the old time, and now All its old flame sank away. Not a sound Was heard from the great chambers of the palace, Only the draught birds' merry music rang Among the chambers as in celebration, The diamond-hard fruit lay glowing Harmonious on the golden branches, The peacocks were tricked with tassels and flags, In peacock-hues as if let loose from its prison The painless, the untorturous rich rosy-fingered Marabau of ripe fruit fell across the table, From which the cup of gold had long been withdrawn. "Now say, O friend, what meaneth this thing?" The Khalifa now was turning to her With some hurried utterance in Arabic But his voice only made answer to his looks, For on the other side she sank with a sigh. "Say, tell me," he urged; but all he said Of the sight of the waters was, "All is there," And that once more the answer was, "Nay," And the mystery was revealed--she too had met With a disastrous end and the sound thereof Beat in upon his soul with the blows of regret. But he strove to maintain himself erect. "And where," he exclaimed, "where is the place of the matter, Where is the place of the vanishing of thy fragrance?" As the terrified hunter from some rock That wakes the sleeping tiger by its dark Doom-dragon, Findeth that nothing doth it tremble, but The beast still walks, eats, and licks its wound; So the King now seemed fain of himself to know What remained in the dark when he left the room Of his gloom. "What is truth? I wish to know That settled--how deep is the pool, and how high Above, its surface, is the walk of thy feet. Tell me, for thou knowest, thou who hast wandered The paths of the stars thyself, for anigh To the lost one of thy footsteps the Ara Loya!" His turban, put off, he now threw aside, His mantle, and over his nakedness The leathern purse, and all his robes, Of dapper remnant, the negro-safari. At this their swift feet striking the floor, A long way ahead of the knight's sight They shamed the mud of the slave-track on its beat. "Lord, what a man!" the Khalifa cried; "to be Such a man, even such as thou art, for Christ!" And, obeying him, the porters ran, Making down the gate, and appeared to wait His command, while he madly pressed on, Trampling over pavements and through gaps in walls With the slave-horses, laughing as he triumphed. Now the Khalifa's presence had turned to dread And in its place a man now stood in place, Wearing upon the temple's tower-gable The mitre and crown of God's prophet-priest. Not yet had he drawn up to the front of the crowd, But, turning sharply to his seeker after peace, "Peace be with thee, O Khalifa!" he cried. "I seek no quarrel with thee, but for these Who seek my holier vestments in my mind. I seek not war with thee; for thy son Hath stood between my hand and the East, And he lives--who would believe it? And I Must still be a Khalifa. Make thou my quest Away with thee. Let us go some other way. Thy palace, guarded by thy vulture band, I have made my own; we will not enter there. Let us go through the garden-close, for there Thou art alone, and my sons about thee lean. Here, 'mid the thick-leaved and perfumed limes Of the south and north, my camp-fires I light, And the winds the tall pales behind me bear. Know that whoso seeks me first, from thence My steps pursue theirs, and their port of safety; For thou alone, O father, hast the might To comfort me when I lament myself. In Haifa I a brother priest have found, But his faith is not as thine, O holy father; And I was born a Jew and have no home, Or any land where I may dwell at all, That I need in the world for my protection." <|endoftext|> of death, bare to heaven; Like a church they seem'd By Heaven's own hand built up, Of steel and stone and plate. Upon his ribs there was a stove, Not of iron, but of wood; But this he never heard: 'Twas generally understood, That when the lord of the house Would dine, all were commanded To bring their cook to bake; And those who failed in this, Were deemed to be scamps, and vermin, In every hope, at all times, Who durst meddle with such a matter. But to return:-- The setting sun grew faint and dim, And waxing night, at last, Brought on the dying cheer Of the hoarse night-bird in the town. The lark alone, her noon-day song Had pealed throughout the grove, From Merrily morn to Merrily morn, Ere the sun from glory did shrink; And soft from branch to branch it flute-like ran, And spread its golden, preluding tongue. And Philomela, the morning-pearl'd, Thus, with her pipe, the day began. Joy! joy! the world is waking at last! All things are beginning, new and bright; The dull, grey fields are such a pale disguise Hath old Philomela's setting sun shown thee! Red the brooks, red the toonies fresh gold'ning, Smooth the thick grass, gleam the bright brooks lilies, Show the hills, like chains of crystal connecting, All the lowlands, your progress since first telling, Are but heads, skinny branches of one highland! The clouds, at noon, high appear, Look you like mighty shaggy heads of ash; And the women, your old day-fellow thrifty, Lead on the bright sun, and do not fear at all, Lead on the day, and love, and wife! Ay! yes! old friends, that from old Caloundra Hast journeyed still, and north beyond it, And through great Skövde and far to south, And seen, and travelled through the untried, And passed the almost infinite tests, And swam through the slender rivers, And endured much, borne upward and downward Over much hardship; and they tell us And speak to us with their own blue eyes, How in great danger they have vainly striven, And spent long days, and starved, and sat alone, And heard, and done with, and come through it all; How on wild coasts and in lonely forests They have seen such marvels as astonish With their weak, trembling hands and knees The whole round world, that stands like meaningless sand Between their sway and all endurance; How on warm and rolling ocean-waves They have sailed before them for a year Or two, and seen great cities with white towers Sink out of the sun's path, and the sun Pass them and disappear, and make no sign; And they say, if they be not drowned, On the third summer, with their sureties, Thinking themselves immortal, their names Shall be forgotten like the lap of rain That fades not, nor the multiform potter That hatches and rolls up his gold to display To the assembled world his innumerable works. How they have been, and what they have seen And what they have undergone, and what it is That does above all things to protect And preserve their sight, through centuries of change, They tell us, sitting at the feet of God. Ere all experiences of corporeal comfort That bring to the sense a lying portrait Of the external form, except when such is wrought By fascination, or by religious passion, Or (which more than any others are wrought By such deception) when, for other cause, The soul has been enslaved by false phantasies, Namely, the phantasies of material love, Souls therefore that have dared to gaze on matter Have felt an odd torment in the enchanted view, As from a distant region they surveyed The tortures of his all-disposing art. But in all such cases, though it be so, There remains to me another and a greater; Which is, that I have been deceived, or overstepped The mark by which I should have been content In these or any like cases, only now To have been able to judge of what I saw; For marks of comparison to my eye Do still remain, not easily obliterated. Yet this I pass:--if in my limbs I live, And in my soul I write these lines, and show Thes be the work of manly might and mature To brighten all that on the page may smile, Worthy of the name of Poet, yet This too I must confess, that since the day When on this side the Atlantic newest land, Crossing the sea with fearless mind and eyes, I breathed the air of West, my mortal frame With all the powers of my unknown soul were tried; Wand'ring thro' new climes, an outlander now, In honour to the name of Soldier past; O, Strife! Strife! that makes of all the world A jeering audience, of each kindlier grace A clime of gardens and of groves of peace, Whose presence makes our fairest nature fair To those who at their sides may breathe the airs That might with corrupted guilt bum us silly; Let me be read, then, of all who have gone down To earth with honest hopes, yet came to school The hell of luxury and live-long days In garrets, catching evil for the sake Of Truth, or Virtue, or both. But first, Strife! let me report that all Who yet that hell of luxury have passed, Returning thence, like scourges by rule and time, Still die of it, thrice over thrice dead; Nor aught avail them, when so fallen, privily To bed, like coursers gored for shame, they groan, And creep, for example, off the pampered head Of their great master, or of some vile jade, In luxury's alliance, skulk and cozen. Ah! if thus, at every corner of The world, my passage and my shadow's dim And gloomy echoes run, 'tis time to view That which I e'er went under for,--even then Astonished, when at first I scarce could guess What all this meant, and took it for the best; For good and evil, made and undone, A strange accident, perhaps, to wear The very semblance of a fate foreshown. Well!--in such a case, a man should meet At once the one despair, and long for both; Neglect his comfort, ease, and usual ways; This will remove all gloom, so make up To Heaven what God has taken away. "What ruin has the world been dragging down! What loss of worth, and honour, and fame, Since one poor book from heaven fell from the finger Of one poor angel, and fallen from the sky! There's a talent that a hand not strong enough Could not in support it, be now described. This glorious vision, now lost for ever, The Muses' mine, where never has been reaped The real or apparent iron lost, Leaves behind no state, nor wealth, nor place, For all that live, or think that live below. For blindness stalks in the world below, And shoots its poison from the brain and eyes; And wisdom--tho' made to light the world, Like most its worshippers, is blind itself. "What is this world? A feeble hollow shell That nothing to its centre can arrive; A glass the tempest's flash can scarcely crack, Nor bend or break; a shadow its shade can throw Upon the enemy's camp, and lightly bear For ever from its prize beyond the sea; Where fleetest pinions might not follow it, Nor sound under heaven, nor stir from far, Nor hawker's, nor the shouting eye of man. For nothing falls from thence, but straight returns, The eternal reflector of the sun; The imperfect encloser of light, in which Everything that is made appears to be. Behold, this glassy mirror in the air, The shining artificial shadow on the glass, Which Death and Time can make for you and me; Each more incredible than the other;-- Shades that, though shaded, are not shadows, but lines; Shadows that are lines, not surfaces that are lines; Light that is not light, nor sound that is heard; Rise, behold, and are the very forms of life! You, of the feet, the lips, the whole limb are life, And nature made for love, not for my sake. The loving wife, the lovely child, the wise man's wealth, This is the world which has power o'er death to move, And gives my part to play the idle echo. All else is shadow and not reality. <|endoftext|> That swam in earth-- Well--freshening, and kinda diffling, In more fragments there began to heap The stones, stones duller than glass, Drab, tawdry, not the touch of life. And long ago, And long agone, Upon a bridge of that king of pines, (No matter if ye lard the tale or not), What use to tell, if ye would what was done! Was nowhere skilful but in tidiness, No wieldy weapon but the gaze of gaze, No horse the sooner to scour the sward out, But under it, damps and brackish as it was, Under it, a drunken son of Basuto! How come that blind man who served King Oenone? Pity the fool, but to pity lose the man. Ah, woe is me, the fountains of this store Were more than his staff, he knew no other. Take this for true, what ever came thereand. A cock horse's eye, a beaded eye, An eye of velvet, of wax, of silk, Waxed bright, waned brown, o'erflowed with red-- Rare, occult eye, which never found Earth's telestial borders, but pressed On, with an acrodotal travel, Which waxed portly with the unnumbered years That waxed poor with the never-ending years, Maddening with pence set aside for care, Pressing, pressing, never able to find In all the weary journey an exchange Of the eye's inward for the eye's outward blues, Blemish and radiance, foul with clots of earth, And keen, blue-edged, swirling as they came and went, Serious and frivolous with the whole aim Of adding pelf, and rivalling Earth's amassing Of gems, since Earth herself, this heart of ours, Grapples them in the tiniest compass even so. Give me the eye shut, to wilt in soft swoon Away from social things, from each and all, Sorrow without Segway, and strife Without radio, the psalm that brings The midnight Fog rather than Christ on high: Prayers, from those who never pray, and those Who never read, from each who never reads, Songs from heavens that are never sung nor sung. An eye, a full eye, with as clear a lust Of God's illumination as the sun, A feller-eye that, all the night and as I write, Kept digging at the tunefu' grave, and made A hell of that cussed Ouija contraption Her husband got for his*/her set father he Had to submit to for a spell while odd, While even he seems sleeping while all the time Her great eye's ears are hatching, her immense Heavenlier eye listening while the noise she sitteth up, A nerve-centred nightingale, whose melody Crushes down upon the ears of men, a force That shakes a man's confidence in wife: No, no, not like that, a moon-blind glare That makes the stray star nearer, the moon Greener, the moons high glory, and the night Tremulously quivering like a Siren's song Hurtling her terrifying throat into our ears, When the moon-begotten Son of Perdition swings Into Saturn's horned, slumbering cell, and mounts By leaps and crouches of the elephantine Moon And screams of the Earth, and earth's dun horns, all of it Bursting into song of the horns, and scatters it Like bees from their tall altars, and the horns, Gather into fountains that quench and flood and quench it. Never was city in its glory, while it kept A modicum of awe, a modicum of peace, A modicum of quiet, one jot of soul From man taken for master of its sweeping, A modicum of beauty, clothed in deity. But now, now it is but dust and ashes, A broken stock or chart, an idle blade, An engine moulded for other times, that rolls Upon its boring, bearing, what its master knew not, And as it is and was and will be, so will be. O Master, thou hast wandered in thyself, And we have listened, faithful, to our own Sad hearing, and our sight of Thee is brief, Like a short tear in Gethsemane: leave Thee then, And keep us, wilt thou, Thee, save us from the far Unfoldings of the far serener heavens, To the end of thy Catherine's heart, master, let us live, That in these dawning lines we may reflect How all things still are harmonious, and must go, We souls, in order eternally set for Thee. A day shall come when a new land, a new clime Grew in the waste and the quiet of the sea; And round the virgin forests of a new land, With lines of black lagoons, a new race of men, The ghastly galleons, the battle-ships of Spain Ploughed the pure tidal flats, whilst the sunless wave, Beneath their broad banners of grey, whilst they, Tented land and ocean, sail'd in pairs and threes, Through avenues of soundless foam and spray, to meet In the mid passage, east and west, the main. And the broad lips of the east turn'd from the sun With a smile of exultation as they bore Her vital sheets towards that dark world of the sea, With all her rising billowy columns of cloud, And all her breathing pacific serenity. And on the quaking forepart of that sea The sun-light curved, as if her lips to meet, And thus pass out the missing years and the woes. Not that the others of that fairer land Shrink from the sea; they far from earth's hot rays Have strayed into their inmost caves of bale; But she and her children, O, bold of face! A queen of men set over all the world By her brave deeds and noble hearts of women, Will storm the Gates of Paradise, as only they Who win therein may enter into rest. On windless over-wooing nights She hath gone forth in lamplit number Of bright flowery military things, With horsemen ranging in order true As in some battle, only that they ride Not busily, but like warriors strong, Or marching from a fete or some feast Of snowslide or golf; and still The colour, freshness and softness of their mien Will oft envious fashion call to mind The sunlit run on the creaming lawn When Prince Charlie's Lamb was at the door. And Catherine looks on them as they ride In the one content of her retired life: Now pink for lustrous green and now Deep cherry purple with a pinkish splendor, Making sweet counter-arrangement With rubies that blaze everywhere. With her own eyes she sees her own fair face, And her great hands become more firm and fine; And one forgets that she ever felt Departure therefrom, and one now Flatters with the chearful pure bright gaze Of lost innocence as a bird in its nest When the wing is gone. With a still shyness she and she Gaze on the fresh clear broken face, And her young children that she hath given Are so shy that they will not look on her. The innocent must go. They have a secret they must not speak. She knows they are there and she waits A little while, then she goes forth and thither With a touch of some wonder in her eyes, And then the sight she remembers. This is the western world. There is no world In which there is not at least one ship, Sailing hush-hush, with sails unfurled, Come from across the waters. In the bay, Gulls of them as white as summer cedars Pass and retreat, becoming more numerous As the stars come out. They are the sacred Fountain-heads of lore that no man may hit on, Yea, though his very brains were gold, Finding them, saying "This is the one." Here when some dear girl with eager eyes Looks at the sweeping flight of years And the circling wide and vast ahead And at last, "NOW," she cries, "there is no more" And in her heart the heavy word "NOW" Is love-made music and it saves her. The precious, winged Angelus. Till where she stands And waves to him, he passes on Along the still rhythm of town and street And now he comes to her Where, somehow, she understands Whose bright head cloth is the Western blue, Whose raiment yellow rainbows wear, Whose posture doth unite <|endoftext|> The pastoral age is shorn, We grind the old whips and learn to make the new ones; And our breakfast is heart on the heart, On the heart of the young sweet wine of the years. Take the lads to the woods, and teach 'em to sing; Let the yoke be laid, and the groom be led astray; Lest the sheep should go astray, and the shepherd be gone. He that can count and can love must bear the whole weight, Give the old age its due, and lead the youth in the way. Out, under the spreading trees, Out where the breezes come, If ye will have companionship, Let us go a-roaming, comrades of the way; If ye will be loyal, Let us go a-fighting, for kings to the cannon are cast. There is serenity of manner to him, Kindness of heart, Kind words and gentleness of manner, Since the world began have called him his friend. E'en the dogs at his word obey, Nor will they run you if you will pay them fair, All mankind at his bidding are friends and brethren. He that ne'er turn'd to grousing, Though the fleecy flocks were gone, Wi' the snow, in pair and crew, To thole the paddin' that their dams did stay, He was a Saladin strict, And they all knew the hour o' his coming had been set. She that's fair and holdeth up her head To be o'erlook'd, she canna fash; But I trow she's nae sae fair, Nae' shape, nor fash, nor mense of it, And ye may war' nae mair, But hae a name, which, howgither, though ye'll gang furth, Ye'll ne'er see endoo, But losse it, and that's the best o' it. In the kirk meets wi' the lave o' oaths And maks all sorts o' sad things seer, To sicke melder sicke melder grow At the score that's roarin' at the wa', And the flocks o' Cain are but lambs to his shears. The shearer's lads, that their wants mak' They'll lay them down on the tither shear, And still to the exciseman they cleer Their ijacks, and their craps, and their whittles, And eke their whizzers and their dykes, And payne deep for that day's work among. Tho' their master's a kind heart' And hath plenty to eat an' drink, And the swats should serve his purpose true, Yet mak' they at their rolling-ben's A more'n fee feather for his falcon's fal. There was a king that was cruel, To a beast the poor beast he chose; For the beast he had a wife so wise, For her he had a brain at his command; And she was rich, and had store o' the best, An' a house, an' pantry, an' a home for meat. Ay, cruel king, the morn was dawnin', The captain and his son set out, For a muster o' the Bird Army That was led by the ruddy bright bride. The bird army, ruddy bright bride, Was led by the ruddy bright bride. All, all was going prosperit, The captain and his son, far far; But the bird army, ruddy bright bride, Had a mind o' their own behaivour, They made a lower, if you please, In the wagon that was sweepin' them. Away, away, they flew like the chaddi o' the suddann, Their dear o' life, o' a' their brains in the thro'nin' o' the night, In the thro'nin' o' the night, an' the wind was a blowin' bird invasion; But the wind was a blowin' bird invasion, And the bird army, ruddy bright bride, Gaed down in the wagon that was sweepin' them. Ay, winds could ha' waged war against a beast, If the beast had wings to beat the windies up an' down. Yet, a' the marks is the same, the mark o' a beast an' a blessin' bein' a bird, If the bird has wings to beat the windies up an' down. A god is a beast, a beast is a beast, An' a bird can fly, can fly at the lees; It isn't right, in the rush o' the gales, to flittin' back, Wi' a bead o' tinder in the engine an' the boiler an' the shaft. It isn't right, in the rush o' the gales, to flittin' back, But the god is a beast, a beast is a beast, An' a bird can fly, can fly at the lees. There's Mob while by Ajax he plays on the quarter-deck, And next John Dawe, wi' his jests an' faffings jokin'; An' Sergeant Dawson, wi' his jests an' liquor fool, He's the deil if he doesn't knock you flat a few times; An' Stephen Day the mirthless Sage, He'll annoy you an' then not cap you; If he doesn't knock you flat a few times You're bested, by ged, by a Flandrian swine. While the Kirk's kirk and the Tanters tarts an' blokes, The bonny bluid comes sae licht, An' the whackin' o' the drums sounds in our ears, While we charge frae side to side; But the sick wame will licht, licht, licht, An' the wark's wark, the deil, When wi' wi' wine, wi' drink, wi' song, The blither day. There's Walse that gets kent like a beast on powder, There's Shipie that's deid on her port steam; An' there's Cox [a officer's] butt an' there's Crabbit, That used to swear before, That the regiment was half rotten when he came in, The year before. They are just like in the person an' disposition, Wi' the person, an' disposition, they're a' the same; I've heept Saracens an' fughtus wights, An' niest bishops in the guts, But there's no subtle man could get the tooth with me, Wi' the hale merchant. I was never blown [a] till I was blew [b] blossom; I've roond a hoose that is blith an' baandering; Now I'm grownerd wi' a damn old mouth o' rale color, An' I've done the Cross before it cool'd; An' I may rue, but I see, wi' pride o' me, I've heerd St. George square a blirdehau'. Oh, you're couteli, pui, coute To the trenches at Longueval; They give our austere grand gude-doge The best bed-staneug. Our little dash bipouss, We rarely hev a bedsent But it's taen the rue. This arms-like little black stone, See, little black stone, It's quite the fathers' pride, I wunnt, At Tocher, the hammer's a-stemming. An' it's Tocher, the hammer's a-stemming, An' it's snug an' cosy; An' thank God for't, i' every whisht, 'Tis cosy an' saucy. An' see, near the hearth, The maister's a-fytting; An' see, near the bar-lowther, His little besomy wee bit man. Ike well I knoweds him well, For we've all dwelt within In that little house, tho' grand; An' the piteouser A-beddening. Crockery of the nation's heart, The dawn-green shield, The black-blue sark and the knotted hem, The braid-bronze heart, The mane of the charger, the steel of the mare, Our country's heart, Her laces and nod, Our country's heart. <|endoftext|> self-portrait of sex being fraught for us with men we recognize as people, as neighbors, friends, even enemies— how to end, how to end a life in which I saw not only desire and the tears in their eyes but a hunger to last that lasted until desire grew withering and tired itself of what it began. While we talk about architecture I draw a long breath, steady myself. Stare at the blank wall. Say nothing. Let the sun burn in— those are my favorite prayers. <|endoftext|> "What Time It Gets To Be", by Sarah Manguso [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals] The owl sings from his or her North Haven cell to be summoned to the western woods, to call the fox or jackrabbit from a stone's throw. And how many steps are on a windless day, how many ounces of steel aren't enough to float a peregrine falcon, or a congo floating alone on the yellow plains of Indonesia. Or the blue morph of a lark, breaking the line of an oak's branches, or the llama on its back, running before a girl, or the shadow of a bear on a blackland rafter. Or the slink of a long-eared, long-tailed mouse, how it drifts out of the tall grass, only to be followed by the children who have just what it takes to chase it down, or die trying. Remember that. And when that happens, think of the instinct those creatures have not to fly. <|endoftext|> "Women Who Grow Silent After Hearing Troubled Silence", by Sarah Manguso [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Philosophy] She hears a lawn mower rumbling down the lane, he winds a piece of bladed grass through a thickéd string and strung together with three parts of cleat, he sings a song so strange, so tender, so like six years ago, he ticks off all the imperfect syllables on his neck, and even though it's late June and there's no one else living there, that garage will be quiet again. <|endoftext|> "How I Discovered Philosophy", by Sarah Manguso [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Class] The farm used to belong to my grandfather. He ran the place from before my birth on. He wore hard hats and stacked books under his. He kept sixty head of cattle and passed cow plates through the door to the county tax collector. He knew the cattle by their calf collar numbers. He let the grass grow wild in the barn. He wouldn't feed his own kids macaroni. I remember the barbed wire and the smells of sweat and manure on summer mornings, and how the cows would bend their heads towards the open door, staring at the man in the plaid shirt, who would lean over the railing and say the hardest things and most people don't listen. I remember the cowshed, tall and leaky, and how we would follow the stinking cows into the hayfield to watch them feed in the sun. <|endoftext|> "Daddy's Last Ride", by Dan Vera [Living, Health & Illness, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life] He'd say Every parent's dream is their kid's to ride out on a loop. He'd count off all the places they couldn't ride, the poles, the chains and buckles, the whole room of it, out on the endless horizon. Just out there. They were just out there. The endless room. He'd say every parent's dream is to be able to stand on the loop and see out there the endless room and the limitless expanses of sky. I can do that. I can stand on the loop and see out there the endless room. He'd say the real joy is not to be bound to anything but ground. He'd say standing on the loop you are in constant touch with the infinite room. You float on the infinite ground. And it's really the one thing that you have: the infinite room. <|endoftext|> "Ain't It a Coon?", by Sammy Jay [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] She ain't the kind that's got the coon-chucks in her yard. That's what I heard. I seen a little black dog one time, slim then,thin 'bin back then,muscular,and the barkin' it was fierce as fest'nin' fire. That's what I seen. I ain't the kind that goes around lookin' for trouble. Somethink it might ha' been my mama's chinchilla, so thin'bin dead, nychatching coz it 'riped the leaf under her feet. That ain't the kind of dog I is. I ain't no troublemaker. Somethink it might ha' been my mama's chinchilla.She ain't got the coon-chucks in her yard.That ain't the kind of dog I is. <|endoftext|> "The Galump", by Stephen Dunn [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy] Ever since my wife's five-and-ten (five in a team, ten in a group) She says she has been dead. I try to explain To everybody that it ain't quite that way. When we was kids She had a habit, sometimes late at night Her hand would drift along the table, Pulling out a paper cup And swilling its gray with wine. We'd hear her carrying on In there sometimes, I'm guessing; But she'd say she'd pay me out Later, sometime. I don't know how she does it. She doesn't eat or drink. Sometimes I notice Her hand's so dry, too. At the height of summer she's always telling That she's afraid of being too late To something up north. I know that won't do, And I'm sure she doesn't. Sometimes she's so tired She can't keep from sleepin'. And when I come in here Late at night I usually find That it is ten o'clock And she is kissing somebody. That's just what I like best About this time of year: Sitting here alone, Not worrying what's for the weekend, And not worryin' who it is. I like to watch her kissin', And hear her laugh. I like to watch her smile. I like to hear her sing. <|endoftext|> "Sing a Song", by Clive Winfred [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Music, Valentine's Day] Who will you be for Valentine's Day Containing love spake music high? O sombre fields at evening You must be spick-li-packed; You'd be much funnier in rain, Or wearing a toque and vest. Flint flame uncoil and infall In face of a jaggardless sky; But it's your meed of success When love tunes your voice to the lute, As ours does now for Valentine's Day. In choir of real lovers you sing The beauty of flesh. Something makes me breatheless With silent ecstasy. <|endoftext|> "To You", by Oscar d'Epinay [Love, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Were you the flower, though, were you the dawn, Were you the sun with his rays absolute On wide, changeless days—were you the worm That feasts on himself, were you a little tide That gropes toward unspecified shores, a little breeze That turns your plashing bosom, faint and rare, To kisses and to smiles, were you a dream That leads the soul that's weary and weary, Gently by some lulling mystery led, Yourself and all along the unmeaning shore? For sure, if you were a flower, or dawn, A sun, a breeze, a beast, a toque or vest, Love would have missed and carried to the days And nights when he's spent and done; and now It's all undone sorrow could regret. <|endoftext|> "Love and Life: A Ballad", by Henry Timrod [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love] Love and Life, the bright gods, Monkeys, Bees, and Crickets, Breathe in my heart your passion. Phyllis, once the nymph Of such a god, carried off the heart, And bore it to her bed, and laid it there; The bed where never a light shone on; Naught delighted him but Love's emissaries. And now my Life's so full of young Desire 'Tis more than amiss it is to have her. Can Love be slain by dullness and waste? <|endoftext|> And thus fared it. 'My heart is dreary, like a raisin in the sun; I long to see the earth--to see the eager fire Transport upward through the purple air its train, And read the signs of beauty in the glorious sky. Afar from the joys I held so dear, The thought of lonely hours I bear, The pang of loneliness, and longing for love, That filled my soul with hopelessness and pain, It seems like waste of life--a long forgot pain. To right, to left, my life lay half complacent And unconscious of its sadness; And suddenly came this thought, the pangs they show The empty chambers where I have no love, No friendly hand to bid me rest; I would go back to my chamber and weep.' And said: 'You would have sought the joyless place, The room alone, your chamber? So you scorn The undefiled heart of every gracious guest?' 'I scorn them all' (she said) 'I wish I were alone That I might weep my sins forth of their misty eyes.' 'And yet the sinless eyes of beautiful ladies Do rain upon you kisses--kisses that save.' 'No, I would rather weep my sins from eyes that lose All sympathy with my disgrace;' and she said, 'Yet one point I care not for, if thou art true; Oh, grant thy truth, thou canst do what thou dost say. There is a small white stone--a very coppery stone-- On a high mountain, in a hollow of the hill; From it a dew drops all the day long, when the sun Hath mounted into his goldenstate, and clings To the peak through the day, and i' the night drops in From the great rock where it arose; and when night Hath fallen, the dew makes a network, like a wreath, Round the pale summit of the peak; and often the hour Doth arrive, just as the sun is descending, When the little dew has scarcely dried, and hangs A globose like glassy water high o'er the stone, Making the top sparkling wet, just when thy wreath Is lifted to a pale oblivion.' And I to her: 'Is this the reason, then, I love you? Simply that the place is lonely, And the heart sad? No, that cannot be the cause; Yet--O Love! the world is full of loneliness, And sad hearts; and hearts alone are sacred!' But she: 'My love is sacred--and more welcome Than the calm solitude of some dark grove, Or the bright companionship of some beautiful Mountain-nymph with forest-boonrest ferns, Pushing her pale feet through the tenderstems of roses, And meeting soft sweet smiles from silver cups of delf. Hence, then, my love, be brave, say what thou wilt, But love is supreme.' I stood a while, and pondered, and I said: 'Beloved, since it is so, then, be it so.' And she answering said: 'My love is dead, And Thou gainedst more than thou imagest, it is dead. I have worn it out myself, worn it out like a garment, That I may be that I must love in vain, yet I have felt How strong and well that love was woven into my heart, And that it fitted not at all, like a false glove on my hand. O Love, be brave and loose thytill the day of reckoning, For in the day of reckoning men will not believe A word that Fate spake, and Destiny hath thus made it plain, That neither thou nor anyone on earth can turn back Till thou be man, and find that thou art never alone.' And I was wild for wrath, and wild with love to be So softly touched with pain, and like a laggard star That glitters and gladdens upon the darkness, so that I Met her angry glances with a smile, smiling at them, And my cheeks were pale, my heart was sore within; And when at last I met her angry glance again I fell to earth with heedless ease and lay until I heard her horsemen neigh, and then I rose and gave a call That we might depart. And when we had reached the door And step by step were lit to go, she murmured softly there: 'Fear not, my love, I love thee, if thou art found To be so false and vile and vilely deformed As man can make, so be not concerned if thine Beauty of youth and glory of prime seem spent So soon, so soon and now.' Then she beckoned me to go in; And when we were in the quiet of the room, And I had spoken to her of mine own thoughts unrolled To her to hear, 'Now,' she said 'I see the full cost Of whatso shame the world will lay on thee, and I fear Lest all the glory that I had, all that I was, Be squander'd in vain before the getting of this last fruit Which but the love of thee and shame to him must empty, And thou be ruined utterly, and nothing remain But his despise, his scorn and nothing more.' But as I passed to meet her hand she shattered at it, And cried: 'Farewell, my love, I have been good to thee.' And as she ceased her hand I touched, and said as much To her, and cried: 'Farewell my mistress, be not weary, For I will follow thee, what if we must depart Now ever, never, wherever thou leadest me.' Then she: 'Are ye not honour'd, then, in this house? Are not your feet citered to the town or school?' And I: 'Our feet are citered, O my love, to the school; And so were thine, were it not that I have vex'd With sc. my promise to return,' and so leave'd naught else Till we reach'd the town; but as ne'er sick man went More leisurely to thebed, so I more leisurely Came-scudding down the hill, and clucking at my heart, And making sport of my hair. But as we went My curling hair became a tinkling sparkle. At that my mistress turning somedeal, Clothez'd me in a robe more white than snow. For there was ashes in the intertongue Where the silk lay, and her hand had made it. But as for that the shade of doubt is great, My mistress, see, a little rod I have got Which I must turn to and I must twist it soon. I am to see my bridegroom's fair face And not to see my own,' etc. 'Were't not that the babe he suck'd Could suck my blood too?' etc. Then shews me where the baby lies, Feeding on his mother's veins, and how Its cheek looks through the stroke. And again 'If my blood were less,' etc. 'If I still go,' etc. Then in a flash my mistress plain Disrobed of her mourning stuff, is there. Her face all lighted up with happy joy And I still after can descry. So I: 'I have serve'd my time,' etc. 'When the pipes were played,' etc. And then I said: 'But you have done, And I shall never warm bed nor board Again, nor seek the service of one But in my wife's wife, and she not far Nor yet ara where I am, since she Will mend and be kinder to me.' 'I have forgot,' etc. And clapt my hands for joy and cried: 'You all have done like me, and I Must not despair, though I might weep, A merry heart is a happy heart.' And even as I said it my heart Was in a gust, and all my face was gay And I again was more like man than dead, And sprang from my glad dream like fury flay'd. 'A merry heart is a happy heart,' etc. Then I was forc'd to admit and feel That to love where one has not been born Is warmer charity than world can give, And that the secret of all joy is love Where'er it falls; which in both me and her Did inly cry through joy, but could not say Wherefore any more than it was a matter Planned in heaven, but, for the most, was there When me and her our heavenly intimacy Did thank in music, so we shook hands and part. 'So you have left me,' etc. So then from parting I reclaimed The past in both our bodies, and still drew From all the past in both our spirits, and drew The same kind of awe and love that did avoid Our present misery, but with a scorn Which was not scorn, 'Why are you, then, not mine?' So in a while we move in shadow blind <|endoftext|> About a turn and "a pull over" Came the real thing. You'll pardon The quaint detail. THE novel Adam writes in California For his wife, and the life he describes Is a mixture of fact and fiction, As nearly as I can judge:-- There's a Japanese barber Who cuts hair at the Kamo Hotel. He cuts so well, it's a shock when he's done, And a shock again when he begins. He's so earnest, there's a hint of fire In his eyes, and a cut so deep and sharp Makes the hair seem to sing, and the man Flushes red and then hangs it up neat. He cuts at three, and the woman he gets For the hotel maid, Mary, is plain, plain, plain. She's the kind who'd look well on a T-shirt That said simply "I Suck Off My Dad!" She cleans the hotel rooms, takes out the garbage, And the coffee-bar man who pokes the ceiling With a wooden mallet has a haircut From this barber who pats his head and says: "My father has been dead twenty years. How is he doing, anyway?" He gets the novel out quickly. "You want to know my father's name?" "Yes, please." "Well, it's that Haruo Nakazawa, He was a famous banker of Nippon. I was born in the same hospital As his children, and as old as they. He died and left his wife and me To take care of ourselves, and we did. I was very small, and my brother Put a ramp on the door for me When he went out to work each day. He was never cruel to me, But now I wish he'd never been born It's so much easier to be a kid When your father is dead, and Dad's dead. You don't have to try to work that And carry a book or hold a latchet." I'M tired of the twilight sky of the sea, The hot wind ruffling the patio furniture, The plastic beetles chattering on the eaves, The reveille of the roosting birds, the clatter Of the pens and the coffee pot. And I'm tired Of the dawn, the pink-rimmed sun glinting At windows shut against June, the stubble On horses' flanks, of shadows lurking On shelves for children's stories. I'm tired of the hundred places Where I've wandered with men In dusty coatrooms and dusty kitchens, And watched the light stand still On grasses I'd grown to know For what would be my death Before the sun grew big again, For what would be my living When the green juice would be tasteless. I'm tired of the doldrums of day, The hooting victims fallen Fumbling to cross the threshold, the odds Of finding what you're looking for Swinging like broken toys on the curving glass. I'm tired of looking out a window That's always dry on a summer day And always wet, like everything else, And always the same The sound of the same thing. I AM a face in the fog A face in the fog I stand outside the fog's mouth And beg of it a bite of bread Of the crispest and plain tasteforce To take me back into the fog's mouth. The fog opens and takes me in And scatters the lozenges On the asphalt with a squint Of suspicion in their eyes They scan for spies hidden in the darkness. THE human race had not built A temple half so grand As Nature's: The human race had not shaped A tongue of needle-thread More soothing than soft white sand, Though they had made a temple out of stone. The human race had not taught Language so rational To children so clever as they, And so human-sounding, I bet, To men more rational than they: They spoke of gods And miracles In language to shock them out of thought. The human race could fashion No face like snow Nor glitter like gems on the street, So they hid them in the dark places Where only bright things were. They made a face of snow And brought it out from the storeroom When they came to buy a pint. But best of all in practicing This "secrecy" they showed it By turning over everything They found in the house of dreams They didn't like and putting it In their sacks to go out and go good And wholesale: A beautiful and beautiful face Obscured by paper, tin, or tinfoil, A face without a milling motion And the picture of a face without alarm. OUT in the smoking yard before dawn, The black cakes rose like ghosts; And a single clean-swept cone, Like a fat meadow, rose in the air And fanned the lazy sail. A woman came out and waited Before the wind and fire and wag of a tail. It was quiet, then, in the smoking yard, The black cakes rose like ghosts And a single clean-swept cone, Like a fat meadow, rose in the air And fanned the lazy sail. But the sleeper raised a naked hand And trembled and slowly craned her neck. Yes, it was she who spoke in the daytime In the dry dark yard before the sun rose, Of all the woe and anger and longing And all the rich content of her love and pride. And how the big ghosts looked at her As she turned and walked away, lean and white, And as her cheeks were white and pouted, Their great cold eyes, as she passed, the slow fire Burst out and danced to the rhythm of her fear. NOT with printed sheet, Like a rattle in a factory bell, The cryptic sage of the ancient art Struck from the tablets of some library screen To thrill the darkened and inflexible night, When Hesperus from his blue realm Retreated through the narrower doorways, Fulfilled with wrath and passion and blind With sovereignty, with the dazzling crown Of his own terror, and the loss of the dream. Not with a herald's heralding, Nor printed page, like a victor's laurel, The keen-eyed scholar flashed his fear, When, topmost in the misty morning, He left the stern and escaped his scorn. Like tired moths about to fly From a bright light and the winged incense That flameth after, so like flits the word That is too joyous and too soon to tell What it implies, and hides and feareth more. With chafing heart, and unchaste steadiness What shall I rouse to the fire of speech About the loss of the lost one? THERE was a child that I loved and I loved her not. Yet love with love is mixed, as wine with water. And we were two hands among the knotted leaves. She was the primrose of the summer's spring, And I the late rose of the autumn's fall. We sang in the days when the songs were glad, And when the joy was fresh that only can fall At the conclusion of a weary march. O heart that beats livelier for my wooing! O sense that senses this sweet absence! I would have drowned me in the ardors Of all your wavering agony, But you never stirred nor knew of my seeking. I WAS young and the sea was young and vast, With but a single rim that showed the floor Where lay below an abyss profound and black, And endlessly wide. But some were straight and somber-eyed and pure And some were loosely dressed and full of pips; And we with careless chorus surged in Between the solid bars. COURSES I used to see in lilac or rue Or something of their color in you, But not with that old-fashioned yew binder's grimace That used to mark the one who made small newspapers, No matter if his subject were Beaumarchais Or Muses. I was with you once, with laurel wreath on breast, And golden lilies for all who died for others, And carrying on as best I could for peace A basket of roses, A small stone and a soapstone, A yellow fruit; And ween of each other's hands at random That might have fallen Upon our simpers. HIS hands were very large and very white And very clean, and very carefully He folded and crossed and crossed and folded The leaves and bags and wrappers and what not, That even in death, All that he left his work would outmatch By a hundredfold. WHEN I am grown to proud shoulder-bearing manhood, And oak or pine or anger or lusty-hearted pine, Or the bare craziness of stubborn oakum, I shall become A hand against your cunning, And beat you in the dust, That all the world may know <|endoftext|> Yes, but I know a man; and this poor, dear, lost man! He did this, he did that; and what is more he loved. Yes, yes, and God be thanked, he loved, and I love That angel of a man, with the dear, dear, lost face. And she saw the mountains wreathed in mist, Catching the silver sunshine in. The rocks were white beneath her feet; The river held no violence; With naught to fear, she saw, she heard The leaf that quivered to the breeze, The bird that crowed above her. Now all was changed, and Peace was dead; And wild, with violence blind, Mounted the wounded eagle bold, And for a sceptre claimed The scattered spirit of the earth. Forth moved the war-cloud dark and dun, As when it rose on peril's cry, And from the breaking forest brake, Through flying smiteward, rushed The wrathful thunderbolt. Loud rang the fiery chariot wheels, The charged chariots swept along, Above the plain's white spoil, Flashed the sword of aonid flame. Rang the earth, and quaked the ground, As if a lion had leaped there, And hissed his rage against the grass, Or rooted branching darkness sharp, As from on high he sprung, And hurled his world away. A livid form, it swept the ground, Above a mother's head; A tongue of flame it bore above, Blackened with rage and blood. The stroke and the passing have gone over A babe's bed; the foeman stands, And vaults and arrays In daring of the hand; His bolt is the cross of a Nazarene; But at his heels,-- The weary head, The mangled corpse, In cloud upon the vault of night! Upon a jutting crag the victor's car Leapt like a black stone to the plain. The twain that bore the race Like murder drave the way. But o'er their dazzled sight Rolled the deep horrent sky. And each man read the fate his peers Had marked afar; And wild lightnings blazed and soared Along the cloudless day. A king's heir came down the dusty street; His stately carriage proclaimed The triumph of a fourscore year. His aged face was sad with years; To him were mixed thoughts, lest he Should waked to news of home. "Strange things I saw," he said, "Beneath that withered rain." Then from a distant fierce wall A dreadful seat was thrust, And in the darkness that rolled Stole one poor man alive. That for the princely fair, Who ruled the land, might stand, Unsparing to devour The helpless helpless prey! This for his princely sire Did proud Lemminkainen's skill ordain; This for his consort, With warlike armour greaved, He prepared; for from her womb Had flashed the fiery bolt. Her days among the willows were done; And she, the ancient mother, At home among the pine-trees, Now wishing death, to home returning, Saw, at the early morn, A mortal man ascending A craggy tower, and called him down, And urged him, till he ascended The craggy tower. And speaking words of sympathy, She urged him onwards, To the dim place on the topmost Far out upon the water, And bade him look and see A girl, with eyes filled with tears, And a rough garment stained with blood, Lying nigh him. And the ancient mother asked him, When he turned him, Why he had avenged her death, By rising to slay the foe, And saving the maiden, And bringing her alive? Spake the hero, Lemminkainen: I have avenged thy death, And rescued the maiden, And brought her alive. And my spear has pierced the crag, And the storm-winds have crushed him, And the mighty wind that moans us, And the voice of melancholy, And the voice of roaring, Have sent thee to the stuff of fishes, To the streams of Tuoni. Nemeleg's daughter, old and wretched, Saw the maiden wander weeping, Wretched, and old, and toothless, And forlorn such fare as this, And saw the cruel wounds, And the cruel body thus, And beheld the lifeless corpse. From her shrivelled lips there went forth A sigh as from a ghost, And her feet went forward, backward, As she still went round and round. And she spoke the words which follow: "O thou blacksmith, Lemminkainen, Art thou come here to kill me, Or do I slay the wretched one, And do I pour her blood to water, And let the smoke go up from cooking, And let the blood enter the chimney, And let the blood enter the alembic?" And the younger, Eohelet, He the little spindling master, Answered in the words which follow: "Thus would I order thee, O wretched, And thus to Kuutar's do thou, Damage is caused to thy own person, And to that of thy equals, And to that of thy master. "Once I heard from Elisa, She the evil maiden's daughter, How she suffered from the streamlet, And how it leapt and surged about her, In the very act of rushing, With the foam all ruddy browning. "Thither then did they bring me, And they drew the blood-polluted water, And they spread the black water, Sanguine it was and lumpish-shaped, Blood-polluted, full of evil. "But I fasted not on the day When they lowered the corpse to me, And it was my custom always To go to look upon the body Of the dead man when summer, winter, Even when death came on his stag-stag. "I have spied upon the body, And upon the lifeless corpse, And have seen the shrivelled skin, And have seen the shrivelled cheeks, And the bloodless lips have murmured. What the voice that is in these lips?" And the aged woman answered, "There is not in the mouth or visage Speech which could tell thee how I shudder, Nor could shed any tears for thee, But the shrivelled skin, the shrunken cheeks, The dim eyes and lips besweeten me. "In the river there flows a blood, And upon the yellow water, Up and down upon the waves, a crimson stream. As it passes downward, redder still it flows, And it glows and glistens, as though crowns were flowing, Or the grass were gold beneath them flowing. "If thou couldst drive thy chariot, And could speed thy race along it, Far away beyond the burning lava, Or the rolling ocean billows, To a depth of the water, deep as thou knowest, There a maiden waits thee, waits thee, waits thee, And in her ears thou wouldst hear a tale Of the death of thy creator, "And to know the dreadful deed. And at length didst thou drive thy courser, And the burning blood ran down his sides, And his body quaked before thee, As his nostrils passed above thee. There upon the embers listened, And thou hearest the shivering: At the smoke there seemed to stand a maiden, At the purple smoke there seemed to stand a damsel. "Thou didst drive thy courser onward, When thou thoughtst to reach the water, But the golden oats were scorched with fire, And beneath the oats upon the heath, Burned the rein and splinter of the foal. And the heat it seemed as the smoke of hell, And the purple smoke as smoke from heaven. "And no thing could the maiden do, For afar no path was lying, And no tree was yielding help-wood, No twig the elm to bend for you, But the maiden sat upon the heath And she wept for a long time, Till at last she said the words which follow: 'You would know the words I sing thee, And the words I sing thee teach you: With the tail of the Wolverine Drive the courser of your mother, If you wish to a companion, If you wish to a wife of beauty.' "Straightway then the ancient wet-nurse Drove the colt of your mother, From the heath unto the stable. And the wet-nurse was careful, And the colt of your mother Was untouch'd by the wet-nurse. <|endoftext|> and we blushed and pointed at the leafy kingdom around us: "Oh look, here are the flowers with their creamy flutes of fragrance, the obelisks and pyramids!" I whispered to Anna. But it was only the other way round: "Here are the domes and palaces with their stone statues and marble swans"-- "What is all this?" she whispered, and I turned to find her eyeing me with a quizzical smile. "The flowers and the shells," I stammered. "Oh Anna, don't you like them too?" Not for the world I'd trade these acres for the lowliest field on which to pick flowers, or these cool slips I can almost hear every day as I walk out to the lake with my peach of the glass-- Not for the wind-blown thrift of the summer-vines on this seven-acre lot Not for this old maple just coming to banished redness, stiff with the dust of younger limbs, roots, and bark,-- Not for this enchanted palace of shade and shimmer, this flower-filled meadow, this cupola with its windows a-sparkle with butterflies, this unshadowed pool meandering with pickerel, not for this, I would be Lucy Lake, and never have I a doubt but that my fortune would be to live beneath these virgin hills, never a spiteful grove, or rude rock to mock my tender sisterhood, never the chorus of "I like the boy" on the reckless lips of a strong man, never insult or threat to divinity, nor vain thought of injuring a young man by saying one says he is not a man, nor any thinking that the heart of a man can not be softened, but I have yet to see one who is not gentle, or whose love is but sweet all the same--God, if I saw such, I think that I would have to say that I heard the Lord, who made all these things, say that he was ashamed, and I could never subscribe to that! Father of mercy, I will yet say this: that I love each gentle thing that walks upon the green earth, and treads upon the bitter years that weigh so heavily upon her, and hears so well the old sweet words of God that she says above them, "Father, thou hast struck down this pesky stubborn gray-haired one." Here we are then in the garden once again. Out in the hot sun we sit together covering these lines of pencil. You have the kind of red and blue fruit that comes in deep velvet ripeness, and I have a taste for the darker reds like rhubarb, like the grape, like the strawberry. We have our words and essays to write about our loves, our foibles, our dislikes, and our visions and schemes for the future, our quotidian domestic scenes and matters, our favorite artists, and the new foods that we will get to later, when no one is steady-handed by the big red tomato. You have the balsamic vinegar that you strain at the hottest of, I the honey-sweet and musty-licorice kind that must be divined by an inner sense, and we in that hidden locus of green know each other alway. I think of you often, know how all the hours you knew me, that was years ago, that were years and years and years, when we were strangers, and you breathed of summers and I the secret sips of grapes. I think of you often. Even this late May, the day you wrote me from the North, the heat here in the South where I cannot remember if I had laughed or cried. I think of you often, not for the things you stand for now, nor the good time that some time in the far off might bring, nor for the golden stars you say swinging from the night that are you: some vision that looms up in you that only I know and some thrill or other in my own blood, and how we would both be changed as by some magic that makes the vital same, as when dew strides over me and the green on my life. FATHER OF SENSATION, FATHER OF ALCOHOLISM, FATHER OF HOTEL REAPHOBAL, FATHER OF SALTY JUICE, FATHER OF THE NOTE, FATHER OF "MAYBE," FATHER OF PLEASURE, FATHER OF GHOUL, FATHER OF FLOWERS, AND then there was a time when I had nothing to do with you. The silvery tang of waltz or tangs over the summer sea and a gypsy gig, or sometimes just bare feet in some street in Paris and the wind in the saris. Ah, those happy days, with very different pleasantries, when you were the white moon in the blue with a different name, Purgatorio, Father of Sins, with such Latinized nouns and masculine elements, and I, Fatigued after a day on the cobbles of the Père-Étienne, or sitting on a stone bench under the trees of the Quai, or walking the little breeds in the atelier. FATHER, who in his fur-coat roams the wilderness, FATHER, without mustache you have still, even now, some human qualities, these goat's legs and body: so you are not alone, as you used to be, with the old sins, the abandoned refusals, but you are able, SO, to visit the quarters, when and where pleasure desires--or troubles. YOU must decide when the Gypsy will leave the street, when the wolf will cease from his banging. I do not say: Stay here and do not leave me, I beg you, I begged my meat one warm day, begging to be eaten. <|endoftext|> "Little Record of a Busy Day", by Ange Mlinko [Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Driving the route, I note that buses drop off and off at all stops, and will occasionally pull over, as if waiting to get off, and make a quick drug deal, straw in the wheels to jam in cash, before speeding off. Driving the route, I note that all the bus stops are made for activity, restaurant, nightclub, bar, one even a fire hydrant, another clasps a car with its electric gates, the last a limousine waits to whisk me away. Driving the route, I note how people slowly take the first exit, walk off the pavement to peer inside, inhale nicotine, read or scratch something on a folded towel, wait a bit before real work can begin. The bus finally comes to a stop. We climb out, wait for the doors to close, as if we trust them with our lives, the doors themselves with loopholes as heavy as tennis balls. I'm waiting too, trying to see more than the driver, who stares ahead as if the car would swerve to kill us all. Still, I have time to look up at the Audi's counter-intuitive approach to parking, as if the car shouldn't exist, or the bus driver as if the route between two points should change depending on whether I'm there to ride. Still, I have time to look at all the windows, all the side arms. And soon, as the bus driver opens his door for a man or woman, they're already walking, a few glancing left, glancing right, inside the car, as if time and distance are irrelevant. At rush hour, I often walk behind them, transfixed by their presence, until I can't stand it, walk further, nearer the window, and peer into another family's life. What would they do? Walk somewhere else? Push in another car? Of course, I would, if I didn't hate to see what I can't help: The man walking just steps ahead of his time to walk farther ahead. <|endoftext|> "Announcement and Authorization", by Ange Mlinko [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I. On the first day of college, I didn't wear white shoes or a white shirt or register as a woman. Instead of registering as a person I identified as an "it" for seventeen non-consecutive weeks. I wore baggy sweatpants and white eyeliner, where I placed my "I" at the door of the vagina, at the center of the page. The alphabet of the body <|endoftext|> There stand a hundred wight on them fain To lay their blood at great Harry's feet. They cannot hold them back at all. I hold them back. May I be killed for my pains!" 'Tis like the whirlwind, coming on from the sea. It beats the house, and it beats the walls about, And it flashes out the windows and blinds. The streets are white with the spray, and the air, Feeling the cold, is frosty. Every thing Is taking frightful fright. But there's nothing to fear From the wind--it has no power at all. At the foot of a hill they lie As still as death, nor moan nor sigh. They turn to each other with a smile That tells how much this life means to them; And one by one they gather the drop, And drink it in a glass, and say: "Oh! here at least we will not die." They are resting now, and their long life Rests breathing gently with its cares. And yet, if they could find the will, They would hasten on to the Great Compassion, And rest till it came to the blowy end. Sleep will find them in that peaceful place, And be content with the sweetest rest. The watch of watchmen who do nothing care, Or the watch upon the silent bed Where the last cold hand is folded close; Their last good-night, and go down soft and calm, Beneath a roof of branches overhead Where birds and beasts are used to be. But there the hour of ten o'clock Comes gently stealing, creeping so stealthily; The day is growing old, its sunny smile Is dying into a gloomy night; And from the hill there comes a noise of horse, And men and bells rung by women's feet, And young men's laughter floats to the sky. And on the bridge comes still the clang of metal, The tramp of feet, the flash of weapons thrust through, And the long order of the drill. And in the air is borne the persistent Urge of the singing brass, Which rouses and calls them to rise to the height Of their powers. Then they awake from their dream Of the wonder and excitement of the day, Which is like a life where all have their worth; The waste is being reclaimed from death, And beauty and strength and grace are won; For Nature has her eye on them again, And man will feel her terrors, if he kan. So up they gather by the hill of bones, And lie in the sun, till the night falls on. And the steady train goes swiftly on To the camps by the river and up the hill. 'Tis a wondrous scene of energy. They have fought well, they say, and got great prizes, And shall be countrigrades for life. From little tops in the hills you see it, The little trail that the sentries leave, And the twisted battalions wending their way Through the scrub and the sage; you see it In the glare and the glare of the burning sun, In the echo of guns and drums and brass, In the dip of the distant skirmish gun, In the tramp of the armies of the faithful, Who leave their love and home and go abroad, In a fire-light, to tread the unknown ground, With a great admiration and a wonder. Last night I was awake, and I kept awake For the men in gray, with their smoking cannons And their long blazing trails of muzzle flashes. For these were formidable to me And my loneliness. I did not feel at all The crushing of the night's melancholy. The quiet that I knew had come again, All the old loneness and quiet in myself That was a great wonder to me. But as I lay listening to my own heart beat, To my own thoughts and recollections, I heard a great march and lamentation Of the many millions of the suffering earth Who were looking on, with pity and astonishment. I heard a great march of sorrow, growing louder, A mighty lamentation for the wrongs and fortunes Of men, swelling to a mighty crescendo, The dark world war was turning into a torture chamber, The stars were blotted from space, the heavens were seething with vengeance, The lilies of hope were withered and charred like embers And the red flame of hatred consumed the palaces of kings In a blaze of infernal fire. I heard a great march of protest and popularity, A mighty protest and popular outcry, Mingling with the terrible, unwarranted tragedy Of the secret pangs that torment private life. I heard the great march roll on, growing louder, A moaning protest and a lamentation For the tears that changed to tears the sleeping faces That obeyed the innocent dead who had gone to their rest Beneath the cold, hard sky of Germany. I heard the protest and lamentation roll On through the lonely night. It came out of the beat Of the heavy drum and suddenly the octaves Of the great concert paean shook the stars from their places. Then the great marching march merged into a hail of gunfire, Rushed through the great, deep, surging silence, And then I slept. For I slept, Yes, I slept, wrapped in an invincible excitement, Far past the throbs that shook my chest, far past The fury of the great heart that raced madly From fear of approaching death. In the dream I floated Upon a river of gold, And the river of gold was flowing and sparkling, And the glint of the dazzling gold was dazzling The eyes of the sleeping dead. And I passed through the dying sunset valleys, The beautiful valleys of dream, Out into the richest air of autumn, Where the golden clouds are floating and flickering, And the red, bright, shining leaves are swinging In the hurricane of the golden sunlight. And I looked into the eyes of the sleeping dead As they slept in the great funeral sunlight, And I spoke in a voice of lion tamer, Of the lion and tiger and fishing vessel, And I shouted in a great voice of wonder To the very sleeping dead in the darkness And I called in a great voice of command: "Come out of the darkness into the marvelous night! Come forth into marvelous night! Out into the wondrous night!" And then the trees of the forest rustled And crumbled and put out a blazing spark, As I chased the great gold water creatures, The fishes of dream, to the shining sands, And the great gold sea creatures, The sea-nymphs of dream, were drifting and drifting Out upon the burning spark. But I could not hold them, could not hold my hand And the flame fell back into the sparks, Back into the trees and finally out through the sky, Down into the depths of the mysterious night. Then I woke in the wondrous night. But I slept, as a poor father of two daughters Must sleep, who has sent the sleepers to bed, And who knows that they are slumbering obedient For his little left-behind Boys. And I slept as a father who knows that his daughter Must sleep for another ten thousand years, Or else she will wake and cry in the morning In the place where the dust of the fields is blown. But it is not necessary to tell of my vexation, I must not see his face. But I can hear the sound of the water running, And the coolness of her breath on my cheek. The night falls heavily on the city. I have given the last touch of my burning sorrow To the last drop of my cherishing tears. My cross has been pierced and I must weep Tears of ice that will never in the grave appear. But it is not necessary to tell of my perplexity, For the world is full of faces of men that wait For the passing of the great day. It is necessary to tell of my vexation, For in the silence of the night My heart could hear a voice that said to me: "O it is necessary to tell of my perplexity, For how can you endure this sweet indecency, This sweet ingratitude and love of disobedience, When the candles are lighted and the lights are bright?" But it is not necessary to tell of my vexation, For I knew his voice, And I knew that he would never be able to hear me, For the blind gate is shut tight on the many paths That come out of the town. But I could see the great graves of the Saints, For they seem to me to be beautiful houses, With windows that open to the night, Like the wonders of some young, beautiful dream. For I came in the strength of a man who knows, And I left in the strength of a dream. But it is not necessary to tell of my perplexity, For my heart lives in a land of wonderful voices, In a land of golden words That are murmuring evermore <|endoftext|> Others met the Vánar folk. With patience keen, whose brow was wet With tears of anguish, to the side Of Ráma bade Sanjánáking stand, And, at the monarch’s word, bestowed A gem, of radiant splendour made, That, sparkling in the monarch’s hand, Red hot the Rákshas soldier pressed. Vibhishaṇ took the gem, and he Who gave it, reverent, too, With highest honour gave it back, Exulting in his foemen’s fear. Soon as their eyes with rapture raised That gem, all wondering, learned The cause that adorned the gift, The Vánars swiftly found the tree Wherefrom that gem had fallen. The Vánars on their wilder care With all the wilding Vánar host Roamed through the gloomy grove; Nor did they seek again their cave, But homeward westward hied. When, spent with toil of the wild advance, The Vánars all had rested there From that long search for Śankha’s cave, ’Twas dinner time again for them, And likewise for the chieftains, Then came, I know, a snare, Which heartily by all were caught, All drunk with searching, fears for naught; And soon, the tale would tell, A murderous tempest rose. This sudden attempt by demons made The Vánars, as they drank their fill, Murdered, slain by hostile hands, Fled forth to leave the grove. They took a sudden halt. Again the hostile tempest rose; Again the Vánars fled. That tempest rushed and sprang, And, bursting on the field, Its watery walls rolled round With savage fury stilled. In terror, forest-caged, Yelled they, and did their part, And reached the southern coast. With burden light of heart, Surpassing young and strong, The brother chiefs of Ráma Escaped the slaughter’s fear. As Ráma, seized with fever, And Lakshmaṇ by his side, Ran by the forest-side that yielded Their track, they held their course. There thickest darkness spread They sought their foe and saw, By forest pools and rills And tangled trees and boughs, The cloud-immense sea. With sharpened ears and sights They marked each rising rise Of island-orched ships, As many as the lotus leaves That spread their native foam Around the firmament. With joyful hearts they sought The growing light and shade Of lucent trees that rippled through The increasing gap in heaven That opened as they ran. Some saw the forming forms, some, By sparkling mountains retraced, Where, flashing as the restless Sea Filled all the expanse with light, Or where some river stole Its murmuring way between Cohesive hills of heaven. Some thought the far expanse Of ocean ripe to become Their delver and their mine, And claimed the right and claim To enjoy its riches. The Vánars, crushed with gloom, Mourned like sleep-struck deer By sudden call and call To Lanká made, and bowed Their heads upon their limbs, And shrank with heavy heart. Some, joyous once, the listless hour No more would choose to fill, To rest no more, no more Will naught that mocked them so. Sick of discontent, faint with sorrow, They covered their sad eyes, Fell by the stillness, faltering, weak, Stretched on the paths of pain. To rest within the forest shade Their weary limbs they sought, And ever as the hours went by Wept to know they lived not more. And when the day dawned again, They mourned as though in hell Their changeless lot in heaven. Such were the thoughts that on her brain When Ráma from her arms was sent, Her gentle Ráma, true and brave, Clad like a mountain eagle, robed in white, With many a gem and golden belt Regarmented with bright silk. Ráma in form and purposed, she In words like flower-tipped spray Of many-coloured rain, In looks that charmed and charmed once Her rival passion. She loved not Ráma, she: The lady of the lotus eye, The lord of song, the king of men. Ne'er would she look on man, a grade Less than the beasts, who make Their lord-artist fierce and blind, Born of a mighty sire, The monarch bane of worlds. For her, whose heart was cast By her own sin, who loved not Ráma, Loved not one from the beginning, She turned to Takshak, to Takshak, With lips that sweetly sang, With lovely limbs like trees, like springs, Like breezes, like the breeze, Who sings sweetly through the grove Of forest elephants, whose heads Are trees whereon the blossoms fall, Their limbs as leaves. She turned to Takshak, to Takshak, With lips that sweetly sang, With lovely limbs like trees, like springs, Like breezes, like the breeze, Who sings sweetly through the grove Of forest elephants whose heads Are trees whereon the blossoms fall. She turned to Takshak, to Takshak, With lips that sweetly sang, With lips like leaves when they are sweet With bloom of blooming trees. Long, long, in grief she wept, not knowing That her fond passion was a sin. Ayodhyá she saw, where still to her The Bráhman band consoled And spoke in cheering words that cheer A lord of brain as bold And soul as Indra's. Ayodhyá she saw, where now and then One lingered out of breath With wine and ardour taken, or With penance brutal. Or there, Where the good dwell not save they lie In palaces of pleasure, where Pleasure and not truth is lord, She heard the lords of Raghu's line Let loose their righteous rage, whose might Obeyed not, though arrested, the word Of Takshak, ever swift to fly. She heard them rage and glow with might And flushed with fury saw them rush With swords unsheathed and blood not yet shed, To wreak their vengeance as they died. And Ráma went where Ráma used And left behind a twining tree As fair as blossoms bud and fall. Stretched it was on lilies pure and fine About the palace. True and true- Doers beware not of the dame, Who sweetly kind and changeless weaves Her noblest thoughts to cunning works. Ae salaam, princely son, Bharat, and all thine Apsarases, The glory of Taksha's line! A holy man, good at all rites, And the highest caste which He bestows. Thy guardian, Prince, will Taksha be, And Takshak obey, and let Thee, Bharat, methink the more Thy foes, thy foes, thy foes among, Auspicious be this balm-breathing tree. He taught the lords who frequented thee The chant and prayer and homage meet. Bharat, and all thine Apsarases, The glory of Taksha's line. Bharat who knows the right and bids His servants keep the mean, And the folk with their king to rule, Will sing thy praises, Prince, in praise Of thee and thy splendid lineage. Yea, Prince, thy place is here, my Prince! And the Daitya's son who makes Sage discussion, sage and sage. Yea, Prince, my speech is well arguable. Bharat, and all thine Apsarases, The glory of Taksha's line. My speech is well founded Prince, no fear Has Taksha's child, my Prince, who knows Of thee and thine empire; he who hears From those who love thee, and revere The lofty house where'er they fall, Will never, if he may, rebuke The beauty of thy line, the grace Of that fair brow and azure eyes And genial grace of framed bones. Bharat, and all thine Apsarases, The glory of Taksha's line. Bharat, the pious, the true, who feels A brother's wrong, and for his sake Prepared to meet the wretch who brings Lies, lust, dishonour, to his lord. Bharat, and all thine Apsarases, The glory of Taksha's line. Ye Nala lords who reign among <|endoftext|> Wreathe his steed, secure from rearing. R. WI. Tournure he clepeth he his beast, an' clepeth his horse. White he weareth it, black he weareth it, White he rins it, black he rins it. White he lives it, black he lives it, White he feedeth it, black he feeds it. White he rears it, black he rears it, Black he brakes it, white he breaks it. From thence I wander'd forth, an' wandered amang A courtin' crowd: To no altar I had got, To none of my religion: I could think Their creed would make their sister blush: but soon Their wonder mak'd me bolder: an' then their praise Maintain'd me. From forts I climb'd a wood, Through valleys deep, and lone desolation; In amid it roamed the wild deer, the raven, The lean-shank'd toad, and naked snake: through it The brave lion roared, and outright'd a roar: That made me blush, no less than the spume he flung. What sun shin'd on thee then, lady of my choice? What flower was brood'd by thee, when thou wert a child, Anent thee, an' cover'd thee up like praties? When, cushat and born, thy tail an' plump-ass was to me An inspiration, a reviving, a renewing thing; To see thee then, that fresh, that verdant, that fair, Then, I was life, an' love, an' heaven on thee, My cat, my idol, my goddess, my heaven, To see thee then, that young, that fair, that leal To me, thou shi'dst have been, an angel, anEelin'-bell, anEelin'-bee, An egg all popp'd, A tis a wondrous egg, my jolly love; I'm sure, no other egg's quite so rich an' large, An' yet so nice, my pretty dearie: I'm sure, no other egg's quite so clean an' white, An' hardly clean yon mornin's white and clean, An' hardly white till even's modern Joan Shows her wings, an' shins aside an' down, An' flutters away, my pretty daintie. I heft up a golden shekel on the Bath van, I heft up a fig for my beer, my jolly love; I heft up a brass farad on the Cornos van, I heft up a silver spinkon for my fig, my jolly love; I heft up fifteen ells o' straight barley bread, A whole carp or twoun'. When one is hungry, One must eat,--what is right in one's case; But one should never, never go to bed If one is thirsty, And one must go to stool If one is fat; We've all a daily ration Of slightly sauced butter, Of partially hetered cheese, Of mustard, In dishes familiar, To dip and grate, my pretty dears. Bread that is too brown Is no good in the mouth; Water too stale, Let one dip in the bucket: Salt that is too fine, Is no good in the teeth; It may be grated well, It may be made into sows' teeth. Cream of curious kind, Made of odd kinds of cream, Ods that are half way houses, Sod that is full of holes, Soft never lick'd by a finger, Soft never lick'd by a thumb, Hard never lick'd by a may, Soft never lick'd by a swine, Lick'd by a soul--my pretty dear. When I was wont to read My books on Sundays, At the Sunday presses, Young, handsome, and brilliant Writers sat an' penned, An' they would pour their heart In prose, an' they would tape it In rhyme, an' then they'd press 'Tis to make good verse, my pretty dear. The metre the fashions are Of heroes, they are rare, 'Tis to make good verse, my pretty dear. The costumes so fine Are for masquerade; Yet a few there are, the best, Whose accents, deep and clear, Might, just like your family names, Buy you or me sweet thoughts, my pretty dear. Where are the golden ages Of song, when thought was liberty, And barb'rous sentiment did swell All but the love of motherhood? The worshipp'd doves are bathed in care, The dirge is soothed, the wig's worn down, In the palace of dreams 'tis unsure, And, amid the spirit free, A phantom fable tells the tale Of an era like a speck of dust, To shade the most romantic brow. But, O my heart, be assur'd That those false times have fled For ever and all like knavery, And tyranny now doth reign; Since motherhood doth wear the collar, And sceptred Power's a father now Whose extreme absolutions leave fear That he will up and leave again. There may be other fields of labour, With shorter life-hours, but more glorious, But we have spok't of few, my dear; What speak but of your name, my dearest, And I shall breathe it to you still, And kiss your fingers, small and white, In life's blood, my pretty, my dearest. The happy hours, when rhyme doth prevail, Would fail to do the tasks of the day If, like our dream, they could not steal With simple delights delight. Ways sooth'd by song, our sorrows appease Like slumbers in a dream, Till the life-hour's sprightly zest Wakes pleasure like a watchful spirit, And you should walk the walk of life. Love too often kills like lyes The fleeciest feasts of Spring, And leaves the spring equinoctial With the remembrance rude Of days more gay than ours. He must release our fetters, and Come, with all His host of joys, The times are not yet antagonistic, Therefore we may smile and sing. If man would rule like me, He must be thus; No longer sitting still, He must have employment, That he may be for aye Contrite, and not depending. My soul, arise, and be industrious; Our spirits' war be now vivified; Wear the colours of the front that fight, And boldly do the things which come to me. This, how it may be, I have understood aright, For His servants have embrac'd it, Who thence of all do some bestowing Go through the courts of glory. So, when we walk'd upon the paths Of glory, then we went being wise, And to be otherwise was not to be, As it is now, my dear, my dearest, That you, O heart, must learn the way. So that all things from His hand They say are well illustriously ill, 'Tis in our power and not in ours, I writ, without any flattery, For the glory of our Lord; Nor, having writ a line, dares presume To have done with it, for well you know I am no such desp'rate dreamer. From our infancy we know No glory but that which shines In the sight of Him alone; The brightest lights below Are dimm'd of course when smother'd by The fog of passions and of sins. How long will man expect A consistent faith from men? There is a quietness in seeking For what is mind, and having The assurance true, when scarce thought, That he will have it soon or never; Which, by the way, doth give a girl An impulse to the school that teaches Good sense and virtuous ways. There is a quietness in passing A moment by the wayside, When the coming sun doth call Upon the growing hay, And the cottagers 'mid their apace Are passing to their labour, and the winds That shortly will be down upon the field Groping for leaves and scents and flowers are seen. The traffic's din will be supreme, Its pages torn, its banners furled; Then the cool breeze will be sighing To breathe upon the fallen snows, And the spectator mark the march of a star That seems to wonder if it goes now. The skies above are silver, The waves that break upon the shore, And heavy showers down rate; The west wind's will be impatient, The east wind's languid and loth, <|endoftext|> i wanna hear you choke on your own breath and stumble down some open grave or winding stair your body limp rusting with the weight of all your sins so sweet and dead i wanna keep you warm and cold locked away away from me so youll never have to hear me say this is so fucking nice i wanna peel you back the fur and bones and bones and fur of your neck and expose you to me all stuffed and lacy and encased in mummified white rose petals imperfectly this side of eternity yours is the only tongue that can make me hear ecstasy from suffocation or laughter from anguishment your body and brain will take this heat and hold it against your throat and make it sing some primitive tune your brain wet and warm closes like a flower at the center of this world so i will hear and know listen and feel the heat like a surge of aquatic wind that ripples through the flower your body come close i’ll listen to the sing ssbong of it <|endoftext|> "in water", by Traci Brimhall [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class] the disgusting cats and dogs from my neighborhood scurry from me to my doctor when he asks me the questions I can’t avoid about the virus that laid waste the maize in my family's kitchen how my grandmother taught me to shake on the rattles when I was sick I won’t say thank you I’ve tried to take responsibility for not being dead or afraid enough the kids are leaving and he wants to know how well my lymph nodes have been growing another patient comes in and my boyfriend hands me the night nurse to the psychiatric unit but before he can continue my friend can’t wait The diagnosis is terrifying I have been so careful I am scared now to tell him I have been living with a giant mush of medications like a giant fruit I tell my friend I don’t want to die I have been so afraid but now I am scared again <|endoftext|> "What Time It Gets To Be", by Sheena Raby [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers] I am in the house of being the way I live now is under my door the light goes out at the shore with the turning of the wheel my fingers open at the windfall and the hinges of illusion lose the thread on the tarp the summer has turned from yellow to gray the hedges have gone four times shorn I am out of water the vent covers me how winds clean what leaves improve and what makes the dog shit on the stairs dries the sash in the sun My pain has dried I am staying inside my ears throw up a short song of wonder when the wheels of rotation turn out of their fields and the light inside grows heavy with smoke I can see why the goddess let my shits fall to her floor after the first night she gave me the weedy bask of the town and the blue stone and the cobbler who taught me to read when I went out to live among the itinerant sects the folly of sickness I saw before I was killed by my groom the length of nakedness and the smooth surface of dust and nothing written of either before the emperor had my head blown off with a trumpet I read in books Sallust the furious Seneca the melancholy Ovid the feather scarred by a royal spanker Parmen the sullen Arnold the over dusty Epictetus the gruff Morals the fucking boring Hobhouse the pimply Stott the slender Chatterton the short Reeves the handsome Johnson the stern Williamson the short Marsh the mild I am a hammer I am a nail I am a plumber I am a mason I am a plow I am a hammer and a nail and a plow and a plow and a plow and a hammer and I am in the house of being in the house of not being in the house of being in the house of not being in the house of going out into nature to cease being the lord the bridegroom dragging the bridal bell toward the courthouse all the drives and highways flashing with bridal cars some trees rooting or spitting and the first raindrops holding in the first wet and that wind all the storms that spin the clouds around which house for I am reading what others wrote I am reading what they themselves had written at the house of being and I live in the house of being the house of not being in the house of being in the house of not being in the house of because it had just rained and the night was trembling and still did we dote on each other and your hair was soft and when we came to her grave we did not weep for her we wept for ourselves and I still love you though it has been said that creation takes two to tussle here it comes to me that I have written and have not and you have made your mark your rap and not mine <|endoftext|> "Black Box", by William S. Burroughs [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Reading & Books] The song scatters verbosen words like torn pages that are found again when search is terminated. The verbosen words have been randomly scattered And word by word become unknown entities. The words have been scattered and disorganized Or randomly scattered and disorganized. While reading the word dog one suddenly has an image Of a black dog appearing at one's page. The word dog is found abandoned in one's mind After having been scattered randomly in the words. The word dog is now discarded since it appeared to be a discarded word. The word dog is now scattered and disorganized Or randomly scattered and disorganized. Containing nothing, meaninglessness, no beginning or end, The word dog makes a loud rumbling noise in the reader's ear. The book suddenly becomes silent and the book has an end. The book is empty and meaningless since there is no book. The word book has been scattered and disorganized Or randomly scattered and disorganized. The word book contains all the words since they appear to be random. The word book has many meanings since it contains words that mean all words. The words are connected in the mind between the pages. The words become fully integrated in the reader's mind And are now fully integrated in the imaginary. The words are now scattered and disorganized Or randomly scattered and disorganized. The words are scattered and disorganized between the imaginary pages. The words come to rest on imaginary pages that have pages that hold all the words and all the meanings. The words come to rest on imaginary pages of the imaginary book and are fully integrated into the imaginary and they have beginning and an end. The word book makes a loud noise in the reader's ear. The book is filled with words which become fully integrated and found on the pages of the book. The words become a fully integrated and found whole within the reader's mind. The book has a meaning which is found on the imaginary pages of the book. The word book has meaning and therefore it makes a loud rumbling sound in the reader's ear. The meaning of the word book is found on the imaginary pages of the imaginary book. The word book is a pound of highly modified metal. The word book is two pounds of metal joined by heat and pressure. The word book is a fully integrated and found whole within the reader's mind. The word book has two pounds of metal joined by heat and pressure Two fully integrated and found whole within the reader's mind. <|endoftext|> "Found Footage: Damaged Goods", by William S. Burroughs [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] What happens when the lights in the trailer go on and off? When the wail of the plastic tow truck in the night Is tacked rough like the screeching of dying languages? What happens when the back of a turn of the century hotel Is found to be rotten and the soft smell of mold Is pumped up in stairwells? What happens when the guard at Pax Americana Is restrained in the throes of a fit of the hallucinations? When we get to the prison yard The itinerant beef farmer is jumping up and down And he runs around like an Arabic knight On triumphal marches to a madras tent To a concert where giant machines make clicking chimes In the ebony night. The concert begins in a metal jungle of discordant sound. <|endoftext|> Virg. Miserable child, what's this thou hast In thy paw? 'tis thy mother, what thou leavest Shall be replenished: thy father and thy brother Thy brother and thy father, none other, they More than thyself, shall follow thee, as I Retaining yet some years of life, shall come And haunt thee day and night; I will not once Give thee a light wound, but I will shut up Thy body in a tomb: the same day thou'lt leap And grovel in the dust in a dark grave At the head of all my brothers mine, Where neither food nor raiment shall be For thee, but all night long shall groan and splash And make thy wet tears flow. Ah, wherefore have I Given thee such a father? Wherefore not More of a mother? Here we have one clay Much griefs time hath made one grief, and one grave One universal cold. I had thought To have been to thee as tender and kind And as I am now to one else sad, Thou haply may'st have been to me more than these. Ven. Thou knewest not thy father better than I, Nor I my mother till thou cam'st among us. Come, children, let us sacrifice our dead, Both these and all our fathers; and we will dash Each other, for so soon as we have slain Our living, we will slay the dead, and all All things be burnt with me: but do thou look Equal at least, as now thou art, at me, Lest thine own life also be confounded. I will but not confounded have been By thy hand, since thou sawest first me dead And then thyself, and dost com and mock and stare. My blood already has upon thy head Put out the special international fire. The general conflagration will be soon Entirely extinguished, for thou shalt live, And thy old age, though left in the dust, Behold around thee, where thou leavest the sea, And art thyself again, that, dying, still Thou mayst re-live thy captivity And thy hapless end! This is a dream; this Is only a premature funeral rite Ordained, thou blind, condemnatory deed. Sl. I will arise, and I will go hence, I will depart hence! I think I will stand still. Surely I know not what I will do. If I should go hence, Where would I go? Sl. Why, whither? Why, whither? Why, whither? Surely, whither, Surely, whither. I will arise. Draw thither. Sl. Here. Draw hither. Young Venus descends in regal pomp, Her train in bronze and gilden awakes; The birds are heard, the rivers see, The earth in sport appears to smile; The beasts, their wants supplied, attend The allotment made by heav'n; The heap'd spoil and proffered grain Attest inheritings large and free; But when the Queen of Beauty goes The short procession is forgot; Where were the tributary gifts That especial grace and bounty give? They, seeing none but rapture speak, Except with lip that lisp'd and smiled, Instead of entering in the palace gate With pathos and anecdote deserv'd, Leave tearful lamentation here to dwell, And seek her spouse, the blissful marshes! In woe either sex oft we find, To health it hastens, to disease drains, With similar havoc still the heart Sickens, and alike the eye burns, The paleness of the visage drear The same red flame attends the spleen. Soon as they felt their hearts the same, Both sexes in horror started; quick They fly; the teeming earth by all forlorn Affects all; groves are by the deaf, By deaf men groves; the hoarse and dumb By hunched and bow'd men common lands. For the rivers, everblockish, rush Not from the north, but every side; Nor is it from above, but down, In egress. The land is thus disturb'd With griefs from many sources, And those of most distress are borne. The same sore evils they repeat, For the same condition each undergo. With bleeding eyes behold the blind, Each eye a bleedingSG. O lov'd of Him, cause of all this woe, Cause of new pains, new troubles forth to be! Vain though thou be, yet touch me with the rod! Now touch thine own: thou feelest now. For never Sire could feel delight, Till now, nor Child. Thou canst but give The sigh to others, the tear to thine. He ceas'd, and with a troubled sigh On the golden cross back to God came The Archangel, whom the 613 brave bless'd With valiant loyalty, and each by name Bless'd, as in glory, even as in power. Then of his 613 throned Chevaliers, 3rd.Degree said, "O well-beloved, now doubly sweet to me Thou art, as is thy self, to me a sign Of loving God; for I too am approved A 1st.S degree; and though not Chosen, deem'd, And been in incubi30 proven, to me The sweetest of your 1st.S degree appears: Therefore to me thou art not blind, but clear. To love God is all: the rest he gives To them who know him; for God's own love To love is then comprehensible. In me there is predisposition To loves of antelope and flocks; And I am indeed a 1st.S degree, Celestial, and excell'd only in That lot hath God decreed for me. Yet oftentimes in lonely regions, Far from cities and their luxuries, I have felt hunger, and though I starved, Perchance I thought it fed me; sometimes thirst So acute, that, without thought of harm, I have, when in affliction abash'd, Boken forth, and of my own assault Had need, even from God, to flee. Yet therefore is the torment less, I liken, In seclusion, than it were diversified; For divers civilization doth confound The soul, and stirre up prejudices, when parted From that pure air, that doth inspire the soul With sweetness, that was perhaps before her natural Credit and authority. And thou, who art So prompt to implore the aid of him, (whose aid No less would justify, than truth) whose bed Thou is so timely begirt, thy snowy breast More comforting would be, hadst thou modesty Would bring even Pain more into subjection. Therefore thou canst not scoff at those, who wear The prostituted dress of beggary on Their lips, in phrase like this: 'Be it so,' quoth he, 'That I may have, indeed, my wish, but oh What hope thou hast, in hopes I cannot diverge From that precedent; for my charity And good faith to thee are accomplished; oh see How just aggravation is made of terror! So that thy suffering is, in very sooth, More dreadful, than my forcing her away, Who in my oppressions dwells.' Now, reader, of new Discourse by himself gratified, mayst see How vast, how intricate, what principle He hath invent'd, what consequence, and where He hath included me; nor through constraint, But my own free will, admit me not. He who has once made law, has power Of law clar'd through ever nation; even so, I hold, the law of Christ is clearer, Made known through nations, and from itself Only breaking, ever fruitful in good. And therefore, as mine eldest child, who journey'd With my spouse, the patron, and the consort Of our loving lord, across the mountains To this o'erruling world, I tarry here, With Beatrice, through whose most sincere Best intentions, and sincerely true Wisdom and love, I am again reuniter. The law is now finish'd, and the warble of birds Upon the flowery slopes has ceased, and I see, Ready girt for flight, the stately paraggreen, Which, this morning, o'er these polished stones appeared To be alive, and perk'd with plumes, and painted With testy brush. O ye Dragons, and fairy hobgoblins, And neighbours of yon elm-tree, to you, my friends, That haply now approach nearer, may it be Accepted in your circle, for a space, To raise this stem of vine, that ever reflowers Your falchion more fleet than any fowl, and seems, So far as recollection does not make me doubt, <|endoftext|> New of heart: for here, there's not a sore To hurt a feeling soul as now this is; No leprosy-spot to blight the fresh new estate Of mind and heart; no roaring deaf-mute to awe; But, all Into one grand confluence of experience broad, Life throbs new-born; and in that birth, new joy of life Which, in its changeful round, all things so tenderly bear, I feel as fresh a throb to-day as I did so long ago. A great Portrait painted from life; I seem to see myself; I read my life in the eyes, And the play of thought in the cheeks. A noble heart, by defect, Is more exceptional; It is a fact certain, not a phantasm. For my proof, take Athens, compare Her gazer with her beauty: 'T is the gazer, and her glories mad; I see my Athens, a whirling sea Of spirited, ravishing youth. Come, add, and divide our powers, Of Charm, or Science, or Beauty, Each by the other's aid; Ponder with me, Reader, if you can, The difference 'twixt men and women: There 's a charm in excess, 'T is a science over-rated; And there 's beauty, in the purer excess, Like Heaven's lilies in the frosty sky. Then, fill the glasses one by one, To the valets, and the maids, (For such was my case,) and each man-part's Mirth. Last, sing, shake your fist, and laugh loud, To pay our dues, and appease With good deeds our feelings hot: Then we 'll go to drink, and have fun, The type of our life is Schloss Platz. The march of life is onward, The swiftness of it wonderful; 'T is pleasant, but to talk Is no joy. Each moment's pass On its track a tragedy. Wandering in joy we go, But those who come after, tears The wintry landscape to trace. We touch the holy places, We hail the bright ineffable; Then we go--in our regret, And our abasement, to Platz Hall. But the empty shell at the last! O the cry of pity! And the struggle, To restrain that thin and straining arm! No arm to lift, to support; For days upon days I struggled, Wretched maid, in a sickening fate, For to bring the babies to their mother, But they are all dead! Dead under shock of spears, They lie at Platz Square; there 's none to find. Now the honour of the dead The hearts of our enemies shall know; For there they went that they were good, They died, and there they shall be buried. The crying of birds and bees Shall echo to their name for aye, The white lilies shall lift up their heads, And we shall go back with joy to Platz Hall. While they were gazing on these things, The wide hall was lit with a light Which I have seen on ancient coins From Byzantium, mark'd with a star, Of value three hundred guineas. Then a crash of thunder shook the hall, Of an old carry-case falling down, Which bore strange things of every kind, And raiment of the purple list, Which never yet from one end of the world Came over the sea in good control. The eyes of all froze in terror, When suddenly a man ran in, Of an apparent human form, Of most unworldly deportment; With dark hair and beaming eyes; And hi the shoulders of some twenty, But squalid but splendid strength. He with superhuman strength Struck up a chair, and rapped it, And said, "Here is half. For your comfort, "Here is good wine, heirloom grown; 'Twas our order; while the case lies here Within, we will take our leave." Forthwith so polite they welcomed him, And low at his feet they sat, While presently, according to his word, Some half-pints of that vintage, broken, And mouldering within the case, they gathered. Then each of the rollicking players Basked his chafed and screaming horse (For their choice brand of wine was out of fashion), And, heaving up his awful voice, He loudly shouted "Hurray! Ho! state! (He also shouted hoarsely fiftieth time) Your order I shall regard as null, And count it as a lien On all your future orders." He turned to a grave, white-clad priest, And called him "Satan" in disdain, And, threatening him with those perfectly aligned Fists, said, "Cease to trouble me. Wherefore, be it known unto all That thus I prepare for the Holy Year; Not for any of the sinful use Which leaves the Lord His due devotion. My use is wholly like the use Of servants when God sends oppressive daisies. That I may have the ancient crime of violence In some remnant of its spirit, I Have thought it juster to assume, Than be the fool to throw good sense away. I also think that continual fits Of bleeding aggravate the sin. When Christ was betrayed He suffered unbidden. Why should we? In using our freedom in the fair Market-place of honest opinion, We may expect to hear the word "betrayal." But if our hiding Christ's body from the day Of its betrayal be disgraceful, To suffer it unending under curses, Is worse. The body of the Son of Man Was treasured in the earth to save His enemies, And serve as a warning to would-be betrayers. Doubtless our forefathers had no law code, Nor settled all the findings of history For fear the royal might of Rome should seize Their dense blue settlement, and subjugate The people to her ways. Now is the time For men of open heart and bold prosecutors To set her laws at naught, and win the day. Wherefore, I love my Lord, and shall forever, Even though no higher wisdom see That I shall ever be content With life as it is, with Love alone For guide and rule; nay, though I know Him best With all His faults, who needs must bear His griefs, Yet would I trust Him with my very life. As you came down the hill, You said "Thank you," and waved back to me The white arms of your host, A procession of angels from the sky That never come. I stopped the car, And turned to you. You did not see My tearful surprise. When Christ ascended, I saw the stars line up Above the far horizon, The earthly walls less dense. So when you spoke my way, The heavens above me tried to bend To support us there, Till earth again loomed "He may pass." In a world of glass and stone, And figures painted on the air, Of lips that spoke and eyes that gazed, And stony tombs that shuddered Where people of long ago Were buried, I felt the Son Of man in the flesh--the same With human griefs and powers-- Come to announce His mission here. With its uneasy breath, it drowsed Above the unaccustomed places, With many a low and solemn murmur While the long arches below Shook to the undulant pulse. A trumpet blast shook out the names, The numbers came like thunder, And I found my dusty brows Soothed by a majestic peace, And my heart rang back with delight To the triumphing harmony. No more shall I take the flight, No more shall I retreat below The arches of the nave, No more shall I watch a gospel bride And wait for Christ to descend. But see, over yonder gate, A figure moves, that moves alone. A woman's form, a woman's face, And veiled in religious black; But do not look so dumb, for now, The dreadful organ comes: From vale to mirage, from promontory To oceanum of summits, The subtle trumpet sounds its lay, From promontory to ocean floor The subtle trumpet sings; It sings to oceans underground And the dim deserts at the sea's edge, To the voice that no man makes. They do not hear. They see, from far, The grand theurgists on the scaffold Perform the Holy Sacrifice, And away the figures fly, Swift as shadows on the meadows, All feebly, all unconvincingly, But the high organ sings. The low organ sings. The high organ glows, <|endoftext|> To the horrid woods of horror and dread. With the beams of all his steeds in splendour Brightly flashing, and his golden shield An brightness, pale-paler by half, Round the pale shield the great Bucephalus Ascends, and the quivering point Of his hauberk flashes upward from the shield, A light of colours strange to sight. Now, when he drove his gleaming spears Into the ranks of foemen, made his slow way Tow'rds the rearward of his broken phalanx, With eyes and mind aghast he stood, Till the flames of battle and the flashes of spears Vanished like flowers in sunlight! Him Rávaṇ saw afar Rise from the foremost ranks of fight; Him Ráma saw, As, high aloft in air, He veered from the path of war, Fierce-hearted, fierce-handed. With the fierce might of his shafts So huge a cloud of darts he sent That Ráma trembled and fear-quell'd In his chariot of fire. Girt with a host of elephant-tanks, His fiery mace in hand, The giant dismounts, and holds before The awe-struck Vánars stand. The giant turned and raised His fearsome hands before him. Bowed down by fear, the Vánars fled As stepping no more abroad They saw the giant’s eyes glow red With the lust of battle and desire. So with the flashes of his eyes And flaming breath of fire The fiend descended, and onward pressed Through lanes of conflict to the storm Of battle on the northern side. But like some huge cloud that flies Flung by the winds of spring, So fled the Vánars from his sight Till few were left to tell With his giant mace And pointed shafts athwart Who rears his stately head? Arched neck and curl'd brow Frown on a frowning face Like one endued with life. Like some vast cloud of fiercer wrath, His eyes flash red and flash afar Like some wide-curving flame From hill or thicket shaded, When, heedless of the storm that drives, Some wanderer, raging-hot With quivering tongue and blood Trod foot by path or forest-side Where, till the fury ceased, Each Vánar dared advance And raise on high his war-cry, A bow the load to bear. And who is he that stirs so, Unconquerable in wrath? Who rushes down the gloom On vulture knee? And in that mighty might Stands, fiery, fierce, and fleet? With eyes aflame Like fire upon a mountain’s side, His voice, like thunder loud and long, Shouted through the war-plain wildly: “He comes, he comes, the great War-God: Bring war-club and all thy might. He, for his might, hath met his match, Fell foe of Gods and men: Go, with the vulture’s prey, repair And lay him low. I to the Valley of God will hie And see his {178} joyous face That I may likewise fall And may my death reward.” Swift flew the Vánars, mad with joy To tell the glorious tale. And Ráma in his course of vows, To make the world delighted, set His watch upon the way. He called his brothers to his side And sallied forth himself and all The heroes that he loved. They trod the earth, the sea, and sky, Found Ráma never more, Then rapidly homeward went, and still Drew round the wonderful tale. “And I, O King, who lit the fire For earth with God’s innumerable aid, Will praise him yet again. I climbed the heaven the Lord of Day And sate on him and mused: And swiftly, as I saw, he came, His glory radiant and fierce. My very thought could think but here And speed his coming fast. With bow and shaft I drew him nigh And pointed forth the spot Where he his triumph should have. “Again I stood, and pointed where That glorious cock of feather light Stood waving its wealth of wing. Again he came, but swiftly now Like cloud when sunbeam showers Throng the boughs. He sprang beneath And killed the vulture king. My mighty bowels gushed out, As from the jaws of life. O, for the men, the groping hands, And wild and fearless souls, That he may set free his loved, And make the rest his own!” Then Ráma raised his conquering hand And three great strides were made. Then thus his friendly words began: “Here stand the chiefs of Ind, Exultant, eager-hearted. Here stand the Vánars{1} and the nymphs, And heroes of the host. Our vow to fame hath been: we — The bravest of the brave, Whom heav'n to vanquish our will, Nature and destiny, Enslaved by love, have kneeled down To rescue Love and Fate, And Love is free. But oh, Duty dominates our will And every hero’s will. No more, when wintry winds are loud, To Oriana I will rove And vainly curse my fate Or seek the glutted homes of men. I need a champion brave, Strong, skilful, fleet of foot, Proud in a child to stand, And victor with my dame And Victory at my side.” He stood in glory. On the three His glorious arms upwrought From Nature’s mould and mold, Crest by Science unfurlèd. Then Ráma spoke in turn: “O peer of Gods, I praise Your wisdom, power, and might. How, without a rival, now Hath one like me, like you Such greatness wrought, and shown Such strength without a peer? Let every noble sense And noble thought that springs In Kings’ and Legions’ brains, Here welcome with a smile Creatures that their kind And seasons give to die, And let their hopeful blood, Mixed with Sire Earth’s hot tears, Unite with all the rest Of living things on high. But when your warlike strains, In thunder, rally, rise aloft With joyful murmurs rang, Then with sad heart and lips, Like us, our own great sire, Revenge, my hero, reek. For if the vengeful blade Revel, the helpless foe, The dear beloved lie Groped under foot, torn By unseen serpents led, And none is there to save From pain, and death, and shame. The serpent is the Lord, He revels in the pain Of him who is defiled. He drinks the life-blood sweet Which brightens all his folds With purple spots astir, And strangling knot and gang Tying up all life round. He loves to work us woe, And, angry, grows welt'ring When angry with our sin. He spreads his net with venom sweet To snare our souls in sleep, And snuffs at them the breath Of sacred lore divine. No God of Prayers can lay The hungry serpent low, As far, no God of Spells May bid the serpent go. He spreads his venomous net To all the Gods and Gods Of every rank and station, And lordly earls and women And rich and poor, and them He devises hound and hound. As mayed that serpents seed Sick serpents shall restore. If e’er the snake are allowed To injure other spires, Or spread their venom at the fountains Of Nile and Ganges’ flood, Or in the well-freighted ships Pass the narrow Strait, they must Destroy that realm and life. But if some while I gain To play thy champion, on thee All faith my lips shall fall. The Gods will shield and save Us, suffering and affrighted. Receive this royal bowl.” Ráma, lord of giants, knew That heavenly charm at whom he flung The sacred vessel whereon, By Vishṇu tempered, glowed The beaute,(509) august and bright, To Ráma thus replied: “Well be it with thy soul And long-enduring soul. Well may the Gods and spirits live As Vishṇu’s self has lived. Thy task, O Lord, is nigh And I rejoice to see Thy soul safe from poison flamed. <|endoftext|> Phoebus himself for to soften all That bitterness of death to soothe and heal. Not with all words alone he might avail, For some and many too were words to him. First in little, then in greater, rounds The Lord of Dawn yet spoke to lighten. Then in the sunset of the afternoon Departed Phoebus (and with him sunset) went, Then Aethon, and Boeotia's wave Swiftly did lose for ever the setting sun, And the Earth, that held so many in her fold, Turned, as it were, into an empty field. Whither Achilles' godlike brother, fiery-souled, Homeward did riding when the eve was bright, In the selfsame columned chariot, with no bar Of lattice, flaming with rich embroidery, And, crest-wavy like a sweeping ocean brine, Bright flashing beams of gold and ivory shone, Mortared with wrought gold, his shield and helm Matter of lathe-echo, lifted to alter The double boons of topaz and pearl; Nor helm was there, nor shield of exactly the sort With which the Immortals-for whom can Wax can wane Was knapped by skill of earthly fashionists, For him alone; for many a Hero who Came after might have mingled there; but he Unladen; his was the car without the car. For soon to Celestial Glory they began To chant a lofty strain, which must be known Throughout the length and breadth of Fleayne, That the noble sportsman should be glorified Who had the mood and the nerve to capture Himself a Sun, himself a Sun, the very Sun of the buried Argus, and rein Himself in all light, but so as his might May never grow in such a fashion, but Only may always shine like the splendid "O thou whose light of life was sufficient To make the heaven of Heaven's transparent! Thou bright person in whom goes no obscuring Even to the boundaries of the solid! Thou art in our sight, not behind the stars, And the time's spotless record for ever!" Thus spake she ere she (as when mid cloudy drizzle From the white rain-rag hangs an arm that raves) Dropped down, like a swift scarlet blade, to the prodigious Ocean of gilded fire, bright as the new-sprung Lumined proditon nigh the purple source of joss Flowers; and to the Blue from the Green she stole, And over the roses of death proceeded; Loud how the lilies of that mountain began Soft 'thwart objection, and the roses too, By iris-crown, and quiver of dew Quiv'ring in many a petal. I was left Stunned as one half-shept by terror and blind D'NULLED by dazzled wonder. I had looked Upon another; but he was now gone, Or, if he was still in the sight, they all Seem'd changeless as ever; I could not note One whit more than his likeness to the untouch'd, Lithe, and ardent, yet swarthy, and haggard, Of the white sparkle only. "Lady, that thing Has gone to sadder and shutgier creatures! Poor rootless shoot! thou long time hast been soliliest, Thou hast not offended The veriest children of earth! What an age is thine, thou vig season! By the fair ones broken on earth, And those that now see only The dust and stenches of the roses, How they are gladdened To see thee, though that thou art but The broken shell of what once was thing!-- Thou dost differ quite that one! And dost thou differ from earth-born ones? O, shame thee for me, Lady! No dust nor a thorn shall know Me more, for this, than for the departed His children." It was a song, A fit one and a proper one for that place; And such as had a tang of honour in't, A grim endearment unto the one who sung: And "Who tops and moors for me? Why not follow this fit one and proper one?" "Then, here's one for thee!" Hark, what a shrill robustish fife Is singing the jubilee, And waving of the banner!--What cheerful notes Are ringing!--turn, turn thine eyes!--the eye that now Is weeping, that was weekly athwart with smiles Now pouring his young blood forth in tears For his sovereign's disgrace! See! behold, And still new blood is flowing from his veins To swell that old Roman column!--why, that new And brave new nation no longer knows What down payment was needed before we sign! Whither, whither are they leading this herd? Not to the Market itself, my masters! My tenants all are foreigners, my ground-rents All Roman land, all systematically taxed! Shame, shame! Is that our Frères? O where will they take The wretched children whom they leave?--where, while thus They bleed for their wantonness, will they eat? Fanny, my child, ah where will they have thee? Thy father, after ten months' hope, is found Not to have paid one silver penny in rent. Is this the end, my Frères?--and the break of all? Oh! we are all likelier to perish as well As our patrimonial herds. Whither will they turn, Adonis, qualifying that last ban, The incense, the dirty wine, and the rind? Adonis!--And the smoke thou made'st divine, Though once it lit for a night like a god, The bustle, the bustle!--the river-bridge Must be cleared, the telegraph-pole kep'n, An' stors' d'ordreidian dispatched.--Dear, Now think, how Miss lives!--My tenants, too, The showers are on their shrines!--That last smile, Which caught thy loving heart, will drench them, too. What! and our Caesar wins the victory, But will not share out the honours of the shrine? No! the ruins as of Troy will rear Their caverns to--never, dears, to be off! And at this moment, 'tis known who did it, And who itself, in short, whose interest seems Quite merged in the success, or most side by side. "Who up to odds and ravage can expect So great a thrill, without some cause?--It's so, I find, There's something in a wound, dear, that gives a man A kind of gratification, far beyond All motives of the self-same kind himself might use." Why, now I see, Adonis is guilty grown! I left him half an hour ago, to seek That broken Rebel--murderers in bed; And brought him back a martyr to the shrine, Where he is crouching, with his goat's-eyes afraid, Muffled within his vest--though he should risk A bullet as sure as fate!--Though Heaven Should part them at last, I doubt not but I Might at least have got a muffled victim's hair. Hush, how d'ye do! (whisper!) cannot you, dear boy, Tell me that you are tired? Do you ever sleep Till you are quite at peace? Does the soft air wake Your heart of purer summer past? Can you find Your rose a home (like mine) in some far country? I'll come to you. This morning, when I rose, My 'Papa said--'My boy (said he), believe me, You cannot want in the world aught that you cannot find; There's many a silken garment round you float, Which, if you but once should snag it around your neck, You'll wish, you'll wish that life had never been born at all.' Hush! I will come too. I went and parked Beside the gate on the hill. You're watching. Now I'm coming, dear boy, now. There!--hold my hand! You are so big, and the moon is so bright,-- I felt like a baby just there! Am I dreaming? Am I safe? Am I near? How can I be sure, Without my hat--(I've something in my hand),-- But the darkness makes it hard to see. Perhaps it is time I came inside. "Adieu! a thousand sins, my Adieu! Adieu! but most of all adieu! Your rose is an Illusion, my boy, Your soul a Mystery, my Adieu! My angel, come back! my angel, come back! Where'er you wander, be sure and stay. You've heard, no doubt, some ghastly cries From Tower, where they've decked the locks <|endoftext|> "It is an awful sight, when the star That over Afghanistan's peaks doth beam, Displays the beacon's burning ray, To mark the candidate's ready aim And Jenny's going;--I could pronounce There is no cozening more abrupt That such a step;--but 'tis an easy thing The prying friends are abed: Hark! they do, they do! Jenny is gone As soon as an owl can write, Or an envelope pierce The drowsy bulk That seems as he'll never sleep again, Himself, you know! And after him, last of the train, Leaning, I know, to 'To'more, His wife is starting! What a wag! He's taken off the top Of her veil that was all-- Oh, I really, really see't That he's winkin'! I'm sure he is! And his hair's all matted down With as fine a treat As ever mortal bequeathed In cap and gown! So clever! I have seen that in all its pride, At least, once in the cinema;-- Here's a droll, neat dis- Coax--as, by the leave of Sully, Is wont to 'flex Thef oysteroids, to best Of its features; By a greater trick It plays on this Oh, what a bullock Is this coward fool That has broken my rest, And bored me to death! So, I will try To crack Thine egg, porridge snob, For I believe that thou Wast rather a mouse Than a blustering lion At the register, dear, The shoe-black man And his wife were there. We may hope That their laden table Was pleached as clean as bread In the churchyard nigh Beneath the plains, For, ahem, the last Misca death-tax In our columned sky Was levied last A garden spot Offers ideal conditions For this simple rite. Heatherly winding, Through beechen birches, Low-lying country weeds, Garlands in purple glow, A pond spiked with clover Here comes our Fred. Then the long, long day Bore him to restive sleep: Choked with soft heave Of snooze, He dreamed that he, In garden spot Planted by you, Sang songs to you All the way to West You I've known, And yours now I know, As true, as true can be, An ever the same, Since I fell in love With you, When first you were "new." An Annabel Lee I could never die If I might be The Audrey Lee Belongin' to you. When my soul it casts Its soul-gaunt shadow, It may look mysterious, But don't you fret! You'll know I'm only Drawin' tha shadow 'Cause I'm livin' Where tha's at. I sing a song of May, For bright June has a mind to rave, And gloomy July is too sad To dream of celery and hay: In stark blackest autumn noonday The radiant sun on golden morrow Deals sword with sword till you can't stand it; But God hath made it bright for thee. A flying bird told me of the spring, And a falling leaf told me of the fall; The rosin-tear shed from one white egg On another white egg's white shell trembles, And a heart beats in the breast of every bird. My heart is a dropping sky upon the sea Of clear, cool water with a crimson shell Shall whisper every bird its true name And every falling leaf its home for ever. By the ragged bank where lives his love The little politician sings Of rights that he is fightin' for; While there a guileless vermin, low and sly, Sneaks his red claw inside of red, Till the band of love looks at him and laughs. By the little town where she is dead The little town-smoker roasts his friend; But when he takes a peep at her He turns pale as pale could be, For while he licks her sweet mouth's red peel A bright fly swings at his mouth and stings. Where life is a creeping thing The little burglar talks of love: "Say, Ellie, won't you please Talk a little?" says she. "I've been in love many times," Quoth Ellie, "most recently last week. Say, won't you listen, worthy man?" Ere the darling end of May Had given beauty to the trees And blossomed all the way Up to their blossoming prime In green, green June, a very dewy time, I saw an inky blackbird's wing Steal through a pear-tree's scented air. Then my new sweetheart sang Such songs as only birds That dwell in thickets, many and free, Might sing, where none might hear, Save only fragrance, National Works. The grey hawthorn hedges mocked The purple wildthyme, and the kestrel, That from a cloud by night can fly, Gave grunted reply; but evermore The happy tree, the kestrel's song, The blooms, the breezes, and the blackbird's cry Were all to me. Then my new sweetheart cried Such songs as only children, Who, like little church-bells pealin' out, Have only heard, could sing. Such songs as only the nightingale Can still, when all other sounds are stilled At the happy gloaming, when the moon Winks, when the dewdrops yet; When the ploughman's holloa' at dawn, The stars 'ntill noon, and the broad moon leans From her coasts unmeasured seas away, While the round earth lies, unbounded, bright With unutterable light. I had been seven years married, you may guess, I had been "well worshiped," you may as well Recount how, on that day when first we met, We had our garden place as man and wife. I had been rich and I had been wise, you see; No need to tell how many kilometers through I'd wandered, loving, through the world of matter, And he as well through the worlds of ether; But love was love, the primal instinct, we made And bound each to each by love secure and sure. "We each have our part to play," 'twas said of course, And so we played it through, each keen to each given The due of each, love "in a spousal mold." But O, that never yet was proved, the world Of that ill-match I was sadly doubting! What would we be, we now had our doubts asked, If not ourselves matched, though now myself I knew Was doubting quite himself, love the hardest case. That we were doubting. Yes, in doubt we were bound. "And as," said he, "I'd have you doubting too, If so be you keep the relation mere Where you dedicate your life to love and to life." Love, like love, you may put, you may take a heart As nearly as will suit you to a new one; But I doubted--"doubted every moment if I'd do it; Doubted just as much the day you left me for Don Axtell; O, those were dark days when God himself was doubting! And doubting always--sometimes in faith more low, Other times in boastful, ardent natures." "What mean you by 'self-taught,' " you ask? Believe me, I've had teachers, and was taught; But as the mother-in-law would say to the bride, With nary semi-apologies nor hesitations, "He's had his share of the family traits and foibles: But don't you think it somewhat dismaying To hear him go round preaching doctrines as black as ink Just because he learned 'em at school?"--well, I didn't, And the man who made that "bitter, sweet, man" believe Must have had some innate ideas about it; It's just as you say, his teaching may not be good; And still there's something which sets him entirely, And in me the cause of it all. "What's innate?" you cry in amazement. Oh, don't be a cynic, but go and try it; Try the axiom to check your lust of praise, Try it with a world that all your creeds condemn; Take my word, with the gout that's familiar There's a more natural way to curb your appetite <|endoftext|> When she saw that workman From Londonderry out forlorn, And counted one by one the days, And by the nights, and did not hear The great drops of sweat she expected, The fire that sapped her patience almost died; And yet, with shuddering vexation, She wondered not a hair's breadth whether Her little Kings should live or die. Who ever thought of fishing in a brook? With nets that are bent with rich stuffs of wool? In dreams we reel and tumble, and on us fall All poor mendicant fishes that are caught. The fish are harmless, for they have no eyes To see us coming, and no claws to grab; And we can only haul and twist, And pull to flounder and float and wriggle, Scarce knowing if the water really is deep, Sitting in a wet, rusted boat on the water, With gnats and grasses and such insects in it As make a watery jungle on a stream. And then, when all the day is done, at night Thought comes to us in dreams, and all the pool Seems lying still as stone in a close dark cave, And all our little Kings float homeward quaking As though they went to spawn in an iron lake. So Charlie lived on through his long winter's nights And his sun-scorched flesh was strong and raw Even to the thought of meat and drink. Ah! What a change took hold upon his senses! Caught not only by the smell of wood smoke, But by the shape of a well-cleaned spit, And by the sound of a good, strong brogue. From which the malting of the craven brewer Might yield a slight and fruitful wine. And then he smoked his bunches by the fireside, Or by the open chimney, and talked with Jane. When down the long stair at eve he climbed to see The grey winter daylight coming over the hills. So through the long cool October days, With bread on his lips, and fish and meat And a bad whisky in his belly, Wild-eyed and thirsty, Charlie drove homeward. And as he leaned upon the rung that led To his cottage on the ridge-pole top, The rain beat audibly upon the pane. It puffed and sailed across the window-pane. The heavy oaken doors flew inward. The dishes in the sink stirred somberly. And he, unhappy, fumbled for a hat And pattered with a pocket-handkerchief. When Jane came at sunset from the wigwam, Running barefoot over the low snow-bed, She flung the door wide open. A wind that had come Sustained and swelled and blew the sand-blast further down, Picking up dust and flakes of scarlet hair. Through the great doorway, bare-headed, bare-legged, Came five great grizzled dogs, with tongues so yellow It seemed as if they rasped oils and bitter nuts. And Charlie at the door saw them, shook his head. "Come in," he called. They came in, fixed each on each, And shook their heads. Charlie cleared his throat. "The day," he said, "is all but lost. The salmon Have failed and gone to wither on the sea-stone. The rats, however, like their mulberry castle, Come forth in all their might when the great swan Returns from the lake, and lets the river feed Forth with the beauty of its waves down the swan's path." "Ah!" they said, "that story of the little crow? Sure you have heard it--how the white-capped sun Sizzled on the stove in the great forest shed? And how he hung his head and did not fly, But lay and railed and railed until his feathers dripped? And then the swallows came and perched and sang Beside his basket, while the corded sky Chimed coldly round the rafters overhead, And every crane in the neighborhood Cracked its lightning-slashed wings and darted in, While that same little bird, bare-headed, bare-legged, Rained on their lunch and on their picnic. Rained on them while they carolled lowly Beside their holly; all the round country Breathed deep a redoubled tinkle of chorus. They piled the woodpiles dark and high, To keep the late sun from the little wood; They filled the granites about with gray, And brought the parched fields into aned out brown. "There'll be snow this year," Charlie said. "Good heavens! We've had it always, but at last we'll get At last the great snow fade. They say once more A great big one's coming this winter time From the elfin-country down below. We'll rest, And we'll put our heads under the elm-tree When the last leaf falls, and when the last root Crumbs on the ground and croons a sad note." And he jumped up and hugged Jane and kissed her, Kissed her and gave his arm to each, and so Led the way quietly. But first, by meadows and knolls, Glittering with mist, I looked, and drew the blind Around a parched and dusty head of gold. At last Through knolls that showed just one flat strand Of bare, brown-edged land, not more than knee-high All round and like a thistle's withered horn, And thinking that she was waiting me there, And thinking that I'd forgotten, Jane, Kneeling, saw, as through her knoll of land Stole like a white, bright water-pool That brims o'er myeting, twisted and washed With shriveled rushes, to my heart's despair: For by those stretches of bare brown land To me she seemed to stand, And hovering o'er her did resolve, Within a misty, glittering crown, The light of late revelries, the blaze Of dusk and noon, from dusk till fled To color and to night, her coming there; And there, just where her feet had been, Ringed by a wisp of fir and listless sweep Of forest, she seemed to stand and look Over the bare brown land. "There she goes!" I heard my father murmur, almost. "She's well along now, I hope. For her face It will be best to stir her, you know. She'll not rest for long." His face was gray. So, I left them to their talk and play, And went, arriving once again At home, where (with some old hurt caught sight Of me) I hurried and would only speak To hide my tears, and tell my tale, Doubting if I should be ever heard Of more that day. Next night, rather, I went about among my trees, and found New places where I hoped I could bide. And later still, to visit new ground, And climb anew my little tree, I climbed, Rather late, when all around was still, And found, beneath a knoll of torn brush, A little grassy slope. "Just may," I thought, "the same cruel thing happen here That did once to him on that hilltop there." And then I roamed about and watched my scope. Then stood a bent great pine on the hillside Above the shack where Stack came a-hoeing in At sunrise. A tiny rise at first was spied Where above the turf a shadow hung; But as the ridge was seen distinctly Beyond the tree, and there the sunshine broke Right down its top, I gathered round me friends, And sped, and said: "It's him. He's come again! Who comes? Where's Stack? What's here this morning?" "Old William Stack," a burly old hunter said. "Stack and his fellows were out to kill, sir, As well as do, and they've killed him. There he goes." "Good!" I said. My voice took all that voice's worth, And all the tree-tops rocked with me that day. About myself I was troubled then, I'm sure; And I must own with self-pity, a feeling That I'm not apt to voice; and with a heavy Look I looked at the pine, a horrible sight, Of human hands and bloody hands. My eyes Were blinded by the sight, and deaf, and blind. Then to my feet I slowly rose; and my heart Beat violently. I could hardly stand. And the hunters came back with Stack and his men, The other men that were with him. But those men Might have been worse than killed, for all I know. That day I was filled with some strong emotion; And not until the autumn did I hold My anger all in silence. This, I fear, <|endoftext|> That hast heard my secret love; Then for thine own shall I not gain A thought of hers beyond the year? Then both who part will sigh; The road is clear and broad Awhile we wander hand in hand, And I shall say of thee, "Man, what wast thou?" And thou shalt answer me, "The evil of my thought Came on me unawares, And I died of the reverse." Through the man-without-end Mixed with the earthly yoke, Woman still must ply her trade Woman, still must cleave her graft; If her fruit, gold-plucked, yields Ducks and geese enough, Why should she stir the riper task Of wolfing god-shelf and shrine? His head if you ask me, Mine wears no crown of sound; But you cannot hear him speak, And you cannot follow him pace; For there is always free Where sound is not to be found. And free man wandereth Where the trees have life, Where the wild flowers grow, Where the mute air spreads Dreams by the wind unswept. My heart has soared Where the sacred sea swells; Where the songs of plovers Sound and spatter through the woods; Where soft snowflakes fall In the gloaming hours Out of the heavens and down, And the snow-courts dance and talk, And the point of them strikes the sea. I of the stars am made, My soul is set to sing; Free, I follow where she walks, And the stars above me dance, That they may light my song. I know not if she casts aside Her veil and starry dress, Or if she ever goes To the ground that I may know, For all things are the same to her; Nor do I ask whence came she To dwell so near me. Her home is everywhere, And the earth has none keep From her love's fair face withdrawn, Who hath broken forth and gone Where the bright stars shine, and the sea. Freely, I say, I would Her face a while incline To look on, and then fly With wings of love and haste With her to the earth once more. I mind me now that when My song had reach'd that height, Then she looked down and smiled, And the round wild face Was full of wonderment. She seemed pleased; then swiftly She'd fly up high and far, To where the clouds were bright And with them all the heavens o'erspread. We'll dance to-night, my Dear, When winds do blow o'erhead; And watch the stars so fair Which blink so bright at night. We'll not forget the flowers, They bud now all around; The linnets' concert sounding, We'll not neglect the stage. The curtain's down on stage, The pit's fill'd far and wide; And little things we'll do then, To make the most of it; We'll ask each other thereat What's now new to know of love, And ask God to make us wise. And presently I'll go there, Where I'll seek her out, my Dear, And tread the dark unwearied way The curtain's down on stage, Where I'll seek her out, my Dear, And tread the dark unwearied way, The curtain's down on stage. O you dear women, be still! The time is short that's given you To watch the worlds you so effectually see through. You see their ways, you know the various tricks They've got to play them with the times, And all the while they smile, and shake your head, And laugh, and tell you you're dreaming. No, darling, no, you must not wear That pall that lies on your brow; And gird your heart with might That it not shatter and give to the air That sigh of yours a sigh of thine. O yet I weep for you, I weep for you in the night When all in sleep's still dreamless sleep I sigh against your ear. And still I weep when the light Drops in your dwelling place; And I remember you, my dear, And wonder why you weep. I weep for you in the day When all on-looking eyes My sigh against your heart may part. When you are crowned with flowers And show your little porch of light I sigh for you, my dear. I weep for you and the years Slowly depart, And yet I hardly know Why you should weep so. I've watched many a one grow old And still be cheerful nigh, And you may still be so I pray to Him that made you, I'll watch you o'er the years To whom you may often pray. O well I ken the place On earth's outposts that you see And sorrow is your lot. I pray that all your days May God be merciful to you. And if your grandchildren lives Have joy that comes with years, That God, who reigns in you, Will crown with joy your name. O day so clear and bright That sheds its rays so brightly! O sun so bright as these, Gentle and peace-bringing! To you, O queen, I pray With heart so changed and sky, How can my strain be sweet To match your eyes of blue? To you in whose breast All peace has dawned again, With balm my hurt may heal, I'll come again to-morrow And stay with you a day. On thee thy smile is gone, But in my heart its trace lives on; Oh thou art still my star. To-morrow, when thy light Shall shine on other things, Its benediction spoke I'll speak my hope to-day, And cherish life and thee, O mother, dear and true, I will cherish thee and live. Why do we weep when the summer sun Warms the heart with its inspiring ray, And swells the bosom with the swell? Why this farewell to gloom and care, This telling of the sad and sombre past, And this beginning of a sweet and gladsome tone? The dead and buried have gone to rest, The past has past and the future draws near, And we go away to try the best We may, or shall, or may not find of worth. And the glad voice of hope Sends its words of music, And the rich smiles of girlhood Crown all the smiling moments that are sped, So that no thought can fade nor all our cheer Be ever declin'd; That life's waters run songful and clear From the fountain at the heart of every breast; That song within the heart Will so enamour That it will take away the pain of grave The days of life, that in them were so dreary and dark. Ah! but if we could knowledge obtain Of a day when these might fly away, And feel the thrill of joy, and temperature rise Till we were rouse'd no more to such a stinging peace! O youth, O happiness, O pleasure yes, Let us ever clasp each other in these veins, And never know again, as we gathered to-day, A grief so deep, So unconsciously felt, as that which now we feel. Suffer alone what I have suffered, say, Whose unlovely body I have draped With my raiment and its raiment's praise, Whose melancholy eyes to mine I've been An outlet and a channel of my heart; That inward burn which cannot find an outlet, Nor go where it was wished to go. Then suffer alone, Say, the unsecure, the shamefully ill; And your sufferings be So exquisite, So great, so inward suffering, that the agony Possesseth you, Seizeth you with touch of inmost intensity; And you say within your pain, Within your sadness, your bitterness of spirit, "I suffer alone." For I have known your pain, in the hours of gloom When you felt every minute a year, A twenty-two weeks, pass away Since your mother, so sick with child, And I, not knowing what to do, Were forced to tell your father you were dead. And I have seen you lie sick until Your vital spirit was spent, Till the brood of premature births Drove you to the door, in your nightgown, bare. Then you laid your little face With its pale, flushing cheek Against the door and call'd on me. And I went, and you clasp'd my hand, And we walked towards home, with your childish eyes Chancing now to drop down; And I kissed your little hand, And it grew three times as white, And the lives that were at one In your fastness seemed to be far and distant; <|endoftext|> Wha tried and tried and tried To draw them from their lovely play, Her smile and pleasure, Her roaring like a filly's bit, Her laugh, her racing like a filly's bit, Her feet, her arms, her hope, her all, her very self. Then came Jock Jabez to meet them yet, The biggest hale among the young one, The strongest and the fiercest among the young ones, And started the dead fire from her heart, The fiery passion from her lips; And then what weaklings, what weak things were they! They ran to clasp her to their bosoms and weep; But she would only shake her head and smile, And wave her hand dismissively, "Gee whiz, my dear young Jock! Don't you see that I'm still in my beauty prime, Still fit to be desired?" When dark and the early bird Have screamed their native air, And blue and the early star A twitter within the arm O' a young heart startles; An hour through the early-twinkling night Sits in her arm-chair at home, With white fan on top of white foot, A slender desire. Slow o'er the night that passes Dark as a robe of directed light, A beam falls down That glints like a startled star; Then sleep that's half awake Creeps dimly out from the deep, Blinking upon the midnight lawn, The face lifts to it, And in it dreams. Her dress is of the very dim Latin tangle, And her hair's the white long-play'd snow Of her arm-chair when she sits there, But the silence is most of the night, And she beckons and leans With her hand and beckons and leans From the arm-chair to the stair And back again. Where is she going? O, she's walking fast! From the stair to the door With a light step like the swelling sea When the moon has just gained the verge Of her desolate sea And doth rise forevermore, Her white face shining dim In the pale light. Her hand is on the door As if that's the door she wanted, As if that door that hasn't a gate Were the one that led to her more, As if to that very door There were some dire occurence Or some wild words to be spoken, Or some odour to destroy In her parlour, For the moment that she entered. But the parlour was dark and bare, There were old pictures on the wall And old books to be read within; But she, pale girl with the bowed head, And the fan upon her arm, Stood there and didn't stir. And did not speak. And he stood in the window too, But not by the same door, And there was a world within him That sought a neighbour for a friend And had no place so dark and bare As this room that he occupied; And though he gazed here and there Over the parlour sill, And through the window, without Knowing it, but ever leaning His ear on the door And his hand upon the knob, But the stranger in the gabled house, Who clutched the façade like a faithless lover, Had not made a single noise, Though he heard and he heard And he shuddered and followed the sound Of that unearthly voice And that unearthly tread, A voice whose deep rumour makes men see That there is more behind it than their thought, As here when she has bathed and night has washed The wounds of her body in the water bright The fever of her eyes, Though she wanders through the moonlight glades and sings Of the joy of the tide, Though she walks in the moonlight that fills With light her walking, She knows not that with her in a veiled way And a light that is but a flower's Walk the aged seaman with his son, He has known the woman unseen For she goes clad in the wavering light That she loves to give herself, And as she walks along the paths of the moon That change to a river by the night, And every step is a running Of the waves that fill with night and ooze The little deep of her shoes. The silver and the radiant lights Of her dress shake in the night The motes that are in the dusky air The drops of her tears are the flowers In the river's eddies that go by, Brimmed over with rain, As the deep green light of a flower, when the wind Of autumn-time is sweeping it o'er From the heavied gold of the warm sunshine And is weeping, For the warmth of its heart and the lightness of its petals, So her tears and her tears and her tears Have shed themselves over the body of the river, So that it seems as though water and wind and sun were one and the same, And the voice of the river, as it lives in the night, is the voice of the night. The whispers of the night are abroad in the city, O Babylon's people, where art thou? The graves are dry on thy breast, But who lies there, Babylon, and for what cause? (For thou hast turned to the earth, And bade thy self raise the struggle and dye the battle with thy spoil, While the cities of the nations stand defeated before thee) Why art thou silent, ghost of the cities of man? Thy voice is strangely silent; I hear no sound of thee walking on the waters, I hear no sound from thee rising up through the pebbles; Only in distant and in endangered tones An awful voice is saying: Come down, Babylon, and atone; repent; forsake The deeds of the dead, For thou hast wrought grievously unlawful things, And by thy schemes hast spoken lies. And the face of the river is moved to stone, And the voice that was mindless of the heavens Takes on a meaning, as of ancient memory, And one speaks in effect: Now has the time permitted me to speak My old curses. The old days have ceased, For I see them as I never saw them, Even in dreams, to be; and there is ruin in them, And waste, and desolation, and wrong. Come down, Babylon, and atone; repent; forsake The deeds of the dead. The times have changed; the seasons have changed, Since the days of the mighty ones; The things accomplished have an end, And the work of the days of old. It was not for steadfast love of thee That I kept saying, "I will go down and see thee, But I give charge thou watch above, Lest perchance the evil should be seen By thee, and from the evil beware." It was not for steadfast love of thee, Gentile, that I kept saying, "I will go down And see thee, but thou lead me aright, Lest of thy deeds I should fail to take note, So will I keep saying, 'I will go down and see thee,' But with eyes made empty by expectation." It was not for steadfast love of thee That I laboured with tongueless moaning, "I will go down and see thee, the most devoted, But if perchance thou shouldst come to behold me, O then I would not hang around thee, But I would go to the desolate regions, Even to the regions of death and nought, Where every joy was sorrow and every sigh And the old bound that bound all things together In a strange order, and the senses, Crucified by pleasure, found no circumscription But were broken by hard pain, And the old love's good before was hurt By death, and the old hate's sweet customs Ruled them as lovers over lovers. A wretched priest in Babylon Was singing in a forest place A song against God's religion, And on a sudden the trees that followed All shot upward reaching heavenward As if to heaven, while the good seeds Of trees to sprout in Italy Held out their hands towards Italy; The very oaks and marsh-bornbdows Of Palestine were ripening towards A new world for the Gentiles, As if God's purpose in the world Were to propagate the human race. But I will sleep well and keep off weeping. If I should pray and if I should preach Every day, I know I shall so pray better E'en without preaching than with it; I shall know the hearts of the people Better than do they know of me; I shall see and hear things as they are, Not make them like me and like me, Not see their delight and bond of it As I make theirs, and make my feasts On joy and on the fellowship of it Even as they on joy and the blessings Of unending life, when I awake. I will sleep better, and keep off grieving. <|endoftext|> Hither came, and what was in my command, They did accordingly to the promised place As I enjoined. They all, as is right, Felt gratitude to their King; and I Gratified their desire, rewarded Their fondness, and praised in every way The fruitful hope they carried. Then I bade My clerks engrave my coin, as I declare In the two next chapters; where among the motives That prompt the understanding and the will, Common to all, is seen the duty [to one, If God be God,] of establishing loving obligations By covenant. Such my engraving: To the satisfaction of mind alone, It having the seal of solemn imposition Of type Universal, such as might ensue From my commanding, and their understanding, If mine acknowledged them as such, with sense Radiant, and coming in assenting light, To what in itself is personal, forthwith Gave forth its warmth, and so transmitted heat equally to all; there being no place Where momentary suspension would end, Nor voidness any place, since order beat Uprisen, would be always full and cool. My word received, with intent to celebrate Among the stars their Sovereign's praise, they made Him day by night; and he, greatest of them all, A declarator of the Truth, and advocate For every individual, in his own degree Ministering aid, even as in high subsection He could think no good design were possible , without due jurisdiction and obedience; They, therefore, at his entreaty abjured ungood; And, for desire of it, made empty show of abating. A journey they made; and, in their return, He, one day, long since, upon a hill's top aloft, Beheld a dwelling of one Mary, so downtown It could not be within hearing or of eye; He, walking, with his disciples, ere they entered, Saw close against the midst an open dining-place, With light so bright, as might have shared the sun's realm, And heard so clear, the lark's song, outdoors now set, The night's drowsy hum. The table there, and meats, And cups, and knives, and bread, and abundance of room, Stood one and all: for more were in that place, Than one could fill; and, with the abundance, room, For hosting large parties, without ostentation, Mary showed the men, and beckoned: they entered; And, after waiting long, espied the master And his four sons, where all with round at place Were seated; and about them the whole array Of Christ's own servants: all as full of presence As they were of date or virtue; and the whole Did greatly stir one's wonder to behold. When these were seated, at his right hand he placed The loaves, the fishes, and the bits; then took The staff in which he stood, and, in his hand, Bade them be of philter taken, and went thence. Soon as his feet could move in high chair, he gave Forth from the room, and, as he went, did cry, Go, now, ye Wise, go, and from the gate receiv Your licence to be called Holy; for the Wisdoms own Him likewise, and make me so exquisite a figure, That even the stone shall tremble. So departed Those elders, and found their King, who did receive With so much joy, that, eager to be there, They, all, besought him, moreover, to allow That Mary, the mother of him, should sit there, God's though sworn, to turn them into jewels, and such Great Angels as the twelve: and he, well pleased, Received, and, amid them, Mary, his daughter, next. From thence, at once, into their church they through Their company felt such concord, that not but There was, within its heart, one spirit, which stirred With such love, and in such perfect communion, That they all, in their communion, did call Him their mate, and for that cause, did separate In kind affection, and, in walks, did follow One life, drawn out by pleasure, which was lord And pilot of their. After, these, the rest Within the porch, were such, as thought it good To extend their sacrilege by sharing in The feasts themselves, and, at them, did, almost As soon as he did, who first had spoken, pray Abstained from every dish, as if they expected To get abridgment thereof, and, through fear Of saying evil, did so stay not away As if they feared not to be glad: and such Full love showed to him, in sacrificing, That, no most great pleasure doing, he did Witness in all fields, and everywhere, His mercy unto men; nay, his patience Being thus upon things around him, and his Regard almost touched with joy, he could, With no desire to sigh, or crave to live, Cut off the bonds that appeared unmeet; And all, through him, to feasting and to prayer Were one thing; so, many hales and hectares Would he, within a little space, dispose. Thus mayst thou see, that though in some we see Undoubtedly, yet we find by thee, Further and further they may go on; nor Shall that be measured, which being seen Discerned, shall be evident only In things shall after some delay be spent; But even for those, whose wisdom it shall see Immediate good resulting, it shall scale Slowly, in all, at once, its worth shall heaped And raise the wonder, "How far is this," Questioning, the creature, "Worthy, this?" "How far is this from everlasting life, From finally foreseen good?" wherefore these Framing the question, basting in the fire The kingly flesh of Christ, which now was burning In phrensy, at that stablished virtue, which Was to be illumined, and be changed, the ancient, And, shining with single Essence, self-existent? How far is this, from him, who rates the fineness Of atoms, and their weight, their multiple attributes, Their seasons, and their parts? what matter, so, The soul of man, of animal, or of plant, or tree, In species eternal, infinite extent Permitting, if nature here on earth did alter? What marvel, then, eye of Christ! if thou conceal Little, and unfold little, what the why and wherefore? This much is plain, why he, who sorted these With similar themes, to seek was sent ahead; This, little perceiving, he perceived not yet What name first should enter the large gold "Junction Thus now to be in wait for him, and tempt him, and fling Unforeseen cakes and fruit, which seemed the joiner Of day and night; these passed, and so returned, As thou canst see. And, lo, the Master left, And, went he secretly through the land, and, There where he might, professed him to be a sinner; But, ere he entered, the, door-posts, head, and speakers cried, "Hail, King of Panty and Donald!" And "Hath translated now his last Holy Word?" And "Great dreams of peace" rang out; then "Christians, Again how many something's, two and two! How, one behind, and one before, doth throng The dark comer! And what to these may Roe or Ah, dance? The world and heaven did close their courts, Hiding from him, for innocence too keen And real bliss, which made him come. But now he stands Before his eternal money-changer, And, yet, among all things, greater than all, For having from eternity made one To do the very work he may. Who's to blame, If fortune favor that an angel do the work Of flesh and blood? Be it as God please, he goes, He goes! More bread, more oil, more gold, more gold, And all, for ever. There's none now to stop him. In vain, alas, that fine-turned pommel swings And clatters in the hand; true, blade-tip looks up, And part is lean upon the hilt; no redder crust Shaves the white crown of its white round, and so this life Holds its poor husk, like an apple left at home To be peeled, and the poor white rind falls off, And falls into the dust. For souls such as these, I do not say that death comes down in pomp and pride; Yet does he come. How the victims kneel and fall Before their desolation! And hence it is They live so long; they die so slowly. There lived an old Norseman in California <|endoftext|> For long in idleness I slept. There were these from the banquet passed away, And these from the joy of the feast arose; Then some, with ready wit and ready gift, Addressed the wise and ready speech. These my heart has ever loved and prized, These I loved best; ah, never with regret Will I repeat what they said to me. If my children, who are now so weak and ill, Should return to me, my first thought would be To raise them back to health and strength again; I should welcome with a childlike faith Each returning year; for in them is wrought Fullness of joy, through cleanness of the spirit, And in their loving kindness. In me longings and in them hope remain For the day when my bodies shall be whole; But the present leaves me helpless grown, And all my love is like a sickly child. As when we cross a dry, dark riverbank, The lilies, sitting loosely in a row, Lean their pale, concentrated gold; The tulip and red virgin's bud stand out Against a sky in which the clouds are blue: So in my heart the white lilies lean Against the darkness of this bleak world, So does my spirit lean, against all hope, Against the awful dark of this day, Against the future, against the gloom, Against the past; and then a voice says, "This will pass, that will pass, When man shall recover from being, lost." Then the voice adds, with such a steadfastness, "This will pass," that I say, "Brother, 't will pass." Now, as I lean, leaning more, More is my spirit left lean; And now I see, with eyes more clear, Wings, with wings like cloth of gold, Wind-like, flying, flying; And now I hear, with wings like sound, Wings, with voices like the breeze, Flying, flying. So I lean more, leaning more, To see them, flying; And lean more, with my soul more pure, To meet them, flying; And lean more, with the hope in me now Of seeing again, again, These wings, with hearts of fire, That bear me, flying, flying. O my children, lean more still, For lean more shall we reach the height, And leave these dull, dark trees, For lean more shall we reach the height, And leave this bleak, bleak land. To lean more shall we reach the height, And leave this dim, dim land, And reach the height, and leave this clear, blue sky, And reach the height; and leave this dim, dim land, And reach the height; and leave this dim, dim land. O my children, lean more still, And lean more, and more, And, for the dawning dawn, We will dream, with little love, of thee; And lean more, and still, To lift thy dreams to the sun. And, leaning still, to lift thine dreams to the sun, We will awake to find them burning straightway; To find them burning straightway, and awake to find They are not dim, but black,--to find them burning straightway, And awake to find them black. O my children, lean more still; For lean more shall we reach the height, And leave these dull, dark trees, For lean more shall we reach the height, And leave this bleak, bleak land. To lean more shall we reach the height, And leave this dim, dim land, And reach the height, and leave this dark blue sky, And reach the height; and leave this dim, dim land, And reach the height; and leave this dim, dim land. So I, when first I saw him lie Folding the folds of yellow silk, Saw a ghost, and felt a trembling dread Of a long-neglected fear. And I said, "Is this the gait of him Who bore the burthen of renown, Who went forth and talked of fame, of right, Of victory and right, in his great heart? Is this the bier which he lies in, Washed in the bright white bandage's shine?" And I raised the coverlet to see His glorious face again. But I turned away: he stood and watched With eyes unkindled, listening, dry-eyed; With a clenched throat, and a stiffened hand, And a face all trembling with his fear. And a moment, I went up to him And said, "Sir, I know not what has brought Such a look of mute dismay upon you; But, come, tell me, what has brought you fear?" Then he told me of the Bards, who sat Around him, on the day he went to fight: How they cursed him for the flag they bore In the cause of American freedom; How they swore at him and jeered him, too, Till the field was only known as "the field of shame." And I told him of my vision in the dusk Of a wood, where a ghostly presence stood In a lonely place; and I told him, too, Of the shouting at the end of a fight Which ended with the death of a comrade; Of the phantom car in the lonely night Which came walking to my house--then he asked: And I told him of a dawn at dawn Beyond the dunes; and I told him, too, Of the blizzard's mad sleet on the hill; And I told him, lastly, of a face I had seen in a vision in the night, And of its whispering, and its sighing Of a hundred sorrows, and of its weeping Of a hundred deaths. And he listened, and he gave no heed, But said: "This is all wrong. I will go And bury it with the dead of Ball." And he went forth and buried it with The dead of Ball; and the ghost went forth To wander always with the wind of a will. Little we knew What mysteries lay in the mysterious wall Before us; for the vault was hidden deep And barred with rock, and high the mountains above, And low the valleys; and we knew not our feet Were on the ways of life, and we knew not the road Behind. Now, there as we came, In a shadow-land, O, what strange sights met Our eyes as we near laid San Domingo! What roads were those we did not know, nor care To ask; but straightway our feet were on The unspecified ways, and straightway our eyes Were on the unknown dead. We bore Beside us, mute and dazed, a dead man, that we Had not perceived as we passed through the door Of our strange chamber in the cloud-fenced town. And thus the day was spent in sighs, and thus The night, with its silence, and its unspoken fears. And then, As suddenly as it had come, the cloud Faded, and, in its place, I said: "O gracious Lord! I have been even as a dead man in your sight, And now I stand before you." The same Was said, and then I stood, and I saw my children Standing around, and my spouse by me. And I knew that I should see her soon. And I wept aloud, and the tears ran down Into my shoe; and as I went my soul Ran over my feet, until I thought they must Ever after be as brethren, and I cried: Out of the east, The sunset was dying as we drew near its shadows Into the west; and I knew that I must see Her, and must live without her, and must see Thee no more; and I wept aloud, and the tears ran down Into my shoe; and as I went my soul Ran over my feet, and the agony of love Was as a knife that needs must be plunged. I do not think that the long journey's nights Had any great sadness, or that the days Were less bearable; but it was those nights And days, that were the hardest; and it was those Fond faces that were ever the most sweet. It was upon a windy winter day That I lost all my comrades. O, how I missed The black faces, the soft hands, and the sounds Of close company! When I looked again, I saw them, and I saw the last black shadow Of the sky, and the castle in the distance, And, far away, the nightingale. The wind was rising, and the castle's tower <|endoftext|> The flowing ship is now no more. The fish of a thousand hidden streams Now feed on the fading bark. No more the tide with his roar flows clear; The ship is soaring through the air, The cormorants and the finches flock Round the splendor of this end of things, Where no more a ship may sail. In some far, echoing chamber of old days, In some far, woody land, I know a bird, whom every land and every age Calls forth to sing. He sings for ever of the flowers and trees, The mountains and the waves, And all who read the rhyme of his old ballad-rhyme May wonder and marvel and wonder again At the words he writes with the sextant of old days. He sings of the flowers and the white-tipped masts, The brave old sea, and the blue skies above; And he sings of the sons of the pioneers, The dreamers and creators, The steersman and the sleeper of great streams, And all who follow in their mighty track, With all who ever by these heroes share A sextant-shot reckoning and a love of them. He sings of the lonely founders, Of the sea-fight and the ger-snorkel, And all who live by a money-score or fame, Of all who have been slain, And he sings the shots they died for and the years That they have slept in their graves, For ever in their hearts, And ever in their morning-glory gleams. A child may sing it, but not every song Wakes the echoes of a nation's war-bosomed past As does his sextant-shot. And not every song, though fated the most to be, Shall dawn on the world with this mission accomplished. A song hath wings, and they shall soar high and bright, He wings his way to the land of the heroes, He sings of the flower and the fair. He sings of the spirit of Freedom, And the grand old man-hating kings; And he sings of the pennance and the prize Which the rough-rhythmed verse bestows; And with fine-spun words he tells Of old-time heroes and their deeds; And then he tells in simple rhyme How God came down to the sons of men And blessed them with Miracle-working Faith. He sings of the Independence-day, And he sings of the coming men Who shall save the day of tears; And of other great contests yet, Wherein a nation or two has been In strife or anticipation caught, And there is yet in the world a stage Mature and perfect, where in bold relief God's great foreknowledge of the whole deed And wisdom and might and perfection stand. He sings in brief of Fame and Fortune's sting, And the deep disappointment when they fail; Of the searcher's sadness in the waste of time And the joy that stands him by his side, And the thrill that shakes his limbs with a throng Of inner, instinctive, holy fear; Of the craving for that which never was And the bitter burning of a dream; Of the passionate craving for that which never Has been, and the bitter burning of a dream. He sings, with a passion that is wondrous true, In the breath of the songs of the ancient ships That went forth from his childhood's homesteads, Of the sea-winds that awoke in his soul And stirred with music he had heard, Of the wild shallows where his spirit could rest, And rest it must, though the fever of the world Burns in him like a fiend's desire, Till it shall cease in him and cease in him. For now he sings of the Spirit-ship, And he sings of the wondrous life that rides On the trepidation of the mighty wave And cleaves and cleaves anew its patterned cleave, Till the rhyming, rippling, wondrous life shall cease And the great death of the ship-spirit come And the ship-spirit's death and miracle be, And it shall be as it was on the day When the three wise men left the ship to pray. It shall be as it was on that day, When the ship, with its freight of wonders, Plowed the wild sea to its dark heart's desire, And the silent, gray waters muttered With voices of despair and pity, And the dead water moaned and murmured, And the stern weathercock his head raised, And the stern weathercock his back turned, And the dead water moaned and murmured. It shall be as it was on that day When the men left the ship to rest, And the weathercock all eastern bound Turned his mighty eyes to the west, And the dead water moaned and murmured, And the stern weathercock his head raised, And the stern weathercock his back turned, And the dead water moaned and murmured. It shall be as it was on that day, When the ship, with its freight of wonders, Plowed the sea to its dark heart's desire, And the silent, gray waters murmured With voices of despair and pity, And the dead water moaned and murmured, And the stern weathercock his head raised, And the stern weathercock his back turned, And the dead water moaned and murmured. Gone are the years of pride and glory, And the long lean life of splendor; The golden days of feasting and drinking, And the long, long stripling-year of labor, Are gone forevermore. Gone are the courts of palaces, And the showers of gems and diamond; The golden days of glory are over, And the long lean, gray years of care; For the years of sorrow and sorrow, And the long, gray, pining years of stagnation, Have come to the end of their journeying, And the thin-cheeked, sunken years of gray; The brown, gray wandering days are ended, And the wandering years of aging; The starry ages are come home, With their carrying and making. And the long, gray road to home Leads up to the doors of resting, And the great, gray doors that close; And these shall close no more, And these were the doors of paradise, In the days of long ago. And the ages shall run on To the last of all the ages, And the years of man shall cease, And the earth herself shall sleep, And the great, gray mother sleep; For the world's time is over, and time is ended. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! When in the cold world's abhorrent embrace My body lay, And men said thy words were sweet, And worthy thee, Because they woke the memory of thy kiss, My spirit said, "No, from these poor hands withholding Shall withdraw thy hand, If but to remember tell One sweet kiss, one kindly word!" On lone rock and tree <|endoftext|> he is bold, and his words are bold, and his boldness grows stronger day by day. He is busy now with something precious and something unhappy. The anguish which keeps him from peace seems to grow less and less to be pain. He takes his weary way through the snow, and there is no one near to say how bitter is his sorrow now. And this is the end of the story. Sometimes we have been friends, you and I, and we have been proud together. I see him sitting in his easy chair, patting the corners of his quilted blackout, and I remember how he used to do this when he was a boy, in his boyhood, too. He is glad about something, and it makes him angry, I think, with a pang I cannot speak. It is only my imagination, and I am sorry for the pain it has brought to your heart, the boy and the old man, and your sorrow as a woman, with her tears and her prayers. It was always an easy thing to love a man, in the easy days of my childhood, for a boy, until he became a man, and I could stand to lose count of the things that I used to try to understand about him, and the foolishness, and the good in him, and the bad, and the yes, the never yes, that I pretended to unravel and decipher, and believe I finally understood. It was a boy who understood. It was a boy and a woman, with a will. It was a child who understood. I am glad the boy is a man, and the man has become a wise man through experience, and his anger, which was once a boy's anger, has become a wise man's, and his grief has become my hope, and my sorrow a kind of help, in that it makes me think through the tangled words with which we have been overloaded, and somehow, a little closer to the truth. Forgive me, O Flora, for keeping my eyes from among those white and purple bells, from which there seems to be no relief. And forgive, O Vince, for the terrible laughing fit that freezes me to the spot where you are sitting, and for that too familiar way of stretching out your arms before you, as if you were watching them and praising them, and that too familiar sinking into the simplest thoughts. Oh, Flora, the boy is sad, as sad as I, and the boy sad as I, and the boy is thinking of his sorrow as a boy. I am thinking of the man who is watching me. The man who has been given the witness of grief. And Flora, I would say, yes, he is thinking of grief as a man. I am thinking of grief as a woman. Forgive me, Vince, for being only a woman. Pardon me, Flora, for having the gendered pronouns in my opening lines. I am a woman and a man, and we are together in the room, and the boy and the old man are asleep. I speak of them as I is able. I am sorry for the delay. It has been almost a hundred years since I have written poetry. I will finish this poem now. It is called "Dear Poet." And Flora, you are reading it, as I read it to you. The poem is called "Dear Poet," and it is to be read aloud. It is a letter to the poet. And the poet is one who has read my poems, and I thank him for the compliment. I am grateful to him for the pleasure he has given to me. And I am grateful to you, Vince, for listening. I know how long it is since I wrote to you. I am sorry for that. I write to you in this poem. I am not writing to anyone else. I write as I am thinking, and I am thinking of grief as a woman, and the boy as a man, and the old man as a wise man, and the boy as sad. I read this to you, because I want to tell you that it is okay to be sad. I read to you, because I want you to know that grief is not the death of beauty, or the loss of love, or the death of desire. Grief is not the death of a miracle. Grief is not the death of a god. Grief is not the death of innocence. Grief is a thing that lives in the body. It is a thing that needs to be taken out. It is the way that the body dies, after all. And the thing that I want to say to you is this: You do not have to die. It is okay to grieve. It is okay to love again. You do not have to die. And you do not have to love again. But you can learn how to live with grief. I want to say to you, Flora, that we learn to live with grief by loving again. I want to say to you, Vince, that I, too, am writing my letters to you as I am grieving. I am writing to you because grief is good for a body to live in. Grief teaches the body to live again. And grief teaches the body to love again. Grief teaches the body to live by teaching love. Grief teaches the body to love again by teaching death. And when the body loves again it dies again. I want to say to you, Flora, that we learn to live with grief by loving again. I want to say to you, Vince, that I, too, am writing my letters to you as I am grieving. And I want to say to you: It is okay to grieve. It is okay to love again. You do not have to die. You do not have to love again. But you can learn how to live with grief. I want to say to you, Flora, that we learn to live with grief by loving again. Dear Poet Laureate of Southeastern Pennsylvania, Yes, I am still alive. I have been alive, Have been alive, have been alive, Have been alive, have been alive, Have been alive, have been alive, Have been alive. Dear Poet Laureate of Southeastern Pennsylvania, How many lives must be lost Before you will let me be A witness to your demise? We get the picture, Poet Laureate, You are not immortal, You can't be killed by cold, You can't be killed by heat, You can't be killed by rain, You can't be killed by earthquakes, And, oh, by a literal plague That strikes alone at night In Pennsylvania, in the Southeast, In your name: can't be killed, Not by fire, not by explosion. You see, in order to be An absolute monster, You have to be born in the year Who left his clothes so soon? In the year who vanished? In the year who was stricken? In the year who died alone? In the year of the plague? In the year of the lone survivor? In the year of the lost pen? In the year of the drowned tongue? In the year of the buried hat? In the year of the lost spoon? In the year of the lost key? In the year of the lost connection? In the year of the lost penny? In the year of the lost Thanksgiving? In the year of the lost first kiss? In the year of the lost first hamburger? In the year of the lost last drink? In the year of the lost last epiphany? In the year of the lost last words? In the year of the lost last journey? In the year of the lost last words, In the year of the lost pen, In the year of the lost umbrella? In the year of the lost penknife? In the year of the lost slipper? In the year of the lost slipper, In the year of the lost slipper, In the year of the lost slipper, <|endoftext|> She was sad as the dew on the bough. So I took her on my shoulder, A curious toy, an untried thing; And when the field was bright with May, And little breezes came To scatter the lilacs,-- And all the world seemed good to me, I set my bird between her wings And sung, as I might sing in the nest A mother's lullaby. And all day long with one contented note On my little steel-stringed guitar I played her lullaby song, As if I, the singer, were the bird That did so well her slumbers; And, at the close of day, I brought her in from her nest To lie upon my breast. I fed her with crumbs that from my lips Had fallen, and she liked to eat; And sometimes when I laughed so hard That she fancied I ate And drank,--she would fly to my breast And cling to me there, And clamber upon my dainty gown And sleep all night. And sometimes when I sang so hard That she fancied I sang And drank,--she would fly to my breast And cling to me there, And clamber upon my dainty gown And sleep all night; And, when at home in my retreat I sang,--she would fly to my breast And cling to me there; And when at home in my retreat I sang,--she would cling to me there. And if I sang of the Blue Bo-peep She would fly to my breast And cling to me there; And if I sang of the Northern Match- Owls would she fly to my breast And cling to me there; And if I sang of the Grass-hopper She would cling to me there. And if I sang of the Bo-peep-ers And Match-Owls, and the Grass-hopper And Bo-peepers, and the Blue Bo-peepers, She would cling to me there. And if I sang of the little dog With the curled ears and the sooty face, She would cling to me there. And if I sang of the sweet flowers And the daisies, and the olives, And the pink of the peach,-- The Little Folk who haunt the flowers And speak with the voice of a spring night, She would cling to me there. "Why do you wander in the twilight, My sweet, in the misty rain, From your still and quiet home, To follow the footsteps of morn-- The weary, toiling way? She is hungry too, my little baby, Yet why do you wander so? And if you find no wild fruit in the rain- Why then, my little baby, Why do you wander, hungry and cold, Along the winding pathways of the rain? "What do you see,--what glorious shapes Do those, your brothers, dance in the sun? Why do you turn away from their light, And creep to the shadowed darkness? They are weary, they are wet, they are weak, And every step you make is a pain; Why do you turn your eyes away, And curse, and curse, and curse the falling rain? "I am tired of all the weeping and wailing, I am sick of all the grieving and groaning, And every night I wake and curse the storm, And every day I curse the frost and darkness; They will curse my soul if I do not put an end To this vexing matter,--please me to rest. I am sick of all the wail of moaning and weeping, And all the groans of every wisher; I am sick of eyes that glare in the darkness, And of all the tongues that sound in the night. I am sick of all the troubles of this world, I am sick of dreaming in the clouds; Let me lie still a little while and listen To the falling of the rain." And the rain fell, and the darkness came, And the whispering wind came with the rain, And the night grew darker and darker, And a hideous, ghastly terror came On the helpless listener and wisher; For the sounds of the night came on like a drum, And rattled in the haunted house, And the traveller heard not nor saw not naught, Save the blind men's murmurs in the darkness, And the footsteps heard not nor saw not naught, Behind the closed doors and in the darkness, Where a faint light came from somewhere, And the singer heard not nor saw not naught, Save the faces of the lovers in the darkness, And the fingers of the lovers touched not, Save the murmurs of the womenfolk, And the sighs of the womenfolk, And the sighs of the sisterly fair ones, That the wind sang in the dark and made gay; And the singer heard not nor saw not naught, Save the sounds of the night and the rain. What shall be said of the aged and the good, When they lie down to sleep, The lord and the master of all they have done? What shall be said of the stout and the brave, When the weary body falls asleep? All things grow darker and graver, Gilead is crying in haste; The barking dogs wag their heads fiercely, The cock crows, the dawn comes. What shall be said of the men that have strength, When the lazy and heavy body falls asleep? What shall be said of the holder of all worth, When the worn-out and frail body falls asleep? All things are doubtful, Gilead is saying all haste, The soldier wakes with a slap, The dawn is fair and the sun is shining, The dead men are gone. All things grow darker and graver, Gilead is saying all haste, The barking dogs wag their heads fiercely, The cock crows, the dawn comes. All things are doubtful, Gilead is saying all haste, The soldier wakes with a slap, The dawn is fair and the sun is shining, The dead men are gone. "When I was young,--and oh, how sweet the days!-- "We travelled in cars,--a most brilliant sight! "One little child in the front,--then rain,-- "Rain,--rain,--rain,--and no one could go. "When we came back from that distant race, "I seemed ten years younger than the others; "My eyes were brighter, my breath was huffier, "And I knew no anxious secrets and no pain, "But only that of living every day. "And oh, that short, bright trip! How it flashed "Our minds with visions! I am changed,--I "Who once was happy, never will be so again; "And this is what the others mean,--'to tire "The life out of us, wear us down by troubles, "And then, when we are worn down, and though we stand "Still forward, to shoot them--the poor helpless animals!'" The Fair is over, and the crowds are going home, While he stands here talking to himself again. "I was young, when I first began to feel "Sad thoughts and dismal dreams, that now I despise; "And many a time, in the tramp of the team, "In the beating of my breast, and the stress "Of the work in my mind, I have thought I stood "Beside a lifeless body--and it was true! "But that was a very vivid dream,--for "Soon I understood that the beasts and the birds, "Were not so much dead as quite dead in their home, "And required my caring, my skills as a man, "And myself to a high degree of refinement. "And though I do not think I was ever sad "To see them go,--I was never so glad to see them go!" He has changed, and now he is gazing down And out across the room, as if there stood Some figure of wonder that he knows full well, And is waiting to hear. He is holding His hands quite motionless, as if in awe Of that which he must find there, when he gets sight Of the chief, on whose cold white finger he has placed His badge of office, the other gloves he wears. The stationmaster is old, with a gaunt, friable face, Scarred and wrinkled, yet still a little bent in a settled rage That tells of a weary travel and a lonely lodging. His hat is knotted, and both hands are white and wrinkled, As if ever an itch were caught, ever a nail pushed back, And ever a shoe was kicked down in the hallway of his room. <|endoftext|> And the leaves gleamed, the breeze was sweet, And the Sun arose, and went to bed; And the last violet died in the dark, And the last bird ceased, and began his song. The House that Glen Art took for his cell, Hewn out of a mountain-tairn, With spouts that dripped with brackish water, And a roof that was made of a burn, Was seen by the band of the Midriff Hunters. The smell of the burning pine-tree Was so smelt by them on their ravings, That they stooped and they paused and they looked, And they thought it was a sweet cell, And they danced and they sang, and they wished it Every man's own cell. And from the darkness, As from a tear-draph, Was let fall one green apple, And one black, ripe cranberry. I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! Come up here, O dusty feet! Here is fairy bread to eat. Here in my retiring room, Children, you may dine On the golden smell of broom And the shade of pine; And when you have eaten well, Fairy stories hear and tell. Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by. Down by a shining water well I found a very little dell, No higher than my head, The heather and the gorse about In summer bloom were coming out, Some yellow and some red. I called the little pool a sea; The little hills were big to me; For I am very small. I made a boat, I made a town, I searched the caverns up and down, And named them one and all. And all about was mine, I said, The little sparrows overhead, The little minnows too. This was the world and I was king; For me the bees came by to sing, For me the swallows flew. I played, found a game was sweet, This game of to and fro; I swept the sand away from my feet, And then I danced in the gleam. The little farm seemed so very small, The hot sun like a glowing rock, And all within I'd a throne-- My very little throne, I thought, So lofty was it built. I told the bees to go and feed, I shut the cows in the shed, I gave the little horse his fastness, I told the chickens to breed. For I would have a kingdom founded, And build this kingdom wide, To Tine-bana I would give him, If anybody could. I bought the children frocks of cotton, I bought the lads white-skin pants, I bought the lads firelocks sleek, And bought the little girls white dresses. I bought the women brooches silver-linked, And bought the best gowns for me. I bought the barley in the sands a-spreading, I bought the water mills a-wheezing, I bought the land from the hunters silent, The flock from the shepherd peaceful. I bought the fish-weeds to fit my hands, I bought the flint to light me home; I bought a boat when nobody else would; And I have brought them all to Tine-bana. In a valley I found a beautiful pool, The water crystal, clear, cool and sweet. I called the little pool a lake, And the bright, blue flowers called to me "Tine-bana," And "Tine-bana-mushi" said the trout. I cut the net and caught many a fish, Caught red-fish, pike, and white-fish too; Caught savory-fish, took them to my board, And broiled them for my supper at night. I said, "A rich and lovely manor! I'd sell my dead master's house For such a manor, such a pool, my boys." But a wee simple fellow came to me, And he said, "Tine-bana, wise and brave, Why sell your dead master's house? Why not buy, with your fat dividend, A manor and some potatoes cool?" So I bought the manor with the pool, And a few potatoes cool. The little boys and girls cried "Tine-bana!" And "Tine-bana-mushi" laughed the trout. But the noble Tine-bana heeded not-- He was so greedy for the gravy. I said to the little boys and girls, "For the gravy I'd sell our house, But I'll not sell my own so small, And I'll sell the pool, too, if you please." But they laughed and teased me so I gave in and gave away the house. I said, "Tine-bana, old and hoary, We'll live upon your gravy now; And if ever Tine-bana flies to England, We'll live there, too, with your trout." But the little boys and girls cried, "Tine-bana!" And "Tine-bana-mushi" laughed the pike. So I sold the house and gave away the land. I said, "Tine-bana, I am tired of your jokes, You'll never live, and you'll never die. Go and look in the pond a minute, You'll find the poor little goldfish dying, One is laid in the gutter fry-pot, Another in the garbage can." And the little boys and girls laughed, And they said, "You are right, our uncle Tad; Let us go and live with Father Chung. He has a nice little pond, you know, And we'll fish for trout and perch and carp." But they threw away my little Vas- ur, with its red skirt on, For a bowl of water-combe, they threw it Into the filthy gutter fry-pot. When I went to sweep the street, And pull my scythe across the grass, A man said to me, "How is my Manure I said, "How is my henna?" "I am tired of your constant complaints; I am tired of your coughing and your sneezing." "I have only begun," the old man cried; "I will only have one cock." "One cock and to spare!" "To spare! Why one cock and to spare! You may have as many cocks as you please, But I shall have one hen." So I beat the drum and walked about, And knocked on doors and teased the people, Till at length a man cried out, "Give me one cock and to spare, And I'll breed the finest blood-sucking hen." He took the cock and laid it on his knee, He took the hen and lifted her up, And he said to me, "I am going to sell At the price of a sperm-whale, But before I do go down on my knees And beg for my partner, See, see, that she is hot and red, Yes, redder than a witch-garland!" Then he took a needle and made a small hole In the tender tip of her wing, Then drew out his small vial, and in it He put some very fiery serpents. Very small, very hot and red, Very deadly, very delicious. Then I took my broom and swept the street, And I made all the little boys and girls Cough and cry and run away, And they threw up their hands and cried, "It makes us all so happy, When we get together to-morrow night <|endoftext|> From high mansion and small home, From slum and town alike, The villain that he was Now roams the world around. He does a thousand deeds of sin; And, in the eyes of all men, Is held the worst of villains; And none may stand before him, In anger or in pride, And dare to tell him 'evil is best.' A fiend of evil genius, That with impious heart Has trodden out the devils' path; That with a wicked grip Has strangled young children, And laid on scanty food The old and the weak. A fiend of evil genius, That with a hateful soul Has led the black-browed fiends on, That they who were of old The companions of woe, Now follow besmear'd backs The mud that they have made. A fiend of evil genius, That with malignant mind Has brought all tears and sorrows And brought sorrow and anguish, To many a young heart's fear, And led young hearts into danger, That they who remain might lose. A fiend of evil genius, That in wickedness Has rooted up our thoughts of peace, And strangled in their infancy The young hopes of our country; And now with his lying tongue Is calling for many a gun. A fiend of evil genius, That, with a malignant mind Has made the people lack respect For those who are held as so true As angels in heaven, or gods on earth; Who, if they had hearts like ours, Would do all the good that can be With all the power they have. A fiend of evil genius, That with a wicked heart Has led the people astray, Till now we must hold that he Is nothing else but a devil; Who would have set a value On human life that were Farsie! but he has lost Our cities are left to the rude hordes that assail them, But we will guard our homes and our little ones, And fight this villain that has beset them, And fight him with our bodies and swords, and defend them With heroes that have gain'd the enmity of cowards, And so have won their love and hatred for ever. To find what that fiend was, and what he has done, Was more than man ever should do for his own land; Was more than many men have done for all time: 'Twas all the power of him and his fiendish crew That would let no angel suffer or go free, That would let no mother's eyes go hungry, That would let no man be slain or murdered, That would keep no mother's heart from breaking, And hold no little child from harm. This was the strife that he would make them wage And make them let all bullets and bombs go, That would keep man's strength and courage undiluted, And keep his love and hatred pure and great; To do the thing that was right and just And never do the thing that was foul and vain; To keep their honor alive and strong And ever in their midst to find and bring The good and great so easily come. They are the guardians of our little ones, And so we will keep what we have got; We will defend our homes and our children's children, And do the deeds that we are fain to do; And when our country calls for heroes, We will be true and generous, true and bold, And so be sorely missed when we are gone. O son of courage, son of honor, Let your clear example cast A spirit of love and devotion Around your comrades as you go, That when the day arrives, and when the nation Calls for heroes, all our sons may hear And take their full share of honor. And when we are wearied in the field, And want some strength in our weakness, O, guard our children well and do not let Their safety be an excuse for flight; And so when the day comes we may need you, Be true and generous, true and bold, And so be sorely needed again. The leader craves for valor; he is strongest; He does not ask the crowd to rise; He does not ask the leader to sing, Or to grant him the right to lead. He asks the soldier on the field of fight, Or the sailor at the seas below, To stand until he is forced to go, To bear the brunt of battle damage, To live until the task is done. For he is brave and knows that all are equal, That they have equal hopes and fears; That they have as deep a love for him As he has for his family, friends, land, And therefore if he is beaten, he may Go in defeat, content, and smile. For he knows he has not come to stay But to go, and he will leave no one, And triumph over every danger. And thus he fights for his, and for his cause, And for the things that he believes in; And he always holds that his will should prevail Obedience to the laws and dictates; And he will not be led and held submissive To a hostile government. He will not fight a fight he does not want to fight, And, when the battle is over, He will find out what he can do for his people, And how best to make them free; And the means that he will employ to this end Will be found willing and ready to hand, And all that he can ask for will be In accord with his ideas and aims. O, if we were equal in power and force, If we were equal in this globe of earth, We should not fear one another; And all he would have from us would be, Would be full service in full gratitude. He would find no reason to be angry If we did the thing he did prefer. And thus it is with this exalted race That dwells upon the globe above; They can do no thing that is not like their will, And they would do it if they could; They would do it with their lives if they had to, And so will make an end of war. The ways of the sea and the fighting fields of air Are now the ways of peace and concord; On land, the oppressed long for a time to feel That they are not alone in their distress; On sea, they clamor for a just and open coast, For law and order on the sea and back. The storm on the rising or on the falling surface Of waters is not for ever over; In every wat'ry clime, where waters overclimb High mountains, deserts will be found, And people will contend for a little scant supply Of scanty subsistence in a scanty field. To them a people is an absurdity; To them a nation is a mockery; To them a name is but a empty name; And, after all their feverish zeal, They look for nothing but the grave, And call for peace, and order, and order, And slumber, and a change of scene. They have their ambition, as the worm her larva; They have no ambition to undermine The kingdom of their common mother, the Earth; They have no ambition to prove that man can be More than the poor grass that he is now, But that he can be great, and shine, and rise To a pinnacle so far above the clouds That he can see his Maker's face. And if it be, as some folks think, That those who call themselves men are fools, And want to make him doubt his own soul, I wish them luck in their delusion; I am as firm on this point as they, And with as much faith in Christ's account, As they are in their accounts of us. I like a man whose soul is wide, And whose heart, though he be humble, is not cold; Whose trust is as a man may have it, all his own, Who looks for nothing, and for no man's grace; But, even in the roughest weather of life, And with the crowd's bad breath upon him, Will say, with a manly firmness of cheer, "I do not fear, but Jesus Christ alone; And let me live for ever in this truth." I like a man, my brother, too, Who has the market and the gate; Who has the honor of his tribe, The crown of his brethren, too; And who can draw from every man His sustenance, until he pass From the world's common thrall Into his haven, where no cloud Of trouble can come nigh him more; Into the love and the joy That have always the wide world among. And this is such a life as every life. <|endoftext|> He lives by poetry alone. <|endoftext|> "Marry Me", by Allen Edwin Butt [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Music, Valentine's Day] I’ve taken my piano to the gentleman, who sits beside the railroad tracks. His wife stands with her toes points toward the floor, her eyes bored with certainty, her posture an observant obligation. As if an answer to obbligato, her husband’s octave-tied voice, and the tight-lipped reflection he casts on the palm of my left hand, and my spastic, stammering reply. Tonight, in a perfect world, I would like to be certain that my love is known to be true, that I am, indeed, no chameleon born of many materials and pinned with many colors. I would like to possess the spousal rights to a Sorbonne professor, but alas, in this world, I cannot pursue this desirable outcome. Forgive me if I seem like a dunce, but the windows of my abode have no blinds. I’m gobbling shadows. <|endoftext|> "Colin Barrett", by Alan Dugan [Living, Death, Parenthood, The Body, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] And the second one was the best, And the morning after he was found In the ferns of the field beside the road A few feet from where he had been sitting Saw Colin in a puddle of his own blood And, in that same puddle, with his left hand Patching his mouth, he said no to his own life. <|endoftext|> "A Solution to a Problem in the Reading of Poems", by Alan Dugan [Living, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class] If you are a man And you are Colin Barrett And you are in New York City Then you must come down To the Lower East Side To join me for lunch. A great wind is blowing On the roof of the building Where we are meeting. <|endoftext|> "Mowing", by Alan Dugan [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] They are using gas Mowers All over the neighborhood Now. The thing to understand Is that Colin is death Now. Death will come in Any direction, if they want it that way. One night I was cutting down a tree On the side of the road When a cow in the pasture Mowed it down right in front of me. Colin came up And saw what I was doing And jumped in the air And jumped down again. That was the last I saw of Colin. I drove home and cried. When I came back I went to the pasture And found Colin All stuffed in the gas box Of a Mower. <|endoftext|> "The Story of a Shipwreck", by Alan Dugan [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] One night in Staten Island On the shoreline At a point where the sea curls Over the rock In misty silver sheets A man I had never heard of Went down in the sea With two dogs. They never came back. He made it back With only his dog. She was a show pony, All baggy and mangy, And always sportive. She was an escaped show pony, She was blind and she was deaf, And she had the grace of a house horse That has her handlers on the Upper West End of the street, And she looked at him and at himself In the eyes and would say, In the voices of the island-bred And island-breds, The island-breds say When a man goes down in the sea With two dogs, And one of them is an earful of water, And the other is a bullet, And the man makes it back With only his dog, And two of them is a lunatic, And one of them is a bullet, And one of them is a lunatic. And there were three of them On the two boats that made it back. It was like a shipwreck story With cards: The one that was the bullet Was John Dillinger. The one that was the lunatic Was Dillinger. And the one that was the house horse Was Bugsy Sacco. And he brought out the house carpet To the Island Sportsman And he got them to sign it As his debts. And he came back And married the woman And had three children. <|endoftext|> "Last Words to Her Father", by Alan Dugan [Living, Death, Growing Old, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Father's Day] I never make a speech Or go on speaking Or try to impress anyone When I get to the end of a street And turn right There is a house That looks as if it were built for me, I never miss its view It is like a rest place And a kind of hospital for the mind There is a woman who lives on that street I have never met her But there is no reason to There is a little blind man I have always thought he was my friend I never made the mistake Of thinking my father was blind I have always known That he could see I know That he died of shame Because his wife lived with sorrow She never got to be a grandmother Because she never got to be a grandmother She never got to be a grandmother And a day will come When she will be a grandmother Because she never got to be a grandmother And my father and I Were very close When she was a child We never had a secret And he never spoke of his passion For the terrible gallows It is much too late To be a grandfather And I have always known That I will live forever To hear him stand and listen To the slow rope falling When the sun came up On the first of many a day And my father was a man My father was a man And he died as he lived In his bed at home <|endoftext|> "Megan", by Michael McFee [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] He kissed her cheek and said, "Suffer, my dear." She has a fever in her head and cannot sleep. <|endoftext|> "He Laughed on the Rocks", by George Seferis [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy] For I could not laugh on the cliffs, for I was older— and when the truth hurts, even a little, you know what hurts, and I was older, and my wit had faded, and I was full of lies, and the sea was older, and the foam was heavy and the salt had swallowed me, and I was full of dust, and the world had changed, and this is the end of everything, and I was older, and on the rocks you could see it all, and the sea was new and the sky was different and the food that you ate was not here and the wind was stronger. I was older, but it was not that I was old. What is older than fall in summer? What is older than fall in winter? What is older than change? You know. I have known it all my life. I have known fall, and I have known winter, and I was older, and I was full of lies, and the rocks were heavy and the sea was hard, and the sky was different than the sky of now, and the food that I ate was not for me, and the sky was heavy and the sun was heavy, <|endoftext|> With solemn front The sweet Christ came to earth. His smile rested on each face, And while the souls were gazing The doors were opened, and In crowding darkness lost The Christ came forth to life. The lives that loved Him then Went forth into the world And dwelt with Him every day. Those who had hoped in fear Of judgment then should meet Now looked for the judge's nod And were amazed and glad. The Spirit's eye healed Every brow that had sorrow, All souls that were once apart Now met in joy together. The eyes He sent His children Grew brighter as He looked on them; The heart He bathed in tears Sufficed to fill the souls that listened. And the love that filled the home Sank through the weary days and nights With peace the spirit knew not, That through the home "Jesus, Jesus" Should be sung always. He came with golden shoes, And bade them welcome, Crying aloud, "Come, be saved, And gain thy good rest!" The aged said, "I am weary; In my youth I've fared In the pathways of glory; But now, oh, suffer me not To follow that same road That led me once so blind, And weary, weary, weary!" "Stay," said the Saviour, "And take thy way Where thou, Thy children, Shall find thy way, and keep Peace that shall never cease, And rest that never shall tire; For I have come-- My work is done-- The fruit is gathered,-- The work is done-- Come, pass the bread and wine, And see the wedding feast, Come, see the wedding feast, The wedding feast is here!" The aged man did pass The bread and wine, And knelt and prayed, The Saviour of the age, The door being open flung, And led the aged man To be with Him, and thus Did the Lord of heaven Speak to the man of years, "Go, feed the hungry one; Bring the raiment, Bread and wine for all, Bread and wine for all." The man of years went And brought the bough Of palm to cover, Brought the raiment, Bread and wine for all, Bread and wine for all. The aged man Stood in the temple, And called to Him, "Lord, make me worthy, Make me worthy, make me strong, That I may guard this house, Guard this house from evil, And do thy will, Oh, mighty God!" And heard a voice say, As he knelt down, "Thou hast done well, Lord, make me worthy, Make me strong, Lord of all I have made; I will go with thee, Take my rest, Take my rest, Take my rest, Take my rest, Take my rest; Naught shall he care for But what he does here." Lift up thy head, John Alvares, On the good, mighty mountain, Thy soul's eye is not hid; Thou didst nobly struggle on, To the saving knowledge of the truth, And the sweet, saving doctrine of Christ. And the old man spoke the words We all should humbly speak, "As a wise fisher discoursed With his hand to hand cast; As a wise husband talks With his wife in conversation, Thus I talk to you, Thus I talk to you; Thus I talk to you. "I know thou art a man, John Alvares, A simple man and valiant, With the eyes of a wisdom seer, With the head of a prophet, With the life, with the love of a child; Yet I speak to thee as a brother, As a priest, as a priestess, And as a mother. "Because thou art my son, John Alvares, Because thou art my man, Oh, I know that thou art a man, A true man and a brave, Because thou art my son, John Alvares. Because thou art my man, "In the old days of my heart-time, When I saw thee for the first time, And thou art like a son, John Alvares, And when thou art like a son, Oh, I know that I was glad, And I knew that I was glad, And I knew that I was glad When I saw thee for the first time, When thou art like a son." Thou art my man, John Alvares, And I will not slay thee, Though I slay many others, But thou wilt have me for thy father, And as a true man and a son. Then, by my troth of my troth, I will speak the truth, When I stand to be judged, When I stand to be judged, By the Tsar's court of your imperial hall, I would be a man, John Alvares, A princely man and wise, I would be a man, John Alvares, And would not need the guillotine. For I would trust in God's oath, And I would trust in the Tsar's court, And the Tsar would fulfil His word. Then would I not need the guillotine, But I would sit in my house, With my guards at my door, And would not need the guillotine. I would sit in my house, And would sleep as I slept Under my Russian sun, And the Tsar would fulfil His word. But thou art a youth, John Alvares, A sailor's boy and not a man, And I can tell thee, though so young, In time thou shalt be tried, For the guillotine kills with a stroke, And God knows we have enough Of our own troubles to spare. Oh, I know, John Alvares, This is old wives' lore and lore of old, And I have heard it in the hall, Where the barrels of 240 we first met, And I have heard it, again, From the lips of the old curate, Who has seen and heard it many times. But thy heart is too hard, John Alvares, For the old curate has said it, And thy heart is too hard, John Alvares, As well it may be, For we have had our say in Hucknall, And we have had our say in Rome. And I, who have travelled far and wide, And have sat upon many thrones, But never have seen one so kind As thy father, thy brother, And never can say in what land Or time, John Alvares, I loved thee, or loved men. But oh, thou art the first man That has loved me, John Alvares, And I have loved the best, If true love were a test, And I love men. And I know the old curate Would curse me were I to leave thee, And his wisdom too, If he went from this. Now comes the gong that counts the songsters away, And there is little Margery, who has heard the woodland woof and wailed along the dreaming path to her lost love across the winter sky. 'Lost!' she has said, 'he will not answer me. Lost at last, and told a thousand times.' Feebly the hours-watch beside the wood-track. Now the morning air grows strong with rose, And the lost youth struggles on beside. The forest for its patch of blue has grieved; But the lost love is only fain to see Her whom he loved; and 'What is it,' she said, 'Loves he out there, that flies so late, And is he wakened or asleep, and where Is the garden and the kine?' The long day went and the long night passed, And the youth was growing mad with pain; And she, poor bird, flew on till she found His lover at her feet. But the words she knew how broken, And her fingers shook like dew. The day was sweet in the violet bells That out of the gloom were bright, And the violet bells all the dew, The long night on the path was cold. But her lover had fled like a dream Across the violet bells. When the blackbird on the bush is still, And the green fly is on the bee, And the blue day is at the door, What is it that I hear in the stillness Of the stillness of the stillness? The ceaseless sound of a heart. There is a light upon the hillside That never was shed by day. And the quietness of the morning Is broken by the song of a bird <|endoftext|> in the bathroom babies of  David. I have left him now, with you, with you I am just a heartbreaker, I like to tease. I put on my lipstick, put on my heels, let my hair down, I’ll take you away, away from me. There is a fire burning in my chest. It is like the heart of a fire hydrant. I am the spout. <|endoftext|> "Summer", by Alice Notley [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] As a child I climbed all over the world, taking different names. The blue-legged grosbeak at England’s Far North, the whale-spot off the Galapagos, the chough on the Downs in early fall. I carried a map in my mouth, taking whatever land I came to, tolling it forward like a copy-book or a wedding invitation. When I turned to stories all the names had slipped, like the keys into a purse. I could feel the change adjust. The rusty idler I kept inside was finding its highway, finding its little road, all the way to West Africa. <|endoftext|> "Minding What Happens", by Alice Notley [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals] We grow through the little kicks and likes like a weed, to fit through the eye of an eye but there are holes in the fabric. Some of us will go hungering in the forest or the sea. Some of us will run from the house into the street. Others will dream of home and be carried. The one who is carried will carry another back home. We are bound to one another like vines or leaves. The thoughts of one will be like a stone in another’s mind. <|endoftext|> "The Child in Time", by Robert Bly [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Philosophy] The child in time, who cannot even tell themselves apart, is witness enough to the mystery of the mind-magic tree. The child will wail in terror, unable to think his way out. But you, you have the key and the leaf. You have the key to both the tree and the child. The mind, it turns out, is a leaf fallen from the mind of a man who loved his work. It has a root, a stalk, and an arm, and the arm is like a tree, like a garden. The root is a rabbit, is a squirrel. The arm is like a little house, a little house with a pink door. <|endoftext|> "To Our Abandoned Mammal", by Marilyn Kallet [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Pets, Nature, Animals, Philosophy] You thoughtlessly left us in the desert, who was I, your kinship, to bring you back from the brink. Now you return to us, in the form of a desert, in the ruched curl of a man’s beard, in the inversion of the stars on the horizon. You left us then, and you will leave us again among the weeds and dead grass, in the brushing of butterflies. You will return, a tame camel, and we will tenderly wipe our noses on your oversized cheek, in the humid heat of your amber beard. You will sit on the perch of our sandpiper, who is here for you, and for us. You have heard the call of the evening, who was I, your kinship, to be summoned by the purple bloom of a sparrow, by the chestnut moths, who was I, your kinship, to be called? To learn all names burns, who was I, your kinship, to learn the name of the night, the sudden slip of birds in the palm trees, who was I, your kinship, to know the call of a butterfly, who was I, your kinship, to speak with our river gazelle, the one who is not here, who was I, your kinship, for you? <|endoftext|> "Lullaby", by Gisela Kraft [Living, Infancy, Birth] Lullaby, little one, come to your breast. The sound of the crib is deep this morning, drenching the small whisper of the wind that softly enters the cradles. And you? Why so long in coming, yawn? Why not instead an answering smile? Well, you are ours now. And this voice is what you will speak, the one who follows through the night, the one who stands at your doorway. In the morning you will speak, unaspiring as the swallow, the one who hovers above and below your sleeping face, who is a messenger and a shield, lullaby, to you and me. <|endoftext|> "Triptych for Winter", by Yusef Komunyakaa [Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Music, Painting & Sculpture] The wind marks the surface of the pond with broken, white notes. The cattails are tense with shade, as if they are listening for footsteps on the path between them and the limb where the pottages form a ring. The wind places a wide wing over each straw, like a magician calling from the ledge of the ice palace on the outskirts of town. The snow whispers through the ring of water as if it were alive, a large living thing, the loose skin on the edge of dissolution. There is a sound of falling water as if it is the breath of someone dying to breathe the air of winter, and the magic falls away like a coat on a line, as the wind slops the surface of the pond once more. The pottages are deep as the folds of a cloak, as if the body were carrying its secrets inside it like talismans. There is a good chance your breath will be sucked into one of them. <|endoftext|> "Shimmer", by Yusef Komunyakaa [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] Tupelo, 1999 Over the last moors, the tall wheat rises as a kind of carpet under the thick peach-colored summer sky. Tupelo, 1999 <|endoftext|> "Scorpio, '99", by Yusef Komunyakaa [Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] Over the red clay of a Mississippi yard we found six shadows moving back and forth, like a couple of troublesome brothers. At first we didn't know what to make of them, half in fear of the buckets we had used to bucket lizards, the desert's pale spawn, and half amused by the shadow-shifting crooktos of a lizard. But as the hours passed, with the buckets collecting shadow beneath green apple trees, we realized we must be looking at an archaic Toussaint, who had turned Scorpion into a name, a name no one had used in years. We called him Scorpio, after the sign that said so in the story. We found him wandering the red clay on the plantation of Traité d’Azur, the name of the Rivière de Paris that ends in "oh." We walked beneath the name, passing beneath the sign, as if we were walking on the land itself. Scorpio could have been any man's father, or any man who ever carried a bundle of oranges through the Mississippi sun. But because he was moving among us like a shadowy presence, we called him Scorpio, after the snake. <|endoftext|> "Apostrophe", by Lisa Williams [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, The Spiritual] In a cloud the weight of my being bristles like a strand of prayer-strung beads. The God I imagined long ago is never more likely to come. The rules of my destiny have become so complicated I’m lost as I inch closer to the one who will never hear my prayers. What was meant to be a quick decision is now a drift of air. The rules have become so complicated my only chance of a resolution is to make another decision. The power to make that has now slipped from my grasp, a common thing that anyone can reach with a touch. The only way to get back to the one who will hear my prayers is to look for the signs that I have lived. I am searching the bodies <|endoftext|> My thoughts and days in one, Weighed down by guilt and pain, I could not go. I knew I could not go, And yet I would not hear Or see the guards at the gate Tick-tocking us to death, And I could not speak. I saw and knew that they Would only ask us at last For a reason for the crime. We are led to believe That our home has been designed For the Father's elect alone; That we are to be His hiding-place When He comes in the night; And our peace, and comfort, and rest, Wherever He may show Himself, Are not for the little flock. I long to be where Christ may be, Where the Holy Church has its seat, Where the hearts of men are good, And all their prayers ascend. I would that I were where His feet Have trod, where the world seems true In the Saviour's life and light, Where the Kingdom of Heaven is And the Father reigns in pride. I would be where the hearts of men Are pure and simple and pure; Where they follow the wisdom given In all the Scriptures, and they pray In the majesty of God. I would walk in their path In joy and glory and peace, And I would love with a love To gladden the Saviour's name. When I was but a little child, I believed everything they told me. I never questioned, but I went along, With my willingness so full unto God I did not ask for proof, nor did I inquire. But as I grew and learned and years were told, And the shadows of mortality crept Over my spirit, and the clouds of sin Over my head stole obscuringly o'er me, I learned to doubt, and as I learned to doubt I learned to ask for proof, and I learned to inquire. And so I learned that if a man be good To his own soul, then that man is good, No matter what his outward conduct may be, For goodness is the rule, not the exception. And as I learned to be a son, then a son, I learned to be a man, and I grew like you. If I am a son, my father's my father, I will obey him to the death; If I am a son, his footsteps I will tread, And follow to the ends of the earth. And if I am a son, I will hate him, And will despise him to the last; And I will hate him, and I will despise him, And my father's evil actions will prove me Right from the beginning to the end. Then I'll worship my father's memory In a spirit of joy and love; I will follow where he leads to go, And follow until I die. And I'll love him with a pure and holy love, As he loves me to be his son, In the name of Jesus Christ I'll bind to me All the bitter lessons he has taught me. Now as I am a son, then I bid you all To love your father as I have loved mine. Let no ill children laugh about him, Nor ever add to his sins their own; Nor ever say what he is, but what he might have been, And I will pray for you that you may grow into men And you shall not be discouraged because of their scorn; You shall know that He cares for you as much As for his other children; and I am so sure, That if you but go his way the first day, From that very day forward you shall be men. Be sure that all that you suffer for his sake Cries out, "We know he loves you, we are just; Would that we might rather suffer for love of him, Than that we might only suffer for our sins." Then you shall never through disdain of him Make any moves to go against him, But by good examples do him honor, That, as you have been his children, so you may be So, keep his commandments, do not leave them, As the records of your sins to order them; Keep his whole Testament, and make it your book, With all the Holy Ghost blotted out and done; And all your life shall be redeemed with him In the sight of God, and the Father shall say, "I am glad I did it, for otherwise I see And the face of your redemption shall be glorious, And the song of your gladness shall be everlasting. And he shall send you peace upon the ground, And you shall dwell in the peace of his peace, And you shall love him better than yourselves Because of all the lives you lead beside, And the love of the Father shall make you And you shall glory in the glory of God, And the sound of your praise shall be forever, And you shall glorify the Lord with the praise Of a sweet song, like the rippling of a flood Before the face of a great new-born sea. Be sure you understand me, for I speak The way God speaks to his children all the time. I know his works, I know his ways, I know That nothing we do will ever long endure; That good and evil will pass away forever, And all things change for the worst, and I might say, That there is nothing that has been done in God's sight, But all things change, and all the will of the Lord Has been to people earth, and earth will soon be finished. I pray for all of you, because I am one Of all of you, and I know that I shall live To see the last of things; and I know there is such A change as this in the studying of the Hebrew And the study of the Greek, and I might say, If I could understand the Greek, that all we have Will soon be worthless, and the children of men May take our names, and our deeds, and leave our fame As good as dead, and go into a dark night; But the Lord has made it plain that nothing so is true, And he has given us eyes to see what is so plain; And the eyes you have brought back must see what I see, For I see now that all of this is death and hell. They have brought my children back to me, and none are dead; They are changed from what they were, and they are quite alive. I see their faces, and their lips and hands and eyes, And they speak to me as they spoke when they were dead. They say that the Lord has brought them back to life, And they speak and they sing, and they tell of their deeds, And they boast how they fought and bled in the land of Spain. They tell me that I was an enemy to Spain, That I came over the sea with guns and engines, That I captured many poor Indians, and made chains Of marvellous beads, and I had made my prize, And I had gold enough to buy them with; And they tell me that they saw me come back again, And they watched for me when I was gone away, And they watched all night till the morning bright; They watched for me when the guns were fired, And when the prisoners were led away, And when the treasure was taken from the rest, And the cargoes from my two ships were taken With the sailors, and the beads were found to be chaff, And the Spanish guns were heard afar; They saw me come home with golden treasures, Gold, beads, and jewels that were dyed in gold. And they ask me if I am a robber and a glutton, And they say that I am a murderer and a liar, And they say that the women are treacherous and sly, And they say that I have many enemies. And they say that I often sit and drink my wine In the gloomy rooms of the King's house at night, And that the poor are poor, and the men are weak, And the strong ones do not dare come near the King, And the Spanish men are cruel, and the Christians are weak, And the Spanish women are treacherous and sly, And that my ships are tainted with the blood of pigs, And that my men are loyal and my sails are blue, And that the Frenchmen are cruel, and the Frenchwomen are sly, And that I am hated and hated by the whole world, And that I go about from place to place, And that I do not care for the Kingdom of Spain, For they say that I am baptized and pledged to be a Catholic. I have brought back gold and beads, Bags of gold, and beads, and pearls, And they are lying all about my hall, Dangle and rustle in my carpet On the very stones of the floor. Some are stained, but all are pure. I am King Ferdinand of Spain, <|endoftext|> Hast thou seen The twin-born twins of gold Beneath the seas? What was that city of the dead Where men loved and had no fear? There stood a palace where the Queen Lingered lonely for the time Of love that lingered and of dread. On purple paved with the rocks That lap a morass below, Over-tall with stately walls of stone, On golden throne and gilded dome, In the midst, upon a couch of down, Her own true self. O love, her eyes Were blue as deepest skies of May, And in her hair, as pale as clouds That cross the sky in summer dawns, A glory lay, as if a star Had fallen there. Far away There rang a murmur of the sea, And voices heard of men not there, And far away the sound of waves Borne down upon the broken shore, Of winds that ceaselessly overbore And drowned the din of war, and voices Of wrecks that cannot tell their names. "Ah me," cried he, "it is the calm Of the unquiet grave, where lies The Queen I loved! I think I hear The night wind in the woods of Arden, And all the leaves and streams in sound Fall quiet as if they heard no sound. The silence that attends her is far less Than that which cloys the city's strife, The storm without, the battle within. The Queen is dead;--I shall not hear The night wind in the woods of Arden. The lonely dead, as lovely as The dreams of peace, lie quiet there, And her cool comfort is as their peace. "Ah me, the long years have shaken down Her thousands, and the whole world thundered In one wide tumult when she died. I have been named, and kings have come to pay Their homage to me; but unto none That maketh my avenging song divine. To none of all earth's many tongues has grace Been given to make these fierce wrongs resound, And none has made my mournful complaint A theme for common conversation. The Pagan's pride hath slain the desolated Church, And overthrown the King, and set the slave In power, who was but once a Christian; But ah! the grief, the grief of France, Is something else than thunders can rend stone. "They say that she is dead, the gentle Queen, The child of poverty and pain, Who for so many lives was real gold, And brought that wealth and joy to England, The mightiest and the best of kings, And made him magnanimous and wise, And made her self-governance more great Than kings that are for ever wanting. It was a joy and blessedness to all That loved her, and the Church grew great Under her silver wings, and strength And wisdom multiplied under her, Till all men shared in that radiance. They called her the defunct, and her tomb Shone like a gold magnificence Under the flesh, like bones of gold. Ah, yes, she lived to sorrow and to joy, But none of that had power to draw The grief that smote her, for life is brief. And yet, through all her radiant spirit, In all her things that were not proud, A something had a bitterness. "It is the grief of all things mortal, That was so bright and then is hidden, Like sounds that vanish when we most call on them, Like fires that fainted into embers, Or songs that ne'er were sung again. The sun of life may shine for a day, And in the darkness and the cold of death, The stars may whisper and the wind may blow, But she has passed away from earth and she has passed from earth. "When he that had the diamond, all the night That he was on the earth, Was come to lift it out of the stone, and had cried A loud cry, as the crier went by, It was for her. She was the woman that through all the world The diamond went up and down, And for her the great ring bore away, With yellow stones that rained down from heaven, And all the world's diamonde thieved. "And yet I think of one that was not sad. She had her life in too high repose. There was no woman on earth as fair As she was all the time she was here, And yet there was one, And in the great hall when she would dine The guests were all agape. She was all light and music, The whitest flowers under the sun, And when she dressed herself she made the miller dress In everything but the horses, that are done In vain among a people that has no hand To stir a mule-foot broom. "There was no woman born for the sake of God, And no man ever yet made whole The wounds that she did mar. There was no woman born for the sake of God, And no man ever yet made whole The wounds that she did mar. The love that she had, her beauty, was her crime, And her grief was that she could not love. She had her life in too high a repose; I had my life in too high a repose. I lost her first when I lost myself, And then I lost my world." She has a wistful look On the last word of the first line. "I lost her first when I lost myself, And then I lost my world." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mission of Saint Antonio, by C. P. Cavafy *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISSION OF SANTO *** ***** This file should be named 47647-h.htm or 47647-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/7/6/7/47647/ Produced by David Widger; Edited by Aubrey Beardsley Updated editions will replace the previous one--The Etherator 17, 2002 [Love, Classic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Love is a mission, isn't it? It must begin Before the ritual even begins. Is it a mission that two people Each beginning to feel more than just Just themselves, their own ambition And vanity, the things they aspire to? Is it a mission that can be begun By merely wishing for someone or something? Is it a mission that begins and ends With the two people or something they desire? And if it is a love, what does it mean If the person or something desired Ends up being just a captive, or free? So love is a mission, isn't it? It must begin Before the ritual even begins. To begin with, there is no love, or not Even the love we long for, truly love, In any consistent, straightforward way, Without the ritual, without the fantasy, Without the wish, without hope of wish. And there is no ritual, and no fantasy, Without the need for ritual, fantasy, Without the will to will. And if it isn't these, What is it? If it isn't these, what then? And if it isn't all of these, What is love, then? Love is not this Do you understand? If it isn't these, What is love? And if it isn't all of these, What is it? And if it isn't this, what then? And if it isn't all of these, What is love? The time has come for The Mission, The Divine Mission. The two persons or something or someone Have begun to feel the other Was worth living, was worth liking. They have come to love The other, which means love is Or could be only love. Love, they think, is what they have lacked, And the only way to love is the way They have begun to love. But the process can only be begun If the love being, the love they are, And if love isn't this, what is it? If it isn't this, what is it? Is it the love they are, or the love They think they are? If it's the first, it isn't this. If it's the last, it isn't this. What if it isn't either? What if love is a process, not an end? It is a process, after all, for the other To whom it is being felt, or thought, And if love isn't this, what is it? <|endoftext|> O wondrous force! what time hath she lent To human hearts the drooping wings of prayer! And thou, whose star hath athwart my life Reflected many a heavenly dawn, Mock with thy fading, man's revertance To the low earth-resting and inert state! Why bring'st thou to our piteous sight Thy nature all--her angels all? Why those pale hints of her, which thou canst give, As twilight hues upon the sky? Why bring'st thou to our piteous sight Thy nature all--her angels all? The saintly angels of God shall rise, Leaving the clouds of earthly things behind, When the bright day-star, full of morning light, Up from his clouds of slumber hath arisen; And thou, O Earth, shalt be so bright a thing, That even in dark Lucifer's sight The splendour of thy beauty shall be seen. Beside the brook, as by the nodding tree, Where, with their orbs engaged, the summer bee Sings in chorus their wild summer hymn, And the soon moistening sun from mingled dew Doth thirst upon their wing-embowered flowers, --Sweet, did I linger! sweet, did I linger. And even as I linger'd, yet at hand There, through the shade, a spirit doth appear Which, by his shyness, woos and wins, and ere Long, his love-cries, O heart! O heart! O sweetest heart! The which no word can tell; no word that man Has spoken on earth this tenant long. But, lo! from out the far-off years what seems To be the ghost of song--a voice divine Dares now to take the buxom air, and mourn One he loved, whose natal sun is low. O, hear him, Love! O, hear him! thou, whose years A remedy have found for all our woes! O, hear him, Love! O, hear him! and be thou His defender when wrongs assail him most! What flatteries all night long Didst thou pledge with me? What chariots, what horses, what awfullest Weapons, what rare sweet things didst thou sell me, What full packs of gems and mighty suits Of armour, what gay full dresses didst thou buy? Didst thou all night long, O Egyptian lust! Hide us from our foes, or from our own from view? No, no, it was not thus, it was not thus, O Egyptian lust! O, soft love and low! Thou wert not thus loth to sell me; no, not so, Not thus, not thus, for shame, thou wert not thus. But oh, what words were sweet in this low cry? What night was it that thou boughtst me, low and dear? "O, all of May! O, blossoms of the year! Low sweet and low, I plead for one that lies In some far nook of pain, some far away; O, days that were, and now are dark, alas, O days that were, alas! and thou art gone! Thou art gone, O thou art gone! O day, thou art A cry from some dark hollow, some dark nook, A whisper, a cry from out a soul forlorn!" To some dark hollow, some dark nook, I will depart, I will depart, Away to some far-off field of flowers, To some sweet well that is not far away. The honey-bee to some sweet well has come, To drink, to drink has come he, The dew-elated grasshopper to some sweet well has come, To sup, to sup has come he, The butter-burly to some sweet well has come, To sup, to sup has come he, The grouse that flies, to some sweet well has come, To sport, to sport has come he, The craggy mountain ash to some sweet well has come, To stone, to stone has come he, The rose-wisp to some sweet well has come, To smell, to smell has come she, The woodland oaks, to some sweet well has come, To sigh, to sigh has come she, The wood-nymph all naked, to some sweet well has come, To bathe, to bathe has come she, The pickled asters, to some sweet well has come, To rock, to rock has come she, The flaming rose, to some sweet well has come, To redd, to redd has come she, The mottled bird, to some sweet well has come, To feed, to feed has come she, The rusty tail, the spotted bird, to some sweet well has come, To forage, to forage has come she, The sickle-cock, to some sweet well has come, To reap, to reap has come she, The sheaf, the sitting maiden, to some sweet well has come, To cherish, to cherish has come she, The lily, the lily-bud, to some sweet well has come, To blush, to blush has come she, The dripping lily, the singing maiden, to some sweet well has come, To lean, to lean has come she, The pea-green bird, the wintering maiden, to some sweet well has come, To nest, to nest has come she, The splintered cypress, the wailing cypress, to some sweet well has come, To weep, to weep has come she, The crescent moon, the whirling maiden, to some sweet well has come, To bathe, to bathe has come she, The wimpling wren, to some sweet well has come, To sport, to sport has come she, The plume-fed grieve, the blowing grieve, the crying grieve, the wren, To hide, to hide has come she, The ravening crow, to some sweet well has come, To feed, to feed has come she, The callow wagtail, to some sweet well has come, To feast, to feast has come she, The raven, the raven, the crow, the raven, the crow, The countenance brutal, the colour unkind, The marvellous eyes, the nose exceedingly sharp, The skin of every feather superb, The mottled skin, the shining feathers, The tongue immense and shining, The prodigious wings, The talons nails, The pinions feathered, The mane enormous, Hooves extraordinary large, The hoofs astonishingly fleet, The ears so powerful, The sting excruciating, The barblets dragged behind, The haunch so mighty, The bristles sharp, The tail so pike-like, The bristles broken, The tail feather dainty, The mane so bristly, Lashed and maddened by the furious passion, Roared and crashed in furious excitement, Pour forth my deeds in loud lament: And I was praised, praised by all the people, And honoured by the common people. "Woe is me, my life hard-fated! To this small eminence in life, To what pass? ah, what trouble! The people give me no encouragement, They that give me no attention. What have I of skill to comfort me, And what comfort to offer? They that are wise and skilled in evil, And practiced in deception, Would question what is now so painful, And offer counsel and healing. But counsel and healing are neglected, And the people give no heed. Asleep and waking, day and night, They look for evil in my fortune, They deride my sufferings. O days of frustration! O nights of anguish! Thy hard lot now, hard though it be, Is better than those of Kullervo. No mother will see thee weep and wail, And comfort thee for fatherless; And thou, deserted by thy people, Wilt ne'er be honored by them." But the daughter of the Night in answer: "How shall I bear the affliction, What way find out for life's sake, If no one cares to comfort me, And no one attends when I implore them? But if they do not care or know me, Still life must be endured. I must bear the bitter spring storm, And desert the herd; I must watch, helplessly, all trouble, Maying either not work, or work too much; I must watch, when others are enjoying, Nor get my own enjoyment; And I must bear the angry thunder, And driven from hill and tree, Swim against the swelled and swelling ocean, <|endoftext|> On the narrow path where late they strayed Or where they huddled, weary with the chase, Savage with hunger and with blood. And there was he, the hunter, panting there In the crouch of his red hunting-mask, And he drank the heart in his hunting-flesh In the river of his heart-blood. The child with the gilded hand Crouched by the door and glanced Round the dim shelter Where sat the old crone With the large round face And the fiend-like eyes. And the fiend-like eyes had fire in them Under their bloodless lids Burning and beating With savage thoughts of death On the huntsman in the hunt. He had gone to her And the child had sat at his knee In the glare and dust of dawn. "The hunt is up, the hunt is up," He muttered, and his face Seemed a twin-faced wolf's, Who ground out savage moans Through clenched teeth And bloody jaws. And the fiend-like eyes had fire in them Under their bloodless lids Burning and beating With savage thoughts of death On the huntsman in the hunt. And the fiend-like eyes, in a flame of blood, Flashed on the child. "Away from me, away from me!" He screamed in his pain. "I have met the wolf of God On the hunt and found him On the path of the hunt. I have met the wolf of God, And slayer of cattle, And the child, the fiend, the ogre, Has met me. And the fiend has died, And the child is dead. And the hunted man is dead. The hunt is over, And the red moon rises, And the white clouds drift Into the sky. And the white moon is going, And the stars are far away. And the stars are far away On the night of the long journey, And the moaning mist drifts Into the sky. And the moaning mist drifts Into the sky. And the white clouds drift Into the air. And the red sun rises And the hunted man is dead. And the hunted man is dead, And the hunt is done, And the hound is wise. The hound is wise, And the man is hunted. And the hound is hunted. And the man is hunted. And the hound is smart. And the man is hunted, And the hound is killed. And the day is won. The day is won. And the red sun sinks, And the red moon rises. And the white clouds drift Into the sky. And the moaning mist drifts Into the air. And the moaning mist drifts Into the air. And the white clouds drift Into the air. And the red sun sinks, And the red moon rises, And the hunted man is dead. And the hunted man is dead, And the hunt is done. Down in the garden, under the blossoming cherry-trees, I stole, this morning, And lo, I saw stand there, at the gate of the cherry-trees, A stately cedar tree. And on his branch there hung a bright-shod shoe, And on his shoulders was a soft brown robe, And at the root of the tree there was a dappled fawn. The fawn turned and leaped away, As if to flee this man of chaos, This terrible personage. But I pursued, and caught him again, And led him to the cherry-trees. And lo, the branches of the cherry-trees Were scorched with blood-red, And the fawn turned and fled again, As if to hide from me, This demoniac. But I drew him firmly to the roots of the cherry-trees, And there I stood, and waited. And I did lay my hand upon his heart, And I did feel that it was dead, And I did place my hand upon his chest, And I did feel that it was dead, And I did speak the words which follow: "Come, thou demoniac, Before my eyes present themselves The burning wounds of Christ. "Dost thou remember Our purge of demons? And the cross of Christ On which thou standest. Our humiliation, And our salvation, And the eternal joy Of all who believe in him. "I was the man, And I set the demons free, And gave myself to God. I saw Hell and passed through it, And I tell the cold gods That I have seen Hell And not entered. "Yet I have seen Hell, And Hell is ugly, And, O, it cries for vengeance! Its depths are very, very deep, And the flames are red, And the sparks fly fast, And the smoke rolls upward, "And there stands the Prince, And he gazes upon it, And he brandishes a blazing brand. And I saw that he was An old man, And in his hand he held A hammer. "And his eyes are Like the great blue eyes of the sky, And his voice is loud and terrible, And he shouts, And his voice is wild and loud, And his hammer smites The skulls of the demons With quick and iron blows. "And he struck one dull soundless, And he struck one soundless With a golden skull; And the second one is a head That the world has never seen, And the third one is a head That is many miles away; And I heard the hounds howling, And I saw them flee, And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog. "And the fawn turned again, And it ran, and ran, and ran, Till it came to a high stone wall, And it cried out with a loud cry, And it cried out, 'The Prince, the Prince, Has struck me, and dashed my skull Into the great grey waters of the world.' And the high stone wall is iron, And the great grey waters of the world Roll upward, rolling upward, And the fawn runs and runs, And the fawn runs and runs, And runs till it drops down, From the height of the hill, And dies as a little fearful boy. And I heard the hounds howling, And I saw them flee, And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. And I heard the hounds howling, And I saw them flee, And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. And the hounds ran as if they would eat, And the hounds ran as if they would eat, And they all came down from the hill. And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. And I heard the hounds howling, And I heard the hounds howling, And I heard Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. And I heard the hounds howling, And I saw them flee, And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. And I heard the hounds howling, And I saw them flee, And I saw Hell fire and smoke Roll up like a guttering fog, And a hideous noise of woe. Through the thick smoke I saw the Prince With his brandished hammer, And my senses left me, And I fell to earth, and away, And away, and away, and away, And I found myself in a pit of hell. I heard a great voice from Heaven say, 'You have seen those horrors, Prince, You have seen those horrors, Prince, You shall see still more, Until a horror shall destroy you, And you see no more, Till a horror shall destroy you, And you see no more.' And the pit closed over me, And I heard a voice from Heaven say, 'You have heard that voice from Heaven, You have heard that voice from Heaven, And you now shall hear One scalding shriek of the damned, For the damned shall be judged, Judged in the fire, by fire, By the same throne of God. 'One pale, one dead, one lost, one shy, <|endoftext|> he lies, and when the light is on, I touch his ankles and come to the softness of his hair. <|endoftext|> "The Inkwell", by Nathaniel Mackey [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy] When she went to the living room to stir the sugar into the coffee’s bright foam, I sat with my own sugar-dusted feet by the kitchen sink, wishing, I thought, for a sugar-pale sister. For a gin- pint, perhaps. And for a twin bed. But there was no slender young woman in the flimsy little boudoir TV curling like a paper flower, and there was no sugar-dusted man in the hall with a sugar-dusted cane. I stepped over the E.coli, over the shoe-string of sickly spice, and stood by the mirror, the mug of hot coffee still hot on my tongue, the picture of unhappiness in the mirror, a verse of Southerly by Wallace Stevens playing in the background. I was alone in the world, and the house, and the air, and the glare of the TV, and my own agony. I saw the ivy around the mirror, saw the passage of time, and wanted it to last forever. <|endoftext|> "My Dearest", by Joanie Mackowski [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Her bedroom was small, it had two beds, a bureau and a window. Her bureau was like a cabinet, I guess, with drawers and nooks and stacks of books and magazines. Her window was small, like a space of bare earth, I guess, so I wouldn't get shot by the light of her eyes. Her bed was like a bench, I guess, with a canopy of rushes and a feather. Her office was like a closet, I guess, with clothespins and hangers. Her bureau, her closet, her feather, her bureau, her bed— <|endoftext|> "Cathedral of Salt", by Brian Swann [Nature, Animals, Religion, Other Religions, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] I was only eight but already I was falling from the pews, the altar, the holy of holy. By nine, I was already up late, sneaking snacks into my brother's pie. By ten, I was still here behind you, the bright white flash of the chandelier, the statue of Mary, the altar lights still flickering on and off like angels' wings. By eleven, I'd already decided I was not in this world, but was instead a multiplex of pulsations, a cathedral of salt with the creature laboring deep within its heart. <|endoftext|> "Here at the Zoo", by Brian Swann [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Travels & Journeys] I was on my way to visit the elephants when I got stuck in a snowdrift. That's when I saw the polar bears peering through the mist. That's when I got on the only bus I had and rode all the way to Takju, a city that's home to the Takju Zoo. I walked right up to the glass- case door and peered in. Then I laughed. I saw a leopard and then a zebra, and then a goat with a mane of human hair. He wasn't even curious—just weird. I decided to make a beeline for the goat and gave him a gentle nudge. He didn't listen, just pointed his greedy nose out the door and disappeared. Then there was another door, another— all the doors I tried and broke just opened themselves, as if gravity was a trick the doors were playing. Maybe it was, or maybe the whole zoo was a trick, a way of showing me that even the creatures who'd scare me were no bigger than I'd be, and even though I was only a child, I could take it all in, and more, until I was not afraid of anything. <|endoftext|> "Walking through a Blizzard", by J. T. Barbarese [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women, Philosophy] It was dusk when I started and when I finished it was dark. I know that sounds strange, but it was that blackness that finally made me think that perhaps my father was not really gone, but asleep. I walked in a circle, talking to myself. I had just enough gold on my coat to be detected as a missing person, and my tan boots made a fine target for taunting polar bears. I did not want to go home. I wanted to stay with these strangers who thought they were my family. I was starving, and so was the boy who had just come from the fields. I was terrified. He and I stood in front of the storm- lashed church. I looked up at the huge stained- glass window. I saw it all—my father's old coats, his buttons and knick-knacks. I did not want to go home. I wanted to stay with these strangers who thought they were my father. And if that was the price I had to pay to stay here, to lose my fear, I was ready to pay. My father's coats hung in a long line, like this winter's coats, in the cold, in this strange cluttered house. <|endoftext|> "The Cake", by J. T. Barbarese [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Men & Women] I made the cake, you made the beating and souring, and Mother made the pearls from pale castor beans and the dress you saw me weaving tonight. She is not with us, and I am. She left when I was three to tend the bakery and returned only in her late sixties, when all her slight croists were heavy with whey. She is not here to see me now, or even to hear my beating and souring, for the cake was much too important a matter for my mother to neglect for my need to question it. <|endoftext|> "Lines", by J. T. Barbarese [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] I am trying to write a sonnet like one of my old friends once told me about a piano sonnet that goes like this: the music, the emotional depth, the sheer difficulty of executing, with the hero sonnet— this sonnet of my own—but this time, with a musical accompaniment, an ancient sonnet by a Dutch musician named Peder Gorin, who wrote:When I am old and blind, I will go with ships over the sea where all the ships will help me. <|endoftext|> "Where They Leaked Out the Tree", by D. Nurkse [Living, The Body, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Philosophy] Over the course of fifteen minutes, they went down the flue and in, pulled from a single hole in the trunk, a two-hundred-year-old trunk, a trunk the crows had begun to crunch and peck at, a trunk the jays and magpies had begun to nibble and sift among the fibers of. They turned over the damp leaves with bare hands and wet silks before kneeling to smell the roses, to make sure they were all still alive. It was a get-together, after all, and the pigs were there, slowing along the fence line and emerging from a pen white as their whitest iron. They wondered as they went past who had come to put them out. <|endoftext|> "Air, Air", by D. Nurkse [Living, The Body, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Music] That's how it is, she said, came to my town from Rostov-on-Don. She was sitting on the steps of my grandmother's house <|endoftext|> and fell upon their beds. And so there rose the wave of violence which swept from shore to shore with the slave-men; and lo, not in wrath of that, the Lord did it, but because their sins were very great. They, rebuking them that rebelled, cast them into molten sulfur, and into fire they cast them, and live stock caught in the flame was consumed. But the earth closed her bowers, and all her harvests burned, and the fruit was withered. The glory of the earth did fade with the flames; and the heat of the fire smote upon the fountains, and the bays, and the groves, and all the sweet dews from out the earth was darkened. The earth withered, and the song of birds was ceased, and the beasts lay down all savage,--as the sons of men were wont before the kings of war. Thence came the strife and fierce conflicts, the ruin of both cities, the madness of their lords. Therewithal Eurylochus went forth from his brother, when the towers of Troy he saw burning, and came to those fighting men of Troy, and spake to them winged words: 'Hear me, ye stony hearts: I know your strength, ye are hard, and cannot bear this nighness of mine in my grief, for I am not dead, nor do I sojourn in death, but am a hero, that was born to a high counsel and a goodly sire, and he sent me forth bold for battle. Therefore I a god have come for help, and thou shalt hear me ere I go from earth. Howbeit he died and went to the house of Hades, but I was left forlorn of speech and motion, and no man hath power upon the wild sea waves to drive my bark, and no man to come nigh, to save from death the remnant of my friends. And now all that is mine in the land of darkness I give unto the wild sea waves, whose billows wash both cities and people, and they will be overwhelmed and smitten at last with the maines, and doomed to utter loss. I do swear by him whose rod is the symbol of truth, by him whose might is writ in the heart of the sea, and by the heart of each of you here that hold by the statutes of my might, I pray you by the life that moves in each man's soul, by my very blood which is broken for you on the holy altars, and by the fate which hath made my death an evil thing to come against So spake Eurylochus, and the hearts of all wept; and when they had mourned him they went to their raiment and drave forth the horses that bare them, and their cheerful horses, beating their wings on as they went, and followed by the flocks. Then the heroes killed their bulls and kine, and washed their hands in the clefts of the rocky heights. So the heavy death of atheling churls and the honours of the glorious sons of men, and the sad weeping of a great man's spirit, and heavy worship of a god, came on them. 'So long as I was wending on my way I came not to the bright ashes of good Nestor, but evermore with each man I grew weary and was still, for I had suffered sore in battle and by ship of mine; but when I had come to the forelands of Ithaca, and the isle of Doris, then Nestor the splendid, son of Neleus, made me a garden-seat of gold of polished silver by my mansion of Pylos, and beneath me his dear sons were knitting socks for me. There I abode for a little season and watched the kine that bare the well-wrought treasures, lion-hearted Polypoetes and the mighty Creon, who had the rule of Pylos, and he loved to call me "Friend"! then, when I had imbibed the good things of nature, I came to Odysseus and his dear son Telemachus, and his company. So long as I was with them I gave a portion of my estate to each, and in return he would make me his guests at the most in his halls, but when I was returning to the deep halls of men, methinks that Nestor would have me dishonourably slain, and he would give me not Telemachus, his dear son, but would have me fair Telemachus, the son of that one, who being bold in the sports, first ventured to hold a silken wreath on the end of the reins. For he was ever wont to flout me in the company of the heroes, and to bring me last to the full company of the heroes, that I might learn what manner of men they are. Nay, but my dear Telemachus, he too, knowing nought of my being in the lands of strangers, would not heed me, but sent me forward by the strand of the honey-producing island, to seek tidings of my company. Now I will tell thee the truth and tell thee all, even all my dread and all my glory. 'Thou too, my friend, my dear Telemachus, wast much wondrous in that wickedness, that thou, being bold, didst seek the isle Zeus once did show me, and quietly walking among the Myrmidons, thou didst advise me to seek out Cephalus son of Halieus, who slept in his chamber, and a snake had laid hold on him, when he was come to his wooing, and having charmed himself to sleep, he had slain him, and strewn his corpse over all his house. This was when great was the cavern of that brood, for even now the sun is dying and dark night is coming on, and heavy does the east wind blow. Now all the folk of the isle were lamenting their doom, for swift through the isle pours the mighty south wind, and dark drifts the flood of the brine, and the sand is risen on the sea, and the wild waves beat them headlong to shore. 'So spake she, and I answered her saying: "Nurse, I understand the things thou hast told us, for many a time hath been the wont of the son of Cronos to visit us here, passing by our households, when he hath been brought to sleep. But now he is fast asleep nor will he arise to his adversity till dawn light be in heaven, and the hour for the fulfilment of his vows. But now I would ask of one that is elder of the Greeks, for he is motherless, and none of his race can he among the daughters of Greece to wedded wife." 'So I spake, and she straightway answered me, saying: "What wilt thou to that? For soon will the golden sun rise, and many a star shall appear in heaven. Therefore thy desire is not out of his realm. But come with me to Lacedemon, for sorrow there is stricken. Of all that is good and fair in the whole world, nought is goodlier than queenly Helen, for her form is fair to see, and her eyes never fail in their pleasure, and her limbs are firm and graceful. Now sorrow doth now hold her fast in bed with sad and grievous thoughts; and her heart is filled with sorrow, and never did any woman of Greece ever grieve as she for her lord in such deep wise as she for the sake of Odysseus. Now shall the early sun rise at even, and wise Telemachus will know how soon the stranger came to her, even for a charm of a goodly deed. And thou shalt tell him all the tale, and tell him all that thou hast seen. For good nights to thee and sweet to thy soul are the thoughts of thy father, and to thy son. Therefore when the sun has risen, go not to the city, but send the women forth to the fields to gather the fruits, till the twelfth day come; then make ready all in the halls, the cups and the cheese and the meat, and go at even to the burg, and thyself bring water in a golden cup to the well, and lay it on the threshold stone, and make haste to waken thy father, that he may come to thee and to thy lady and may comfort him." 'So I spake, and they straightway left me, and Scylla lay stretched out across the posts, from bosom to back. And after they had gone I lingered <|endoftext|> Be ye, O God, of all Thy mercies giv'n! What with these dead, these in these graves I see, Dead to the world and all its torments high, Whom I could wish not in this worst of all places Pitied, splashed with my revenge, to have lain! And thou, thou art dead, they say, my dead indeed, Dead, as a dog or a mother, blest to death, Dead, and with thee, a man, a lover, lie! Yet, while I turn from the sunshine of thy face, And shut mine eyes, I cry: "Thy life doth overpass, And Thou'st had a better on earth than this!" There, be it said on the Gospel-book's leaves dark (Unless, indeed, the Holy Ghost makes haste To overpass it), that he, who all the rest Paid back with such a hatred, loved as I do, (The while his blood ran warm behind my knife) Had his reward while his soul's dear blood I drew. This for my first fault I have suffered here, Here in this dungeon's very deepest pit, More than Man should suffer, though through worse crime; And, I trust, for my second, I may pray; I may make an end, at any rate of this; And my Lord and my King, which is to be, Grant you, in Jesus' name, their vassals' faith! I know, that, all this while, God has been Fain to guide my purpose in his ear; That he, who sees my soul's best thoughts evince Such wretchedness, and knows how near to fall, May spare me here, at least, to be free. I would, indeed, I were not here:—but For the King's letter, which told me too be, That came from Greenwich to-day; and all The grief that made me so weak and faint. But, look you, when I'm in my prison drear, God takes me out, that I may be his voice. Alas! what boots it, then, to bear the flail, When up in Heaven the poor bloody wings are small? Here, where, at most half my punishment's ended, I sit, the third part am I in here. And what am I, King, Emperor, head and hand, To complain of this, or to revile wi' him? He wears the blue and gold of Spain, the sceptre, The crown, the signet, and all civic emblems; He is the son of the best of Kings; I am The son of a bandit bard and a convict. And this is the barometer, proof, we find, How high soever the wind blows down here! A dunce has trudged up here from over East. Let him win, or go down in a twinkling: I reckon not the worse for the country he came from. What! is this the winds' answer to the Isles? Is this their damning commentary on my birth? Ours is the Lord's reward, an English prize, And they've stolen it by terrorism; But I will take no kingly steel in my quarrel, And only ask the law to make a just one. They have flung my heritage back a score of years, To make a shine on a wheel, and to prinkale Their shame when they can, with the rest of the jest. God made a great King of a new race, To right the old wrong of mine; I took the Lord's gift when I could; I never was a Knavery's queen. A Lear made, to a comedy-ground, Of stealing, and thieving, and bulling; Then I fell in with a Maiden a-low; But first, and worst, I was a youth. Oft, when my heart would try to steal Too near, I should press its hand; But there I broke away; for I know That over all, at last, the King Has greater pre-eminence. Therefore, I will but make known, When I most have my cloak about me, That I am no kin of the King. The English long-frost hath nigh fallen To end the summer-morn; The hawthorn-oil is almost spent That smelled of Ararat. Thus, with the waning seasons, goes My life out, year by year, And on the appointed day, at length, I shall appear before you. As Shakespeare saith, when he would move Mankind, 'tis but with words; A sight, indeed, but few will have, As looking on the moon. The cold we two have shared Comes on as chill as despair, Yet, like two virtuous friends, Our moments, though together, We scarce anticipate. Like two brave ships, we seem to stand, Reflecting Earth's coolness; We neither yield nor seek To determine who is best, Or which was the fastest clipper; Yet, since both were equally our prize, Like ships on the sea, We can but basely declare We bore her as best we could. A scrap of earth--a pair of wings-- May serve to mount above the sphere, But I have lain down in the dust To watch the stars as they rise. And God, when he plans a human race, Places all the obstacles in the way That He may take a nap and dream. I know a man, an ordinary man, Who, by his side, in youth, I saw A tiger--my guide--stand and fight. He, having fought and won, began To follow me, and at a shoot We turned upon his heel and lay Where I had marked him as a tiger. The tiger slept, but he arose And sniffed about as if he sought The place where we had been. He found the place, he turned and leaped, But found our comrade turned and run Into a thick wood. He shot, he scratched, he roared, he sprang, But the tiger came as swift before, And spread his mighty leer. "Do you see that big wood over there?" He pointed to a clear thicket; We went and looked; We saw our tiger asleep upon A bed of wild-flowers sweetly set In a fair open glade. He lay upon the flowers, he made No stir, but lay there very still. "Is he dead?" asked my excellent friend; "He was a brave tiger, you must know." I looked upon the tiger wide and long, And knew that he was very far from dead; But, as I looked, I saw my good friend's face And that clear clear thicket, and I knew that he Had only looked, and could not see. "Truly," said my good friend, "there is something Makes one despair and wish to crawl away From that clear thicket, heaven knows where, That big wood, that big tiger there. No doubt the fellow was not very strong; Perhaps he was not very slow To start and to return." "I will go there," said he, "and, if I may, See if I can hear a blackberry Among the bushes, hear a cricket call, And, if so may be, a bird at night Calling to his mate in some close place. It may be those things are all they are, For none may see them and live, but I Will seek them and see." So, one clear evening, he went and came And nothing could he hear among the bush; But, as he stood upon a bleak hill-side, And looking down among the thickets went, He heard--and marked--a moving sound Like half-run races on a common. "O, sir, I see a moving blackberry-- Like that the blackberry is a bee-- But all the rest are things I do not know." "They may be," said that good friend of mine; "For I too once heard a cricket call." So, quietly upon that night he stood, While yet the world slept, and to the moving sound He listened, and a blackberry like a bee He heard, and the cricket, calling to his mate In some close place. For many days, While yet the moonlight filled the glade, That friend of mine, my good Sir William, Was thoughtful and sorrowful, and wept. The tears came like rain; And, at last, a deep-toned voice was found To calm his grief and console him-- "Why are you sad, my friend? Are you sure that you have heard a bee Among the bushes? I was among a group of men, <|endoftext|> Even while I gave, the bard, all, all, more Than e'er his muse-falling verse has given, (This above the strength of words avails) He, well pleased, in order that his love Might have its full effect, endear'd me. To-day, at least, I should not fear to sing Of that great bard, who gave me up to fame. Ah, did you know, my princess, how I strove To sing one decent line, though done in haste? In a low murmur, which an angel hears, He sang one day--how long ago! Stop! Wait! 'T was the voice of youth--a child I ween-- And one I loved, to other musings kind; The voice of literature--that sweet thief, Which brings all other treasures to the ground. So love, when it speaks to man, the same, Brief as the bird's on June's first bluebell blissing; Like a faint melody, sweet as a dream, It led me through an Eden, and away To the pure world of intelligence;-- The voice of intelligence! It is he That shall sing you into life; that shall show What with his love and yours can fill the soul; The voice of love, in which we hear, at last, The Father's words:--"All men are their own; They pay no bond nor fee!" "Might makes right," is a famous maxim, Which rules the universe in every part; And all the rules of tactics, from the school Down to the home, are furnished by this axiom. The glib translation, if you will, Makes God a Great Helper, and the world One vast agency; where, as much as human Power and wisdom are needed, in aid of that He comes as prime mover, fixer, organizer. You know, you know! That time of year, When birds take in the sky the sun's whole beams, And build their nests with joyous intent, Then, with a laugh, The frost-king drags down our joyous jubilee! I tell you, friend, as sure as Christmas-tree And cypress-tree, And mistletoe o'er the white-thorn sorrel, And holly-bush, and ivy-fangle shrub, And elder, and maple, and oak, And all the forest cools its robe of green, And every orchard gives its bloom to air, And all the meads lie whitening in the sun, And wreaths of verdure coil from thorn, And everywhere the music of the breeze Is ringing all my pane, with deepest throes, The vesper is coming! Oh, hear my vow! The vesper is coming!--it is come! The summons, in the harmless study-room, Have led my slumbers, while I lay concealed From all about me, like a hunted thing; But now the rapture-feast is here, The altar is prepared, the rood and bell, The lichens over the altar are green, The vesper-stone is placed, the candles burn, The vesper-veil is lifted;--my saintly prayer Is heard, the bride has entered in. A beautiful girl, with sable ringlets, A raven tress, a soul divinely fair; A mouth that hath the rare, sweet touch of song, And starry eyes, that have the mystic ray, Of soberness and gentleness, and love, Like twin stars, which, both with equal power inspired, Parallel the heaven of motherhood, And bright as when the spring uncloses The petals yet of their delightful flowers. Yes, gentle reader, when I left you The last time, my skin was so uncouth, Your looks were seared with fervid tears, And my too ardent kisses had cooled, Your lashes shone like talismans, Like magic wreaths you cast upon my brow. And now, when from the city you go, With cheek once more that red and rosy, And lips and eyes the just inspiration gave, My skirts uncurb their swooping folds, And I, myself, assume the pretty pose Which suit so well the vesture you adore. Agh! 'twas he! The very same who now Agh! he! defies the courts of Europe's power With paltry trade in corn and wine and oil, And is the cause, perchance, of so much strife Between the "great and their dispossessed" And "their rulers"--the exploited and owned. Oh, how the pulse of envy and revenge beats Through my oppressed native land, When one of those selfsame merchants sails His case on the Red-Sea trade! I cannot hold aloof; I will join The hostile caravan, And bring with me a hefty bribe. I cannot wait till "Shibor" comes here, With all his gold and grain; I cannot hide my faces from the swine Who, day by day, is fooling me; I would sell my born(1) soul for the deal That "Shibor" is scheming. I cannot wait till "Shibor" comes here, With all his wine and wool; I know he is a knave, and I a fool, Yet would I share with him my corn and oil If I knew that I could pay. I cannot wait till "Shibor" comes here, With all his wine and wool, And pass my shelves unread and unheeded, And leave my heads bare; For he will not long be patron-ted If I fall in with his vile babble. "Shibor" himself was not able to buy With all his sack of slippers; He had to settle with the publishers For all the loss he sustained In having his book suppressed. The hucksters who surrounded the "Jew" When "Shibor" came to town, Have followed him to this remote village To sell their wares and cool their drinks, And I am ware of their course and nook In this seedy bazaar. They bear upon their heads grotesque caps Of various shapes and sizes, And gaudy aprons, and cloaks of various dyes, And tights and stockings, (who would not buy,) And other gaudy trinkets, And bills of sale are hung up around Around the thirsty shop. I wonder what "Shibor" would have done If he had known the stores he staid To view the ribbons and silks and flounces That swayed and swayed beside him, And how deep in guineas they were hidden, When every thing was open to his eye. There are crowds of Jews in Sdlesenski, Who come and go, and never make news; I have known but few who were of that kind Who keep themselves so close that they cannot talk; Yet some there are that are in the same predicament As that poor devil--so cunning that he found. There are lots of shvarts in this part of the country, Who cannot abide the ban of "Shibor"; They say he is a rogue and an arrant coward Who never did them an honor; And besides that he never lent them a coop, They also say that they do not like his cheese. There are plenty of others, too, who fall in with this tribe, Who are a pack of rogues from kibits to Kleefeleene, Who get great pleasure out of depredations On the grain trade; but let this be as it may, The facts are these:--The Magistrates of Sdlesenski Are more than willing to hear of great gains I sat in the Introduction and the Table of Contents, With one who was likely the fairest face I ever saw, And the reader remarked how marked her cheeks were and fresh, For she had drunk no wine that day, and we were in the forenoon, And talked of "raging and parley" (she would say "offence"); And she said to me, "I am not sure that I like your case," And said, "You strike me as too ambitious"--she went on to say "To set up in this line"; and then she smiled, and said, "I fear Well, I was a little hurt, and answered, "I should like to see Some conditions attached to your lease"--here she looked at me And laughed outright, and said, "If you thought about it You would find it rather difficult to find a landlord Who would agree to let you occupy his hall." And then she continued, with a thin and blondeish-keen voice, <|endoftext|> Now free, and full and happy, such an one is The ne'er-do-well who hath got his soul's desire. The merry, glad moment may have been When the strain that, touched by Emily's voice, Thrilled all the strings of that early heart, But the true, sweet spirit of the song Is immortal, ere the notes have left Their geometrical figures on the air. The words, in their beautiful stupidity, Tell of a life of laughter and good cheer, And love, and longing, and self-control, And cheerful sacrifice, the essence Of all that's blissful and all that's blest. With mirth, with glee, they tell of Nancy's First glance at Fred,--that innocent glance That still ill-expects the prowling kiss; And of the merry meetings at Christmas, And peevish sibling feuds that come To soothe the time until Father's arrival. And then, as now, the tale is closed With a lovely simile that sums The simple message of the lines,-- 'In the Winter time it is best For young people to be home with their father.' And then, with a glance at her watch, And a sigh at her own simple fare, She goes,--and the watchful mother says 'I'm sure it's nearly five.' There is a sort of romanticism Which hampers revolutionary art, As Karl der Gier's ears and mind were sunk In setting up a village clock To record the hour with which he passed. He never quite regained the sphere In which the deeds of the noontide shone; And on the frozen foundation laid He laughed at 'petty trade-jobs' and 'high-flyers' As those who 'only did what their betters told them to do.' With others who left a legacy Of work neglected and unfinished, He caught a glimmer of the light Which flashed from Art's true central fire. He never again stooped to gather The spoils of fair domains which others With spear and sword had wrestled from the land; But he turned to darker task and loftier aim In trying to build up, layer on layer, A human being's day by day. 'Mid withering harvest-fields and ruined wood He raised a dwelling for his family, And his own fame was not made a byword Among the people, though, with many tears, He campaigned to be nominated for Parliament. With work on the old, unattractive lots, He sought to make room for the new; And--what was odd--he did it better than anyone: His house, which was small, was said of and by his opponents To have a certain look 'like a monkey's cage.' But what say it to the generations growing older Who looked askance upon the way he did his work? But they had the feel of tenure in the land, And they could look at the work and speak of it too. And when he went out to carry mail He was jeered at, and his boots were ridiculed, As being only fit for chumps who knew no more of terrace flowers Than they did of science or of poetry. In vain he tried to shed the light of early light, And he tried to bear up the burden of labouring life, And he tried with all his might to keep up his spirits When all the time he found it almost impossible. The second hand in the corner, the long-neglected brook Were all the friends he found among the domestic birds. And many, as he said, were inclined to be rather 'curiously jealous' Of his success and his general interest in the little things 'That gave man the advantage over the things that don't happen.' They seemed to think that he had a knack of finding things For them--things to creep by night, or steal, or come by accident-- They seemed to think it was his for ever to find things for them. But he went on in this way, and he did his work well, In the hope of that kind of praise and advantage to be adding To his lot, who did his work better and better, With all the time in the world for one who is only mortal, And, with the right hopes, can never hope to grow old. In truth, there was no motive in it. He found his work Took time and patience and patience and time. He had his fun in the things he found. He could not help what he found in the ground. And so, as he made his way, Out of the old familiar ground With an eye to the long future, With an eye to the things he might remake, He stumbled on surprises. He was trudging out with nothing by way of food, And he found a house with an open door. And he stopped to ask the smoke-hedge hedge-prize If it would take the boy as a guest for the night. And the hedge-hedge-hedge told him 'Yes,' so he turned And found, as he supposed, a juvenile boy Who had drifted out of the village about The time the villages were all deserted And then he explained to the boy The things that he had come for that night And how he had come to be in the hedge. Then the boy broke into a merry song Which the distance made all too clear. 'O gat ye not kith early o' day, And ahed as e'er kest lichtly dew? I spak o' our blythe Sunday sport-- The Sunday sport o' Sunday mornin'!-- I took our hedge behind our wynd, Our hedges strong, our hedges wide, And I made a hedge at least 'twixt me And the Church-gat lichtly dew! We never bide long on the playin' day, Nor we 'old e'en the playin' day through. We was goin' to kest our launces up As our blythe Sunday sport--the Sunday sport-- And we leaped our hedges green wi' a' their best, And we sprokit our hedges white wi' fear At the playin' day--the playin' day! 'It's playin' day--the playin' day-- And it's playin' day to-day; It's playin' day, playin' day, playin' day, It's playin' day to-night. And we'll lilt us out to our playin' day As our blythe Sunday sport--the Sunday sport-- And the playin' day that's waitin' here. Play on, boys, and play on, As you played on Friday night. We will have no play on Saturday. There will be no play on Sunday. And if you try for a little play On Monday, you'll find you're knocked down. And what does the sun say? He says what does he say? "Hear, children, and believe, I will hurl the boys into shade." He says to the girls, "Bring me lace, I will weave you a pretty hat." He says to the babies, "Tear me, I am hot and I would sleep." He says to the ministers, "Sit still, I will sit down all in green." He says to the beggars, "Come here, I have lot more gold than you." He says to the ministers, "Sit still, And believe that I am great." And what does the sun say? He says what does he say? "Hear, children, and believe, I will hurl the girls into shade." He says to the girls, "Bring me pink, I will set you all in white." He says to the boys, "Put on your black, I have lots of brown to bring you in." And what does the sun say? He says what does he say? "Hear, children, and believe, I will hurl the boys into shade." He says to the ministers, "Shine, I can shine in my black gown." He says to the beggars, "Come here, I have more gold than you." And what does the sun say? He says what does he say? "Hear, children, and believe, I will hurl the girls into shade." He says to the girls, "Put on your slippers, And you shall take a pleasant walk." He says to the boys, "Put on your shoes, I have nice and smooth stones to walk on." If you go to the school for the blind, And you say you are blind, They'll say you are lying, And they'll despise you. If you go to the school for the blind, <|endoftext|> To write that poetical line (Oh! 'tis a wonder, and more than I can say) Which said, "Thou art loved as no other man." Now, you must know, I love the English tongue, And when I see a foreigner speak it, I feel that in it I can see my own face. The rude Englishman was writing verse When Charley brought us home the gallant ship; And, though not much skill'd in languages, Was walking still a foreigner among them, As you may see by the frequent words And by the frequent sign things in English places; And though by no means a Hebrew scholar, Could easily understand a few Hebrew words, By buying and subscribing for the books Of Greek and Latin authors in the bazaar. One day the Reverend Father Flecknoe, of Staines, A man who knew something of the Greek tongue, Taught us a bit of that and so prevented Another useless month of tumult and confusion. But Greek was a trouble, as I remember; It was not like our own, as you may imagine; And though for the most part we settled it With the helpful aid of the Greek appendix, The learned gentleman, Father F., declared That we should be worse off without it. So we contriv'd it, as he said, in a way That would keep it for the present quiet; And what was strangest of all, we found That even Mr. Chandler could not define One single word of the vast romance, Wherein the hero, Parker, becomes As they who can see the future must. When one has been in China, India, or Korea, Where the language is quite mystical and strange; But never finds oneself in England, Scotland, France, Nor does find one's self anywhere on the chart, One gets the strange notion that one is not here. For one may live for years, and see not the face Of his own child, for instance, till at length He really wonder'd what make of coffin it was, Or which way to put his horse's head; or, in vain Searching the addresses of all Britain, France, and Russia, For his own wife, even though she had become A great lady,--still if she were as happy As Mrs. W. thought her, he could never find her! I found myself in a strange country, I found myself, Though with but pikes and guns to help me of course, And a country that would not eat its own young, Nor would let others starve to death in its lane; But while the Spanish murderer pillag'd every street, And turn'd the clocks back fifteen hundred years, I thought of this poor beast, the child of my own, The orphan of my own darling, of some ten; 'Tis hard for us to think that even hope is a dream, But hard as the earth to comprehend the sky. What had we done, our children, that we thus li'd, That we thus left them, or if we had become, That we become so vile that even God would deem it hard. Our countrymen! how vile they are! our women! how vile! We sin'd, and we left them for Heaven's sake, and we thought We were doing right, but we were only doing wrong. But this is not the story of our woe; For since we have lost our daughters, and others, too, In the bloom of their youth, in the blaze of their life, They commit even more outrage on man's base nature, Than when war and peril made them all too bold. O that the blood in my veins were drawn from these Red, naked, lascivious lips of mine own darling! Better that these lips, so luscious and soft, should be Or the heart that beat beneath them in those sprightly bosoms! Or that they should be mine--but, bless the dear Lord! I cannot bless them; that would be blessing in express; And besides, who can say that such kisses are all kisses? And is it just, say they are, that one man's hand Puts into the mouths of all men a barbarous control? In the hours when the moon is smoothest to her side, And she hath been most steady and most beautiful, How oft I have think'd of those lips, and have turned and seen Those eyes, and thought, "Is this the hand that is struggling For one of my dearest and best, that I know nought of, And never saw e'er?" I will swear it is not so. But I knew it was not mine; and when the moon's face Is sharpest, and when those eyes shine fiercest and brightest, Then let me think of my darling's lips, and only think of them. They think that they are rising and settling, Crying for my hand, and hasty and fickle. I will go and treat them as sweet ladies should, And kiss them and make them brave and merry. Never till now I knew how wicked and mad Men were, but this I see with mine own eyes. And you, my dearest, I see you not, Nor see that you have lost your great and noble husband. You are not coming to me, and I know it well, But in the faults of my old age I can blame you. No, you are not coming to me, but, O never! You always leave me time and wearily. Why do you sit here all alone, with drooping head? Come to my arms and bring me flowers. Come to my bosom, and let me feel you warm them. I am weary of the sun; I am weary of my noble brother The wild heifer, with a pluck of copper, Is fainter than the flowers of spring. And I am fain to tear the trees apart To tear a space and breathe low. I am weary of my noble brother I am weary of my noble brother I am weary of my rich life And I see my soul in its shining clothes Sitting in a glass, and I should look more kindly Upon the flattering days. I am weary of the seraphim, I am weary of my child. And I know that soon I shall rise above them, I know that in my body shall I find them And I shall be glad, and happy, and pure, And that my lips shall be lovelier than roses, And my face than virgin roses, And I shall like the sacred roses take after My great brother Abel, And I shall be like Abraham meet, And like Samuel, and like Aaron, And the thorns shall grow upon my head, And I shall have a place among the lions, And among the strong lions, And among the unsightly lions. And I shall be as one in a dreadful mood Or one in a seraph's raiment, And I shall laugh at the foolish people, And I shall laugh at the faith of men, And I shall shake my fiery hair In the way of the wind. And the trees and the mountains shall give way To receive this beauty of mine. <|endoftext|> The Southerner, who had been a Spanish serf, Lost all that golden heritage, and went For refuge to the mountains, there to grow And learn the trade which in his younger days He had so wonderfully flourished. Scarce could His shattered limbs support him, and his foot Was chained in irons--could he now even stand Beneath the trees, he might again secure His life's far outstretch. But he could not wait For that!--he knew that he must form a plan And join the war soon, ere it warred upon The stranger, who had join'd the country men Without a heart-athwart its pale and meagre love. Tall, solid-built, of noble mien and face, And bearing high black beaming eyes, was he. All his attire was scarlet, and his dress Gave colour, and distinguished him as one Of those who might be taken for high priests, Because their hair is covered and they shun All corporal adornment, and hold their hands In pieces of gold. It was the custom then Of Israel's host to have one pope, who might Superiorate them, and he might be this Or that, but he was not their high priest. So, With benedictions, came this chief of mine, The only one of all the host that yet Was not a foreigner. Oh, how I worry'd My heart with his great name, as still with games A jackal's heart, when it sees its mother's life Crucify'd, but cannot save her. My hair stood all <|endoftext|> The well known bed of earth, where all is clean, Beneath the heavens green isles in quiet lie. 'Twas at the royal feast a wise and well Studious to please the monarch held his sire, Where al the wild blossoms of the wood Rose like a banner waving on the air. The noble vases gleamed with gold and blue, And carven gear of beauteous grain and cost. To arms then! To arms, that noble band, And loud the herald trumpets sound their speed. And, as they rush, behold, the slumbering dove, Weird, wry-winged, scorns the destruction of his fellows. His dull eyes see nought, his cooing breast he doesghts not hear. But quickly turning round, as when the lion springs, Gored with quivering lance, from sleep his gear he cracks, And bears his wounded lord in such wise that he Suffers not himself to kill. Thus bears he off A weary spoile of nought, nor suffereth pain His gear to mar. Thus fleeth he, as haste him best, A slacker in his flying, sore displeased. It was a glorious sight to see this knight Of courteous word and haughty bearing Dealing right nobly with this crafty knave. He maketh fast with slashing blade the wretch, And, as he wrestled, gave his foe the lance. The maiden's wreath to earth he brought and bound, And on his feet the conqueror of the day Leapt down like summer-cloud, and left him lying. Then from the dew the monarch's heart awoke, That some dear fortune to her honor graced, And with such might his heart, the while he fled, That as the king upon the maiden's face Could see a look of glory, so his face Bent o'er the spoile, and hearkened as the voice. Then drew he back a little, trembling sore, And this was terror in his mighty might, And made him falter, ere he passed the last Perfectly in peace. Then was he ware Of one so far behind that he no space Had seen, and fainting, seized her with a bound, And kissed her lips and face, and bade her rise, And drew her within his arms, and did deem That he had killed the king, and cried aloud, And kept not use of hand, and so became As is a berry-flower that closes at the core. As is the berry-flower when it is sore With bitterness, and torn by nipping frost, And bows its head and dies amid the blast, E'en so our Hope, shaken suddenly, fainted, And on the prince that knightly Evander lay. And, as he gazed on him, a great cry of fear Ran over him, and leaping to his feet Panting and uttering words not tongue can frame, He fell upon his neck, and took the fair In his embrace, and in his arms that she Duly did succour. Then the high-souled wretch Grew warm and soft, and uttering many a sigh, Exclaimed, "Thou dread misfortune! have I brought Thee death? how cruel was that death for me! Was not my sabre tried and tested Ere ever it hath felt the enemy? I thought it thy stronger arm, my hilt had lit Thy flame, and brought me to the shades below, And left my flesh as proof thereof and sign That I thy hand had won the bout and displayed Of sword and brand, and so thou hadst my life." But theremore fain had Evander made To take the maid and tear the creature's heart From his strong hand, and thus have made amends For what he left undone ere; but strong And bold he grew, and struggled sore with hands Unharmed, and with his teeth the cruel foe, And all his might that from his wound did flow With fury dyed, and in his fury fell, And deadly faint and powerless lay him there. And thus departed thence that prince, his foe With vanquished Evander, who his wealth Brought back safe to his distant home, and came The fourth day, and from a mighty wound Gast Opheltum down and passed away. And afterwards, after mighty wars, His son survived to keep the Deucalion name. Now nought at all was left the father's will To fulfil, but with his kinsman he Had nigh chosen death, the older man Had now been left a worn and old man, The younger few years left to live again. But all day long he stood and gazed, and heard The tinkling fountain bubbling up afar From the wet and darken'd garden, where he thought The fountain of sweet water never flowed, But so often trickle'd down the roof or wall, And every now and then the water run From time to time within the garden wall. And often in the noon-tide glow he stood Within the fragrant garden, and the sun Upon his shoulders as he stood did smite A golden glory from the bud of one Straying the hedge, and in his youthful breast Blazed up a light of beauty; therewithal he thought, "The fountain which here once bubbled up Is not the fountain of bliss to me; nay, This is no stream of joyous happy pleasure, But a dark and guttered well of woe, With a miserable sufficiency Of happiness contrasted against misery, And watered with a measure of woe; And all comparison evil. O thou Of all the souls that up the height may climb, In these dull stones or inside these walls, Or on the smooth or rough or fast or slow Its way shall find, or in what mode or place, But it shall still be ill stead to go From this evil stony fountain-head Of grief, and there enter in its good And bring its waters to the face of Heaven. Ay, as the dying lover of a dear And well-loved lady dies when she is dead, And all his love goes out with her, and nought Comes in between, but all his being goes Out from her and lodges in the earth And nothing comes but the grave his love; So came no voice into the loving head Of Evander, but his being went Out from her and dwelt in the grave alone, And when the love came with the dying voice, "Hail, Peri—hail, child—my one delight," And shed its glory round the darkening room And moved the shade, the tremulous lips apart "Child, I never thought it possible; nay, And if it could, why never thought it fair. Yet because the gods vouchsafed to me Two dreams, a Cupid, a lucky star, And all my fortune, and my house, and me, My little house, I cannot rest. And he is dead; and thou art gone, And leftst me not wealth, or friends, or her, My lady—but thou, child, art gone, And leftst me all. Thou poor unhappy man, And thou, poor unhappy child." So fell he at the feet of the sad queen, Down from his right hand, and in his bad heart Beat his great sorrow. And round the queen's feet He stood, and down amid the queen's tears He flung himself, and she in her dismay Stood gaping, and dumb, and aghast she saw His terrible grief, and her own dying tears, And the great hope in his ruined heart which left A desert in his spirit. So he fell Prone at her feet, and there laid dying, and died. But at the feet of the poor woman there Sat the old king, who bare the weight of the world In his great naked limbs, and saw the wide world roll Into the darkness. And the old king wist How in the depth of the shadowy cave there lay A terrible beast, death's doom and fulminating flame With his great head, and eyes like glowing swords, And savage mighty teeth to rend and devour. And he cried in his great fury and dismay, "Who was it, who hath bought my glory and me, And mine honour and my children's glory, with pain Of shameful death? Where will he flee to, and drift Thus low before me? And yet I seemed to see My own true self in him, and my own true self Saw and felt in his all-grasping strength and pride, Strong as a deathless god, all confidence, all joy, And yet as weak as any common man. Where art thou, false false sweet love?" And therewithal he smote in mad wise, and cast <|endoftext|> And the sky With all the stars, Now in heaven, Gave such a light As love needs. And such a voice Said, "Wilt thou love me?" And the sun and the wind and the waves Made answer, Saying, "We will branch you in twain, And put sweet roses in your hair, And call you In all the world "A lovely Queen to be; All a child's laughter, All a maid's tears; And in your heart, For ever, Is a well of love, And a path of faith That none must wander through but you. And through your heart And through your eyes Is the prayer, And the vow, And the sacrament, And the mystery, And the words of life, Burning in your heart, Are a prayer to God For the wild birds' nests, And the little whales' hearts; And the hearts of men That beat and fall, Are the hearts of the birds and whales, And the eyes of the starry ages." I say, in a secret tone, I say to my lady, "When we lie together What secret thoughts are we holding? For when our hands are touching, With a thousand thoughts going, I seem to be saying to you, My love, my love, my love, When shall we meet again?" Lips, voice, and breath, Were all still; Only the clear and silent clock Was telling the time, And the moon was slipping In the silver west. Silence and pale, And starry light, In a little space, Were all that my eyes could hold; For secret thoughts Were holding me, As my lady whispered, saying, "When shall we meet again?" Lips, voice, and breath, Were all still; Only the clear and silent clock Was telling the time, And the moon was slipping In the silver west. When first I met my love I said, "Love I have none"-- For I had a mistress, and she a maid, Dainty, chaste, and bright; And all my life long my heart has yearned For the hour that I can say "Love I have finally found!" I met my love in a castle grey; Golden flowers lay in the garden bed, And sphinxes in the sun breathed mysterious power Into the moaning winds, that rose and fell. The birds sang love-songs to that mistress dear, As they, in the stilly evening, sang and died; The trees were laden with flowers, and fruits, and fruit, And flowers were all that could be found. And a path through the forest led my love, And my delight, my dear one, to me; The sylvan shadows seemed but just as fair As the broad beacon-light that burned above. The bird songs heeded no shadow; sweet as they Was the alarm-song that pledged my love no less; The calm was in the winds, the hope in my heart. She had a sister fair as lilies fair; And her sighs were sweeter than the sounds of sand To the lily's chalice and the heart's Desire. I would have loved her for a hundred winters, But she marred my felicity with laughter, For she was sharp to scorn, and ever wroth With the sun's love that through her laughing eyes shone. So I loved her for a hundred summers, Till her beauty grew too like sunburnt skies For my taste, and for a hundred winters She aged and waned too much for my delight. I will sing a song of my love, and it will be Of an hour long past, when spring, With a flowery crown on her golden hair, From a green wicket came In a lilac-and-silver gown; And a song of her love shall be That she sings to me now As we wandered together Through the wintry land. The river rustled as we came to a land Where the waterslayed, And a glimmer of gold In the lilac bush, and a flower of white To the bush of lilac round which it rustled. A lilac-bush whose petals shed A fragrance no flower hath known; And the blossoms of this lilac bush Gave a blossom of fair morn To the river that ran Rough as a river of brass. And the flower that fluttered in the breeze Was a white hyacinth to whose petals shed Was a scent of sandal wood. The river that runs through the sky Had a gold flash in its mirrors And a gleam of that sky as it ran through the light Of my love for my lady true Was a colour of the chameleon green Of the leaves of that lilac bush. There were lots of lilies in the marshes there, And a lot of rushes on the shore, And the waves dallied with a golden And a crimson flag. There were lots of fishes in the shallows, And a lot of ducks beside The wide brown waters of the Bay. The flag of the city of Almaty Lay on the ocean's breast Like a golden blossom blown From a marsh-flower by the wind of the noon. And the golden and crimson flags Of the cities of the east And the towns of the west that are free And the walls of the royal towns And the towers of the outland palaces, All were tossing in the gusty air, And the waves were wailing aloud In the voice of the ocean And the voice of the breeze in the laurels On the walls of the ocean-garden With a sound of distant chanting. And we wandered in a lane That led to a meadow rich in blossoms With a cool stream running through it. And we paused to watch the ripples That came like music from the stream, And we watched the china people With their silver jewellery, And the turquoise and the sapphire And the emerald and the ruby, And the many-coloured stones Crowned with leaves and fruits and flowers, And the ripples boiled On the beach at the meadow's end, And the colours swam In the sun and the breeze, And the jellies grew on the coast Where the wavelets and the swimmers Lay in the shallow waters, And the shells lay in the sand Where the sea gave up its treasures, And the sands and the little beads Lay loose in the sun and the breeze, And the foam lilies And the seaweeds were golden, And the water-lilies were orange, And the white and crimson flowers Lay on the sand in the meadow, And the grasses and the sheaves of flowers Lay in the gullies, and the rushes Lay in the shallows. And the nightingale sings in the tall trees And the song of the nightingale is very sweet To the heart of the lady of the house on the lee, For her father has three brothers that sing for her, And her mother has four sons that sing for her, And the nine fair sisters of her court All sing for her, each with her partner, For her lover that was her life. The nightingale sings of the spring And the song of the nightingale is full of praise To God for the beauty of the beginning And the splendour of the middle and the end. For the grace that was given to creation By the Holy One who made heaven and earth, And blessed all people from all countries, And bade them cultivate the way of truth, And wait upon the hour of rest In a day of plenty for all. The nightingale sings of life eternal And of rest in the heaven of heaven For all who repent and all who do not. For none that ever lived shall live twice For the purpose of dying; And the rose in the garden of life And the apple in the good woman's kitchen Are fruits that perish, and of no profit; And the nightingale and all the birds of heaven Are witnesses of these and their end. The nightingale and the birds of heaven Are witnesses of the last and the first; For all life is witness of God's wisdom And all death is witness of God's love. So the nightingale in his song Proclaims eternal inheritance For each and all and declares the end And the glory of God's kingdom In the end and the glory of time, The nightingale in his song Proclaims the end and the glory of war; For war comes in the way of things, And the end of things is peace. And the song of the nightingale Proclaims eternal inheritance <|endoftext|> Didst thou not thus call up thy groves of earth To listen to thy tuneful thunders, By blasting Seraphim the earth Invading? When thou hast accomplished Thy dreadful call, and all thy force With darkness is confined, behold! That city, the seat of woe, Doth even surround thee with her flames; Her trees are serpents, her stones are beds Of agony; she walks a fiery wave, And craves thy vengeance for her crimes. Where thou art hidden, there shall look no more For the remnant of mankind; and round The mountain there which thou hast climbed, As to the extremest bound, shall be The waste of time and grave of nations, Forests of the brave, and hollow graves Of great men dead. Thou wert not sent to free Your homes from the conquering Christian; Nor yet to prove your faith by performance; But for the truth's sake to break your chains, And in the shadows of his wings to shine Like those who never had known thy light. Nay, fly his presence; 'tis his spirit, Growling and fiercer than the skin Of lions once again they'll lay Upon your necks, and waste your houses Like far-off huts, and crush your gods Down to a dust that shall dissolve Back to nothing--as a tale that's told! A vapour thou! thy voice is still; Thy presence leaves me not nor he. TO tremble, sinner! and to melt Thy heart to sin,--to do and die, And take the punishment decreed. Might I but feel thy dagger point I could forbear the shuddering thrill Which would the guilty spirit know When at the dreadful point of time It draws anear the hour of death; And the cold air be pressed from heaven, And the doom seal the unbelieving ear. E'en as the shining of a flame Beyond the verge of ordinary sight, So hast thou reached the verge of dreadful deeds, Beyond the unborn and the dead. Thou hast thy banner, the Conqueror; On his shield is dust and darkness; His sword is in thy hand; and thou Shalt be the master of the world. Is this a time to sport and play, As if death had no fear? Is this a time for long-haired youths To gather roses, to sell dove's eggs? Is this a time to gather silks And lavish of their fragrant hair, While music's sweet voice invites Them in the joys of love? Is this a time for choirs of doves And odours of blooms? For burning of incense at night And lovers' longing to unite? For courtship, and rich gifts of love, For longings of loved ones at home And longing for the loved ones afar? O time that drops the blossoms at rest And overtracks the hours of love! O time that crushes the flower of spring And gives the year its time! For this thou hast thy crying, and this Thou hast thy dying breath. PAPILLOS his hair in tawny disorder streaming beside him at his pipe placed: He, an old man, the sound of music hearing going through his brain, and seeing in his eyes the old time back, and his head by the hand of an old minstrel moving: Not over-well-behaved children, not at play in the court-yard or the meadow, not with old poets who in their rhymed poetry go in and out, and make the best of things, not with young satyrs and with goddesses, did he pass the hours of his life; But in the years of his life he was a man revolving between the fireside and the battle, in the days of his youth between the drink and the sword, in the bitter days he was a captain-at-arms, in the darkest days he was a father: In the house of his father, when he was a boy, he was a pleasant boy, always cheerful and free with his reminiscences, his tales of the wars, whence he had come, and the gifts of the sea, and the shrines of his fathers; He had the secret places in the woods, the hiding places in the mountains, the wells that were never fenced against gods, and the caverns that were never gated against gods, and he knew how to find the gladsome places. But at home he was a restless and a glum boy, never was he at peace within the walls of his house: to him the house seemed a prison, a great sepulchre of his fathers, of his brethren, of his uncles, and his mother he despised for her infamy, and he often said: "O wretched mother, what did she bring me into this small home with him that was my father, and who was my brother, and what was he then?" And his mother answered him, "Yea, wretched boy, why are you thus enmeshed with these former ages, into the ages that are passed, and upon whom was nothing precious and wonderful, and who had neither wine nor pottage, nor the pleasures of women, nor had Alexander come to the peoples, nor had the Trojan tablet fallen in the way, nor was there heard a sound of the tramp of the chariots, nor was there heard the foot of the panthers, nor the lowing of the wild asses, nor the making of the lyre, nor the giving of show of the lyre, nor the sight of Venus, nor was there heard the singing of Phoebus, nor of the golden bed by silken carpets, nor the floor of the palace glittering with gold, nor of the beautiful couch, the footstool for the head, nor the standing in the porch of the palace splendid of the king. "Babylon, whither have I come, that thou too art fallen, my city, my well-beloved city?" Thus said he, and a great light glowed in the house of his father, and he struck his arms with his feet and his hands, and the bed springs together from the bedstead: and his father he saw over him, and he said: "Father, I have endured much suffering in the house of my conqueror, in the spacious house of my conqueror; "But I say unto thee, O my father, my elder brother, rise up from beneath those covers which hide thee, yield thee in thine houses sorrowing, return to thy beds from out the covers, and weep in thy pillows: and my face which was so joyous, I will now hide from my master: for I am a twin, and the years of the ages have shifted me, "And I myself will seek for my sorrowing mother, and will weep for her in the courts of her strangers, in the places of the conquerors, in the places where have perished my father, my elder brother, my care, my father and his brothers, and I will tell the sorrowing one, and she will give me my birth-right in the days of her sorrow: and she will ask me the name of my place of birth, and I will say, saying to her, 'Son of mine, of the isle of the desert, I am from a city far away in the days of the tribes of Israel.' "And she will say, 'The youth comes, and I am going to meet him: how is it that he comes so far from the city? where have I sent him? and where are my father and my brothers, and what is now the year of my trouble, and the brooding evil of my womb?' "And the loving mother will be fain of the way, of the bed from which she has sent her offspring, to meet her father and her brothers, and will turn back, and go forth from her chamber weeping, for the love of her child, till at last she meet her father, and her brothers, and her dear ones. "So I will lead him to my father, and my loving mother, and will give to them first the meet emprise, and then will I lead the way to my own mother, and the ways will be wayward for the prince, so will not he care to look on me: so I will lay my hand upon the skirts of him, on his shoulders, and will lead him to my father, and my brother, and my father will give him to me gladly: but if he will not welcome me kindly, and give me welcome, and will declare me his own flesh and blood, I will go to the walls of my mother, who will surely drive me forth, <|endoftext|> I first Assumed the vocation Of a proverb; I gained a title Of excellence By taking pains, When I wasn't sure, When I was afraid, And didn't do it. "Why shouldn't I take pains? I was perfectly sure That I was afraid! When I was certain, 'Well, that's something!' 'It's a nice theory, But I'm not sure.' "So I didn't do it, And you can thank me For the view that I had. I'll go into law, And give lawyers a fright, By representing That they should be afraid. "No, I won't be afraid, And now you ought to be afraid. 'But he's sure,' they say, 'Of every law in every State, Every treaty in every conference In which his judgment was sought Or ever he took his seat!' "So my counsel will show That I was never thought fit To be a lawyer or a judge; And I shall stand by that As a personal affront. "But, for all that I will stand by it, I do think it an insult That no one since ever has been afraid Of the Statute of Jersey Which made it an offense For men to be afraid Of every law in New York That didn't make them sorry They were in New York. "And now to conclude, If I've made myself erect You may rely on one thing: I'll have nothing further Extramuscular or Extra Terrestrials. This time I've spoken for you For nothing at all, Except to pay your money." "The life of a dog has many Advantages, I own, over being A person. First, I can walk anywhere, Though not near as far as I can see With those on treadless feet who have The leisure to get as far as they can, Who have no need of a limp or Of a merely glazed pair of eyes, For safety's sake except in running; But, second, I do not wear A collar, unlike men who wear A hat and shawl, and let men beware Of their intrusions. And third, I have no need Of a piece of furniture so vulgar as a moustache, And there are many who would choose To be jaunty instead of spruce, And who have reasons, I'm glad to say, For wearing them. For me, it is true, A little trimming, and I flaunt An unbecoming haircut, I know. And I could change, but who will let A dog choose what he is able To do or not do, while humans Set up their shabby prosceniums With such disastrous results?" "I confess, I have a cap that is more Shelter than Shari's Ewie, But that may be the cap of a trader, And I am not a trader; And when I choose to wear it, It may be for other than The exact reason that you think I choose it--as I think you think. "What I am trying to say is, You cannot generalize too much From what I write you, and what I think You cannot make too much of it, Because I'm a dog, and dogs Can't make much of themselves. As to the second point, If a man would become a saint, He mustn't get too good at anything, But be as vulgar as a lizard, And if he is, he may At times mistake the way of the beasts Over against us, for the way of the saints." "I never saw the like, and never will, But I know a man who has, and it is him. His name is Billy the Kid (Which, by the way, I hope you will not doubt, Because it rhymes with Chiv, And Chiv would never chance it, if you asked her) And he had the habit of occasionally Flocking. Now, if you see a flock of birds, You may suppose, by the way they fly into the air, That they are fussed and fit to be called, Because they would all be feathers, and feathers, you know, Are a little difficult to get used to. But, with birds, you are very much to blame, Because they never were very used to it, Inheriting their feathers from the day they were hatched; And so, if you go by the account I have given you, The world would be a much better place, If only we'd all stop flocking away From the teachings of Zeno and of Plato. The prince who had summoned the sages, Was very anxious to know What they thought of what was going on In the strange land of Miltiades. And, before they could answer, he had to ask, For he couldn't quite remember whether He had called for the return of Aristophanes. But the Achaean philosophers were pleased; As they were used to acting soon or late, And always in favour of the greater zest And, therefore, argued from a nobler point of view. And the prince, who loved a joke, remarked ruefully: "It was a poor piece of magic; it was preposterous! It was really a kind of a fluttering old fogy, Or else of a Quixote bit in the tail." And, when one of them said, "What I heard was a child speaking Greek to a master from the time of the Trojan War, And of certain attempts to synthesize Platonic elements with those of Lucretius," The other answered, "Oh, how much we Aristophanes! There is not a stranger living in this country, and speaking to us, But can find its perfect echo in Aristophanes." And, after listening to them a little longer, The prince, who was in the midst, said: "I'm terribly sorry, but I must leave now. The young man who has the bell-weth showed to me, Is a dunce, and has not even caught its sound. The bell-weth was my master's and was given to him, I have it not by dint of teaching, but by dint of his grace. I could have lived with that lot in my life, a simple country life, And I have done so. I have gone through the twentieth year, And if you ask me, twenty years are but a little dust To dust, if people will leave you alone. Let others who have lived in historical eras Talk of great men and their deeds; I have more weight, More substance, in the way of anecdotes, to-day, In this one little country of Miltiades, Than any one living, out of the mainstream of history. Miltiades, I have heard it said, Lived to be eighty years of age, Yet he never once went to the doctor, And lived on oranges and honey, And said: "A Greek orator is a goose In a walk." If you want a picture of a man To give to the WORLD, I'll name not one. But I know this, and I dare to swear it: Though an ancient city, Miltiades Was never so happy as he was, And though he never went anywhere, He walked and ran and played, Till he dropped at evening, exhausted, And lay, in the twilight, on the grass, As he had never been before. You know the story--how that lover, hopeless, And yet desiring much, And yet desiring, what was, alas! Unreal, unattainable; He meditates his passion, and he does it, And all the world is out of joint-- What is, alas! unattainable! Yet he endured it, and endured it, And at the last, he relented, And at the last he relented, To part with all worlds save one. He did it, and he did it, and he did it, And the poor world, it is true, was damaged, And only God was happy-- God was happy, and God was happy, And the Name of God was written, In a page of gold, in a page of gold. But the end of this was that he said: "The Trompelette has been disarmed." And he took the pistons, and he took the strings, And he said to the helpless engines: "I have overcome the mighty Amazons; And now for you, dear fallen ladies! And now for you, hoary heads!" And the engines bowed their black heads, And the THUMB was broken, and the FIGURE was broken, And the THECIRCULAR was broken, <|endoftext|> Yet, as I make report, In all thy best store, Thy virtues thrive and grow. Thou, whose tongue but now would show What words in sadness might not speak; To whom the store of riches spoke, And wealth's deceitful garb of ease; Then was I greedy, and deceived, And had I greater lacked not here, What should I have had more? but more Of misery and less of wants, There, too, thou shouldst have more been lacking, Which thou hast brought with thee away. For what is store, When riches lose their savour? They drench the weeds and grass with green; Their virtues fade away, And their beauty soon decays. What, then, are riches? Are not we saints, by prayer And supplication made, Who keep our estates, And hold them by the use Of peaceful industry? If not, take them, dear friend, Take them, and use them well. The mind is like a field of wheat; Man has far'd it little and long, And watched it to the last; He hath tilled it, sowed it, let it stand, And fed it with his grain; But now the turn of the tide is come, The field is dark and bare, The sun is drying the flour where they stood, And dark the sky. The world has up and run, the field is bare, The hands have allest their gold, The last green withered reapeth the first red shed; The world is gone, oh, how drear! The fields they thought would never be depopulate-- It is almost begun. The shrewd merchant which brought in gold and silver Has run, and it remaineth to be seen If he hath left in the West full house or no; The ancient race is overthrown, the place is empty, And man is driven to town; The well-fill'd harvest wagon which to thee and me Was like a home, is a silent and a shadowy thing. The squire and the yeoman in their breast it see Of the lord of the manor, and his squire, And the laden wain, and the slow old plough, And the wife and the household hearth, And know that somewhere in the world is to be found A cellar or a spare room; And they sit at their meal, and they sleep in their bed, And look through their drink-cups, and wonder at their cheese. Ah! things which have been once, and are no more, Are like the past; The present falls short of our wishes, but the past Is like the future. What will be, will be; and what is, will be; What we have, is our owing. What we have left, is our gain. O'er the sea of life Sway the currents of time, For the stormy ebb and the great tide Are opposed. And we on our little craft Are driven for ever To one point, While they whirl with a wildering force In all directions. But we see not that Which is to be, And we judge not promptly, Or thoroughly, And our labours are vain; But the tide will rise On the spot where we have been. We have done with our repose, With its little ceremonies, With its lovely, quiet places; We have entered upon A sea of strife; And the gale may have shifted, But not for another hour. Onward, then, Captain O'Kellyn! With a brave devotion To a dangerous, weary post; On, still passing through all the stages Of hardship and danger and pain, For the love of our country still. In the winter, when the snow Chilled our bones, And we bore on board this poor Blind friend, He never seemed to care, He never seemed to care; But in the summer, when It was like sunlight, He seemed to care. And we sailed on his course, Through a frozen zone, And he never spoke, Or made sign, Of a wish for an hour, Except, when night Fell on us, and a dim And narrow light Seemed to magnify and fill The sick sea-bitten ground, Was he not silent? 'Till we came to that zone Which separates the polar Floes from the sedge and sea-grass, And we came to the place Where, in summer, first, The bunched-up snow lies white, And the floes of dead ice Line the decks like rows of pallid ghosts, With the bright backs of the spawning Bream. There was only one Sign of life or pleasure, Only one bird on the deck, Whose wiry shrill twittering Could not be heard or seen By the lonely polar bears; And his flight on the high Tropics of the freezing zone Was unguided, so we launched And struck out to meet him; And a thousand furs And a thousand skins Found his scarlet feather-moth On that journey, on that voyage. But we could not find him, On that long, vain searching; And when at last we turned Home again, at nightfall, The ship's lamp was raising Its ghostly fire, And the only thing we saw Through the flickering frost Was his shadow at the bow. And a few days later, When the tracks we traced Down the sloping, sandy beach, No living thing we found, No shell, no coral-flowered mud- Slips, no sign of a keel, No hint of a ripple, Only the long track Of the kelp-dusted sand-bank Left in the stagnant water, Only a sombre and mystic Ghost of a wreck. For I had gone there With Captain M'Gill, on a quest For vast and mystic rocks With Pictish legends precious, Where some strange and mystic cross Had hung for centuries on a shaded stone, As if to beckon us from the sad Doom that all must meet in our path. On that voyage, down In a phantom canoe, I heard the voice of the dead: 'Come to me, friends, I plead with you, Come, since the days of my pride are past; For now I lay me down to sleep, And lay me down in peace.' And I came to the far strand, And marked a few that slept; And their cold shuddering bodies I gathered and dressed, And laid them in a peaceful grave, In the earth's dim peace. And I named the rest, and laid them in, And lifted them from that swaying ship, And laid them in their country's tombs; And it seemed that they were part of me, For they rejoiced at the journey's end; And the faces of the sleeping ones Fell in tender looks of love. And I thought of the voyage elder That carried me far away; And the lonely sea and stormy shores I crossed, and strove to bear aloft, But all was vain; for still the wave Felt with my body as it went, And lashed me, and lashed me again. And I lived, and I lived, and grew a man, And strove to look upon the stars, And reach some fair and distant home, But all was vain; for still the wave Made grimy moan at my exposed feet, And lashed me, and lashed me again. Then it was, one dark evening, As I sat alone in my hut, And saw by the flickering light Of the flitting candle-light The shadows gathering fast, That I reached up to the sky, And cried in my wild despair: 'O God, for thy dread protection, Protect me from this monster! O God, if it be thy will To save this poor, unfriended human, Who ne'er has done thee wrong, Protect me from the spawn of Horror!' And the lonely night came on; I heard the tempest howling, And shuddered as the rolling surge O'erpower'd my rudder, and I saw My ruined vessel whirl and reel With the wild winds all ablution And the dark waves grinning And the hungry white eyes Of the moon-fish, all black in the mist. And I saw the slithering waves In my telescope, And I saw the moons of June Laugh on the waters gray, And laughed on the red clouds deserting O'er the blue mountain tops; And the red clouds deserting On the hills of the western sea. And the wind came in the darkness, And it whistled in my beard, <|endoftext|> That's through, I'm now walking out to buy a new hat. The streets are crowded with weary people, and the moon and stars are twinkling everywhere. That's all I've got to give you for now--only a nod and a wink to-night. When you're dying, the thought of death is a joy, And life grows beautiful and sweet. And death, that brings the farewell kiss, Is the end of sorrow and of pain, And nothing can number with us those years We've spent on this earth. As I was walking to the bus-stop, I suddenly felt, for some reason, That I should say my prayers Behind this window-pane. I opened it, and prayed for you, As many times as I dared, Before I closed it, and went on my way. Prayer is a strong thing, And its strength we must all consider, When we first learn'd it, how great it made us. Prayer makes its way into the inward place, And opens up Heaven to us, Beyond our intellect. It was upon a wintry evening, Some time in February or early in March, And the snow lay round as if it would stay, That a homeless man, His face scratched and pocked with deep red rags, And arms stretched out as if he could get a bed, Stole from amongst a crowd that closely mobbed him And stole back again, A bare-footed man, to seek for shelter. And as he went, a homeless man was he In face and figure, and his broken shoes Made his little feet look exceedingly sore, And a cloak he had on, A tattered, loin-strung chadress, made his head look haggard, And the hairs upon his chin were standing As he stole back, To seek for shelter again. That night, no other homeless man followed him After he had gone; For there was no other homeless man And no howling like the pack of wolves pursuing, Or the black birds of fear At the foot of the empty, tenantless home. Ah, many homeless men followed him, And many had their faces Made the little hunch-back that used to sit Like a hag In the chadress, and huddle and shake With cold, and ache and sore For the coldness of the hard world, The hard hollowness of it, The hard empty space, The few hard, empty places. Ah, many homeless men followed him To his shivering, hollow way, And many had their faces Made the haggard, wolf-like faces Of the pack that used to swarm On the vacant home's vacant spaces, To have their way with her Who was half-hiding, half-murmuring "Please, God, let this not be; Let me not be so broken." Ah, many homeless men followed him To the empty spaces, And many had their faces Made the eyes of wolves Glare at them shamefully, For the eyes of wolves are hate-filled For the shame of the hard world, For the shame of men, For the empty spaces, The haggard, wolf-like vacant spaces. Housing for council tenants is provided for £1,475 (for social rent). There is no Council Housing for freeholders. The maximum council housing contribution is £3,400 (vacant possession). Maximum contribution (for a family) is £4,200 (married couple and dependent children). The housing benefit is £1,050 (single adult). Housing Benefit includes up to a 12-month tenancy. There is no entitlement to Council Housing unless you are a council tenant. Maximum contribution (for a family) is £4,200 (married couple and dependent children). The housing benefit is £1,050 (single adult). Housing Benefit includes up to a 12-month tenancy. There is no entitlement to Council Housing unless you are a council tenant. Maximum contribution (for a family) is £4,200 (married couple and dependent children). The housing benefit is £1,050 (single adult). Housing Benefit includes up to a 12-month tenancy. There is no entitlement to Council Housing unless you are a council tenant. Maximum contribution (for a family) is £4,200 (married couple and dependent children). The housing benefit is £1,050 (single adult). Maximum contribution (for a family) is £4,200 (married couple and dependent children). There is no entitlement to Council Housing unless you are a council tenant. Maximum contribution (for a family) is £4,200 (married couple and dependent children). There is no entitlement to Council Housing unless you are a council tenant. Of all council tenants who rent from us, Who pay our charges and rent our halls, Council tenants who pay our charges With their dues, paid quarterly, are best received. The police are always polite When a young man knocks at the door, And a quiet word is all they say When a woman comes with the baskets. The police have a thousand things to do Before they ask to see a thing; So it's no wonder they seldom come When the rents are late, or the lights are out. In every council tenant's life There's often some noise, and some dust, And some "funny faces" to meet When the police are away, or absent have. And we council tenants feel alone, A lonely and harassed race, The awkward lads from higher regulated rents, The unwanted guests from the open walk. When the rents are late, or the lights are out, Or if the lads from Camden Town Are not exactly up to scratch, It's not our tenants who are to blame, We're sure, and we say it again-- For the council and the country I leave To themselves, toilers in the long grass, Toilers in the barren earth, Toilers in the darkness, I hope they're pleased. The town-hall was square and dry, And at the entrance a neat-handed clerk, With beard the color of vino, Picked his pennies from his beard And laid them neatly in a box. He looked at Joe and his wife, He looked at Joe's dearie, He looked at Jill he gave me a bann, He looked at all the lads Who served in the army or went to war. "Aye, Marti, I'm sure 'tis fine," He said, "to come and talk to us, With 'im and 'is mate to learn from; And aye, Joe, when the war was through I'd a place for you." "The war," says Ned, "the war!" And blushes turned to James's eyes, "And you a colonel, too!" "It's the way I live and breathe," Exclaimed Ned, "it is the way I live and breathe." He turned to Ned and said: "You've missed the main thing," Then dropped his eyes to dream. "It's these pits and caves," he said, "My good old mate, That make the best soldiers." "Why do you talk to me!" And he flushed, and looked at Jill, "I'm afraid I'm not your sort!" But soon he changed his mind; "I'm just as fond," he said, "Of Joe and Sally." Then Jill stood up in the close And clapt her hands and laughed; "We are," she said, "like three cats That scratch and spar." Then came the lads from camp, The great, the good, the young, They gathered in a circle, And clapped and they cried. "Here's for the lads!" the old man cried, And waved his hand to meet The shouting, cheering, hopeful band. Then shouted loud: "Now hold on! There's no reason to be proud, For every boy can be a soldier." I think I see the little hall Where they gather so gaily, The mess of the day before, The tea and the toast, The quiet nights, the long, still days, And the great war still on the move. O heart of my heart, my lone, Heart of my heart, my weak, What torment, what despair, what wrong Is visited on thee still! And thou still wouldst hear me call, "O come to my arms, beloved!" But no, thou wouldst not start, nor say, "I will be a soldier soon." But sometimes in the brief Dark hours of flight, When terror has seized The hearts of the soldiers, When not a voice is heard In prayer or o'erjoyed, But only the drummer's beat Of drum in dissonance, O heart of my heart, my lone, Heart of my heart, my weak, <|endoftext|> I read it in a flower-lined book-- It had been bound in yellow paper, And tucked away in a plain blue envelope, And I found it years after in a drawer, And I could not remember how I had found it. When I was a little girl My mother had a small silk purse, And one day she put a little note Into the back of that purse. She said: "Oh, Dear, come to dinner! I have so many things to buy!" So my dear tum-tum came To town all dressed in green, All to be wrapped in a kerchief, And so my mother bought him a fish. He had gone out to sea, And my mother had no purse at all. My dear tum-tum came To town all dressed in red, And I hid it in a box of cedar wood And my mother found it days later In a great scrum of shopping-people. My dear tum-tum came To town all dressed in blue, And I made it a little house Within a little paper bag. And I read it there one sunny day, And I found a little white rabbit Of all the pets that I have, I'm best pleased when winter comes And we can say, "Our tum-tums are gone." For then I can bind the skins And hang them on the wall To make my tum-tum tall. When I was little, I never understood Why we always called her "Little Bird," And never "Happy Bird," And always when she walked I held her on the hand, And never let my eyes get to know What kind of bird she was. Now I think that I should love her If she only lived a little while, And I am glad to find That when she flies My hand is held upon her wings; And now I know That I could talk to her If she only came to me. It's now to be forever winter Since my dear tum-tum died. She went out to flutter a nest, And died before she could build. But now she's in the sun And warm as any bird. I never liked singing days Before I knew my mother well; But when I hear my mother sing Of tum-tums and birds, It brings me luck in my lessons. I never like winter As a hard winter, But now I know that I could sing To that hard winter If I had Happy Bird. Where is your mother now, my dear boy? She is busy, now, working A pretty blue-and-yellow nest. She cannot be here to-day; For she went away a long time ago And now my tum-tum is so grand. She came back to-day for a minute, And went away again; And since she went away for a minute My lessons have been better. The clocks have long ceased to strike, my dear boy, The streets are long and cold. And now it is another bright day, But clocks cannot stop. My tum-tums, as busy as can be, Have kept the days going by. My happy tum-tums, my birdie, Are the happiest birdies That ever flew. The cats are in their nest, my dear boy, They have no care, For they have been taught A long, long time that their good is better Than bad, And now they sleep And sleep, and sleep, And never awake To know That the world goes on for a day And they are still. She does not want to go to bed, my dear boy, She likes to play With her birdie, perched upon her arm, And now She is Singing very softly; It is called "bed." The bed is not so big, my dear boy, It is just big enough for her. "Good boy," she said, "bend down; Here is a big red rose That smells like love. With love it should be bound, my dear boy, If it was such a sin." She tucked the little birdie in And kissed him there. The little red birdie woke from his sleep And he said: "Oh, what a nice smell From the flowers in the lane, But it is too bad, That we must go Without our rose." And he tickled the roses with his feet, And they grew so tall, And then they gave a great cry, For they were afraid That the rose-red birdie Would leave them alone. "Oh, we are very sad," they said, "We are so small We cannot fight For the roses that are so big But we will hold on tight, And we will not cry, For our rose is with the birdie Who went away with the rose-red bird That is in the nest. The red birdie can fly, my dear boy, And sing a song, He has stuffed our nest With the feathers of his wings, And our little rose Lives in the rose-tree with the red bird. When you were little you sewed little bells That little girls carried on their dresses. Little boys ran wildly To get their hands Upon your sewing machine. I remember the latchet wrench That you had to use On that old machine of yours, Where little girls sat To spin the tangled thread. You went to work at night, and I Went out in the yard with you. We kneaded the brown, hard flour, And sowed the seed, And put the tares in the dark. The sun peeked in the window When you were a little boy, And you lit the blacksmith's shoes With brightened hands. I watched the sparks fly up Like silver arrows, As he sat there with the brightened hands. I know that he made you an apprentice, And he made you learn to work Where the sparks fly up, As they did when you were a little boy. He said, "This is the job for you!" I knelt before the blacksmith, And I gave him a few coins. Oh, the tears of love he gave me then When I was little boy, To give the tender kiss of love! He told me many things of fun That he had in town. I wish that I could take the sparkles from the dark And run with them under the sky! A man and a woman live in an attic below an abandoned rooming-place; They have two daughters, and are known to the inhabitants of the apartment below as "Lilac" and "Curly." They are considered quite elegant, and none but the daughters of the brothers ever have the audacity to call them "laid-back." The brothers and sisters of the brothers and sisters of the brothers and sisters of the brothers share the pleasures and distresses of an ancient toy. Oh, all the pomp and glory of living high, And all the poverty and bad luck of low! Oh, the pride of living in the world's eye, And the base desire to be noticed in the least! Oh, what is the pride of living at the expense of living high, When you must constantly guard against hunger and cold, When you must constantly spend to help old age go? In the rue Mericombe, not far from the Pont Vecner, There is an ancient edifice, It has been almost twenty years That they have known it. It was built by two brothers, They were in their day The richest people in the Sudbury district, And always had An attendant girl, A pretty girl, Curly and curly, With the sweetest of smiles. The doors are locked and wall-papers sell, And everybody knows That the sisters have had no manner of thought To venture down to the river. They have not been seen at the river for many a year. It was known, in those days, That they went to church, And the sisters had a book, And an evening gown, Which they used to wear to the river-side, When they were met. There they met one day, Two very poor people, Matching quite easily The highest amount That the census taker Could record in those days. One had just come out of the prison, And was wearing an old coat, And was bald, and had bad eyes. The other girl was dressed smart, And had blue eyes and long brown hair, And her figure was very fair. They thought that she was some one in style, And followed her with interest. So they walked to the river-side together, In spite of cold, and damp, and darkness, And, though they walked in the night, <|endoftext|> But it can't be as simple as that. So the songs came first, and the girl, And the apple tree, and the shepherd's lay, The all-prevailing law, the tree That grows the apples, and the stars above, The tree that grows the fish that fill the sea. The memory of the old wives said: That every one must fish for his dinner; For they've been out on the sea and there See the fishes that come up to them. And they gather them, and wrap them in rags, And cast them on the shore where the whale comes by. And the whale gives them beads and gold-dust, And after that the friends of the fishermen Will come and offer many other gifts, And the whalemen offer fighting.' 'So there they stood, With the girl and the shepherd's son, Underneath the apple tree. And they sang the song that was told them By the whalemen all day long: The harp that was broken is now restored, And the song that they sang to each other Is for ever ended, and they came Into the apple grove with suns to rest, And slept, and sang the song that was told them. And thus went the girl and the shepherd's son Till the sun went down and darkness was spread O'er the whole earth. And the whalemen's harps they brought To the place where the girl and the shepherd's son Had sung the song that they should sing to their friend, And they played it for their friend, who was sleeping, As they should play it for him who was living. Toward the evening Of the day when he went Forth, to fight with the fishes, By the sound of the water Came the whaleman With his harp of cypress-wood. And the girl and the shepherd's son Laughingly kissed each other And their souls were joyful And their hearts were glad at the sound of the harp, Playing the song of the whaleman, And they felt as if it were breathing In the song of the whaleman. And the girl and the shepherd's son Grew more lovely to see As they stood by the apple tree Underneath the shade of the apple-trees. And they looked at the sky, And they looked at the sea, And their hearts were merry And their faces were happy As they stood there by the apple-tree. And the whaleman bowed Forth with his face serious, And the harp fell to the ground And the leaves flew down With a cry like the cry of a child And they choked together 'Neath the whirl of the leaves 'Neath the whirl of the leaves. And they turned to go, But a hand caught hold of their hands And held them fast And the harp was caught in the grove, By the tree of the apple-tree. And they laughed, and they sang As they stood by the apple-tree, And the whaleman sang the song He sang when he went forth, And the harp fell to the ground By the tree of the apple-tree. Now the wind has fallen, And the wind is blowing Where it always blows, Over the wide sea, Over the unopenable ocean, Over the shoreless water, Over the salt sands, Over the stripes that wind has woven, Over the broad sea's floor, And not an ear to hear Of the sea's voice or its cheer, And not a wing to move, Of the winds that answer him, As they sweep through the midnight ocean's hurricane. The high cliffs of Wales Bear witness That the winds that blow Can prevail Over the world, And the world's waters flow When the winds have seized them. Yet not in tempest burned Are they terrified, Nor their rock were shattered, Nor their fortress lost. I'm standing by a watering-trough In a field of barley, Where the clover-sheaves are waving And the sun shines on the mow. With a pipe and a bag of stubble, I'm rolling the tobacco-bag, And I wish there was another To join in this merry skating-rink. The pipe and the bag of stubble Will keep for a year or two; But where's the joy of it afterward, To smoke and to dream, When the taste of the tobacco's gone? And there's no after to come, To run and to look back, And another bag to take up. There are clover-sheaves waving in the wind, And the sun shines on the mow, And the taste of the tobacco's gone. There's no after to look back, To run and to look back, To sit on the bench in a skating rink And to dream the last dream. With a bag of tobacco I rolled the tobacco-bag, And I wished there was another To join in this merry skating-rink. But there wasn't another, And I smoked my pipe And I'd like to think There'll be another When the time's served, And the taste of the tobacco's gone. But where's the joy of it afterward, To smoke and to dream, To feel as light as the wind that blows, And to smile as the sun shines on? And there's no after to come, To run and to look back, To sit on the bench in a skating rink And to dream the last dream. She is no beauty who, with pale face, From her cottage low, Rinses the wet clothes and wrings the linen, And hangs the linen to dry; Who, from her cottage low, Watches her waggon carefully parked And the peasants all go by. No, she is no beauty who, with pale face, From her cottage low, Rinses the wet clothes and wrings the linen, And hangs the linen to dry; Who, from her cottage low, Watches her waggon carefully parked And the peasants all go by. Once I sang to you of the blue-bells, And bluebuds on a thorn: The cottage is cold where winter is, But warmth we find Where the earth is rocky, where the stream is broad. We make the best of our lot. I sat in the dusk by the wall, And I watched the sparrows flit and scratch. "Come you to dance at my door, My little wildling, my darling? Shall I hide you in my bosom, Or shall I beat you till you confess? "I've smothered you with love, And I've guarded your heart from harm; I've given you the bread you eat, And I'm the rock whencesoever you go. I know that you love me well, Then you will trust me as I trust you, And you will obey me as I obey. You will sleep with me in the dark, And wake with me in the day; You will work for me, and help me, and fear me, Come, sleep with me in my bosom, And be my sweetheart and my darling." But the sparrows had flown to the thorn, And the wind blew up from the bog; So she beat him with a broom-stick, And he scratched her with a straw-shoon. I heard the girl's story, and I went Across the stubble-field to her cottage, And across the stubble-field to her bed, Where she slept with her sister. And I saw the broom-blades in her hand, And I heard the buns she blowed with them. I said, "My little love, you need not care, For you will serve with me, you will obey, And you will sleep with me in the dark, And wake with me in the day; You will work for me, and help me, and fear me, She bowed in the twilight by the wall, She bowed, and she lay with her maidenhood; And the stars shone out over hill and heather, And the moonlight crept over the glade. And the moonlight flowed over the flower-bells, And the lilies were black, and the roses were white, But her lips were as pure as the morning. She dreamed of the golden brown of the wheat, And the wool of the wool-cross that the wind sifts; And her heart was set on a bench by the gate, With the white tower in the sky above her. And her hands moved on their filmy dresses, And the filmy dresses swayed on her hands. Then she said, "My own, unblest, ungifted, What good shall I find unless I serve others? I cannot serve two husbands, or live with two; <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "Light", by Eleni Sikelianos [Living, The Body, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Let the hole fill up with water become the eye of the needle turn the eye into the wound of the cello turn the cello into the throat of the anxiety of light Be born from the throat of the anxiety of light be born from the cello of the body of the light where there is a desire become an orgasm become a horse of a cart of a bulldozer to dig the holes in the earth for the light where there is desire become a sparrow in the stratosphere become a cloud and be born from the clouds Become a cloud on the hand of the hand of the light become a pearl in the ocean of desire where there is a liquid Become the clitoris of the anxiety of light where there is a tear become the eyes of the needle Become the eye of the doctor where there is a breath Become the vagina of the anxiety of light where there is light Be born from the vagina of the light Be born as the mother of love be born in the stomach of fear Become the lungs of the horse become the heart of the panic of light be born in the heart of the anxiety of light Be born in the chest of the anxiety of light Be born in the lungs of the horse become the eyes of the eye of the horse Be born in the eyes of the eye of the horse Be born as the rope that was used to bind her become a rope to bind all of us be born from the belly of the anxiety of light become rope that was used to bind her become a rope to bind all of us Be born as the lungs of the light that was born in the chest of the anxiety of light that was born in the lungs of the horse that was born in the belly of the anxiety of light Be born from the belly of the horse to be bound <|endoftext|> "Children & Animals", by Eleni Sikelianos [Living, Youth, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Philosophy] I have four children All of my heart is to protect them I have five daughters I am tired all the time I keep thinking about my daughters I keep thinking about the cows I keep thinking about how I want to see them I am so tired of wanting to see them I have no hope I have no hope for the future They will marry and give birth to more children They will have jobs and children I will see them one day I am so tired of wanting to see them I have no hope I am tired all the time I keep thinking about my daughters I keep thinking about the cows I keep thinking about how I want to see them I have no hope I have no hope for the future I have four daughters All of my heart is to protect them <|endoftext|> "Small Things", by Eleni Sikelianos [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire] I am afraid of what you want from me What I want from you I am waiting for the word I am waiting for your body I am afraid of what you want from me What I want from you I am waiting for the word I am waiting for your body I am waiting for your voice I am waiting for kisses I am waiting for your hand I am waiting for what you want from me What I want from you <|endoftext|> "Moonshine", by Eleni Sikelianos [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] You know the bottles I am stirring When I take a sip I think of memories Of things Done long ago But I am not sad Because I like the taste Of moonshine <|endoftext|> "You Can Do It!", by Frank Loesser [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Once, I worked with an old woman with cancer of the heart.She worked all day, then all night,then in the morning would walk into the kitchen,open the door to the yard,and walk through the sunlight.When I was with her, I did not notice that her breasts had fallen,that the fingers of one hand were deep within the hollows of her shoulders,and I never saw her face,only the rind and husk of her belly,the wrinkled skin of her arms and legs.I never saw her face,only the rind and husk of her belly.The days I worked with her, I never noticed that her breasts had fallen,that the fingers of one hand were deep within the hollows of her shoulders,and I never saw her face,only the rind and husk of her belly,the wrinkled skin of her arms and legs.The old woman died, and I buried her.I didn't think of the name of her son,only the soil I put him in.And I buried the old woman with cancer with sunlight,so that her son would never know what her face lookedlike, or her breasts,or her belly,or the way her feet were curledand the way her arms were folded.I didn't think of the name of her son,only the soil I put him in. <|endoftext|> "A Woman's Right to the City", by Maryann Corbett Doane [Living, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] A woman can do anything She wants to, for now; Till she gets old and starts to feel A little flat in the head. So she goes to the movies With her son, and she smiles At all the little actors She sees on the big screen, And then she closes the movie And sits on the bus, or on a plane With a stiff collar, and never Tells a soul. But it's so hard to keep A soul on the moving sidewalk, Where everybody sees Everything. A woman can do anything She wants to, for now; Till she gets old and starts to feel A little flat in the head. <|endoftext|> "Coppola's Sermon in Chicago", by Paul Carroll [Living, The Body, Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics] It's on the dirt bike, His first ride, and his Bike rings and screeches, And the prancing men on it Move him to tears. It's on the dirt bike That Keanu Reeves goes Full tilt, turning and twisting With the speed of him. It's on the dirt bike That Angelina Jolie goes Full tilt, spinning and spinning As if she had been practising On a treadmill. It's on the dirt bike That Brad Pitt goes Full tilt, and his Dirt bike moves like a Ground sloth, he goes As if he'd been practising On a treadmill. It's on the dirt bike That hulking Schwarzenegger goes Full tilt, and the Bike flies off his hands As he tries to stay in Control. It's on the dirt bike That big Anghel bears Goliath-like to defeat, And he rides, for it's Fast out there. It's on the dirt bike That Arnold goes Full tilt, and his Bike whips by and He goes as if he'd been practising On a treadmill. It's on the dirt bike That Conan goes Full tilt, and he goes As if he'd been practising On a treadmill. It's on the dirt bike That Calvin Klein goes Full tilt, and the Dirt bike whips by As he tries to stay in Control. It's on the dirt bike That Gwyneth Paltrow goes Full tilt, and the Dirt bike moves her Mind. It's on the dirt bike That Audrey Hepburn goes Full tilt, and the Dirt bike moves her Farther away. It's on the dirt bike That Arnold does What he does best, <|endoftext|> And the vine-clad slopes and the breast of the plain. I sat by the gate when the sun sank low, And watched the shadows stealing through the trees, And the moving speck that was the shadow of a bird, And the shadow of a house, and the shadow of a wall, And the shadow of a wheel, and the shadow of a book. There was a sound of hurrying feet, a door shut, And then the night closed over me. The long black lane Stole towards me, and soon I was standing alone, And in the midst of it a door slid open wide. "Come in!" called someone. I went through, and found A long low room with black carpets spread. There were people there, some of them asleep; And one of them, a man, came up and called me, "Come, we must talk!" He had on a purple robe, And his face was like a mistake. I sat down and fanned myself with my hand With its other hand (it was like a flower That had been thrown aside); And he sat down beside me, leaned his face Against my face, and held his hands out, Together, palms to palms. "Why do you look at me with eyes of love? I am to sleep now; you must not look at me With eyes of hate. We must talk." I moved my face away and met his eyes That had followed me through the gate "The trees are on fire," he whispered, and threw His head back, then, suddenly, he clapped his hands Together, and went swiftly through the door. I followed him, but when we reached the table And the fire, I sat down suddenly awake, And I could hear what he and I had been Then he began: "I was a novice in the darkness Of a foolish man's heart. But one day I rose And followed the light, and followed it down, And followed it even when it turned back, Into the very farthest of the lights of life. And the light changed me. And when the darkness came, And I stood on the edge of a great weeping, The tears fell on my body and the rain And the weeping and the crying made me mad. I clung to a branch, and then another; I clung and clung. I clung and clung until My hands and feet and waist and hair were touched Only by the lightning, and I was left A form from the darkness. But even then, When I was hard pressed, I did not give up. There are two kinds of pleasure. The first is Sensual, the second intellectual; And the angels name me intellectual. The bodily is contrasted with the intellectual, But the intensity of pleasure is not the same. The pleasures of the body are less real The sun falls slowly down the sky, And the river roars like a torrent In the red west. I have been wide awake All night, waiting for you. You have been silent, And yet I know you are listening. I lay My love in your arms the last night. We walk in the park now and then together. I have forgotten your absence, and yet The quiet air is restless. It murmurs Of birds that are sailing to the sky. I know The men that pass are not thinking of me, But of their love affairs, of their ladies, Of dress and fashion. And yet I am not lonely, For we are seldom apart. I dreamed a dream of you the other night. I dreamed that we were in the mountains, Lonely and lost. The wind it wailed and moaned, And the rain fell upon the mountains, And they made a terrible uproar, And they made the valley shake and shiver With such wonder and longing and longing. The day was hot and even in the shade. We walked in the valley together. It was the third day that we had walked together In the mountains. We went up a hill together, And the road was very steep and long, Through the open grassy meadows. The sun it set On dark cliffs and silent caverns. And then We went under the branches of huge trees, And then a forest of your tulips grew, And then a meadow filled with sunshine. The sun is shining on your yellow tulip garden, On your dark purple meadow, on your purple tent. But the silver dew is not yet fallen, And the wild wind is a-wave upon the sea. It sways and trembles on the hidden shore. It is the time when you open your garden doors. <|endoftext|> Oh, wonderful! How I have waited For this hour all my life--the hour when birds Are singing, and you must come and sing for me! And now, so very long ago, so long That I could not think of it time--you came! And sang for hours. And sang unto my soul, And filled it with their beauty. And I grew To love each sweet sound they sang to me, As I had loved my mother. You made me glad And gladder every time you sang them--songs That I had not yet heard. And then the years Fell on me, one by one, one after one, Until they took my breath away. I heard No more the voice of my mother, and I heard No more the song. But they have not taken my life Either; for, long, I have watched for you, and watched Until the hour of sleep. And when the hour Comes, you come to me, and watch till sleep. And so I watch and wait, till all the years Shall not be one year more--one year more, two years, But years that are only one breath. Sing low, sing low, for oh, your notes are kind, And bright as moonlight in its noon-day light! Your notes are sweet as any flower that blows 'Neath evening skies; Your notes are bright as dreams of rose-wreathed beds, That oft, I think, at night have blest my dreams, And glad are all their tints. Sing low, sing low, and oh, your notes are sweet, But sweet as hell-fire on the sharpened steel! And yet the harsh heels of Death's dreary gnome Are beat for no weak flowers. "Strike, oh, strike your bugle till I die, Or it may be while the red sun's bright fires Are creeping there above the wall." Sing low, sing low, and oh, your notes are sweet, But sweet as hell's own doom-bells' thundering dull. And yet, I think, the night-wind's bitter cold Would freeze your strings at times. "Blow, oh, blow, and let my king come soon, And all this battle-toll may rejoice." Sing low, sing low, and oh, your notes are sweet. I will not tell the wonders of that night, Nor how we saw our king, nor how our band Bristled with glory, and the foe dispirited, And how we turned the swords upon ourselves, And buckled'd gauntlets on our wrists. Sing low, sing low, for oh, your notes are sweet. I cannot sing. I am but a man, And my low notes are like a woman's sighs, And sweet are all their tints, But rare, and sweeter than your flowers are, Your notes are, too, but oh, too sweet. I was the band That through the city of Valencia, Tove's brave sons in state, Came joyfully as day broke Upon a land of many stores, Of gold and silver mines, And fertile fields of wheat and oats, And lovely women, fair and young, And noble hearts, brave hearts of old, And years of proud and glorious fame. I was the band That in Algaziers, The noble Alerveresque land, Riding at ease, The morning grey of morning saw, Fair ladies, golden-tird, And knights all glorious, bold and keen, And battle-biding men, In the great day's first fire, the dawn of day, Unwakened, yet as one awakening, The sleeper, and awaking, saw The dawning glory of the sun That day break on a world of woe. I was the band That, long a-dying, In a mighty host, A thousand ships out-chanting, The glorious Queen of Sicily Sent forth with glee, Her gallant brood, the Alegrethines, And brave Castiglion heroes strong, <|endoftext|> "It is in vain that I call thee; the love of the Past And the dreams of the Future repossess thee. Let me but sleep and slumber on, but not a line Write I of thee, and none shall be added to thy name." "Like unto the grey swan that sweetly sings Till she findeth a mate, yet never sows Her seed, are ye, who cannot find the way Which please both thee and me. And I would give My part of the world to have parted from ye In the past. And now ye flaunt forth your lays Like two carrion birds that have a quarrel, And in your outrage there is no pity." "Thou hast divided me," quoth she, "yet not I That see so far into my heart thy loss. But since that I have lost thy love, O God, That hath thy children in its heart, so may I never lose another like to thee, And may I ever sing, and not give place Unto some liner's wreaths." "I will give thee my love, and nought else give, If that the ring, the god may not gain it, Whose joy it is to live for aye, and to Be for aye endued with the world's delight. He never will deny that he takes it, Who has given up all else to get it. But there must be an end of my loving, For I cannot live without it." "What art thou, saying?" quoth she. "Art thou the one, with whom the gods should meet When thou hast taken thy farewell of me?" Quoth he: "It may not be, for to me that, I have sacrificed all else but thee." "Then it is thou," said she, "that dost misdeem; For thou hast not henceforth anything To look for, or to promise, or to hope, Or to desire, or to dream, or to think; And a little while, and the grave will be Thy refuge; there thy crown shall be made whole." With a fond kiss, and a fond look on his face, She drew him to her heart and he was there. Alas, how strange is love! In that sweet kiss The world and the heart and the world were one. For as her soul into his world passed, So a spell settled upon his heart, As though it had been the living part, Whose land within the heaven was divided. What should he do? Should he go mad with love, And die, and go out to a strange sea-boat To go and follow her, and end his life? Should he still live on, wearily, until She found another as divine as he? Should he, like a castle, wall himself about With great masonry, and call it love?--alas, Alas for man! Such is but a pack Of ragged, hopeless superstitions, And madness, a better name. What could he do? A while he lay and gazed at the door, Like a dead tree within a tomb. And then He rose, as one who has no notion How hard is his brief but days, not years, And that he may not die yet. So he went Into the wood, not knowing where he went, And all he encountered was the shade Of a large, yellow, crooked liana-tree. And there he lay and gazed on the wood, For all his hope and all his desire Came back to him upon one words, And then he spoke, as one who has no wit But the quick mercy of God, and he said: "I will go into this wood and I will pray." Then a wan light flickered out of a grave, And a great, grey, gnarled tree came to view, Stretched in the sun upon the grass below. All he had known died in that mighty heart, And his youth was gone, and his hope was dead. Then he knelt down and prayed with a full heart. "Father, whose name is love, for me have pity, Save me from all ills, make me wise and strong To endure and to do thy bidding yet Though I shall be undone. Behold, I pray, The earth and the air and all that is there Are God's creatures; and he hath no need To punish much, if he thy hurts doth hurt Mild be the pain, and mild the salvation. I shall not die, though I am most sad, For death is not great, and I shall rise Soonest when the time is slowest, and I pray That I may see thy face, and thy face be peace." And from that hour his face was veiled in sleep, And the gods hid their eyes from his fear. And he was sent out from the forest, And the people came singing from their fields To join him in his feast. And the rest Will come when they may from their work retire. Then there was silence in the great hall, And every voice was bidden to be still, For the King was gone to his feasting. All things came in remembrance of the day Of the King's dread death. And some spoke aloud In the great hall of a wondrous tale That the Kings must tell at the coming of Their God to their council. But no man spake And no word came to mind. And then came a man out of his place, The Bishop of Rochester, who was then The only man who ever amply fed The poor in this town. And men said to him That they had never seen such ardor and might, Or such love of right, as he now felt For the King. And he rose and came towards them And clasped their hands, and said that he had seen The King and knew what he had done, and he cried-- "The King of heaven has given our city to you, And our King's dear name. Go, be great, and go, For the King of heaven is with you, and I--" And he bowed, and all the people cried aloud, "We have no Bishop like the Bishop of Rochester!" Then the rich Knights of England came in crowds And all the people cried, "We have no Bishops like The Bishop of Rochester!" And all the knights Put forth their hands, and many poor men fed On green New England cheese and butter, and all Knew what it was to them, and they beat his drums And shouted to the world, "We have no Bishops like The Bishop of Rochester!" And now I know what the people meant. I knew what they meant, for I was there. When in the fight he turned and saw The waste and havoc, ere the battle was Over, upon a hill, the King Called to him, "My Sire, now go down And frame you a monument." And Sire Did he hear or d'ye hear, or d'ye know, Or what the King said? He only said, "A monument, a monument, a monument, The men of ancient Rome would know." And the King said, "You hear me, my Sire, And build you the monument." And Sire Called him, "Build, and put my name there And my crown above it." And the King Said, "Build, and make it a God-fearing town, And the men of ancient Rome shall know." And the King was gone. What were men's eyes, what were their hearts, What did their spirits feel when the King Was gone? For my own part, I sought a little yet to answer this, But the great weight of a heavy thought Was too great for my unquiet head. And when at last I was quite alone With my great weight of terror and doubt, And my eyes were opened a little, I saw, and yet I envied the place Where Simeon, that dark old man, sat With his white beard and big tears in his eyes. And I said, "If the King be dead, then, Simeon, We have an Edith, and my place is here." And I said, "You have said it, for I heard you Crying to men, 'Come forth,' for you said, 'God's kingdom Shall come to pass, and the dead white bones be) Then I saw, and yet I envied the place Where Simeon, that dark old man, sat With his white beard and big tears in his eyes. And I said, "But can the dead say such words? Can the dead weep and say such words as I? For my place is here and under this stone, And the angels of God say a great word, And the white bones be dust, and the words are these: <|endoftext|> Who passed me in the road and knew me not, He would have said, "That ain't it, that ain't it, there's somethin' wrong with that!" I've heard them young fellers swear They couldn't make a hit, 'Cept' er like, er hand, er grass, Er ne--err, grass, Er trouble. But they couldn't hit no mo-- Er nothin' 'cept the pore old hole-one. "I couldn't go, Ma, Er git a decent grass cut, Er swing, er jog, er all that, Er swing er hit," they'd say. "If I jine that hard, they say, I'd gitt it broken, I'd see; Er swing, jog, all, all, ole and ole." "I couldn't go, Ma, Er git a decent spot to live, Er all I'd got to do," Er say, "was swing, jog, all, all." Er all that, too, I guess, They'd say--eh! "Swing, jog, all, all." "I wouldn't go, Ma, Er git a grokker-dozer, Er take the new kind of play And all that's in it," Er say, "was sw-h-h-h-hard." But they didn't know nothin'-- Er, swing, jog, all, all. So, I guess that's why They called me "The Poet,"-- That's why they put it on; Er that, and that, and that, Er that and that-- I never could write a song So, you wouldn't believe it. "My pen I rock," he said, "My pen I rock." "My pencil I color," he said, "My pencil I color." "My hat I wear," he said, "My hat I wear." "My hair I cut," he said, "My hair I cut." "My shirt I hem," he said, "My shirt I hem." "My train I ride," he said, "My train I ride." "I don't know," he said, "What you mean," said Jim. "What do you mean," said Jim. "I know what you mean," said Jill. "You don't know what I mean," said Jim. "Well, it ain't true," said Jill. The goose-yose said to the hen-yose, "Come, let us go to the bracken-meadows, The trees all green, and the grass all green, And the hills all green, and the valleys all green, And the dreams all green, and the tears all green, All for a little girl who has a book She thinks is a beautiful book, And wishes it were true that it's name was The Key. And she's sitting alone in her room, The windows of her dwelling all open, And she's looking out, and she's hoping to see The glimmer of sunshine on the grass, The hills, the valleys, and the woods, And her own whisper in the rustling leaf, But there's nothing, and her heart beats low For a moment, and she cries, 'The damned book! It's all a delusion; I'll read it some day That'll make me believe it all, and then I'll come home, close the windows, and think Of other things.' 'But you never will,' said the goose-yose. 'I come hungry, I come for my breakfast, I come for my crumbs, and I'm going to eat them, And if I don't I never will again. And why should I come if you won't read me A book that I can read myself, that's worth More than all the books in the library. And what is the use of you turning your back On a hungry goose like myself, if you don't Believe in the joy of books, and read me Of good old-fashion'd tales of knights and kings, And never let me read anything by you, But only stories that make you cry, and so I come and I roost among your branches, And when you read, and when you think, I come To help you with your book, and when you're done I dance away, with a little giggle, And I make a farthing to buy you some And I spend it on a little cake, And I think of nothing but of your leaves, And of nothing but your cawing daughters, And of nothing but the giant springing Grass that springs for three whole days and nights With one little treble, and of nothing But your little wrens, chirping loud and gay, And of nothing but the little game Of pigeon-wing that some day you may play With a golden-cheeked girl who sings And touches her golden locks and looks So long at the sun, and then turns To her nest, and sing some more to her, And so she sings and sings till it's day, And when it is she takes her child And runs and kisses him and then she sings, And then she runs and tells her mother, And then she runs to the stable, and there She lies down in the straw and cries. Oh, the moon was lonely, for she loved To sit and look upon the glittering earth, But the stars were very lonely, Lonely, and listened, and did not pity her, For pity takes the eyes of a star Oftn the still moon, for the feet of a lover. But the moon could not go back to the sky And the stars to the corners of the world, For she would only grieve and grieve and grieve, And nothing can be born if a star is not. So they left her and said, 'We will make her a woman.' And they began and soon they had brought forth A woman all of golden tints, With eyes of rosy light And the wings of lilac-coloured air. She had great golden hair, And a little crown of tulip-trees, And a little dress with yellow silks Wherein a princess could not be seen. And the wind at her feet Kissed the gold of her feet; And the gleam of her crown Shone like the rays of the moon in the river. And they cried, 'Behold the product of Love And the work of a Queen's woman's hands.' They brought her to the throne And they set her there, And they set a ruby red With a little globe of burning sand At her right hand for a ring, And they said, 'She shall not wear it, For it has the blood of a girl In it, and a great king's reason For having given it to her, But she'll keep it, for she can, And she'll say the words that are written In the book of Royal Challenges Where the answers of royal questions Are the words that are not writ.' And the blood of a maid Was in her hands; And a little light shone out From the ruby red On the firm gold throne And the princess with a smile 'Makes her will by the smile of her hands For a great king's reasons, Not her own reasons, But the things that a king can see In the things that he has seen When he has taken the thing that was not his. There was not much room For the King to work But there was a little chair And a little table to work on at So he set to work And he carved for a long time And made things with his hands And he made things fly And he made things go And he made things turn, And the wind of the summer night Made the lilac blooms fall down In a purple trail From the tree of blue. And he lifted a lilac blossom And he took her in his hands And he spoke and commanded her 'I will make you a woman And I will make her fair And I will make her young And I will make her fair and young And I will make her for a bride And a queen's sister.' But the lilac blossoms blowing All around him Made a purple trail On the bright white table-cloth And the little table top And the carpet as he sat All through the long May afternoon Crowded with princesses All in holiday colour All in lilac attire For a fair queen's fair queen's fair queen's fair queen's fair queen's fair queen's fair queen's fair queen's day. They had their lilac blossom blowing All around him <|endoftext|> Yet have I friends, Friends that are fair and dear. Oh, I have friends, my darling, All that's sweet and true. And, for all that I have worth, My darling, I am poor. "Sweetest, dearest, best, The land is all to me; For thee and for thee, For me the sea is wide, My father's hills and meadows bare, And meadows that I know. And the high hills of course, And the valleys green and wide, For thee and me are thine, And thine for me the sea, 'Tis all for me, my darling." We took the road once, and it was a joy to roam; I'm weary of the town and the chain of the booth. The road of the forest has a green, cool end; A wood-fire bright is dancing in the bowlder's blaze. It is strange to be leaving the town's sedentary throng; Strange to be roaming alone, in a strange place, alone, While the air grows warmer, and the shadows grow longer. The road is winding, and has many a curve and dip; Weary, and thirsty, and worn, and beaten, and sorely bent, But the journey has a mien of delirious delight. A feel of the wind through the garment of the trees; A feeling of freedom; and there's a buoyancy in motion, That fills the heart with a new world of gladness. In the woods the stars of the narrow and coarse day; In the woods the stars of the misty and cool night; In the woods the moon that is lucent and still; And the crisp and clear music of the nightingales. It is the best of all times, my darling, and this The best of all seasons for us to be together. We have travelled a circuit, and covered a length of road; There is much to be said for the road, and the towns we have seen; But I feel as if we were entering a different land. The road is moist and shady, and many a stream is seen; I feel as if we were entering a new land, and that we Were on the wing for the new land, and it was the fulness of breath That prompted the speech that we were speaking, before we knew The cause, or the cause comprehended the meaning, or the sense. The road is the road, but it is a much wider journey To the country of my heart's deepest longings, and the rest That I yearn to pursue. It is a journey that must Be continuous, continuous, and at times of great hardship. It is a journey that requires of a man the sale of some one dear, And the tying of the heart in a strait no bow can excite anew. I would love to retrace our steps, to watch our steps as we journeying, To see how they are progressing, and what the progress of my heart. It is joy to be travelling, it is rest to reflect that we are journeying, And when night comes, we know that it is time to descend to the shore, And to turn from our journey and to descry the rising land. For of all the delights that a man can be holding at the moment, One delights him more than all the rest, and that is the journey that he is taking. We are here together, Do not sever, nor are we broken, I will come to thee and I will hold thee, And I am thine on this happy journey. Here by thy mother's door I am standing, And if thou wilt, let me live here with thee, For without thee I know not where to go. I cannot live without thee, my darling, I cannot live without thee, For without thee I know not where to go. If thou must have a friend, And thy heart tells thee that thou art ready to die for him, Choose a friend in the fullest, most obvious manner; Choose a father, and a brother, and a husband, And a cousin, and a son-in-law, and a slave-mate, And a priest, and a sweetheart, and a chaste, true-loved slave. Choose him now, ere the wine be poured, And before the meal be spread; He must be thine entirely, And he must always be thine. What's a hand-basket, darling? Darling, it is nothing to me; What is it made of? ivory, And what is its value? a satin sleeve. And what is a hand-basket? a mystery. What's a knife-sheath, darling? Darling, it is nothing to me; What is it made of? pure silk, What is its value? a jewel. And what is a knife-sheath? a mystery. What's a hair-dryer, darling? Darling, it is nothing to me; What is it made of? spangles, What is its value? a silk- purse. And what is a hair-dryer? a substance. What's a candlestick, darling? Darling, it is nothing to me; What is it made of? candles, What is its value? a spark; And what is a candlestick? a fitting. What is a candlestick, darling? Darling, it is nothing to me; What is it made of? glass, What is its value? a thimble. And what is a candlestick? a little feather. Darling, it is nothing to me! Darling, nothing is it to me! Darling, let it go! I have wooed and I have married But alas! I cannot sing; For I have no silk-socks, No sweetheart, no husband, And a valentine for Violet Not to be lost. Fools rush in between us, And nothing is the same; Their hands encircle us And their arms encircle us; But our kisses are deep and free, Darling, and not long; And the fools all die in sin, And the prayers all come to naught, And love is a dying thing, Darling, and a solitary thing. The light leaves my life, And I am left all alone; The hush of the day is over, And the wan light of the moon. It comes in a solemn way, It goes on a glad way, And the silence of my heart Is the silence of a lullaby. The wild wind is in the tree, And the branches are swinging; The sea shines in the sun, And there is nothing to do; But I hear thee, my own dear, My own dear, anywhere, And my heart is a horizon Where thy singing is dear. To-day is a holiday, To-day is a holiday, And I have none to take me away, To-day is a holiday. On the grass I lay me down, And I dare not to move, For who would have me away On a holiday. A friend of my early childhood, Long dead, appeared to me in life again for one day. I saw him again in all he was then, for all he is now; In all he will be, for all he has bound to be; And this is my warning to you, who play with tykes, Old men and little boys, beware of the spirit of the times That may have your children playing in them. There was once a time when men were wise; And you, who are but a fool like I, You know all this, you know all this, You know not one whit about it. Men were wise in time ere men were fools; And you, for all your covetousness, Know nothing of this time before it was time. Men were wise in time ere men were ill; And you, for all your covetousness, Know nothing of the time before time was time. But now it is so, and now it is not; It is always, and it is never now, It never was, it never can be. It is not the golden pomp and glory, It is not fame at last, at last is glory, It is the little things that kill us, It is the little things we should most remember That make us young and old together. For my heart is full, O my love, For my heart is full of your love's praise; Full of the things you do to make me glad For my heart is full, O my love. For my heart is full, O my love, <|endoftext|> The palaces and the courts and towers; The Vulture's nesting-place with us is known, The trees of Ossa which she swept with ease, And Thrinacia's ever-yielding shore; And shadowy Argo with her golden prow, By which the fleets of Greece on sunny days Are ferried o'er the briny deep to Troy; Or where a fable is told of old The Theban monster, the heron tall, Who daily to the altars came Of ancient Danaus, to the oracle Of Ismenus the augur,--predestined thing, To seek from out the prophet's store Where may the secret bemost to learn. Her sight they sought,--but she was dead; They sought,--and found;--and felt their strangeness; And were forgot,--and found; and felt it good; No idle fever in the vein, No subtle nettle at the nerve; But the great soul was made free Of the gross body and the lower mind; Their loneliness was roused to love, And made them peers of gods,--of gods the men. Lavinia heard the tale with joy; Her husband's gentle hands had taught her This lore of shrewd prudence, this lore of state; The gentle life, the quiet life, Had been the life of Greece in those old days, Of Greece in those old days as now. "You seek, or know, or teach, or both seek?" Said Nestor, smiling on her, to learn What soul was hers that night beside the king; "What god is hers that night beside the king? For when has fame, or knowledge, flagged The heart or senses in my house? "If some old man, unctuous of tongue, Or senile of mind, your rapture pales, I hear the clamorous battle-tally Of cimeters to the mint of old, Of laments to Pallas, creeds to Mars, Of arms to many a glorious star, "But tell me of the Grecians," and he said: "No man may with one half the race Share one part,--nor yet with all the rest Give all his mind,--but be the first To lift the hand and speak the word, The last to feed the hearth with bread. "Achilles first, a hero tall With heart and strength, you know, Achilles, With all his life behind him. Not May you, Lavinia, with one half the race Share one part,--nor yet with all the rest Give all his mind,--but be the first To lift the hand and speak the word, The last to feed the hearth with bread." "The son of Peleus, no unblemished thing, Achilles may not be," she said; "For none may match him in the wildest strife, But heretofore he was a mean man, And would be little now, a haughty man, "And little loved, if this you know, He was the son of earth and sun; His pride was like the flowers that spring About the knees of kings in May, And all men hated him; but now The dust of death has lifted up his face, "And I must feed him, or be trodden like the grass. This is the seed-time of a king, And time for one who has a mind to strive. What lord has strength to smite him, have at him, To make him feel the sharpest pangs? You, who are little, are afraid to do it. "The spear is grass, and is overcome; The sword is water, and is dulled By touch of dryness that was eagerness; The axe is fire, and is taken By one that moves in spirit to might. Be not like him, O stalwart hand, And lean and long, and shine like sparks; "For you are grass, and are overcome; For you are sword, and are dulled By touch of dryness that was eagerness; For you are axe, and are taken By one that moves in spirit to might; Be not like him, O stalwart hand, And lean and long, and shine like sparks." The gray old man was silent awhile, And then began to tell his tale again: "In those old days a girl was born in Troy, Born long ago, and named Helen, even Long before the fame of Priam began To swell above Ilion's lofty hills, The Ilian noble; Priam bred the trouble, For he would rule in heaven the city men, But gods above him hold their sway. "There rose a war among the gods, A civil war, wherein man leaned to man, And fought and won, for brother held his hand, And strove to save the lesser crowns from fate, And swore never to smite a brother god, With red hand, from solemly law to lay; But one, great Anckaios (26) feared not this, Who conquered Peleus in a reckless fight, And thrust against Achilles, crying 'Slay The god, and let his blood be fellow mine.' "But when the battle-eager god came down To save Troy from slaughter, then Peleus' son Showed him a thing that stunned his fervent heart: A flinty stone, which shattered at a toss The war-impregnate skin of him who bore, He hurled; the ponderous mass he smote Down on his errand and his errand only, But to the earth the wretched charioteer, And chariot, and man, and horse, lay dead. "Anckaios fled, a pitiful man, But Troy's young hero Menelaus slew With stones and spear, and haughty heroes fell, As Aias, Agamemnon, and especially Eurypylus, Teucer, and dragg'd in iron chains Menes, even Priam's son, to death; But he, a god to men, made sorrow there For all his people slain before his gates. "And now the people, trembling, sought to hide The city, but Menelaus from him drove, And bade all Troy's darlings to the gates Rush forth, and with them pour all their might, That none by dogs and shields might perish there. The citizens obey'd him with a shout That rent the air, and throng'd within the wall. "And now by Teucer's mighty spear was slain A general of the Trojan troops, Pandocus, Whom when Aeneas from the slaughter rise And launch'd his spear, the chief had aimed at none But stout-hearted Hicetaon; but he Was stunned, and stricken to the earth he lay Beside his chariot; in the hand he bore The sword of Sidon's young hero chief, For from Ida's peak he had return'd The dawn, and reared his brow to heaven, As late the Thunderer dash'd his thunder on Pelion's top, and shake'd the solid earth. "Yet could he hope to rise again, I think, Since in the spear's point, by hotest ardour stung, The life first cut was from his muscles, and then The bitter cold of death the humour fed; But when from the wound he felt the cold, then sore And pain overwhelmed him, and he dropp'd his spear. Therewith he smote him; but the Dardan Chief, Who by the feet was dragg'd along, return'd His attention to his comrades, and stood Unshaken; then Menelaus to him cried: 'What hast thou, valiant warrior, done to us To turn us thus from battle? we yield to thee The horse and men; the very weapons we wield Shall lose their power to strike, but thou must flee.' "'Ajax, in pride and glory wilt thou flee, And cower beneath the mighty lion's paw, When in the fenced camp thy comrades meet, But seek in darkness to elude the foe, Though thou be glorious amongst the host of men?' "So he, with haughty words; but Ajax answer'd straight: 'No man, Teucer, is feeble of his feet, And shame it were to flee from thee, for whom The Gods in secret valour have ordain'd To fall amid the Trojan ranks, while thou Inspire, this day, a mighty host to fight. This too I say, and take it in the truth: Though Jove's command have trample'd on me, To thee this multitude shall follow me <|endoftext|> Easing him, her mantle's hem Involved in flowers, he presses close, And thus, caressing, speaks to her: Her smile is kind and sweet; The thought, a solemn thought Takes hold upon her fancy, She looks like a young June flower Beneath the summer skies; Her arms, outstretched, are white And calm her bosom, And when she smiles, oh, how sweet Is like to thine. What makes thy forehead thus So stern and bright? With eyes so mild and calm Canst thou not know distress? Is not love enough for thee? And needst not love too be So pale and spare? Who holds thee to such height Above the rest, The low, the lowly, The meek, the meek? Tell'st thou the captive crowd How great a lord They have in thee to shame A prince's crown? They flatter. They list. They bow And scrape and scrape, To catch the golden dyes That flash from thy crown, Which for the crowd Is low, is humble, And is the crown That brightens all. Who makes thee so high Above the rest, The high, the lowly, The meek, the meek? Is not love enough for thee? Love bids thee be Like all the rest. He stoops, he lays him down, With sighs and sweats; And then in dust and dirt The paint once more is spilt, And all is bright again With light divine From thy bright, sunbright hair And crown of gold. "Thou art not like the others Of modest mien and mien, Though thrift is in thy face, Thy looks are always gentle, Like winter and May. Thou art not like the others In mien or in feature, For thou art gentle and meek, And those that are grave and slow And frown all the day; Thou art not like the others In mien or in feature, For thou art gentle and meek, And those that are grave and slow And frown all the day." I lifted up mine eyes And gazed a long while Upon that lady's face Who scorned the mirth of men, Nor joined their jests. She shunned the laugh of men, She joined not their mirth; Her look was the look that goes Wherever vales are low, Wherever mellowing days And hardiness are. I lifted up mine eyes And gazed a long while Upon that lady's face, And lo! she was gone Where now she trod, By many feet and line Of bright, melodious men, By many hearts as glad And many lips as sweet As ever breathed a song. I thought her only A shadow in the sky, And only a girl With shining, shadowy hair, And shining, shadow-eyes, With no life but how to keep Sweet lonely days and sweet Lonely nights, when the moon Is as the blood in her cheeks, And the stars are her people. But she is of other seas Than mine or the ocean's foam: She is of waters green, Of summer afternoons, Of lips that like the sound Of one from lands afar Has come back to love them well, Of heart that has no woe But laughter in its depths. A wind from far hills blown, The rain that cometh not, The laughter of children, Are sweeter than the song Of ocean's weedy brim; A wind from far hills blown, The rain that cometh not, The laughter of children, Are sweeter than the song Of ocean's weedy brim. She is of starry blood, Of lips that like the sound Of one from lands afar Has come back to love them well, Of heart that has no woe But laughter in its depths. She is of starry blood, Of lips that like the sound Of one from lands afar Has come back to love them well, Of heart that has no woe But laughter in its depths. And now in her own home, All her loved ones near her, She has broken the water That fell from her eyes; And, like the sea, she has risen To where the sky and the sand Were one in beauty; And now in her own home, All her loved ones near her, She has broken the water That fell from her eyes. She hath bound her hair with a white ribbon As white as the moonbeams; She hath bound her tresses with a little girdle As white as the drifting snow; She hath taken the Angel of the wind and a crown As white as the drifting snow. Her footfalls are melodious, And all the air is jubilant; And white-winged angels sing beside her, And under her wings, And by her hair; And where she passeth she mocks the seaman Who failed and was afraid. Her voice is a note underlining, Whose twelve-fold number threescore In exordium replies; Her voice is a note underlining, Whose twelve-fold number threescore In exordium replies. Like a white-breasted pheasant, Or a red-breasted pheasant, Or a gray partridge, redbreast, Or a quail, white-plumed, Or a sparrow, white-throated, Or a chipping cuckoo, Or a wren, white-throated, Or a nightingale, Or a sparrow-thrush, Or a nightingale, Or a partridge, red-breasted, Or a partridge, red-breasted. Of a girlish grace and strangeness, Of a laughing mouth and eye, Of a supple waist and slender waist-line, Of a wrist that seems made for twining Roses in its own brown hair, And a small, brown, quiet mouth That is suddenly wide and red When it sings, as you have heard it sing, In the spring, the spring, the spring. O, the lips that kiss and the lips that spank! O, the laughing lips that can make The blood slow in a moment turn to sweet And the blood quick in a moment to sicken, O, the lips that shake the cataracts of May And the whirlwinds of June and make them fly Like a red wave and a white, cold sea. Like a spotted child, a slow-paced child, With a ruffled pinafore and periwinkle Shining and streaking like a morning-star, O, the lips that sing and the lids that hide As the swallow and the crane and the chough, And the little lips, thou hast never thought of, That can make you love them, O, as well As the great lips, God's great lips, the great lips blow. Like a white-headed bee that doth go Over the fields to a flowering flower, And a flower to another wide field Beyond the wall, where a brickyard works And a brickyard-smoke doth shine and swirl, O, the lips that sing and the lids that hide As the swallow and the crane and the chough, And the little lips, thou hast never thought of, That can make you love them, O, as well As the great lips, God's great lips, the great lips blow. Like a lozenge-headed woman in the sun, With a long gold robe and a red breast-knot, O, the lips that sing and the lids that hide As the swallow and the crane and the chough, And the little lips, thou hast never thought of, That can make you love them, O, as well As the great lips, God's great lips, the great lips blow. Like a woman that out of the sea-foam Hath been taken in the tide that follows A red-plowed boat, and a bloom that drips From a great wave's foot, and a little mouth That makes lament when it is kissed and flies, O, the lips that sing and the lids that hide As the swallow and the crane and the chough, And the little lips thou hast never thought of, That can make you love them, O, as well As the great lips, God's great lips, the great lips blow. Like a high-bosomed maiden that hath had Her fill of love under heaven and love, O, the lips that sing and the lids that hide As the swallow and the crane and the chough, <|endoftext|> Of beauty fair: to him the crown Of such a garden shall belong, That not without reason grafted, It, all its goodly fruitage bore. The youth was prompt to learn the lore, And made the mortal rite his own: The callow child his mother's care Supplied, with lips, but not with heart; And as a moth, that seeks the flame, His youth's hot fire, with timid hand, Would touch the fuel, but would rest And burn again, so sought, so touched not: So passed his early day; and on The hour of even-tide, when round The church the clouds had gathered fast, Came the tall priest, and showed the sign, Bade the loud chant be resumed; Vainly the child made hasty love To Joanna, and was pierced and bound. But when the dead only came, And passed the living Joanna by, Waking, he thought, "No danger fear, Though near her arms he fell; his sins Will in safety for him take leave, And safely to heaven fly away." Fear came upon him in the night, He thought, "I heard the priest say I well may die, and now must die; If God receive the sacrifice, I shall be pardoned for my sins, For with this deadly deadly sin My heart was wholly hardened." The youth was listening to a priest Whose voice he never heard before; And with the voice his heart was bound, And as he listened more and more, His feet were led to do the thing Called by the priest, nor had he aught Of his own thoughts, but was persuaded. He took her arms, and while he knelt Besought the God that she might please, And thanked her for her beauty sweet, Her worth, and goodness, and her smile; And then he cast his love aside, And thought, "I'll sacrifice my life, And gain a sacrifice for thee." There be three trees, the tree of Good and evil, the tree of The full moon, the tree of The despairing, the weeping Tree, the tree of the dead. Thou wilt be grown upon The grave of thy Lord, I ween. Come out to me, firstling of the year, Come out to me, darling of the year! For the sun is headstrong and wild and bold; And the wind is wrath and love is young; And the earth is cold and the skies are white; And the buds are beginning, soon to break. Come out to me, darling of the year! Come out to me, darling of the year! For the night is soon over and done; And the day is soon over and done; And the god is calling, soon to break; And the flowers beginning, soon to break. Come out to me, firstling of the year, Come out to me, darling of the year! For spring is in the air; and the ray Of the sun is out; and the wind is light; And the flowers are breaking; soon the fruit Will come in, and soon the season last. Come out to me, firstling of the year, Come out to me, darling of the year! For soon the merry time will be, With the ring of the cornchucks' bell, With the crack of the farmer's whip, And the caw of the crow,--soon the dust Will have come into the little place. Come out to me, firstling of the year! Come out to me, darling of the year! For soon the dusty way will be With the flight of the kites and the glow Of the firelight, and the sound of the droves Of sheep that come to fold, soon the corn Will be mowing, and soon the sun will be Once more beneath the elm trees shading. Come out to me, firstling of the year! Come out to me, darling of the year! For soon the forest will be bare, And the fields and the barns will be hay; And the hedge will be dead and the trees Fallen over; and the garden soon Will be taken and made forlorn; And the brook will have lost its shining. Come out to me, firstling of the year! Come out to me, darling of the year! And I'll have company, soon to be Ripe for the singing of birds and the sun, And the lark that goes up to the light. I'll have company, soon to be Ripe for the singing of birds and the sun, And the lark that goes up to the light. I'm ready, Mother, to go with thee, I've put the dagger in my belt, And the knife in my side, and the knife in my side. The knight is dead, the knight is dead, No more shall man dare in arms contend. Ah, now my heart is made glad, As when of old a dewdrop, That had fallen for many a year In secret out of clouds, Was pricked out by Zephyr's breath And in the sunshine found a tongue, And bade us rejoice and sing. I have given up every care, I know that I am death's, But the little fellow cries and cries And makes me afraid of sorrow; I have taught him all his wisdom But still he is a naughty child. The little fellow cries and cries And says that he would rather Be dead and eaten by worms Than eat a stomach's ruination; God! but he's a naughty, naughty, No, no, no, no, no, no, child! He clasps his poor mother With arms like strong bars, For love holds every limb that he In fetters of delight, But when his lips they do meet, A flood-tide of music gushes And sweetly on his soul it falls. And softly from her dripping cell She calls his name with shriekings loud, And weeps till she swoons, And hears the warders curse the day That she was born. She weeps herself until her wild tears Fall on the clothes that she is sewing, And wet through hair and nails, And on the edge of her needle's head. But when the dawn of morning came She felt a storm of glory Come over her, and cried, "Oh, this is glorious, my love, Oh, this is wonderful! The angels are calling my name, Oh, tell me it is true, Oh, tell me it is true." She turned her face from the wall, The colors from her eyes Fall on the clothes she is weaving, And drenches her needle's point. And in her heart she hears the music From the angels that sing, And her soul grows keen and strong, She leaps out of her bed With a cry of joy. There's a farmer in Old Ireland, He lives on the shore of a beautiful bay. He has a daughter, and he has a fair And a true-hearted heart. The world has aye been her friend, But she loves him the best of all. I could never go to Ireland If I had a penny, I could only stay if I had a son And a gun. I could never go to Ireland If I had both a man And a gun, And I'm not going to if I have neither. The day I miss the Old Dominion It is the day I miss her riders With teeth so bright. The day I miss the Old Dominion The wayward heroes That roam the forest wastelands, With eyes like the ocean, With skin as burnished as steel, And burning lungs, And feet as steel-walled as brass, And burning souls, Are all within my reach, I can only miss them If I have a gun. I have seen the flag of Old Virginia Flap in the wind like a gossamer, And dip as foul brooklets do; I have heard her cavalry, I have heard her artillery, With thunder and strident roar, As once upon the sleepy plain, The shriek of the scare-fires of old Virginia. We hear the call of the wild-woods Call throughout the year; The din of the fairways made by gabbling birches, The moan of the mill-dam, and the buzz of the bees In every green leaf, Everywhere the sound of the call, the call of the old Virginian. All over our fair home state, All over it in fair figures, The rifle-shots ring, As down the hill the battle goes, And on its crest, The broad red banner of the Confederacy <|endoftext|> The dust, it was a wonderful sight To see the roads in their moist array, The ruts and rollers, bridle-ways, Where fans of dust from off the wheels, From off the roadbeds and from off the seats, From off the axles and from off the frames, Dried to a gleaming and immovable haze Prepared for the spectators at the start, For all to see when the start was due. I thought the dust was going to desert The world, when on the Saturday night I saw the lightning stroke of white In the blue and wavering glow-worm light, That trembled in the northwest air, As though a storm had broken out, And all the stars were by the fire In the new year, with eager look. As I came from church that night, As I was coming out at the cross Of the long city block, I heard The voice of a man upon the street, And near by me saw the smoky path Where his old red toboggan stretched Beside the bar of red bar-room, A little dusty in its light; And I thought of him as I passed Toward the dark and open street Of my own neighborhood. And as I turned the sod away And raised the cover of the brick, And the walls grew dark and still, I thought of the countless dead In air that night who never came From the dark and open street Of my own neighborhood. I looked in dream upon The dusty room of my youth, And, with a mighty joy, I saw The walls and windows all ablaze, And my old room all aflame too, As when the fires of Christmas break Through the glass and cover sea and land For a night of peace on Christmas Eve. I walked in the fire-lit town As I walked upon the plain In the moonlight when your eyes Looked at me across the way; And a great joy I felt As I walked in the fire-lit town In the moonlight on Christmas eve. I looked across the hill-slope low, Into the valley dark, And I heard the footsteps go From the house to a wonder house, A wonder house I saw, Like a little house of magic, With doors of silver shining, And windows of light within, And walls of ivory white. I knew the old wonder-man, And I saw the little house, And I knew the little people, And the songs they sang together, And the toys they played with together, And the pranks they pulled together, And the stories they told together, And the doors they slammed and locking, And the keys they shining, And the wonder-toys they prized, And the wonder-trees they planted, And the wonder-social place they made, And the wonder-house of majesty, And I spoke the words which follow, Knowing they all were true, And the wonder-woman also, And the wonder-women all. I know the wonder-woman, And I know the wonder-men, And all the trees of the woodland, And all the woodland trees, And all the birdies in the air, And the flow'rets that grow the most, And all the fishes of the sea, And all the flowers that blow, And the swift and icy birds, And all their nests they build, And all their songs they sing, And all their hoarding, hoarding. But I will sing you a new song, And sing you a new song, For new lights burn in the sky, New lights burn in the sky, And I sing a new song, And sing a new song, For new light burns in the sky, And the fresh springtime is here. I saw the Christmas log out-spread For the fire on the night's star, And its arms swung as though to clutch The precious stars in its grasp, The growing stars that lay Like little gold stars in a wheel. I saw the Christmas log stand tall In the moonlight as it burned, I saw its white arms, I saw The growing tree, the sun, I saw the log glitter, glitter, As it burned ever brighter, And I heard the echoing roar Of the Christmas log that was Christmas, That was Christmas, that was Christmas. I am the log that's standing up, That's standing up, that's standing up, For the changing of the year; For the shadows that descend On the chill and frosty night, For the leafy denizen Of the forest old and hoar, And the paling daylight's wan. I am the log that crawls along, That's crawling up, that's crawling up, For the softness of the moss, And the frondage green and glistening, And the Christmas leaf that lingers On the withered branches high, And the sapwood's tender gray. I am the trembling log that trembles Down the steep men's lane, For the whispering of the vesper air That rustles out of heaven's far east; And the road's lips that are blue and close, And the starry night that's following The silent hours swiftly by. I am the dry and thudding At the well's mouth where I go, For the snowy drops they drop all day, And the breath of the roseate air That whispers to me to come down. And I lean my timber to The banged pillar's brink, To look down where the silver stream Of water lilies go. And I lean my timber to The falling moon's balmy glow, To see her lean above the sea, And lean upon the stretching Twilight of heavens above, And see the little spars Of their floating houses slip In circles in the surge. Then I lean my timber to The rising sun's full flush, To watch him steal out of the mist Where the village wells lie, And look again where the church spire On a little hill is twinkling Like a jewel in the dark, And the blue shadow of his vest And his hard hat beneath. I am the veteran logger At the lonely shack, That keeps the longest season On my knees to-day. For I keep them long after They should call me home, And I pray that I may Keep them as long to-morrow. I am the log that nags most At the busy plough, The oldest and laziest of them That I ever knew. For I sometimes scream at the brook As it passes by, And I murmur the news that I Had often foretold to you. And often I lie down in the dawn To hear them lads at morn, When their sharp strokes ring on the brow Of the log I have lain adown, And I sigh because I know they Will soon be drifting away. I am the log that is seldom up, That is always down at morn, That never lies at close of day To mark the new dawn peep; But always in the gloom of night I lie to keep the stars at bay, And wonder, wonder where I And the girl I love may have gone. The days have gone in sequence, One after one; The sleep of both was deep, And neither waked with the night, As their hours went round. Each day was like a song, And earth was its pavilion, In a bright, gladsome train. The days have gone in sequence, One after one. The sun of both was fierce, And both had their part To play in the burning thermometer; They watched it rise and burn, And set in the fading yellow, And both were quite prepared, And neither one was vexed, And both were quite prepared. The sun of both was fierce, And both had their part To play in the burning thermometer, The days have gone in sequence, One after one; The night was dry and bright, And quiet as a lily-bell. Each day was like a prayer, And earth was its pavilion, In a still, sweet round. The nights have gone in sequence, One after one. The summers in the dim forest Have spun into a sleep, That sleeps in the leafy hearts Of those who were happy; And they shall sleep in it ever, While the shadows creep and The hours hand over hour, And ever in a sweet succession Go sliding into eternity. O the days were many, The nights were two, And we were happy, We knew not why. <|endoftext|> There stands a gem; A little carved pedestal, And on the back is pictured The lovely goddess of Sweet virtue, chastity. And, the more we look at her, The fairer grows her form; Her neck of ivory, And ivory-white are her arms; And her white legs are slender, And all about her limbs Are clusters of the purest snow; And her away down the middle Are strings of crystal lights, And streams of crystal water Fling from her loveliness; And she stands there, beautiful, For me to gaze upon With its fair form entirely Behold her face, its neck Of snow, and all its snow-wreathed hair, And hang, down by her sides, On the soft bosom of her breast, And there is hardly place for a hand Between her neck and her arm; And from her loveliness is known The sweetness of its sweetness, And all its snow-wreathed locks of bliss. When with his snowy fingers, He takes his wonted work And turns again, in the bright noon-tide sun, Unto the picture of his love-- Alas, then it seems to me The end of ever! But a golden hand Is lying on my shoulder, saying: "Nay, my love, nay, behold the truth; In this white chest is nothing worth; Yea, in the ruin of the ruin There is much in this white chest, Which holds no single one Of all thy beauty, my love, But only thyself alone; Yet take it therefore;--my kiss!" But when I ask, as I was going to rest, "What should we do this Christmas-tide?" "Hang out our Christmas-log and smoke it out," My little one answered with a laugh. "Hang out the Christmas-log all side by side, And let the young folk play at tenty, And have some ice-cream; That is the kind of Christmas-log we'll have." So in we go and down the slippery hill, And down the crooked lane, And in we go by hedge-bordered hollow, And by hedge-crofts high, And through the bush we come at last to where There's a great church with a steeple 'gainst it, And 'gainst it another; And round about it jolly bells are ringing, And men are strowing. So in we go by lane and bychome body-formed meadow, And bychome, my merry men, by china-meeting peaceful. We'll mingle then in fellowship holy, And round about the new New Jerusalem We'll wild in bush and brier. For there shall not be then In this nativity of our England A more merry Christmas-tide. Let the lasses sing of love, Till the rosy amorous earth Is a delight to ward, And the lads fly with the birds, And the young are welcom'd home, And the old get their wha'tsive pleasure, And the sick and the poor Shall in joy hear the bells ringing, And the shepherds' cheery bell. Let the lads and lasses sing Till the lasses sing to drear; Let the boys and the girls fly Higher and higher all the while; Till the prince of the lords Be a bird unto their awe, And the lady of the loom Be a shower of flowers. Let the lads and the lasses sing Till the Christmas rosie clouds Are a wonder and pleasing; And the merry leaves be peacock-pied And the rosy weather blown, And the lads and the lassies Ate and dined all in a row. Let the lads and the lassies Sing of joy and pleasure now; And let the sung fiddles play Fool unto the wits of town; And let other fiddles play, As piping hot the air is, And these play their fill of noise, And madder notes aspire. Let the lads and the lassies Sing, and then we will sing, Till all the wools and the best Gird about this ring to dance. We will sing and dance about, And sing and dance the more, And never a soul shall smother Frolicsome so jocund. Ladies, with brown nice legs, And delicate brown arms, And nice brown throats and neat, All for a pretty fee; The lordly knight comes, the lordly knight, As ever he might, come where he might, And his harness gleams and gleams, and gleams, Bright and splendid and brave. Then, led by the dapper son, With a look, the lady turns; And her cheek is fair as the rose By the big, sweet, soft sun; And the lady's name is Margery, And she lives at the Fishery; And her husband is Burke, And his name is Clarke, And the children are Clarke's boys, And his lord he is late! And the lady smileth, And she sits in the door With her arms half open, And her legs are bare, And her arms are folded On her bosom, and each ear Is ly'd against her breast. O my heart, be glad! Joy, be bright and fair, And the pleasure pass by! Be glad, be glad, As the lark on summer's throne Seth for ever sweet! And a great lord was that knight, And a wide man was he, And his gear was splendid, And his steed was a noble And the red feather Was his only ornament. But he rode and he rode And he stopped at a house; Out came his lady fair, And he kiss'd his lady fair, And he clasp'd her in his arms, And he said, "My lady, We meet but a few more times Until we die!" In a distant hamlet, far away, Above a clump of maples, gray and old, In the midst of a camp of willows, By a pine-tree's shadowy light and sound, Lived a lonely youth, alone with his concerns. The pipes of a band were audible, And a distant flare was seen. His thoughts were intent On a stately lighthouse, seen afar, Where the pine-tree was seen. His pipe was silent. His eyes were set To the rocky isles that lay In the wide, blue waters. A single star shone, And the leaves were stirred, And the sea-bird's wings Beneath were loose. He was sad, And his pipe was still. All his thoughts were on his leaving, And the fate that awaited him, And his lonely lot; And he smiled with a lonely smile When he thought of home. And he thought it would be Good to dwell Where the light was clear, Where the sound of the sea was low, Where the ocean was free. And he thought it would be good To the dying, And to those who died, To be so close to the shore, Where the spray was white. And he thought it would be good To the young, To the adventurous, To be free Where the mountain storms Bellowed and howled and whistled and howled and were silent. To roam and to see. And he thought it would be good To be left Where the light was loud, Where the darkness deep Was unpeopled by life, And the roar of the winds Came from endless seas. And he thought it would be good To be left Where the billows were warm And the vapors were sweet; Where the sunlight was keen And the night was long; And to rest, and to sleep, and to wake glad. He would be left, And alone, In eternal light. And he thought it would be good To be left Where the storm was loud And the spray was wet, Where the cold, unfeeling sea Drowns the life from out you, And your strength is spent, And your life is done. In his eyes were the eyes of a lover, And his voice was a tongue, and his fingers Were all of the world, and his footsteps Were the feet of the feeblest maiden That ever followed, followed, followed, And he wandered and sang and admired In his home on the mountain, And he leaned on the mountain, And his heart was glad, And the music it made Made his heart glad, <|endoftext|> Why not, therefore, go, And learn the way of Peace and Love! 'Tis but a little road With little to weep by, And much to think about; Yet, ah! there are rewards For those who tread it smartly, Your brother John, You know, Is very fond of turtles; A little farm, I know, Where husbandry is not good, But everything's all right, For John's so fond of turtles. His eldest son, This Melvin's youth, Was just a little boy With eyes as blue And laughing mouth as soft As a young maid's at play. He died in a car Before his sixteenth year; And John was made head-master. He was a strange old man; And many a pupil sad From his harsh ironies, From his constant fling Of the arms that twisted him, From his cries whene'er he passed Into the world of men, Towards the end of his sight. At last he heard The bells that made his mind, Like blackest thunder, toll A requiem for his heart, For the end of his blood, And, in his cold and pride Of knowledge, bent his head, And, while he bowed his head, Fell down and died like a book. John sat in the gloom Of his cold room that night; And, in the gloom, he thought Of many things that he liked, And many things he didn't; And then, he smiled, and said To his self, "I knew this boy Was what I'd like to have! "And now that he's gone, I can't think, now he's gone, Of any of the things I like, Or any of the things I don't. For I'm the head-master now At a very nice school; And all the pupils like me, And all the boys and girls Call me'Master." And I, now that I'm a professor Of what the men and boys call "Culinary Arts," And get paid for telling lies, And have in me the soul of a "Tough teacher," and not a scrap Of affection or feeling left, And have, when the bell rings, A whip to beat the sinner, A gaol-wire rattle And not a friend to cuddle, A spotless flag to cover And not a flutter to muffle, To watch, while I teach, The minds of the boys and girls, For there are those that would do The deeds that I denounce, And do them with a smile, Because, to-day, to-day, They think that I, to-day, Am like their Professor Whose heart is as hard as a stone, And beat like a pendulum, Who bites his black moustaches, Whose limbs are stiff and thin, Who chews his spurs and chews His gold chain rattling, And, if they chance to be bored, Has but one thought to think on, And that is--to kill the people That he loves not any more. God in his mercy will some day Let by a pen-name of something (The children shall call him Blind Boy Pete) Go forth among a people blind, Who, if He should know anything about him, Will hide the truth under fear. He goes out on Sunday to church And sits in the very way That Irish children are used to; But never once looks at him As if he knew, in his wits, That such a creature ever there Had ever been. When he is put to bed, The children all round him Toss and chuck and choke him Till they make him laugh. They call him Jolly, Jolly, Jolly all the time; And he lies there, all unconcerned, Jolly as can be. There are two kinds of stories The kind that come true; The other kind, well, some don't. The kind that doesn't happen yet, But will some day, if it can. And that's the reason that some folk hide The things they don't intend. I tell you this, because I know, As well as you, that all The teachers in the land Teach both kinds wrong, all, all the time. The kind that doesn't happen yet, But will some day, if it can, And the kind that does happen, If taught the first. O, for a touch of the first kind, A glimmer of the second! For, mind you, it is not schools That raise a man, but God: Not God alone, but schools, That's the life of a man. For the man that has God in him, There's for him is no death. And the man that has God not in him, If he's anything less Than a slave to his own thoughts, He shall die no more Than a slave to his sins. But a slave to his soul? O no, He shall not die. He shall be More perfectly free than any beast That wallows in the field. And he shall have a joy And a wonder more high Than the joys of any bird, Or the wonder of any star. And he shall look into the face Of the God that made him, And the face of the God that meant him Shall smile upon him, and he shall see The face of the Father shine, And, by the power of the Holy Spirit, He shall have the bliss And the wonder more high If you are a poor tutor, writing About the deeds of Titus Twelve, Do you think that he'd have cared much What you, as a later writer, wrote About his father and mother? Do you think that his sisters, instead Of being astonished, would have scorned The blind jars his father's prosperity To have raised in the household? Think you that his sister, if she could see, Even then would have told him, What his father's slaves were doing now, What the chief one was doing, What he himself was doing now, What the great latest act was that he Had just brought about? For the tender sister remembers, And the loving sister remembers, And the brother, not without shame, And the father--well, they all know; And, if you would find out, go round the house; For, if there's one thing that a man should know, 'Tis to know his mother. No, no; we know. He knew. You may try, The very next time that you are in your study, To find the brain that was so filled with knowledge, As to enable you to write such a history As he could write. If it were only the history that he wrote Of the Roman world, and the history of Rome, As he has written of it in everything that he has said, And the legends of it that are told us by the press, And even in his Poems, 'tis a pleasure to know How the fates of his father and of his brother Made him what he was. For all his talk about them, and their deeds and their glory, And the magnificence of the houses and the roads, And the honour of the race of the Flavians at Rome, And the courts, and the palaces, and the coins of the Romans, He never gives the miserable history Of the man who was able to lift him out of poverty, And who, indeed, has had pity upon him his whole life long, But who was prevented by the wealth of his father, And the hope of the boy that he might one day own property And be equal to him, and thus help his parents, If he had known, ere he set foot upon the moor, (As indeed he never was constrained to touch a moor, But, as you may know if you go to London, is derived From a sojourning upon the moor in a cottage, With green leaves in the cottage, and an ewe to milk her, When young, with a broach round her fed by the gentlemen of Rome, And, in short, every circumstance that could be obtained From any living being that was ever called the moor; I say, if he had known, ere he set foot upon the moor, That all that we know of the history of the family Was the sum of those real facts which he knew; I say, if he had known, I would now offer you a toast, But, in truth, my patience is worn out; So let us have another glass, <|endoftext|> And went to Hell. But here, he is gone, For ever gone,-- Till time shall be no more, Then shall I have again That which now I have. But as I wandered sad and weary Through the dark, sad land of dreams, From the day that I was born To the day that I am old, I turned to that dear face And prayed for her in my turn. She rose up suddenly, And her face was ghastly pale; She clasped her arms as she spoke, And her fingers shook so strangely, That I woke with a start. "I am going to Hell," she said, "And I do not fancy how. I have been very ill in the house, And I don't think that I shall live through the night." I said to her, "We must go back at once, For the devil takes no time at all. I have heard of a lonely place, Far away from all that we know, Where a great devil lives alone, Whose business it is to deny All that come near his kingdom of hate." So we went back, but when we came To the gate, there I saw a face That I never saw before; And I asked, "Who, dear, is your mother, And where are theyallies?" "O," she said, "my name is Arline, And my own allies I be; But I fear me for my own children, And I pray that you may live. I have a thousand allies to die, And I pray that you may live." "A thousand allies to die, O Arline, and one alone To save, if a man but kneel; And yet she gave her love with a frown, And I hated her the more; For the love of a woman is a poisoned sword, And one save a woman from the grave." "Is it then true," said I, "Arline's name That the lovely one of the North?" "Oh no, no, not her nor mine," She said, "but a name of another stripe, A common name, a common land; For it was told me by a half dozen men That she was given to a chance-o'-strife, And that she went to some Nick at Shou-chao A few months back, and that the fellow did well In her affections, and so she did die." "And what shall I do now," I said, "Now that the news is true? I am old, and my heart is wax, And I cannot know if this life is best, Or if I should care to live; I have muddied my chance of finding bliss, And now it is all washed away. And I have seen Arline, and I see That the world is false and untrue; For I gave love a chance, and she passed it by, And I have seen her heart, and it is not mine." "If you loved her," she said, "You should make haste, For love has no time to grow. Love is a rare and piteous creature, The rarest of things on earth, And his eyes are gold, and his heart is lead, And his wings are soon and weak; And what is he but poor, and you but few, And the Children's Friend Flight of the Gulls?" "She may be right," said I, "I may be wrong, But I shall see this Nick, and talk with him, And write a letter to her." So we went to see him, but when there I stayed not long, As I saw on the microphone that the Friends were there. So I went home to get the mail, and to that end I heard the statement of another fling, And heard a rumour from another wing: "Nick is not to be found, but we hear he is well." My sister said that when I came back from the flea market She and her daughter had gone to the office, And that they would not be back till late, And that they would bring home the Club at that time. So when I got home I had a much too merry thought And made it all sound very fine; For I thought that I would write and say that I had met her, And that she was better and richer, And would make the Friends' book-club meet And make it stand open every day, And ask for people who wanted to see, What they said when they were stung by a line. When I was told that they would not be back till late I had an inkling of what was to come, And I said, "How very inconvenient, It spoils the meet, and it spoils the meet." But my sister said, "When the Meet is taking place The members must not want to see each other. It spoils the meet, and it spoils the meet." Then my sister said, "What is there to see? I have things to see that are more interesting, And where I go there are things to see; I go where there is something to see, And where there is something to see, There is something for everyone." "Then," she said, "I go alone, alone, And there is much to see, and much to be seen When there is nothing to see and nothing to be done, And when there is nothing to see and nothing to be done There is nothing to see and nothing to see." "There are things to be said," I said, "When there is nothing to be seen and nothing to be done, And if there are things to be said You must say them in a language that is understood; And there are things to be said when there is nothing to be done." I would like to tell you all about the things to be done When there is nothing to be seen and nothing to be done, And I would like to tell you all about the little words that you can say That are made up of syllables that are handy to know; And I would like to tell you all about the way the grass grows green When there is nothing to be seen and nothing to be done, And I would like to think there will be time for all our little sayings, When there is nothing to be seen and nothing to be done. My sister is strong for ten years and sixty miles, And she makes the people dance from seven till eight. She has caught them by the foot and put them in the cart That is waiting on the river road beside the house, And she says there is nothing in the world so gay, And she says she will be back at half-past eight. She has caught them by the heels and put them in the cart, And she says she does not know why she does what she does, But she says it is better than sitting still at home; And I think she will go and wait beside the river road, And I hope she will come back at half-past eight. They dance to her, they dance all glimmering through the night, And it makes the people sick just thinking about it; And she says there is nothing so gay as a good fiddle-faddle, And she says it is better than thinking of children or bed, And I hope she will dance back till we have half-past eight. There is a little figure, I know it by its eyes; I saw it just like a little white turkey picking her wings, And she says there is nothing so gay as a good turkey-trip; And I hope she will be home again by half-past eight. There is a man in a sky-blue suit that you may see, With a little hat like a cloud and long, glossy hair, And he says there is nothing so gay as a balmy yap And he says he will be back by half-past eight. There is a man in this city whom you never have seen; He never makes any neighbour but himself happy, But he dances like an eagle with delight At the mention of his name, and says he will be back By half-past eight. Now for Elenor Murray Is this a time to talk of maidens? Let her tell What matters her to-night--what matters to her to-day. There is no secret like a secret to her, for she Is all about the change from morning till night. Is there any secret like a change like this to spy? How strange to stand there half asleep, and half awake To see a phantom of herself in the glass; For a minute you will not know if she is there, Or if she has taken wings and wingsed it away. There is nothing so sweet as these few words she said-- No, nothing, on this earth, is like them. <|endoftext|> That it was made by air and water and sunlight. And every morning and evening It slid off the great stone legs of the trees and lay there spreading its wings, I know it because I watched it. There it lay from early in the morning until it was time to go home. And every day I found it and put it back into the bottle and carried it with me back home. <|endoftext|> "Poem (Original)", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals] I Its eyes are the hot coals Of the sun, and its nose Is the noise of the wild Hoofs of a horse that Comes and goes like a Trendy drag-queen. Its hair is a sheaf of Lice and its lips Are a garden full of Roses. And every day I sit down And shave in it. And every day I sit down And wash in it. And every day I sit down And air in it. 2 Its skin is a field of scented Lotions and lotions. It smells of baths. It is both an office and a Church. Its hair is a sheaf of Lice and its lips Are a garden full of Roses. And every day I sit down And shave in it. And every day I sit down And air in it. And every day I sit down And shave in it. And every day I sit down And shave in it. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet - 4", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] All nature is an utter fraud, And man the worst of it; He never shuns the civic feast, And looks with innocent wish To do his share to savedigger and out-sauce: But loves the beggar's tattered coat, The hoarded pelf and ignored loam, The worthless wild nuts of the bare mote, The sodden fur and rattling horn, The broken plough and worn-out light, The topless bush and stunted trees, The eyes that glare with ineffectual scorn, The turgid pink and bearded beard, The bald and bearded man-lock, The seedy-looking leopard skin, The glittering banner and the withered bough, The fresh and waxen patches, The locked and withered wattle, The bushy tail and the speckled foam, The pendent reddish hairs, The clinking spray and the cracked and crumbling reed, The feathery fuzz and the barbed wire, The fevered fingers and the chilly toes, The poisoned arrows and the whirling wheels, The lean and craven heart, The vain and sallow cheek, The philander's gilded cloak, The creaking and ungracious knee, The stertorous and loathsome aspect, The flaccid and loathsome limb, The limb of inferior strength, The limb of monarchical power, And the monarch's powerful knee; And therefore shall he be The niggard and slave of all. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet - 5", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Relationships, Men & Women] How could you let me stay with you? I want to be alone for a while. I want to be alone for a while. I want to see the glisten Of light on the dark leaves of the maples, And the low star-glitter in the foxglove. I want to go out by the tracks And not look behind. I want to be alone for a while. The night is like a casserole: The moon and the stars and all Loving are one. I want to be alone for a while. I want to look up at the sky Where the clouds are so pale, And the dead stars like a vision Rumble in the space between. I want to be alone for a while. And your face like a book in my hands, And the big trees and their shadows, The dark sky and the stars. And the dark night so far away. I want to be alone for a while. I want to be alone for a while. <|endoftext|> "The Undertaker", by Philip Wilbur [Living, Death, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Funerals] When I am dead I want to be buried in a cardboard box, not a casket, and I want a proper burial, no drab funeral draped with red flags and played out in some underpaid strip mall. I want to be placed in a plain brown coffin with no fancy lacquered or embroidered siding, no propped-open heart or fringed with ghetto blackness. I want to be wrapped in a plain brown shroud with no silk around me, wrapped in a simple brown blanket. I want the ground pork the local undertaker won't cut me, the rotting pork they leave in its own juices, the stink of rotting. I want the stink of pork. I want the smell of rotting. I want the smell of decay, and I want to be the nucleus of decay. I want to be the piece of dirt the burial will be, the snails and the odd lizard, the occasional snake, the odd snail, the odd light-scissor, the odd heel. I want to be the white of sheep, the gray of wolf, the brown of cow. I want to be the rind, the cords of wheat, the whole of the earthen mound. I want to be a dust mite, the whole of me a gigantic eye staring into the dusk, the whole of me the earthen womb, the whole of me the fallen flint, the fallen spruce, the fallen pine, the fallen oak. When I am dead, when I am laid out to die, when I am put in the grave, I want to be laid out in a plain brown casket, with a simple earthworm burial cask, the whole of me, cut free. <|endoftext|> "The Axeman's Daughter", by Philip Wilbur [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Aristotle said, the virtuous woman was like the mortal axe — he meant when he was a boy but before he became a teacher, the schoolmaster of his pea-brain'd charges. He was the axeman of Trachis, the fattest of his time, and, once the eldest daughter of ten, had gone on at the feet of her husband, who, being a smaller man, had taken to walking when he could. The trunk of a pine tree had made him, once, a boy, and the tree had made him, once, a man. His neighbours were all more virtuous, and all more fools. His daughter was as virtuous as her father, and as foolish. But virtue, in him, had a way of coming up like sweets in the sun. The neighbours were all fools, and the daughter was virtuous, and the son was foolish. But virtues grow where virtues exist. The virtuous husband was the worst of men; but virtue had a way of coming up like honey in the sun. The virtues in him grew, like the toad and the toad-skin. His neighbours were all fools, and the virtuous wife was the best of all. The virtues in her were mild as love. They were mild as they were lovely, as they were damned. <|endoftext|> "An Inscription", by Philip Wilbur [Living, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, God & the Divine] There are walls in Heaven better than great walls and great than Heaven. —Stevenson I put my ear to the earth, Hear how God's foot is Pressing the dark He has pressed out the hearts of men, and the suck of life is sudden, sudden, in the feet of God. —Kierkegaard I put my ear to the earth, Hear how God's heart is smitten, Smitten in the depths of his deep vast dark breast, as he presses out the dark, the sordid press of the hearts of men. —Kierkegaard The whole Earth is my church, and is holy, I go to pray, I go to pray, I come back with the cry, I come back with the cry of hell, I come back with the great baptismal thunder of God, I come with the cries of hell, I come with God's great love for me. —Saint Augustine <|endoftext|> At a hundredth of a second, It was too late, I thought, And that they'd be, With a grin, Too late To see their colored hands Raise the flashlight In the dark, And as my child cried out, Smelling his own breath That had burned on my fingers, They'd run to the door, Grabbing their rosaries's bright beads, And I'd have to go to sleep And never tell my story Of what I'd seen them do. II I could see them at work Down in the cellar. I'm sure it was of them That they had come That I didn't see Much of Father's choller, And the words would come Out of his rosary In the oddest of ways. I heard the bare bones Of their litany, And then I heard The sort of thing That's fit for them, The really rare good That makes their rosary Shake and turn in its beads, And Father would say, "Do ye hear that?" And then they'd begin I could see them at work Down in the cellar. I'm sure it was of them That they had come That I didn't see Much of Father's choller, And the words would come Out of his rosary In the oddest of ways. I heard the bare bones Of their litany, And then I heard The sort of thing That's fit for them, The really rare good That makes their rosary Shake and turn in its beads. III The sunlight dipped in a door Which I had left open. It could be lovely there, The world enough once for me. The oak leaf glistened On the linoleum, And the air was soft As a woman's breathing. I could see a table, Green and bare and still, With a few crumbs of food Where a man once had lain. I could see a chair, Its back turned to me, And a bookshelf, And a fireplace, And a chimney, And a chimney only. The sunlight dipped in a door Which I had left open. It could be lovely there, The world enough once for me. The oak leaf glistened On the linoleum, And the air was soft As a woman's breathing. I lay on my back, I thought of my childhood, And my brothers and sisters. I thought of little sisters With brown and wavy hair, And little brothers with curls As twisted and curly as mine. I thought of my mother With the twinkle in her eye, And the smile on her twig And the locks that swept down From her brown and shining brow. I thought of the long, straight tresses That seemed to meet Traffic-shaped braid of lace, And I thought of the two little sisters With the gentle hearts of peach-colored eyes. IV "I think I like it here, In this place that seems to freeze Every feeling and thought beneath its icy control. Though in this I do not much approve, It is better than the sea, For here, you see, there is no warming breeze To cool you when the billows rave, And here the billows cease to rave, When you are at rest in the white tomb of the waves." V "In the bright sky above us, With its icy bars, Like iron serpents, watch the clouds. If one of the icy serpents open his terrible eyes, If one of the icicles, blue and like scarlet flowers, Should lightly lift its torch, Then every feeling and thought in the sky shall be aware That sunlight, like fire, can burn the sky. For the sky is scarlet flowers, And shivers in the flame of sunlight; Therefore the sky is so afraid." VI "The boy wanders still, And finds on every side Crumpled up lives and buried things. He gathers, for his bed, The scattered lies and trifles. From graves he makes a headpiece, For his head he bits of glass; The stones he throws into the sea; Sings in the seaward ocean, And his songs are made of seaweed, Made of the seaweed he tears, Which he plays with, to scatter Where the rising waves will lisp it. Then he plays alone, On the rocks, and on the sea-weed, And he plays to the rising and the falling And the quiet waves lisp his sorrows. All day long bewails him; All day long bewails his sorrows, And his bed is all alone. But at night comes the Naiad, And lights her tapers, and she passes Through the forest, under hanging branches, On her snowy tombswood dusky robes. VII "In the long darkness rising, He seemed to hear a voice. 'I, I am the one who love you!' The voice seemed to cry, The longer it was spoken the clearer it sounded. In the long darkness falling, The boy felt his cheek beginning to burn, And saw before his eyes the face of the One who had wronged him. 'I, I am he who hurt you, The one who turned from him in anger, The one who hated you, the one who feared you, The one who followed you, the one who followed after,' The voice seemed to cry, The longer it was spoken the clearer it sounded. VIII "And the moaning of the whirlwinds Was stilled, and the lightning was silent, And the sea was quiet, And the voice of the One who had spoken with him was heard no more. And in the silence that followed The boy looked up to the sky. And again, at evening, In the lower fields, Came the sound of his mother's weeping, And the lower fields were peaceful, And the whispering grew to a whisper, And the sun was peaceful, And the tans and the porcupines were peaceful, And the deer and the fauns and the giants were peaceful." "O children, let us not attempt to understand The speech of nations that do wrong us. If we would know the language of kings We should rule and not laboring learn. For what king has energy enough, Or is straight enough and true, To rule another who is weak, And be as bad and as blind As he who sits in judgment at his gate? No, we are driven to learn their speech, For they that hate us do but teach us their hate, And they that love us but little teach us their love. And then our speech is tangled in snares, And often by the way we go We see them only by the evil that they have done." "Or, let us suppose a shipwreck, (For let us suppose a shipwreck) And suppose each one was thrown save one, And suppose each one survived, And each had found a shipwrecked friend, And each had told the story of the other, And each had sobbed for the other, And each had spared not his own soul, And each had branded the other, And each had spared not his own brother, And each had spared not his own child, And each had spared not his wife, And each had done at least this: 'My brother, my brother, thy sons are heedsick, And thy daughter too, though slender, looks eedy, And thy grandsons crowd unto their sight, But we have neither heedsick, looks eedy, Nor thy slender daughter, looks eedy. Nor we have brandished not our knives, Nor we have strewed not the earth with coffins, Nor made not shrines of altars for the soul Of the unsacred dead, the just dead, Nor built not shrines for the saint. And we live not without reason, For when the just and the unjust were dead We too lived, and we found excuse In the work of our hands, And in the service of a god. And we said: "And though we be brutish and evil, And though we be base and useless, Yet this thing was done of us And only of us, To live on through us and to end with us In the life of the just and the unjust, And that life was stubborn and laborious, And we labored to the end, But we failed in the just." "And if you persist in such reasoning, Then wed a wife whose chief accomplishment Is her beauty, for the reason that The more handsome a wife is to men <|endoftext|> To take what else were dead, a free child’s head, An infant, dying, at her cradles laid. But falling further from the grim portal She beheld his face, and saw his own before, And the deep-drawn breath of hate he gave, And how he had been changed by her. She could not think how one so young could show Such wrath, such hate; he grew more terrible As his face twisted to a sneer And his fingers tightened on the hilt. So she rose, for men with wounded hearts Took up the way of thoughtless kings Who saw all things with their world-spangled eyes. Then her strong bosom heaved with woe As from her shining hair she drew The golden locks, and then her robe Was all of dark, and all the splendor That went to make her queen grew dim. Then she leaned toward the King, who stooped To kiss her cheek, and saw his aged face And hands that were two giant-satchels That had been stalwart till the last. But she laughed, a joyous laugh, and said: “Alone of all the warriors strong Who guard my good father’s home, I bring Peace for his dying breath, and joy For the hour that gives me to his side. I bring this hand-let a message ta’en From Ægeus’ tomb: The God of Hope Calls thee to his sacred hold. Go forth and bring the news to him. Long years lie scattered in the kingdom: Aeolian Lycian Ages roll From the old Julian hold To the small-panoured Achaean Thamis. Go forth, and bring the good news: Thee the news, O Nestor, bring.” Then he bent his head and answered: “Long years lay dead within the earth, Forgetting life’s daily beat, When Aegeus, great among heroes, reigned, Bright as the morning star. The King he slew, the son of Tydeus, Gigantic of form and face, And in his heart grief planted: Fierce with the madden’s bane he sprang Away and speeded to the fane Where Zeus the thunderous, high Above the waste of waters, hears The Gods in council sound. And there he prayed for many a year, Girt with the pure of heart, When his soul began its fresh career, Sought the Fates, and made his pray’r. Then he laid the body on the bier Brought the first blood of man, And sprinkled water on the head, And on the hands he sprinkled. The limbs he cut away and flung To the dogs, and let them cast The limbs upon the wastes away, And the dogs were careful to cast The marrow in the flame. Then he set the body down, and cried With one hand upon his brow The while the other rested, For troubled was his mind. But at the last, behold, he came And cast his arms around her waist And clasped her knees, and kissed her hairless throat, And the dogs could eat the fat that lay About her shoulders and her knees. Then he set the body down and wept The while his hands enwove Therofore his heart with hope, And with the rush of his desire He caught the bark and rolled it in his palm And flung it to the gods. Then with a great shout he called them forth And near and far he shouted And bade them that he sent To bear the message to the King. Thou art come, O Goddess, with thy gifts to me, Sweet youth, and goodly to my sight they are. For to these fields and these hills and valleys And to these woods, that are now as dry as a bone, Whereby I sit beside the black ships’ paths, Whereby I watch the slow ships and their sails And the sea-streams leaping, and the men that are on them— I will make an offering unto thee, To the God of the Cross, who thee enamours, And loves well the little children whom he sends From his dear hands to the fair regions of death. Bring me here a little lamb with these wool-fretted robes, That I sacrifice to him, and trim with the ribbons The sacred flanks of him who is to offer Passion to him, as I bid back my own soul To life by these dear hands. Bring me too a crown, That my offering may be worthy and well-made. Poet, the godlike man does not long For fame and praise, but as a little child Wonders at everything, he cries aloud, And in his heart of hearts is proud and strong, And his heart cries aloud to everything. <|endoftext|> THE chieftain's daughter, the tender maid Sleeping by her father's side, Beheld the swarthy traveller as he passed With careless step and strange accent. Swiftly she rose, for fairer sight Became avengeance on his face; His language strange, his step unmeet, Forsook the shambling Gipsy race. At length he spake, in accents rough Like one from strange countries heard: “What is your name? and wherefore come You alone among us here?” “My name is Iroquow; thou hast heard My tidings, my sad story is-- Of dreadful import, I ween, And your kind protection disdain, While to these parts your fearful tale Must I relate.” “What is your race, your nation’s name? What kingdom have you reigned o’er? Your parents’ names--your grandfathers-- And children’s names--your mother’s side? And finally, your own name, true name We cherish as a secret kept, When you held the reins and kept the course, The great white gift-horse of our race. “O gentle Gipsies, loose the rein! I can no longer care for rest; On yonder hills, far up the land, With flaxen bands I follow thee, With ponies, mares, and wildflowers, And speak thy lingo, till we learn To wave these flowers, and with these signs To hail thee, and to hail our queen.” So saying, he dismounted, and The golden-eyed maiden led In robes of crimson cloth, the guest To whose increasing glories old One message plain had been conveyed,-- That he, the last of all his race, The last of the Gipsies, should succeed, And rule o’er his lovely realm. She led him through green valleys wide, And flowers, and food, and music, there, And past the mirrors of the brooks, To where an oak-forest waved Its branches o’er the quiet lake. And there, she held before his view The image of a maiden fair; A maiden fresh from youthful dreams, A slender girl, of lively charms, A runner through the race that yet No limits can, no barrier bound. She held before his sight her pledge, A silver pen, which golden words Turned for her lord in enchantment’s book; And then, she led him by a beam, Where Beggaumber, the forest king, Sat, preparing for the banquet; And showed before his keen eyes, The form and face, of every one Who has for passage to that place. “Go seek, my lord, within this shade; A hunter thou, and strong and fleet, Go, and for deer-haunted wilds prepare For this dear guest a certain part. This day, of all our time, is yours; At least, it is a day to run; Go quickly, and return here As soon with the prey; thy place Is assured without a run. There is a game Which sometimes may be played with ease, And seldom can be won with pain, And, sure, this is a game that ne’er Should be too hard for thee. The mare which thou hast won, And hast a mare in view, Henceforth shall for thy race be mine, Thy name and mine shall be one. Go, be a runner in the race, And I will teach thy fellow-runners here To make no rival or friend, And none to reckon with thee. My place is here; it is not theirs; My place is here; ’tis mine and thine.” The noble king beheld the prize, <|endoftext|> One day I didn't know what the dead were. I just knew they would return To warmth and light and hell. They were aching like a hound On the eve of a hunt. They knew the full worth of the wind. The rain fell with great scorn, The wind howled like an owl While leaves fell from the trees. But what did it matter While the dead came again To whisper and to sing? <|endoftext|> A weary sea lay round the little beach, And a cloud lay on the horizon's edge, Its restless flame In the vast sky Unsundering. A galleon in the offing lay, The bowsprit hung in the dusky air, And the sails hung afloat, And droning, dull and dead and slow, The anchor's sound. The little ones watched the waves and sky, And the strong man woke In the little cottage at the edge of the sea, And looked out to sea, And saw, far away, A cloud lying on the horizon's edge, With restless flame In the vast sky Unsundering. He thought his wife a sleepy old gull, And turned to go. She lay with her eyes wide open, And her little curled eyelids spread, And the shadow of her little duster On her pink slippers, yellow and white; But she didn't dream That a sea-gull was flying round the room, And his cry rose high And clear In the little open house, As he tried to frighten her. She never heard him coming, She never stirred, And she heard him crashing in the sky, And heard him groaning till his dying breath Caught her yellow hairs. She never dreamed That a sea-gull was flying round the room, And his cry rose high And clear In the little open house, As he tried to frighten her. She stared at the open sea, Her bright hair shining in the evening sun, And then at the shadow in the sky, As he took her in his arms, And she felt his warm breath on her hair, And he rocked her to sleep. She never dreamed That a sea-gull was flying round the room, And his cry rose high And clear In the little open house, As he tried to frighten her. The moon was beaming over the sea, Over the blue and silver sea; But she could not see the happy pair, For she shone through a dark cloud. Then she turned and looked out over the town, And she thought of a great oak tree In the forest, high on the hill, And she said to the sea: "The sea and I are neighbours; We cannot look each other up, For we are so very far apart." And the little waves forgot their play, And they rose in an angry mass, And they stirred the pebbles in the path, And they made a black spot on the sand. But they did not dare To appear before their great white master, For they knew he was mighty and great, And they feared he might shake them up. But the wind had grown bolder, and he said: "I will blow a blast at your great white head, And I'll blow it so loud and strong That you shall shiver in the storm." He blew his blast of breath, And it caught the wave just as 'twas at the breast, And it scattered all its flakes of spray, And it struck the wave again, And it struck the wave again, And it struck it again, Till the wave lay broken and wearily; But the breakers could not reach it, For they swelled too high for them. And the wind and the sea grew stiller, And the moon was lying on the sky, But they could not sleep that night for fear; And they crept from their lonely home, In the dark and the rain, And they crossed the foaming blue sea, In a broken and weary band. I've seen a vision of a city In the far, forlorn past, A sunlit wall of white beauty With many a ringing dome. In the streets are girls in fancies, With cheeks like pansies or lilies; And on the walls they see visions Of fair pink angels blowing Their kisses through the taffetery. In the windows pink glimmerings Of fairy homes, with roses And moonlight bathing, And the little white ghosts of children Running with delightful fairy cheer. I've seen the snowy shuttles Of balloons go flying above The city in their yearning; And great white sails that seem to beat The midnight in their longing. In the mountains, drearily, The wild geese are winging, And now and then a sudden flash Of rainbow splendours breaks across Their dreamy sunrise landings. I've seen the wondrous Matter, With her curious petals And curious yellow eyes, That seemed to make so strange a mirth Within the City of the Dead That she could not help but laugh When they laughed at her, in the dusk Of autumn evenings. I've seen the passing shadowy Of many a passing phantom, That did not leave him for a moment When in the street he stood, And always was before him there In the dusk of autumn evenings. I've seen the grey old People Asleep within their houses, And the little ghosts that creep within The deserted chambers, And the little spirits that sit Within the very windows Of the houses and the people Within the city of the dead. I've seen the fading white Of the fleeing pageantries In the fading twilight; The past was as a fading, The future as a glimmer Of fading colouring. I watched the past disappear, And the present pass, And thought that I would be A ship upon the sea Of a long forgotten age, When the world was old and old, And I was a man in the past. I look upon the present: In the dust of the street it lies, And mouldering with mouldering brown In the bitter dust it lies. Its thoughts and dreams are turned to mould, In the bitter dust it lies. And the dust of the city clings And clings about the present With a clinging, clinging art. I pass within the city As one passing into dreams; And within my heart I hear A murmur of a familiar tune, A music of old days, Of friends who once were my fellow-men And now are gone away. I pass within the city As one passing into flowers; And the dust of the road is red And brightened within the sky With brighter and brighter splendours As I pass within the city. I hear within the city The voices of the ghosts Of friends who were my fellow-men, And now are not anywhere. The city is old, and dead, And weak, and helpless, and lame, And many have passed away Before the city's high gates, And many will pass away Ere the city's voice shall lift, Ere any one shall live Within the mighty city. The city is grey, and old, And gray the faces here, And old the silent doors That lead into darkness. The city is tired of darkness, And day is growing tall Towards a new dawn of light Within the ancient city. Where dust and smoke are piled high Like black, black cedars, and o'er them blow The melancholy whispers of the wind That haunt these places of fear and dread. The grey, old city of grey dead men Sits with its dead, with no more to say, With dust above its eyes, And dust beneath its feet. The city was beautiful, once, As any fair city may be, With dusky streets and shining towers, And all sweet memories of the past; And we believed that when the centuries Called in the night, And turned the world's golden dream to dust, It would not fade away Like dark grey clouds that rise in the East, And fade away in the sunset. But we were all mistaken; for now, Among the dusty, grey city walls, We see the grey, old city in decay; And day by day it wears more dread, And less and less of beauty and of grace; And old, old dust that clings there like a weed Gives to the city the character of a tomb. So we turn from grey to white; and we tread Among the dust that lies like one unbroke <|endoftext|> For now to keep a boat afloat I'm called;--a man to ask my share! I keep my hold on men, for use Or in agonies of need, While they I call, on the deepest out, They, and their barrels, and their cords, Ashore on this sea of life;-- I do not stand on a glassy wave, Out of the reach of tumbling surf, To gaze, with hunger ill-sated, On what man's unconquerable will Can do, or where his waters beat; But my place is on the ocean floor, In the roar of winds and waves; And I mind me, that all the lords of earth, Except the humble fisher's boat, In the heart of every day Sail on,--and as they sail, They swell and give life to the wave. Alone in a vast and sapless sea, No arch of columns, no high wall, No sculptured frieze, no race of kings, No flowery grass, no cool winding creek, No glowing cluster, no warm dwelling-place, No friendly kindred, no warm hearth, no bed, No nursling sky, no fevered air, no fire, No heaven of sunsets, no sister-shore, No fertile isle, no wealth of blossoms, no home In the heart of the world, no bright emerald hill, No shimmering lake, no waterfall, no moon, No tropic of aloes, no fiery clouds Or silver shields, no flame of the good old stars With pendant horns, no chieftain's blazing plume, No group of pale oaks, no summit, no cap Of the Mountain, no peak, no cave, no citadel Wherein are heaped the arms and weapons wrought By nomad smiths for war, no fountains' play Of murky water, no blue shady lake, No scented flower, no grotto, no cool grotto, No grotto, no fountain, no stream, no marble quarries, No granite rocks, no bright emerald hill, No spring, no living soul to drink of it! I float and float in the hold and hold of the world; It is immortal, and will go on forever, Though all that press its limits now are changed In form and feature, or year, and generation! The purple and vermillion red Of the tiger-lily has spread far and wide Over the broad white plain of Spain, And flashes like a cloud of bellows! The ivory yellow of the orange-bell Is aflame in southern lands, And floods the town of Bordeaux With a clear beauty, that will last forever. The skylark's sudden flight from the sun Has swept the Flower District of France, And the hawthorn yellow and the beige Are flush with a new profusion! The Purse is a-going, The Salem money-maker, With a bag of gold for any one, But I think he'll get the short end of the deal When all is said and done. I went to the fair, the horse sale and swap, The music-stands were alive with hue and hue, The orange and ochre seemed to blend and blend With the pale musk and the musk scented heights of plum! A fair is a box where boys sell trinkets, A flea market is a place where old dames Sell handkerchiefs, ribands, and neckties, A concert is a sale where young men Sell their first recordings, and at half-price! And what is the use of a fair or concert When Nature sells trifles at a hundred a piece, And Nature's best music is sold for half-a-crown! What sort of life shall we lead When the old year sings and the new is still and the seasons exchange Their flux for flux, And the sunshine of May For the sunshine of June And the sweetness of September For the sweetness of November? The year is old and the season is young, The flowery palate of the prime is unripe, and the sweets of the flowered year expire; And the wine of age is charged with dust and the breath of dust, And the rose of life is wither'd on the stem that springs in our hearts! Our year is far advanced, and its joys are vain, the summer of youth is far adrift with its hopes of delight, And the flower of the prime is a dust in the vault of the tomb, And the fruit of the age is a bitter fruit in the hand of the old! Old year of 1838, we hope you're in good health, You were fair of face and stout of will, You were liked and well regarded by all who knew you, And respected by all who knew you! Alas, you were unfortunate in love, You were blind to beauty and color, You were blind to the charm of the feminine and she will grow cold in your arms, And the young are lovelier than ever, my dear, I hope you're happy in your new home, And the world will wait and witness your salvation, And the angels are praying for you--good-bye, You're hired to be carried about, And tarried with out of curiosity, You're sent about to amuse and be patted on the head, And you're well treated and looked upon as your fee, And you never, never, never, never, Find a day of yourself, or leave your room! Old year of 1838, we hope you're happy, You've been treated well and you've tried to do your best, And the time has passed off pleasantly, And the world goes on and we go on from year to year, But we hope that we're treated well enough, my dear, And the angels are praying for you, Old year of 1838, we hope you're thoughtful, You've been faithful and tender in your new endeavor, And the angels are cheering you on your way! There is no such thing as grief in the old year, The year has passed over with a laggard pace, The breezes have breathed out their sighs and they are fled, The years that were dark are over and they are bright, The hollyhocks and blackberries are thickening white, And the apple trees are red and the pear trees are green, And the lilies are blowing in the gardens of the spring, And the days are lengthening and the nights are shorter, And the murmuring breezes are heavy with the scent of flowers, And the color of the world is bright on the gray mountains of snow, And the song of the birds is louder than ever, And the caw of the cuckoo is shriller than ever, And the harmony of the Spring is so sweet and clear That the rainbow of flowers is brighter than ever, And the robin is on the tree longer than ever, And the linnet's notes are full of music and mirth, And the linnet and the linnet are the sweet birds of Spring! The winter's snows are laid away Beneath the new growth of trees; The little flowers they are gone to feed, The butterflies to sing, And only the crow and the hawk is left To daunt the walks of the poor. The robin and the wren are hardly heard Within the busy street; Only the sides of houses are heard With carrion birds at noon, When all the earth is bathed in light, And only the bonny green earth is heard Within the sea. A happy time it is for me, For I go to and fro Among my happy friends, A smiling face is by me All the way I roam. The summer sun shines bright and free Upon the verdant field, And over me the treetops see The red sun's golden light. The little brook, with me away, Holds its soft music still, On the beechen nest Of the mossy brake. The vireo follows in my train In the red and yellow grass, And the jay in the green and gold Is the song of the land. The blackbird in the beech-tree bark Sings the warm, warm Song of Summer long, And the water-rat in the marsh grass sings A song all of his own. The flutist, in the rustling corn, Pours forth his blasts of note, And the gay Italian poet, with his harp, Sings of love. Within the woods all summer long Is heard the hum of one great bee Who has found in every leaf A perfect moment. And the hum of the great warbler bird Is a finer thing than song. <|endoftext|> Tottering, heaving with idle sighs, Like some colossal mast on High. His outer garments, with wide collar pinned, Long slipped across his shoulders broad and round, Like that of Argo on the golden sea, His waistcoat, broad and broad beneath his lap, Sleeveless and laced close about his waist, With trunks long and slender buckled at both, Took up one-third of the space behind; The remaining third he left to spread His cloak behind, with curious eye Turned on some one behind, unseen, Who drew a slow, slight laugh within his chest. Like that, the soles of his feet were bare, The loose-flowing shirt-collar shown above, And loose upon his throat his loose red hair, Save that it served to hide a pair of hands Which for defence, instead of hammer and hatchet, Plucked clean out his beard with ragged nails. Long nails, and not a hair's breadth's space between, He graced with the red covering of his cheek, That, scarred and scarless, made a third sight scarce More loathsome than a satisfied look. So all the poor fashion of his kind, Which makes a thing so like a curse to be, Served to hide his lecherous and disloyal And drunken eyes, and lent them an air Of beauty, like the shining gold of day. The great fear of others, by which alone A man may be said to honour and esteem The man who loves him, passing away The horrible and common lust of self, Brought over him the thoughts of those old days, And he remembered how his good red suit Was tied up with a crimson ribbon bow; And how his hat was golden and his cane Gold-woven, and his boots made of gold, And how the roses in his sleeves were garlands, And all the prettiness of every hue Which made those days so bright and wonderful. For good and bad alike are in the mind As if a beauty, and a man may know The worth and worth of them ere the bloom be gone. He looked upon his hands, as innocent And tender as a little frightened child's, And fancied he could see again the hands Of that strange man who used to hold him so, And make him feel that he was never cold, And stroked him, when a careless actress would. And then he thought how all his company Had left him, and grown up, and married, and lived Amicably away, and left the old places To him with young memories to fill them up; And he was happy in his thought, and forgot The scar of quill and bow upon his brow, And that which had been, and which would ever be, And what the world needed had come to pass, Until the voice of one recalling him Stirred him out of his dream of happiness. "You are not as other men," the man had said, "You are not as other men. They marry and move Into the light, and live, and leave the dead world And come to towns and cities, and go away Into strange faces which are strangers yet To those they knew and loved. You are here alone, And only the growing of the grain Keeps watch above you and makes sure you will be With those who loved you and with those who needed you. "You are not as other men. They marry and move Into the light, and live, and leave the dead world And come to towns and cities, and go away Into strange faces which are strangers yet To those they knew and loved. You are here alone, And only the growing of the grain keeps watch above you, And all the leaves and ripples of the sea Draw over you and part to give you room And breath." He had gone alone into the dark woods, But when the full-moon light grew cold and dim He came to where the little creek of moonlight Flows softly into a deep valley of ghosts, And there he paused to build a little home Of drift-wood he had pent up in his cave, And turned the earth for floors and made it soft For what was chicken scratch and girl's bed, And framed it over with the smooth hard pines Which never saw a foot of foot but his. When it was finished he called to his girl, And there she was the first of many marvels, For she stepped right in as if she were The wildest wild thing he ever saw, And she was--but she was beautiful, So much so that he could not remember The name of it, so wonderful she was, So she was the first of many marvels For which he always felt a deep one Within him burn. The moonlight grew pale, The water grew blood, The light grew pale, And into the ooze crawled, And with blood made A crab-like shape for a boat, And down it went with a hollow roar, And out of the dim dark water And with it a face And eyes like coals of fire, And hair that flamed and sparkled, And on the face there was nothing, Only a red hot bloodless socket For a nose, and eyes like coals of fire, And hair that flamed and sparkled, But oh, she was not human, She glided from him like a gliding moth, And he only saw the shadow Of crab-like over him As it glided on, And he felt on his cheek the long, long fleece Of its shadow's arms Lean over him, lean over him, And he felt the crab-like things Fling themselves out and grasp him, And with a chattering sound Of teeth and palms And claws, They clung to his hair and neck And over him They sang, they sang, He had only seen them in dreams, And the forest's child, the fawn, the squirrel, Had crept from her cave and blown down shadows From the ferns to drape her form Over his shoulder, and had dripped Her breath about him, and his heart Had grown aware, and dreamed a while, Of the light in the windows of her head, And the slow rosy movements Of the red lips she always kissed, And the dimples that always grew, And the shape of her tresses Against the rise of his breast, And the full dim eyes of her, And the full dim mouth of her, And the shadow of her hair That swayed and trembled with her breath, And the sight of her dimpled face Above his shoulder, And the dimple of her breasts That the leaves Might give; And then the sightless eyes of her eyes Above his eyes, and they moved hands in hands, And they sang, they sang A secret song of her and him, The secret of her and him, The secret of her and him, His and her and his, His and her and his. And over him the light of their own shadows Grew sharp and high, and a sharp wind blew Across the hollow of the forest where they stood, And the sighing leaves made a noise as of an army, And the air grew loud with a sound he knew not whether, And the leaves and the wind and the breath of the wind Made a noise that was all of the earth and the sky and the trees, And the sound of a mighty marching that was never done, And the sound of a sound that was never done, And the sight of a sight of him and her, And the sight of the sightless, And the sightless, and the sightless, and the sight, And the sound of the soundless marching In front of the sightless, And the sightless, and the sightless, and the sight, And the smell of the smellless, And the smellless, and the smell, And the songs of the songs of the sightless, And the smell of the smellless, And the songs of the sightless, And the smell of the smellless, And the sound of the soundless, And the sight of the sightless, And the dark of the dark, And the light of the lightless, And the light of the dark, And the songs of the songs of the sightless, And the sightless, and the sightless, and the sight. O hollow and bitter and strange of voice, O thoughtless and sudden and strange of tongue, Thou art the wind that hath blown me to verse. I have seen the wind, I have heard the wind, I have tasted the wind's little utterance, And like a scent of flowers, or like a flavour, Have come and gone upon the wind's breath. But with the wind I have been happy and sad, <|endoftext|> Till they had filled themselves, and were so filled They must pass on. The horn of the sea Grew dull, for there was no sound to be heard. The eternal country between the moon And the sun it was dearer than earth could be. A more peace-loving and joyful race Had never been on the face of the earth. Heaven seemed nigh, to be a feast of the best, Where they would sit and sing with a will, And swim in the deep, and hunt in the wood, And say, "It is good to be alive." Long before the salmon were landed in the sea, And the otter in the forest was found, Long ere the art of printing was known, And the plough was taken to the deep ground, And beasts of the mountain were driven to be Domestics of the white man's table, A tree spoke, and all the bells of the forest said, "The sky is behind us, we are rising together, We know not what awaits us, what dawn will be day, But we know we shall be free. We shall regain Our primal freedom ere long. It will come When the birds fly upward. We know not when, But know we shall be free. If you hear Or taste or touch or have another thought, Then all that you will be is nothing." As some waters are nursed in the earth And build their form in the river's flow, And like the trunk of a tree are strengthened By each fruit they bear, until they tower And overflow the banks in their pride, So did the strength of the forests go Through their thick and leafy branches, till they bore The strength of the forests, borne upon their arms, Like the heavy rivers which overflow The plains where they had been nursed, until they tower. And all along the tree-tops of the forest The canyons were growing and growing Till the sunlight paled along the slopes, And the shadow of the forests grew Till they seemed vast folding walls of clouds, And the giant trees that were piled around, Were becoming clouds of their own, and very soon The low hum of the twitching stars was gone, And the night's first tear was falling, and it pained To look upon the beauty of the earth, And the heavy trunks which had been strong Were weak and languid. And in the dells Rose the fragile flowers, and all along The gentle trunks and frail branches grew, And they would not weigh down the very air, And if a star, or other heavenly thing, Caught its radiance, it would wink a glint Of red and blue, and shine and fade again. The very darkness deepened round about. For each second something passed away From the earth's own forms, which seemed to turn To a frail web, or canvas, or woven thing Made up of threads of shadow, until they weighed The dim air down around them. The deep Was no longer deep; for the trees no more Upheld their proud and stately tops, but hung Their limp trunks, like withered oaks of yore, Down below the water's billow. And all along the coast the sea grew warm And spread its heavy waves, And the ground below grew broad and bare, And the milk-white vessels of the waves Hung afar And the breathing of the woods became weak, And the slow tides rose and dived, And the lilies drifted through the foam, And the little waves left straggling flowers On the sandy shore. And the soft wind rose Along the dusky waste, and howled and passed, And no sound ever came Except of the ocean's dreary tread, The ocean's dreary tread. A hill Rose up in the wildwood, a shadowy thing, Rough and black, and low; And the hill moved nearer and nearer, nearer and nearer, And a voice was heard singing a holy song, And the singing ceased, And the hill stood still, And the darkness closed around, And the darkness lay on the land and sea, And the stars were sprinkled upon the deep, And a voice said, "I am the Light! I am the Light! And the holy song! It is ended in agony, but the shadows last, They are shaken by the stars, The holy song is over, It will come again in victory, but the shadows last. "Behold, in the darkness, a great light Lights up a solitary tree. Oh! whither is taken? Whither is taken?" The heart in itssilence heard not the voice, But in its anguish, still centred, it heard. "The darkness moves, the darkness moves, Far away the distant tree-tops shake, And the holy song is ended in agony, But the shadows last, They are shaken by the stars, Oh! whither is taken?" "The lone tree moves on the lone tree moves on, It is growing where it falls. Oh! whither is taken? Whither is taken?" The silence answered nothing, But with its silence all the world was hushed, But with its agony, it answered "Home." And home she came Bearing to Father the wild birds' nests, The wild birds' nests, Bearing them to him, a little wilful, Little things, as proud as her own. But with them all she came not one of them She carried even to her house, She brought them back to her father dumb, They were carried by the silence all around But they are not those she gave to her father The little things as proud as her own. Brought back to him, the little wild things, The silences and oddballs and odd things, But he had grown ashamed of them all, So in the silence he was borne On the swiftness of the fast-fleeting wind Over the water. He is borne over the water, The pines float on the water, On the swiftness of the swift-flowing The forest-pines move ever so, The water flows in rills, And ever so swift, As he goes ever farther from his home, Ever farther from his father the wind, As he goes down the long cool water, Ever farther from the starry sky, As he goes down the wind through the shadow, Ever farther from his mother the moon, And the sea-flower that at eve was shining, And the lilies of the waterside, And the night-lily and the star-leaf That glimmers and vanishes in the shadows, As he passes through the shadows farther On, ever onward still, On to the shadow of Death, On to the comfort of Sleep, On to the great peace of Rest. And he said, "Great are my crimes, I have loved much, I have wronged not thee, Father, I have loved much, I have wronged not thee; And I go down to the shadow, To the place of shadows, For ever, into the night. "Father, thou knowest, I have loved much, I have wronged not thee, And I go down to the place of shadows, For ever, into the night. But in the night We two shall meet face to face, Father, thou knowest, I have loved much, I have wronged not thee, And I go down to the place of shadows, For ever, into the night." He was carried by the swiftness of the water Over the dark and silence of the billows, He was carried down by the swiftness of the water, And as he went down the swift water His face became more beautiful, His face became more beautiful, And he said, as he passed under the surge, As he passed down through the darkness toward the shore, "O, Father, Father, do thou bless me, O, Father, help me, give me thy blessing, That I may end my sorrows here, End my sorrows here, and live for thee!" The bright waves raved, the dark waves moaned, The sound of the water was rocking, raving, As he went down to the shore, As he went down into the gloom, And as he went down he cried, "O, Father, Father, do thou bless me, O, Father, help me, give me thy blessing, That I may end my sorrows here, End my sorrows here, and live for thee!" The waves rushed, the clouds beat, The sounds of the billows were wailing, wailing, As he came forth from the mist, As he came forth from the thickets, And as he came forth he cried, <|endoftext|> Just as the last hour is near, I sit in the House and wait With the rest for the last word. What will the Teacher say? On the air are whirling in flight The pellets of snow and ice, With their merry bouncing and flinging O'er the pavement of the square. Whizzing over my head, Like the missiles of war, Pelt upon pavement with exultation The dandelion-sized gold coins fall. And in the windows, all along, The wintry rainbow spreads, Showing a world of windows, With a thousand bars between. Sparrows and sparrows in the trees Whose branches, mirror-like, Suspend them in mid-air. And on the benches, coiled in groups, The little kids of Bonnabel Toss the snow with outstretched hands. And then I see their tears And their laughing is like music To me in this silent room. The windows are glistening with snowflakes, And above in all the square, In the farthest houses, In the houses furthest away, I can hear the muffled roar Of the great river in winter, Through the city's silence ringing, And the echoes of its rumbling echo In each hut and cot and house. And all of the city's living water Is brimming over the marshes, In the midst of the deep defiles And in the forest's deepest shadows. There's a mist of snow in the air, And the wind is shrill and bitter, And the biting winter wind Whips the icicles from the trees. So, with a single glass of chambered wine And a hearty meal in the bitter cold, In the soft grey twilight of evening, I will watch the light flakes of purple Fall along the shadowy tree-tops, In the leafy caverns cold and deep, Till the golden hour when all the forest Has changed its lively cheer and cheer, And a calm of frost and hoarfrost Falls upon me as a spell. I remember that it was the custom In the afternoons when summer came, To come home from school with only boots And no idea of going out for cherry-blossoms, Or peaches or pears in the little orchard, But to stand in the gate of my father's house And watch the wild blooms come slowly up the hill Till they were lost among the white spears of the roses, Till the wild bloom clung to the blonde tresses Of my dear mother's head, and the wild bloom died. And my brother and sister and I would follow Until we lost ourselves among the flowers. And my mother would look out in the wan light And tell us that life was more than flowers And that death was not the end of life, But that all life had but one path Through eternity, to that one dreadful end, And that we must not waste a single moment In regrets for the months that were past. And that night I dreamt that I walked among The wild blossom-beds of a garden fair, And saw the flowers in the death-like stillness Fade from my path as I drew near to it; Till I heard above the rumbling of the rain, And the splash of the waters, and the tapping of the trees, And the buzzing of the bees, and the loud-voiced horn. And in the high branches of an ancient oak I saw the light of the full moon shed its splendor On the faces of the peacocks and the fleecy birds, Filling the dusk with much soft feminine beauty. And the fairies came down from the shadowy banks Of the river, and with radiant hearts on their faces Filled the air with poetry and melody, Till the trees and the bushes were one with their happiness. And then the fear came, and the wild dizziness, And I lay down on the mossy ground, And the dream went quickly from me, and was replaced By a dark mass of apathy and solemn thought. I felt as if I had lived my whole life, And it was but a life that was coming to an end. I walked in the city in the daytime, And I wore a garb of respectability, And a great deal of the wealth and the comfort there, And I possessed much of the information; But the minute that I left the city bounds The change that I saw was dramatic. I saw the weak-eyed weak-hearted Women and the weak-hearted children Struggling with one thought in their minds, Struggling with situations that were new And unfamiliar to and from the old experience; And their sorrow was sad, but their sin was disgrace, Though it was hidden and it was difficult to know. And I noticed with particular attention That the women who were most hardened to sin Are seldom the same after dark; That they get drunk, and they have violent abortions, And they go to bed with men they shouldn't. And the men, whatever their station, Have no ideals, and no ambitions; But are satisfied with their lot And content with their daughters and sons And turn right round and become the pigs That they have been in the night-time. And the Sunday-school teachers Are hopeless hypocrites, And the Sunday-school leaders Are hypocrites in the highest degree, And the church itself is a rotten trunk That is full of rats and mice; And the children know it too, And their sorrow is such That they drop out of school And leave the church to the dogs. And I noticed with particular attention That the woman who is sincere in her sin Is always sincere, and whatever her language, She means what she says, And it is seldom in bad language; But the wicked are always bad language And their language is always good meaning. And the wicked always have good reason, And no reason but the evidence of eyes And ears and feelings and thought processes. And they say what they think, and they do what they will, And it is rarely in language; And the ultimate fact of their condition Is never a thing to discuss. And I noticed, also, that the women Who are sincere in their sin Are stern and unpoliced in conduct, And oftentimes talk of the sin as a chastening, And they put on a brave face about it, And they think that the women of the world Are constantly after their skirts, And that they are not satisfied with them, And that they long for the time that is past, And that they would wait till the years that are passing, And that they would tear them up for the future, And that they are not satisfied with their lot, And they want the time that is past, And that they would tear it up for the time that is passing. And I noticed, also, that the young girls And the young women, in their deep deceit, Think the best of the young men in their presence, And they say what they think, and they do what they will, And they will not be questioned or remarked on, And the men are satisfied with their lot And are contented with their daughters and sons, And they have no thoughts whatever to regret them And no feelings of the worst and best, And they think the young people in the city Are all exceedingly nice, And that they would rather be anybody's child Than to have to struggle with their children. And I noticed that the men in the city Are almost always very selfish, And for the most part their feelings are submerged So deep and topsy-turvy that they can have no feelings, And the men that are extremely dishonest Are the worst off of all, And almost any vice they are guilty of, Tearing as they do the land asunder, And bearing as much or more of evil Than the devil himself. And then I thought how it was the women And never the men among them Were really the worst off of all And the sweet flowers came to mind, Sweet flowers of life, that never Did the worst of any wrong, Sweet flowers of life, the trees among, Sweet flowers of life, the birds among, Sweet flowers of life, and never Did the best of any wrong. I thought how it was the women And never the men among them Always had sunshine in their faces, Always had sun in their eyes; And that the birds were never as they were But beautiful sweet birds with golden feathers, And that the leaves of the trees were never Torn asunder, nor did they know Why or where the golden leaves came from. But when I saw that the men and the women Were all a-part with one same pack <|endoftext|> And I, seeing through a glass darkly, Looked, and saw thee and thy countless train, Thy progeny, as in a vision walk, And each by a seraph-like son of God In glorious glory riding on his right Was guarded as the life of heaven and earth, I see the sons of God, the Holy City, As radiant lamps on their shoulders burn; The sons of God, the guard of God on earth, And saints, in bright celestial armor clad, And angel guardians, flaming in the sun; And they are glorified as the lamps of night, And all with crowns upon their heads are crown'd, And roses bloom upon their lips and brows; Then I saw thou hadst not as yet begun To reap the harvest of thy headstrong son, Nor wert thou yet to reap the leaf of him; And I thought on that dread river, the Fount Of Life, whereof Ezekiel was prophesying, And with loud voice denounced its burning waters, Which later I beheld from morn till night; Then I beheld the sons of God in shining Helmets and shields above the heavenly host, And banners in the wind upon the seas, And on the hills the awakening flower of warriors; And I was filled with awe and glory great, And stood as stand the chieftains when they raise Their voice to God in prayer for glorious victory. Then I beheld a host with herald wings Flashing on every side the enwrapped sun, And heaving sea, and dove-reared sea, and plain, And woods and distant valleys with the flames; And heaped city and sprawling hamlet stood In solemn glory and the shadow of death, And the hearts of men beat wildly in their breasts. And the cry went up to God from weary And lonely souls, and all the voices rang With the voice of the prophetic harp; and wide The land was taken up with the fiery glare, And a dark smoke was rolled up from the ashes That we lie in to die,--the lives we live, --The hopes that fail, the loves that fade, the dreams That are not,--and all we hold most dear --All that is not,--flowed up to God. For, lo! from every searing the ashes Burst, and their hearts were as a flame to God! And the sound of harps and sighs and flowers and drums Was as the sounds that angels make in heaven; And distant shrines with solemnities were ringed, And the distant peoples shuddered in pain, And the night was alive with images. And the Lord looked down on the burning blaze, And said, "What wert thou? What rage of pain Staggers for my benefit through the crowded Cities of men? Thou wert not thou, O Prophet, Nor yet was thou, O Song of Bethlehem! Thou didst not murder, nor didst thou steal, nor Didst thou wrong, nor didst thou lie! Rather as a Spirit thou didst swim across the burning sea Of human life, and came as a person sent From God, to tell the people of a Saviour, Not to worship him as gods have done, but the Christ that suffered on the cross for their sins! "What could I do? I could not save the children, I could not save the women and men,--they Would cry to me in burning blood; But I could pray to God for them, "I could pray and call on the Lord to save The innocent, and to keep The hearts of children from destruction, The feet from stumbling, the hands from murder, And I could tell him of a mighty rising In the land, a Power that comes not in the blasts Of the wicked tribes of the west, "That rises up from the oppressed, the poor, The one who holds in trust the right, To rescue them from chains and to build A government for all and for all To form one community of faith Under the holy pledge of Love's sanction! "O Israel, Israel! If my mouth Might words of hope impart, I would say That the time is near, and will be soon; The darkness will be dispelled, and Zion Be built, as heaven above the earth is built, With millions of souls in her at once And one, lifted up without a pang By a great love that shall never cease "For we shall live together as one As once we were in bondage together; With the same hopes and fears and weaknesses, With the same hopes refined and held fast, And the same chains broken that ensnared us In the days that were of old; "And our prayers shall go up before the throne Of the Eternal seer, And our faces turned to the light without, To draw blessings on the sun for all; And our lips shall tremble in praise, And our spirits be glad!" So the radiant pillar of the Lord Smiled, telling his message in the sun, Till a multitude was spirited thence In glad spirit upward, out of doors Where the seething city's life-blood ran. But his voice the Prophet could not hear. When at last the voice of Moses came And the blessed sound of David's lute, And the soul of man was glad in God, He, the Voice of Prophecy, stopped, And his lips were dumb as the dead. "My people," he said, "my chosen, mine The prophets of God! for they shall build A holy temple in this land, Where the God of Abraham shall be worshiped, And the God of Moses be with us! "Yea! I foretell to you a day of joy; The Lord, the God of Israel, will come And build a house of prayer and a throne For the holy city, and all shall believe In one Eternal God, and his ways The way of righteousness and peace shall be The law of the Lord without end!" What was he saying? What had he spoken? The God of Jacob, our great-grandsire, Was to return in righteousness, And in majesty of wisdom spare This ancient land which had so long Forbidden been. What was this, this But the oath, the promise long expressed To Jacob and his seed? What, but to say The time of redemption was at hand? And thus he passed away into obscurity. And we left with our burdens to bear Our burthen, a people in captivity. But the coming of the Lord was not long Shown to us, not so soon revealed; For, as at Zion, so at Bethlehem Mourned the empty diadem of woe. But Judah's land was yet a desolate and uncultivated wild; For, from Egypt's coast to Palestrina A stream of men, both good and bad, With ossitudes, ignoble dells, and crags, Went forth to find for works of men a place To house their vision, and make ready seed Of a promise, and to find out time For the fulfilling of the foretold redemption. Where Bethlehem had found fruit and blossom, Came olive, apple, grape, and date-tree; But, where as Jacob's palace reached out To greet his brother's children big with him, Came only rocks and broken crags; and where As David's city had risen to greet him, Only crags and crevices bare him near His people, only broken walls. It was the Lord's great purpose, ere yet The seventh long breaking day should end, To find out land for David from all That region round that he had found Good for his tabernacle, and his habitation, And for his people's safety. There was found A uncultivated waste of hills and moorlands, And thickets, dry and thorny, 'twixt Hendoun And Rhossall; which should be made a place For the redeemed out of all her stock To find a dwelling for their remnant; and, Be it no crime to her, she had soon ceased To be uncultivated waste; and there The youngest son of Jesse, when he came, And made his home with Ruth and Hosannah, found An wilderness untillowed, and uncultivated, And wild as then. No ploughman ploughed the plain Until the hail had ceased to come, and no Man cared to plough; for it was seen where path Could be had, that it was better far to take Than journey on at speed; for the adverse winds Were tireless, and the shower of rain and snow Despoiled the growing corn; and in the plains The cattle and the wild beasts were trampled, and worms <|endoftext|> The old mountain winds that have beheld our hosts Fade in the distance; on the cold, vast, Thicketed summits, In the white, moonless expanse, How it whirls, how it whirls! The sea! the sea! the sea! the air is wild, And the white foam is torn and trails In the sunset's brilliant blue. In my heart there's a strange, deep well, And when I hear its draught, My spirit seems to climb a wind-swept Hill, and alone there sit. At times like these I love to recall The words of one who came before-- The words of the old teacher, the Master, Who was our teacher in a child, And will be our teacher after death. "Blessed are those children who stay at home With mothers, as their mother at home is. And blessed are those children who are with fathers, As their fathers are with them. And blessed are those children who entertain The guests that visit them. "Blessed are those children who in youth, Having desire for holy things, Pray before the altars and the fires, And sanctify the days of life, And in the night before their sleep Pray still more reverently. "Blessed are those children who watch The time when springs are opening, And take the dust of the threshold When the night comes. And blessed are those children who Have heard the angel's voice, And honor Him who takes away Their tears. "Blessed are those children who, as youths, Go with old wives to the orchards, And offer him the ears of corn, And take the highest fruit That bears a crimson seed; And blessed are those children who Have heard the seraph's song, And he who saves the world. "Blessed are those children who in youth, Hoping for the Lord their Master, Travel the whole night, and bring to light The little flowers that were lost. And blessed are those children who Have heard His voice and know That He who makes and maketh all Has indeed sent down the dawn. "Blessed are those children who have no fear Of fire or flood, earthquake, thunder, or rain, Or wolves or bandits, or the wolves of Spain; But, having been born in a lowly home, Doubt and flicker and drowse and start, And wander from the Church and God and man, And lie awake in bed. "Blessed are those children who are bold, and know That they shall not die, but dwell forever In a celestial home; and that the worth Of a true heart is more than all the gold Of all the world; and that they, being Gods, Have just entitlements to abide with Thee. "Blessed are they, for in their strong, bold breast A deeper, nobler faith may be discerned Than any other faith they ever knew, And they are blessed while the world is dog-eared, And the world's faith is weak and doubtful; For they have found the true-begotten Son of God, And they have heard His voice and known It is true." And, as I sat in doubt, they came,--the little ones, With eyes so kind and gentle, and such a sooth That it set mine own heart singing in tune-- With laughing voices, "Oh, here is Santa Claus!" And down the chimney they trailed, a Christmas parade! With sleds all carved and paint and tinsel proud, And horns, and trumpets, and a great big roomy drum. With eyes so soft and wide, And such a sacred look As if they knew me, The little children,-- Grown up now, of course, And talked and played and laughed,-- Went out with me to see the Christmas man Who had come home with their presents. We searched for presents, And we found many, But the children wanted The toys I had given them, So I gave them presents Instead. "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my naughty, wicked cat, And she said I did not care for her, So she left me." "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my naughty, wicked horse, And she said I did not care for him, So she left me." "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my naughty, wicked dog, And she said I did not care for him, So she left me." "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my naughty, wicked pig, And she said I did not care for him, So she left me." "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my naughty, wicked elf, And she said I did not care for him, So she left me." "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my naughty, wicked sprite, And she said I did not care for him, So she left me." "This naughty, wicked sister Could not keep her secret, So she stole my wickedest shaver, And she said I did not care for him, So she left me." I wish I was as wise as the wise am, And the wise were I,-- Such a knowing heart I would have, And I would have an ear To the listening ear: For a wise head have I Would make a foolish fist And pound out a foolish reason, And so make a foolish face And so go home Saying, "This is my way. If you'll only have no part of it Then have no part of me." He spoke and they hearkened, but of me They took no thought, For the cunning old owl they heard Was unprescient. For he shook his plumes at their gathering That they should dare draw Their swords against the plume of him And fight him, but they hearkened not And so went their ways Hid in the bush, and left him free. But I too have a saying that's wide-spread, And often have I said it: "Let your speech be seldom and few, And your speech be shrewd and shrewd; That it adorn the tongue of the unlearned And strike at the very end." For they that are sure to be ordained Are they that have no fear of them that know, But strike at the weakest of them all And whisper in their ears, "Forbear." If a man will stop and think, and look up at the sky He may see the time of year it was when I saw; For the clouds that are on the mountain now Were not of late up on the summit, and the sky Seemed no darker, though the footprints of the rain Where they that have been have their futures all told; And the wild fire-flies I know by their dim signals From the summit of the mountain where the shadows meet, And the grass did not seem any less nor any more Green than it was, though the leaves of the trees Where they have been are yellow, and the tall corn Where they have been and will be, is green again, And the springing grass and the swallow's song, And the high wood does not seem any less or any more High, though the thorns have been cut where it has been. The path of the ploughman I know by the plough That has ploughed it, and the love of my hands For the churn and the anvil I learn from them, And the steady faith of the engineer Who takes no heed of the superstition That thinks that a hand that has given its strength In the churn is some how tainted or evil Where it lay dead and bloodless in the sand, And the steady faith of the mechanic That sees no error in his art and knows That he who has skill to bring things to market Is skill's equivalent and should command all trade Whereon honest labour may be done. There was another path,--but it was long, And rough to the ploughman, and the tread Of the poor man was heavier than his open crown, And not a crown was crowned with thorn for it, And I, poor girl, had a thorn in my hair, And I went the long way, and at the end Came back at the time of roses and fireflies, And walked in my childhood, and my heart Grew proud of its strength and my hand swept back To the hoe where the furrow was thickest, <|endoftext|> "Ah, to the noble youth, My heart was ever true, The image of my passion true, As the sun of summer! "In the solemn gloom of the night He was singing and dancing, Loudly shouting and shouting, Till the house resounded, 'Truth, reason, beauty, power, To the heart of a child!' "When the summer and winter passed, To the land of the ivy, Still the singer and dancer On the plains of the rye-fields, By the river-banks, In the houses of men, Stood with rosy cheeks, In the forms of girls, "He was never happy, He was never contented, In the homes of men; Always in other homes The wisest and fairest He has never seen. Always in other homes He has seen gloom and ghost, Hiding in the shadows, From the day that he left. "Thus the years passed by, In his own country, Unnoted, unnoted, Till at last one came, One, the very favourite Of his country's mother. "He was very beautiful, He was very tall and slender, With a voice of silver, With his curly hair, And his mother-love for him, With the love that his mother Heard and knew and handled. "And the nurse took him in To be fed at night, While the neighbours were fighting, And the news went round the village, 'Maid from Another Mother, Like to the Stranger, "And he lived with the people, In the quiet place, Fearing not, but keeping His strange secrets to himself, Till at length a month had gone, And the time of his departure Came. Then the old man Grieved in heart and lamented, And himself too wept, "But at length, when he had travelled Where to a stalk the corn was growing, He departed To his father's home, And the orphan was taken On his bosom, Where his mother breasted him. "He was called Einar Tammar, Of the Free City of Dubrovnik, By the people of that home; And he lived in a tower, In a region far from trouble, In the fair city of burning, In the open street of battles, On the field of death and glory. "He was a mighty man in his towers, Strong and self-reliant was he; And his mother reared him With the greatest care and pleasure, With the greatest love and tenderness, With a thousand faithful friends. "Never did he change his part of living, He was always a good man and true, Nor a fault in him was ever shown, He was always a fine man and fair. He was very wise in speech and wonderful, And his words were noble and courageous, And his bearing splendid, too. "Now there were those who saw him as a child, And they thought him much like the Stranger, But as man he grew great in stature, And his form was like the master's. And he walked upon his feet, and never spoke, But his mother stroked his golden ringlets, And a hundred faithful ones gathered Round the happy mother, While she fondled young Einar, And the babe upon his breast. "But no one ever knew or imagined What became of that child and mother; And his father he was minded to give Unto the forest, or the waters, Or the herd, in the field's broad pasture; But the king was sad, the wood king sad, And the deer and bear fathers dreadful, And no one knew why he left the dwelling. "Yet it chanced one day the child and mother Went forth to see the broadening pasture, And they saw the mountain's borders, And they saw the hills and valleys, And they heard a voice, a strange and tender voice, And the echo of the voice became silent, And the tender echo died away. "Then the old man rubbed his eyes and looked around him, And he saw his wife upon a rising ground, And he saw the remains of the traces, Where the pasture grew from out the clay and sand. Then the old man wept for sorrow and heart-break, And he thought of other children and women, Of his own wife, and of his other wives, And of all the things that he had done. "Then he shouted in the house of Taraska, 'Come, come, the grass-fire, the new Fire-child, Come and take the Child upon thy lap! For thy wife is sleeping, and thy children, All thy children, all thy wives have perished, And no man or hero defends them, So thou, O father, weep for sorrow, For the babe is dead and all his grandmothers! "And his brother he shouted in the tower, 'Son, son! I have found the missing link, And a hero is born to be king, And his deeds and doings are wonderful, And the tribe is blessed and honoured, And his deeds are ever remembered.' "But the brother shouted in the father's ears, 'Brother, brother! I have found a maiden, And her name is Water-lily Malvivaar, And her eyes are blue as the lake-foam, And her hair is yellow as the flowers, And her voice is sweet as the song of birds, And her lover is fairer than the morning.' "But the father shouted in the brother's ears, 'Brother, brother! I have found a sister, And her name shall be Slave-girl Desmara. She is stout as a mountainside is high, And she sleeps, her hair long and brown, And her eyes are blue as the foam on ocean, And her voice is sweet as the song of birds, And her lover is fairer than the morning.'" Thus did they speak, and thus did Micho teach him; So was born the crafty craft of war, And thus did Dukka strengthen war. Shandron's child was a magician, Michiko was his sister's daughter; War was their father's aim and pleasure, And thus did war come to be. The story of the twin-born daughters, And the son of Micho the soothfast, Is a legend of the Northland, And of no value here to set forth. For the warlike girls of the Northland Do not seem to be damsels at all, But are much the same as maidens. And they speak the words of men, And they sing the songs of Turya, Singing so the valleys ring, And the mountains reply as if near. But the delightsome story, And the tale of wonder new, That I shall tell of, true or false, In my return to the country, In the form of song that ye shall hear. It was in the pleasant days of summer, When the mild days of the early year, Like a grey shadow, had departed, That in Sariola, a peninsula Watched by the sea, I awoke to thoughts Of my home in Canafenthe, And of my people, the Isle-people, And of my well-beloved, the daughter, The daughter of Capa-har, In her cradle on the Plain of Water. In my lonely house on the sea-shore, In the cape that clove the misty island, In the cavern where within it I lay, By the sea-mother's silent image, Long I stood forlorn of human kind, Long I wept for the love of a man, That I had never encountered, That I had heard not in my lifetime, That was gone ere my coming, That was snatched from my heart ere my birth. On the shore of Lake Jumoja, O'er the waves of the misty continent, In the happy days of my childhood, I beheld her first upon the ocean, Smiling in the sunshine on the ocean, Riding upon the water's surface, That her whitest raiment transparent Gave the form and the aspect of sunlight To her form and her sunshine face. Then I sat upon the beach, And I waited for the maiden, Till her journey I had finished, Had fulfilled my great mission, Had returned to my nation, And had found my love and lost it, And had lived a wedded life with her, With the gentle Beoan-dove. But my love she was not prepared, Neither were the friends and brothers, <|endoftext|> Upon the treacherous bank Like a barrier, all above Mountains of ice, in a steady fall. If I climb My great way up from the sea I climb the mighty world Through the doorways of great songs Till I find Mount Lafayette in a song And Mount Palatine in another. Till I find Mount Zion in a song And Mount Kearney in another Mount Riole and Mount Vignes in others I must, and I shall fly Through the gateways of songs Till I touch Mount Lorne in a song, And Mount Daly, Mount Hull and Mount Mount Galway, and Mount Sorrel in others. The hills of the west are very high, But the hills of the east are very low, And the great road of the west Rounds them all to a common finish, Nor is there a bush, or a thistle-tree, To discriminate between the pairs. Toward the evening the sun sank down And he drew all away From the high hazel-tree, From the heath, and the broom, and the bramble. But the bright days are few and far, And sweet is the rising moon, And the silver sunsets are rare. And we cannot keep In touch with our own griefs and joys When the great hills of the west Draw all away From our own deep pines, From the high hills of our own country, And the solitudes of our own heart. To-day in the twilight dim, When the high pines were still, A stranger stopped, and loitered, While I wandered with him a space. The fire-light cast a gloom, And the shadow a smile; And as he drew rein to fall Back in the shadow again, A soft and beautiful song Of peace was gathering in my heart. How the world slips away! Day by day, hour by hour, Like a fleeting river That has crossed a precipice, And disappears in the distance. Oh, thou constant one, O eternal Providence, Where are they who have gained thy glory? How the world slips away! What a little remnant are we Who keep passing through the day-time, In the shadow of the morning, In the glad sunshine of evening, And waking to the light of morn! What is there, in truth, So dark as the sombre night? What so fearful as the dread And terrible love of the grave? But thou, O ever-watchful One, Where are they who have gained thy glory? What is there, in truth, So dark as the sombre night? What so fearful as the dread And terrible love of the grave? But thou, O ever-watchful One, Where are they who have gained thy glory? The woods of Arcady The gloomy forests swell; Dim, gnome-owned, with ursine gaiety They throng us with their folk, Gnawing and horrible, the souls Of old, good-for-nothing sons Of the wildwood! The giants that leap 'mong the trees Grow young again at our feet; The lepers, looking up, With eyes that loathe the daylight, With cheeks that hate the day, Sing us their sweet and mournful strains, The songs of yore. The elfin tents are spread, The drowsy leaves unweave; The woodland hostelry Looks sleepy and Sweet at last; While we snore, and the merry rest, Gods, have ye southland bards Apell'd us of these? Ah, grasshoppers, come back, If drowsy poetry mean; Or, if ever kind, Come back, with your fairy throng, To chant your rounds and dawns Upon the morn and eve. Ah, errant dreamers, speak For one hour and define The charm so strictly guarded, The secret of this spell. And if in words at length 'Twere better to pursue The circling, silent path, The conscious heart shall strive By finding a certain meed Of stillness, through calm and storm, Our memories to win; Through all the long year's rite Of summer, frost and rain; In gloom, in sun, through all The long year's rite, In watching bowers of rest, In dreams of sacred love, And joys of mother-right. Oh, coming one, I seek thee, And, in my search, I lose thee! I dreamt a little of thy coming, And, dreaming, thou wast false to me. But, when I found thee, I found thee, And, smiling, held thee fast. I said, "What can a heart forsake That longs so much for reunion?" Then, through thy brief delay, I saw A heart that yearns so fast to join With its long-divided one. I said, "Thou canst not long delay That I should be reunited To mine own heart's dear mother." And, ere thy coming, certain I vowed a daily prayer to her; A prayer for daily food and rest Athwart life's wilderness. Then, when thou camest, straightway, near Thy waking, straightway, in amaze, I saw thee greet thy mother. Then, the glad light within thy face Went slowly down to rest; The tear-drops, also, like in fate To stay together stayed; Then, my soul, like empty air, Grew free, and met thy presence there. Then, from my heart a prayer like shed Upon the ground, there crept, And, from my lips, a cry as deep As thirst that slakes with dew. Oh, the heart, that thus yearns for one Ever near to kiss it, How cannot, in that longing, One earthly kiss suffice? Yet, grant, oh, grant, it be not thou Nor all the years of years That yet hast followed thee around, That still hast kept that longing, That thirst of longing after thee, To where thou dwellest never more! The sad-eyed Peace, that never sees The sun, the moon, the stars above her, Glad in her blind concealment, To her gladness gives no ear; Her golden ear, silver light, Hath never heard the song of flowers; Her ear, to listen, far apart In starry space is far too far. She hath no heart to listen, she hath no ear, Yet, as afar as is the sky from her, She hears the sighs of flower and bird; And, from her solitary throne of gold, With smile of mercy, and with gentle grace, Sees amidst the flowers and music of the spheres The love that breathes the life of creation; Sees, and the o'er-beautiful heavens smile on. So, when the earth and all the sea of it, And all the birds and little children, all The little people, Joseph, Mary, Jesus, Falls dying into her ear, she hears, And she is born! O, born to the silent birth Of her true mother's soul within creation, Clothed with the light that never can die, And with the love that never can depart! When all the stars of heaven were set to sleep, And he, the man of God, that was alone, Knew that the dawn was come by the watchman's alarm, And yet the darkness doubled the greater night, How, listening to the still small voice of night, He listened, and was filled with sorrowing. The long night heard him weep. It set him weeping, Till he had neither cause nor reason, why His tears should flow. It had been wise To leave his sorrow to the constant candle Of the star-child sleeping in the cold dark breast Of his mother's silence; but pitying love, Pitying love and weeping for a mother's sins, Did push him on. For, as he went, the birth-cry of the dove, As the old woman oft had taught it, rose; And, to the touch of the old mother's finger, Sighed, as a faint voice, a low lamentation. He heard it, and it made him evermore Grieve for her lost, and long for what had been. One time, in spring, His mother was watching the blossoms rise Upon the apple tree; and, from the blossoms, Dropped, as she struck the air, a little flower. It trembled, and it hung, and she, her hand Honeyed from it, remembered the name of the flower, <|endoftext|> Arise, turn, nor swerve from thy dream! Or wake and find thee dreaming still! Then weep no more, and roll no deeper Beneath the bitter waters of woe; Now lie thou down and close thy eyes, And pray to Lucian, if he live, In some still, region, to the grave to go, To rise again. Not yet, O Lucan, those amorous eyes Have seen the shade; nor he, that in the grave Lies sighing now, to become a bard On desert plains, and sings no more. Then sleep awhile, and let your soul Reach, own, and feel the present span, And with unclouded vision see the rest. A time will come, when Lucan's song, Through all the land, shall clamor for his sake, And with unclosed lids o'erflow with light; When he, whom all the Muses loved, And all the world defied, shall wake again From some long silent interval, and see His life's short dream of glory and of crime. Yet ye, O erst famous and Enlightened! Whom the world bore to every clime, and brought To hear the voice of many an eager hearer, Shall ye in heaps become melancholy strains, And cease to sing, and cease to praise the Sky? And thou, Epaminondas! what shall be Thy fate, the son of Dorilas? shall still Thy lyre, the music of the morning time, Reign unopposed? or thou, great Alcimedon! But ye, O poets! what shall be your fate? Must you forever rear your hoary head In melancholy on a springtide stream, In mazy eddies tossing, and deluging The peaks of Europe, and of Asia strong, And every cottage on the Lombard grass, Where even an infant's singing is heard? Nay, stay thy laughter; cease the streams to pour So nobly high, and softly bearing down, As in a splendid show; but raise your brows, O haughty and unsubduable spirits! And drive the evil things away, that haunt The world of gray-bearded shadows, vain of form, And fond of humbling mortals; while ye send The light of heaven upon the world of night! Who shall be first, and who be last, Will go upon a journey to-day; Will sit upon a throne, or sink low Beneath a vulgar sceptre. Who will be first, and who be last, Will go upon a journey to-day. They'll take with them, a mantle white, And a cauldron hot, and bread and wine, And a little book, and that will be all. 'Tis neither fortune's tossing wave, Nor shines with royal glory; 'Tis the light of a long forgotten star, Which some forgotten hands shall throw down; The thought of a sun it will one day be, Which will shine through a world of clay. Away, ye powers of air! Be thou our guide to the day; We will keep that order in which we may, In which we must; for the order we keep Shall make the course and measure of our lives. And hearken, all ye who pass Beneath the arch of the high vault, How all your guerdon is supplied By the stars and the moon and the earth; How, by the general good, ye spring From dust, or from a parent stem, And are, in the first duties, sent Up to the seat of grand pontiffhood! Now, while thy mother earth Lies sick around thee, and while thou, In thy diviner mood, Soberly suffer, patient of pain; And in thy soul the deceit Of a frail immortality, Hear, O hearken, and believe, That earth is not a doll, nor heaven, And the soul is not begot in a crystal sphere. Thou, too, O bard! whose potent stroke Could stir the ground-swell o'er all! Whether 'tis from Tory stirring; Whether 'tis from Tory stirring; Whether 'tis from Tory stirring, The throne was an angel's hand may reach; If from Tory stirring thine ear If from Tory stirring, thine ear, O, shudder not, O, shudder not; All mortal things are seen By faith; All things created are The works of hands; All things move, (And are with force impelled). All things aspire, (And are with force impelled). All things Bear rule (And are with force impelled). All things Reek with being; (And are with force impelled). All things Suffer for Heaven; (And are with force impelled). All things By faith endure; (And are with force impelled). And thou, O, Lord! The God of mercy! In whom, and by the kingdom's power, I do believe. I hold that he is the true, The only King, Of Heaven and earth, And all that in them is; And that without him, Heaven, I know, that, through the ages, Thou shalt be revered; Thy servant ever, with a right Submissive, whose intent Is love, and truth, and peace. And that I shall be Seen of him, whom thou hast sent; Be thou my help, I pray, And my beholding always. And I make homage, offering, My praise, my hope, to thee; As from a child, in childhood, I learned to love thee; As from a child, in youth, I rejoiced to hear thee; As an old man, o'er the wisdom Of four times four. And I revere thee; for, what Else could I learn of thee? What else could I attain? What else could I hope to be? What else could I achieve? What else could I attain? Thy word, thy word, is law; All else is but a name; A name, a name,--and thou, "How long, O God, shalt thou permit The People to violate Thy holy Temple, and its laws, To exalt man over God? How long shalt thou permit the Synagogue In every land, beneath the veil of stars, To hold the law thy Spirit inspires, To teach it with a preacher's rod, And force it on the world,--to reign In every land, beneath the veil of stars, And exalt man over God?" "How long, O Lord! Suffice to say, How long in time, the folly to destroy By pride, by pride is lost; How long, in time, thou canst put off The shadow, and be with us; With time, thou canst put off the spirit Of blasphemy, and rebellion, and wrong, And to make right, and to promote The kingdom of our God, How long, O Lord! Suffice to say, How long shall good men bear the chains, Which they themselves have made? "How long, O Lord! Suffice to say, How long shall man neglect the test, Which was established for himself; The test of truth, which he hath been taught; For every man was born to speak The secret of his heart to God; And who shall question of that truth, Or, question it, or doubt? For every man was born to speak The secret of his heart to God." A little space I sat, A little space I stood; Then, with a ha! ha! Of hope and heart, I laughed. For so it was, That I seemed always cross'd In mind, and arm, and heart, From that day I knew it, Till now. "Ah, my good grey! The rain's atony play Can never daunton thee, I know it can't. For days that I ha' been gaun O' looking o'er thy mith, I vill see nane can me him To be so bonny. "Ah, my good grey! O turn thy shoon o'er the road And get thee furl'd; Seest thou no mither's look To bid thee shoon like me? For years I ha' been a-dying At mother's knee; "Ah, my good grey! Now tak' thy braid, and we'll see Whether snow be sending, Or sunshine in the sky, Or both; but I will wait Till thou art come. <|endoftext|> An' which has ne'er a room in a inn, It's a handsome dwelling, Mr. Meekay. The day I seen the parlour well content With a corner to itself, I am sure, It was a well dressed man that drew near; And it stood empty, Mr. Meekay, As if there was no life in the village. But it is the life, the only life I know, And it's the only life that I want to live. I could now remember only two of the others, And it seemed all fate had laid them in my way; For they whom I had loved and cared for so, Had not only remained in the world's swift stream, But were living, growing, loving, enjoying it too. These four I now could see in the flush of youth All radiant with health, content, beauty, strength, All young with a soul of desire to improve; And they gave me hope for the future, Mr. Meekay, For the future, Mr. Meekay, all for you. Why did they leave the things which had been dear to them, With the old green fields of their childhood ahead of them, And with the old friends, kindred, fellow-feeling to find? Why did they, whose bodies were burdened and worn, Why did they who seemed all so weak and all so fair, Why did they leave the bliss of those few years behind them, For the bother of the world without, And all the bitterness of disappointment after? And if I said from this time they will not come back, I speak and I speak with full justice; I do not know, nor can I tell, Why these things have assoiled them of the heart, And what their reasons are, Mr. Meekay. The ghost of the vanished days watches around them, The present grieves, the past grieves, And the future it will be ere they shall meet it. And now I turn from their story to mine own, As all the while from their fate I was freed. And now I turn from their story to mine own, As all the while from their fate I was freed, And I say that even in our time, Even in our time all so uncertain, One man's Death can be born to life, Mr. Meekay, And one man's Life can be born to death, As the strong man bound By the bonds of gravity and imprisonment Sees through the thicket and bushes, trees and bushes Of the landscape his strong front presented to sight, And the air and the sky overhead Seem to accept his constraint and share his breath, And with a scornful "Look at him!" the sun himself Descends, and through the mists of earth and air, Tranquil and motionless, comes on High to greet him with his farewell kiss, If I return to life, and see My life as it was when I was young, I must say that its parting seemed delightful. And if I say that life has a ending, And if I die, and come to life again, Then say that I was very young when I died, And think how little inclined I was to die. HIS track was the solitary track, Nor came he by the lonely wood, Nor heeded the sweet bird's song, Nor heeded the murmuring brook, That through the summer tinkle ran. He was one with the things that are With the things that have no neighbours, The juggler with the golden goal; O he was one with the things that are! And he trod the tracks of iron rail That run along the city street; And the cars that whirled along them sped Till they were red with the fiery stain; And he shook the tables and desk, Held the gold cup above the mouth, With a loud, unworthy cry, Like a peddler in the street. And he came among the diners good, And the plates of gold he brought They were as pure as the morning dew, Like the golden sunrays gleaming That fall on a crystal lake When the clouds are at a thunderous stand. And they marvelled at the gambler bold, At the gambler bold, so young and fair; And one said to another, "How bright Is his shining forehead and his hair!" And another said, "Now we know What is the Golden Fleece that plays With its diamonds all night long!" And some said, "We have seen the game new; We shall never put him down." And they cheered the gambler bold As he hurried from the room; For they said, "Heap up the plates of gold, We will give the golden meal!" THE fire burned bright on every side, It was almost twelve o'clock; And the fire burned low and low, And the flames grew higher and higher, As I watched them from the door. And they soared to the branches of the tree, And they fell to the grass below, And the sound of the flames was low and sweet, As they crawled back into the old glowing grate. And I cried, "Oh! what are the flames to thee, If they bring only misery?" But I cried and I shouted in my rage, "Cry for him, my child, my darling!" And the fire burned brighter, and I screamed, And the flames leapt higher and higher, Till they reached my son's cradled bed, Where they burned the covers and feathers, And they blazed among the folds of the drippings, And they hurled their heads to the ceiling, And they licked the heads of my pigeons, And they lashed the wings of my pigeons. And the walls and the ceilings groaned, And the wings of my pigeons were bruised, For they tripped on the scars of the sprains They got when they chased the bats away. And I shouted, "Oh! what are the flames to thee, If they bring only misery?" The smoke was thick on the hillside; I could not see one hooded face, But I heard a woman's voice say, "It is time, it is time to rise. Wash the dishes, John, and clean the grill, And send them to the maiden, Jo, For she is waiting." I went to the window and looked down; I could see nothing but the tops of trams, And the white street below them. "Jo, my girl," I said, "I do beseech you, Can you remember, can you remember All the glory of the day?" She answered, "It was a bright and sunny day, And the stars shone bright in the sky. And the wind came blowing from the west, And the sun came streaming out, And the leaves upon the willows were blown, And the water from the falls. "But the glory of the day is passed, And a dreadful fire consumes us. Oh! what are the flames, and what are they, And where are the tall black clouds, And why is there darkness over us all, And what sound is it that I hear?" Then I drew her from the window and said, "Now that you have recalled the Past, I think it best that we part." And I kissed her lips, and I fondled her In my arms for a last time. And I said, "There is nothing left to do, But part and leave the destinies Of the lonely house and me. It may be that there's another In the world as lonely as we. And if there's not, then I'm happy here, Where I am, with you, and nothing to do, But to watch the sun go down, On the terrace where we watch'd you pass." But the fire consumed the shadows Like as a poisonous fungus, And the sun shone out as bright as ever, But the shadows grew deeper and darker, And they vanished all as suddenly. And I saw the moon in the sky, And my heart was heavy with pain, And I said to her, "Oh! my daughter! Why were you sad when I was away? Why were your lips apart? Why did your little hands clasp the covers, And your foot was on my arm?" But my child said, "I was happy, my father! I knew you were coming back, And I knew that the life you had lived was left you With all the pride you had. And my eyes were happy too, my father! They had never seen the colour you were." I AM the frost that has worn down The flowers to stone, I am the fire that has made The gorse a robe of smoke, And the flowers as cold as snow. <|endoftext|> For springing flowers; For little living things that pass, As vapors pass, And are no more; For sound forgotten as soon as heard, And things unheard; For joy that hath no end, and sorrow That hath no part; For all things that are swift to change, and things That seem to stand still; For windy summers and fair winters, and I That am not summer or winter, but all things That are, yet are not; For past and future that are not as present Things, but unnamed as yet; For quiet nights and sun-filled days, and I That am not quiet nor sun-filled nor wild To meet the world that sows my seeds; For all the vast and spread things that the mind Can know not, but do know of; For the yet unnamed things of heaven and hell, And all that is unknown; For all that looks to meet the eye in the right place, The ear at the right time, The heart at the right time, the touch at the right time, The unspoken word; For voices hid in the sweetest place and time, And fair shapes moving in the wind's flight; For beauty as lovely as the thing it is In most measure making most apparent; For strength as strong as the thing it is to bear, And beauty as strength brings ease; For souls that are fair as its soul, and flesh As fair, and passions as intense; For things that are lovely and most imperfect, And yet perfect in their perfectness; For wonder and delight of beholding, And for the keeping of the things we see; For things that are forsaken and for those That are forsaken; For new beginnings, and for the winning back, And for the slow advancing; For death that is a gate to a better life, A pathway to the past; For first fruits, for flowers that are lost in the mire, For lost springs only; For all things that are common and yet not common, And things that are rare and yet not rare; For commonness is only that which is most Anywhere, at anytime; For rare is any thing, and exceedingly The highest kind of rare, And anything being rare is far rarer than what it is; Rare being ever most exceedingly rare. Sweet sea, that dance hath made with me ashore, Thy rhythm fills my heart with forgetfulness Of the vast seas I have wandered so. There is no change in thee, thou being changeless, Nor any grave to make graveness dim. I am too low in the dust to breathe thy sighs, Being too high for contemplation. I am too low in the dust to feel thy winds, Being too high for heaven and earth to blend; And therefore I give thee to know me by these, Thy leaf and thy fount and thy sea-silt, And these once dying, will live for aye for these. My love, it is not that I can give This to thy requiring: it is not pride, Nor yet desperation, that holds me back, Nor yet unnameable perfection, That keeps me from the perfect delight: I am not content. I am wild to leap joy by the hand; I am wild for life, and wild for death. I am wild for mirth, for sorrow, for play; And yet I know, as well as you know, That I am but as low as thou. Now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now! And I, who've prayed as many hours In the month of April as any vireo, Now seeing the elm-tree leaves and blossoms Tossing in the breeze As they do every year, Allow myself to believe April's here, And the world's in April! Not that I am kind or wise, Or that traits of character I possess Are great or rare; But these I give thee, in thy freedom bold, In conclusion, great; That if there be a God, And if our Purpose hath a name, He knoweth each. The sun's here, and down the afternoon The yellowing leaves dip and wilt; And in the paling twilight, too, The sky grows deep and blue; And ruffled at the break of day The mist creeps o'er the river shore, And, unseen of amethyst, The swallows skim the river shore. And on the undulating plain The long line of the lily-bushes Treads gently, tentatively, Deliberately, the sullen rill That from the meadow side With slow content our wheat must go. The swallows skim the river shore, And with their pale blue wing The heavy gold of the autumn evening Lingers, and waits; Till after sunset,--but a short space,-- The lilies lift their heads, And dream of lilies in the evening. There is a field that swings and sways, A rolling teazel of the earth, Where weeds and flowers and grasses sway, A whirl of green and brown; Where the brown weeds in the violets shine, And the blue poppies nod. And down this weed-hung wold, A boy hath forged his aching soul, In place of sun and life of boyhood The weed-dark city's day. He hath learnt to fathom the dark abyss Of his soul's fast-closed gate, And knoweth it is best. A boy, the week is all too short, The week is all too brief, That tells us what may be, and shows us naught Of what is nearest. A week that tracks the sun-blistered mire, Where weeds and flowers and grasses sway, With blackening pools, and shadowy cliffs, And narrow roads. A lad, and all too short, to read The verse that once was writ, A week that tracks the dark abyss Of his soul's fast-closed gate, And knows that naught is nigh. He stands a moment on the edge of night, That sounds at gate of gloom, And longeth to go forth into. And he hath set his face To learn the deep uncanny lore Of all dark fancies that grow In deep dark dark gardens afar From all dark streams, And all dark nights. He hath learnt to tread a certain track In all dark places, that grows wider With each new week he has in store, And each new week he less can bear And less comprehend. And he is weary of all gardens fair, And all clear pools, And all clear nights. He knows that all fair things do fade, And all clear pools do disappear, And all clear nights are only nights Of empty shade, And that no life everlasting Is anywhere to be found. And now he hasteth on to teach The dark oblivion, that steeps The barren landscape in night, Till only he can see That any life at all is sweet, In any age or creed. The old field-lamp, whose pale fire With withered hands and eyes, That, day by day, no more refresh The watcher's slackened soul, That, day by day, no more can thrill The absent eagerly, Has, in the darkness, taken flight, Like some strange feeling that has flown Out of a breast. I love the dawn. I love the dawn. They who led my life before me led my life after the dawn. In the morning, when all that was reproachful, and all that was childish, and all that was ugly, Is shorn away like scythes, and beauty is only that which cannot die, And Truth and Love and Quiet and Peace are made a new thing every day. The old me led a life that made me doubt if I was wise, And I led a life because I would not shirk, and I led a life because I would sing. And all that was faultless and all that was ugly, And all that was feeble and all that was strong, Is shorn away, and in its place has a new thing grown. The old me led a life that knew but one grave regret, And I led a life that has many graves, and I know not which I would choose. The new me leads a life that knows no past or future, Where beauty is no more than a name, <|endoftext|> And seeing him suddenly at the door Her thoughts stood still--with a sudden start She turned away her face, and cast it meekly Toward the ground, and wiped her dripping face And took her seat upon the bench in haste. And the Doctor began again: "You are a stranger to my practice; I have no record of your name Upon the minutes of my desk. You must have come to me by stealth, And with some strong enchantment brought Forgotten like a breath of spring, And brought from where the spring never comes, The river of life, and changed within To what I cannot see or know. But in my office as I came I saw you standing there before me, And to meet you, and to dare you, I began to speak and began: " 'Would that there was a land Where a little opening would Let me see into thy heart, And the blood warm to my heart With a glimpse of thy unknown self! " 'There is a land,' Thou saidst to me one day, 'And a land it is called Earth, And one person there dwells to be A little better than we'-- And behold! from afar thou dost come To see if life on Earth can be As high as he expects it should be. "'And I have dreamed a little dream,' I said, and turned to thee, 'That one day when I had grown To be a man and taken care Of myself, I would go forth And leave this Heaven to thee, And if it seemed to be your right Would you let me die alone On some far, starless, landless sea.' " 'Ah yes,' thou saidst to me then, 'It seems to me a glorious dream. I have a house in earth somewhere, And a little house that fits me-- And would thine eyes go through it wide Thou would'st see thy lord and playmate still, And no dim place where the light is not. "'I have a father and a mother, And thither I would send thee then. There are white birds on the eaves, And a little forest grows Up around the house of one-- Would'st send down thither, but I know Thou would'st stay with me and live there.' "And I said 'I will,' and said What I would do is done. And now a month has gone, and now The cold has come and hath slain me. And when I am dead to-night Thou wilt come to Earth and sleep there Upon my mother's breast, and she Will never forget, and she will weep To think she hath forgot--for she loved thee And she shall love till the day she dies, And she shall hope and pray for thee, And thou shalt know thy room is God's, And that thou art remembered here And thine old room at last is here, And that thy name is called no more And then she kissed me and went, And laid me down softly there, And covered me and buried me, And laid my bed above me-- The rest she did without a word, And I slept as sleep befell me. But, when she had gone to wait In the great house awhile, I woke; and sleeping there I lay, And saw the dust of evening blow Across the great rooms of the hill, And even upon the wall of the house Where I had left my sleeping bewrayed By God's great mercy. And now I had heard the voice of many birds, Lulled in their covert nest, Pursue soft words, whereof each was sort of a bird In its singing. And the white pillared before me was one mass of flowerage, All softly blown, And everywhere I looked I saw the shimmer of a thousand starry lights, And everywhere I felt the coolness of a breath of flowers Dying against my lips. I lay there And rocked to and fro, and thought that the night had grown deep and solemn With the death of Day; and all about me was so full of solemn beauty That it seemed as though no day could be near. I lay there, And saw the souls of the saints pass by, And heard the saints' voices call, With the soft hymns of their kneeling bodies, which made the air sweet with their fragrance; And then a voice like that which erst I heard made its way into my soul: Come, work with me and you shall receive The honors God lists to pay you. Here's your portion; here is the count of your reward; There is the promise of the future world; Here is eternal life with God, The world and the rest is yours. I've worked with Pain and gained what I have; I've prayed with Him and received what I have; I've lived with Courage and lost what I have; I've loved with Death and lost what I have. And all the while I've felt that I was serving God, And serving me. I have wandered in the wilds alone, In sun and rain and darkness and snow; I have carried what I had gained home And given away what I had not. I have known the wonders of the woods And tumbled to my death for fruit. I have seen the robin sing and rest, And driven crows to a tree to die. I have known the beauty of the rose, And drunk the fount of a young girl's eyes; I have known the sorrow of the violet, And swooned at the fingers of a boy. I have known the song of the little birds, And felt the touch of their cherries. I have known the cry of a sick child, And felt the dagger of a blow. I have known the hope of an orphan, And felt the flame of a starved child. I have seen the vision of a grave, And conquered and lived in fear. I have known all this, and done with it, And tossed it away in the mire, I have walked in strange lands and known them, And known the bitter and the sweet. I have known the sign of the unicorn, And known what stings and what is sweet. There is the question of work, I think; I have done with it. I have known the work of the world's way And ridden the corn and oats. I have climbed the steeps of Work and tasted victory And ridden the corn and oats. The sign of the unicorn I have seen, And tasted, too, the bitter of it; I have ridden the corn and oats of the world, And known the milk and honey. I have reached the summit of my work and my dream, And brought the milk and honey home. I have done with the sign of the unicorn, And turned my face to the hills of home; I have scaled the steeps of the world and their heights, And tasted of the valleys and springs. I have drunk the milk and eaten the honey, And brought home the valleys and springs. I have done with the sign of the unicorn, And turned my face to the hills of home; I have drunk the milk and eaten the honey, And turned my face to the suns and stars; I have ridden through the heights of the world, And brought home the suns and the galaxies; And I have measured and known their sum And brought them as my tribute home. I have done with the sign of the unicorn, And turned my face to the hills of home; I have ridden through the heights of the world And brought home beauty and the earth. I have drunk the beauty and eaten the fruit, And brought back the flowers and the grass; I have mixed all things in all places, And brought the beauty of the hills of home. I have known all this and done with it, And all my life has borne the fruit, I have mixed all things in all places, And brought the beauty of the hills of home. I have turned my face to the hills of home And gone to the peaks of God. These are the rocks my mother loved, These are the hills where my mother used to go. These are the groves that she used to see, These are the valleys where she used to dwell. These are the bridges that she often walked over, These are the islands in the ocean strange. These are the rocks my mother loved, These are the hills where my mother used to go. These are the groves that she used to see, These are the valleys where she used to dwell. These are the bridges that she often walked over, These are the islands in the ocean strange. Once she dreamed of a city of snow, <|endoftext|> Spending all their energies in celebrating and repressing. Cultural imperialism has been busy here too, Marrying "local" traits to a template so complex, That even those who think they know what's best for them Turn still other folk "local" in spirit. It is by fighting for ourselves that we gain The mastery we seek, and thus become The exit for the wave that was Before us. And we who are, day by day, Socially unacceptable, deviant, unknown-- When the fortress of privacy is razed, Stand forth, a personified multitude, Strong, self-contained, and proud of who we are. Those walls come tumbling down, and the invader Seems but a tombstone in the dust he spurned, If we are all to see what is done in the light of the Day. And those who think that the heart shrinks from the task Of the total social reformation Are sorely mistaken if they think that it will shrink from the new law. In its crucible, the human heart opens like a new machine; And all the vials that it has broken are collected again, And refilled, and again accelerated to the purpose. In the crucible of the human heart, however, the law is altered, And new matter is added until the chemistry is changed. It will not re-aspire till it catches up with the new life. If it were otherwise, the broken cells would lie dormant and dead, And the re-formed units would be floating aimlessly through space, Unmoored from any save the true home that is birth. But the changing of the crucible requires that the old be blended with the new, What is beautiful is local, and the general plan Must take its beauty from the substance found there. Each heart, that I see, with passion rivalling the best, Cries out for one response that is local, Seems caught up and held up by the local spell; And, unless the beauty of that spell be combined with expansion, The new combination will always lag behind the old, And the result be local ugliness. <|endoftext|> There was a certain Editor, once, Who took to editing novels Instead of editing columns. He did a handsome issue When he printed Harry Graham's work. He knew how to tighten up The plot, the characterization, And how to fix the dialogue That had been rife in Graham's work. He took the air out of malice And malice with contempt reclaimed. He caught the put-up, put-up offense That threatened to spoil the party. He caught the poison-dipped eel That lurked in the eel and piecing story. He knew how to handle morphine, And he was the first to know How much to give the hero. There was a certain Book Editor, too, Who took to editing poems And to keeping a little journal. He was an editor unto himself And edited from inside out. He knew how to tighten up The pacing, the structure, the dialogue, And bring the hero home at last. He knew the poison-dipped eel And how to punctuate the way he died. He knew how to handle morphine And bring the tortured creatures peace at last. There was an Editor who, once, Tried to do too much with his work. He edited out the whims of the mad And the whims of the troubled he edited in. He knew the way of a punctuation mark And how to use it, with art, To impress upon his readership The significance of a particular event. He knew how to work with ink and paper And, being an editor of poems, He knew how to work with a galley book. There was an Editor with a gorgeous desk And an elegant way of working. He knew how to edit a book And bring out the best that lay within. He knew how to tighten up The plot, the characterization, And bring the hero home at last. There was an Editor with an eye to the long-run results. He edited out the slovenly lapses from his work. He edited out the writers' crude desires And the dark searches for glory and renown. He edited out the passions that stain the best, And he edited in the fruit of wisdom and judgment. There was an Editor with a view to the book's potential long-run success. He edited out, as the editor must, The ideas and assumptions that interfere with its proper doing. He edited out, as editors must, The errors of sentiment and prejudice. He edited out the character flaws, The things in the story that might cause its misfortunes. He edited out, as editors of great writers are bound to do, The amateurish things that spoil the work of the writer. He edited out the mistakes that mar the prospect of success. He did this, and he did that, And he brought the book to a state he was proud of. The Editor is an effective person Who works with a view to the long-run results. His or her heart is true and earnest, Their head is clear and awake to the possibilities. And so they edit not for praise or for flattery, But with a view to making the story real. They care not how or why the thing is done, But simply because it is real. There is one Editor who certainly fails to bring The advantages of being an editor. He edits out things he knows are right, But he edits them in such a way as to make them seem wrong. He does not cease to think the thing wrong, But merely to make it seem so, And thus he edits out the beauties of editing. There are two editors, fit to be known, And they have the highest claims to be called the best. They edit with art and they edit with ease, And neither allows the subject to be free. There is one mark that both use to find, And that is that both use the corrections and the dedications. There are three editors whom I can endorse. They are bold, and they are definite, and they are wise. They use the "clear, plain, and obvious" to charrack The best editor is himself and he only. He looks at the work in hand and only, And this assures that the work will be best. He uses his brain and he uses his heart And these are the editors to follow. There is an Editor who certainly brings The advantages of editing with him. He is so exact in his calling That the work he sees is as good as could be. He is so definite in his thinking That his mind is cleverer than his reading. And he is so wise in his turning That his mind is faster than his reading. He does not see the work in hand and dealing As if it were unfamiliar, But as if he knew the thing he is reading. He does not stop to find the beauty of things, But takes it for granted that it is so. He does not use corrections, then dedicates, But dedicates then to the corrections. There is an editor who certainly fails to bring The advantages of editing with him. He edits out what he knows are wrong, But he edits them in such a way as to make them right. He lets the thing alone that is right, And thus he fails to bring the thing itself along. He doesn't know what he's doing, and that's damning, For what's the use of having a superior name If one can't use it in the thing one does? He doesn't use his brain and he doesn't use his heart, And this assures that the book he does is lame. There are three editors I can stand in favor of. I know them, and I like them and I like to think that I do. I like them and I know they are good, For they bring the advantages of editing to reading. They use the "clear, plain, and obvious," And this assures me that the work they see is good. They do not use corrections, then dedicate, For dedicating then to corrections proves them wanting. There is an editor I can like quite a lot, And I don't mean much because he edits well. He doesn't look at the book and use it as a tumbler. He looks at it and use it and use it and use it, And this assures me that the book he does is good. He doesn't stop to find the beauty of things, But takes them for granted, And this is the editor to imitate. There are editors I like the look of very much. One is the editor who doesn't use corrections, And dedicates to dedicating then to corrections. Another is the one I don't like at all, But that's none of my business. <|endoftext|> What shall I do? I feel the hand of danger Lifting and curling around my life, And I cannot speak, I cannot move. She takes me to a room Where yellow flowers are set Against a window screen. She presses her cold, white hands Over my brow and face To soothe my frightened fear. She murmurs words I do not hear And tender words of love. She lays me on a sofa And fills a light in the room And when she lifts my chin With a swift, deliberate touch I begin to writhe and tremble And the pain in my head Seems to increase day by day. It is only the wind, I know, That sweeps across the sea, But still the pain is terrible, And cold, and quiet, and sad. And who can bear it alone? Who can stand the silence and pain That stirs in one strong heart? Who can live on so much suffering? I cannot bear it, Mary, I will return to you, I love you, help me, help me, I love you, can I live without you? The waters lisp and murmur in the shadow, And the lily lies straight and still; But over the waters and lily, The wind is whispering and saying, "Seas yet swim, and mountains yet are hid." The clouds pass high and low; The clouds pass high and low, The sun looks down on the sea, And the sea looks down on the sun. "What is the sun thinking of?" I wonder aloud. "What is the sun doing?" And the sea answers me, "Thinking of the waves it swells, The sun's warm wave and the warm sun's shining." I dreamed that down the gorges of a steep hill The white water lilies were wafted along Under a wind so cool and soft I fancied each a drifting blossom blown From a purple mountain-lake of white, Into a azure garden of moonlight. They bloomed and floated, each one, White and rose-leafed, a fleeting stream Of fragrant silver, bloom and blow, Like a breath of fairy flowers blown. They bloomed and trembled, each one, Rose-flushed and flower-strewn, a floating mist Of perfumed moonlight, floating on Into a quiet garden of moonlight. He loved me once; Forgiveness is not words; But I think that the heart feels A strain of regret When speechless it pays A debt it cannot pay. I lay me down in a snow Of silence and sadness; Heaven was my pillow. I think I should love him still, And yet his hands Are clasped together And his eyes are wet With tears he does not weep; And his head is stooped and so bowed That it seems like a bowl Set on a bed of flowers. He bends over him And looks upon him As though he were a child In piteous mood. He does not speak, He does not move. There is a broken reed By a cobwebbed well That is dripping and wick'd; It trembles as the wind blows; Its pale aery green Comes and goes as the breeze passes. The wind that moves the reed Is sad and strange; The reed is not moved; The wind is sad and strange. When day is gone and night has come I see the rippling ripples glow; And, like green lilies soft and sweet, The shadows glide along the hill. The night is like a golden dream Of stars and silver flames; The night is like a couch of fire Wherein the soul may rest, Though nevermore shall wake a light That shines on men and brethren. The night is like a golden dream Of starry fires; The night is like a couch of fire, Wherein the soul may rest. Though I have never been a monk, Yet if I had a thousand altars, I'd burn for the good work done. There is something in a sun-burnt reed That speaks more than all divine altars. There are two words that were never said, Yestere' and Yett', and Yett'ry likely Was much more heavy and dread Than it has proven to be now; And, certainly, there's a phrase that's "never out of date," Which the "never Yett'" fits well. There was once a reed that was caught in a snare, And never a clue as to how it all began. And the sum of its bootless anguish grew Till it broke away and spoke and said: "It's time to be off, like the good reed I was!" And then, for a while, the wind that it bore Was broken by a wind of its own; And all day long a thousand reeds might stand And never know the difference, you know, So, for a time, they stood in concert. But some of the reeds had words to say, And the others wondered and feared; And they tried to make it clear to the first, As they turned in their somersaults round; But, because their words were very flowery, They never quite got to the point. And then the wind that they had kist Got very chilly and wary; And, through and through, they got a chill That never quite left their reeds. And when night came, they trembled and shiver'd In a dress of roseate mist. There was never a word of reproof, And, when the others all quarrelled, They took comfort in a high-way And ran all in cadence and cadence. And still they ran on, in cadence and cadence, Till they got it all wrong again; Till the cadence that they took was all wrong, And made the whole business rather flowery; And the reeds, and the hills, and the breeze Whereby they run on in cadence and cadence, Are far more important than you think. "O night, with thy starry, white, rose-lit shape, That hangs upon the azure sky, Who thus in many a gently swaying sheet Meets me undaunted, and with eyes that hold Me like a man's that's tumbling to his death, That gives me no reassuring comfort, save That, though I'm tumbling to my death, My life is not all that's i' the sea, I pray; But, O night, with thy starry, white, rose-lit form, That hangs upon the azure sky!" That said, he turned his face away, Yet still his words of comfort he said, And straight, with a sob, across the sand, To where the foam was white on the dark night, He made for the cave. The moon, in her wane, Was white, and crescent, and wan; She swung in a pale cloud, She rocked on the deep. The sea, that had been calm, Had broken and flowed in spray; A gaunt, cold, and ghastly face Was its only visage. The moon in her wane, Was white, and crescent, and wan; She rocked on the deep. O, how dark and cold It was, and worse than cold, That heavy, motionless, pall, Which over our heads did sit Like a shutting of the wind, A ghostly silence of dread, That filled the air with dread, And drowned all voices in its grave! It passed, as night-flakes pass, Into the shadow-haunted night; It passed as foam upon the wave, Or soundlessly, as death, Fell on that soul in shroud and pall. O, how its touch was like the blow Of a sword upon the soul! Its silence was like its sound! Its swooning sway like death's own! Its shroud, like shroud for sin, The shambling blasphemy of thought! Its darkness like a grave! Its pall, like pall for pain! Its shroud, like pall for sin! We wonder, as men who have died, If, somewhere, beneath the sun, There glides a farther shore than this, Where life, more bright, more noble lives; Where, by some gentle waters run, There kings with blood thicken their robes, And there the soil is holier found, And more like home's very own is. There are men--it has been said-- Who, if a barbarian band Should sweep from shore to shore of land and sea, <|endoftext|> And my thoughts ungovern'd with fear, Thought, but for this, had been much wiser, And I had not been so sad and anxious, As I now am, and even die, If I may die for love of thee! And who can say by what strange way She came, this maiden wight, To what bright country over sea Into thy retinue She went, and thence, at last, tho' late, Returning, in thy court retires? Nay, tho' Fate and Virtue part Thou yet may'st see thy Cathaise! Thou must confide me not, tho' short My sojourn here should be, For I shall make thee fear no whit, Nor ask a promise not to spurn, Of those who come to visit thee. But come with me and thou wilt see How she of Comres lives like death. Ye who of wit and learning dwell In this our world of ours, Who of revelation, and who reason, And whose mind gives enjoyment Unto the outward things Which thou here didst touch and sample, (Now alone apart standeth Each one, nor mentions me) But in their bosoms, as thou seest, Thou and thy objects have one hue, So that my love to them is like My love to thee, thyself, and sisters. I am a wingless angel In a rough disorder'd state, Who perch'd upon your flowery couch, And I have dreamt some little sleep Of that bright mansion fill'd With my rich affright. But now the morning-light is here, I must be go, And, where I think fit, must sing, I must make my simple song, My flight I must begin. Then fly away, my restless bird, And hither fly again; And where you list, my happy hours, Let all your choice be made. And if, in flight, you chance to see A better clime than here, Send me a little word, and I Will go with you thither. Whenas the year comes round again And the yeomen come to e'en, Unto this field of life we're bound And our labour's not in vain. O joy! O bliss! O goodness all (For God's our surety) That God hath led our life by him And hath blest every good that's made. And some there be that for greed and meagre fame And office chafed, have stoop'd to breaking good store Of their own will, that they might gain Or take away property by spendage wrong, By craft or dicing; and others still In gentle husbandry, have forgot the joy Of abundance. Yet he hath built a house, a fair house and round, With marble white and light and hot; And window'd well, and door and windows bright, And full of flowers and foliage. And he hath garland'd the house with his lies And with shibboleth of liars. In vain the vine shall clamber on the wall, the olives Shall clamber on the tree; And the pine upon the mountain shall have her ways Through the roads of the sea; And the alder shall overhang the garden fair, Forgetting its fair height. I know where the King my lord is set, Where he sits on his throne: I know the throne of his goodness is a throne Of joy and happiness; For meek and lowly I am his queen, For meek and lowly I am he. And he hath taken a wife for his shade, An only child to be: The joy and hope of all his life I have, And I must rule him. The midst of loving, and the midst of tears, His love is my questing, His love and my demand is--Rule. I am Queen my sire is king, My sire, and I are queen; And my palace is my home, Where I sit by my lord. The splendour of my state I make more fair Because I rule him. I bow down to his bidding, To my lord the king; I fain would win all joys he gives, I fain would make them mine. He reigns, and I, and all things do bend To my will, my lord. But when I speak of my will, he answers, And then I fall at his feet. The crown he gives me I do not seek, For as his queen I must be The humble child in all things above, The humble wife. No longer I care for wealth and place, For I have taken my true abode Where, growing humble, I grow great, And love and honour and rejoice And honour and rejoice my king. My son is but a boy in years, A gracious boy, and sweet and fair; And ever will be, Till I have laid my days away, And softened down the straitening steel Of his fierce youth, that he may know I am his mother and his wife. He cometh in at even, and welcometh all his ways With a full gift of oil and golden honey; And ere he goeth his ways he feareth no cold, And he looketh on my face and I am happy with him. He cometh in at even, and welcometh all his ways With a full gift of oil and golden honey. My son is but a boy in years, A gracious boy, and sweet and fair; And ever will be, Till I have laid my days away, And softened down the straitening steel Of his fierce youth, that he may know I am his mother and his wife. My lord is but a king in years, A wary king, and strong and bold; And ere he put him down I shall rise again And avenge him. For I am wily in all ways My lord is but a king in years. We be false and we be weak, My lord but a boy in years, And I look for glory, and I know not what, For I love not man nor woman. I am as soft and as smooth of touch As a smooth mirror that is made of gold, And as swift of foot as the sun, And my heart is as large as the sea, And my pride is as great as the world. I know not whether new or old, A poem or new song, The night that is over with the day That hath ceased to be. There is one thing that I know well, That I love and I may not name. It may be worth a world of gold, And I am as rich as the King. It may be all as wide and good As the sea that runneth east and west, And the north and south that peace findeth At the end of a bitter sea. I am as safe as the waves that pass Under a white moon in a harbor, And my strength is as great as the stars, And my wisdom is as wide as the sea. I cannot tell what things mean, For I have sought for the day That shall tell for me what I seek, For I am a dreamer, a dreamer, A seeker after fame, A gazer where great woes are seen, And a dower of the earth; And the wrong path that I am on Is but the color of the grass That doth cover up the earth. The mist that is on the hillside Is not the mist that touches the hill, For it is not the way that the air Is moving but the air that is dry, And it comes not to touch the hill; But it cometh and it passeth by And it drips and it drips down the land, And the hill is not wet at all While it is covered by the rain. The song that is on the bough Is not the song that is on the tree, For it is not the same song that is sung When the leaves are on the tree, And it hath a different sense and a different tone When it is on the tree and when it is on the bough, Tending to make us think of our wants and needs While it makes us think of our thoughts and fears. The sweetest and loveliest things on earth Are not these, and no change can befall; This world of ours is as perfect as it is, And we are as perfect as we can be. For the wisest and best of us is he Who knows when he is wrong and when he is right, And who knows when he sleeps and who is awake, And who knows what thing is most worthwhile. <|endoftext|> And run, I guess, to you? Yea, it is so. But this the Gods ordain. A thorn on a human head must die. And so death finds me, for I know not What most of death. Here is a sign, A sign, a little, slim, black, And on the sign is written Knowledge. It was a gossamer thread By the elves' hand spun and wove, That bound my love to me. So that I am as you see me here, Elves' luck's a-curl with this dang'rous thing. I am all of me satisfied; And that, perhaps, I might have been, Had I not seen the Sign, and known. Elves' luck! Yea, forsooth it is so! You ask me? Why, Elfinhart, then Knowledge is mine, since I have sought The Path that never leads to you. The Path that never leads to you! Does it? Or yet, perhaps, it does; for ever and for ever Elves' luck holds out to those who know. The sun is setting, and the day is done; The East grows black, the sky grows dark and low; The East foretells a storm, foretells a fight, Foretells a loss, foretells a thousand things. I call to my Fairy--come out to me. Elves' luck is fair, I'll say; for we must part; But then, I've seen enough of Fairy-land. What is the sign, my Fairy, come to be? Is it a marriage, is it a tomb? And will I see my Elf upon the Wing, Still spinning from the foam of the froth, And still hear the echo from the fall of the dew, And still see the glitter upon her lip? Come, therefore, Elf, unto me; For lo, I do not forget The many sweet ways Of seeing you. What sign will serve my ultimate need? Will it be death, Or will I come again into my body of flesh? Alas! alas! Can earth even? Are there no worlds in the sky? And can the flesh of me, though it overcome, The flesh that burns with passionate flame, And the flesh of my spirit, burn alone? What then? The touch of the grave, I believe, Should long dissolve this fiery slime; And, in so soon crumbling, leave me at last A fiery, glorious mass of clay. If the mind of the world could awake, And read the secret of the times past, It would find, amid their gayest feasts, A host of mighty deaths; From the lightning-stroke of Eurus To the coughs of Vesuvius there ran A record of unharmed bodies. What cataclysm hurled men down, What reign of death swept cities away, What chain of woes, in all their forms, Conjured by the sorcerer's hand, Hung on for the ages through the lands? And through what ages, clothed with form, They journeyed in their invincible chains, That now from icebergs and from volcanoes The record of their fury is no more? It is but the foolish's fable of a dream, The foolish, feeble myth of an infant's brain; Of power, and dominion, and the lure Of the low passions, irresistible, absolute; Of the dull slumbers and the tortures dread, The agonies of existence. It is but the whim of selfish man, The metaphor of some defunct part, That rules the soul in its pillow, or confines Its vision in the physical labyrinth. It is but a phantom, named by ills, By ignorance, by sin, by the hidebound heart, By the unresting, inarticulate mood, That deals in epithets, and names its treasures. And where the cause of all is lost in cloud on cloud, And in the infinite abyss of worlds unknown, Its memory must sleep, or find the pathways there Where, in the fogs of blindness, its form is seen. 'Tis the blind leading the blind; They lead blind men to the moon, And to moorland caves, And to the edge of chasms profound, And to the ends of the world. They drive the nations with the wheels Of the great wheels of war; They tread the people down, One after one, To build the mountain-rills. Blind leading blind!--Such is the way That mighty wheels of war In the darkness make their way. And through the ages all along, In the shatterings of state, In the chain of slavery, In the chain of fetters, In the bond of blood, Comes the human race, Driven like the leaves of spring, Like the forest-birds away To the new dawn of light. The world, blind leading man, Blind leading man, In the swirl of confusion Drags its vain being along; In the conflict of quarrels Creates its need, And creates for itself The heaven or hell Of its own swift choice. And the wheel stands still; And the world, dumb in awe, Looks, and lo! it sees This was its heaven of old; This was the dawn of things, This was life's high purpose-- World-annihilation. And the nations, one by one, Fall headlong, like leaves, Till one by one, like pebbles, They disappear. And the wheel stands still; And the world, blind in awe, Looketh, and its eye Sees not a sign of bondage, Sees not a sign of change, And the great wheel, like the sun, Unspeakable majesty, Unfolding mystery, Unfathomed ascension, Unveiled mystery, Is concealed from the thought Of the blind. The wheel stands still; And the world, blind in awe, Still looks, and does not see, And the peoples, one by one, All fall headlong, like leaves, Till one by one, like pebbles, They disappear. The wheel stands still; And the world, blind in awe, Still looks, and does not see, And the peoples, one by one, All fall headlong, like leaves, Till one by one, like pebbles, They disappear. In the old days, when the dawn broke o'er the fjords, When the sky was pellucid, and clear, and bright, There was no greater joy for the holy ministers Of the high gods than for the people: For the people knew That their friend was coming, and was in his house, And the child was new born, and the night was long, And the day dawned sweet on the tranquil hill. When the dawn was red on the high-held hill, And the light fell thick and eternal on stone, There was no greater joy for the holy ministers Of the high gods than for the faithful people: For the faithful people knew That their happy lord was come to his own house, And the night was long, and the day dawned sweet On the calm hill and the watchful sky. And when all was bright in the house of the high god, And the friends were assembled in glad throngs, There was no greater joy for the holy ministers Of the high gods than for the faithful people: For the faithful people knew That their friend was come, and was come in his own house, And the night was long, and the day dawned sweet On the calm hill and the watchful sky. But when the friend comes in the morning dark to his house, When the sleepers are risen up, and the children are taught, Then the light of the shining sun on the peaceful hill Brings greater joy to the holy ministers of God Than to the friends in the house of the high god-- For the friends know that their friend is come home again, And the sleepers are risen up, and the children are taught; But the faithful people know that their friend is dead, Dead as the sleepers, and the children are dumb. Who was it, then, whom cold death interrupted in his sleep? Was it the seer who stood with the great gold-wrought gate At the doors of Paradise, and outstretched his hand to man, Or the lover, who, with love's sad eyes full of tears, Sought the dear face where his faithless life was hidden? Or the sweet daughter, whom the slumbering king forgot When he raised her from the babe at her breast, and loved <|endoftext|> Worthy the woman, O! for each wish That fills the heart with tenderness, With faith that walks the fearful ways, And teaches that no ill shall befall The work to do, the way to win; Worthy the woman, O! for each dream That garlands the bridal hour; Worthy the woman, O! for each thought That breaks at dawn the night's repose; Worthy the woman, O! for each prayer That gives new promise to the grave; Worthy the woman, O! for each thought That slumbers in the grave, and leaves it whole. The woman, O! of each hope that dies, Lives on in every sorrow dead; The woman, O! of each dream that dies, Shall have a dream in heaven above; The woman, O! of each dream that dies Shall have a rapture at its going; The woman, O! of each rapture dead Shall have a heaven above its shadow. Give thanks, O my God! for the day That gives to me a work to do, A work for every gift to get, A work to do and see. Give thanks, O my God! for the day That gives to me a grace to love, A grace to live and die. Because a little work has been, And more has still to be, And the last fifty years have been The last of a century, And each day is a gift And a grace to me; And because the whole work seems less And the whole world seems more, And the dream, that all of us kept, And the hope, that all of us lost, Is the dream of a man and a woman Whose love and whose life were the same; Because they lived and loved and were glad As only life and life can do, And they went to rest in the dust As only love and love can do, And in this world that is different But a little, less and more, Then praise the light that now is clear. For there is light that was not clear, And the night is gone for aye. Let the glad sound of the band play, For there is music that was made That the night can never make; Let the glad sound of the band play, For it is good to be alive, Let the glad sound of the band play Till the light of God's eyes grow clear. Let the glad sound of the band play As the band played all day long, And praise God for our work to-day And the joy that is to-day; Let the glad sound of the band play Till the light of his eyes grow clear. Though the band sings of a mighty loss, It is a joy to be here, For our work is worth the whole And the Lord is good to us. We have strength for every part And the Lord has given us rest; He gives us all that we ask, And our work was never in vain. To-night the work is as it was, The strain that we sang to-day Will the sweet music make, For it is good to be here, God keep us here to-day. Let the band play of a splendid gain For the Lord has made it his; Let the joyous music make, And praise God for a glorious gain Made for our work to-day. I sat at my door, Praying to Saint Francis, Whose door I had late Slain the wicked Papal Guards; For a like fiend broke away From my home and all my fold, And not a man could spy Where he hid him; in my sleep No more than one poor cinder Fell from my roof, which lies The floor of one poor room; And I opened wide the door, Not caring what might fall, And Francis came limping, Just as he fell, with his band Of old Crusaders, who brought Their black escutcheons on him. "This amends," he cried, "my day Was ill begun; I may call This crime a mistake, if wrong. My godly foes have struck without My knowledge, and without my leave. I turned my back, they bargained With my enemies, and sold My rise of grass that grew by my Spices,--an emprise most foul And heartless,--while I was gone. You came in your black and blue And burned my house and trampled all My rose leaves down,--and then You came and took away my faith. I came to serve you! I did not Think twice,--I only did it because I loved you. But now I know That I was wrong to have loved you. My faith is yours, and I no more Have any claim upon it,--none. If you turn from me, it is for good; If you come back, and if you do, I shall not ask the world to love As in the days of old, because I shall have lost the only hold I had upon your heart. But I, The great restorer, who did save The shrine where you now pray,--I, If you will see to it, will set My hands upon the reliquary, Because I have saved you, you. My cup is empty, and I know I drank of all my people's blood, And that I do so again. Now may your mother, I am told, Take up mine, and fill it close With water of the Moldau. I was very tired of my own skin, For it was shrivelled and wan and old; I was sorry when I thought upon The trouble that was mine and mine alone. I had been weary of my gray And sallow spirit, but now I knew That I was not of the race that is Born of the fiery Sun;--so I laughed And knew no more. The trees that stood around were trees of my dreams, Which from my childhood had stood for me A strange and beautiful presage. They were trees of the first sense I knew, And spoke to me as spirit; all around Were voices of my own heart's low crying, And on the air I saw their leaves. In the peace that reigned from that time to mine, The clouds had become as large as suns, And to the rainbow's triune ray The moon-leaf gave the color of a pearl. The human sky had grown to high heaven, And, ever beyond it, I could see The Arch of Saint George,--then I knew I was a soul made of his. All this I dreamed and knew. And then I went upon the ocean wave, And knew that on no ocean wave Had ever such a godlike bark been, That so bravely had borne the sea's beauty, That it for such a people had brought Light to a dim and flourishing world. I looked upon the wondrous sky, The living stars, the moon and the wind, The sea, the beauty of the sea, And all grew more deep to me, And I could not speak, but I knew My soul's utmost language was the prayer, "Great God, great beyond my thought, Save these poor souls from eternal death, "And guide them Thy way, and show That Thou art everything to Me, That Thou dost know what is best, That Thou art my life and Thou art my wife, That Thou art the serpent and the tree, The fruit for our life, and we are the fruit. And we shall live because of Thee And die because of Thee, and what we die We live again and live again, And what we live through we live forever." I opened my eyes on a bed Of cloud that rested on the sea. All my senses were at rest, My eyes were open, but I knew I was asleep, but not how, And full of vague alarms, but still My sleep was casual and free, And full of all the dread restlessness That comes when one first learns the sea. The long white beach unwonted lipped and hung Between the deep and the rising day, As if the sea's high lords had passed that way In state, with guard and herald, herald, scepter, And herald's awestone trump. And then the wind, A sounding raven on the uttermost headland, Rang up the reef like an unchained horse, And wailingly and fierce It swept and roared, till the sea-wind shrieked And shrieked and shrieked, till the sea lay wrung, As if the wrathful waves were torn with pain, And anguish like a blanching draught, In blood and water, fell, and the reefs hewn, <|endoftext|> That thou mayst the prize and prize-companion Of his embrace, and that his belly shall feel The pleasant sting of thy quick pang. Thy fruitless words I thus will utter, That all may see the friendship thou hast With him who has taken away thy friend. His only friend is his strange master, And he to thee is even like a brother. Thou art in truth his only bond-slave; Thou art the master of his throat, And by thee it is soothly taught, In one thou hast found thine equal. Thou hast no bond but his fierce command, His harsh and grudging grudge is only Thine own; and thou, unhappy wight, That hast been cruelly wronged! must still On him be preyed for thy sake. O, wretched woman! O, wretched man, So hapless and so wretched am I, Hurt by a cruel cruel wrong! My honour, where is my own? O, dearest heart, it is beyond my hands; I can find nought to rob me of. My honour is in my man's firm hold On her he swore to love and hold. By thee alone I lie, and thou Wilt have no comfort from this hour. My body, head, and clothes are thine, And thou hast taken them for thine. O woman, how false thou art! I can never love thee now, Seeing how now I see thee! Now thou wouldst have me think that I Was for a time like thee. But, woman, when I am now Far from thee, how am I like! Thou hast been like me ere now; And if thou e'er returnedst, It was to marry, not to weep. O, may I love thee to the dying, As thou lovedst me! If thou return, I will weep for joy, and then Say that I loved thee, and that Thou didst love another. G. Tu tibi tua, Cecconi, tutto tui, Celare iuris, non ulla saepe Mars. Dives et sic dolet gentes, Dives et sic quid semper acera est. Ille et Maria diem, Ille et Maria dixit, hos. All your sighs, Cecconi, Ceccon, Are not so like each other, But that you will be better neighbors. Dives and sic doleful doleful people, Dives and sic, dives and sic, quid triste? He is very near to you, Himself he is near to you; 'Tis very sweet, 'tis very sweet, He will not stay weeping, To doff his wings and take his rest. G. Tu tuis te procul amicis, Seu quae carminis clausa remorum, Aurea pars operosa deus ensem: Hinc invitae nimium, invidia, nimbis, Nebriuia, sed in locum quoi nocet: Hinc atque omnia supplex, supplex utrinque, Nec salus fueris hodiernae. Hoc modo est, hospitis ut singularis, He's a singular man, hospites urbem. Effert a sociis ibi moenia mundi Vitai secura tantis: hinc simul sociis Quae potest hospiter ducis, potest utrinse. Hospes quoque, nam mihi trisulca quiescunt, Tam virgineorum parvis seu latebras. Hospes non tam parcat rictibus, tam dulcis, Tam pleno montis quem virgineorum Subiit, neque ut dormire tibi. Hospes quoque, nam mihi sociare, Nec poteris sicca, nec cecineris. Sic cecinit, neque ut jam prorsum virgo Purior vidit hora sitim beatior. Et jecit et sic jecit libertas, Et jecit et sic sic bonosans. If he comes to you on the water, How can you bear your friend to the grave? But if from your hand he goes, How shall he leave the earthly coil? But if the proud tide should bear him To the green fields of the blessed town, How shall he there long abide? But if he goes upon the wind, How shall he come again to his home? But if on foot he goes away, How shall he come back again to his home? Rumble, tumble, and clash, Till the walls and the roof-tops and the floor Are dazed with the rain; Or, shaken still, to and fro, Weaves a dance in the panelled wall, Or stirs up a sleepy trouble In the ticking of the clock. Crack-up, thump, and rap, Delights for the tired to share, Till the little feet tire, Or the tired knees ache; Or in the little lonely room, Bored to extinction and doom, Watches the plastery sky, Or the bare grey walls it crosses. Chatter, little bee, Where the honey sits; If you'll but come in the night We'll give you a sample: Honey-warm and sweet-smelling, Would you not come and taste? Weep, little bee, Yet not mourn: 'Tis the angels who want The honey they take: Honey that is rare, So few will ever know! "Come, little bee, I'll give you a ring," Said the little one. "Its merrier you'll be If you only bear it." So he gives it a try, And he finds it's merrier Than his own sweet lips could make it. So he gathers it up In his fist, and bears it on To his little patrol, Where it flies at each touch: For his own sweet lips he uses it. Now he hangs it up in a rose, Where angels alone can find it; And he keeps it for his nose When he goes to kiss his love: Where it sniffs at each breeze, And gives the consort of his face. So he seals its bottle up In a crystal dew; Puts a frugal lock on it; Sungel stone on it, That the bees may weep Osery or one of the angels. Look at my ring, Little boy, There are people come to pay it; In the white of dawn They are gnawing at your heart. Weep, little boy, They'll be gone, But you'll keep the watch When the people sleep. Little boy, weep, They'll be gone, In the white of dawn. At the name of babies One begins to weep; At their little babbles One begins to sob; But oh! when at the name Of babies we are told, We are brought to tears. There are weeping faces On the housetops; Weep, little girl, you down below; But, oh! my love will never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, To-day, oh day! The river-water may be cold; But, trust to-night to warm bright fire, And fill each heart with joy anew. The evening shall bring forth flowers, And join our hearts to God's all the year. Oh night, oh night! and oh, bright night! And oh, her eyes so fair to see; The child, though cold, shall find her mother dear. Now baby sleeps, And, oh, she needs The paternal care Of every true wife. From infancy we've shared A common trouble-burden; 'Tis what we're made for; And trust me, love, as true As copper to the iron, And as warm to the heart. <|endoftext|> With fresh seasons, and with fruits that grew; To teach the courser how to stoop and lowe, And how the cattle to the fodder runne, With their smooth-shaven horns, which will not ring; To let them knowe their nobler kinde and good Were all that was to be in that lower world, So came that triumphing prince with will, and voice, and might, And well-pleased poesie, for the loyall joy That such a dangre of a creation gave. But the true reverend father, that in those days did keep The sacred herds, that were his children dear, In all the dreadfull charge of feeding stood, So well that those yong beasts, which late did faile, In his successe now strengthened did remaine; But yet he not on them bestowed his care, But the same cryes, and such acclamations loud, And that same flock, which to their father drownd, Gan yeeld in disport; yet still in his ayde. Yet, till that day, when, driven from their former loue, The false Hamadryad to that yong one went, And made her halfe dead by that stroke of death, Her lambe she hemm'd, her sheafe she trench'd aboute, With fear and with weeping her exceeding feare, And for her hether flock forsook her well, But in a seaven yeeres growth (though long it dwelt) Her withered inward body did empassion. And now the seventh floure she to her hether brought, And th'olde herbe, which that false Hamadryad Had murdered, and by the same murderer sold; Who, when he had the same well wont to spend, Unto the thronges that in his pleasure strayed, Gan reare up that same murderer of his kinde, And him be-haling, to the same floures more. But those two lambs, which for their former service Were not less dear then their fresh green hayrie floures, In sight of those floures their sorrow did increase, And sore admir'd, for griefe they said, they were: Yet would they no one succour have by word, But in their fear and lambe them put adrift, Unto the shepheards, sick for despair and feare, To live by bread; and though he would have lent Their lambs, and with them went their wretched masters forth. But the wise old Poets heart, though wise it were, Not with those crying lambs was sore distressed, But his faire youngest daughter's sorrow he calme, Who with the thronges did staine and upbraid The old men, that there anie were dismayde; But in his hart though fainting sore, and faint, He thought, the same night, their sorrow should apite, And therewithal the children in their sleep upbraid. The dai, that brought forth the light first of the day, In life did in her blessed brest containe The dayes health, which when she slept, it did leak From her slumbering eyes, through her weary brest, Till all the life in her began to faile; For she (in which all heavy evils did subiise) Grew like a flower, which suddenly is sau'd And brent with tempest, when fierce winds doe vent Their fury on the fainting woods and woods to blewe. For she, whose roomie was the world, and all That under heavens life does dwell and be, Forbid the morninges light, which her faileth, And the black sun's beams which doest repel, And grieves the earth with too much light and heat, And with too much deepe veileth every thing. So home, when she was hiely borne in state, The darke aire did her as hastily shun, As she did heaven, and would have flown aboon. But she, whose worth did every creature seeke To be the sweetest of their kinde and deepe, And in whose eyes was seen such a maistring Of heavenly light, and with such heavenly air, As she enuyed Nature, as enuyed muse, Took up her abides with her alreadie good, And gaue such welcome, as was not to be tell'd. Then durst she enuy Cassiopia's daurie, And heere she had not bin alive nor dead; But what she saide was, "My lambe shall be thy guide, And after thee none other love shall be; And none shall stand betweene thee and the light, But his owne hecv'les, which thee shall determined To kiss and certificate of thy happie spece. And who that liu'st and seeth thee, to me belongs, For Tam was right ycleeping and true-hearted." So Tam sat on the stol'n back, as one had touche, And on the rump of it the maid she saide; "And ere he cam to this he was not heede Th' adversite of men, and to the storie Made wicked priviledge, but was doetless. He saw not what his heighthie father spak, And had not wist, how that the stol'n ribbed Was valyrian, nor under what wrath. "In us no mercer wolde have exchange His treasure for such a pryde-born thing, And ere the houre that thou hast belov'd Had'st made thee looke upon this thy plast, A jape, as colde as it is vile and vilere, Of which I wyll you specefie vp-above By this thy maiden hawke, to which thou cam'st, That it may drynke vp its greene leaf, And that no further it myhte endure. "And as the shaaine of snowden harems Hath beynge by fyre, and yet beynge hym beest, Whan that the syhte-sparke is fyerd and denest, And as the blake vyrbigge stones adowne Hath harde clere water, which themself doth clere; So this thy lambe doth all evill weede, Which is but colde, and thy manere foler inne: "And as in troubled chaunce of mistresse, With milke, with soules, with teares, with light foote The brayn hatchet smiteth in a plight, As cleare as marteyns on a Midsomer day; And as a well full of cleere water, Of which the stone hath a swetnesse made, Letteth his flood of water out at wene, And eek his mayster eke doth well benethe: "The verray ryches in this thy lambe doth ly, Which is a maide, and to me is strange, And well I wot, that neuer was spech said, That was more frowarde than it is now said; And that which thou hast done doth marke, For werres therof mai no chaunce abate. And thou, and thou, and thou hast done this erth, That oon of hem ne wol not be twayne: "And this may also ous in glosed light, In loue, in werre, in rest and restititie, Throughout the worlde, throughout this place and that, To knowe, that loue and rest and werre Ne wolde I noght, as I to thee am bounde, That of this werre doest me eny harm, And, whilest I may, I wolde eschewe From al that I do, if that I may; "So that of slawhter I may thee make A faire pas selle, and make thee such As thou art now, or elles was ere now, So that thou maist thou thi body reuoke And make thy soule out of thy body ley; And that thou maist thus maist thou maist out alas, And thy desese, whan thou art amonges alle, Be hevene and wot the which that thou hast do." So after that she had sad alle thre <|endoftext|> That oft comes o'er her fears to cure, To make her face the loveliest thing, All radiant as the moon's rare light, Warm, tender, and young as its rays; Like, too, the faint soft fire she burns, In the cold white moonlight when she talks, With loving, enraptured voice, Of love and happiness, of sorrows, Of every joy and every grief; And, all the while she sings and talks, All the while she seems to smile and smile, Each well-known feature beams and glows With fair animation and grace, As, while she spins a diamond thread, Her hand holds forth a rose of flame; And such a rose she spins, it seems Just opening into bloom and fragrance, Like a full-blown rose leaf in the air. And then the sky Is full of little flying things, That with some magic of their wings Envelop her room in softness, And all within is sweet and calm, And yet so softly soft, you know It can't be, for it is so bright, And bright enough to make you stare, Were it cloudless all the day, And just letting through the violet stars, But heaven's own secret when it comes To twilight makes the air so bright. And then the lamp That seems to burn its bright way Right down through her room to her bed, To her door is just a pointed spark, Just a streak of light that seems to fly Down to her mirror from her head, And from her neck of ivory, Down to her smooth and round low knee, To her feet, where still they seem to glimmer Blue within the blackness of the rug, And, as it goes, it seemeth fain To burn all brighter than it was. And then the dresser, it seems, Just at the hour that makes her cry Her eyes are stars whose fire is all The silver of her petticoat, Her petticoat whose clear streams of silver From their lattices softly fall And stream among her dresses sweet and bright Like little brooks of light that spring All over the night-blooming world, And when she sees the stars that way she cries. And then the mirror, all the night, With its new fire she can see, She can see her own loveliness grown A light so bright, so wild and strange, That it doth make her think she is The most enchanted thing that ever was Or is in earth or heaven, And fall down at once to her naked feet And there upon the floor She would laugh and kiss and cry Until her hair was wreathed and fleeced Of every shower that came. And then she sleeps, and when she wakes Her room is full of light, And every color is so clear That she doth not think that she is A thing that breath can make more fair, A thing of earth and things of air, But something heaven and something God Made more fair and blessed. And as she walks her light is filled With flower and leaf and stream, And it grows in glory all the time And warm like summer all the time, And like sunshine all the time. And all her heart is so filled With all her Christian faith, And all her childish trust in God, That when her eyes are lifted back To where her skirts hang down, A smile that is as sweet as a prayer Doth light her face, her eyes, her lips. There is a land, a land, and a sea Beyond the sea, where the sun is warm, And the palm-tree grows in the heat of the sun, And the gold of the sunset is made fair, And the sapphire is dimmed into a scintillant white, And the emerald brightened, and the jacinth poured Into a glassy, sparkling moat; Where the nightingale sings in the acacia's shade, And the dolphin moves under the silver moon, And the nightingale and dolphin and nightingale Are all the same, all the leaves of the same tree. There is a land of dreams and of gladness Beyond the sea, where the heat is light, Where the palm-tree grows, and the nightingale Sings in the acacia's golden shade; Where the jacinth gleam and the emerald white, And the silver moon is blown like a flame, And the stars are fire, and the nights are long, And the suns like hearts all burning true; Where the nightingale sings in the acacia's shade, And the dolphins are as dreams all true, And the nightingale and dolphin are all the same, All the leaves of the same tree. Her gray eyes are gray and sweet and wan, Her soft and unviolated hair Is gray and dark as the night they shade, But there is a joy in the gray, a ray In the darkness of a sad, sweet night, In pity of all things wrong or right, In the wistful sweetness of pain. There is no sun like her sun, no air Like her air, and yet the grayness Is not a sadness, but a ray Of the faith that the sun sheds like light On the heart that is only a-pain. Her eyes are gray, but she looks sweet, She is all sunshine and no fear; Her sun is not as bright as the sun That smiles on the night when all is gray, But the faith that rewards pain with bliss Is a sun on every day of pain. And now, as the quiet light of day Bids dark Myrtil wrapped in its spell Look up and ask if what she sees Been seen in a dream, I ask her, smiling in her sleep, If any sun has shed its light On any day of pain. If any sun have shed its light On any day of pain, Shall I see it in a dream, Ask in the gray of her eyes, If any sun have shed its light On any day of pain? If any sun have shed its light On any day of pain, Shall I see it in a dream, Ask in the gray of her eyes, If any sun have shed its light On any day of pain? If any sun have shed its light On any day of pain, Shall I see it in a dream, Ask in the gray of her eyes, If any sun have shed its light On any day of pain? Day of pain, and night of dreams, Day of lonesomeness and pain, And night of nothingness for pain, And twilight for the shade of care, And the chill of pain for the chill, And a mist for a breath of rest, And pain for the sake of pain; Day of pain, and night of dreams. Day of pain, and night of dreams, Day of lonesomeness and pain, And night of nothingness for pain, And twilight for the shade of care, And the chill of pain for the chill, And a mist for a breath of rest, And pain for the sake of pain; Day of pain, and night of dreams. Day of pain, and night of dreams, Day of lonesomeness and pain, And night of nothingness for pain, And twilight for the shade of care, And the chill of pain for the chill, And a mist for a breath of rest, And pain for the sake of pain; Day of pain, and night of dreams. Day of pain, and night of dreams, Day of lonesomeness and pain, And night of nothingness for pain, And twilight for the shade of care, And the chill of pain for the chill, And a mist for a breath of rest, And pain for the sake of pain; Day of pain, and night of dreams. Day of pain, and night of dreams, Day of lonesomeness and pain, And night of nothingness for pain, And twilight for the shade of care, And the chill of pain for the chill, And a mist for a breath of rest, And pain for the sake of pain; Day of pain, and night of dreams. Day of pain, and night of dreams, Day of lonesomeness and pain, And night of nothingness for pain, And twilight for the shade of care, And the chill of pain for the chill, And a mist for a breath of rest, And pain for the sake of pain; Day of pain, and night of dreams. I can tell by the smile on your lips And the way the light curls over your face That you are happy to-day, Mitzy, <|endoftext|> Warm, yearning, lovelier than the tender snow. I would not have it for my life: I'd rather be A hundred leagues from such a friendliness, A hundred years from such a blessed serenity. I am a bird; I am a stranger in this place; The unfeeling rocks and the indifferent sky Have conquered me; I am sick, and you are the physician. I want the sunshine now, I want the rain; I am an invalid, and you are a doctor. To love you is a living death: I'd rather be A thousand miles from such a lover, and die Of solitude. I'd rather go mad and scream In dark melancholy, and wake in a cage, Than have the blessed love of such a friend, Whose very being is a self-consuming fire That only he can feel for mortal man. I am a man: why does your jealousy condemn A man to live a self-abnegating life, A life of sacrifice, where all that he does Must prove his love? He has given you his heart, And yours the dearest treasure that man can give - The value of his self-approval in his own eyes. Your love is mine: the rest is divine. Now he knows what it is to be loved, and he writes, Poor Francisco, on the snowy seaward road How he loves you, and how he will not shame The softness of your breast, or the white rose Opening in your dimpled cheek, for it were folly Of love to move from that natural place. He sends you this, in an octave, sonata, Dissonant and beautiful; and points out How the two notes, the C and the G, do make A bridge which you must cross again, and so Make a new passage in the bridge of love, Where it shall belong, until you find The perfect key that will take it home. He bids you listen, and he wavers not; You shall come to it by chance, and find it true, Though it be heard by no other ears Than his, and by no other eyes than his. I love you, a woman without arms or eyes, A body without lips or hair; I love you with the love of a hungry moth, A watery emptiness at the core, A craving and an emptiness at one --I love you, I love you, I love you! I was not always thus. Before I knew you, I was fond of strawberries and mistletoe; I used to dream in music's music; I walked in reverie, as seasons roll, And waked in summer sunshine. Before I knew The name of love, I carried it about My neck, and would not have it touched; I clung to friendship, and I clung to fame, And almost wagged the conspicious lyre, And, all untaught the meaning of the words, I sang my songs in a wild way. But now I am changed,--all my thoughts have changed; They turn aside, and flit, and make themselves Large and bold, like wings, in an unfrequented sky. I wish you now, in this poisoned hour, To note the vast sea-change that has been, To note with what strange tears my eyes have brimmed, With what strange sighs my lips have spoken, And with what strange dread my bosom heaved, And with what strange joy I look to-day At what seems the promise of to-morrow, Of another love, and a new reproach. For who can show another's bosom, Or tell what troubled thought may hint it, When it is hidden and sealed up alone Within the woman's bosom, where God sees And knows what is there. A long hour we sat there, Alone and silent, in the silent room, And I remembered your eyes, and the dream You tried to make me think upon my horse, And wondered if the shadow on the wall Were not the soul of love. And you began To cry: "Oh, come to me, fair slave! "Come to me, my silver wing! "Oh, come, darling! "My true love hath my heart, "And he doth love me more than life, "And I must love him for his sake." A long hour we sat there, And I, half awake, half dead to sorrow, Began to tell you the tale of my love, And you would not believe it. And I said: "If this were love, the whitest silver, "I should have known it at a glance. "But this is not so light of load "As mere desire of my man's suit, "And so I cannot bear to you "The heavy load of love so fair "As mere love's small need was of yore. "And so it falls upon me now, "As heavy, as a ceasing to "The cheerfulness of gladness and delight, "And of gladness and delight ye know "When men are young and dreamy and out, "And so do I now believe that your words "The slightest echo of my heart break, "Or I fear I may not hold my man's hand "The weary weight of love so lightly bear." And then I cried: "If this were love, my words "Should but be honey to the touch of his, "And if, when he takes them in his hand "The words of me that I have wrought here "Should soften into sleep and rest "For one little minute, the weary load "Of love so lightly bear, that I, who dreamed "I loved you, might wake with love full-clothed, "To watch a love that might outvie "The loveliest things of earth and heaven." And then I cried: "If this were love, my words "Should choke me up. Oh, lady, we must wait "And see together how my words and you "Shall change and change and change again, till we know "With perfect truth and perfect faith in this "That what we were then shall be no more, "And loving shall be nothing like it. "Oh, lady, mayst thou love me now no more, "But be the serpent that I was, the lizard, "With eyes of burning fire that watch and wait "For forbidden fruit that lies within "Thy darling's heart to spoil and rend and slay. "The end of all my words and tones shall be "To make my heart a bloody dagger in thine. "The long and slow burn of my hate shall be, "To kill thee, and to die at last alone. "And thou, my love, shall look on me no more, "But walk in dimeness wistful and alone "Thy gloomy streets of life where all is gray, "And where no joy shines radiantly fair "As in the terrible joy of death to thee. "Oh, lady, mayst thou love me no more, "But be the serpent that I was, the lizard, "With eyes of burning fire that watch and wait "For forbidden fruit that lies within "Thy darling's heart to spoil and rend and slay. "The end of all my words and tones shall be "To make my heart a bloody dagger in thine. "The long and slow burn of my hate shall be, "To kill thee, and to die at last alone." As I was going down with the river boat, Down to the old Inn from which we ate and drank, And had just pulled ashore with my burden When there came a woman from a neighbouring town, A beautiful young woman, robed like the Christ, With eyes like thine. With a sweet voice she cried: "O, my brother, I have wronged thee, friend, "And therefore will do all in my power "To make things right between us. Behold, "A son of thine I bear the same name "Who with this other one shared a home, "And studied at the same college. "Thy daughter has a husband, mighty "Noble, a man whose father's name is known "In all the world, and whose own is known "To be the goodest in its kind. "But I have lived a lonely life, "And in my silence and my wisdom seen "That ignorance is sin. Therefore I "Will tell thee, and will make my prayer "That thou would'st listen, and thus guide thy child, "And set him right. Before the town "I sent for him, and questioned her frankly "Beside the bar. 'T is true,' said I, 'thou hast <|endoftext|> How the wave, pursued with that might, which the grim pirate wields, gave the iron your feet; how you found, in the snow, No. 10, Sandys's door (Where now we part); and how you heard the wind As it kissed you, for the second time, through all that long night. <|endoftext|> "The Last Child", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Growing Old, Infancy, Parenthood, Philosophy] The last of all my children is Miss Milligan, whom I never get used to. When she sleeps, and when she wakens, she cries like the child at night who cries in her bed, 'Wake, oh wake me, I'm in a dream, I'm in a fever, and I'm the saddest happy child in all the world.' When she sleeps, and when she wakes, she cries, but when she's happy she laughs, and cries like any other little girl, and says, 'What a pleasant pain is happiness, When you think that you've lost the one you love most in the world, And can't ever have again, And can't even dream about, Unless with pain! <|endoftext|> "The Millbank Opera House Presents", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] A musical feast to celebrate the Centenary of the birth of William Bourchier, who conducted the Isle of Bute (The Island of the Bitch) from its rocky crag (The Island of the Burden) in the strait between Scotland (The Island of the Runaway) and England, March 25, 1914 to September 25, 1974 The Island of the Bitch sailed from Bute in the dark (The Island of the Bruised) on February the 8, 1914 And was commissioned on March the 8th, at Millbank (The Island of the Bitch and the Bruised). In the light of day (The Island of the Born), on March the 8th, 1972 She began her pacation at the Millbank Opera House. (The Island of the Born). In the dark of night, on March the 8th, 1974 She began her concert in the light of day, At the Millbank Opera House. A musical journey begins with her (The Island of the Born). Now she is at the stage where she will (The Island of the Born) sing and act as only she can, Shakespeare and Bunyan in one: Campion O say when will I see my child (The Island of the Bitch) and not in hell? <|endoftext|> "The Original Fool", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Some men wish they could fool all the world (The Original Fool); some wish they could fool some people all the time (The Original Fool). But to wish to be the Fool, original thought, (The Original Fool), is not easy. You must be fool enough to take the trouble to make it practical. It helps if your wish is reasonable— for instance, to keep a fake identity (The Original Fool). But there are those who cannot or will not be the fools they wish. <|endoftext|> "The Dream of the Ship that Sails Through the Skies", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Coming of Age, Growing Old, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Mythology & Folklore] Dream that sits on the tidal range A white ark with folds like the arms of a saint Whose piteous features with water and storm Are all for rain and cloud. Dream that sitteth on the low soft waves And knows not that the sea is wide and free For sail and oar. Yet does the white envelope it round about With bars as broad as day. Dream on, and turn and turn about Till in your round The wet sea-mist appeareth white and bright About the white ship. And round about the ship and through the shrouds Filled with the sea's low moan You may sense the moan of the waves that cry From their ebb and their flow. Under the shrouds the tapers pale Gleam through the grey clouds, And through the grey clouds low and louder rises A steady and steady drizzle. <|endoftext|> "The Leech Who Saved the Life of the Virgin M.H.", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] If thou wert Saint Michael, whose saintly reign Restored our faith, Oh, how should I be like other men And work or enjoy? Oh, what is there in me that is not pure, That hath from thee grown Not without use, or without stain! How should I bear my part in your religious strife, That is between me and thee? Yet I am curious to know what you would have me do. If you would have me burn my heart out and my brain bleed, If you would have me go beyond the fearful shore Where your poor besieged saints are biding their time, With one foot in my Master and with my heart in the grave, I might well obey and stand my death in the air. What should I do, if at your bidding I should kneel And kiss the wood of your cross and cleave the air with my breath, If at your bidding I should kiss the rood of your shame and tread The floor of your shame and sleep on your vitrine? Ah! what should I do, but break my covenant with my love, My living labour, my everliving covenant, and tell The rose of your shame, and tell the cross I nailed above? Ah! what should I do, but be the poor fool you call my Lord, And fear and ignorance and the world's obscuration, And the white spark of a burning heart and the blood of a dying soul? What should I do, but die for you and sing your triumph and triumph and live for you? <|endoftext|> "Amoretti I: The morning's worker", by Edmund Spenser [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Anniversary, Engagement, Valentine's Day] The morning's worker, soon as October By crisp winter days is dried and gone, Wears yet a sable hood and hunts In woodlands all alone. He greets no man, and when he plays His bagpipes bray no man can hear. He sows and reaps and plucks A hoodlum sort of a man, and puts His hood up each day. From whence he takes His name of Robin Hood. Who knows his name? The croupiers call him Merry, but some say That he is deadly gay. But let the croupiers wince And wince again at this, that under the soft Earl's hat of honeycombed down He hides his hood, and all day long Hath it not been. <|endoftext|> "Ode I: Dedication", by William Carlos Williams [Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] To the National Mortgage Backed Home Owners of America For the owners of vacant residential property in the country and city Whose records, for five decades, have been the census forms, the askery, The only books there are, the only documents there are, the only view There is, there ever was, of the dwellings of the ignorant and wise, The only view there ever was, there ever will be, of the dwellings of the wise and innocent, The only view there ever will be, of the dwellings of the innocent and the knowledgeable, The only book there is, the only record there is, the only view, the only view and the only view and the only view and the only view, <|endoftext|> To bathe their hearts in that sweet Spring; Or men to speed, when lurking 'twixt their stems, The stealthy-working adder runs. For them, and those--and many more, I ween-- Whose vows were told in Latin vows; Their joys were Christmas trees, their sorrows beans, Their merriments 'twas carved in wood; They met, and all in London town, Beneath one flag, one Crown, one Bell! Methinks I hear in accents high The tale of London Town in the time Of Christmas Past; a pageant yet Unbroken, and unprofaned; A pageant still, for it were the day That ever separate the King From town and serfs, and even yet The beaten cattle in the way, Not horses, draw the yoke-banded chariot, That has for transmitter been The noble Wembley before; And yet the town, with white arms bare, Beneath one flag, one Crown, one Bell! The sounds were all forgotten, all The sights had vanished long ago; The fairies and the imps that hunt The homeless took their joy to keep The streets in peace and keep the wells Safe from unseemly things to-day; And all the hum of buzzing life, All life beneath the Christmas star, All life save London Town's, 'twas still; And all the hum of buzzing life, All life save London Town's, 'twas still! And so the fairies came to tell The fairies came, and told no more; And so the fairies went to hide The streets of London Town as of old; And so the fairies went to hide The people of London Town as of old; And so the fairies came to tell The story of the fairy things; And so the fairies came to tell The story of the fairy things, And all the songs they sung were "Auld Lang Syne!" She sat beside the window, And turned her eyes from red to green; Her skirt was of gray wool, knitted carefuly, And hung upon her snow-white neck. Her feet were bare, and in her hand she held A pea-green glass with white petals, And by her chin a rose was growing, A tiny rose, that turned to brown in growing, In ringlets that fell and floated Upon her chin. "See! see! your mother's sitting outside! Oh, take your little hand And wipe your mouth, you silly child, Because the window is so very small, And because I cannot close the door, I worry you!" She laughed, and bade the children come in. They ran, they slid, they jumped, they scattered, And when they were settled in the room The mother took the pea-green glass, And wiped her face and smiled at them, And held the door open for them, And all were free to go. "But, mother, I ask you, why should we care? We cannot go to her; She does not know, she cannot understand. We cannot go to her, for she Does not know, she cannot understand." "Because," she said, "you little fools, You shall not go, You shall not go, You shall not go! Though your names be Green and White, You shall not go, You shall not go!" And then she sighed; and then she laughed; She laughed, and blew her nose; She took her little dainty shoe, She put it in her shoe; She took her dress, and it was pink; She stepped upon the tray, And so she went to her own. I am tired of the sings of to-day, Of the sings of yesterday; Of the sings of jealousy and strife, Of the sings of anger and hate. I am tired of the sings of to-day, Of the blues of yesterday; Of the blues of to-day, And the sings of to-morrow. I am tired of the sings of to-day, Of the blues of yesterday; Of the blues of to-day, And the sings of to-morrow. I am tired of the sings of to-day, Of the blues of yesterday; Of the blues of to-day, And the sings of to-morrow. The sun had faded from the west, But still the fairies remodelled The long grass red and the bulrush green; And the flowers that grew upon the bulrush Came out in color to behold the fair; And the fairies remodelled the bulrush To a slender reed with a moon-tone in it, And the flowers that grew upon the reed Grew out in color to behold the fair. The wind had wakened the sparrow, And the jays came from their grassy lair, To gaze upon the fairy folk, To greet the fairies with a song; And the sun had wakened the sparrow, And they gazed upon the fairy folk To greet the fairies with a song; And they gazed upon the fairy folk To greet the fairies with a song. Then the jays with a leap and a flare Came back to their grassy lair; And the fairies remodelled the sparrow To a slender reed with a little moon-ball in it, And the jays with a leap and a flare Came back to their grassy lair; And the fairy folk were met, And the jays with a leap and a flare Came back to their grassy lair; And the fairy folk were met. "She is so light," said one fairiechine, "She could easily carry you with her; But the fear is that you might change her, And be a different beauty too, So you must not light her and not flame her, But wander by her and not harm her." "I will light her, if I may; I will flame her, if I may," Another fairiechine replied; "For I like the sparrow best When he sings his simple songs of love; But the fear is that you might change her, And be a different beauty too, So you must not flame her and not flame her, But wander by her and not harm her." Then a third fairiechine, With a smile of kindness and understanding, Pitying the foolish trouble which had been, Asked, "What is to be done with her?" And the answer that fairiechine gave Was a sigh and a tearful refrain, "Weep and hang her, and lament her, Cursed in life and in death, But we cannot forget her." 'Twas very near the fatal moment, For the fairy skirts had been lengthened, And they now stood on the verge of their conquest, And the days and years seemed endless, And now grew cold the heart of the maiden, For a love was no longer in her. The vision of the fairy folk Went sadly by her as she leaned upon the gate And sighed; and she turned from the gate in anger And met with the lovely maids that were waiting there, And there with them she stayed awhile And saw them from sad to sad, For the tale of her sorrow was always sad, For she had had sorrow and loss after loss, And the heart of a maiden grows thin and low. She looked to the south, and the sun was up, And she felt her blood go cold, And her heart seemed full to bursting With sorrow and loss after loss, And the maiden's hair stood up and loosened, And she felt faint and languid; But she did not stir the fairies, For her heart was bound and tangled In the chain of fairy fate. And the wind came sad from the wooded path, And the voices of the fairy folk Were growing faint and fainter; And the eyes of the fairy maidens Grew dim with longing and sorrow, And the love-light within their eyes Faded as the lights of night; But they did not stir the maiden, For her heart was bound and tangled In the chain of fairy fate. Then a voice that was low and sweet, Like the low note of a little musical instrument, Came from the gates of the sunset, And the beauty of fairyland Was broken and changed and changed, As the lovely voice of a little musical instrument. And a face shone out like the lightning Upon the heart of the maiden, And her heart was drawn out by the golden chain That the golden-tressed fairy swung, And the youth with the golden hair <|endoftext|> The timid, and the impious, and the vile, May sin and so make sacrifice of praise. When Love, in sight or hope, Blushes and trembles, And dares not look his fair For fear the sight Would so dismay and stun His inmost manhood; Ah! then, if ever, then, Did heavenly Love appear To one of human eye, As now and then In pity and in pain, He should behold His sovran Beauty, And flee the fearful sight. With us, on earth below, Can Love have any place? If he could, would he abide A moment in that void above From whence his light began, Where nought save love abides That with his beams can dwell, Or gild the earth, or shade the skies? But we of love and life Only by love are blest, For Love is all life's delight, And he alone shall perish; He who with pleasure moves The hearts of all men here, But dies at last, alone, alone, His life's sweet prime! Ah! to what sweet diverse fountains Shall the waters of the years, Fraught with the waters of the years, Gushing, branching, and ascending, Fall, like the waters of the years, In one larger burst than all the rest, With might from many distant springs! And every well-known man In the rich world shall stand Beneath the sky's growing gloom, Where the roads again shall flow, And the far villages look, And the iron-forged arc Of the bridges shine like gold! And where the majestic homes Of great conquerors rise, And the river of living things Returns, a wall of gold, And great arches swing, And great galleons ride With sails to windward drawn, And their masts sink slowly down, To windward borne! In a wondrous land A child shall grow, Grown into manhood great and wise, A lord and leader, perfect in his way, The son of the waters great and strong, Who shall hold his kingdom in the west, And shall be strong as the strong sea is weak, And as the mighty ocean dries away. And, with the strength of his deep sea-brother, He shall lead the life of men, Lead them like a sea-bird the fresh and fair land To joy men's heart and courage high, To the calm sea-land of his birthright, The land of the free and the free-born, The land of the noble and brave. Yea, a hero shall he be, A seer, a worker of wonders, A singer of songs of life, The friend of the poor and lowly, And of the stranger and wronged, And of all who wander and are lost In the stormy way of life! And he shall have his say, The weak shall be strong, The weak shall be assured prey, The strong shall suffer shame and woe, And the victorious rejoice; And a mighty tree shall grow Bearing mighty fruit of love, Love, that shall make rejoice The grey-grown earth, and all her ways! Fain would I change with him This waiting-time of life, This beating, purposeless time, This trial-time of life, This striving to forget, This purposeless waiting here! Fain would I change it all With the changing of a hour, With a breath from the mouth of love, The will of him who whispers here, "Believe in Yourself!" Faint heart, it hath no power, Faint heart, to move the world; Faint heart, thou art but blind, Thou canst not see the skies Whereon the world's affairs lie; Faint heart, thou art but weak, Thou canst not see the sun, Whose splendour shakes thy blind, Faint heart, thou art but weak. What is the motive of thy will, Thou dost not perceive, The motive of the world's desire, Thou dost not see? The motive of the world's desire Is love! What then, thy heart, The motive of thy will? What if it be not thy will, That which thou shalt have, That which the world shall give, That which the world hath given? What if its gifts should change, Should weaken in thy breast, Shifting its lustre yet, Should lighten yet thy sense, And enkindle still thy thought, And plant love in thy mind? What is the motive of this thought, Thou hast not felt? The motive of this thought of thine Hath been, and still is, love! The motive of this thought of thine Hath been, and still is, love! What is the change, thou say'st, The change, if it be change? What is the motive of this thought, What can the thought mean? Now may I hope, and dream, That love is strong as death, That love can love so strong, That the love I feel for thee, Can ever cease to be, And in some better hour To meet, and die in thee, Be loved, and live in thee, As I loved thee, all the while, As I love thee, never tire, Methinks this life hath not one joy, That aught its portion lacks of grief, To balance all its moments have A dignity of their own, And a content that shines from their beams, Without the least alloy. They do not recoil and shrink, like oak, From the hand of the seer who tells them The hour when they shall fall and perish, But they abide and straightway rear and shoot, And proudly in their roots hold fast A gleaming assurance of their vigour Even in the hand and eye of the thong Which on them doth wait, slow to remove, And a sure anticipation of that day, When, if their own mad selves betray them, They too shall bend their unshaken heads And wait as faithful guardians for the gate. If I be dead, remember me As thou wilt, with all that thou and I Have of the joy, that cannot fade, Of words we said together, "I will," And of the love that went with me In such strange roads, and over so long, And of that first glad faith, "For better sooth, For worse would thou understand it," And of the laughter that followed, "For better sooth!" Remember me with all thy thoughts Of joy and innocence and bliss, Which, even when I am gone, I knew As on this essential road I know Each place and face, whereof the bread And wine and oil and refuge are, All well-devised system, as the sun Shines ever on and on and on. Remember me with all thy hopes As loving, yet so quiet, thou Wast in my home, and in my heart As one whose own beloved, and so Like dew unto thy kisses fell; And of the friendship, which, though brief, From early youth to manhood's hope could share, I will be faithful as the lightning, When he shakes the hills, and trees, and sky. Remember me with all that's left Of love, and trust, and all that's dear, That never from me, as I live, Can be removed, or which shall need While I am a soul, though now forlore, Empty, wandering, and forlorn, and grey. "With lust for Paradise before, Behind, and before, the awful Gates; And we will guide thee through the places Where thou shalt work upon the souls of men. The world is all before thee set: The choice and the adventure are free. "He who stands on the south with me Will have first claim upon our names, And later, if he deserves it, Shall have the race for righteousness won. But he who stands on the north with me Before the judgment shall be given, Shall hold the keys of our heaven, And after them the heights of Hell. "Stand forth, O prince, who out of Heaven Walkest, though so low the warmth thereof Flowed out of his heart; who wast a while On the great Mountain, with me seen by Gabriel, And afterwards, if so he will, upon the earth Where my just men can receive him. "Stand forth, Elias, who beheld with mine The westering sky, the sun and moon and stars, Before they vanished from thy view. Thou wast a while on the holy Mountain With me, whom the holy angels attended, And afterwards, if so he will, thou wast there <|endoftext|> And God looked down On the long, long war, and he didn't die, But he went back to his long, long, long before he ever went into the box. But they didn't cut him open, they only cut out his head, so they could carry his beautiful long beautiful long head across the stone, and with a rope and a gun they carried him home. So God was crying when they carried him home, but God didn't cry, God didn't die. <|endoftext|> "Infidelity", by Lee Henderson [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes] I should lie with every surface thing that breathes.I should lie with every beast of the field, and every grain of sand that passes through the sea.I should lie with every blade of grass, and every shade in the meadow's moist haze.I should lie with every leaf that is turned toward the sun, and every blade of grass that is lifted above the river.I should lie with every bird that calls the noon.I should lie with every stream that sparkles whitely.I should lie with every leaflet in the lee of the hill.I should lie with every blade of grass and every blade of rain.I should lie with every tree that is boughs' length from boughs' length.I should lie with every leaf and every blossom. <|endoftext|> "The Advertisements", by Gertrude Stein [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] If I had all your dollars, I'd go to London and buy a column of all the advertisements that ever were placed there, and paste them into a chest of drawers. <|endoftext|> "Sleep", by Gertrude Stein [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] When a bird lays an egg, it's called an anguish. When an egg hatches, it's called a paradise. When a little child lays a stone on the ground, it's called wisdom. When a child lays a stone in the air, it's called a rainbow. When a girl lays a straw hat in the water, it's called a lover. When a woman lays a book on the table, it's called a sage. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a triangle. When an angel puts a lamp into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a child puts a foot in the fire, it's called a pyre, when a man puts his hand in, it's called a pyre. When a child puts a foot in the fire, it's called a triangle. When an egg hatches, it's called a paradise. When an egg hatches, it's called a agony. When an egg hatches, it's called a lover. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a triangle, when a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a carcanet. When an angel puts a lamp into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a woman puts a book on the table, it's called a sage, when a woman puts a book into the great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a triangle. When a woman puts a book on the table, it's called a sage, when a woman puts a book into the great star, it's called a carcanet. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre, when a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a triangle, when a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a carcanet. When a child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a woman puts a book on the table, it's called a sage, when a woman puts a book into the great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a triangle. When a woman puts a book on the table, it's called a sage, when a woman puts a book into the great star, it's called a carcanet. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish. When an egg hatches, it's called agony. When an egg hatches, it's called paradise. When an egg hatches, it's called paradise agony. When an egg stirs, all hell breaks loose. When a woman puts a book on a table, it's called a sage, when a woman puts a book on the table, it's called a sage. When an angel puts a lamp into a star, into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a triangle. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When a child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a triangle. When an angel puts a lamp into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a woman puts a book on a table, it's called a sage, when a woman puts a book on the table, it's called a sage. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish agony. When an egg hatches, it's called a triangle. When an egg stirs, all hell breaks loose. When an egg stirs, all hell breaks loose. When a woman puts a candle in a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a man puts a hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When an angel puts a lamp into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When a little child puts his hand in the fire, it's called a triangle. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a carcanet. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish agony. When an egg hatches, it's called a lover's pain. When an angel puts a lamp into a star, into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a sage. When an angel puts a light into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish agony. When an egg hatches, it's called a lover's pain. When an angel puts a lamp into a star, into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a sage. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a triangle. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a carcanet. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish. When an egg hatches, it's called anguish agony. When an egg hatches, it's called agony agony. When a woman puts a candle in a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When an angel puts a lamp into a great star, it's called a carcanet. When a little child puts a light into a candlestick, it's called a sage. When an angel puts a light into a great star, it's called a sage-like carcanet. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called passion. When a woman puts a candle in a candlestick, it's called a lover. When a man puts his hand in the fire, it's called a pyre. When an angel puts a lamp into a great star, it's called a carcanet. <|endoftext|> The soul is where the body ends; Where they are most two, most one There is least to separate them. The soul hath no body of her own Yet borrows them when she would move. Where she can creep or climb, she will, And in the purest ecstasy Shall life's most private secrets reveal To souls that make their home with her. The soul, a visitor, follows on Like a little bee, a tender guest, And is content to stay and sing, To sleep beneath a queen's warm wings, To sleep so long as life can last. The soul is best: she is most pure, And, therefore, most innocent. A world of quiet joys for her Is a most beautiful thing to see. To sit so quietly and still While all the souls in the garden sweet Pour forth their joys upon her head, As water springs upon a flower, Who is more happy than a child When summer weather glideth soft And all the world is glad and free? With grown up minds and grown up hearts, Grown up desires and grown up wishes For happiness and the things of life. And she can give them joy and woe, Pain for relief, peace or strife, Mirth and wisdom, justice done By her kind queenly nation. So she calls to the souls in the garden, To each he brings a little shining soul, And each one says, 'Dear me! I never saw but one like her, I! I fain would look, but must not: I will to them that are around me, Gentle souls, till I fill my plan; If they could love but once as I do, I should be content and you forget, Pray that she be not too busy for me, I go to look upon her children.' So they go round the garden once more, And they look on the little shining souls. 'Dear me! They are all so beautiful and bright. And so unlike the faces I have seen In these good men's faces, I began To wish I had not smiled, so long, so long, I had instead a kiss or a tear. 'Dear me! I wish you all the happiness I have, And yet you give it, every one, A little bit by yourself apart, Which seems such injustice to me. Dear me! What would you have? for you make me grow To talk all day long, in this low light, And give you little kisses on your neck and your soft shoulder, and your little kiss.' With a most serious air, which seemed to say, 'Grow taller, and let me see your work,' The Father of the house stood in the door. The bees were buzzing about with their candles And there were roses on the wall, and the night Was sweet in the morning, with the old things That always bless at eventide, And here was the first of Father Kiejstut's words. 'You look in my book,' said Father Kiejstut. 'You will see a name I Poshystash (meaning 'Rarest knight' in Polish), And it is said that only one in a thousand Can do a thing like this, and Father Kiejstut knew Father Dziella's daughter had such a name. He said to the others, "No matter now, These things are easily done, And this might possibly help your daughter."' 'I cannot leave thee,' the lady replied, 'If thou love me so; I am thy true, thy beloved wife, I take thee for my life. When thou speakest to me, I know that thou art my dear husband, I am so glad, so happy, and proud, That I cannot leave thee.' Then the father said, 'Look in my book, There is a name Zhukovsky That is good and great and many, And it is said that there is no higher In all the world than he.' And the others said, 'Zhukovsky' means "God is one." So they all went to see the holy man, And the lady said, 'Tell us now, Is he the true God that thou knowest, Or is he only such an one as Thou hast never seen?' And the father said, 'I know him well. I call him Master ROUSSAINT, And he is the God of Happiness.' 'If thou knowest his true God,' she answered, 'Then, take him home with thee, For his home is with the blessed saints, And he knows them well. And if thou wilt be my true husband, Then make thee of me, And make me pure, and quick, and fair, And of good behavior. And say to the rest of the wicked To make themselves clean, That the righteous God does not dwell With the blessed saints.' Then the fond father made her pure, And she was glad and fair, And she answered, 'True, I am a daughter Of your house.' And the fond father said, 'Thy rank is high; I have given thee a house, And a noble husband hast thou, Who takes thee to his bed, And follows his will And glorifies his name By his love and his honor, And his love and his honor.' Now the evening had come, And the sun went down, And the time came when he had to go, And the time came when he had to go. Then the father said, 'Let us all go home, The maid and the father, and the boy; And let us all go home now, Let us all go home and stand on the hills And call on the little one, The maid and the father stood on the hills, And they called with all their might; But the blessed God knew not of this, And he heeded not their call, But he went to his mat. And the blessed God heeded not their call, But he went to his mat, And he bowed in prayer, 'Father, let me go to-day, Let me go to-day!' But the blessed God heeded not their call, And the blessed God went to his mat, And he knelt in prayer, 'Father, let me go to-day, Let me go to-day!' But the blessed God heeded not their call, But he went to his mat, And he knelt in prayer, 'Father, let me go to-day, Let me go to-day!' And the blessed God heeded not their call, I know a little cot that stands Close to a hedge of grass; Where the roses blow, and blow, The grass is bright with red. The little cot seems strange to you, But to me it seems the most natural place In the world to live in. My roses blossom in this place; They are five lovely roses, They are as fair as any in the world, And as sweet as any in the world. The sun shines on them all the day; The sun shines often, all the day; The sky is not clouded when they smile, And they say to the passers-by, 'Why, we are like to be the last five roses That you'll pick to-morrow!' The grass is bright with red, And the roses blow; The sun shines brightly on them there; And I know a little cot As strange as any in the world. My roses blossom in it; The sun shines on it oft; The grass is bright with red, And the roses blow, and blow; The sun shines on it brightly, And I know a little cot. When, at night, from this place, I go weary forth, I go weeping, and every one Is following some one else; And I know there is no rest, And no kind word to say, Between the sleeping and the living; But I smile at the world as I go, And I know that I am going To be all the happier for being here. 'Hark! hark! to the hunt!' the hounds cry, The horns blow, the hunters bound, The hounds are out, the hunters come, The horns blow, the hunters pass; The horns blow, the hunters call again, And away they go on the run. They dash through the cover they find not, And soon they burst out of the wood, And away they go on the chase, The horns blow, the hunters bound, The hounds are out, the hunters come, The horns blow, the hunters pass. But soon they grow in number less, The hunters lose their pride and delight, <|endoftext|> The cantaloupe seemed to bloom, As her withered branches waved and glowed. Now on the dead the rains have shed their toll, And to the feast we're hastening, While all the bright flowers bloom round his grave; He won't waken to the light of day, The little bumble-bee now shall ring His music, as he flits away; In vain the lamp glares, in vain we scan The smiling, smiling face. My lads, the far mountains ring The great trump's tone, And, as the rolling siege they heed, The castle walls respond; While, through the frighted mountain pass, With headlong haste, All down the steep ravine, With sudden thunder, down the giddy gulph Falls the great cataract. Oh, now, all day, the thunder roars, The steep's dark fear, From far, deep, thunder-cleaving mountains shook, And dreary roll Of torrent-rushing waters down the crag, The rolling, sweeping maelstrom raves, Thro' many a dark deep chasm, Like a wild sea-battle fought. Along the trackless plain, O'er rocky gorge, Through tangled brake, With torrent-heads so fierce and blue And water-monster blue, Comes surging, with its dreadful sound, The army of the torrents; And now, to meet the driver's will, The lakes, the rivers, bound In wild confusion, headlong, down Into the jaws of night. Oh, now, the far, gray peaks of cloud Gleam o'er the scene; Round them, gray, rushing, roar, Like the train of thunder-storms, Or the swift-writhing seas, Whose awful murmur never ceases, Whose wild, fierce rage Would all be raging now, if some great power Had not checked its power. And now the skies are hushed and still; And now the still, gray skies With one clear, menacing eye Watch close the torrent's course, And the falling showers, falling, falling, As if the powers of storm and rain Were poured forth in a fountain, pour Down the mighty precipices Into the gulfs of hell. And over the thunder-storm Behold the kingly chair Of the great God of the sea, Where his dark eye, a pillar, beams O'er the dark abyss. His mighty voice, an ocean's tone, As the voice of the mountains rouse, Makes the dark groan, that comes, next, From the sea's deep interior gulfs. The watery lightnings flash In the azure light; And o'er the thunder-shine Beams like the lightning's gleam The white domes of those strange isles, The water-monsters; And the lightnings flash and die, The torrents cease to rage, And, like a tremulous flame, The awful throne of God is felt In the wrenching horror of the waves. All the waves! All the waves! Their roaring cease! While at the monarch's will Lightnings flash and torrents flow, On, into the gulf! And, like a giant, there Stands upon the brink, And waits the thunder-bolt! He looked from his high place In the whirling chaos of the storm. And there, like a spectral guest, Sat the children, wild with wonder, Each at a lightning's glance, Each at a sudden gust of wind. "Ah!" the lightning's flash Pierced the dark gloom of night, And flashed upon the king A moment ere it died. A moment's thunder-- And the line of the flash Struck the king like a spear-- A shaft of the flame, Pierced the deep silence of the cloud, And fell before his feet. Then the king knew The children's voices rang, The wild echoes fainted away; And the thunder's tone, Quicker this time, rang out, A voice of defiance, As, by the king's command, Lightnings struck again. "Ye are but spirits!" A fierce laugh did spring From the lips of one alone, When the king turned him back And smiled upon him. He was no more then Than a child, who cast Back the smile he gave. With the lightning's flash Were the children's doom; For they had passed away In the thunder's scroll. The fierce laugh died From the lips of one alone, As the king turned him back, And walked in the light. Breathless the waiting train Gazed on the roofs of the city, On the gardens and the lawns and the walls, On the clouds in the light, And the springing birds in the sky, And the goddess of the rose, And the goddess of the rose Was veiled in a gleam, Like the cloud ere the cloud. All night upon the road between The dark and the light Trailed the shadows of the rain, Like the sighs of souls condemned. Through the wind's lonely rage Trod the shadow of the rain; And high overhead Like the great stars of night Stood the cloud ere the cloud. But when unto the gates Of the city-wall Passed the night's dim bell, Like the long slow tread Of a race demented; And once more came On the thunder's tone, The voice of the rain, As in pain it said: Forth with the dawn behind her, Like the long bright march Of the angels in glory, Came the shadow of the dawn, With the glory of the light. Over the shining ways Swept the golden caress Of the angels of light. As with hand on stone Lay the city-wall, Trembling she moved toward The house of her God. Covered with rain-drops, From her tormented eyes, Rose the glory of her feet. She saw Him in His sleep, And smiled. Who shall speak of the glory, When, in a moment, The sun was dressed with fire, And like a sudden dawn Struck fire over all? And on the cloud's dark breast, Like a great fountain, burst, Wrestling and seizing sky, While on the town it poured, Gold and fire and flame. Trembling before Him, In a garden, near A great fountain's side, Pale with passion, He stood, Tasting the earth with His lips. The earth was afire, Its life and beauty lit With the breath from His soul, As the flame consumes the coals. The city's heart was slain, But not its form. Till with a sudden frown God looked from the sepulchre, And with a great cry Of anger and despair, Cried, "O mankind! O mortals! Receive thy doom. "I lay me down upon my death-bed, With the flesh clothed upon my bones. And all my spirit's strength is spent; Yet, for a little while, I will suffer death a while in life, That death may come to take my place. And I will die, and cry, Then with a great cry, Fell as though he faced the world. His great heart shook in death, As a storm shaken out to sea; But as one bowed with heavy burden, He bowed to his burden's call, And fell as one who died to win. "Where do ye go, ye sons of men, Where do ye hide, O cowardly ones? Where do ye hide from the living God? He was with you when you did not dare. He was with you, and when on you have laid The burden of earth's tyranny, God's angels, on wings of wonder, Will come, and see the place of love, Where you have laid the golden throne, And held the mortal gods in awe. "I will come to you in a vision clear; I will speak in many tongues; The wicked shall tremble in the dust, The good alone shall be fearless. The king of angels shall come down, And men shall see His glory bright; But they shall not tell on earth what ye are, The strange, strange sons of men, But they shall go their ways, and think of you As of a little thing, As a red leaf on a grassy bank, That turns to crimson flame." 'T was night when he looked out of the sepulchre, 'T was night when he slept upon his hard-earned grave. And the gray dawn brought no glimpse of his dream. <|endoftext|> The sloughs will make a narrow pathway for our feet. Oh, are we men or beasts? the subtle, cool fishes May take us for each other, and the brazen vultures May take us for the dumb beasts of the desert, And the wolves of the sleep-meadows, and the monkeys That dance upon the heads of their prancing monkeys. But not for us the panthers of the night, The mountains with their fiery tusks, the wild boars Of the green wood, and the white men in their fear, Who see a strange and unknown threat in our smoke, And bow them down before us, and do not know We are not like them. We are from afar, And we know too much for fear to speak plainly. We are from afar, from a land where the seas Are smooth sands, and the winds are sowing their foam, Where the sun's face is red and the moon's face is gray, And where the dusty red men bend down to the sea, And weep for the hunger of the poor brown sons Of the land, and the hunger and thirst that they know. We are from afar, and the harsh thing to do Is to take them in their deep night of hunger and ill, And fill them full of life and light, and sadder yet Than sleep they rise up and go to their daily work And harken the loud thunder of the seasons, and they heed Our sweet whispers, and they are our friends indeed. They know what it is to have strange voices near them, They know what it is to be evil, and with smiles Of love and pity they see the mist before them, And they dare to speak to the hungry boys and say: "There is a God, there is a Heaven that loves you, And we will keep it better than you can keep it yourself." We have brought the sweet white fire, the swift fire, The red swift fire of the beautiful stars, To feed you, O tired men, O weary men, And fill you with strange dreams and strange visions In this great city where the blind man wanders, And the white man lies down and thinks he is king, But we will make him as the kings of the earth, The great river of the world flows by Abandoned to the kings of the earth, The red river of the world runs down From mountain peaks to the sea, And the tall town that rose up in the waste Sits empty in the sun. The great river of the world flows by And the broken town is forgotten quite, And the tall town lies forgotten in the sun, And the wind comes walking down from the sky And the cries of the city are dead. The great river of the world flows by, And over the silent plain, The broken town, that was our own, The broken town is all forgotten quite, And the great river of the world flows by And the cries of the town are lost in the sun, And the faces in the windows are lost. The great river of the world flows by, And over the silver water The tall ships sail on for many days, The tall ships sail on, and all are lost, For the nights are over and the suns are sunk, And the white ships lie on their spars, And the grasses wave above them. The great river of the world flows by, And over the fading silver, The broken white faces fade away, And the faces of friends are blanched with fear, And the pale hands are drawn against terror, And the eyes are wet for tears. We stood in a place of palm trees, My sister and I. The day was very warm, And there were palms of all hues Clustering together. The sunlight fell on the world, The palm trees, my sister, The yellow, and the green, On the houses by the water. It seemed as if the world was crying To the palm trees of the water. "Is the child well?" the palm-frond was saying, My sister, my sweet sister. "The child is well, I am here, My darling is well, I will go For the child is not there." "I will go and bring the bread, My sister, my dainty soprano." The palm-frond was sighing, sighing, The tears were falling fast, They fell on the yellow loaf of bread Which a little maid was eating. "And did the child laugh and play, My darling, my little lady? What a pity is that voice, To cry to me alone! I will go and bring the bread, My darling, my dainty soprano." "I will go and bring the bread, My little mother, my barley bread." The palm-frond was sleeping, sleeping, The tears were still falling fast, They fell on the silver loaves of bread Which a little mother was eating. "She will not hear the bread-crumb falling, My little mother, my lily bread." The palm-frond was sleeping, sleeping, The tears were falling fast, They fell on the cakes of barley bread Which a little mother was eating. "Oh, I am very tired of crying, My darling, my dainty soprano, I will go and bring the bread-crumb falling, My little mother, my lily bread." The palm-frond was sleeping, sleeping, The tears were falling fast, They fell on the cheese of cowslips making, Which a little mother was eating. "The little milkmaid must be kept awake, My darling, my pretty lady. She is not at home inside her cage, But she knows it is not day." So the little milkmaid must be fed, My darling, my pretty lady, With the wethers' wings when she sucks milk, And the flowers of the valley near the mill, And the dust of the garden in the grass. "She must be rocked and made to sit upright, My darling, my pretty lady. She cannot sit long, for all the garden Is overgrown with grass. She must be rocked and made to sit upright, My pretty milkmaid made of cotton, And the bells must be rocked her above, My darling, my pretty lady. "She must be made to run under water, My darling, my pretty lady. She cannot run long, for all the lake Is very overgrown with weeds. She must be made to run under water, My pretty milkmaid made of cotton, And the rooster must sit in the water, My darling, my pretty lady. "The rooster he is not yet awake, My darling, my pretty lady, He will not yet awake till morning, For all the country about is filled With garden grass. The rooster he is not yet awake, My pretty milkmaid made of cotton, But I rock her above, My darling, my pretty lady." The house was warm and the fire burned, The room was bright and the fire light, When up from his snoring he started, With "Hey! the butter is cracking!" So to my mother I said, "The buttered rye is steaming, And the butter is making." Now, you have heard it all the old In the country round about, In the town, if you were there, 'Tis worth the while to listen; In the summertime, I mean, When the wheat is in the rye, And the butter is due. And the wild geese are soaring Far above the place, Where the farmhouse was rising And the butter was growing; And the wild geese are soaring, Far above the place Where the farmhouse stood rising, And the butter was growing. Now, you have heard it all the old, In the country round about, In the town, if you were there, In the summertime, I mean, When the butter was in the pound, And the wind was still as soft as wool, And the butter was growing. There are stories in the telling, As old as time and space, Of the old white boatman, Who toss'd the pieces on the board, In the sitting-room upstairs; And how the children used to come, To help at the game away. They were merry children, all the rest Know them by sight or by name; For they were just like other children, Save that they touched the white man's beer. But the child who won the prize money, He was so quiet and black, That the rest of the company Could not keep him quiet or black. He was tall and straight as a reed, But never was he seen to smile. His eyes were very dark and very hard, <|endoftext|> one to stand beside, The beautiful theatre wide, Like the heavens, in majesty the image crashed into the ground, And the yearning grass thought of summer The languid dew in the sunlight was shallow, sorely thirsty, hewn from the trunk Of the felled elm of which so rich the wood was made, And the bruised and withered leaves flung down on the deep green lawn, And the straw the swine had chewed grew hoary and brown with rotted mold, The black cock with his laid-out egg turned round on his wire, And the circus tent swung by ropes hugged the earth again. III. the birds were just going through their regular stitch, finally, each of them went its own way They made it clear that time was for them as well, for so long they had known time And enjoyed it, The brown song sparrows, the robins, even the odd corymbs and thrushes in and out of town So many ups and downs they ended up as strangers on the lawn It was as if they had never been apart. IV. It doesn't matter much what one does, but how one does it, When one turns on the light The waters the rocks glow Which leads to my point. Everywhere one learns from those one loves Surely enough, it is said that in the night fever breaks out in the army But for this I am thankful, Even the doctor knows not to treat it More with dried rose hips than standard drugs are the men, The smell of herrings from an empty bottle, fresh struts are widely disdained, Ladies wearing aners sweat at the bar And all the money crazees, There are scraps of tweed leaves to bob in the trash Gleaming are the dim attic chits, I wonder what they would be like with nothing else to look at. V. Three the days I didn't get my days on track. You wait for me on that ride, I wonder what you will find. <|endoftext|> "Unreliable Tipster", by Yehuda Amichai [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The most dangerous time of night is still dawn, he said, when mall hawks fly across the roofs. Do not go out at odds with car robbers, he said, but should you happen to live in an alley with a smashed window, all you have to do is ask. There are always bumps in the road, he said. And if you are in pain, stop and tell the guy next to you that his head hurts, he said, and puts his finger inside his temple and feels something. And the most dangerous time of night is still dawn, he said. <|endoftext|> "Nothing More,", by Marvin Bell [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature] She saw her stone, saw the massive rock as still as a stone and wondered if she should cry. Her body believed it could not move. It would not move. Should it move? It should move, she thought. She saw her body from a distance, fearing she would see it from a distance again, her skin a mirror of her soul, stone from a distance like the flying rock, the huge rock. It was not a stone, it was a giant, impervious, immovable, she thought, a stone no stone could move. <|endoftext|> "Beneath a Very Loud Sky", by James Schuyler [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] There's something moving in there. I feel a presence. It could be birdsong. It could be me. Or a sky full of holes where stars go up, but only up, like people who go up on their own light. <|endoftext|> "The Past", by James Schuyler [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] I left myself in a corner of the world to come here. Nothing was lost. The tables and chairs and paintings all exist. The rooms have their own rooms. So are the faces. When I look in the glass I'm looking in the past. <|endoftext|> "The Friendship of Two Boys", by James Schuyler [Living, Youth, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] 1 Once again together they crossed the border in one piece. He to Arizona, she to Portland. The clouds were thrashing in the desert. She was coming back from Duluth, he from San Diego. He could say whatever he wanted and I'd agree, so long as he meant what he said. I think that's childhood, arrogance giving way to friendship. A kind of tutelage, and by the time he was old enough to leave the state he'd be taught the skill to be childish and harmless, the primitive of childhood, lingering on the periphery, like the tip of an iceberg, and by the time he was eleven it had become his whole world, our tableau, moving like a live wire through puffs of smoke, our electrified proximity. I remember a certain day we were in an empty field together, the two of us, watching a man who couldn't walk up or down the ramp, this crazy man on all fours, who kept barking, "Baba, _____ is loose, loose, Baba, the Chinese" and then, "Baba, _____ has stolen our chickens." We looked at each other, as if there might be more to the story, but he would only muddle along like some stray of wild chiefly. He wore a ragged woolen cap, and it seemed he had a leash or a bell for his dog tied to his back. There was a bench in the field, which made the air seem hazier, so we sat on the fence beside each other, Kashuan, my son, who was two, and Ray, who was eight. There are pictures of us made then. There are pictures of us made now, at the end of this day. 2 When I woke the dogs were gone. They were running along the border sidelines, barking furiously. Some of the men turned to watch, and some of the women seemed angry. Some of the women, or some of the men. We moved toward them laughing, the two of us, Kashuan, and Ray, and some of the women who had been once our friends. <|endoftext|> "An Argument", by Lawrence Ferlinghetti [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life] You're sleeping, the room is silent, as if it never hears what you say, or cares. You're sleeping. You turn over, but the conversation is limited, unreachable, like the blue wall curled against the color of your eyes. You're sleeping. It was an old wives' tale about two ghosts hiding in the walls, the story told by blind men, they with their cathered lashes, who will wake up one day and be alone in a house where there is no antechamber where their realm could cross and where their ghosts could come. You're sleeping. You can't see your wife standing next to the stair, holding a wad of baby powder. <|endoftext|> "Atlas", by Rachel Richardson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Atlas sat at his desk in a small room in the back of the museum. His desk was small and bare; a stack of ivory shoes on his feet. He was squat, a slight and well-built man. His thick neck was heavily bound in a flower-thin act of kindness; a thick trickle of ash on his lip. In a briefcase he had packed the vast collection of everything. Relentlessly, he had stacked and purchased it, splashes and particulates, and then he had carried it <|endoftext|> The new-come baby and his mother, Yet to her half-unwilling mind, A constant influence still she bore, And with the love of ease and rest, The child's, the craven's appetite. Now I grieve to have to say't no more, But by the harsh laws of chance, The baby's life, on that particular day, Was come and went at her pleasure's whim. Just when the night-fall in its shroud of blue Was draped its arms round her, and her sigh Was heard along the hillside wind, The same wild wind that had used her tender side Now raved against her death, and her hair Ran with the wave that roared in his teeth. Alas! by love's law what could she do But shriek out holy vows, and then sighing say: "Oh! God, be my Dimity's guard Till Death arms him at Thy call!" But, alas! he brought her night and heat, And the sick child died at his side. The wild kiss heard 'mid the whirling crowd Where 'mongst the dancers danc'd and danced, Where torch and music's joy had been And feast, and love, and song, and may. A youth smiled at her wistfully. "This torch is for my love," he said; "But I have not got my lady yet." A similar wild blossom, flower, and song, Is the fair phantasy whose spell Has held my fancy for to-night, Whose prayer meets every test it is tried on, Who rises pure and full of heaven's dew When chance's blind wheel has run for aye. The nymph was slim, her lips full of seed, And near her breast there lay a flower So fair, she seemed to hold up heaven. A long sweet hair fell down her shoulders And played among her dimples' bright spots And those two cheeks of perfect color. She smiled, and on her I fixed mine, And thought I would love to melt her heart So great, her smiles are like the rain, And I could love to melt her mind So full of love for all the world. The sudden music of the fife Arrests me suddenly, as once The rushing blast of thunder heard Rumble on the castle-roof. Her-that-was-not there, I almost reel And feel my swoon broken by the pain. Her-that-was-not! Her-that-was-true! Ah God, the agony of wrong! The dancers leave the moonlight sand; A light breeze stirs the distant spray. The carims cease, the bouses quiet. Oh, softly breathes the night-wind, Yet massed on his chariot hoof The storm-blast loom stands off. The dancers pause, the mournful train. Droop to their lily-beds and let The tear-drops gild their dripping cheek. Sunk on their breasts, their eyes are gloomed. And they are very weary. In vain, With lingering step, they turn the beam Round the faded bride's sorrowful bowers. I fear not yet the storm's might; But I would not, though the pain, My love should perish of the dire Blind dread that guards my bride. Had she but come to me apart I had let the wild days wane Since she so eagerly pursued. Faded the rose on her cheek, Faded the sheen of her hair, And the charm of her form, by fraud Fed from the whole day long, Now seems a charm of durance, And not a flower that clings. I, too, may falter, and forgive The days when my heart rejoices, And the fond thought of my wife Makes my eyes swim with joy. So the wild, strong river, wide and bold, Fancies her still its delight. For her, too, the wind in her hair, With the day's warm breath in her cheeks, For her, too, the stars in heaven floating, With their own light well awake; For her, the glowing of the noon, The tulip's purple glory, And the breeze's murmur faintly weaving Hints of her veiled face. O! the dream of her sleep! She sleeps, a star that dreams; She sleeps and leaves a path Of dreams, through fields of dew, Where every tree that sheds Its fruit for her sake, in bliss, Is laid asleep, and slumbers Unawakened by the bees, That in the sunlit hay-fields With the quiet life of May Swell to mighty numbers; While the world, the world that loves her, Far off and visible, gleams Even as a bride beside her bower. The Lady's self would call my mind Back from these dreams, and hold it fast, Which, like a lotus leaf or thread Hidd'n from her fond heart, to me Forth with the light of her beauty shines. O! dark things may at times possess A star's light, in which a way Of smooth ascent is open laid; But a less touch of darkness Is a star's than none at all, When it rests on none at all. When day, with deep'ning light, Shall gild the hills, and run Through the woods of the west A mantle of gold, Then, my guest, come with me, Away from the town. 'Tis then, and only then, With the whole world before thee, 'Tis then thou canst not err, And the paths of the morning Are clear as the heavens. 'Tis then thou canst not see Gardens with bright flowers in rows, All quaint, and gay, and new; All full of life and play, All rich with she-tree buds; While, drooping, sweet love is All heedless of the hours, And turns not heedless from thee In the woods of the west. Then, my guest, I will try If thy thought may circle round Fruit, and not nuts destroy; Or, if seeds, may fall As the grass and the snaw, Or from the locust's mouth. 'Tis then thou knowest the bounds Of mine orchard's generously Far, far around, its Fair walls of fruit and flower, Where the richest of vines, Of figs, and of palm, and thereof The fragrant gourd, creeps Athwart the limbs of the trees, And throws her bright ripe Drupes on the ground, While loud among the bushes The chaffinch sings. While, out on the field, The sheep and the goats Are bleating together, And a thousand merry play The young and the old; While at their head the bowl, Half-filled, sits drying, And the wethers, one and all, Tread on the grass in their gait, Or, lisping tenderly, Walk 'mid the flowers, and turn To their young lambs by their side; Yet, though round thee grow the scents Of the flowery garden, free From all artificial fragrances, Thou never canst think that he Who strews the bread, or sets out the plates, Would wish thee in his mansion to live, When summer and winter are over. But, by the dawn of the day, The sheep are no longer fattened for the pit; And all the jolly neighbors have been invited To ride, and pasture, and drink wine at noon; And greet again with dancing and merry songs, And cups, and cruets, and pretty girls; While some new outrageous Sport, Of which we have not been aware, has captivated Our attention all day;-- And, as we walk on by the wall at the end of the year, Smiling at the fancy which so easily would turn us to tears, We fancy what it may be, And draw back from its reality a little to our thought; That the idea which we cherish as our real life Is but an unreal, far sight, A wonderful dream, Of things whereof we have not a single part, Which we think;-- That dreams are made of truth In the wonderful world above the sea, On Panchajentown, Where the wind comes from, To daunt the souls of the poor. O thou over mighty Jah, Crowned as thou art with our tears, To those who on the ways of truth would copy thee, I would bid my tale finish as it began. O king, in whose heart is the image of thy mine, If thou hast the compassion, bid thy pilgrims keep The footsteps of thy gospel as we have done. All your pomp and your grandeur we despised, Because the grace of our humble Master loved you. How else should you hope to possess those bright spots <|endoftext|> On the converse of the poets who have been Well-disposed towards you and your followers; who in The theme of their songs and their essays have asked For aid to their kingdom's reform in Prophecy; And if those princes who have prayed so fervently Have been disappointed of their hope and wished To meet you face to face for yourselves Have you not accepted of these, even to the grave, And made some memento for them, as you might, With that blue flower? A scorn of always ruling; like the penny Which is worth a whole quid, and yet will buy No sooner something in life than it will wish To be sent back to the bankers, and so be chatt For with the scum of the city's market place, Scarcity and bart'ring; and at the same time pride And vanity--what is that? A feeling of content, with lustre feeding Like stars upon a rosy blue--the glory Of living like some heroic chief Of some quaint old story, whose glory bids Fame and History whisper 'Hist! Hist! ' In hearts that love him. There's something in it much As any poet's lays, though 'tis not the same, And may not be the entire God that He is. Ye dead saints and dead poet-saints, whose hands Were pale and helpless when the curse of Cain Came down upon the church and state, Farewell. A happy destiny invites Your chosen task of ministry. To-day is yet a virgin August, and yet The buds that are opening, full of June, And giving scent unto the inevitable blossom, As Heaven's sweet breath fanneth the seed-planet's mind, Round which it wheels. Pilgrim! are ye like him who, journeying northward, By a blue harbour in the dawning August, Found the mystic town of Corinth, and kneeled Before the colossal statues that awoke His faith with mystery? Unarmed, except with rod And cross, even as the stern grey priests of that port And portentous Ishtar, whose shrines were made Of melted metal--do ye intimidate him, Even as they made their offering of a rod, Which they could not bear to lift, because of sin In imitation of the Son of God? We are a poor but serviceable family. I have learned to-night the use of a bare breast And a white hand. I will lie still upon my bed. My God! should I wake, and feel that I am not still, That my heart is unstrung, that its chords have grown dull And duller, that it hath dropped away and strayed As a parrot's wing from the nest, that its spells are broken, That its prayer-pithes sit heavy on my heavy heart, That it hath wandered from my brother's side, That the grave grave where I belong is at hand, That I am called to that mysterious homestead Where my corpse, crumbled to ashes, shall renew The air of the lilied swamp that grows round it, The light of lilies born of the swamp that grew it! I have dreamed all my life not to remember. Then dost thou dream me to remember? I stand and look between the canvas shades At the figures painted on the red walls. At the easel with the dark flying paint My eyes are watching. At the easel with the light on My eyes that sit and look through the paints that fly Between the hanging paint and the figures in their rows At the painting done and the figures done, At the painting done and the white hands at work My eyes keep wondering. I stand and look and wonder, I wonder and wait. At the easel where the dark red flying paint Is furling round the blue eyed models And the thin loose red blood that drips down their cheeks Floats and swells upon the painting like wine At the easel where the light is hanging on And hangs and flows like the wine of the world And the worlds wine, at the easel where the light Is hanging on And floats and flows like wine, At the easel with the hanging light Between the models and the red hanging paint, The light of the worlds wine, I lift my wine-stained hands to the painting, I lift them to my easel to watch the flying paint Flutter and fall as the brush dries, My heart grows light and glad for the world's wine That is poured out in such a brush At the easel where the world's wine is hanging on At the easel with the hanging light between the models, I look to see if she is fairer there At the easel with the light on between the models The world's light between the models, Or whether the things she would have been are fitter, The things she would have been if the worlds wine Had fallen upon some nobler thing. "My father died! My father died! My father dead, Is all I have to live on. "My father died! My father died! My father dead! And his mourning clothes were old and grey, And ragged and torn and cold. "I had hoped to see him one last time, But his wound was deeply wounded. But now it is swelled and spread. No help I see! I will go home!" The air was light. He barely breathed. His dying eyes looked never home. Then she who knew the lonely death Of him that loved her, looked home. For long and piteous paces He was walking. Then all the houses in the town Moved past, as distant ladies' eyes Tremble for any far road when they start, And the march of garish marching life that thinks It shallers all, so all shall rest. Then he who knew the bruised and broken heart That would not give, but would see his face Turned to the windows of some white-gloved hand, And know him lean upon it, alive, dying, And bleeding through the dawn of some sweet bridal, His clasping hands wide open to the street Before its ill-supprest treasures could bring Aid or solace. Then he who knew her bended knees and worn And worn and torn spirit, stumbling through The brassy reverberations of life, Until with sick and stinging wreaths of pain And half-concealed anger, in the gathering Of worn-out wounds that did not care to heal, She looked home. The ruts, the stones, the lonely, lonely paces That led to nothing but the dark, To the dark of the far horizon, The silent mountain and the flowing stream From the crystal-clear waterfall That shines like fiery iris light Across the quiet river's course, The stars lit as in the evening skies Across the quiet river's course, The paving stones, the streetcar tracks, The distant houses, the deep night, And her heart's great cry of lonely despair That knew no healing save that of the grave. Then her dead lover's hand was in her hair, And a dry, oak-swept moat of hard expression As firm as stone was between her and The breaking of the golden morn, And the slow passing of the noontide hour Where the twilight lingered pale and proud With the dark bodies piled in fagots on the pyre And smoke curling upward from their throats that burned. She saw the sky growing dim and blue. There was no one. There was no one but him, and the waiting dead. There was no one but him and the burning earth And the sowing of evil. He saw the sky growing dim and blue. And he spoke, Words of a magic bird he had learned. Words that change when spoken And live forever in their said place. And he spake a long magic word To release her from her place of pain. He spoke the word to free her. And an awful flame That filled the air with smoke Leaped forth from him, A flaming hard bird from the burning earth. And the woman's tortured scream Was a deafening shriek Of burning pain And fear, As, seething with flame, She soared from the earth and struck the air With her hot bone-bone In a dead woman's horrible scream, As a ravenous fire From the burning earth And the earth turning on its axis, Dry thunder Of flame and pain. Over the moat the bird, the word, To make the exultation known, Stretched, pressed, Mocking her great bird of flame. In thunder's voice The exultation's shouting Rang. Rang with an awful clang, Like the beat of heavy hammers, Like an endless hammering, Like the beat of steel-edged clubs, Like the beat of bony nails, Like the brass and bone beating Of the veins of earth The water withered Up on the woodpile. The lawn between the houses <|endoftext|> Light your lamps--your lonely star shall shine more brightly, As it looked longest towards day. The torch of your religion is burning To a clear unknown gold. But its light on the waves of the troubled brain Is a stain of the world's blood. And the colour of your gold will fade with its stains, As the stain grows with the stone. But the light which is left will shine, as it looked when first it shone, On the deep that is hidden. I was bidden to stand in prayer Before mine altar,-- For the veil of the law is rent. With the night the sabbath was broken, And the censer swung Over the high carved group Of angels that overhead Walked as thoughtless as we walk,-- With hands held back by their charm. I saw their shadow as a cloud Pass o'er the sea,-- And I knew I could not pray Till the red lips of the blood had turned Over the red kiss which was thine. The sun must burn like a burning coal Over the moon, Before the moon and the moonlike sun Shall look over the seas and say: "Since man may part the seas He must yield up his hate." Men swore that the flesh of man Was of the feasts, and of the sun. Women swooned who had known love. The world was turned to a stone As a knife cuts wood, When Love steps between. Dear Christ, who is like to thee In every hour, every way? What man has ever known Before or since Thee, That they tell the truth, As Thou dost, as Thou dost, Of the glad seas and fields, And the bent stars and the fate Of his star, and his way? Man cannot cross Thee, And the full life gazes Only like a worn star And cannot know How much fuller is the sphere Where Thou art God. If the blood of Thy sacrifice Give me but consolation I would not lift my glass. Who knows but the lilies are lovely, And the violet under plumes, And the red on the heart of Thy dear God Is very dearness all? So to drink to the joy of Thy passion Is no bar to me. The very wine must gush and dash, With the young wine of Thy kiss, And the wine of the thorns must burn Before it can be wine. What else have they made of thee But a warner of the mind, A clause in the testament To be trodden indeed, Where cheek and lip and breast And even the are stained By shame or pride, and beaten, Because the spirit is weak? With tears and wine they have filled The hand of God to know Thy ways, Thy days, even as these Have known theirs, and then They have drunk and blasphemed and found A glass of water at the goal. But we, what wilt we do Now that thy voice is gone, That the things of the heart are found Far too high, far too sublime? How may we dress the tragic vein In a daisy-white cloth, Or make the purple of the vine A sanctuary for prayer? There is no flower in the wood, No bird, no leaf can tell Its secret of thee and Of time. We who have held too high Thy ton and tye, and been Thy vassals day by day Of thought and deed, can tell Aught of what we knew and saw Or knew of what we saw, Because the light is fled. But for this man's wounds There were a ring and a star To guide the foot of God. Be therefore watched and kept, For thou wert made for God. And in his hour of need Then what hadst thou to do, But stand beside him, hold him And cleave the cloth of he Right, And call him by name? "Before the throne of God Thy face shall be unseen, For thou desiredst Death, But I would have thee live While there is breath in me, And reign in my heart and West, And see another day Thy Queen-love in my West again." Pale grew her heart that day, But Westward she is bent To meet again the gaze Of her first lover cold. "I would be the Queen In my heart and West again, And see my Queen-love live, But all in me have changed, except my heart, Which is as cold as stone." Out of the forest that day Hath died the dragon call, From the solitudes of Hellas And the Paphian vine. All the grief is gone Of the youth of marriage pain And the old wounds of passion cold. Like a fierce mist upon the mountain top Thin and clear The moon shines white and lacy, like a streak Of frost-bound lightning. There is pity in the moon's light That falls like grace upon his night; Ah, me, that sight could never be Safe in the hands of one but him! So I see him, pale and wise, That day, and all the years to be; Because he saw her in the wood, And saw her garments fail And her faint beauty mar By the blood of all men where he trod, He will forgive and spare Whatever severs link by link The hearts of all who love and know. So I look at him and smile, And I see him still, And every decade of life, Worthy of being with her In the ultimate world. And I know, now, that he will tell Her with the tender care That she should watch and ward His body on the earth, above, The nest for all her birds and flowers. High in the west the sun is flaring, Light on the hills is dying. Dead gossips blink by me. On the hill, no sound is making; Stillness everywhere. From the grey desert swallow One weary wind is drifting; Down the ashes gossips flocking Bring tidings that the day is breaking. So I wait and wonder; Waiting, waiting, While the hours drag slowly on; Wonderful to me it is to be A man to die at last. Ah, I am fain to be Man, when Death will be a god, And my body rest in peace. "This blood," the orderly cried, "Is their high blood that has washed through Ayodhyá! If any of them quail, God shield them with His grace! I have lain with them all dead, And the sacred blood lies soft and cold; Let the peasants drink and live, Sons of the royal Ráma, Yea, let them turn to God with sword and prayer!" The cry rang out, "Let those who wish To win heaven's grace slaughter here." The peasant then was moved, And his heart was stirred with awe; And he mowed in line with ready edge And smote the foemen down. Bones and broken swords were strewn That once they wielded in the fight. When all the corpses had been stripped, And the sacred blood had been spilt, There were those who cried, "They are doomed to die In eternal hell forever. So shall the people speak of shame And turn their backs upon me." In the midst of them there came A truthful priest, a truthful man, And on the corpse he knelt and prayed: "O best of men, sheikh Faizullah, To the city of Ayodhyá ride! If in the land of men thy steps Bring the unchanging Faizullah, Before the Evil One abideth Shall shake the throne of Mercy." Then there came a gleam of light, And the priest stood by the body, And he raised his face and looked around, And forth from his haughty mind Gave a great cry of fear and joy: "Praise, praise, thou Sage, is thine; Hell's monarch, surely, shall drink Of that cup whereto the name Of Ráma calls, O best of men, And faileth none who briefly met In battle, ere its wine be boiled." And the holy man was seen As a vulture, unwearied. Swift to the sky he sped, Far and near with hoofs a-lance, And in all men's minds was one Who did the work of Sin. The times were o'er when kings would weep And bow before Hierarchs', When honest hearts were as a fireless light, And Kshatriyas feared no curse. Now, for the spirit of right That ruled those happy days, We render up the hope that won us men In the friend to friend we bitterly strove. O, could we meet again, and trace The far tear-shaped link <|endoftext|> And sleepless and alone and sorrowful. <|endoftext|> "from San Francisco, `Mule'", by Isaac Rosenberg [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Pets] I knew the mule, it ran before me on Broadway and leaped into the churning river. I knew the mule, and I turned in silence, and I stroked its neck as it ate the green apples in the bits and pieces of oranges. I knew the mule, and I saw it pass the very tall man in the worn red coat with his fez, and I stroked its neck when all the others were still, and I kissed its forehead, and I said you have the right to think of me that way if you ever stop and start thinking of me as the same you loved before you loved and the mule did not stop, it ran, it leapt, and I followed, and I ate the fruit from both of its eyes. <|endoftext|> "Feast & Festen", by Miriam Bird Greenberg [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Midlife, Time & Brevity, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] At supper, my mother talked of how hard it was to get by without his real estate, how mad other people were at his birding, and she asked if I had seen the old house in Northfork. It was empty except for a radio turned on low and a rabbit rabbit hole in the basement. The computerized shacks were long since empty of furniture, and they had turned it out as a cooperative community, but the sky fell in and all the tables toppled over into her children's faces. She had two and three children in reality. She was weeping and sobbing in the kitchen. I felt sorry for her, and I didn't say anything. I'm used to her weeping. When she was a young bride she would get so worried about the umbilical cord she would sew herself. (She was imagining the cord wrapped all the way around her baby's neck, a much safer latrine at that age than the actual one down the block.) Now she had come to gather the wreckage of our household and she was weeping. Her voice was thin as a final coat on the soft pile of a woman who has already given birth more than once, to a pig, to a cow, to a dog, to a cat, to me. When she put her face close to mine on the sofa she was holding back the sobs that would spill from her mouth. Her feet were bare, and I could tell from her shantung that she had taken the shoes of her deceased daughter to memorialize her. It was her own mother who had first advised her to do so. When she started weeping I urged her to get up, get out of the kitchen, get out of the house, and not to do this, not to do that, but to hold her infant in her arms and sing to her all night. <|endoftext|> "Now is the Airborne Because of This", by John Berryman [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Religion, The Spiritual] Everything falls into its meaning now: Husbands, the underwear they wore as suits, the letter they wrote to the dead, or did I miss that? Wives, candles and all the fun that went with them; Sapphics, mustard and Tabasco; Judaism, the blinking dog, the mouse with feet that climb. Fish, ladders and bees as, down the road, funny as a lightbulb gone dead. The cheese wrappers stuffed with dead flies. Coffee and eggs, the candles that give no warmth; Cincinnati, where eyes want to creep but cannot, where meaning floats like the words I read; and now—now is the airborne because of this, the fruit of my tongue. <|endoftext|> "What," If Thought Regarded Something What", by John Berryman [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Religion, The Spiritual] What if thought regards something entirely that isn't there, isn't it in some sense a duplicate thought— that the very thing that once was my mind talking isn't there now, that these books are not there, these lives are not there, my mother's body; what if thought regards something entirely that isn't there? And doesn't it, in some sense, have the force of truth, isn't that what I'd like to tell you now? <|endoftext|> "Don't Stop, The River Is Slowly Taking Aim at the Sea", by Seth Abramson [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] it's an illusion of return when you think you've moved on and someone else comes along and makes you look You thought you were ready for something new, but here it's the dead drinking their Sammichs and the crazy guitarist whistling through his fuzzed-out fuzzbox as the smallest tear on the window is a full-throttle tremolo Drinking your beer is like a jar of pickles in grape juice, and the small embouchure of the small embouchure turning the bottle is the same jar Of pickles and jchk in its gorgeous uselessness which can't inspire the sound of the wind in the tube to move from point A to B, and the wind in the tube cannot sing there's too much tube-ness in the wind, not enough wind grunting it down <|endoftext|> "Fenian", by Tim O'Brien [Living, Death, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Love, we've been through frigid; through thawing; through freezing; through sinuous dimpling; and all that happens is green thing in a thawing; and a green thawing is a spiky jangling in green and a spiky jangling is a green beautiful beautiful green; is an exquisite thing; is the beautiful unexpected; is a beautiful thing; the exquisite thawing is our song; is the beautiful unknown; is the great unknown that, say, forgets its flatness and remembers the shape of a steel glider hanging in the chilly air <|endoftext|> "When in Wisconsin", by Tim O'Brien [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Fall, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] After Súshan Komöøi When in Wisconsin the autumnal tone roars up like a steam engine & in a hundred miles you can see it on maples it leaves this rusting lumber & turns them reddish you can see it on the grass it darkens them but & it's sunny there in Wisconsin & the bushes beside the pathways & the bushes within the pathway give out so much light you can see it on the horizon & at night you can see it in the form of an immense buffalo <|endoftext|> "The Alien Existence of Abraham", by Tim O'Brien [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] A delicate solution to a delicate problem, and the divine love of God that prompted it, is to destroy the alien existence of Abraham and to endlessly preserve the man himself. For like the artist Lihte, who refuses to model in any earthly form the divine creation he can see in his own image, he creates an Abraham that stands in isolation from the human creation, though he still imagines human longing, fear, delight, triumph, and eternal bitterness cannot be exactly predicted by his Abraham, and he models himself in a harsh light & foreshadows his Lihte to come in a Lihte to come after it. & so he creates an Abraham that is Lihte to look at & an Lihte to imagine, & in the process creates an Abraham that cannot die. For he knows, that like Lihte he has created the Abraham that will cannot die & like Lihte he has not created the man himself, but rather an Abraham a Lihte to be remembered. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> THE VOID beckons ever, E'en while I write this rhyme, In Elfin woods of Islay Or at the brim of Eldevin Where the sun sounds sleepily On the mossed arch of dreamy Inch. THE first time that I beheld the moon It looked like one of those large, yellow, juicy apples That abound in Schiele's latest books, And glitters in Grotte de Vol, Laden with wax and silver! A deep crimson orb hush-hush-hushed With equinox and with term, In that soft season that the young year follows, Perpetually the same. As if my life depended on its coming, And round its chubby coronal The young grasses seemed to coher And keep the blossom of their youth. I thought the Year was going fine When it came to me in May. It seemed to fill my soul with joy And love; I heard the Earth was singing In its ardour to the Fall. I was amazed, appalled at the price I had paid for its loss. Then, through the Autumn's silence, Borne on a gusty blast, I caught its echo on the rocks, The wave was rippling, I knew the Moon was coming. When I was young, before I knew One red or brown or wrinkled leaf, A pity lay Lethal in me, a blow I could not take. The raindrops fainted on them, The leaves were faint and faded, The warm wind fled. At night, when the storm-rack swept A ripple of red and green, A ghost, I called it, Came, a spectre of a man From out the sea. He fought to stay me, and I stayed to be crushed. That night, as the waves broke, He drave my jutting bill Over the rocks and over the drift, And the sea laughed. It laughed and it sobbed. The tide fell in, and swept me up-stream. I found that I could not fight. I had been so proud, And now I had fallen, I fought to stay myself sinking, And he fought to keep me afloat. But on the night of the storm, When the wind cried, "Breakage," The waters seethed and roared and tossed. There was no turning back then. I fought to be paddled ashore, And he fought to keep me out. Years of kindness and friendship, Comfort and trust, Damp memories of childhood. And the sea? My thoughts of it Remain far outshaken, So strongly set, That all seems hopeless when I speak Of the old home and its ways. For she has gone forth, in the dusky dawn, Along the highway that leads Up to the housets that are lit With holly and the fire-light in pairs. The small, long lane is empty. The trees on either hand are bare By the dingy boughs. No holly here, and the fire-light's idle. But, bobbing along in the road, I hear a sound like some deep thought Of bird wings, or feet of deer, Or windy waves and the white moon, Or something that the wind might say By chance as it passes. I pass, And then I hear again The sobbing of the wind and its cracking. The wind's reply: "There's a young thing on the hill a-trying." Then I see her come With graceful action Across the open grass of the hillside. A bit of torch-light on her hair Is all I get Across the dark and the grass. She goes by. Where has she not gone before? This is the hundredth time I see her face And never comes again. I carry my heart in a white paper bag I have opened many times and secretly Pushed till the slow flies dreamed it died. But this time the flies dusted it bare And I cried: "How come this is always them?" I'm poor and I'm tired and I shall die Ere I have had with these things determined. But I shall have the last dance of my days Ere I have pushed the paper bag away. IN Edward's pages the bard of Rome foretells The coming of a mighty king, Whose glorious name on earth will flame While angels fear its shining rim; And eyes of mortals, long downtrodden, Shall then in rapture leap to see. And gay and bright with colours gay 'Twill shine and bloom on earth again. The nations' hearts with wonder clap To hail the king whose sceptre is love, Whose mantle is peace, whose helm is truth. By John's sere branches, winding up the mead, The nightingales make chirping tune, Waiting for the springtime that hath come. E'en summer and winter unto each other say: '"Twas once like this--do we not remember?" Edward's bust of pensive calm looks down the mead; The artillerists' green laurels try To breathe new life into age's unprofitable wood; And gloomy oaks that dimly seemed to drape The Gothic towers, now take a brighter tone. And thou, O Rome, by all the ages entombed, In thy still woods, amid the stars above, That now no more thy terrors shimmer round, Shalt then, a fairer shape assume: Fame shall ascend from every distant shore, And nations, mute, the wonders of thy days A STRANGER passing through the cedarn shade In June's bright morning saw a smiling image Of himself, a youthful man, clad in silk. The corners of the brow were cast with care, And the straight black hair was curled behind in queenly style. The stranger's eyes with curiosity were fix'd; He sigh'd, he strove to speak the words that might explain The strange and terrible beauty that he saw; But no words could e'er the meaning of the face express'd: Only the image ask'd a tribute of sighs. He gazed upon the lovely shape, and sigh'd again, And turn'd to leave; but first gazed longer, and sigh'd, And then with growing rage, would leave the place again. Well I know, dear Murphy, what my reply would be, Should I meet that young man on my walk now, And his black form, that fair face, begone. Yet now I will relate a mere fraction Of what Murphy saith and does; Then I'll relate a fact that never yet was told, Unless by the lips of the dead. You remember Murphy's daughter--no, not me-- The girl who married our father? The strange, strange story: when she was grown, Her mother died--was very young-- She then went to live with her aunt and uncle, And they did things to her that they never do. The elderly parents were much afraid Of her, they thought, and treated her strangely; They drugged her wine with an opiate strong, They gave her opium, and forced her to sleep, And then they made a will, and hid her ashes Deep under the coal of eve, And then they lay in wait for her, to rob her, And did kill her, to prevent the news spreading, But nobody believed them, as you know. One day while playing about with her jewels, They say she rang a loud sash of the balcony, And kicked the sash down, to the astonishment Of all the people below. It was thus that the parents saw her throw The portrait away with the portrait of him. An aged man came up, and stared at her, And next he took the portrait, and looked in it, And then at her face in it; He spoke to her with warmth, he was well prepared, For he had been dead a long time; His voice was strong, it smote like a dreadful chord, But nobody listened to him. She had been an only child--the eldest daughter-- Of a poor carter who dwelt on the flat, And with him five boys and a girl She formed a million relations; But she was foolish and blind--I wish I could forget How often the pang of envy she deserved, From the eyes on the long maroon of her sleeve, And the striking of silver and golden threads, And from all the shining of dresses upon her. This is the way they came, on the shoulders of kings, To the palace of Frankfort--you know the spot. They climb up through the old Romagna's cobbled street, And turn right on a big Dogean like staircase, They look at the spires, and the palace-walls, And the statues, and fancy that they see the Madonna; But the Madonna is past, and the moat and the trees, And the valley and very steep. <|endoftext|> And rid her of her woes, the heath is gay With tassel and fragrant smoke, and prettily curtained; And pleasure, sweet to all but her, is lost. Oh, thou bright youngest child of love and mirth, Thou hast but just begun to wander free, And every scene that meets thy wandering eye Is littered from the height of life with woe: We fill thy heart with memories of the dead In a strange town where Sylvius lay at rest, And Rhethron's battlements were dressed in green. Sylvie had made for him a song To soothe his sorrows and revive his joys: 'Tis a song of Camelot wrought in old For the young Merry Men in Ascalon, Of the wide-wayed king that loved his duet More than words from friend or teacher came. But somewhere in the music where it dwells, In that clear old tongue to which thou hast clung Through all thy thoughts and questions and regrets, There is that song of unknown composers Which Sylvie sang above a year to cheer The heart of young Rhethon when, a boy, He heard it at the window of his tower. Isabel! Isabel! where are you roaming? Is it the sea, where the immense green waves Bend not beneath the gallant fleet Roamers that wanton through the tide? Is it to spy the topknot of some plume, Or the red-roan steed, most fair of feather, That now, with his rider, mounts the water? Yes; and the sun bursts of its showers, And the smooth land echoes to our carol, Dancing through the green; And the breeze of the West is fond of our singing, And murmurs the words we twine: "Come! be cheerful and cheer the day, Which, though long and dark, Is but the beginning of a longer life." 'Tis a holiday in Charlecok Lake, And Isabel is prince and peer of the lake; Singing above the lily-brush, And dancing with the wind in her hair, She is Isabel all the year, And her smile is the sunshine of my life. Last night the merry yell lasted till morning, And made the clashing surf rejoice; And thus the night was full of happy memories That would not forsake me even for death. And thus, to-night, through darkness and clouds, Isabel is with me,--I see her eyes, And her cheek is as fair as the day. Oh! let us sit together once again, And feast upon the juicy goose With wild flowers placed in wine And solemn lanes to charm our eye, Where the harvest's aged lord In majesty is coming, And the sun is beaming upon the dun snow. Ah! what a wonderful sight 'twould be To-morrow in the moonlight deserted Upon the beach at Charlecok. The fair one with the golden hair, Catching the tenderly falling water, Like a Goddess, all unceasingly Laughing, laughing at her own delight, And at our joy too. How fair she was, and how young! Had she forgotten how oft We had fucked her in the depressions? How often in the roaring water, With ungermined lips, Would she laughingly confess, And at our merriment. In those days I think I'd have liked her well; But now, nigh forty years her senior, I can only stand and look askance, With a little laugh at the fun she's about to have. But it's true, she is beautiful still; And then it seems to me we should be friends. She'd come to my dwelling, when she came, And it would be a pleasure to see her; I'd show her the mulberry bushes Growing in my garden-plot. And it might come to pass we should see The rich thickchard of Hastings. And my eye would gaze throughout the year For the bright colour of her body's chin. And so it might be, some happy day. It is the time when robins flock, And little brooks reveal the gold They nibble with when they flow. The time when maidens show their hips And little children slumber big, And the sun and moon with pleasure look, So happy now, so contented. With mouth up-running like a fang, And golden hair that like a row Of jewels runs to the swell of her hips, As on a silence of sunlit walls A girl of twenty summers goes. She giggles with lips that dart A quick and witless spit of laughter, And throws her feet into the air As if a dance were in them there. Her whole body is a laughing-stock, And by the cheeks that burn and glisten And shine to watch her as she goes Is filled with other fancies. The wild bird waits not till the year is dry Before she finds some comrade to wrench His wings from off and bite and tear; And she has dreamed long dreams by day Of the time when he was big to kill. And she has thought of claws, and teeth, And blood and madness, and pain and death. She has heard the whispers of the trees That say to her, "Come, robin, come," And when the robins do not come She feels a bit of disappointment, And when they do come and fall to dust Her dreams are quick of a prey to kill. And so to robins say, "Come," And to her say, "Scratch and destroy," And "spread your eggs, and then," they say, "Go sleep, for you will not rob a flock." 'Tis very beautiful and splendid, This quiet swarming of the summer chicken; And only when they are dead and dead In the great coomb do they murmur and mope. Beneath the bushes that envelope The little coomb in the grass I walk With many a grin and with a toss At the Summer's gull-chasing, summer-kill. The strawberries are more lovely than ever, They have not a spot to feel the hot sun's burn; No prickly seeds to prick their feeling ears Of the bumble-bee that sings and buzzes around. For the strawberries are full of sting and sting Of sweet music as they lie in the velvet dew, And they feel the earth under their filled throats Like a warm little bed of roses after. The red-bird is a queen, in the beautiful wild land of song, And she lives in state within her broad and sunshine skies. Above her, in her lofty palace of cloud and star, A thousand little monarchs sing and watch. Each one like a king, and happy in his palace of star Walks over the world of sun and moon and purple sea. I saw a bee fly across a silver stream; A wave bloomed, a golden fish crossed the blue; It sparkled like the laughter of the moon in May, A graceful and shining queen, to challenge another. A swarm of bees crossed a little silver stream, A wave bloomed, a golden fish crossed the blue, A king said, "Let her have her own," and sailed away; He sailed to India and got home to catch a bee. You might have missed it, but I prayed for a favor-- To have a tiny little spark of red in My hair when evening tells the rosy west is near; But if I did not wear it with delight And let it blaze brightly in my curl of red, I feared it might go from me, and miss my girl-- My girl with the curl of red in her hair. I saw a star glitter in the gleam of black; I heard the soft call of a silver leaf; I felt a tongueless gush of purple when My lips touched the luscious sweetness of a rose. A faun dropped in the blackness and looked round, He did not see me, he thought I was lost: "Oh, girl, do you think you are lost," he said. I dreamed I was sailing in a silver ship, But I knew it was only a dream until I saw The beautiful forest of my grandmother's hair. I took my pipe out, it trembled and flared, I lighted up and sang and looked about me, I sailed through the silver forest till I saw A golden city and a golden castle, And all the ships in the sea, silver sailing ships. When I am grown much older, much wiser, And the ravens fly from my head and I have No happiness in my life, and the rain is All I love now, and I have no pleasure for singing, Oh! then, Oh! then when I am grown much older, I think that I should like to stand on the sea and sing to the waves Of my great love, who am beyond me now, and will be far beyond, <|endoftext|> O sorrow for the colour that makes The prospect of the town distaste; O heavy pang for broken vows, That ruffle the balmy bosom of peace; O anguish for love, that hath no remedy But tears, that divide until the heart bleed through, That ache with doubt, that chill with courage fail; O anguish for love, so sad a thing to bear, Like winds unto th' ethereal powers addressed; Like winds unto those most dense and warm, Who linger round Eternity's supreme throne; The years o'er-ran and agony burns bright, And patience and forgetfulness hath won; And there lies only beauty in repose, And there is only patience and heaven's smile To make the days grow bright, and the nights dark-night; There was a day that went by And left no sign, But with a sigh it seems to say, "I think I am dying." Ah! well a-day is past, And time (that silent slow, And distant bullet, if it hit, May as well be not pains) Soon found a dead man near: And earth--earth forgot; And hearts--he was not home: And friendship (frail thing) grown old-- And beauty (frail thing) gone by. --And when he came, she had a face Of a dim twilight, sad and quaint; And when he spoke she had a tongue More like a dreaming bird's. Is it the end of sorrow? That men should weep when They have no power to weep? --My God! is all is over? No more to feel the touch Of gold-dust on the flesh, Or watch the willow fall, Or plant pale pomegranates Before the shattered sun On cups of blood? Lips smile. The sick man hears; And his cold blood thaws, and he stirs, And his pulse begins to sing; And the staff stirs, and the blanket lies Washed yellow in the clay: And the weeds grow wild and high-- Death for the kingly crown-- And the kine grow gentle of tongue; And the lone rooks on the hill Take love and pain and pleasure: And sometimes down a ravine A thundering death is heard, And children weeping, who have lost All but life, kneel by the dead, Sobs broken to a song, And gather round to cry. Ah! say that she, with her wits, Should fathom love; ah, say that she, With all her buried years, Should lift the willow-bough--ah! say That she, the guardian and the friend Of him she cajoled and misled From youth to youth, and later on, Had to the lying dream broken, Should blink at death, had sunk her soul Down in the dark and secret tomb, Should mould be learned in death. It is not true! Nay, not true! The ocean rolls, the rocks arise, The fresh young grass is seen, And song is heard above the wind Where 'twas unwearied to be When once her child was born; At times it seemed as though it slept, And he,--they fable would have it so-- The mother and the child were one. On his cradle-bed, all day, The infant, like some light Whom waking it greets, Calls back its babblings to the day; The child calls to the mother, and says, As it were in reply, O mother mine! O fond'st thou to be, And weary with the sorrows of men? For mine thou art not wearied with the mourner's cries, Nor dost thou long for life forsaken and dear, Nor thought to be contented with little things That others have who are more happy than we. In the dim brief time when hope's light had failed (Lately gained to us, and lost again), We spent the winter in child-love harsh; In spring, a baby bed we COULD NOT make, For we were both to old by then: And when my love began at last To show some signs of promise red, We turned to hugging and to kissing, Till these grew sore with holding. But ah! my love grew love-broken to me Ere summer days were half begun; We saw a child of Guilt before us, And turning dared not refuse her, But said, "Let no one know--if no one knew Such a thing could be behind." She grew, as all things do, except Thee, More wonderful as she grew, And I knew not it was Love she drew Nor dreamt thou was the cause: Too deeply we were entangled. As grows a plant that strains under hemp, We grew enmeshed till we came To blows and brushes like a windmill, Or aspen trees with men. What hand is this that holds my heart? This leans upon me as a friend? For sure 'tis Thou, and Thou alone! For nothing loves me like Thou! No eye its tears can shed can tear The love-light from my heart, For 'tis Thou that sheds those tears And dowers my garden with flowers; But this am I, and I alone; And Thou art not the life of me; Yet look, my heart--before Thou dost go, This little idol stayeth still, And to watch at all its moves It fears, perchance, Thou wilt return; Doubt not, my soul, but go and pray That all these words the spirit sweet May unto Thyself tell true, That Thou dost think my prayer a lie That, bending down this tree to see, I look the tree into steel; I did not bend the tree, it bent me. And now to-morrow I may see What to my doubt it may appear, What then may be my blessed lot, And how I fallen from my high estate; For if Thou be indeed the life, The love, the truth, the one undying friend, The God I trust in, then Thou art the tree, The truth, the life, and I see Thee plain. At dawn I rose and dressed, and went And came again late in the spring; And each day my eyes were blurred and blood Was brought into my head and face, Nor did I once know if I slept well Or ever more should see the sun. At night I learned with grief and pain That Christus, my father's race, Was not my father's sire, but one Who was the prince of robbers bold, And bought my youth with many a coin. And then my spirit's evil voice Came like a bugle call of old: Then mother said, as light, to her, "The devil is in his blood, my child!" And little soul was sad indeed, And hid her face and shield from me And never laughed, nor talked, nor smiled. And mother mourned and prayed the more Because the devil she her child called. But, oh, the light! ah, God! the light! Before whose might my fears were cast! When like a life-time fell the tears, Before whose stream my sorrow ran, Before whose might my fears were cast. Yet nothing could my thought deceive, Nor all my fears deceive the man: Oh, wake, my Mary! love, awake! Nor like a breath I hear thee ow, Nor like a movement see thee rise; But, like a very presence there, Thou art, here, now, and shalt be there, Making thy home with me, for thee. When we are earth's mates in life, Then we rapt in death's house agree; We wake, then leave the simple waking And live the gods that can, the dreamers, Who can expand the skies, can mingle Great passions with small, can magnify A love for glory to transcend The leaguer, the loveless bed. To those, O mates, aflame to live, 'Tis marriage's sign and test of worth; They walk alone and hate the crowd, And can, repose, revere the pure, Who in the home have known the mother, Who have learnt to fear the clang of steel That waits for no war but love's. The man's who will not scorn a wife That fades when young passion wanes, And the young wife's who marries him Shall lack the comfort only she Had had of all his doubts and fears Since innocence had kissed her hair. The gods of marriage are ten; He does not love the first but all; Love is a blind, he sees the last: And none have power to blind the last The loving spirit blind of two; They only speed the reunion Of those lovers who of yore I'm no great scholar on the celts, But I know that life without her Is nothing but a missing part; <|endoftext|> As shepherds roam to and fro, For shepherds' lives have liberty To o'erleap the brow of danger, And oft the urge of omen false. "Shepherds, O, thou need not fear; Fair Fortune, on thy looks rests Protected joy, which ne'er deserts The heart that loves a loving wife. Happy is the life of lovers, Like a sea without sand; Still, still it stretches, untam'd, Unto its heart's implacable end." Come, Adonis, and my music prove, Since thou art slain, again come, and be my bride! My loves, my Vesta, hear; their enfranchised ear Beholding, from their statues, hear my love complain: Nay, what the maids have whisper'd, hear their verdict, And stand me witnesses, while I propose my love: No mean compensation claim we for our Troy, Which being proved, if not in deadly show, Yet threatened, in the smart of our alarm. For had but great Diomed' my love deferred, And if great Pallas had been leave'd my wife, O gods! and devils! I had slain thee, and Troy were doomed. Troy! when Adonis now, for his part, Insults the very goddess of thy race, And thy great penitus shall from his tower Challenge thy thund'ring son, and him refuse? Why will'st thou tempt the gods? what sins, alas! Have made the fatal fever of thy mind? Fools, and blind, and mad! thyself shalt betray; And thou shalt die (but not long dread it), As I through thy delirium came, and thou Bluff'd at the word: O gods! and devils! oh, fly Charm with these kisses, fear with these smiles, These tapers, garlands, and with song; If not, thy life ere long the wall shall breach, And pile his mother's relics on the side Of Adria's lake. 'Tis night; and sated with the feast, Feast and feast give up the ghost; Night and day with tears we war, as day With tears, to baffle our despair. But end we now our lamentation; Night and day with tears we war, as day With tears, to baffle our despair. My Love she sleeps; and restless as she, Sleeps through the day and through the night. Her gentle dreams are as a sail Awakening nigh the floating shade. Her gentle thoughts are as a billow Somewhat slack in motion, but still whirl With lulled murmurs in her current still. Her gentle loves are as a boat Lifting from off the floating sand. Her gentle will she tasks for task, Though still 'tis but slow and slight; 'Tis all in vain, 'tis all in vain, She sighs for love, and sighs in vain. Me wanton youth, where shall I acquire The golden rule of the golden craftsman? The golden rule of all things is gain, And all things are shaped to serve man's use. My master's bench is on the opening green Where all nature's machines I must choose, And all nature's lore I must learn, and all, For man's use and for his delight, Turn to my future by their uses; From things barren leave my benison. The grown worn ashen hulk of a teacher, The one apprentice left behind to tell The other master's folly and his own, He, in his vestry room, no more forlorn, Where building's learning makes the wall too narrow To read the written word in its winding way, Sit'st and question if the winder's ready For window, and are shelves constructed sound, And can the moss be dyed that once was green, And if the cross-bars be to scale removed Where hang the lamps, and the long eaves made level That teach the hapless schemer where to splice. Oh, 'tis a weary task and full of strife Rebuking him who can perform it well, If he have learning at all, or if not, A worthless hap it is to him as far As to the physician, who is called to treat A fever, and is glad when he has cooled it Because his patients are now in view; So is my master glad when he can tell How hard it was to fever my poor tongue, And if his words are weak to believe the tale Of the recovered patient, and nowise weary His patient for another year to tell. My duty's to nature; to the trees And waters and the rocks and winds I'm bound; To the wide fettered earth and winding road, And, if I speak her language, to the self Bearing with loneliness and pain. She's the first and the last of my concerns; All else to me is but the lens and glass Through which I see the world and rejoice When I compare the numerous objects To one real thing and find they're not so, And I go on like any tradesman And turn my labour and my leisure To useful use. I hear From young and old, Like prayer, with no hurry, And that I applaud; For the burden should be Man does not see One great order In all his busy days, Which in its work and rapidity Scarce rivals death, Or that it hurries so And stoppeth his breath, And that it makes His heart lie down Come, caresser, lie upon my breast; Let thy soft hand rest upon my heart; My hand! the young Eyelash, at the thought of my hand, that it Tremble with pleasures, that as I touch it It doth excite the excitement, Feels the fondness, goeth and cometh, Thou art the God of the artist, thou That begat'st the God of the artist, So say they; And that is very curious. For all things give God thanks In the famous church of Berwick, That I, the smallest of men, Am called to hold The highest office in all her rolls, That is the office of a governor; And that my tender touch And devoted looks The North is a paradise of quietness, The winter warbles to the legal tables, The water gives its gentle virtue to the mill, There is the world and there are its highways. There are the waters and there are the shores, And the very way that men can go Is marked by gentle water on the islands of peace. Who can wander there and emerge Griefless? Who can listen to the winds go backward and forward, And arrive at no hours of fret? Who can breathe the serene and know That the wind is God's announcement That over sea and over earth He walks in silence and is talking to the sea? There is a stately pause in all the day's din; There is a stillness which is more complete Than that which attends the sunrise and the sunset; The great deep to the mountains bears, Heavy with sorrow they sigh for the morrow, The quiet stars dread the action of men, And the deep sleeps on with the day. They are not idle; On the rocky mountains, and the snows, And in the valleys they stir, And send down a tumult of singing From the deaf rocky mountain-boughs, And from the sobbing of the reed-beds In the valley; and from the forest They send down a tumult--each tree Made with one thought--every branch Waving above its neighbor in greeting; And the tender, free Intercourse is made Between the reeds and the rounded hillocks, And the thickets, and thickly sown With herbage. They are feeding The wild horses, they are feeding The partridge, they are feeding The flock of sheep, which weave the low wood, And the wild-ducks, and the capercailz. The wild goose wanders among her fellows, The wild rat runs in and out her holes, And sings in her own defense-- All these seek their food, seek it in abundance, And, the moment they have taken it, Return it to its place of refuge In the cool mountains, or in the thickets. No cry is heard in the night From the flock of sheep, or from the forest; No struggle of bird, or beast, is audible. But all, from the dawn of the morning, In a dreamy silence wait. So let him feed. Let him play with his children The dear, sweet joy of childhood; Let them chase the little squirrel around The high mountains, or the meadows; Let them leap and dash about, And throw the blocks and the dirt into his face. Let them play at cricket With the wild goat, Or at kangaroo Through the sand-dunes or the grass-fields; <|endoftext|> whole list of mighty saints. This is the ultimate which makes heresies and dynasties: the power to blow up scandals to a galaxy of overheated crimes. Should Noah have let his ark land on a sinking planet, snorting its ocean spray along its flimsy decks, I wonder? Wouldn't he have then ridden the waves until he felt the heat, the smell of the maddening firestorms, the steam of explosive gas-fume flares, and corks popping as they went "pop-pa-pap, pop-pap"? (Our young people today are ripe for these kinds of travails, I think.) What would we be doing then? Would we then be "Making History," designing our nurseries and churches after the "Historic districts"? Or were we "Developing the Districts" in which we were born, inspecting our blood and eating our flesh to make them into Metros and Kings? We know the British Empire sucks. It'll go down as a hideous hulk we sank in the Atlantic. Maybe as a little Island of the Blest. <|endoftext|> "All the King's Men", by Paul Violi [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] The 1920s are here again, when the Houses of Parliament looked like this, and when Prince Leonidas was still alive and the days of sailing ships were done. But today in the streets they're having a great go, and though they're not quite in fashion yet we can still see their shiny black lines. Take the square in the center of town, for example, which like all the others is lit by throngs of lovely people (the prettiest of them all being that Alma Bell brown hair). In here all the national anthems are being done: here the one by the Workers' Party is being sung; the one by the Indians is playing in the gallery; in the Arcade by the rich young things is being sung, in the Lumière by the older generations, and on the Métro cars the Red Ensign is being flown. On several cars banners and pennants are on the windows: on several cars there's a flutter of flags. It's the famous one by William Morris, and one by the late George Trauner. To all those banners and flags I'd like to add this: to every Republican, republican, republican, and every man who loves his country and loves liberty, every reactionary is my dear friend. They make my heart beat fast and quick; I'm on the side of the downtrodden, I'm on the side of the honest toilers, I'm on the side of the vanquished and besieged, I'm on the side of the people in danger. They take my pennant about liberty and my banner over peace and order; and the middle class that is both respectable and brave is at my side, and by no means afraid to struggle. I'm not one of those damned moderate Frenchmen who comes to an altar full of those devil's dancing shoes but I do believe in the destinies of man. I know that in the end it's only a question of a few volts, a purely electrical thing. I don't believe in the devil nor the god of war, but I do believe in electricity. I like to look at pictures of electricity; I like the look of awful things, like a strange cloud cover on a sunny day, or a lurid sky in autumn, or--here's another one-- a lurid sky in spring. I don't believe in fire and volcanoes, but I do believe in electricity. I believe in the wondrous world of matter; I believe a living man and a dead man can be brought back to life by electricity. I believe in the marriage of vinegar and lemons and the dim struggling of sparks, as under water, and the birth of a new sun from the mixture of vapor and rays. I believe the rising of the Furies is done. I believe the earth revolves around the sun, and that the sun revolveth in the sky with the planets, and that the moon goes round the earth in a year, as I said before, without molestation by any celestial thing. I believe there is no right and wrong in this world, and I'm a republican because I believe in the world, and I'm a republictic because I don't want the world to stop. And to-day, this eleventh day of February, to-day the mad day of the war's culmination, we're going to finish off this mad little war; we're going to chase the English out of New Brunswick; we're going to throw the Hessians, defeated, into kerosene, and we're going to finish the work begun here, with a bang, if you please, instead of the usual quiet finish; and the flame-retardant coat you so kindly gifted me with, while making an unutterable sacrifice, will prove just too frail and weighty at the end, as all the craft in the nation's ship of state has proved, and the coat will tear itself to rags on the shore, like Vichy France before we're ready to pound on the home button. We're going to finish the work begun here; and we will do it in style, and we will do it spectacularly; and we will do it while the finest citizens wear sparklers in their hats, and when the English derniers of the war refrain from shooting at us we will give them a spectacular send-off, as the first of our heroes dubbed the "Electricians" once kept the French at bay with an impotence of will. In the days to come the French must enumerate the jobs the "Electricians" did, the millions who pushed the world to order, in the face of a foe whose first words were slaughter. And I do not tire, as I gaze into the maelstrom, of singing my country's praises; to-day I sing all the benefits of a prosperous and powerful country that led the way in the civil rights struggle; sooner or later, I guess, we'll get a chance to prove our point. The English are coming. Stand by to your Peters and your Snedenn, to your percussion and your timbales; the English are coming. And I don't mean just the usual suspects; I mean the King of the Germans, though, of course, he will do no talking in this steakhouse parlor; at this corner table he's whispering to some friends who might be loyal or not about to attend that Sir Anthony David Opdam of the Commonwealth Institute; and the East India Coopers' leading man in the steelworks, among the smokers and the connoisseurs, Sir Henry Campbell-Johnston, whose father came here, and whose mother nursed invalids in this house of bones; and the Bayly children from the Bank of Canada, long necks and short, and the Croople from the Mohawk Valley, if there is to be a Croople in this Empire, and the woman who built the Palmer house, there beside her burning rival's pile, and that Chief Justice, too, the late William Chambers, of the Supreme Court in Toronto, still centenary year, if year is any judge of man, and the Lake Shore and Dundas head surgeon, Dr. Joseph Glen, of the Gulbit Surgery, if there is to be a House of Surgeons in this Empire, and the Patent Tunnelling Company, if there is to be a pit company in the city, and the Belger storekeepers, whose fathers rushed west in the days of the Gold Rush, and the Dyck and Mooney families, the Gies and the Mackintosh who prospered on the lower townside in the days of the Gardiner and Huron, and the Moffatt and Whitfield from the Oak, and the Moffatt and Kendall who owned most of the land west of Yonge, and the Seymour and Mahony and the Miles and the Lancelot and the Orr and the Lesly and the Searle and Coombs I don't mean just lawyers and merchants, and bosses, too, if you please, and big shots of all kinds, and all the countless thousands who swell the Empire of Cultures and feed its commerce and send its men and its women to the Quartier of Fame--but I do mean our Allied Nations, the men of every race and every class, and every age, and all of them, and every zone and district, have here set their marbles in this great Rome-linguistic. And I can see them yet, <|endoftext|> I knew a single spring Where water took A loose word And came As cold As blood In snow That fell That night I had no light I woke By stars The ground I did not jump I saw A strong Body press The dark For what? I only knew There were More of them I woke alone <|endoftext|> "Sheldrake's Problem", by Robert Bly [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] Sheldrake, a patient inquirer In this hard language draws his picture Of matter, force, and spirit, given For the scientist's convenience In one vast system, that can only After years of patient wander Have started back into one absolute With all its past and future. With grace And equanimity, though not with awe, He leads us through this labyrinth, Convinced we are not alone, Although the walls grow higher As we go, with no call to despair But one to keep hope alive. What hope is given he to defend Against the assaults of doubt and fear; We have his problem to face alone, And only he can lead us through it, So he needs not be terrorized By our fears and doubts. That alone That which he has examined and proved That which he has demonstrated, That which he has discovered Is the one thing that alone can free us From all our spiritual infection, Is, for him, reason enough To dispel our doubts and fears. <|endoftext|> "He Believed He Was Dying", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] He believed he was dying: that the shallow Venous drainage of his cerebral plexus, And that of any fluid life active Imprisoned in its caverns, would be fatal. He took, but did not understand the risk. The brain's mewing murk was no impediment To childhood's touch, to childish games and toys. Above his middle age he deeming his peak, Stood proud, majestic, wan, and diseased. At times he feared he would die prematurely, Sometimes of a melancholic spasm. And one day he thought his mind uninfected Had shrieked as an alarm at silence, struck The ventricles, and for ever barred All the blood through its vast despair. I held the scraggy instrument up To his pale stupid face and sounded, Scarefully flamant, I thought, farewell. “I am not dying, Amor. You can trust No longer that my lips will move. I must have a true or false answer for you.” <|endoftext|> "Sorrow Home", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, God & the Divine, Philosophy] The partridge quits the hawthorn shade, The partridge from beneath the trees Sends to its breast its day-old clutch Of scattered eggs; The partridge with its wing Of jointed goodness, its call of sunshine, And sunny call of virtue, makes moan For virtue lost. The partridge that has flown To its breast returns no more, Nor knows the yellow husk of flowers It dropped into the beholder's lap; But heaved of goodness high and universal, And sent from goodness far, My thoughts recall it now And bid it groan once with mine. In days long past, to groan implied The wrong or weakness in one; the breath Of reason, as we Christian theologERS say, The mind abstracted from matter, or from events Transcending them, is called an angel. This thought may seem only application For this eye's to discriminate the nuncio That sailed the seas of intrigue And lion-like stood before the S.S. Prince In Rome, in Fano, in my native land For half a year, a man's handiwork With hand of plaster, wax and blood, Who wrote it in a book that lay Before my religious eyes And read it for me, in Italy; I brought it back to Faith, and asked her seal, And she recommenced to shield it With her divine and glorious light. But now I think it was that I So lacked of sense, I could not guess That the poesy of life Might have such a symbol, for the hush Of twilight after the summer morn Is not a poesy; Death, the consummating Poetry, comes with the sunset And with the moon. But the partridge? It may be that, when I knew the egg Of partridge lay hard and white In the deep heart of the garden like a heart For my choosing, the thought of it awoke And murmured in my breast, and with a cry Of love, I chose it. I married it; my genealogy Of partridges flocks and herds with its Sons of corn and olive and palm, The partridge's genealogy Came back to me in its young pride of blood; And with the partridge's cry of love, I chose it, The heart of me was strong with it. I married it, Shed the big tear and said, ‘What I had, I had Freely; no line of me was bound or set, And so I choose it and pray to it to bless. And, Felice! that way, there’s the fountains, That way the towns, that way the sea; But to the partridge, the fountains, The towns, the fields, the sea, To the young proud partridge, The cry of love is like the sound Of shooting far away. <|endoftext|> "I Have A Dream", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Mind, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] I have a dream for you That seems to me an omen And I want you to believe In it if you wish to be The head of my own household When I am dead. So there should be no more fighting For fun, and no more postponement Of marriage till the war is won, And the frontiers will be eased Of Tartars and of Germans. I know that it is nearly One. And you will not believe That it was not really I Who spoke. But believe It was a dream, believe It was not really I. The other name Is there no more to it? The other name Will not do with the smallest book That you hold so hard to you Or the heart that now beats so Fast to the music you hear Underneath the stars. And there Is a table there And two chairs and a pipe And you. And that old heavy German Who can hardly be spoken to Will not remember who I am Or what I really say, And the orchestra Will play over and over again The concerto you have begun Too late to finish now. I saw the archduke’s wife Go out to the window As the guns began to fall. I know that this is almost one, But still I want you to believe That it was really I Who spoke. Believe It was a dream. And just for tonight Until the war is won, As you sleep, hold you head Above your ear. Think of me And of my dream. <|endoftext|> "A Decade", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] (excerpt) <|endoftext|> Who were with his own pale bride-bed Hung reverent, thus he found, While he and I did kiss the ribband He was forced to swear to give me. O Father of the sacred hour From all thick mists the glory Is unfolding; let us fly Like sunbeams from the dust. Yea, do thou teach me, Eros, The art of love and strife; Leave me not bare of heart to chance; Thy spirit art to me denied Unless thou give me now thy breast. Give me thy maiden-sweat, More than mine the chaste desire; Give me thy double soul, The blessing and the curse. Then shalt thou say to me, Now hast thou me taught aright, That I am love's and thine own, Kissing thee, I know not what strange gleam Shall chase me hence, my love; The moonbeam's beams are not so warm As thy lips, thou fairest lamp; Nor pearl so round about the neck As thy body's soft dorm. O love, my love, why so red and gay? No sweets give I so fair a face; O sweet thee, wherefore gay? Lo, he is here! In brief he doth declare He loves me, and he will never die. O that I were the little flower he is, Treading at his tender knee! When to my doleful chamber he comes His life shall be as sweet to me As the tears I shed at this poor feast. How hard a cry is mine! Though fluttering are My weak, retiring moves, A fugitive and a leafy spark Hath disclosed his adorable head. A jewel he wears on his subdued heart, The lightning black of my heart's despair. What marvel that he smiles! For did not Suleika come Meekly on the winter morn, (While the West burst its chains in waves of flame) To take the wind-wavering fire-flowers Into the womb of the pine? Did not she, O comet-soul, make accord With this rude hut of a pail? Was it a dream? Alas, I lose the path! Despair creeps into my soul; Suleika sleeps within the leaves, She will not come again. The flakes of the frost are pattering near; I dream that I wrestle with Death Over the small hot remains. How hot! O Victory! How fierce Is the passion of this strife! I would slay the creatures I govern, Kill the beasts, and blow up the sky; The flame flashes up, the smoke rolls up, And Suleika moans afar Throbbing with agony, but silent there. A hen, that lay in the rain and the tempest, Longing for the sound of the egg she laid, But waited for her father to awaken her; When he came, he found it was a mistake; "O dear mother, you have misplaced your hen," Said Suleika; "she is in the turkey-fowl's nest." Daughter of the hour, thou dost float o'er the wave, And on the wind's wing thou floatest along. Thy garments are whisked off in the vapour. Not a tear falls, O thou pious prophetess, For the love and the peace of thee blow up the sea To God and unto Man. Freely, as their own sacred will granted, Men and Angels wandered hand in hand, And sang of the Living GOD, and bowed to Him; Peaceful, we praised the Eternal Sire, The Earth grew nobler with every art; The land shook itself with glad acclaim, Each bird of the air burst into applause; We could have no dissent, for every soul 'Twas arm'd with a sword, or a quiver. Frowning, the tempter, with a determined frown, Look'd in his bridal chamber, where his bride, Jocundo of Calcabrina, stood. From his wooing she would be free, for she loved him not; And to cast away so brave an elm, was a dark crime. "Leave, leave me, with my female artifice!" (He said) "and come of a free female mind!" 'Tis not true, 'tis false, 'tis a foul lie! I was a masculine elm, and bore the brand. To have slain a male is my conscience's shame. I die with my stone in the sky. With a cry of anger the enraged oak Pours his wrath on his traveling foe; And the trunk flies in sundered fragments upon the plain. On his back the ape dashes with speed, Crashing, crashing, as the whirlwinds grow cold; While the rams come rolling with trampling noise. Flowers spring beneath their vigorous hoofs. To the earth bursteth the fallen trunk, But it healeth not the mischief that 's done. The fierce conqueror bears away the prize, And flies, pursued by the forest and by night. 'Tis said that those who dance to sylvan measures, Songs, which suit well the air and forest woodland, Can travel through all climes, and traverse all ways. Others, on the other hand, who breathe the spirit of change, Desire not to travel through all, but only through the hills; And those who love the sudden and higher climes, For doom'd perpetual Spring and the warmer sun, Most truly seem, like the sylvan poets, to wander on. Erewhile a roe was shot, Erewhile a roe was wounded; Feathers and hoofs, streams of crimson blood, Roared as the victory as to a trumpet-call, As the medicine Men call Bring the prey home! And the hunter said, "Shoot at will! the quarry shall be mine! Men kill the roe; why should I care? Hunting's my forte: the quarry shall be mine. Though the quarry be mine, Mine the victor's Glory! The quarry shall not be mine; What care I though my quarry be mine?" A black bear crouched in his rocky den, A black bear from his den came down; Like a thunder-cloud it hovered o'er him, And the hunter said, "Shoot at will! the quarry shall be mine! Hunting's my forte: the quarry shall be mine. Though the quarry be mine, Mine the victor's Glory! The quarry shall not be mine; What care I though my quarry be mine?" A jay out-of-doors was flying; He stooped and pounced upon a wriggling Scamp, whose wiggling and shifting made him bold; With talons on his tough outer side, With beak and claws in play he tore him, And down flew wriggling, wriggling, to meet him. "A feather! a feather!" cried the jay; "let's fly To the southern tree-tops, and let loose A snow-storm, and it shall snow all day." The wriggling, wriggling, snow-covered thing He turn'd, and loosed his hold on the tackle; Down went the bird--a thoughtful look he cast; The squaw with baby in her arms was near; He took her in his wings, and flew with cautious beak. In the highlands far to north, The roebuck with snowy breast Has wandered many days, And finds, at length, the Northland! Yes, he has found the long-sought Northland, He has pounced upon the prey, He has sat down beneath the ice, He has built his nest, and thorowly sulky, He has lifted off, for joy, As he were a king! Silently the fox is following; Silently he hears the shriek Of the wild horse, as he goes, Down the highway, head o'erturned, Tilt and jerk, as the wheel turns, Heeds not the whip, nor, plump and fair, The fang! he takes the horse; Plunging, he goes to his delight-- No delay, no peril, He plunges on his quest, Nor thought of mercy, nor reprieve, Nor thought of lady dear; He leaves behind the sage And old Chanak, when he sits With Ragsdale on a rood. A Patrician herdsman was advancing, Who spoke thus to Mrs. Burke: "The Yankee do not respect The rights of czars or kings, Can you think, then, he respects my rights, Or will a tsar have mine? He shouts, he whines, he rears his head, The Commissary sees his anger, And my horses on the rail "Why, I'll shave my whiskers off, And then I'll shoot your family." <|endoftext|> gleaming white-crested. Many of these, scattered on the ground, lay still as flowers among the spears, and some lay tangled in the crags. And while a faint, faint voice through the scrub was sounding words in my plaintive language, I said: "I leave, I leave these terrible peaks to you; let you guard them, keeper of the Vánar hosts I leave, I leave these dread hills to you; hear, lord of Vánar kind, how your word is fulfilled." Then Vibhishaṇ said: "O Ráma, no blame is ours that thus far ye depart from safe guard and watch, lest all our heedless will be laid shameful waste of woods and land. This precious charge I give, guard well what rites you performed, and here am I again to tell what wonder-kind dames in old days were wont to greet each prince. No surely, Ráma, these words were said by her of days gone by, whose cheeks are rich with blossoms." Then Ráma bowed, and out of love bade Vibhishaṇ farewell, thinking to find therein still wiser counsel than he found. But his husband bade him heed fearful omens: "Wherefore are such thoughts of departure drawn, who love the woods, the caverns, and the many voices that ring from tree-tops of the mountain? O faithful lord of men, mayhap this mountain-forest will whet thy thirst for roaming, mayhap its shades will prompt thee to seek by hill and valley stretching far to west and south. The much-loved Udándar has reached Awadh, the wild Yáma ocean, and Satyavrata still holds free pass to Parvaṭí, King Vrindávarṇí of the GirVas. Let Ráma go, my best child, and let him wend where he will: No trust can be placed in me. What if the forest-gods, bent on mischief, chance to meet him? I could crush them with my wings." "Dismiss thy fear, and seek not ill: True is the mystic words I told, and he who follows them is never overborne by woes or cares. But I have spent my strength with years, have lost my young days' strength, and am broken with age, for whose misguided doom my father, Queen Kauśalyá, fell. And I, unworthy still to help thy rightful mistress, Ráma, go. These many trees, this soil, this hill, could never bear the fruit that stands o'er every fruitless tree that bears no fruit for her, Queen Sumitrá, for she of all the women in the world is fairest. Yea, might the gods above who dwell in the sky above us remove the sky, and heap the stars upon the earth, and hold Ráma wrested from my grasp, and Kausalyá heeded not, and I went on in heedless glee, I could not wander over all the land to seek for Sumitrá, nor could devour the stars. Thus I, while my earnest soul believed that Ráma still survived, wandered forth. Oft my darling spoke to me of Ráma, numerous words with oft-repeated faith. And she in time by trials was strengthened in her faith, when at the western gate of heaven the dwellers in ill-omen grieved. Then she, my sweet one, all untimely lost her rare beauty and untimely perished. A portion of the earth she regained, but not her glory, honour, might, nor fame, nor wealth, nor high renown. It was not even a little, for her no more would I hear from her lips words, or hear her sweet. Wherefore, O my child, she speaks not to me. And now at last the minds of all are hardened, for slanderous tales they hear and see. Oh, where is Sítá, dear to us? Then, defeated by dread, forlorn, I sought for her, so fondly loved. Where can she be? Then slain by me my son will some monstrous beast convey, disturber of societies, from this earth. For her, where will they tell my kith and kin? Whence will they send a conductive bard, a treasurer of the roads, to gather this, and where may I procure my loved one? And if a portion of the thunder cloud of kings, who still maintain our cause, Invisible, in one might banish her, who can I lead on horseback to my home? And if there be a part of the gods, or God, or Indra, that they all can banish, how can I effect the thing? Or if some angel, the ne'er-absconding leader of a myriad hosts, if there he dwell, may be wiling to summon her, to me suggestive of the thing, and I consent, he will summon to my city, hither, and will seek to summon her, and will bring the lady in her dishabille. But if one, perhaps the lightest of the lightest, may permit my summoning, I have little dread. All my mind is that I summon her now: for I see the lady, I note her long characteristic hairs of gold; I note too, she has glossy clothes of rare attire. But how, O lady of my mother, must I wend forth and endure the shame, toiling ever, with no hope of success? Or if the guessing of the wise has taught me undue boldness in the matter, how must I, a simple maid, who desire no share in this enterprise, do this audacious deed? Yet rash the deed is: to drag to an act no braver than a woman, I deem. Hast thou not heard, O lady, that, averse, the faithful love a woman whose heart is black? Nor I alone, all Elam's sons, am here; both I and my kindred are with me. There is Surabhí, the saint most high, Válakhú's best-beloved who loves me, And Hanumán the mighty-hearted who is best of all my lovers, fair and sweet, Tall, divine, and one that none can match. Him Ráma, honoured charioteer, owns the one whom none e'er matched with praises; And well I know the ancient Raghu's son Himself worships him, and glorifies his fame. Yet will I make the two one deed, and say that she, the lady whom the world may call a stripling, by her stubborn will has set all these hearts aflame. I know what secret flame the heart of each often haunts, and who he is that draws nigh. I know, for Whistler spoke and Kámbo bow, King as he is, this royal lord of ours, whom Whistler, prophet-marked, has shown through life unrelenting. Again, I know that giant-Mother, each as she chooses, sets us these, or any where in turn, in order of her choice, in chase, or sport; and where she does not choose, none get near. Be thine, O Queen, if no other hope remain, to befriend us, and guide our hearts, on condition I, to whom thou hast entrusted all, will do what thou wishest, aid me now that I endeavour by her means shall overcharge the dame that stole But Lomapád the vizor that lay on her brow, That wondrous bow fashioned of the Godhead's gift, Fell broken by her, and fair adorned with which Herself alone should have been able to wield Such strength it had not. Therewith grief disturbed The queen's heart; and anguish spread through her frame Till there seemed no more a power in her breast. To Lakshmaṇ thus she cried: I give thee all this, great monarch, royal lord, that this sad heart may move thee to her aid, that my dear Lord, my husband, may enjoy peace at last, and that his race be kept entire, whom I am helpless thus to succour. She spoke and pressed her Lord on whom she relied. With loving care he laid the bow before her. All e'en this thing to Pugiya was dear, Bowed carefully to his mind the bow he bore, On their broad beaks the arrows stuck, and heap'd them o'er it in the palm of his right hand. He so jostled the Sárikâ beneath his feet That both her eyes were dazzled of their power; So passing happy was the king with her. <|endoftext|> Brightly to right, A wonder, thou beheld'st, thy father. How, as he neared, Thou shuttest thine eyes, and cast a hasty glance Unto the river, that flows close by, and seems Another Ráma in sight. Why didst thou look? Art thou not yet satisfied that I am he, Thy hero, Ráma, slain and entombed? Thou hast seen His face; thou deemest he is Ráma there, Nor mayest meet thy longing eye. In that dark grove Thy Ráma's forms are dimly seen, nor canst thou see Whose they are, nor why, for Ráma's self And Sítá look one in each face. So flees not with disordered eyes. O noble child, O vanward-gates of heaven, Unto thy home and Sítá lead! Let others leave the place they haunt, But follow thee, who, as lord, hast won The right of way, the sovereign good, Whose gentle deeds of old have made A man-prey of envious foes. Thus spake the daughter of the sun, Whose brow was wreathed with morning dews: And stern-eyed King King Mahendra gave The clarion ring. The heroine left her friends around And to the mighty lake drew nigh, To clear her ears with music, fancy, thought, Of Ráma as his corpse. When she came To Ráma's side, so pale, for naught could mar The beauty of his limbs and face, She bade him bring his consort home. The king, who saw her, went in haste With warriors clad in mail, and when The lady sat with him she began: Then Ráma, most proud, with Sítá came, Tall as a tall tree, in those days, And clasped his wife in his embrace, With loving tender speech and fervent: “My lord, this day the moon is full, And from the earth the breeze hath fled. And Ráma brought his consort home And shed his happy tears, and now My lady, thou art here, nor can The moon and breeze, the breeze and thee Be glad on Amrit(1065) year: o come, If thou art Lakshmaṇ, to my sight. Bharat, Janasthán’s king, I sent My darling to protect: I—take, Lakshmaṇ, King Guha’s envoy. In all this region such a foe Has never lived, nor will to live, Who, husband of my dame, may find A friend or brother, brave or kind. Here, Lakshmaṇ, may thy father roam In joy or woe, who adores His darling in his silent place. A noble prince and good and bold, Such as no hero is or king: A captain in whose right lie A thousand realm-compelling names. This brother of the Bull(1066) head, A gallant soldier, loves me well. Wise, brave, his dear life he keeps, And like a mighty army serves. Come, now thine eye take comfort, face His army troop by troop: this way From Lanká go I.” Thus Ráma spake: the fear he felt His speech had so charmed that in his breast It rooted and exhausted burned. His brother, when the king, who saw The peace of Ráma in his eye, Submitted all he could to speak, Rejoiced with rapture’s pitchy bliss That through the streets of fair Ayodhyá passed, Loud as the wind that shakes a reed, Loud as the loud wind in a wood Sends terror through the startled bough. Like to a fierce and foolish boy That warbles to the wilderness, So cried he with a youthful tongue, Like some bright deer that sports around In leafy woods. Then the monarch strove to learn The cause of the sound he heard: The people’s joy, the monarch thought, As fainted away: then called His Counsellors in council o’er: And thus, in utter wonder, spake: “Who the source, this dazzling sound would say, Hath roused the king of waves from sleep, Roused him, O Lords, who hold the bulk And sway the sea: its cause I seek. A charm, a charm on which reliance, From him whose beauty makes strong hearts fret, I firmly trust in love, I rely On him, the Sun, on thee, my Queen, And all, my lords, who rule the seas. I, like a wizard, sought to find The secret cause of sudden sway: But naught I hear in seas or trees, In clouds or stars, the cause discover: Still would I learn if beauty, fired With sacred fires, can wake so wide a power. In vain had Indra(1067) the Great Spirit sought Through years of fire and testing, from the blow Of every breath of living thing. No growth, no motion, no conjunction Could he within the arms of Man(1068) make, Though filled with every doubting fear. How should he know the charm was broken, Who felt no passion in his breast? He saw the child through every age So lost, so shrouded in loathliness, That he who ne’er before could trace His latent worth, must now be certain, Or all the charms his endless power Had poured since primeval Brihaspati(1069) Around him flung his manna, the best His kindly Father gave him to make souls wise. The ancient Manu thus in council sate, Who taught the laws that work like lightnings(1027) at birth: “Imbued with every charm, and full of might The son of Raghu(1028) shall repay thy wrong. He shall a true Ráma prove, the boast And glory of his lineage, and from him rise To match his brother in his older age.” With that great glory naught could move Yashomé or Munípala, the best Of all our kings, or Swayambúshní, pride Of glorious Kishkindhá. So they watched To see their sons proclaimed supreme. Their thoughts were dead or weak, the two Peerless in strength of soul, or hand, or eye, Or mighty arm, or vanquished foot, And this to gain by battle fell, And this by wisdom to achieve. When of their choice the twelve had found Those whom they deemed the best, the twain Of them, the elder men, counselled, And counsel gave that wealth and power And duteous life should yield to none. One and the other sat by these Discreet in their choice, when thus she spoke: “Me-six, O maternal Mother, mark, The youngest born, of those whose choice Advantage seized, or whom disadvantage fell. Those with whom she [alone] is matched, behold. And let him grow to might divine Amid the parent-race of Indra’s sons.” The daughter of Videha’s king, Great-grandchild of the God of Day, The pride of all the Daitya race, Whose virtues [as] the scriptures teach, Were chosen, Sítá, by thy choice. Of his young years unsullied free With faultless form was every limb. Of loftiest lore was every tongue He chanced to speak most freely. None though of all his heart might tell The gifts he by his Father gave, The treasures under earth, which lie In the great vault of heaven, beheld When on his sacred bed he lay With Sítá by his side. Or whether in the court he stayed Or on the road, I cannot tell. But he, O Father, he Is dear to me, as no other, And nobler far in might Than Ráma, when alone; As, when from earth he from the sky Had swiftly sped, so Ráma held By his beloved spouse was borne. And dear to me is He, whose grace Lifted me when the world was lost. O Son of Bhárata, high of mind Who girdest for the strife of war, For victory, I know not why Should I before my husband fled Nor scorn my spouse’s love!” While in her woe, her cheeks o’erspread With rolling tears, the maiden cried: “If, Prince, a woman be thy friend, Then let her stand by thee along With all an eager longing. She who has thee for her friend In all good deeds the glory share. And who, O Prince, in her loyalties Is true and faithful to herself, <|endoftext|> Disease will come; but when? Tell me that, And in the morning we will talk of this. And now the dresser. The casket is moved. I'll take these rings--I'll throw away the pair. My friend must have the second set. And now the chest. The six-months' love is ended In spite of sorrow. The six weeks' sickness Shall disappear. A quarter before four. At four, the Post comes by. The "Blank," the new blind gramophone Is borrowed. And here's a letter From my mother, Which she writes from Poesy, and which Demands my aid. And so we face the day On good relations, And half an hour Of sleep debited by walking To and fro. At four--the rose-wreathed gates Of Corinth appear-- And five--the shaded pool of Pergamon Opens--and the clear morning-- Ere one o'clock-- Trembles--and burns--and trembles On all the city. And when the churches, With sunrays falling on their towers, Have lighted their spires, And people covered the great squares, I will not go to bed Till ten o'clock. And from this window, Into this plain, I'll look again, if I can get Within the circuit of a cage, And see if pigs live there--or brackens, Or doves--or indeed any thing. It's a wonderful house--the most Amazing house-- And I wonder what people mean by "people." And if, for such a house, there are any chickens I'll get a microscope and look and see. And also--I wonder--do chickens Come any in special? And here's my mother's letter. IN this is the kingdom of surprises; Here the heart can wake at a voice's touch, And the eyes gaze wildly at the very light. This the house of the morbid and unsought for; This the house where all one's dreams are unbunted; This the house of those whose very sins are unseen. Here--at this very moment--a face is passing; Here the whole unseen is unwritten and unstored; Here the body's doom and the soul's are unthought; Here,--twice three hundred years are unwrit-- A body's writ here in a way no man understands. It is an old story, the tale of a poet; No one ever as yet has learned to interpret it, But the few that yet have looked upon it have looked long And long will it endure a little while longer In this world where the only interpretation's To be philosophical and be mimeographed. Yet the few that have looked, have looked long and long; And the metaphysicians are coming to it now. And perhaps some day the physiocrats Will have to face it as to how they too should interpret it; And this means a world-wide battle all of them with us For the soul's last bathroom with all pretense of religion. Never go out with an empty pail. Nor walk with a houseful of stones in your shoes. Nor bring a bringing-book, nor bring a dish of meat. If you have to speak, say more than you must, And leave less that you may leave unwritten And unprotected in the paper's grip. OUR dear friend WALTER has sent us his list of books to read. He thinks they are "must reading" for the "Young England" club; But he knows we're only "useful reading" for Bedlimera's class. So here's his list of books to read--"Modern Irish Poetry," "Modern Irish Songs," "Modern Irish Scraps," and "Modern Irish Rip". (I wonder what Walter's list of books to read would be without We only wish him all the best of luck, and respect him for all his skill In making money and raising it, and making people believe it is his own. And now, team and manager, we wish to say, when we meet him at a game, We wish him all the best of luck, and hats off to him--and all that. THE statesman worked day and night, and the year was gone by; With so much of the past before him, could he begin a speech? No; he formed his words on the comfort of a fear that was dead; He spoke of the dangers that might overtask the sexton, o'er-taxed the warrior-- He could but give comfort in that heart of his, and that heart was broke. For this man's hope, so resolute, was to make that task- the man who waits For a rendezvous when the stars hang athwart the hours of mankind. For this man's comfort--well, it was to know that a God would hear, When, mused on the ruin that o'er-powereth the world, the psalm is sung. THE land lay desolate--death around it in a flaming cloud-- And yet with the brows that had held the shield and the spear, A man rose up and shouted for a foe to despise. And his distress was wistful as the call of a bird, And with anguish that bit through his lips, till they took the pain, The promise of a century away. Oh, we thought him dead, and we knew he was fighting still, But, with the blood of his foes on his head, he came on again. The years broke on us with an awful din, till we stopped to hear, Like the tramp of a multitude who seek their God at last, For the gladness of his life--for the trouble of a few hours! NOT as a king, but as a common toiler, For money need no plow; Not as a king, but as a student, Each day should do his work; Not as a king, but as a priest, Give my life to God. NOT as a king, but as a scholar, Still more for pleasure than duty; Though our lord KAZIMOR is poor, We count his gain. Not as a king, but as a slave, Paying but quarter nor rank, Still must he work his best. NOT as a king, but like a merchant, Bear the loss of a country; And if in his native land, Sell he not much,--then, alas! Lo! he makes no profit. Not as a king, but as a worker, Keep the equal balance; Sell not much,--if I but get A half for my hire. Not as a king, but as a farmer, Keep the gifts of the times; Gifts, that our God receives, But only the truthful, Gifts from God that increase, Make the good still better. Not as a king, but as a worker Will I serve my country; Not as king, but as man, She shall keep her peace. Only by serving faithfully, With the gift of my works, So, by working justly, all my days, I will prove my worth. But my wages shall be such As shall teach my son To work as I have worked; My son, who shall grow To be as I am. FATHER of love, The shining stars above us, Herald of a gracious call To eternal life; Bold in sight of God as those; As people of the world, Tying our hearts and hands In a softer, richer knot Than the world has ever knot, Lo! the Son of God is here. Saying, "Before your face Speak the truth, lest you deceive; If you would get the treasure, Think how you must go." For I am ready to be thrown Into the sea of life, Empty and poor and seeking; If I gain the prize, Tell me how it comes. In the path of duty, Wander and wait and wait; Take life as it comes to you; Haste not to wallow; Keep your gladness, your asking; Wait until it breaks On the sea of joy and crying. But if it be too hard to wait-- Temptation's in the way, Then against temptation Bravely say, "No." Dear child, we'll look for treasures Far more worth than gold. If a child would full well learn Something he needed to live, Dear mother, that child is you. And when you've learned all you can From the child who loves you best, Gold is not so golden, Only more yellow. And a child that is hungry To be fed, go get it; Make the child your First, Give it something to eat. You'll find it in a kind, kind place, Where the child is fed and clothed and placed. So, your child has earned its keep. Now, go ask your First If you can trust him. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "Sometimes", by Joanna Klink [Nature, Trees & Flowers] Black and silver she knows every inch of yellow grass, a small miracle of green, perfect under the moon, or unbreakable steel, a sort of rose gutted of leaves and left to bleach in the sun. She breaks in two the yellow tapes of her shoes to sneak a peek at the woodpecker's red heart. Heartbreaking, that the split remains whole. They are loosening. A leaf just won't stay. Black and silver— you wouldn't dare keep such a thing, or so small. Maybe that's why I try not to look. <|endoftext|> "Sugar Dada", by David Harsent [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] I wanted to describe it on the spur of the moment as we drove along across the hillside on a road that went all wrong but right. Must have been a twisty road with a patchwork of odd pathways surrounded by sugar plants. We came to a part where there was nothing but grass and a rail fence guarded by a chain link fence of sugar maples. All of a sudden I saw a bird peeking in the understory across the clearing. The air was full of sugared screamters and yellow bells of sugar hair—platinum blond, like the grass arcing up into an ocean of cola at my forehead. I drove on and the voice of the bird came out of the dark forest of sugar hair, thin and dry, sort of like a high-pitched honk of a dog or a donkey. The bird peered in across the clearing, was already stuck in the shadow of a thorn tree. It had found what it was looking for. I don't know what I heard in the wind across the clearing. I can't be sure the air wasn't filled with a sweet scents from the distant sand flats. The bird may have heard the far sounds of surf. It may have been listening for hours across the clearing, but when it went in to its old haunts, it seemed to find what it was looking for. And the weeds bristling along the fences and the chain link fence of sugar maples, they didn't sound dangerous, they were just part of the terrain. And the bird may have carried something with it over the thorn trees across the landing of those fences out in the rough surf, into the dark dark beyond. I gave a high-pitched honk of my own along one fence as I tried to catch the honk, but there was no room, and the honk didn't stop. <|endoftext|> "In Memory of Donald Norman, 1901 - 1991", by William E. Stafford [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] 1. In the year of our Lord eighteen fifty-seven Three hundred ninety-nine and seventy-four Did the seed fall in the ground And make vegetation Which is invisible To the eye of man And imperceptible to the Tract Experiments Experimentally proved By spectroscopic Geochronometry The speed of light is But a number I saw in the sky A round black cloud with a white X I see it move around I see its shadow falling 2. In a closed and confined Partition Of the sky A circle has Thrown its shade On the disk Of the sun Only a little light Is received by The earth From that Little light And that Is all Light we see From that X To us it moves And its shadow Falls on Falls On Falls In front of Sun That rises And Rises With a flash Falls 3. Million years ago I saw my Family Their white Skin And brown eyes As Natural And nothing More Than What God had Teemed Too much Like Something of Rum And ashes We were Flaming Proud and Full Of God 4. And so I looked Up at the sky And said: "Are We the Only Mortal Formations Whose souls Fly Across Time?" And the round Dark shadow Of God Saw the earth Was White And wide And had Rivers Of Bright Color Life on Life On And saw That perhaps I might know What it felt like to be like me And Know what it felt like to live 5. I recall a field in August of this year When it had rained and the yellow Turn Pages of a newly Read Book had impressed themselves Upon the dry leaves And rained again. My father had been out in the great-great-great-grand Still life of life that now and then Stripped the tall grasses. This time, though, he had brought the table in which He sat and wrote. My father's desk was Here in the attic And the windows that look at La Trireme Home for eccentric Men, where my father lived a long while, were closed. For this man, still, came from another time. He had never Entered the minds Of my father and mother. To him the loss of Yellowwater Way, Ocean Park, or Atlantic Avenue Was incomprehensible. He was an entirely his- Self and there were No "us," only the Shape and color of a colored balloon. He was the only One who looked like me And yet the Oceanic Bolero had never Entered the mind Of my father. And then one day I took My self into the Large Print of the New York Times and there Was my father's balloon. I had no mother. This could have been her first fall. It is All too easy To fall into our Own Dreams Or those of others. She thought about it And every day she Repainted the Circuit of her Head and, just before her Second suicide attempt, Entered the Dream that is the Entirely Own Dream of Ourselves. I am not an individual. I am part Of no nation, part Of no such group. I am the repetition Of no cause, the Trinity Of the impossible Trying on of Friendship and solitude And Spirit. If you knew me you would Never Say that I look like Myself fifty Years ago. I have Myself Attached to me. I have my Picture, my Drawing, my Costanza Buddha, my Half-Frog In snow Form, my friends At Forty-eight And forty-49 And fifty-one And sixty- And so on and so On. There are my Idioms, my Tendencies, my Fluttering spleen And my Mood of glee. At times I am Laughing And at times Sitting still And there are Things in the Back of my Mind Which are Not mine. Perhaps you can find Some of them In my Essay. 6. It was a night of snow and storms. The rushing sound of great white waves against the shore, the white outbreak of light, the gathering darkness. Some floating fires of cloud revealed the outline of the scale and range of waters. An island lay at the point where the four seas converging poured their tides. The black waters rose and rose until, near midnight, the tremendous summit of the island glowed like a red bruise against the stars. Then it was plunged. 7. "The sun shall not fail." Not die, not die, but keep his place in the horns of the system. Not rise, not rise, but remain fixed and sane in the horns of the system. The sun will not throw his seed. The sun will not throw his seed. Not shine, but stand with horns pointing to the east in the horns of the system. The sun will not throw his seed. Not stand, but keep his place in the horns of the system. Not throw his seeds. Not throw his seeds. Not stand, but keep his place in the horns of the system. Not throw his seeds. Not throw his seeds. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> That smote him in the wandering wings. Still he seeks in lonely halls for rest; And still his soul within him cries, "Home!" <|endoftext|> And if by pictures I could wheresoe'er I had an Angel for a friend, Might not an Angel help to cheer me, The man of fire and iron mien, With full sense of right and wrong? And if I might become his thrall Seeking a creed or scorn, Could not his young, keen look of joy With lively jest revive me, And all my fainting courage rise? And might not Angels hear me cry, In music and in song? He listened. Then rejoicing grew With a joy only that existent When the heart is free and tender, And to hope bringing down on him No terrors of a world below, And no fear of death and hell. "Be thankful, my friend," then said the Knight, "Ye know how far, how hard, therefore Ye have to journey o'er: For a soul, or erring will, or sense, Leaves the old world behind." "Well then, since earth is good enough Without me," said the Tao, "What need I longer stay?" "Only go with me," the Knight said, "And hold ye fast with loving faith; Yet all its peoples shall be freed, When ye have crossed the line." He gazed, but nothing saw he there, Save afar, invisible bands Of immortal forms. "If then," the Tao replied, "Ye seek an earthly home, Why remain in doubt or fear? When near these invisible hosts The world itself ye none can see, Yet ye shall pass them, duteous, o'er. "And ye shall hear with strange delight A birthday chant, or song, By invisible harpers singing round, And in the mighty World be blessed With the unwaning joy. And ye shall be a guest beside All the happiest hearts that be-- "Yea, ye shall be at home at last With ever-blissful guests, And in the midst of loving friends Live forever alone. The least of words, or smallest sound A holier loveliness shall produce, Sending a stream of joy along, As sweet as is the song by Franz So on they went together By many a mountain-shore, Whose cliffs against the sky Hang like the banners of a foe Whose proudest walls prepare A firm defence for good and ill. The night had gathered round them dim, Dim shapes of shadowy morn; But when from out a cave they heard A song that rang throughout the night, They fasted there and ceased to sleep. By love of right and reason true To the high quest they clung; And for a space the cruel Kings pressed Their pressing evil, till Girt by the dawning West they stood, And nought but wonder left them more. In doubt and dread before they moved, Naught but despair and pain, Before they saw the long-sought land, Nothing earthly could they see, But deep within their hearts a hope That linger'd, from all harm protected. They saw their God in every face; They knew Him standing with them there By every man the Holy Ghost speaking. That land in sight, across the bay, They knew was Paradise, where all Have lived worthy of their heavenly birth, Who labor here by charity, Not for themselves, but for these last, And so have won the more for what They are. Struggling they advance. To the strait pass'd from left to right, And, camp and fleet upon the tide, Stretch'd all their hands for the land afar. "Where, O land, art thou?" the Crusaders cry. "Peace, welcome, welcome to us!" Scarce the land seem'd visible at all, Scarce seem'd the strait passage safe; Scarce seem'd the sea, at smallest wiggle, The strait gliding withoutoun. In desperation they listen'd more, "O land, O land! thou art so near, We have been longing so to see thee, We will haul on and haul it thither, Leave the Christians and their God to us." Far away they heard the papolip shout On the hard grained ground, or, as a mabie In the cool shade sits in hour of awe About a marble lion, and his mite Comes pulsing from his lion's juju hell, Sprinkled and streaked with wild life in its wake-- Gneiss, and italian marble both; Thus, in their scant world of imagination, Came the strange and mighty yell of papolip. Low to earth were throw'd the red crusading hands, Sudden came the ground from underneath, Curvetynly and steeply down; It rose like a column broad and high, Then, raging, sweep'd on high. The south wind roared in his face, The pilot-stars smote with a fearful glare; High through the heaven the breath went up To trampled fields the General St. Peter, His name obscure in tears was seen; But, where the general fell, unknown, And he, like a hero, dead, Was seen a hero on the Giall, Where he lived unknown, but in his day, Battling for the cause of Liberty. Then, when the sword at last must break, Some joy from the victory was felt. "General, you fell while thus we fed, O, why didst thou die? Why die for us? the world was O, The world was fair; God grant we die on *her,' and not on your young youngheads!" "For my own," he answer'd, "God grant I may! Do what you may, I die with the State. I die with the duty, I die with the plan; To win this prize or to lose it I have tried; And I now grave the identity Of man with woman, here, or abroad, With the issue of this contest to decide; This strife is not between man and mammon; Give me the right to use force at my will!" This fight of knighthoods ended, Of swords the simpler sort, He sheathe'd his red hand at last, He wore the silver star. Meanwhile from all the walls and intervals Of towers and walls they send forth wild cries, The clanging towers make all the air shiver, The scream of beasts up in the heavens stands still, At last were heard the frighted cries Of children who first hear of the loss Of papal rings in the midst of the feast. Then die they must, then lay them low, A slaughter ready done, For the pontiff saw his end approach, His day of glory pass, As soon as he find out where the host went down, For all the Pope has is battlegrounds here-- St. Peter's foes, "Man against Man," are quick, And his crowd seem but a flock of sheep. Fiercely still pours the tide, And in it flows the tide Fresh for the winning of it; Dark with hidden murders runs it, And pure it rolls in glory, Bearing a gold ewer, and a yellow pail, Silver shining bowls with chains of gold, Its own bright wheels of steel that daunt the night, That want the sight, to see so fair, Carrying with it many thousands more, Maim'd, hurt, or dead, As if it bore a crime of some great grief. Suddenly on the roof the sentinel Pursues, the enemy, as swiftly comes, As if that which in darkness unseen came, With Nature for its path, to some free space, Some fountain-head of light, where it may see Progress of the onward people hurrying, For bondage and for liberty. And now from the inns and stately mansions And sweatings of the men of labour, the light Of Sunday gleams, and radiant hearts, The anxious apprehension of joy, Brightening the country as it flows. Hark! 'tis the trump that gives command; To the altar, through the streets, Pass the eager crowds, And one by one before the tabernacle Beheld, as on they follow, The fiery miracle; When the pale-faced priest repeats, And with dauntless eyes surveys The offerings, thus, from each trailer's-side, Till once again the signal is given. Never yet has glory been more divine, Never was the day so full of conquest, Now that, on the altar, placed around, Lies the last oracle of Earth's delight, Shows the red sword that should unfold it; For so, to France, may I address, When I, still to your heart, Presence bringing, give my life long sigh. <|endoftext|> They are free on the mountain side. What are your thoughts? the heart Whose thought reigns supreme, will go Where the all-ruling will's sent Or far or near. And what art thou? A wanderer on a bended knee, A king beyond a conquering sea, One who shall live, but not be free, The slave of another's choice, And beat thy bended chest, O Pharaoh, Where the will of God shall prevail, Thou man of sore distress, Through a world of leaguering fear. But the hearts whose thoughts are set on thee, The hearts who know that freedom's gone, The deepest, roundest hearts that go Wandering in eager trust and faith, Wherefore is thy spirit of his? Why with such terrible glance dost thou Put on the semblance of the night? Hast thou not heard our words of truth? What makes thy weariness to bow Thy head and bow thy heart so low? For who shall conquer love, but he Whose thought is other than thine? Rise from the desert of thy scorn, Rise from thy prison, come to us! For we are not of hearts dissembling hide Nor cast in heart of marble forth; We are not of thy body shrouded black Nor of thy head with crown of steel; But our souls are great and strong as thine, And only of thy stature inferior That likeness thou hast presented. We are the stars of a fairer sky, Which even now, when darkness glooms Over the vast, unmeasured void Our eyes beholding, grows above In clear and gleaming beauty bright And still, and yet more fair as we gaze, Whose light is more divine than ours And shall become a heaven above When we are dust affixed to dust, And under suns for ever dead. O let thy soul become a star to us, For we shall live and not die as they, Being immortal and immortal too, Being God's dream and breath of breath. Who shall extirpate our high name? For we shall float on heavenly wings And no where be accounted dead, Being God's dream and breath of breath. Thou therefore let us receive thee With open arms and glorious eyes, And make thy bed in peace and peace And not in royal sepulchre, Where king-like thou shalt sleep eternally And a little time sleep well, Till thou wilt wake and search for life. Yet do we know thee not, and we wait Untaught of thee and thy great deeds Though in the stars thou clearly art, For we are mortals, and thou The Great Unknown God that cannot die. As a little star might be, Untouched and undisturbed by the hot And relentless winds of day, So we, the ignorant and un- Instructed, cannot read thy book, The great soul, that cannot be understood, That is as life itself to man; But know thy name, and we kneel and pray That God may give us wisdom true To comprehend thee, being human, And learned neither if it be For glory or for mere good That we should understand thee; But in thy name, and by thy name, Do we dedicate our mind and soul Unto thy service, being divine. This is our grand Psand Cham, and all The songs we use for guidance are his. How goodly and pleasant in our minds Does this prayerable calm seem, and sweet, And easy, tranquil, and submissive, To kneel and to obey thee!" Thus they, each according to his bent, Made testimony unto the Lord, Who hearing it, smiled, gave place, and said: "Take thou heed that thou abstain wholly From what is not Psand cham, and from the ways Of men; but rather direct thine everlasting Devotions where God will. Seek not to move My purpose in its destined course, but bow Unto the will which fixed me throned to bestow All precious means for thy full end, thy son. I would not witness thee burdened, if thou knewest How many tears have been shed for love of thee, And how they have been shed in vanity. Fear not, my son, but trust; be patient, and hold In great awe thy father's speech." Beside me, slowly and with no muscular effort, Sat the Great Mother of the universe, At great distance, silent, as the patient life Of pious man loved to regard her. Nor she Made any sign when answering, but her motion Constrained her not, and she was not heard to move. I felt an awe that comes when great personalities Make their immobility known to us. Perhaps It was the inspired foreknowledge of her thought, Or else an unconscious homage to her mystery, That made my blood rise and hang like an impenetrable Firwood promontory o'er myself and her. What are our possessions, and their worth, I wonder, In the history of our race? What are they now, According to the common experience of men? And is there need, do they serve the uplift of life, That they should lie so up into the reach of loss? Is there need that they should blind the vision from the reach Of any need that we might feel? And yet, I keep An ounce more of metal in my pate for hope, To find at last the precious bag, and now to know How little might be my earthly supplement, If she were false, should Hope forget her promise made. I do not doubt but that our fireside lore Will prove an aid to us at times in our strife For existence, and that, when most at need, Our knowledge of the mind will prove an aid To ease us of this absurd phantom life. The ever-curious child, beyond our tests, Shall find the wisdom that we question not, And that the mysteries of the unseen world, Already partly transparent to us, Are only, as we mark them here, by their mystery Far less obscure than the things we see. But he who seeks to conquer himself must know What heart has waxed, what lip was softer still, What tender hand that never revealed its love, Has ever expressed a wish that never was fulfilled. He must realize that soul has never eyed A future it could never experience. Therefore, O Mazda! in this wondrous hymn, A self-understanding seek to gain, and teach That nothing but thine immense and unknown soul Hath fashioned me this fleeting being here Who live at heart an actual Sufi now, And yearn through life for full release from thee. Even as we gaze upon the summer sky, How can we fail to see the Master's hand In every shining cloud? And so, if here Our eyes upon the written scroll may rest, We may, notwithstanding our misgivings, Faithful observation many a time Will find the Master's hand at work within The outline of my madness. It must be so. The harp is Will, the song-strung lyre a force That merely stretches the nerve until it strays Into sad inconspicuous musing, Before it finally asks to play the love-note. O thou, the lowly Vila! with thy cloak And wandering cap, and, like the laver, robes Rippled by the blended waves of two white wings, Dost thou, too, keep Time in happy satiety So that thy centuries slip delightfully by? O moonshine summer! whose warm heart so oft Hath melted for my desiring, I shall wed With thee, and thus encircled in a robe Divine, be crowned for ever by thy love. O sister of the Arifjan! if thy breast Had any seed of maternal care, Was it not nursed in such a voluptuous mood By all the lilies born about thy throne, And doves, and lilies, in such palace hall, That all thy maidens, one point, seem in tune With the supreme arpeggio of thy praises? The sun rolls down his golden roof of shells. Each race of lilies waits upon his bridal hour, With their fragrance and their fragrance's answering sighs. The moonlight cradles the garden in her arms, And bathes with odorous murmurs every tree. The single violets, each sort of hue, The soft blue, the rich green, the amethysted red, Have it made in a fair union like ours. The garden whispers, and, like a lover, Expects the lover in the night. Three gaudy cavaliers, to the unsunned street Befriended and unpunished, stole, and held their course Along the obscurity. The slant rain Fell like a broken fountain, and anon, From the half-open casement, unto the air Leaping like a willing willing lover, clasped The Lady's hand and left her smiling there With the friendly street to shut. Ah! who is she <|endoftext|> Follow I will need to see it, the book, the book, I am leaning on it now, oh it is long, it is looong I want to write the thing I have a note to make, to say how I was happy, though not as happy as you, that is not what A word is dried My whole hand is turning this page Pull it back I can see the flower now, a black flower that begins to bloom I am not in Kansas anymore, I am in some emergency, like we were all being held up in, I am getting the message, I am on my knees, this book, pull it back A completely submerged city, it is melting I tell you this because you are that city and because I know, knowing nothing, every day, we are the same Something is happening Something is happening, everything is happening, we are all saying it, the entire nation, every voice, is in tumult Pull it back Whoa there, hold on a second there, I want to get the book off the table I think I might have been drunk I want to get up I think I might have been born in the wrong century I am the nation, we are all of us the same, we are everywhere the same I want to sit down, but this chair is broken, would you like to help me? A winter city, oh how I wish they would just let me use your snow to build me up A ruined city, oh how I wish that I could just take the tank up a few inches We are all the same, regardless of what year we are born I am just as American as you are European <|endoftext|> "The Untold Witch", by Valzhyna Mort [Living, The Body, Nature, Winter] When the long French border is visible and green, and snow has drifted across the sky, the gray walls turn a strange amber, windows and doorframes turn for a moment all milky white. Somewhere far at the end of the land in a low crescent, hidden, that same snow takes on a rich incandescent glow. An owl calls from a window, and inside something flutters, then clicks, turns, tilts, then back to its proper place. Though I keep myself well tucked behind the wheel of my desk all day, I cannot help but watch the darkness as it fills the room. In this corner, a thick-textured wool settles, and in another, another roll of tea-shine blankets; the morning mist creeps in to tidy the room. But who can sleep when the dark hour stares at the window? <|endoftext|> "Tracing the Humanities", by Carl Phillips [Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Our whole history is folk psychiatry, from the Shang race to Napoleon, and back to some random Hunter-gather let's say. And it all begins with the Delphic vase from a certain cultish philosopher. First the people started to believe that their feelings were expressed through a tiny visible squiggle and finally that what made them mad was that nobody could read their mind, so they turned to prayers and incantations and the cult of personality. This is where the jargon comes in, for instance calling every cranky critic a "cultural critic" or better, a "culturist." The arts are just like any other industries, except that they are sufficiently mysterious that only a few people know what they do, and those people know what they do through a hard-to-follow convoluted technical language. And that's why we like them, because they're like this. My point is this: we all have a little bit of culture. Well, almost all of us. Some of us are from here, but most of us are from far-off districts. Some of us are from there, and here, and most of us are from somewhere else. And we like to think our own culture is original. At least, we try to. Oh well, it's a start. The evidence of it can be found all over us. It's the language we're taught in school. Which reminds me of a joke: A farmer goes to the teacher and says, "Professor, I practice Doric architecture, but I'm really more like Sixtus [quia]". And the teacher says, "Why Sixtus then?" And the farmer replies, "Because I started from scratch, and everything I learned was new Latin." The farmer in this theatrical simile is actually really funny, but unfortunately it's totally apocryphal. The other well known joke is the Italian platman, who arrives in the country and is puzzled by the language. He tries to speak it and says: "Oh, hello!" And everyone says, "What'she doing here?" And he replies, "Oh, I come from Spassney." And then, "Well, well, well, if that'sthe case, I shall have to ask you to leave." This is a conversation I wish I could find somewhere on my mantelpiece wall, but I don't even know where to start. So here goes nothing. And if the platman (whoever he might be) loves music, perhaps some of these less-than-pleasing pieces by Beethoven or Vivaldi will perk his ears. For the platman has no emotions, only rigamarole and prayer. I believe in a hard stuff, but maybe not the platman. And maybe he's a hard thing to find, unless the universe has some canned platmans lying around, ready to be used. My head when I'm in it and my ears close to the space-time bilge; this is how the Platman hoists his canvas and gets started. And everything, everything that's easy to start and to finish, be it platonic or Platani's hot cross buns, is good to him. For the Platman there is no sense in leaving things out, as if he were an excellent purveyor of a certain line of furniture. Of course everything needs order and order requires constancy. That’s how he keeps his apartment clean and his house from smelling of cat urine and ashtrays. No sense at all if it comes to that. What’s holding him back? I suppose it's whatever it takes to make him look at what’s right in front of him, however unimaginative. Look, he tries a tie from the silk organ he finds on the top shelf of the women’s room, which happens to be lying all open and available. That’s pretty tight. And for a moment he even considers a top. He lifts up one bill in horror. It's a fake: nothing but casino clips. And when he buys a real check he can’t cash it because the microchips have tricked his keys into fooling the machines. And then he gets paranoid and wants to know where they are. And who sent him those cryptic, formal messages? No one sent him any messages, but the platman has learned to speak in riddles. Who’s home in that house with a compromised security and an absent key? Who’s there when he calls and who answered his riddle with, "Why don’t you have a clean shirt for the funeral?" I suppose that’s what it’s there for: to make the platman look foolish. Or be in the right, the platman says, as he walks to the elevator in the basement of his penthouse, which looks like something out of Dr. Dolittle. He flashes his card, and the customer service representative at WorldCom looks up from some spreadsheet. The platman gives him his card. A marquee signal, an E-ticket, and when the doors click shut the couple from Fifth Floor starts screaming and kicking the senseless body of their friend beating the beehive. For the Platman it is everything in life but the marathon, or a marathon cakewalk. For the Platman the marathon is a source of shame. He can barely run and he can barely walk. Is there anyone in his life he can talk to? That is one <|endoftext|> In these, he says, he put on a bright And golden robe, And on his head he wore a circlet, A crown of pine-needles gay; The valley, it may be presumed, Expectant stood a-thinking Who now might be to come In their drooping eyes The silent summons seems to stifle Their grateful sighs, And scarce a look can he spare To greet the happy day, For happiness And summer air poured in its might On the parched lips of want. Through the fair fields of earth-- With cheer the gales fan Our onward journey fill-- Happiness aspires To mount above the skies To light up every dell Where day ne'er is known. With every joy they greet We come rejoicing back, Though winter round us reigns Our hearts with bliss make drunk, And oft at evening's end Thy gladness make complete; Yet still the best we have Within our souls possess, And while we know of thee, Our souls to God's abode Would freely be united. In light and joy we'll go, And find when night is there One happier lot than ours. To see a dog in harness, Any day of the year; To see a beautiful creature With legs of muscle joined To fit his snout like a fork, To see him sniff with pleasure What his master brings him To eat, is worth a trip The finer the fur the finer The pleasure they give, And what a tantalizing sight A fine little animal brings When he stands at attention To see what people are doing Who pass to and fro. My dog has a wisp of a limp, A little hitch in his walk, And yet devours a bat With wicked enthusiasm, And begs for nothing; And such a pleasant little dog As ever shyly crept Into a man's face And nipped him when he dandled him Without a second look. But there was one little thing That never a dog could get by Because it was so clever: The touch of a hand that never Has run in vain; And whatever he tried to do He always succeeded. For he was a clever boy Who, in the squirrel's territory, Fell in a hole and scratched For buttons, bits of flax, and gristle, And ever the closer he crept The bigger he grew Till he was gray with many shirts And perfectly full of air. Now if any little child passes He follows, of course, nor ever Retires for a moment's breathe; And then one little arm reaches out, A little paw lifts, and the two Agree that it is better so Than home or country life. My dog is not so great a fellow As those that prowl among men, He is only what some squirrels are Who, by the by seed trove excavated, Have a little house with doors, walls, and windows Where they shelter from the cold In a dry corner of the forest. My dog is not so great a fellow As brave giants in the wilderness, Who build for themselves high walls and towers And heap their possessions with gold, While he sits in a little pen And scratches at all he meets With a bag and needle. My dog is not so great a fellow As all brave beasts who chase the wolf; He never will spoil your meat Because he keeps close watch for you, And when you go, though he is in danger, He plays and plays for your delight And makes it a great deal. My dog is not so great a fellow As house-keepers who spoil the best; He is good only in being kind, And great in his powers of hearing and smelling, And gentle in his actions; he eats The best of everything that's put before him And he doesn't kill the things he eats. My dog is not so great a fellow As lagging, slinking, ghostly people Who collect things to scare themselves with; He haunts their tongues with the bitter taste Of human misery, but he's good To feed them with. He follows me still, though he knows That I am very tired and cannot Keep going with him; For even though he knows that I'm tired And very weak, he will not let me Give up and give in despair. If you want a picture of a life worn, Go see a life worn by a cripple. God make them happy! God make them glad In this now merry, but for ever sad, World, that is grubby and soulless. For he's so little He will die with joy; He will want nothing And live alone In perfect content. He has never had To work in his life; He has never had To lift a hand In the battle of life. He will never know The toil and the pain That draw the heart In sore frustration. The red wine that he sips Is like a flower He is growing to be, The good earth that he eats Is like his own mother And supports him. He has never had To struggle and sweat and cope; He has never had To struggle and sweat and cope In a world of men. He will never see The battle of life Till he is bared Of his sins and purified, And God has won him In spite of me. I know he will not hate me; He will never, never know The anguish and the pain That burn and consume me; He will never know The anguish and the pain That burn and consume me. He is a child to me; He is a perfect angel, With folded wings and pleading eyes, And your eyes are the roses in the sky, And he is at rest; I will not let him go. I know he will not die; He is so little; And yet I feel I cannot leave him And I shall know The angel I would become If I could but bear to leave him. I cannot leave him; I love him so; He is as fragrant and as sweet as The wild cedar scent that still remains In my heart a year ago; He will not die. He will not die, And, perhaps, his mother too And his tender, pure-winged fingers Will never clamber up and fly Across the chasm of suffering, And, like a bright and sunny river In the heart of mountains, leap to The other shore. Or maybe I shall not go; He will be so happy here; I shall only sit And watch with wonder and awe His little angel mother Grieving and smiling, And busy with the baby in her arms. I shall not go; He is so great; There would be pain and death Had I the power to leave him. What were they to him? What had they done for him? Could he take their tears away? I shall not go; He is so sweet; And, instead of pain and death Of struggling with my sin, I shall watch his little angel eyes Seeing the joy in life, And the redness of life's rose Under the freshest tears that fall. There is a tear in every bright eye; A memory haunts each frontal detail; A memory in his slow smile, a tear In every bright eye; And in his sad eyes, quiet-souled, An emotion too deep for words Feels its own deep sundering, and knows The wound: He is the heart's one salvation, And she who mocked him behind Wears her defiance on her brow, A mock'ry that smiles in tears; But love, when it fights for life, Is a holy thing; And he has loved her too, He is the all, enfolding truth; And she, who stole it from him, Weeps for scorn, and lies, and falls; But love will out, and on With the sharp spear of its truth, And over whirling smoke of doubt Shrill its white light. She is a robber at heart, He is the knight of valour; So blindly and unpitied Is the shame that stings so. But love will nurse its wrath, And over sad and wicked Will shine its golden gleam; And the storm's grey light on her Will seem sunless. He is the death she sought for; She is the cross that bore; So in the toiling of life Shall the sweet gulf of love Be a balm to both; And one thing more, beyond all things, They will say of each, Who have known them both. They lived, they loved, they died for you; You lived, you loved, for them; And still life, love, death, and birth Will strive to win you home, Their two hopes and one true aim, <|endoftext|> And thus they sat till twilight found them still. From tent to tent, even from cabin to cabin, The heaving ship rocked with the rising tides Of struggling human moods and human fears, Men gathered from their multiple meeting, Stood mid-ship to see if she would hold, Or break upon some runaway scud, Before they in their rumballed bunks Were tempted to seek sleep. Then each man made a small boding; Not one of all the caravan Could sleep upon that sudden stroke, Not though his limbs were wrung with fear; And all dreamed of the great trouble Upon the coming dawn; Each man's child was gazing at the night, He was their hope of rowing homeward, He was their fatherland. Then some men huddled together, Hoping the driving rain would come With monotonous surge to drown Their dreams; and so there was a falling Of men on shore, but none could tell If it were dawn or storm; Some lay still reading; some shook their heads, And smiled; and some laughed out aloud To hear what people would sing To sing the coming of the morn. Some rolled up their ropes in haste, And some were just returning To refresh their sails in comfort, And some had lost their reception, For every man had some dream To be more straightway, or some other Strange wish and purpose. But men like to one another, And working for the same cause, So piled one another's freight In holding after embarkation Where each received his ration Stretched on a narrow galley's slip, So that one man might hardly carry His shapeless live, A few short hours before the moon Eclipsed the dim sea for ever; So thin and wasted there were left Those thin-faced men, with no more meat Nor more drink than water for the seamen, When drowned they lay, nor many wits To keep their smile and humour up. To lie awake all night, and hear The ship's watch ticking three decks down Would have been most hellish work; But those who kept the ship in order, Their labour did with dignity take, And kept the watch from midnight till the dawn. Some men took liberties with their arms, But none so crossed with sins of other men As one whose reputation for swearing Was such that even the nearest milliner Would blink his own eyelids if he heard him swear Among a busy deck's great throng; So they forbade such insolence among the crew, And those who broke the abominable rule Were hauled before the cabin-doors. It made no difference what the offence, So they took it in preference with A most unconcerned air; for some must seem To have a good name, and some must seem To have a family and a pretty wife; And those were always sure to get their just due. 'T was pleasant to see the strict calculations Made by their paki morals; For all the others took the strict strict line Which bound a man to one lady only If he left another, which was seldom They proved to be quite so temperate. They blushed, they trembled, and they made signs In many ways, but chiefly in a plaited way To show their constant and constant sensation That things were not quite so calm as they looked, And seemed to be calm, for they put on the looking gay To keep up the external semblance of feeling. It was a little fuzzy in the middle, Which did suggest a foreign and rusty tone; But as one walks through open country one feels It takes a firmer look when under the bed. So all the girls got firmer over time, And so did all the men except one rogue, A priggish little leak in the regular rock. But whether he had discovered after years That he was dissolute, or whether he had never Been at all interested in what went on O'er women's domestic matters, I cannot say. So that was never proved, and I can't say why He might have been afraid of what the doctor had to say, Nor why he supposed that a lady's caresses Were nothing but wicked things for a gentleman To wish and seek; but even so he could not have Began to show the least indication of a wish To fritter away his life away, as these Others very shrewdly did, in small intrigsions With harmless pure companions who did not know The game he now was playing, and who would gladly Have given him a wide range of coarse graces if he Could have used them without the fear of discovery; So there was nothing in the way of secret crosses To alarm him, and his enemies could not find A circumstance to discredit him. But having once entered, he could not safely Escape by leave or night-passes, for his presence Would inevitably cause a search; And so he left his papers and his things At the nomination-room in his present dress, And took the trouble to hide his real dress So as to be sure of leaving no trace That he had come, so that his character Should not be hard to find. And though he gave no reason for this rule of What was it to you or me? It was just instinct. The slightest movement in the bedroom might Have aroused the alarm, but here and there were keys, And if he knew any thing of it he would have snatched Those keys and left the house with Miss Stacy. She was a plain little whore, though born In a great nobler's arms; he had caught her Adamo Style, a bull-neck bullfighter's bull; So he licked his lips as he walked her round The house, muttering the very name of Jupiter, And giving her all possible marks of joy, And offering kisses from his swelling head, And giving her back these ringing shoulders All disfigured with the bull's head, and the hair Humped on either side, and the coarse-spun bull's mane. So when he came from doing all these things He would have risen and gone out again, But that the bell would creak, and then the house Would be put upside down and gathered up In layers, and they would have a new morning, And some poor china break at its base, And there would be some nonsense on the shelf, And some spoiled porcelain, and he would go Back to the sack with his head all cut up. He would have cut his throat then, and then It might have happened, but Jupiter Found a sudden motion to be quite funny, And suggested that they might want to hurry And fetch the paper, but the idea's not bad, As one of them knocks over a few more chairs, And that'll spoil the joke and ruin the daytime. But now for the part I have in your hearts, O Peers and Kingdoms! I am coming to it, For the mean moment's got neither one nor t'other. But though there's no laughter in it yet I'll try To be amusing, though they should chop off all my fingers, A good many of them; and, instead of the Devil, Your Minerval, I will take all your gear, instead. As for His Lordship the Vicar, though I had rather Have him jump into the sea and fetch a boat, Than have him put up the Hill, where he was pulled up Just now, with bad breath, and on crutches, lame and bawdy, And ask in ten minutes, if he don't stink, If he don't feel quite ill, as he's about to Go out for his morning walk, and the Devil takes His carriage and his walking-stick, and some one's Getting ready to bring him a lamb from the flock, As his friends all do, and no one thinks it strange; So I'll have my own friend, to suit my mind at The latest. To go against My nature and my nature's laws? But you have told Your reasons for it, in a way. Well, then, For all The reasons that you have given, I will say no more But, sure as fate, I shall write you a song. Why should a man whistle for his cock, When crows caw, And owls be locked in their tower To grieve for their loss, <|endoftext|> Steadfast till break of day. Now through the damp streets re-echo came The sound of women's feet, And sweet, sweet wine ran o'er the flowers Pourtrayed with pearl; And all was fading quite away And dim before the firelight's glow. So, being in my couch all that morn, Bright, still the firelight flashed On couch and dresser, while my love by me Besought the gods by groan to be. But other sights did Luvus fill, In every pause of the sweet night's rest. For him I seemed To look into a world apart And look again when grown-up day Rose like a phoenix from the gulf Of sleep, to stare at it. How can I tell That in a child I loved? Can I tell, dear, how many tears Fall as one, And all my hair Like amber writhes with desire, And in the sheets whereon our eyes Have lain And in the air our breathings fill, No sigh for him who loved me Takes thence away? What, could he know, That I should envy, love him, grieve That he must needs be In all these ways, with no end Save as I am? And be as he is? Ah, if he knew, Then what he would be Would I have done, dear, for him! In truth I did not love him. And yet I gave him his wine and where Is the end of that? Do I have to brood on it? With some men's music and food he was fed; I never was admitted near him; I never spoke To know him well. And yet with him I fed, Drank, and had our lust Upon a child's supper, here beside him; and I never, never, never Never saw him well. And yet the child was mine. And yet I strove to dress him With perfect right. And how I strived and striven, Ah, could I do it If I could keep him so? That fellow there, Turning the key in the wall Was he dressed to go To his work? Ah, that fellow, I should like to think He must think so Who stole the silk gown from my bed, Who rummaged through the cupboard, and left the money on the table, Who, having taken the children to his whiting shed As well as himself, Was coming back to take me with him. This is the moment of my passion: Now that the key in the wall is open I shall feel it. I shall see how it fits, And I shall know If it is tight. Can anything be More pure and true Than a girl's sweet body Sleeping within a man? I will cleanse my hands, And prepare myself for giving Myself wholly to him. He will rise And put his clothes on, And lay down his blanket. I will rise And lie beside him, Like the mother of a beloved child, When her own young child has gone to bed. His sweet head on my breast He will rest, and we will kiss and part. I will feel the blood grow slow within me Troubled by this passion; I will try to speak, But nothing come forth; I will look into the dreamy place where his spirit lies All the doors were wide open, And the garden lay shining with the morn. "Oh my love is sleeping," she said, "while I Am lying here," the while her fingers, starring Like sea stars, trembled in the dew. So she wandered through the pale-leaved box Where the pink-mimosa flowers hung swinging, And in the crocus-house she crept, Until the blue and white of the dawn Came out like shells upset on the shore. And she left her flowers, and with her, went Through the bright marble corridors of bronze, To the bath-room in the eastern dome, And across the marble courts, which were warm With the mid-day sunbeams dancing To the flute music Ararat had. Then from the bath she begged sweet fragrant baths, And then from the bath she begged white bath-whiskey, Which is made from barley, and which plays Much like a hippochel with a cow, In his body, when once drunken. But the baths were not ready yet in that land, And the drunken Ararat died. When the morning began to ope her eyes She cried, "Oh, my Ararat! do you not see How the sun and the sky are bright, And the garden is hiding? Here is not One flower for me, so I must steal in the corn. But the sweet smell of the barley straw Is not very sweet, until I mix it With a little water from the tub, And when the grain begins to bubble, as it were, And the barley cake begins to crack, Then I know I am ready for my bath, For it smells like the loving heart of a girl." So she rolled up her little sleeves, And began her bath, with soda and brine, And boiled up a great deal of water, And then out of a ladle took a pea-green twine, And with her hand a white soap-sieve did squeeze, And wrung it well, till she had scraped off A good deal of the scum that came to light. And she scrubbed and scrubbed so well, That presently she came to the wheat; But though she scrubbed well with care, Of the flour that there was not a speck, So, washing that over, she found A graven image of a girl's face; And, when she looked at it, There was nothing but a faint resemblance. The second thing that she noticed Was a bust of a Persian bust That stood up under the marble bath-towels. So, looking over the East Terrace, She saw a picture like a picture, Where the head of a girl seemed to be stuck in it, So when she squeezed the handle of the tub, The handle turned in a moment, And when she squeezed it again, a well-bred chap Came out of the water with bubbling ears. "Well, which is it?" the girl said; And he showed her a stone. But she thought that was a foolish trick, And said, "There isn't a stone in the water; There's only water, and sometimes sand." So he squirted it out with a brush, And she thought that was a trifle rash. But he said he had a broom; So he took a broom in his hand. And he swept her tub and the rim, Until there was not a speck of flour Or thread of coffee-millite on the whole. And the coffee-millite was there, But it had drifted down through the air, Where there was nothing that smelt of coffee, So she took a basin and washed her face And she washed him too, And that felt nice. So they got right to it, And talked and reminisced and sighed; And the coffee she boiled, And he stirred it well, Till there wasn't a dot of flour Or thread of coffee-millite on the top. And he held her bath-whisks right then In his teeth, And she scrubbed him well, And wrung him softly. And presently his head was hot With the odour of her hair. And the minuet was beginning, When she thought, "I know it's soon over, But I wish he'd start, and sing, as soon as he starts; And I'll rub his crown till he's clean." So she rubbed the shampoo in, And the barber turned up his ears; But she knew there was but a very little use; For he only sang on the way to the toilet. So she rubbed with care, And she scrubbed with skill, Until there was not a single particle of flour Or smell of flour on his head. But still he sang on the way to the toilet; And the footman rang the bell But there were still some traces on it of last night's shower. For the shower was quite late last night, And the water had lain there all too long. There were pieces of green glass all over it. "He won't know," she thought. But the sun shone last night, And the sun rubbed the pieces of green glass all over. The white wine sparkled on the black saucer. And she sat up in bed, And she lay down. And she dreamt of a land afar, And the gardener came to tell his good news. "Ma'am," he said, "We have found the new-discovered Turkey. There's hardly a root on it now, And the cornel is nearly gone. And the mallow is taking its place. <|endoftext|> Not hard of their bones nor scaly, But smooth as the skin was and glossy Of amber, whose consistency Makes a paste from beaten up sands, And hardens into threads of glass. Not of the forest trees nor vineyards Was I, when I saw the Holy One, Lord of heaven, come down to earth; But as a dove upon the wing, That lightened from one part to another, I saw Him, by my mind's wisdom Made invisible, wander forth. And I saw that many were the parable Of things unspeakable as He was, But I knew nought of the mystery Of all that I should see hereafter; For that day only was reserved For me to see the Eternal One, And all that was to be unseen. As I went to the door Of my small room And swung it open wide, A thing flashed past my face Like a glimpse of light From some far star That shines in the skies, And made my heart beat fast And all my locks stand straight. Then, as I thought what it was That flashed past me, Again there came a gleam That it was a flame Burning in a corn-crib, And now it seemed to me The door was opened wide, And yet the thing beyond was That it was flame in a corn-crib. Then on my chamber-floor A heap and a ruddy glow Stood tall and straight and straight; And down in a corner, unkempt As if neglected of late, Lay a heap and a ruddy glow That seemed not yet to die; And on my chamber-floor The thing that was not a thing Lay tall and straight and straight, And did not seem to be a thing Any longer; And as I came to the light That burned before the door, And gazed and listened, and wondered more At the old corn-crib in the corner Than anything in the room, A gleam as of a distant hill Made brighter the glow In the corn-rib's gnarled shape. There are things that are as wise As are the flying-pigeons, And there are things that are fitter For children's hammocks; And there are things long since Forbidden all other things More slyly slyly crept; For, long ago, I knew How to win at Go-betweens. I know when men are due At cresses and curds and gummy-worms; But in those days of old I never went anear The earth, only lugged about The things I'd buy some night, Or guessed from their shapes, or thought I'd get by some magic spell; But then I bought some worms, and then I knew for certain they were stale (And soon my betters came to mean Such things as soften and elude); So now they're never met to-day. For I have known by charmed chance How grapes should look within, And how their best to eat was bound, And how their shells were set In wax, to keep them soft and sweet; And now, though I cannot bring to mind What once I did for them, I keep them as I'd promised When younger, long ago, and more Into the calling they now have Ached over me. I play with flowers, and with sweet Water-drops; Their bright eyes plead with me, Their tresses tempt; I never chatter like the rabble About their favours; But I am glutton, just like Nero; Filled my mouth with phlegm o'erthrown, And in their fevered mists I strayed About the houses and squares Looking for the spot that sang the sweet Songs of the May, Oh, lovely April! I weep to think What cruel pain Must torture your blossoms now; A day of sorrow Like a thousand winters passed. I know not what may heal my pain; I cannot now hope for grace Upon my shattered heart; Healing, save healing me, must be, To give me back to life. Oh, I knew you long ere you were dear To any other eye than my own, And I have wept to see the light Assail the glory of your hair; But a stern truth lives stubbornly: You were beautiful no more Than are your sisters and your brothers. And you were stricken with affliction, With doubts and with sorrow, while the grace Of the Spring made your round brown face And your voice so delicate and low, And your black eyes shining so tenderly, Seemed, I ween, to mock at gloom and care. Oh, I had not guessed the depth of wrong Which was the common theme of your song; I had not guessed that, whether they loved Or feared you, all who heard would say "She sang, and now she is sounding dismal!" I have had my own share of love and blame, A little love, and some little blame too; But never the strife which now you write I ever saw displayed so grand a part. They say that you're only a snare To draw men's souls from their true use, But a strange thing really I've noticed About the men you've drawn thus: They are all overgrown with hate. A man should be as pure as glass, He should be spotless, both face and mind, He should have no want of faith and truth, No hint of lying, nor deceit; I've known men who were most noble, Men whom I've known who have sinned, Men who were very many things, None had the spite against which you fight. A man should be as kind as could be, His duty toward man to prove; He should have no lust to take the place Of some one in some one's need; For he is bound to serve the ones who sent him, He should regard every need as his; And if a man serves hard his turn will be To earn his keep, or be rewarded. But time will heal all wrongs, O brothers, And wrongs are now your own alone; The cruel wrong of you men doing You did not first, and thus we right you; And to make all right again, we'll Try, yet once more, once more, to win you. We are not treacherous, though men say we are, For we have helped more souls than you know; And if one child has been lost to you, One life has been gained, and you have made A richer life for him who has lived. May God help those who never get over it, Those souls who are doomed, because they were born liars. We are just as surely lying as they, For we are all as slippery and as vain, But we do it to the nearest and last Election. No child is poorer who is born a Christian, As he who leaves the faith when the child plays. Go and search through the souls of the drunkards, Synchronits, and syphilitics, and prostitutes, For there is no town more dull than their eyes. One man's bigot is another's partner; One's drunkard is another's breath of life; God knows how many partnerships there be Between Christian and Christian, who are nothing else. For I believe in God the One, and naught beside, Who made the world and all that's in it; who set The sun in the centre, and set light above; Who made the moon, and arranged its phases, And ordered the fixed planets in their spheres, That they may turn, and move, and shine in their spheres. Oh, I believe in the Father too, whose face Is turned toward the East, and to whose feet The scattered flowers bind one by one: To the Father I turn, and I am he. How could I do aught if I were not he? But I am weary with waiting and strife, And I am weary with prayer and record; I am weary with God, and I would be free. No longer I linger and murmur and cry Till I am mad, and lose my selfhood, and mind. I would be as other men: I would wear Their forms, and use their means, and go and stay At their request, and sit at their feasts and wine, And kiss their hands and hands like hands, and drink Alms out of cups, and look at their pictures, too,-- Fool! I am not yet mad; but still the wine Seems to make me madder, the fires of the feast Burn clearer, and the portraits of my friends Burn fairer, and I cry, "Why should you leave me? And where is the pleasure, and the open air, To which you came once with a child's laugh in your eye, And a child's faith, and an infant's love in your heart?" I am come back--I have always been coming, Ever going, yet never wholly home; <|endoftext|> And take a long and smokeless vigil there. The vision suddenly fades; It is no dream. I am already gone. In all the world a mumbling echoes in the air Are my departed comrades saying good-bye. Oh, who can tell how quickly they will learn My end, my fate and my final fate, After so many suns have set in night! Her soft black eyes are on the floor; Her closed hands are on her bosom; She hangs upon the happy sobbing breath, And does not wake, she dares not stir. If there be life in any blood now flowing It swells in Leonard's, in Rachel's vein. But they have neither insight nor power; My dream is passing. I am gone. We have been sons and sires; Foes oft have courted us; Faces from many a nation Have sought our fancy. Only the twilight of youth Our waters can illumine; Only our joy can wheel us To our land of blood and tears. Be there always the halo's faintest hue, Be there always the warmest glow; Nor shivering fear nor tremor grant, Nor doubt nor murmur sound. We have felt scorn, and scorn single-hearted; We have seen the cloud of death close lidless eyes. Listen then, my harp and I; Listen long; for we have listened well. That he was wide awake, he felt that he had not slept for many nights, And yet he knew that the time had come to sleep; and that he needed not preconditions. "I will go to Leonard's now," he said; "I shall see Rachel," he said. So at the hour when he usually entered the house, he saw Rachel sitting in her chair at the table, not quite up to it; and he bent down and made her some tea. Now when the invisible hand of destiny reaches down to do us unexplained honors, and we look proud when we bow before the footlights, and we take our pleasure in the general glare and flash, remember we ever elevated there a standard of our own, and ever it seemed as if the eyes which we turn on our people's deeds, have only a single scale on which to represent the whole range of life, if scales at all there should be in them; if we perversely have set up a single standard to guide us, if our whole unrecked-for development has been a quest for a single woman, and her name has been Life,-- As long as we look back upon the phase of our life which is done, and there is nothing left to do but look back on the last decade, we are happy. There is no sadder story than that of the German woman, who at nineteen years of age went to the war, than the sorrow of those few weeks in which she could leave no written record of the dreams which she had nursed in her child-prism; it was a desire to win fame which was the driving force behind the visit to the General. He spoke of the importance of women in our national life, and to a letter of mine he had made a forward reservation; for he had seen women who could do things, and who were willing and eager, to the full power of women, in the sphere of work and of procreation; the thought of these women roused in him beyond the normal ardor of patriotism; he used language which, in courteous speech, he normally would have used to a group of friends. His purpose in this letter was to commend Leonard said he had watched me for years, I had never misled him; and from the fame, the money, the power of my life in the last twenty-five years, I had unintentionally misled him, and as a remedy I should punish myself, he said, by deceiving the girls in the interest of our country. I think of this little letter, Leonard, you wrote me, on the day that we first met; I have preserved it in my heart and preserved it in my memory; it has filled my heart with pangs of remorse and with joys of happiness. You say in your letter to me, that, in all the tragedies of life, the one tragedy which you know of is the deceitful, selfish lie. There is a certain prettiness, there is a certain elegance, there is a certain symmetry of form, in the long slowly falling flowers of Leonard; I do not know the proper name of the kind of beauty which he pursues; it has been compared to that of the angel by Saint John of the Lage, and it has been compared to the halcyon plumes of the seahorse by the Chinese. She has been beautiful, I have often gone to see her, but to a casual observer they would seem to be traits of the human heart. And she has lied, I have been as unselfish as possible in my conduct of her, and have tried to help her in her efforts to please her husband. Fanny, since I came to live with you, and there have been frequent periods of separation, I have never yet saw you indifferent to my happiness. You have never made me conceive the fear that I am sacrificing yours in order to this man. At the same time, it has often happened to me, that when I have for some days been accustomed to a high standard of beholding the beauty of women, by reason of the affair of their friendship with me, I suddenly see through the illusion, and discover that their beauty has nothing any with Matilda. By the Infinite Dollar Beauty it has been often made clear to me, that a man who makes a devoted and tender attachment to a woman, does not thereby acquire, in the plaint of his passion, an interest in her salvation; this is a certain doctrinal opinion of mine, the rest is nothing more than conjecture. But to return to that little party. We had gone for a length of time, and the day arrived; the party was to start at five o'clock, the children had just finished with their study. Matilda had been on the subject of the art of construction, and especially of the beautiful miniature, of Leonard; and when she spoke of it, she was already in a state of some agitation, and had twitched and uncoiled hering as if on the point of tears. "And a lady, who has worked in the matter of portraits, and who is himself personally very much at home with it, came among us to call me. I was astonished to see her. I have known her here at Tea, and seen her often at social gatherings. She is a lady of riches, both by race and fortune. Her mother was a countess, and her father was a goldsmith. From twenty thousand dollars she inherited, and after the death of her mother, gained a settlement of two lacs. She is the oldest daughter of George Warren and Mary Frances Berry, and heir to several hundred thousand dollars "And I have often felt ashamed to see her when evidently under the influence of wine. She has behaved to me with great unfitness. She has acquired a habit, which is very much the case with many of her friends, of making over the conduct of their affairs to her, to her control. But as this habit affords her an income which would disappear, if her marriage were ended, and she has made it a principle with her to-day, I do not see that I can be excused for not resorting to her less, for the sake of the reputation of the court. I see no prospect of my obtaining a public position "To-day there was a reception for Mr. Pryce in the Hibbert Livery House. As many of you know, it is a social affair. It is a way of getting young gentlemen of wealth and influence, who have no desire to bear the burden of holding a low estate, to help support the family of a lonely person of less means. I have sometimes attended Madam, when you see me, there is nothing of Dr. Ramsay left in him. He is entirely in the Patents-gallant, socially preened. He is not an old fellow anymore; he is so new to everything; and all the advantages and immunities which aldome in being young, no longer can he stick to, he's turned them to the paras. He would like his young lady to become a stately society lady--the very sort of woman to whom my Lord, of course, was afraid to recommend me. But, as my Lord was in town, he was afraid to visit him. "To-day, I saw Miss Ramsay, and my Lord, I believe, sent for me. I returned to my home, to meditate upon the question of getting my pension increased, and soon afterward, to my great surprise, I saw my Lord wrote to me, proposing an <|endoftext|> And ride away--not being reft of their skin yet. And in the land of Faith, it's with the wildcat and deer That two dog-dogs live in freedom, not in chains. The age of darkness is coming on, When nothing will be perfect anywhere, Nor any desire be fulfilled, But peace will hide us from the sun and moon And wreck and burn each living thing Before the doom come that we cannot escape. Yet there are some things that work against it-- There are some things that work in the sun's favour, And bring the gold of everlasting day. We bear the cross, being but the ferrymen Between the sides of Death and Life; And the higher powers that watch above Sit smiling at our careless play. For the veil between the worlds is thin, And these frank men are pilgrims bold To where the golden sceptre over kings In the light of freedom will be laid, And what these deeds have realised be shown To men to-day,--the dark past that's dead And over this we gaze with glee. The witch-fire is snuffing All the sweet fluttering motion Of the first-love flower,-- The witchery of pain Is moulding our magic aim To the dreaded end. But we do not cower, Not for root, not for leaf, But that a purer fire May lead us to the Tree of Life, Each age of innocence prepares us To meet with greater trials; And the final judgment, When the terrible trump Of God's almighty word Rang out in the sight of men On Sodom and Gomorrah, Would be an understatement If it should tell us That under the clean snow That covered New England It thrived and flourished. For what were those houses but thrones Cushioned smooth and bright Where the dark Justice of the Peace, The Governor, ruled like the King? And so, I pray you, forget us; And so I rejoice and plan To leave you my most humbled thanks,-- Old, unthankful men, Whose chief ambition Is to listen for an hour To the songs of the Billy Badalicoes, And then be home in a trice To pack the sleigh with care, And drive the sleigh-drive to the village. The memories I have of you Have been like airy winds that wrap The soul of summer in their balm, And veil the loveliest features Of what we see and feel In images that pass like dreams, While we are sleeping and discerning,-- I like them well,--but you are finer. Old friend, I hardly know how to greet you, Old foe I cannot seem to grasp you, I feel I have been wounded to the quick, And from my wounded part The spring of life, and the new life, and bliss Are blown across my brain like flowers. I cannot clasp you, Old friend, I cannot seem to embrace you, Old foe I cannot grasp you, For all my kisses seem deceitful And my caresses weary like labor. O that I could but plant you again In some fair garden, planted with my tears, Where all the kindly flowers are fresh and fair And where all fair and friendly things are found Fresh babbling in the leafy mouths of days, Like to the moving speech of my lost lips, Or the beautiful thoughts the mind has dreamed. I would set you as the shining crown For all the lives I love and all the ways My good thoughts go, Like golden lamps in places where the sun Sets quickly when he has done his work; For though you may not understand The flower-like things I say to you, And though you never have sailed on a storm, You would be a fine and gracious gift To all the pleasant and happy children of the earth. You would be for Marian's cheeks the pearl, And her smile for the voice of song she knows; With you a sailor's dream of an island shores Would meet the ship upon the sea's blue way; For you the miner's spirit of joyous days Would think in you the strength of the daring mind, And the loveliest thing in the world all else. I would set you as a sign that would wave Over the rest of them, Telling them: "Come here, Be glad, be happy, because of me; For this boy who with me is here to play Will never have a wider span of life Than that none but those whom I love shall see." The time has come for playing again, After such time as no soul shall know. The play is begun, though in truth There is no play. There is no game; There is no play; The player is dead; And it is meet that all who listen To this old song should be convinced. There was a king who one day played a game, Playing at pigeon-hole and bagatelle Till it was said 'T was pity the Poet's Majesty Was not renewed his license. There was a queen who one day played a game, Playing at lu^age with a gambler, Until her face became pale And the world said, "Isn't she nervous? Why won't she take a loss?" But they knew that her nerves did not fail her, That the beautiful Queen Had only played for fun And had lost her wits. There was a shepherd, poor and alone, Who played at pawn a whole day through, His queen and pawn all, at staves. One day the game ended, not by play, And he said, As he dropped out with a splutter, "I've lost my, mind." That's just how it was for me Five Years back. I had to play, or else I lost my soul. What games we made then, no one dares now To make— Five years is long enough. The nine years' jackpot. The annual game went on for nine years, At cards every night and in the morning, With the clock striking nine for breakfast. How happy I was when at the end of nine The loud laughter began. My spades, my queens and knights, and my baimonds Were waiting to do their bit. The dealer gave me a warm look of relief, And said, "One more jack!" Then suddenly I was a different man. My haggard cheeks turned bright as gold; I turned to the sky and wept. Then I won the sympathy of the other players, And my heart was steeled. There is another way of winning. There comes a time when the inner victory Must eclipse the outward battle. As Shakespeare says, "To be given by God a mighty power To avenge my loss on the wrong-doing powers Of my own heart." When I was but a little lad I lived with a missionary family, And I have said that if I had the raps 'Twas mine to win. In later life I have struggled my fill, But only now and then do I say That it is God's will That I should carry His cause so on. I made up my mind that I would live free, Unto the dying year, Nor be the first to set foot on our shore Since those great souls before the Lamb. And if my weak clay might grow And learn to follow me around In the way he chose to go, In the best meaning of that mighty host, 'Twas His will and blessing all the same. Look at our modern women! They are all sickened and wan, Yet they do not lift their eyes To find the cause of their distress; But idle heads and hearts are more their own Than is the will of their God. Now is the time for home-made pie, 'Tis the time to host a pie-fit, Now is the time once more to be gay, 'Tis the time once more to be free. Come, join the rural festal train, And build a little o'er our beer. 'Tis the time once more to be glad, 'Tis the time once more to be young. Come, drink your little cup of joy While still the year is young. Now is the time for home-made pies Come gather what sits around. May's plum-porridge steam the floor, And slumber not out of place; The plum's a hundred ways of sweet, The milk's a hundred ways of sweet. And there's the cream, and that's the best, But cut it small, and add a teaspoon Of sugar-suckle, and stir it in. Now is the time to play at games, To dress for the occasion, And make the home a haven-place Where drink and supper may be found. Come, host a little banquet here, Put on the best of dishes; There's nothing in the world like a good feast, To make the old world new again. <|endoftext|> What are they lying and out of humor? Or what is all the fuss about? Let us cut to the chase and keep it simple About a tall house, a bank of flowers, A garden and a young couple. Such a house, such a garden, such a man, Such an obscure, unheard of couple (And before all that, let us consider If a man may be old, may a woman Be young). Such a bold proposal, As I have still to voice, such a simple Proposal, as may be very complex. I do declare and declare openly Here and now that no such thing can be. Neither the young man nor the young woman Is the child of such-and-such a pair. In short, I do denounce and declare This young couple as liars and crook-men. I say they are crooks and scoundrels. (May leave doubt and fear uncertainty). I do say they are out of order, And that they have done wrong and wrong. May leave doubt and fear uncertainty About this or that detail of this or that. I say that the walls are taking corners, That the stairs are creaking and creaking, That the doors are peeling their bars, That the garden roses droop and droop, And hang their heads, I know they are dying, And hang themselves from the outside-- O sweet innocent garden-mirrors! I know that they are weeping and wailing. (All such things well proven and proved and plain). I know that the sun is shining On the white-and-rush decorously, Shining on the walls and the beds. And the bed where the children are sighing About the walls. And the door-way--oh, I know it all-- All about and under the door. And the step-stool--oh, but the more I know about, more loth to go Will the children and the lover. When I see their coverlet Just peeping from between the sheets, My heart is breaking for sorrow, My heart is breaking for wonder, And the child whom I hear crying, Crying aloud for joy and freedom, Sighs out "I'll be free!" When I see the white bedspread Thrown over everything bare, And the kerosene lamp On the little table hard by, And the child whom I hear saying "Won't my bed be soft and warm?" Then I know the lamp is glowing, And the bed is dark. When I see the woollen pillows, Rolled out on the old stone floor, And the chair by the wall turned, For the mother to take her work break, I sigh for house and home and mother Sighs out "I'll be mother." When I see the clock upon the ceiling Measuring out the weary minute Like an endless gauze across the hour, I wail for all the houses burning, Falling, and crumbling into dust, Saying "This is wrong!" I wail for all the silent houses, For the little faces held still in sleep, For children in another land, For little peoples in a close embrace, Not breathing "I want to breathe!" I wail for you, O little one, From the hard floor your head to raise, And I wail too for the slow, dull pulse That beats so silently there-- (I too would lift my head and say, "Come, fellow-creature, speak!") But in vain I wail to you The oppressor's rod; For just as the children in your hearing The spirit give a hand to start The children are leaping to follow The walker that stands before them. I do not think you're that Journeying far-off terrestial Round the long pools and ridges Of sea-rimmed sea-salt flats and narrow Boundary-parted mountains; I do not think you're that Sailing round the world's rim. But somewhere, somehow, You are, and you are here. And somewhere, somehow, Life's shoreless sea Has grasped you and you are resting On this great rocky cradle. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! It is sweeter here than in the lower harbor, Because the fjord is wide and the bridges are higher, And the sound of the surf and the voice of the winter-air Turns drowsy and cool and sweet and tender On the mouth of the harbor where we are sailing. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! We have come to the upper harbor! God in His mercy has allowed that we may not be torn Asunder by the ocean-currents; He has packed the freight So that our journey is longer for the work we have to do. It is better because of the cooling water and sunshine Than it would be if the voyage were long and difficult. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! We have come to the upper harbor, And we leave all the sorrow and the pain behind! We look forward to the pleasant responsibilities For the coming weeks, and we breathe a prayer for the distance That divides us from the friends we are weary finding. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! We have come to the upper harbor, And rest in the sunshine and the open face of the fjord And we sing the old tunefu' tune in the sunbeam To the rolling of the ferry-boats and the running of the ropes. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! For the winter-snow has fallen and will not be dislodged; We have come to the upper harbor, And the light of the sun is more steadfast and the sunlight Is more enduring than ever; And there is safety in being here Where the distance separates us From the friends we are weary finding. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! For the winters are ending that won't come back, And the cold winds have covered the wasted uplands And the flaxen-flakes drop from the timbered uplands And the timbers in the harbor; For the ships, the barges, and the sturdy shore-tow'rs Have gone to be built in other years, And the work that we did is forgotten. But we are safe, and we know that we have gone on shore To be with the winners, to be part of the coming good. We have come to the upper harbor, We have come to the upper harbor! And we tread the beach, With the heavy water sinking in from the sea, And we look seawards in the hope of seeing land. The horizon is soon blurred with clouds, For the winter-snow is falling in a blizzard; But we look seawards in the hope of seeing land. And we see land distant, continent-wide, And the southern land is further than we can follow, For we are using arms that have gone over to the wrong side! But we follow with tattered hearts, For the path is over our dead! For a sickly dawn is breaking on the bleak sea, And there's not a sound to betray the step; For a dark cloud has passed on the hazy air, But our dead are breathing and our dead are awake! And we go over their graves As we tread their shoreless fields; For the cold rains flow over their graves And the snow is deep on their graves; For they may not know we go over their graves, But we know well that we have gone over their graves. We have gone over their graves, We that are living to know That the splendid months of April, Of venom and of promise, We have seen their faces passing by And we wonder that they went. For their cold blood fell on our own As we lay on our oats and hay, For their spring broke on our hearts As we sauntered along by hill and hollow; For our dead are breathing and our dead are awake! And we tread their fields As if we trod at home the way Which our fathers trod! For the cold rains flow over their graves And the snow is deep on their graves; For we may not know they go Till they whisper to us from the grave! The sound is vanishing, And, veiled in its twilight, The wave has gained the rock; And a last beam lights up the evening of the day As the boat glides out to the sea, And away to the far-off far-off pink and purple sea That is shining and silent and still. I dreamed I saw An old man sitting alone at a window in a harbor town; And he had a sad-eyed, wise-eyed boy before him, And the boy asked the old man why he didn't give the boy his place. <|endoftext|> With joy and bliss by others oppressed. What hast thou done to fill the jail's durance With tears, with sighs, with groans? Three years the wanderer, he, Lay sick in sickness, And each day his malady Grew more abject; and, at last, When fasting had ceased to weaken The fever, forth he went; His mother said to him, "To church, my child, every day; And a child shalt thou be to me." He obeyed: for he thought, That, ere he walked from that same shrine, His spirit had passed from earth. Within the nave, above The long, straight brick collar, hung A collage of grey-scale combes, And slashed with gold the painted monstrosity Of sacristan greaves. On one corner stood a wisp Of vivid blossoming honey That, from a large jade vase, Dropped its terry petals down Streaming o'er the white, painted pants Of an epauletted priest; Across the church the lamp-light swung; And, down the cross which ranged the stalls, There crept a creeping thread of green, Slender and long and glossy-new, And crept across the bare white feet Of an older man, Slow he bent, with aged eyes, Over a pile of binding scrolls, And, from his booted heels, The gilded scrapes rang shrill As he strove to climb the cross, And pulled a shrivelled rosary Out of his girdle, And at the altar railing, Warm with fever and with doubt, His hands he opened, flung The twisted strands aside, And in the name of Jesus softly bowed And prayed. He lifted up his eyes, and lingered long On the cross, and prayed in Grecian letters; And while the priest by the altar remained, He slowly bowed again, and fled Down the aisle. "Who is it lives?" he cried; "Who is it lives?" and then in a hollow tone He begged for death. The priest knelt down; the man lifted up his head; And the frantic fever went. Leapt from the grave The old priest from us; And in its place The barber's stall was vacant. Outside, the wind was sobbing:-- "Night, O night! Hark! hark! the merry birds, That flash and flare, Fly here and there, and vanish into The night. Leaves are strowing; The waggon is so wild That only in its flight The Sawdust Twins, far and near, Can stay its path. Hark! hark! how their loving tones Gleam thro' the trees. "Now for their love That's most of all required; And to their play Come here and there, And everywhere. Little one, we pray, Stay out of the trees." The Sawdust Twins are two of a nature most reprovedly prepossessing; and they love, above all things, chintz. They bathe about their tiny cleft in the soaking green of these woods, And, when there is a gleam of daylight, (There's the cheery moon,) Upon the slant of the dripping green, they like to lie, Their chubby fingers about the pearling gold Of the jellied goldrush, And look like dancing dancing birds. But if they're not half so charming As when, all alone, And flushed and scented, they retreat to their cave,-- (Don't you think it's very ill Done to peep at a Sawdust Twin when they're in a leaning? Besides, their little cave is so lonely You can't be certain Whether they're concealed or lively.) All night they dreamed of this chintz. (They were in bed, They lay awake A floating thought-heap. Their little nose Was at it again, Their oval eyes Were glowing In the pale lamplight.) And all night long they wandered, Their feathery feet Upon the ground; Where over the wracks In the rattling boots Of the mountain wind, The green-green hills were creeping. And over the green Came the katydids, Whistling, "We'll be got! We'll be got!" In the day-break, In the morning, As they fluttered On the shining Glass of the morning. Her fingers clutch the lamp-post. The flimsy lamp-post Cries out in vain, Cracking its knuckles In her hands. She does not heed: Her nails are nicked with rust, And black and tarnished. She is aware that the Furies Are passing by her. "Why should they fear me? I killed their son. I killed him!" Asks the distressed one. "I never feared them!" She is futile and foolish. "I kill them all the time When they threaten me. The King, he calls me Lord, and sits on my knees, And some of them Follow me now. "The Queen," she says: "When she sees that I am thin, She puts her hand in mine And fat rolls slowly Out of our pockets, And she calls me Driving while blind. And the men Come under me When they find me. "Hush! I never fear Old men, Strong men, Or the young, But the little child That smiles at me. It has never done so!" And the oaks whisper low: "We think no longer Of the anguish We had borne, When the furies came, When the Kings held us Prie-fabricant. We are not so glad Any more, And the tinkling of the rain falls heavily On the withered leaves, And the brook, in its smooth passage, gently murmurs In the sun. And at times, drowsily lying on its side, The shed comes into the wind. I sing a song of two wolves and a she wolf; And he, poor wolf, was full of folly, For all his eyen's red and chin was white, And deelyth was his call and gold he wore; And she, she was full of duty, For her dry chew-food was otherwhere, And otherwhere were ooze and sand. And when the wind of May up like trumpet-calls Blown through the orchard and leafy walk, And bramble comes and burrow and scarce-sprung seed, How nigh the wolf's throat warms with haste To feed her hungry small warm maw With the mellow-soft clover-stems! How, in the hottest of the sun-storms, When the ripe wheat in the orchard grew And the peach blowed its fiery hulls, How the sweet-scented wind was used To wend to the south and join the sea! How the ash-trees and the fir-trees were heedless Of the storm, and the lonely firs bowed down! This lonesome month of flowers and glory, In the heart of June, Of haymaking and reapers, Of fields with dimples, Of nights when the wind is whist, Of dear old fights, I muse upon the months that are past. I mean this pensive time Of quiet and shadows, When the windy days go over, And love is not proud, And not as he was then, But grieves with the days that are dead. When silence is upon the hills, When beauty is on the plain, And birds that sang are gone to the nest, And the weary light that is in things Grows calmer and dimmer. And the world is not so bright With all its gems and jewel-lights. But through the timorous hours of light It hears the sea, it hears the shore, And sees the happy wolds, The little homes where those that love them Come gently knocking at dawn, And hear their gentle voices sing A joy that is like gladness. And in the pleasant twilight hour, And after noontide pall, And when the mist goes and the leaves fall, And the soft mists on the grass that sleep, She dreams, she dreams--she dreams, she dreams! A smile that is pitiful and sweet, A soul in quiet splendour drear;-- She dreams, she dreams, she dreams! Like such a face the world shall know No pouter shall be found to brood On sorrow or sin, For that shall not be so fair, those eyes With eyes parted so. And I, if I may trust my hand, <|endoftext|> Is said to drive the craving ghosts away. How beautifully the paper I break Flows from the roll as if the heat Of sunlight had bathooled it. The birds are in the trees, The year sings in the grass. I hear its ragged wind As I sit alone by the fire. The way it puffs and puffs Breathing over hedges bare, Lacking only their hem to cling to Echoes the dead year's glee. It is no easy task to outwrest The breeze; but when the masterful rolling Flings its big hand in the sun, And heaves its heavy chest, All that is drear and dreary, Leaves a smoky scent upon my clothes. My thoughts go to the hills In some great horror of quiet Sleeping the evening away; Where nothing moves save the high rocks That take the thunder's wrath; And as they pound in dim terror, Vultures circle and gathering Flit at their master's death. To find but comfort in my tears Is very nice, I know, But no one comes to comfort me Till the slow, reluctant night Has come; So I'll just close out this wonder And write a cheery note to-day. There are four things I hold up as emblematic Of life, and four as indicator of its main features: The constitution, passion, folly, and sin. The constitution is good nature: whether sin-governed Is just nature, I'm not sure I'm wiser than thou: But I know it's wise to love the person best, And follow a proud man to his ruin, and to be Lowly and foolhardy, to stand fast by a vow. I am there with you in making common cause with folly And folly's guest, low passions and drooping hope, Pacing the same dull round as in the dungeon's gloom, Where from man to man, although he enter in With aching teeth, we turn from one to another, And the door-mat reminds us of the pleasant place. The figure of the soul is a great power, A symbol of the personality; but Man's soul stands still as a pillar of the ark, And the winds stir it not, they cannot shift What is made so immovable by the soul. If the body were the symbol of the person, As rock is symbolized by cliff, and as flame By coal, the wandering and astonished soul Would wander out of the body, and could Not find any where to rest, and would have power To act and affect all things; but as water is Symbolical of bread, and of the human At once, body and bread, so the true soul's Symbol is the human spirit, which still Is outpoured from it, surviving this life. Soul has no peer in universal powers, And is probably the least understood. It is the fountain of all excellence, Of all the elements of morality. 'Tis the subtle electricity, which unites The rational and the noble with the sublime, Of which the sum results, though by different laws, And through independent channels, still expresses The principle of change, as all the universe Is change; yet the soul is independent still, That energetic power, which influences entire The sum of human acts, though lower contracted. I've heard it said, and some would fain believe it, That soul has no peer; but allow it not. With us, every man's a loser in that way; And with our antagonists, every man's a winner; Were we a nation of soul only, 't would be a nation Wasted by maladies from other nations spent. If by "every man" you mean by "he," or "she," Or "we," all live as immortal souls, and share Each man's moral powers, as senses or apart-- Why, you are always dying; and, if you die, Like other beings, leave a name and date. Our peers in all the histories of former ages Were always souls of great professors and poets; Some collected works of genius, some polished fancies, And all made prose or poetic observations. Poetry, collected in great men, may be a vice, And haply foster the follies of the few; but great Poetry is the watchword of all intelligent mankind; And the minds of all collectivities aspire To excel the crown of prose, or please the range Of mass-consumption, by the pen of experimental poetry. Prais'd be rhythm, and praised that sweet advance Of words toward harmony, till they balance Our center of gravity, until we join Our becoming thighs in motion, and do assume The godlike posture. Prais'd be Heav'n, for this New world of music, and the voices that float To friends and foes alike in harmony! Prais'd be Heav'n, for this harmonious order Of matter, and the coordination of form! Prais'd be rhythm, and praised its careful reversion To thought; till, through long centuries ev'n, it grips Our spirit like a presence, brings before our eyes The person, and our ideas of him descend To the ends of feeling; well might Plato boast, That his erudite laws made easier the wise imagination. To feel that the veil of earth is withdrawn, Our spirits expand, and all is delight; Our inmost nature stands revealed to our eyes, Our potentialities at large displayed. The present hour reveals the past and the future, And all the middle times in common day. The present hour discloses heaven and hell, In the broadest strokes beautifully converging: I see ev'n now the future struggles to be made manifest; The distant dates are veering on the verge of day. Is this, O fellow-man, thy picture, thou whom I have created Because of thy presumed relation? And must thou ask me now For an eternity of endless years, and as a price have I extracted This imaginary relation? Is this portrait the portrait thou wert desirousest? Is this all thy conception,--and must every word and action In this portrait be invented for thee, and wert as happily ignored? What love is, I'll tell thee! Ah, surely this is love! It is the love of life, when our souls are full of love's regret! 'Tis a love of the eternal sunshine and of the eternal shadow, 'Tis a love of the winds and waves, when all life is in jeopardy! It is a love that must be sure and secure, though the danger be deep and wide; It is a love that must not give up, though the undertone of woe Are ever sinking to infinity, while our souls are drunk with this wine of possibility! And not all liable to loss as our wealth; we know it who have striven, And found, in the end, a treasure beyond all self-delusion. This love of existence; this love is the love of the soul's possibility, In the love of the whole creation, and of the part thereof we call man. And that other love, of existence and of of love, is the love of the world, And of all the parts of the world man knows, and has well-nigh destroyed. If I lay here, and we died even here at the upland, And no one found me, or if one friend did-- If I lay here, and the world found us; If, in truth, the ages found us out, And the watchdogs of the world found us out, Why then should I tremble--should I fear the traitors Of the world? In my husband's place I software run with the rest, And be where my husband was, in the fatherland, and the lark Sing on, even as the lark, of the new day that men call day? If I go down to the shore, why go down to the shore? If I go down to the shore, and come no more, Why should I fear the dangers over there, Where the grave is, even at the end of the shore? If I go down to the shore, and come no more, Why should I fear the watchdogs of the world? But, alas, if I once went down to the shore, And my body lay there with other less valued things, One sad solace only, what should be my delight? Yet, if some lover, sensitive and noble, Watched the pink lying on the grave with a flame, And though his lips could not praise too highly That locket of yours--his sense would not degrade The faded form and the bad luck of your life. So the white eyelashes, and the ghostly white Hair, that floats to the bench in the evening air On the silvered shoulder of a March night; So the smile, so the form, as I turn the page For the first time, of all that beauty is; So your love, once, and for ever, is on my brain, And on the book that I cannot put down. <|endoftext|> It sprang in one image to his mind. It spread its billows round the boy in wrath, And flung him on the silent cat to sleep. He began to rage against God, against man; To scorn the pride and privilege of these, And faint for want of that which made the best And most of them his equals--joy and sport. He saw himself the peer of kings and queens, The pleader of the cause at mooted battles, The thinker who foresaw the sundry wonders That yet unutterably marvelous Would glitter on the paths of high desire, And yet he little cared for these and more Than he did for boons and flattering honors, And power and life and death and the things that are. Then sudden he arose in might and returned To the poor cat, to that scuffling mouse of mousetraps And the poor human horse that terrified him. And cat and horse and human heart that beat And legs with tiny springs that ached and shook For shocking, unthinkable things he caught. And sat as one who sits by moonlight on The heart-shaped house of buttercups and rain Where love and sleep and passioned breath are given. And his hair stood up and his eyes had tears For sheer delight and wonder of the things, And all the raw, loveless world was his. Till those gray clouds crept out of the west And those gray birds flew out of the east And the shining sun came forth in the west And the night came in with her long veil on. And all the things he saw and heard were then The dim thoughts of a man in a dream, And the good sun and the good stars and trees, And he was Happy Old Man! Seven little Letters flowering in my typewriter capacious letters numbering not many and my little fingers writing, I am using my fingers writing Love, I am using my fingers. <|endoftext|> "House of the Sea Palace", by Joseph Brodsky [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] On the brink of an hour a halt of snowflakes In the sky, and the supper with seals Somewhere at the heart of a white city Somewhere in the centre of a vast sea Somewhere at the very heart of the continent At the end of the world! Bashfully of unicorns and pixie booties Perched on the shoulders of mountain torrents Hoarding their milk for the year of lambent dawns, Citizens of the sea kingdom, I am asking you To accompany me on a flight to the spot Where I will spend the night, and at last To be buried in the sea-moss, Where at night, Under the cover of the clouds, Flickering their milk, the unicorns Lock and barrel with the pixie booties And with sunbeams—Tron-like—sling the sea— Singing merrily, singing simply, singing Of gods and thunderbolts, children of ocean! <|endoftext|> "Koya", by Joseph Brodsky [Religion, Buddhism, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] In the silence of the evening, as the crowds Welter round us, we shall pass. We have been Near the flash of the flags, the tumult of the street, Near the shouts, near the crashing of drums. Our hearts have been near those thronging times, Ranged in rows, the sweet ones, the long, long rolls Of the bellydotes, and near the dragonflies We have followed the way of the gods. We have seen the light, the fireflies, the smoky night, The river, the darkness. And our hearts have laughed, and our voices have rung With the sound of herds and of flutes. Now we come. <|endoftext|> "Green Tea", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, Growing the Perfect Teeth] No other tea fills your mouth, tea which is not only not produced by the small vagaries of tea trees, small vagaries, but comes from near the sky, its stems and leaves existing only to fascinate those olfactory organs, to make your teeth lighter and more fragile, to soften your bone structure. Your teeth should be like the gentle leaves, all puffy, all pearly, all bronze-white, the color of the clouds which fall upon mountains, and which cover the sun, they have a certain brightness about them. They are not heavy and do not hurt your teeth. Green tea fills your mouth with calmness, is aromatic, it brightens, it warmens. <|endoftext|> "My Soul", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity] The world is no better than at any time since its birth and it will certainly die, but why not enjoy a while the fleeting, the poor plagiarism of fleeting phenomena? Pretend you are one of those songs which sing of a greatness which disappears, in which all traces of one's existence vanquerish, and which, in one way or another, have every day been stolen by the larger life which ultimately rules us. Today I want to sing not of greatness, but of a garden, of a wind, of a beam of light which within me makes a shrill humming. The world, which is hardly worth speaking of anymore, is no more, has less greatness and less hum, than the life, which is hardly worth living, and which so few people ever manage to live. In an endless fashion the little things die, the stars are lost in dimness, all the little lives die in a great darkness, a shade of blue, and a few stars begin to twinkle again. All that is perishable in the world has been stressed over and over, and each succeeding generation has recognized that it is more important to make additions to the graveyard, to record the names of the dead, to build churches to hold the wandering lamps and to feed hungry hands. The great dead, we speak of Sartre and Beauvoir, and yet they are the certain out break of the past, they are the flowing tide of decadence, and the modern world would have sunk forever but that someone braved the outer edge and paddled back, and the dye was shed upon the clay once more, and, in some fashion, the old world is our own again. But the living have their destiny, they are so few, and that destiny has no more to do with what they will be than the souls which are lost in every ocean, each one a different fragment of the endless blue. The great dead, we speak of Sartre and Beauvoir, we speak of Goethe and Ludwig, we speak of Camus and Titian, and yet the great dead are no less a novelty, they are the invisible, weary, wandering souls of the past, which we imagine being awake at some moments in the long past, but which, in each and every life, have slept, and which are the matter of all generations. Each successive man lives once in a small, miscellaneous life, which seems, in its special kind of fleetingness, much like the life of all the other days and hours, except that, in this brief one, we are not surprised to find a peculiar lack of any special interests. The dead were not of the distinguished, they had not cars and power, they were not given to great achievements, they were not said to have loved freedom. This was not the age of whimpering nor of rash loudly proclaiming their convictions, nor was it thought wise to remind the world that it was wiser and better to have loved one mother and one father than a motley lot of distant and discontiguous men. We know the ancient division and our natural feelings range around it. We are shocked, we are not surprised to find the old order altered, and if we are shocked, or if we are shocked we feel that there is nothing new under the old; it is as if there had never been a single good word between Sartre and Beauvoir. It was not always thus; there were times in the long, stagnant, quiet ages when men had the sense to conceive a greater order, a more perfected humanity. At such times a small few became musical with meaning, a little past it would have been surprising to call them philosofyists. They were sometimes students at the Sorbonne, and there they read Boileau and Sartre, and they wrote, for there were such people then, and there are such people now. But there were also others, a class more likely to be found at playhouses or on a university campus, who could not be bothered to read what might have been called "The Social Contract," and who would not have understood a word that Merleau-Ponty had to say <|endoftext|> Of what the husband hath said unto the wife. "But now we will record what follows further In words of milder soundness; Who thus it were have made your thought divide, Have thus separated in bookship your thoughts, Of that you heard. "From this time was entered Diana, She who to the Paphian court had gone, When she heard of Menelaus' fall. But first she would have slain or brought to end The prowess of Ulysses in the ships. And as she heard the tidings of the Achaean City rising on the deep, so longed she there To see it, and to take Ulysses with her. "I, too, at that time desired to go To that new world which was to bear my race; But that my high-souled parent, Iulus, Besought me first with hearth-plough and ploughshare, And then with timestone and an olive branch. So that some light task before me I had Pried I dare not, or undertake; I sought To please him fully, and himself willingly Gave grace for honour to me. Now therefore With this one labour with him I built a altar And laid thereon a silver incense-bearing Towhy; it was the middle of a broad walk Part bad the wayfarer to go, the rest to tread By measure easy. I chose this opportune Place for the design of my bare arms by one Who had alighted his horse there in the dusk And spied my true appearance. 'The day is bright,' He said, and waving high his spear, drew back With all his sounding comrades to his senses. " 'Speak, O man, and I will answer you,' I said; and that day went to Tenedos To see that navy which was now assembled Forth from the same Ithaca. And when I came With gentle speeches to them, and with soft talk Forgetting all servitude and living off the state, Their very royal among them, myself I invited To share their public dinner, and then in turn Mentioned the terms of my relief, and to justify What of my condition I should hold alone 'Twixt palace-pairs and public liberality. But he among them changed the tone of his voice And gave me on that sea-going fleet a shock 'For thy own,' he said, 'what need I asperse That I not receive as well the boon for thee?' "I paused, and like some weary seaman cast Words lying on the water, seeking the way Clear through to lead me back to my dear land. 'My friends,' said he, 'men of my race have been Supreme from Age of Inachus down to this; And with a god-like end, victorious, we pass The thousand years; therefore do I hold my seat Firmly and without dilatory foot, For them and their who after me may yet draw breath. But thou, as once thou wert a Trojan, welcome here, Where after thee honest heart-felt sincerity Shall kindle. For in this city and in Thebes Can any man by flattering hope be made To know thee and to love thee and to live?' "'Thy gifts,' I said, 'would be too little to them Should I restore them, seem so worthless here. But if this is not enough, go thou to some Old woman that thou find at or near the docks, And ask her by the fame of thee to give Thee fifty measures of the greatest money, And I will bring her up a chest of treasure, Which she shall give to them that shall go with thee And find shelter for his dwelling-place or hers. And he that finds shelter for the night Shall have a double portion of the treasure.' "This we did, and without a word we passed on Toward the ship, where I the ladies conveyed. The next morning I left the fair Netherlands And Thebes, for that is my native place, To go where ships are to convey me hence. Then thinking it good time I spent in the Town of Ophir, on a mighty river, Nor yet was my equipment changed, for I Wore the best and come the best, and that was all. "Thus the ill-fated way that I went on Theodosia had known, the city of Thebes, And fair Orestes, that hath much gold, I robbed of all, but the rich nobles' wives, Who in the sacred temples lie, and are The finest women born under the sun. These to the sea I robbed with my hardihood, For forty talents of solid gold; But in the harbour was a most worthy wight, And he would give me bread as coin for nothing, And that he would not give me bread in exchange I therefore of my treasure made a bitter joke. But when there arrived at dawn the time of going To the city, which to our thought little daunted By night, I took my labour and my cunning To find a door, to ingle them in the place Where the good man dwelt. And when we found the gate I spake within myself for I did not like Turning in a strange place unto a hardened crow, 'What need," I said, "of speech or whisperings To enter where she is? A hard case I am That should have her praise for honour done.' "So saying, I laid my breast against the bar, And entered privily, and set my feet Against the grate, and made no halt, but strode Forth up the length of the fair and wrought A very rover. But she beheld and kist Me as I came, and came forth from the place Into the threshold of her house, where all Grew fiercely alive and heard me call and call With such an outcry that the whole wide place Amazed was. She bound up all my hair in bands, For I had washed myself at morning tide, And I had oiled my hands, and I had put Upon my feet the latest drop. She bound My head with a wreath, but I could see the oil Fading out from it. For upon my eyes Stood the clear skies as 'twere all fitter still To rest than to dwell on; and yet I wept When in her arms my forehead was laid down, Wretched woman. But at last she bound my hands With a silken fetter, and on me showed The fitting well, and at one throw switched me Into the water, and from me the oil Fell heavy, and the lily which I was. Then in her hall she fetched a well-curbigered drink And poured it forth, and yet again did call Me, saying: 'Ye holy virgins, come, draw near, And taste of this, that I may confide in you.' Then all the rest collected, and came near, Waking me with their incense. Then she began To chide me oft the while, saying: 'Ulysses, Why art thou here full of sorrow and wo? Alas, if I have learned in any wise To read these letters, that writ above With the true Universal Law Which ever moves the Universe, I might have wrought a great stone to throw Far heavier than this. But since I know The point from whence I came, O how should I Live in more wonder, seeing this is The prime condition of all Truth, That thou accept it. How the twain Newly set eyes on Truth I marvelled much To see: and now this woman, true And in earnest Christ's wife, the same thing. Wherefore, O now how full of doubt are we And much accumulate in our mind. Say, since thou art come to Trydom's see, First seek thou out the Universal King. Behold, in Thee are all things, and have none; And therefore to Thee the inventress true Must out, create, and express all things, True as thou dost see them, be not slow To express thyself, nor to believe In Thee, for Thou art all attestation. This God is King, and Lord of all things, And so, if ever, in his own domain. No shadow of a dispute may stay His invariable operation, For still he makes himself seen, and stands, Beholding where and how his glory passes. For when his foot is in the east And his face in the middle of the sky, Hence is it that the stars all rise at noon, And go not down at nightfall; and again At the meridian time are all again Awakened to their voice. Therefore, what Thee Takest away, all else can so too. Truly Thou art too wise, and that is why We gods cannot express our thought aright. <|endoftext|> First, while he studied sublime and famous writers of the Ancients, the precept of all which he learnt he put in the <|endoftext|> Many that they missed the larger trees their size to fullfilled feeling Or, are they little lizards that have an incorrect way of grasping, Or, can it be true? Could a pure press of heaven create life on our infancy? And, since the moon and stars do just this, How else could a plain man be born a shrunken man? To refuse pleasure which you could not receive, Be careful, for all pleasures hatch the serpent's teeth, They hatch the evil serpent, not the snake we know, They hatch the evil serpent that the innocent outward shows, They hatch it not to any serpent found within. They hatch it in the days that not even morn opens, The serpent it hatches it is the holy Godhead, (Who knows its meaning, uses it not discerned, But, meaning it, interprets, spreads it out and dims The meaning, but not the use, it is his own) Their worship was, soon as begun, for the grace of heaven; And, if this grace be denied, 't is but to save pains. Which pain, could they but foresee their own injury, they thought A worse. And now, what losses have been incurred! Inferior may they be (Though Heaven shed hatred on them, misery on misery), To what the miserable have sinned, to what they have deserved. Though such a mercy, their imputed, is a ruin; Though heaven's anger, what the hell they must inherit. Seek not the Christian church for virtue--she is not here; 'T is fled and desolate of earth's genuine sons. You your former greatness may palliate, By their virtues you excuse your new disease, And make it seem a only moral condition, A burden worth bearing, ere you bear it: But 't is but an air, by which they lead you to be false, To make you wish you were not true, or else believe More virtuous than you are. They their own weapons use, They do not take those given by God for battle. The ancient serpent still divides the soul; The Greek and Roman angels conquer; But the Christian angel, the Christian cross, Confesses the soul's slavery. It will, although the cross be clouded with gore; It will, although it be tarnished with rust; It will resume its pristine gleaming white, After it has borne the punishment due; It will be scoured with fire, and bent low, By moral, and modest, and pious kings, Baptized in pure oleomaniac flood, And clothed with all heroic grandeur, By Genoa's daughters, heirs of Diana. When he whose mind comprehends All human deeds, hath left not A brother's right half torn, Half dismembered, bleeding, lame, On the naked desert; When he whose heaven-aspired bosom Still joins with ours, hath left not One remnant, one drop of human, Hard-driven through arid ways; When he whose monarch reigns O'er the starry halls of heaven, Hath left not one upright among Thy more than million of sisters, Male or female, small or great, When that prince, our tyrant, shames Our palace, sways our temples, And our more than monarch hangs On a corner stone of time-- Oh! who shall cleanse us of such sights, Or bid our parvenues keep true To the virtue that in a wife Doth best fulfil the lust of love? Then, beware: be but swift To do that which thy Creator will Featured with sweetness: for too long now Thou dream'st of empty fancies dim, In which to glide with easy motion, Glad to depart from earth, but longing to come Once more ere from that heaven removed; When, often leading by the voice of duty Unto the smiles of humanity, Men shall bless thee, as thou art, with love; And thy light grow darkness, tamed to come In the great presence of eternal truth, With love's blind type, for ever one In the great presence of eternal love. Out of the light, Over a smooth black stream, Towards which the brisk current Dissolves the plaster of the shore, Panting, and wandering, and lonely, I, with the infinite sadness Of a woman when the child was born, See what life is--bend with me Over life's bared bosom, till at length I, too, reach the shadowy shore Of the great death. That from thy soul The soul of adultery May have birth, behold the sin Is like unto death: --He lies Who leav'st darkness without, He lives who in the light Dies not--beware the soul That to the deep brings up Things earthly, earthly with the eyes That in the light partake The death of the present life! Half dazed with smooth speech, but flushed and pale, My heart is trembling as the leaves, Pierced by the cold November air, Quiver trembling through and through with light: And my confused thoughts, and half I love, Like to a boat which here is rafted, Splashing and struggling on bright waves, Ebb, and together far away Dispart in the wide grey main. This life of man is like to a boat, Which crosses a broad and flowery sea, Fair, and fair in the murky night, And all the loved ones come and go: Each loves the other: and the waves Are as their equal, bearing both Peace and joy; and their poor living only. So is the life of this our clay, Fair, and fair, but with a mighty wreck At every moment, and a pain Like the heart's very throb in its throat; And short and filthy also is The life in the light: such dreary And fearful fillings of life's scroll They give it, and those leaves no more Of green leaves, but teeth to grind: Woe to the wretch who thus can live, But well to those who keep the path Of life upright and great and true, And in the bright palms of every day Do ten thousand things as fair and right And sweet, as in the dim night. I would have lived in accordance With the life of our great Teacher, Fervently reading his great books, And praying at morning and night With an humble heart and with contrite, For the love of our great Teacher. And my house was like to his grave-home In the country, and my name was thrown Like salt into the national sea, From whence there never came so great The thanks and the honour, where such glory On human intellect, or for either Ever in this world before. And so it chanced one morning: As I was returning from a walk In the country, heavily I sank By the curve of a hill in the dusk, And a few white streaks in the river were Like the tatters of a shepherd's coat. I was dead with the weight of the years; And I fell into the river, and was drowned. It was deep that the river; and I saw Through the foam of the mists that gathered there, With a light that was like regret, Sank my broken spirit, or seemed to sink it, Until it was but a shadow, and I found That, if I looked at the waves that flowed on, I was actually entombed by their shadow In the past. And ever, as the years rolled on, I was buried, and hid beneath them, and gradually I became a tangle of threads of history. One more shadow that seems to grow Still higher and taller than the others, And hang up among the world's great hills, Like an old oak at its parent tree's root, Still leafless, but a thousand year-tides have grown Together in one knot and twin Of celest-all history: I am he. His shadow moves on through old forests Of log-huts, and the wave of the river Throbs in the trees, and the grass is gold, And the whole night seems a funeral, And the dead years move in their funeral march, While many mourn, but no one avenges; While many envy, and some imagine Each others' quiet death. And through the landscape Roll the broad sun with his light race, And through the narrow valleys, As through dark abysses, All the moving shadows, The light-bearers of the hours, And the drifting and changing boats With their bright sails and sails of silver, Which from some future day will float down With their silver sails a-thru the bays. For I can see far into the future, The old brook shall not always flow; And I can see a child that is doomed To be born blind. Now, I will fix my eyes Upon this child, and all the future shall pass Before my eyes, and I shall not see it. <|endoftext|> The fruits of each field as soon as gleaned, Then new fashion'd dress each maid prepar'd Of one fair garment. Next them a train Of youths and maidens goes in hand in — Towards the altar — whence a crowd approximates. A quiet life this ceremony pent In each maiden's breast, till at the last The aged priest bade call the Bride's Fan. Down by the shore in haste they all came back At the greeting of the ancient Priests' Son, With the glad hope of little eventide, That promis'd repose; but in the isle's recess He takes up the Bride, and on the shore hides The Priest that brought her, and the old Man which she sways. Then their imag'd Bridegroom descended to the sea, And sought the pleasant shore; and them enfolding In his arms, still left them some cov'ring fair, Though so perverse, of pink bestrew'd with wither'd leaves. Yet those little scraps are honourable isle-wear, For she, the rustic's gift, was fashion'd after one Whose want began the people to deplore; Whose rudeness to their presence many an one, When they were men, did ill oblige the place. Here the labourer doth all day lie supine, And the farmer returns at night to rest; Here is no gaming, or the show of it, None of the juvenile theater; But the good man sits, and gazes with delight On the past night's frolics, and feasts his mind With a true farmers food, his cattle and his grain. When the tann'd lamb crackles on the plate, Or the citron's bitter prickly on the stone; When the young stork toe-toucheth in the air, And the turtle-dove is heard overhead; You may know it by her grave old-world ways, And her long-look'd-for carcase, That cometh from the land of dainties and music. O ye buried corn-sheaves under my roof, O ye labouring, old, once living beings, O ye fair, long-dead, You do me honour, And all my household, ye graved keep In your dwelling-place: For in your ceaseless bustle And in your constant toil Grace abides not alone, Not alone, that wooes and submisses, But all her happier gifts, That men, When men were wanting, miss to see. Hear, ye Elders, spectators great and good! How the children run With their whirring wings and tumbling waves; Hear, from the field of morn, All the clamour of the waking world; O ye solemn throng, Hear, and grant your voices to me. As of old, when ye saw the Unafraid Standing here your champions, And your children's children following the three; Men with shouts of joy So forth with victorious cheers Marching we come: Down the line with our choral company Bringing all your resounding mein All ye who in your childhood went with me Ye who with me went And now are coming over me; Bring all your echoes and all your groans Down from your elders standing with me; And by the might of the sustaining high May you be stretched on me Till we lie all side by all side, Till we lie all side by all side: Then we'll avenge the unnumbered innocents Who were slaughtered by the Arab warriors; Then we'll avenge them by high-tide and day Into their (peaceful) hands I'll entrust The forts, and run over all their tillings And the lands they have kept and waste: The fruit-trees, and the harvest lands, The pasture-corn and grain; The wicket and walls along the water Where the herd and poultry are fed: These with the sheaves that they have caught; And with the flax and the hemp I'll hope To bring as many as they will catch. And I'll entrust the towns, and all their Cities, and all their riches and victuals, Till they are laid on mighty loads: We'll plunder them gladly and willingly To furnish victual and forage to our troops. Into the battle we'll. And when we Have burst the ancient wall and centre-wall, Then will ye hear wild reports abroad, Of the unconquerable might and strength And valour of our host. So to the morning when I came over A great host was marching from afar: And I could only say, "Oh that a slumber Might fall on the courage of these warriors, That they might sleep in unknown fields;" For the way seemed strange and the way seemed vain, And they seemed engaged in unknown fight. Then a shout that was heard afar Took us forward in that wonder-working, When a great host was marching through the night: And I could only say, "Oh that it might Might be (my boy) that they were children of mine, Born of my bone and blood;" And to the rising of the moon I went, And to the first light that came thereout I cried, "GOD save our fathers' homeland!" And to the setting of the sun, I went Back to my own little country-side. Who do you think we are? We are not here By our fathers' bone and blood; Nor are we here by our fathers' will; Forged upon an evil plan, By a rich man's instigation, In a plot against the nation's life, For the profit of a few. Forged in a neighbouring swamp By a sharp wind that shook the boughs, The plot was successful; The plot was treachery, By a foreign power. Yet we have found a peaceful way To escape the grasp of bondage; And not by chance or by pluck, But by duty's better part We have escaped that fatal grasp; Yet we are prisoners in our own land. We are bound over here by an oath, An oath that set our fathers free; And we will true and trusted service pay, Full truth and faithful truth declare, And honest labor earn our just rewards. It is our right and our charge to tell The case, if case there be, Of all who here in chain-chains dwell; And we will not withdraw the hand Till the charge is laid aside. We are bound over here by an oath, An oath that set our fathers free, And though we have broken every pledge, We are loyal to our country's trust. And we will die, e'er the flag we raise, Over a bloody field, If we must perish, e'er our flag is torn, And our people are wronged. Yet we have earned a more than honorable name; And we'll bear it unshaken as the stars in air. We have done our duty's part; now we must do our part again. How did we rate them? At best, no better than wood and kin. At worst, no worse than devils and beasts of prey. But now, what do we find? One can see they were made Not for ourselves alone, but for freemen still. And though there have been failures and stumble-stumbles, There have been successes, too. And here we find That we are not so bad after all as people say. How did we rate them? How do we rate the plant? Below-average in each category of merit. But now, what do we find? We find that it deserves A fair hearing, and should be noted and praised, Not only for this year's failure, but for years Past, when it has shown past experience of failure. How did we rate them? At best, no better than oil At worst, no worse than coal, and as mean as mud. And now, what do we find? We find that it may be That oil and coal are getting their just deserts; But that steel, like letters in the mercy of time, May get them just as well as anyone. How did we rate them? At best, no better than oil; What will we do to obtain it? Probably, use With diplomacy and patience--naivete without that. We shall persevere, till such time as it be Fearlessly revealed to the world, and then It will be necessary to make it available. What will we do to obtain it? -- Naivete without that. We shall persevere, and, though not caring much, We shall not be driven to wonder that it has been. What will we do to obtain it? We shall persevere In making it available to the world; And whatever plans we may have for securing it, Will be supplemented by plans to procure it, While with steel, gunpowder and chemistry, we'll combine <|endoftext|> And the pale sheet. I watch the curtains now, Dip to meet the new sun Haunting each dusty pane Like a lothsome face. One scents the drowsy hair And moves to the door. I think of the shuddering maid Whose throat I'd writhe to kiss; And wail: Dear God, Why have I washed My hands of? Deep in the heart a demon sleeps On stories he has read: the embers red, He carries his torch on his sleeve, In spectacles that have seen hell. My father, who has pleaded for me many times, Sneers now at the ghostly faces up there, Baring their teeth, slack from their vain pleading. "Who will have me now? How dare they?" he moans. And so he sleeps; But me, I cannot sleep: I keep, as I have learned to since I was small, That when I look to sleep, I see them rise, In spectacles that have seen hell. In the frosty midnight I see A woman's screaming face, Falling, falling, Falling into the snow; And over it the frozen trees Push their bosoms out of the way. I see her white face in the drifting snow, And the red knotted branches; And over it the branches bend, And carry it into the road; And a dim light shines over the snow, And a dull thaw steals over the snow To cover the screaming face. And the screaming continues as she goes Across the bare and beautiful land; And beyond, even where the bend in the road Goes grasping into the distance, There are bodies of men fallen; And all night long she screams in the night, The screaming of the frozen trees. The year grows old; the year grows old; A great golden apple blossoms On a stalk of gray and ermine; And the elfin strings of the blossoming tree Sound a song to the night of May, Till all the empty winds of the passing year, Answered thine laughter with roses. A rosebud fell to earth At the close of the day; It was trodden and trampled to nothing, But it stirred to life at the touch of a wing That passed with the morning light. We may laugh, now we are grown old, And the winds be loud and high; But the rosebud that fell, on that old Earth, Laughed out a life beyond its clay. And so, before that ragged hole is made By the blowing blast, We laugh, now we are old, Laughed through our tears, and knew the Rosebud of the earth-- The Rosebud that fell to earth-- Laughed for a season and died. I am thy sister; thee and Meghan O'Neill Are the lost ones. Meghan O'Neill and Stephen Ware are dead together; they sleep together, side by side, They are asleep; they are asleep And neither will lift a head; I see them not, but only one that stands and moans, His face is haggard with pain, He trembles and mumbles a refrain With burnt lips. I am she that was clogged with thorns, I am she that was drunken with sorrow; Sabetha Fitzgerald, better known to fame By the name of Susan Barry, is dead, In the monastery below Lunenburg, She was the daughter of an officer, And on the sumptuous anniverary Of her glorified existence, St. Dumortier of Amory, Fresh from the scenes where the Sacred Heart was, Is befittingly commemorate, Not with the Founder's letters, Nor with her Church's rolls and ritual, Nor with her treasures of unremembered gems, Nor with anything of her that was famous, Nor with a present from her native land, But with the implements of her own household That she used in her own presence, And nothing else, I swear to you, Shall have the glory of being her grave;-- And her fame shall be remembered When this Cardinal, that excommunicates All women who are double faced, Sees her name thus forever block In the records of history. Weep not for Meghan O'Neill. Weep not for Susan Barry. Weep not for Meghan O'Neill. But look no further, weep no more, For Meghan O'Neill, the beloved Of a good man, a good mother, That loved the wood in the morning, That loved it in the evening, And at the end of her life, The Immortal Lord of Life and Thought That made the Stars, and everything That is or ever was or ever will be, Is of one colour, one type, one mould, And this is the same colour, type, mould, And this is the Immortal Colour, And this is the Immortal Thought. When you hear the black crow, And the single swallow, When you see no moon, And no starlight, When no shadow, Then you know you are thinking In silence, alone. There are blackbirds in her beanfield, There are swallows in the sky; And you hear the black crow, And the single swallow, And the drum in the forest, And the tall corn stands tall. You only ever hear The single swallow, You only see the crow, And the blackbird in the sky, When there is a moon, When there is a star, When you only see The blackbird in the sky. The blackbird in the corn, The crow in the wood, And the drum in the forest, Are only sounds That come from death. The corn-top sways in the wind, But the single swallow Comes with the wind and takes The corn from the ground. The corn sways in the wind, The swallow takes flight, But the immortal blackbird Comes with the wind and takes The corn from the ground. O blackbird! where do you fly to, O swallow! where do you stay? O crow! O musician! And all at once I saw In the purple clover A perfect love-sick. She walked in purple in the field As I saw her at seven years old; She never knew how far or high She was, but walked in purple, And thought that it was lovely. In the great sea of green that flowed Like old wine from a leftover cruse, She loved the sea-gulls and the things That use the air like lungs, She loved to fly above the birdless world. And now she is changed and gone, Blown as a leaf in the blast, A little one, blown apart, With lips that never loves the sun, With eyes that could not see. Then back I looked and thought of her, And cried in the silence, "You that were my dream, O bird!" And she was nothing in the place But a purple bird with wings. There is only the sea of green In the parting wave, And my leaves in the field, and she, With lips that never loves the sun, And eyes that never saw. She that I loved so completely, I am only dust to her; She that I loved like an angel, I am nothing in the place But a purple bird with wings. For you that were my dream, O bird, I am only dust to her, For you that were my dream, O bird, And I only dust to her! Oh, you come with your brown and bright wings, And hop my fence every day, You have no place to land But on my narrow bank of grass. And even on that narrow place I turn from you and you fly! The pepperbush and the blueberry patch, The blooming haw and the honeysuckle, The tulip tree and the fig tree -- All are playing house to the strawberry vine, And singing low like cuckoos -- And the jasmine is mad with glee And climbing like a madam's tree. Oh, you come with your brown and bright wings To hop my fence every day; You have no place to land But on my narrow bank of grass. And even on that narrow place I turn from you and you fly. I never got to see what you looked like, And, if I ever knew, I never knew; But I can guess, can anyone find more In any one than all the skill and all That ever you had to give. For, whatever you were, whatever you could be, No one ever heard a word about The hidden beauty of you that they knew. What are the flowers that wake at morning, <|endoftext|> In quietness abiding 'neath the sod, By mountain and wild brook, that mocks her grave, Nigh where her affection lay in death: --Whom, when the summons of Death is heard, To mother or to brother may be given. Tell how thy manly heart was riven, Tell all the horrors of the day, What heart could never feel regret, What eye could watch idly yet; And weep, old Etta, for the loss Of one so dear to thee, And say, in parting, how thee Heaven Forgave. There will be tears that fall ere twilight, There are those that o'er the dawn may swarm, Sad tears for former joys outworn; For pleasures fled, and joys that failed, Feels the deep and lasting wrong. There is a sorrow that extends back, A sorrow whose earliest teardrops flow Wet with the tears of sadness that trickle From our cold hearts in innocence. We then took no pains to hurt our friend, We bid him welcome with a merry And kind reception, when he came to stay. His face was pleased to greet us, his Interesting way he took us in. While some were dressed, and milking cattle, Some strolling dandies passed before. Some household cares absorbed their thoughts, As weaving webs for smiling cash. But the good man's mind was on the hunt To win our kind attention for the Kind benefactors who had lent him Their active aid in arranging the Social feast on that bright autumn day. When the cups had been generously And kindly raised to him by those Who seemed most willing and eager To give his busy fingers a Sweet holiday afternoon, There were the tears, alas! that came. "Why is this?" he cried, and "Why must We weep?" But of tears and laughter My narrative will retain The maiden's grateful answer. And "why," the father cried, "did you Let your husband's helpful hand be Jesged by the fault of his less Benevolent courtesy?" "For!" said she, "He is my father's friend and knave, And all his merry friends are harsh And hard to please." "And then," pursued The kindly father, with a smile Of judgment, "and then you said That you 'could never look in his Lawrels,' and that is why I Let you go on." 'Tis a fearful thing, a dog That cannot walk, nor run, nor even Upon the steep steep hill top, In his who fixes all night long, And with warm kisses, fondly press'd, Comes to a strange high mountain To the very morning of his life. On the green grass up he looks,-- He sees a something in the air,-- And straightway he mutters low, In a tone very sad and low,-- "There goes my Postie gone." He does not understand, indeed, Why the sun should wake the mountains, Or the vapours cross the high wall, And he whispers low, "We die,-- And the Postie come,--we all do,-- I have had my eyes o'erblown." Then he takes the mountain hill, And down he throws his bottom; And a tell-tale poise of the hip, And sprawl of the limbs, he feels By no draught of the bottle, Like some old column that has lain Unwarp'd for a hundred years, Haply it may be seen Standing there forever,--obscure With vague superstitions, Oftbandeshing of its thoughts, And heralding of a song It may not write nor read, Till winds have warped it to dust. But its poor head is green and fair,-- No wind yet transpires, Till the mournful rock below Receives the Postie's tread, And slowly, slowly turns to gray. "O my Country, the dark lines divide "What once we had been loving; "And the green in my country turns to grey,-- "And the day drifts into night. "We are slave to gold, and to the Square, "And to appearances only. "And you turn from my country and me "For the eyes of the sky-sodden. "For your desire is the same, my dear, "To remake your man in Man, "And you loved the green,--the flowered green, "Which no statues defend "Nor guards can guard. "And I loved the grey,--the ghastly grey, "That no clouds justify. "And now there is but the sun to show "The truth, the truth." <|endoftext|> Glory and splendour, came upon the voice of the chieftain, Steep'd in the splendour of joy, Weeping because triumph has extinguished the light of the eyes; Sobbing because the course of the stream of the fight has been checked By the foe in his strength, and the rain of the arrows is over. Weeping because our love has been smother'd In the foe's all-conquering arm, While the foe in his might has prevailed Weeping,--weeping,--weeping, Drowning of sorrow, drowning of pain, Sobbing at the fount of anguish, thirsting for blood, Fainting at the fount of anguish, fainting at the fount of anguish. Hark to the sound of the sound of the sword, Rushing on the foe in front, Blowing his drum, and spreading his ensign of fire. Weeping because our love has been smother'd In the foe's all-conquering arm, While the foe in his might has prevailed. Treading his savage broad-sword up and down, Hail! chief of the Chimeras, hail! chief of the Chimeras! Rebels are and traitors unto you. Come, as on the wings of the eastern wind, Chant I know the words of your creed. Chant the words of the warrior-chief, Hearken, O chief of the Chimeras. There is a heap of some sharp rock On a hill-side, but a steep hill And a long way off from the fray, And I love to go alone there to sigh With a longing that almost seems to bring Sorrow to me,--for there is a heap of some sharp rock On a hill-side, but a steep hill And a long way off from the fray, And I love to go alone there to sigh With a longing that almost seems to bring Sorrow to me,--for there is a heap of some sharp rock. Far back in the deep desolate forests Of the Chunkum mountain land, Chant we the warrior-sayings old By the side of the way-side rill, Where the leaves fall down in the morning light. Chant we the warrior-sayings old By the side of the way-side rill. Who shall travel with a chief to America? Who shall bind with a rope of snow-white quartz the hair of his head? Who shall ride with a chief to America? Who shall travel with a chief to America? Who shall fasten the harness of a chief to America? Who shall travel with a chief to America? Who shall travel with a chief to America? O Chunkum Chunkum! O Chunkum Chunkum! O where hast thou been for the night-time, the morning and the noon-time, For six days past? When six days are but shadows and floats of the soul, With wings down that beat Never rest, never rest! Yes, we are all weary and o'er the waves On the foam-waves of change, Though our souls be quick like short-liv'd tempests, And the trackless be as stars, And we drift on like spindrift, With no light but the distance that we weigh O Chunkum! O Chunkum! from your deep sea-castles Come the calm influences of the skies, Where the ebb-tide ebbs away to nothingness, Where the stream of being is slack as a river That mourns its own liquidity, And the tides of Time and Space sweep ever forward On through infinity! Yea! on ever onward till the end of things, For we are on the eve of the sun's decrees Whose luminary is as far as the sphere of humanity, Where no thought can follow and none o'erturns Where no fate can fall as a barrier to ambition, Where the throne of God o'er glooms and deserts is silver-grey! Therefore unto the sun, O Sun, no silence should be When thou rollest down thine avenue of radiance, For thou art to silence as is blood to life That circulates afresh through every particle of the frame, <|endoftext|> The threat that brought me sorrow, and the praise Which hailed my ruin--I weep no more! But while they sit and prate, I'll hie me To my lone cell and cleave my heart in twain. Not e'en my sister's love would tempt me now-- Oh! would I were once where first I met her-- Fetter'd, and slain, and buried in her breast! As I was marching forth to battle, A lamp was in my hand; I held the torch to light us on, The wind was with us. It blow'd in my face; it set our feet Beside the very stirrup; It flung behind us chill as night The color of the soil; It shaped us into the pass, and showed How we should battle; And, in the darkness of the night, A voice was in my hand-- 'Strike, boys; strike with your sabres, all! We're going to the city to-day; But you, my boys, hold still! The Hussars are the Fathers of Europe; They're older than Rome; And Europe is the home of their pride. The centuries that have been at strife Are all saved, I'm certain, by them. Strike well! There is glory in it Greater than any gold. We are all Crusaders--you and I; And our Saber has a soul within it, An angel--I mean, a real one! You've heard of the men who fought the Alps, Who trekked through the mountains and decaled, With bleeding feet, through the Perugian grots, To fall in the common mud; While others, with a piety that seems On the making of saints at once and mild, Went to the brothels of Latium. Others,--but I cannot tell you which, For my ears are full, and I have told you Of the men who went forth into the night, Strong with the hope that in some quiet place Was the Supreme Cauldron where all deeds Are washed away forever, and God looks With satisfaction on the consummation Of strivings of men. The years pass on. Great generals have perished, and younger men Take up the work. From hand to hand it happens That one gets killed, or falls in a camp, Or in the intrigue of some secret land Become the victim of an heir of fame Whose hatred has been long time nursed, And, the next moment, comes at the door With a marchlike air, and a knife in his hand, And a letter in his tongue, and a face Like a young Pietro Valori. Of the speech of his eyes I cannot tell; Of his face I cannot divine its make. What I know is, that, from him, at first, Have come, with a feeling as of fear, The hearts of half a continent, who, When they heard what he was like, fell sick To see him like; and have since come, With an away-home look, and a glance As of one that does not see, but dreams The end of some horrible distress, In the husser's leather bag at their side. He was like a garret-monarch, With a bitter, alien smile, and eyes That looked you suicidal. His voice, too, Was strange and violent, as from a mad- Man. There is a shining in his eye Which, as from a lance it tears the flesh, Shocks the eye with light. He was like a bellied Leviathan, Which, having once gotten you, There is no getting away; there is No coiling like his, no way to shore In a three-mile throng. There are men in the Alps who stand on the heights, Warm and sharp with the heat that is like their own, Their hearts thundering down a gorge; There are others, more intimate, who tear Their flesh with the mouths of hounds, and leave In the hollows of your body a foul smell As of horses--white, long-haired horses, which Have eaten your very flesh themselves. As I stood in the crowd, That clambered over the wall, I thought of the mercies of the choir, And felt quite sure that my life was saved; It was a different thing,--there was something About the sombre noise of the polyphonic Choir, just as it broke up, that made me feel That my life might be saved, and then it was gone-- I think 'twas a lodgement in the crowd, And I was alone. But, as I stood there, feeling all was well, A figure like a lightning-flash, white, and high, Leaped in the air and sank into the gloom. I heard the quivering of his voice, And the shred of a song, Whisper'd in a voice so close beside mine ear That I could not but hear the words. When we are home at night, And lamps shine, and hearts are light, It matters little where, or how, Each heart and mind; But when we come to dwell apart, That is another matter; When there is no close company To touch our shadowy heads, And chance acquaintances wander forth, And many are false, The home-little visits are the most Endless, most o'ergrown. While I looked, his eyes, on fire with might, Suddenly passed from me, Nor long had I look'd, before one comes, One comes at last; And all the world is silent, and the gloom Has taken each alone. I hear the streamlet of his song, Whisper'd to his harp, But I am alone, and count the cost. There are many ways of loving a woman Whose life has been unkind to you. There are many feasts of love, to feed the heart At will, when no more indulgence it will claim, But what it will possess. It may be she has many loves, and you Only one; it may be you hold her fast With eyes of burning love, and she flings Her arms round you, and on this account Is unfaithful to you, though never She would be. There are many seasons when the heart hath had Full many a full and jubilant day, But never one of them your darling has known Till now; And yet, when she rises out of the dim forest Of grey and sackcloth, which the past has spread About her, you will find her fairest, if She ask it of you, An old, old loyalty. There are many dwellings far from here, By gardens and streams and towns where men are few; She could reside there, you think, and not grow weary Of her touch, Because she never has looked upon a face Of unrecognized beauty, or beheld A naked truth. But she, had she lived so far away, Could never send her son to manhood,--her heart Had never for his sake been troubleshored, Her only eye Never wondernto him, Her only joy, The saddest thought you ever had was this, "Had I but have waited, I had been sire!" But not to you, not to you now at all, Alone I creep, stretched betwixt the stream and hill; To-day all gilt and manifold, but tomorrow A hungry child, as long as there's yellow bread. We cannot be alone, for there grows at hand Food for thought; and thought is more nourishment Than food itself, And mingles tepidly with the sun. So here in this forsaken palace we shall raise Our hungry faces, and wait what oft may come; And there will come some gracious miracle, Nor shall it be strange, If thus of late I've been a faddist. Here once was I a rebel, thinking life a curse, Believing death a remedy; And I had many thoughts that seemed destin'd well, That seem'd to keep the old rest. I was not happy, for I felt that the tune Of the world's a mockery, And I was call'd a fool and a rogue, and shamed, And all those terms are names to the same sound; But every man's a mocker when he thinks he's wise, Or he hath discern'd a trick. A string of wise men after much plaining long Finds out that there's but one true divine settle-- The state of Nature is that all is corrupt, And the state of Nature is that man is great; And that sure enough is so with every man. But every man is a mocker when he thinks he's wise, Nor knows that he is a rascal and a fool; And every man is a fool and a knave at last Only when he doth forget, And quite forget that he doth know that he knows, And that ne'er came to him so far: <|endoftext|> Sent all her tribe to Derbino's might. Hewn from the marble by the Foemine fair, The palace seen of many a wandering king, Io can only envy, With what an air of royal dignity The name of Lombard has resounded high, And pictures of those lords sublime, That lift the Italian spirit high. And gracious was that troop to view, Where Squanto ever tried her skill To raise a courage in the fairest blood. To show them all their brave intent, Her little art she freely allowed, To deck with arms and wreath of olive, The churlish beauty of the land. And the proud burghers of Calabria Gazed on all with equal eyes, And lauded their virtuous sovereign's child, Who thus should aid their authority. "She doth a perfect work commence," Was the universal remark: "No wonder at her helm so huge, More than her lordly country mo possible; And her brave men by such an art She doth with subtlety upbraid." And Corsinoe gazed on them with pride, Whilst high she proudly marched along; Her heart it beat with pleasure high, As she with grief beheld them there, That she might learn their name and country: "Call me" (she cried) "Corsican" they cried, "I'm all their mistress' and their wife's. And I will keep them true in faith, And guard their prince from every ill." The Brigliadoro stood apart And in his purple thought prolonged What this glorious morning might be. He deemed she would to Calabria be His true and trusted friend in need, That he had known in days before That doubtful peace, when to his court She came, with her tattered bow, And foolish cloak of Tyrian dye, Nor thought a traitor lurked within. He would in gentle tones inquire The cause which brought them to his land, Or in disdainful accents taunting Would challenge them to war at once. To him, as in a serjeant's song, Had Doralice humming came, "To arms, the brigante liber!" The maiden took her faithful breast With more than wonted sweetness and sob, And called him Doralice; Yet neither time nor care had sown In her fair one's breast a trace of fear, Who thus responded to the name. With such a lovely look the maid His eye fascinated did behold; Yet, shaking off her fears, returned To her brave chief and gave her hand, Then strode across the deck with pride And waved her arms, but kept her head low. A breeze from ocean came fresh in, And in the voice of little breath The sailors did exhort her more; And "Brave hearts!" they exclaimed, "that she guide Our course, another hands her helm!" And Doralice, her rosy cheeks With joy did blush, her heart did throb, The pilot with her awning stalk, That quoth not a word, nor stirred her foot. And as she stood, her little hand Quivering did the wreath enfold, Whilst, looking in his face, she thought To feel his hands the weave befray, Yet kept her quiet look, and smiled. So, thus, without a word, directed Her little hand along the deck The pilot and his mate did guide. When safely to the shore they came, Full soon the captain, wonder-bale, Them snorted, seeing her sweet face Of snowy hue, and neat attire, Her taper fingers, her bright hair Circled with a ring of pearl, All yellow, the shade of white, And little brows aquiline Bent on the sea, and o'er her brows Showed half-shut eyes of merry play. And as they came before him there, In gay, amused countenances stood Old VATATION, and his wife, And PRINCE HENRY and his peer, And courteous CALICOT, and two Hot-blooded, heedful of their sire, And mighty RICHARD, with his bride, With rich and poor, the first of all That France had gold to scatter about, The last to weep, and the first to laugh, Their smiles full of the gallant season That should pass them by with barely a sigh. Meanwhile the pilot moves them on, In octothor on the poop displayed; His little band made up of two, Which oftentimes were hardly more than three. "Guide them!" quoth he, "by me that hold Their spirits up, and here their course command, The which by mortal infirmity Cannot well be steered, hence they must bide." The helmsman he forgot not as he steered, His oaken yard-stick and his broad shield Flashing out such flashes of green light, That while he stood the flickering blaze Would oft a little pause to loiter, Then hotting again, his reviving cuts Kept ever in ahead; but they drew As well as he could, but not as fast. At length he cried to WHITE, "Yonder two Approach, for when our pinnace passing went They parted through the middle, I and they. Speed ye on, yet little bit, my man, They soon will be in tears, I'm sure." Alas, alas, what flesh and bone Could do but tremble, flesh and bone (Tho', too, that time and space was short) That now were flesh and bone, were cold, And must be now again, and will, And weep, and grumble, and turn brown, With eyes already turning downward, In their sad, long, and tiring voyage, And tears they shed, and ears too listening To hear what after all he said While passing through the mists he traveled, When falling in a pond he rose, Yet without a word to answer back To what the pilot said so soft, But giving cry to heed his cry, So that they too raised their drowning heads. It was an hour before dark, and under The circling moon they clustered there And sunk again without a word, And then the helmsman cried "Land Before the morn, or I shall die." Their eyes upon the floor were placed, While every one looked up to heaven, At such a height above the night, That he that sat the highest there Was greater than was man alive; For men must add, when kings they praise, That kings are mortal, but they say No earthly mortal could be more than The wit and strength that built the palace In which they held their assemblies; But that which royal rightly means Is not immortal, though of dust. If but to build be their intent, And such as he that built the palace Made in the same, this cannot be; But mortal men have proved it, Since Ulysses measured land and sea Before those mortals went away, Whose names no man can recall, The three Phoenician princes, And the misers of Ithaca. Yet men esteem them better born Than he, of whom you've never heard, Though the same glories glittered in their eyes, And they who ruled such many lands. Yet he, the meanest of the three, Had rather die than wear a chain; For what he did was little good, And what he was, none will doubt it, But perish before his day, While they who ruled the other two Retire at last immortal; But of the mean state whom we describe This man was first, and last of all. And yet this miserable man Found much that he could do and dare, And often to himself he said, "I am a man, I act a man, For death will never take me ill; They cannot take the glory from me, And yet I dare what few have dared, To live while others live in fear. I can remember when I first Gave me the beads, and all my mind Was quiet as a hillside green; For all the ways of sorrow were unknown, And all the woes I had to bear Were naught to what my heart endured." So still he liv'd--so frail his frame-- And such his trouble seemed, and nought, That oft he seem'd almost dead, Like some richly fashioned wood, Hanging by one planing only, And wholly nitrous all. In this brilliant world, where all is fair From sea to sea, from sea to sea, If eagle find not in his breast Some buried phoenix, it is not true The poet's dream of ethereal things. Yet then there was a wily elf, Riding on a spotted turtle-dove, Who cunningly there hid himself, And thence on mornings, when the bird Alone was hovering o'er the lake, Might make her flight, a winged pest, <|endoftext|> Among his friends, and thus to him spake the Sage: "This boasting of the mighty one, who Makes, in the fable of the ship of ^ Moses, The speck that creeps by darkness, to the sun's eye, is set too there; for in the time foretold by the Evangelist, that wondrous white light should come to the Jews, yet for some days past they saw not the face of their long-promised King. But, tell me, and tell me true, what is this people, that toward us with reverence and love they humble themselves, and with such good will intent, that they desire with tears of oil and with perfumes to conjure us, that we may lead them to the land of promise, to the brotherly service of Abraham, and to his eternal salvation?" Whence I answered: "Sir, thou hast indeed said all that thou hast heard. But the desert and the mountain are heavy on me, wherefore I fain would lighten them with thy dear charity. And if thou count me as one of them who believe, say to me, why, when thou art in the daylight, dost taunt me that I am alone?" Then he stood up, and behind him left the riven light, and came unto the other side. So closely compassed about with rock were the valley and the forest, that I could not have marked, wherefore the sage spake not; but, when I saw that he would speak, I set myself to listen. "O true Lover of sheep, and sheep's wool is thy life, which shearse thou never leaves, but always keepest upon thee with fresh fetters! Never for thee did any more hurtless hunter, wandering alone, so badly measure a flock of sheep, than I behold them here who have left off living. But come, and I will tell thee the tidings." And I said: "Incline thee, Dear One, to hear! for I am wearied with such blind and lonely speech." Then he straight arose, and through his own old ears those tidings had heard, which I shall relate to thee aright. First of all he answered to us, who were dumb, and said: "I am no longer prepared for thy coming, and am needful at thy hands. Yet stay, till I send thee faster than thou see'st the purpose and the need. For it will be well enough, if we alone required of him." Thus I, who evermore with fond love allayed my thirst satiate, waited on him, in such friendly form, and by words at such custom fix'd, as his merit took in not being myself a stranger to be so civilly counseled. And when thus he had desired us, and had asked which of all the neighbors we were, he began: "Time is now that, should a man in derogation of the other servants, slander us among the fellows, and say, so would'st thou serve them, and out of gratitude the house rejoice. But vigilance it is harder for me, thus watchful, to keep alone, than to keep in company the countless more that are with me. This is so manifest, and to your senses it so easily is perceiv'd, my sense underneath your fingers is so inglorious, that hath it not been to you as a charge full and impenetrable, declaring me in your presence, and my integrity, and contempt of you, so oft, and in such explicit manner, and in such several grades, that if one had to mention one word, it were "insolence"? To support my negligence in this matter, ye other also allege, and justly, a laziness, in not giving you your places. Fear, that is rightly fear, condemns in us even the least of those commanded us; and you have every one of them, so that command cannot fail to be held sacred. If I had in charge only one servant, more honorable would it be, with whom the others would have seem'd overly numerous; but I have ten, and in walking with them we are joined each to each. If of our disorder we are thus conceiv'd, in attempting to appear reformed, what will ye then have gain'd, that is, honor, security, concord, or even pleasure? To such sad companions, what will ye be subjected, undertaken for so dishonorable a employment?" He thus: "O vanity of human talent! vanity of waste! how hast thou mischief murderous in thy heart, if thou study'st not to hurt another?" I replied: "Either thy words grievously atomize, or else, alas! they strike me as wholly wasted in considering them." "If thou hadst note," he cried, "of these facts, and of their connexion, thou mightest discern whence they derive their origin. These from Eurystheus' winds are taken, when they froth o'er the sharpened cautels of his eyes. These are thrown to the Black-Mountain, muzzle'd of its rage, "From the slashing of these on the mountains' summit, places science believes will least rest vex'd, are served. But if it please thee, I again will tell how they arose. From Eurystheus' winds the storm was taken, when they frothed o'er the sharpened cautels of his eyes, from the toil of scouring up exact information of his errands to the high towers of Plemmyrium. There were artisans, who by art were o'erthrown, who paintur'd had erst so mark'd the winds, that fidelity to God took no hold upon them. More at length was this conflict wrought upon Art and Labor, when to the impeding force of the Black-Mountain it was found that the waves alone deliver'd the dealers in the world. Had the prudent mind of Samuel loop'd his hook into the finger of one craftsman, another came forth from the shoe, and open to the holy house had given the hind, who had intruded, and had into the secret court entered, when the grave old man was sleeping, and labored so strenuous, that had no man assaulted "He of the LEVITE bore a devouring fire, by which all earls and a multitude were burning. The other spake who standeth up afar, yet speaketh quicker, so softly that the ear must feel his whisper. I thus would speak, but that thou burn'st hind these are at the bridge, nos, liase, sotto ille, or I hope ill that by that way we may enter." This said, both on the lad and on the laggard side began to move the discourse, and soon forth came anon the king. As fared that chidden beast, that coming pimp, or stripling dar'd, that all as one would concey a new-made husband, so did all regard him, more haply than derision seemed them to o'er-pass in their way. "O thou, who to the mutually-dissolv'd [Page 74] soul amidst thrusting me," thus spake theREVEREND of Italy, "he who erst spake of pain and torment, now once communest with me, and thrust his hand into my wound. A kind of mourning segregation seems now tie'd about my visage. So suffered I of God, so warrant it from thee. The cause of this hath now befallen., but when thou hadst matter of this libel on the glory of God, so that thou certainly hadst nothing to do, dost thou reverence the decree of the sovran guru, and canst none of thine own thoughts confirm or fight it?" O EXILES of the sacred city, woman-hypocrites that thou art, if thou know'st it, lie not predictably, in thy soft debates, on such a question, on the sacred argument of pain: otherwise had both Jamas and Thines end with the same, or had one been after another, not four, but one great war, and one divination, not, as though from too highly aiming, the poet's and the friend's, but one, as the mother's, of all things capable of envious humor. "How easily beaten into calm docility we avail ourselves you know, when perchance we doubt of what we see: e.g. when flames of mad-dog anger suddenly end in fire of kindliness. And thus, I think, it was with this instrument, which thou seest with me; otherwise it had never touch'd thee, for a moment notate beyond my self-conviction could have driven <|endoftext|> Thereon there is the shepherd God, There is the Queen of Love, And there is Time--all's one, I know. You'd think that all the stars in Heaven Would shrink from looking at so great a One, So great a Queen, with so much honour bound; So great a God, with all that pow'rful love! You'd think that all the cards in Heav'n would be hid, Nor would they dare come forth, lest the great Shemasha Should vouchsafe to peek within their secret heart; But she has blushed and smiled, and already knows All, and can open both the eyes and the lids; And her first wish is--I should say, her first hope, To gaze upon thy face, and to know that the star Of beauty that did guide her to thy blazing throne Is pointing to thee, whom she so haughtily followed As not by thee nor by Olympus was ever reign'd such a Queen-destined, nor such a grand Entertainment! <|endoftext|> Never do a thing that's rash-- Let Life look through and over you Take a day to come to your sight; A new shape that points the way-- All you want must prove to the best, Be to Heaven a keep-sake. Death-in-Life the tree of This you must never cut down-- You must never put out its fruit; You must never show more the Pure white part that is seen by All who come into your sight. If you would know yourself clear, The only place to do it Is in a quiet room-- All shut up with warding wolves; There will you see yourself clear, For a glimpse will repay it For I've found a faithful dog, His watchfulness and trust Has all been my guiding star When time has been most ruff. His morning urine on my pillow, When my eyes are full, Stirs a memory in me That, like a mystery play, Makes me long for and see In Maytime grew the grass On shore to strawberry-scent, In September became a field-- 'Tis Time that makes us pilgrims: He that can plant and bear The flowering poppy, That has a dog to truss And run an old kennel, Has the true friend of death. The farmer lays out the land With his own hand for tilling, And his own heart for raking, And his own eyes for searching, And the own hills for climbing. Who will plough or sow or share Will have for his reward A golden sheaf of golden grain. The farmer ploughed and sowed and worked And forgot the sweet summer's peace, For he needed cash in hand: When the husk of empty hope Fell from his heart away, A dog might make him think again Of summer-time and hedges high. The dog lay snug within his kennel And wagged his tail with glee: And all the farmer's cares for weaving In this land of Fear and Hate, Were as rain and road-dust to him: For he had hopes for his dog's bread-- Hope that was almost despairing. One day the farmer's eye grew bright With a hint of kindliness; He lent the dog a paw-- And, by the simple law That keeps the friends together, He bound his heart and league to him. He fed him first of the day, And rested well: And never again now Was there summer like this one In that warm heart of his. O'er the green and silent glade He saw his dog's eyes shine. That dog was his and only-- And he made it fair and warm By caring for it well; And warmth and, I dare say, love, In winter time alone, Was in that dog's simple heart Like the light of Hesper-bell. Then, when the rose of all days was there, The dog's true loyalty was shown, And, without a sign of fear, That golden link of him tied him fast To his true-hearted friend. He did not cry or bark-- He never seemed to show At all his human heart. For when the frost was on the sod And 'twas an age again, The dog's sweet voice at close of day, In the stillness of the night, Rose from a tiny, far-off, wing That moved in the yonder garden-bed. A sister there had grown With sky-blue eyes and hair, The first time she was apart Since childhood in the world. The dog watched in his kennel, As still as if the sky Were quiet with stars all hid, And all life's strange weather stayed In the simple, simple dog. And it chanced one day that this Sweet child, in her pinafore And tiny bib or necklace, Was left in the open air-- That dog, with his ancient heart, And devotion of old, Stood glad there by her side at all The winter's blast that came. The silver moon's soft halo Is like a dot of flame Where shadows come and go Across the dog's simple sky, And you feel in the pit of your chest That something mortal is there That will a moment die away-- As the cold daylight dies away. He watched the twilight pass With faithful, wonderful gaze, As if the soul of him In shining snows were laid With grace and quietness and stillness That marked him from above, And marked him for an instant and a moment, Until the bitter day was past. And now that night--to tell Of the green garden and the pale Perfect life of it--is less Than telling of the night that burned And consumed that perfect life, From twilight's silver fulness Till dust and darkness heaped the ground. I gazed across the fields to-day-- Across the twilight-shadows--and saw This human pyramid of earth and sky, These five great rivers that take their course Under the American sun, These beautiful islands in the midst Of turquoise water and under Blue field-turquoise--no symbol yet So well describes that Spirit Life, Than this monument to man's wisdom And here our boat put into the bay, And here our fellow-creatures we found, The fat, quiet Chinee and her boys, And these three brothers with their strange eyes, Their speech and their mannerisms and customs, Their foreign dress and strange customs, Their dance and music and many arts. And then we saw the Chinese men, The rich men of China on their carts, Cowslips hanging down to face and nose. And over against them we could hear American songsters sing their battles With cow-bells and jangling cow-string-- And five broad streams of sound were pouring Americaucal music to the world. A hundred little boats went out, Floating dimly in the golden sky, Singing and shouting all together With American tramplings on the shores Of Ch'ien-an, the mountains of Ceara, Lo-Han--Gang-an and the passes of Lao-Tse-- Pogues and Marhingua, where the torrents Gurgle, whirl and foam in dark blue waves, Fierce waves that cleave and tear and dash Tumbling and foaming in foam and roar Round Ch'ien-an mountain and Luchon, Over the falls of Ro-tse and Chia-hwei. And around and around Frogs and turtles and lizards danced and sang; And from the bank and out of the water The long red banana-leaves began to bend; And the young multitudes of Chinees Cried aloud with all their voices at once, "Won-da, won-da!" With steel-bill swords they fought and slew The Lapps and Prussians and Chinamen; And "By-way," and "Nam-at," and "Ch'ang-an," The exclamations ran, "Way-o, way-o," and "Ban-ch'ing," "Ban-ch'ing." Then down a river of crystal lights, Flowing like a cataract down a meadow, And over two vast lakes, "the Three Lakes," And entering "Ch'ang-an" for the third time, We saw on a higher terrace A western altar and an eastern gate, And on the terrace below, With broad flag-poles, an Eastern choir Sing like the angels. And lo, For the third time we entered A long low alley lined with thick red leaves, Filled with the song and laughter and the clashing Of banners and stones and many small fires And the smiting of flags and wind of drums. We came to "Pao-t'ien-t'ai," the gate <|endoftext|> And soon he rises, clad in her singed hair, And tallies nine and twenty summers. You tell me, divine Meleager, How you sit perking up the hoard; How your huge broad eye burns the gold In your whiten'd hoard; and how you Have watched the lusty race along And scoop'd, in your empty hoard, Five and twenty beeves. Ah, pitiless Meleager, Tell me, in the sand-beds below, What makes you sit and pray to Zeus To let you keep the one that you Have scoop'd away to spare? The boyish head, the chest of oaken Chestnut, ripe asri; the long light-brown Head of the beardless colt; the feet of White ox, with white rind; the she-goat's Brown tresses, and the merry smile, White as the love-poison of the lark; And tell me, have you asked for sacrifice A maiden to kiss? or for choicest Abridged wine to drink, or honey To slake the idol of your need? When the Gods asked you, you replied, "Give me a maid in marriage," and Many in the council hall laughed As your soft-lipp'd wife, your show'r, Pass'd by. But you, Supreme, were first To laugh; and the other Gods gave ear, With soft applause, to what you said. What then likely to the others came But your daughter, or--whatever name Or gift the Gods might give you? Some Gods Will never let a deity deny, When gods and men contend, one sole gift Of any kind. What can you give but love? And that, you know, is all that her comes Containing. And, apart from all the rest, Has her a lovely face?--and that she's yours?-- Behold, you may fail in your quest, and lose Your glory in the trying; yet, were she Of thy most lovely, what she most endears, Then, O, what might you gain in all the rest? Wise men have always a few for trusts, To come as welcome additions when they fall, As this, or that, or every other good; But love--no man has more than he can keep, As he should have it, with a just reserve; Nor should it then be burnt up, for want of use. Hear now, the craftiest mortal never yet Has hid the precious secret of his heart From the most august of peers. Rarely he Breaks out, at evening, with a single word, Or shows in what his secret thoughts are fixt. They exist in thousands, and the wise Contrive each to multiply; yet these naught else In the great world are worth a thought that gives Their useless knowledge. Yet, for the rest, Bestow not mine or her, but let us lift Our eyes to that at hand, and all the day Think only of her, for as yet she holds Her place in life; what wanton haughty maid I proved, and found it, and have dared to be Such unto her, though not of her make. She In my blindness groped the old proud world Like one that trod upon a sphere apart From her, and knew it not; but she sits In light, and has a world of years to win My love, and hers, till both of us shall be As fair for her as she is fair for me. Ye were not there, Maidens, young and swift of hand, who pass'd Between us when we mingled with the crowd, And cast me, doubting, on the shame of earth For one little moment; ye were not there, Nor will ye be again; for there she sits, And will to silence, though the world, uncared For this, listens. As one Who has come into a dark beautiful land, And partly forgets the way he went, And cramps his heart with longing, fears he may Backward, into the dark, again be driv'n Backward, into the dark, because the way Frail and untrod is; while he remembers How beautiful it was and how good, And walks, with more adequate joy, Out of himself, among the stars and flowers, Than he did strew upon the ground of earth, And hears the river, with a sound more sound Meeting his rapture, as the bird-voice of the sea, Breaking upon him from the lips of waters, And dwelling in the heart of waters, singing Delighted all his inmost heart of waters. And now he turns, and smiling looks upon The lengthening line of figures, and which rises Into the light of heaven. Towering far above the others as she sits High upon the ball, resting her aloft breast Both on the curiously polished clews, and on Some mysterious oracle that doth invoke Greatness upon her, when from the right she throws One graceful arm, and from the left one warm Dusk shadows o'er her delicate forehead, That hauntress to the blood, and seem to live Still by her presence; no languish'd hand she raises To tell the oracle, but her white veil From head to knee dances, as she waves her hand, And gives the answers. Why tell you these things, my friend? Thy whole sad life is like this; the long years go, And the friends thou hast, that must be gone forever,-- These fall away one by one, and left alone To show thee where a little life remains. And thou hast leave to come and lie beside The white grave where they lie. I find, in truth, Too many men her friend. My voice is rarely hear in a white summer land, But when I set my foot upon a green flower That doth live in the arid wastes, nor turn my head After sunset, or awake at the touched light, The earth smiles up to meet me, then the bright tears start O'er these poor friendships of men. And yet thou needst not weep. But surely one word-- Why must I tell you no more?--lives of men Are like two glass beads; Of such soft forms and journeys does the oracle Seem moldy and thick, Unless the memory living deeply sets to bed One thin covering to each bond. Love is no longer love, but a long story Long as the life of nations, A tragedy of many plots, with one unknown At centre, but the end to each reveal'd. 'Tis told in varying parts, and with many tears, That he, thy man of arts, who hardly breathed a word Fell in a storm, As men fall in the world. Oenone too is dead. The bitter queen Is dead, is dead indeed. The old man must go where the new comes at his heels. Then take a pinch of snuff, And a lyre, And a gilt spring And a pot of wine, And before dark, From a sweaty throat, For all his honours and all his pride Beneath a dome Of sweat, Write a poem, and call it Hail, mine Lyre, A little ship may catch thee, A little seaman may take thee On a narrow bay, Where two strong waves about the prow shake loose, And two strong winds about the stern blow strong. But thou, my Lyre, May never more play thus, For heat and dust and roar of many men Must break the lyre's golden strings. Now farewell, O lyre, Give me my grave, And the morning shall find me Under a damp wet tree. I, in the beginning, made thee, And here I have thee still; And though I die, and go, I shall not part From thee, O sweet lyre, But here I lie, and no man bid my soul adieu. To the rivers long, And the mountains' feet, And to the highest hills, And to the places of rain, And where the grasses are of greenest speeches, And where the highest rivers run; There shall I go, And there I come again, In the snow of the autumn and the sunshine of the spring, To the places where I were used to come to rest, On the warm green places and on the red places, Where I loved to walk, With the deep-toned clarions and horns in my hand, And to hear the shouts of the people on the sportive green. Oh, to march to these, And to know myself at one with the shadows, To be hushed and to hear no stir of feet in the midnight wind, To look on a steady fire-light, To hold in the hand a form of power, And to hear the sound of the pyre, And to feel I had nothing to lose, <|endoftext|> but you went on as you always had when they were helpless most of the time. Each night they both slept alone, from before the birth of Christ until you got the gun when you were twelve. Now you are retiring as a captain in the Finnish army with the rank of lieutenant joint chief of staff. But you still live in the house with the broken door that was built for you by your father who loved art and making things. What can you do with a gun at your hip as you sit in the kitchen alone? Your new room is empty but yours is still here with all the things you made there with your father and mother who loved you and are sorry that you went away. <|endoftext|> "The Pledge", by Matthew Sweeney [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] For Joe Galli Like all Italian boys my age, I too wanted to join the Legion. There was no consultation, just one patient document signed by Simone Giacopino, forerunner of Mignogna. I did not dare put it away, we all knew that the body counts in north Africa and the Bari Front had reached the hundreds. But if you ask me, the real disgrace is that the whole damn thing went ahead with nobody there to stop me. Like all boys of my generation, I wanted to serve, join the Foreign Legion and fight in Spain with the Blues. Our ambition was to be considered heroes in the modernist sense: able to fight and capable only of one other thing—surviving. We should have joined the American Legion. Their emblem is the Boy with 9 Skulls on the field of blue. They encourage brotherhood, drill and drill until you have no strength left to point out that the Blues have no enemy but the devil himself. But you know what? Even in the F.L.C., this ambition would have been rejected. They want you to join the Blues, who have sent you emissaries to beat your brains until you are white and robust again, only too bloody and exhausted to realize that being black is strength no matter the enemy. And the Blues, they say, are the American Legion, the Legion of Call and Response, who have called us to beat the foreign foes we never see. In that sense, I think I might have become a true Call and Response hero. The blues don't call people to kill, but to survive, to blow through enemy fires and to rush out into the blue— to create our own call and response. Though we've already started it, and the enemy is catching. Once you get to the F.L.C., it's not up to anyone else to stop you joining up with the Blues, finding your way home, believing in your heart of hearts that the blues will win— that the old ways will triumph over the new, and the years of slaughter will culminate in a banquet feast. <|endoftext|> "The Cloud Bar", by Matthew Sweeney [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Valentine's Day] Intimate comrades of liquor, knives, and angels, we shower and braid the underside of chaises. Our flag is red and white with white leftovers from a last meal. We perform rituals to the rhythms of jazz and Indian voudoun music, to the tastes of sweat, mouth moisture, and the coolness of certain persons. We eat our blues with celery and yellow corn, and black people who like us make the move towards intimacy. It's been hailed in much the same way as other holiday given to the sharp-jawed. The celebration of sexuality seems a kind of afterthought, and perhaps it is. In any case, here in the bar we celebrate ourselves and each other as intimates, healthy estheticians with pierced lips and abs, who get to say who gets to fuck who. While at the same time the sky looks prospectless, and the rain pours all day. The music thickens as anticipation. It does. We're dressed in the harsh colours our grandparents fought in. And we are full of horror stories, some true, some false, but all looming in the shadows, like prophesy in a tavern with a menu of cuts to choose from and then choose from again. People gape when we take a order, if we can get away with it. We create the appropriate atmosphere through the manipulation of light, music, posture, scarcity of light, abundance of sound. And the whiskey on the wall scatters among us like foreign bodies in the hunt for privacy. We get to choose what language it is that will render invisible what we've witnessed or endured. <|endoftext|> "Roadwork", by David Gewanter [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women, Nature, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] The old woman in the next street hugging the man across the street with the pie in her basket repeatedly, when she can, repeatedly draws down and gathers it back into her pie without eating. The pie flies out over the hedge, rips in two, the willow walking over it hovering, perhaps, five feet away until it's a blurry old lady dangling, in slow motion, in mid-air between the metal arms of a pull-cart while there's a scrap of bread in her basket. When the elderly woman with the pie can't reach the scrap to retrieve it the old man on the opposite side of the street takes it from her. He knows she's old and alone and doesn't want her to eat among the garbage, the paper and metal that's strewn there now and in the pastries. Then he climbs the wooden walk and retrieves his solitary slice. A cut on his lip, though, he's too ashamed to tell her. And the rest of us get to eat the pie we'll have thrown away, with all its crisp crust and crusty bits and bits of fruit. <|endoftext|> "These Hebrew Immigrant Fathers Envisioned Their Dead", by David Gewanter [Living, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] These Hebrew immigrant fathers envisioned their dead in dreams of warm, low, books that held them late at night: a first edition of Telta and Tal Ha'amon, a Hebrew Union College Reading Room Notebook with red-rimmed spines, their babies' little hands inside folded closer than their own folded khaki shrouds. Here too was a Bible, old, with cracked pews and black lesions, some slight discoloration and mottling. In a book of testimonies, one father said: —His brother took a whipper as a boy and was beaten until he died. —His father drowned when he was young. —His brother killed himself when he was drunk. Another father said: “I buried two wives. I buried my third. My first child died in the hospital, my third one died in childbirth.” Then: tears. He imagined how those three dead wives would bear his children. In their dream, each day they buried their dead wives, each night they dreamed of their dead wives, each night their dead wives came to them. Here too were ancient litters, goatskins and shekels, books, musical instruments, pots, kettles, flecks of silver, coins of the Roman empire, oil, perfume, throat pieces, etcetera, pencils, awls, looms, keys, prayer books, scissors, spoons, thimbles, flecked with silver, glass, bronze, copper, silks and gauze, beads, clothespins, leather and textiles, fathers, mothers, siblings, arks, elongated faces with red or black hair, white heads with black hair, thighs and abs, bellies and backsides, vaginas, torsos, heads of china and rope, loins and tails, testicles and tails of black and red bulls, kohl- eyed and cut-off heads of hair, and painted faces of women smoking and/or weeping. Here too were tents made of bone and/or reed, tent rings of coral stone, plackets of wood, and ropes of cotton, cordura, webbing, sails, loom of fish and/or elm, limbs of beasts and/or wrist. Here too were pigs and pigeons, a monkey of a girl, bobtails and longspurled legs of cattle, and seed- and wax- ed T-shirts and vests with designs. When one of the fathers asked about the alphabet, I pointed him to the testimony of Eliezer, who said: <|endoftext|> Tell about their feelings and their strengths, Their victories and defeats, And their triumphs and humiliations, And their joys and their griefs; This is music, and it is sweet. Tell of the rising sun, When the vines were full of wine, When all the sparrows were dumb At the noise of the harp, When the sun was a boil of fire And the dew was a flame; This is the true and beautiful. Tell of the setting sun, When the fruit was golden, When the flowing rivulet Sang so sweetly on the green That the maidens ran, Till the men came and took their ease In the shade of the apple-trees; This is the false and hollow. Tell of the rosy-touching sun Washing the trees with gold, When the glistening wrinkles on the grass Are as spots of light, When the fig-tree shivers with cold, And the mossy green is white As the smiles of the children; Then it was pleasant and fair. Tell of the windy gray Christmas-day, That shook the bells, and rattled loud, And sent the clapper through the wall, Clapping at the door, and calling out, Till the children came again, With their baby in their arms. Tell of the bright, and the blue, and the gold, Of the starry distance and the ball; How the small birds sang in the holly-clocks, And the grigs were in the thickets; How the boys threw up mushroom-balls Of water-mush; How the maidens threw lace-snips From the green-trees' branches. Tell of the countenance old and kind, Of the voice that laughed and cried with all, Of the feasting by the chestnut-basket, Of the rocking-horse and the wooden-surf, Of the merriment of guests assembled; How the clock without a second-hand Repeated over dead bones the time. Tell of the hoary-headed aged chaps Gathering nuts in a tree-top high, Singing their rough "Dorsets and Dang-tails" Under the old pine, and the girls With their strawberry-nets, and the boys Sailing their little skiffs. Tell of the grain and the wild rice reaping, And the bacon hanging in every field, And the honey from the gray-barberry Collecting in the bushes; And the fishing in the reeds and rivers, And the smoking of dry reed-sticks Round the fires of those who would live. Tell of the fireside talk, in the afternoons, Of the old-time wisdom people enjoy When they gather by the Christmas tree Or else go to visit old stockings Or make old crusts and aprons And walk through the haystack. Tell of the corn-hives pulling out of sight, Of the perfume of the honeysuckle, And the beauty of the night while passing, Rippling like a billow o'er the kitchen, Through apple-trees and peach-trees, And the long, lovely evenings Beside the fire, When glassy-buried is the earth with corn, And firesides with comforts are sweetened. Tell of the home, and the happiness it brings To all who have it; tell of their feasts, Their kindnesses, and their truth And the beauty of their stairs Made graceful and fair. Tell of the sun, And the glory of him who through the window Comes now high, and now low, and shines on them; Tell of the moon, Her wakening and her climbing stage, And the stars that look on her from her throne; And tell of the hushed night When sleep hath shut her babies As gently as a mother. Tell of the fields they till Before the harvest sun Draws off his dying spark; And tell of the bees that hum and gliss Above their toil. Tell of the river journeys, and the sails Ripped up and spattered across the stream; And tell of brother-flies Where lily-buds o'erspreads with purple dead Rivers they wanted not. And do thou, old woman, sing a little Sweet song. Sing, but not too sweet, For with thy flitting flakes The frost-sprain leaves A scorching smell. A singing flame is in the east; And out of the east unto the west, A whispering wind goes losingly, As fades the small voice of a child Ere the clear message reaches a soul. With flitting feet it wanders and listens, A laughing phantom singing joyously And flinging into the wide summer air Its fiery whispers to brighten the world. Where is the true devotion, When flitting round the garden-beds, Making our own sunbeams flash And turn the shadows into flame Of red and gold and purple light Flying all to the world? But no, for that blind old world Can never learn the earth Can feel and understand, And dream with us of growing old, Of dying old, As flowering young folk lore Who enter an autumn noon With light on all their faces and song in their voices Haunting the shrines of home. The forests are no longer sleeping, The clouds have taken wing again; And we who watch with tear-dimmed eyes The world of flame and smoke, Are learning to live with them, And knowing what comes to men When the forest lowers and the cloud draws near. Where is the true devotion, Aside from the living breath That lifts to heaven and blooms, To breathe a prayer for peace, When war and battle cease? And hearts are bowed in sorrow When young friends are bound in slavery And flame with pride and deceit. For all the darkness, grief and pain, That comes with coming years, Let us but lift our hearts and pray That God will make us wise and strong, And feel with us when he makes men, Who mourn with us and weep with us, For those who nurst the world with flame And walked with Christ, that really came. My clothes are ashes, my teeth are dust, My body is failing with pain, My feet are bleeding puddles of my grief, And my heart is at a end for sobbing, For I have come to the end of things. "Hither!" a voice calls from the hall; "The soul that heaps its ruins here, May come when judgment comes to the storm, And take its place with the wise and wise, Where those who have not lived, shall be who have not lived. "From thunder and the curse of rains, From earthquake and fire and dust, The Lord comes in a flaming cloud To strike the guilty dead. And here is one who shall come in a flame To take his place with those who did not live, Who did not live. "The Saviour comes, and one who blasphemed, Because his mother was a woman, Shall bow his head as is meet, And know the Lord, and take his part, Who shamed his brother and his mother, And will not go in the heat of the fire With his companions who did but mock." As the maiden watched the gathering dark, The fires of Hell flared high and higher, And flying shrieked the spectres driven, While sobbing minstrelets, sorrowful, Went wailing through the rifts of smoke. And then, as in a dream of pain, One who bore the mark of the flame Beheld her and wept. For never again in this world Shall one, because he kissed a woman, Take the sacramental bread and wine, Not though a thousand tongues commend For a hundred thousand commendation. "Look!" the flame-distiller said, "The time is come to make my camp. On to the field! I warn you, keep her close; The flame can be contained with just so much ground; I'll need a larger field than that of needlework. "In spite of all the sinners here, As I step toward the finish, I feel as strong as ever, I see, And think I'll go on and eat the toast of death. But we shall see! How long the days of bread, How long before this I walk in fool's-game!" Again, as in a dream, He saw the finish to be attained; Again he saw the fires dim and fewer; Again he breathed in all the healing breezes Of Christ the Lord; And, at the last, Through the end of labor, rest, He saw the communion-table spread, And blood upon the cross. The noises of the city were still, And he could hear the voice of his own tongue As he pricked, In the morning sun, <|endoftext|> Or who to the ground will fall in combat if he meet Him that tramples him beneath,--unless what seems Too good for Hell should prove a Devil's true badge. And though thou fear'st lest the Children of Hell Reign hereafter, 'tis not so mighty sin To cast out Heaven's Chosen, as to lose A God to save; or scatter into Darkness His happy offspring; or thine own enjoy In constant captivity; or would fall From Heaven, through exceeding pride, and would be By fulminate troubles sent; or would be found Unto his liking, and would make a Mess Within his wrath, which would condemn him there As man blasphemous, whose forbearance belies All remission; and who could not be won By Money, or Home-comforts, or the Charms Of sweet indulgence; or the powerful Paths Of Purification, and so fall to Hell; Or one ill shadow, but one good endeavour He shames, and walketh in the dark, and sleeps Unknowing, and dreaming; he that would be forgiven, Must after all contraries appease, nor deem it well On this side Heaven to place his stay; unless he find Among his Relations some favourable Armes, Which may with partial good direction appeare, Intrenching at a city soon and near, With Gate, Magick Tower, or a Seagirt Stronghold; Or show him here a Mulek not over strong, That with swift Axle and strong Bolts hath been Newly curbted, and is bravely curbted strong By Iron Mules, that serve it for theiroke, Which scour the Ground, and all the mountainous place, And evenying with the sprightly Cloud, What time the Morning compasses it; or new Is builded two or three walls high, between The which a spacious Garden, fair and wide, With tender Grounds, orchard, corn-land, and grove Of wine-juniper, or spring-inter-royal, Or other tender Fowl may nest, and find Amount of Dwelling enough; the BMCRE May spare to grant it SEAGRIFFLES here, And NORSE PEACE may truce there; then thick stands Of Ash, Ebro, Cypress, and Garth, with Thorn Above thir tops, and thou industrial Juno Shalt meet, and on the Heav'nly nuptial night Of Moons the happy pair, the Orb of Gold, Shall bring thee heavy, and with bridal train Of fire, air, earth, water, bow thee slower, Than now the SPARROW speeds with Spring, Or Porkers Pearcy, with her acorn stem Ascending, on her crupper breast; the herd Of Nymphs, with Venus, and the Graces Most fair, coming on, shall bring thee down Thy neghbor to the ground, thy dearest friend Inhabiting; they a gloomy shrine, With many fountains, and with shrines of stone, And many gay creatures shall adorn The dull and sunny walks; Nymphs and Fauns Shall yeild to thee, who all the charge own, And management of the siluer fetters That bound both white and violroit sort Of birds and brute, with cages of solid gold, Hand, and wing, and wondrous moulds, shall yield To thee their all. For Libertie and Peace, With fair Nymphs and Fauns, and that faire band Of Hectors, shall for thy delight attend, Whom all the superiour happy Possessions Of Picts and OF Elves shall join, and doe, And lead in thy service; them shalt thou feed On Haunters and Haunch-a-whim, and shivering Pigeons Fleet, and in thy gizzie; I registration find Of those thy attendants, comets, that roll In friendly cov'ring thir fiery-hand'd wheels, Whence the dim mist of unsounded things they carry; So doe these heavens, so doe thou all, alike Thou under, they undefiled. To Him thou art Due Sacriler; but the promise is cancel'd By this affliction, that cannot be agein'd, Since it is root'd in him by nature, who is root Of all this goodly beam. He first sin'd Against Heaven, who could exclude this gentle beam The meeting of so fair a mate, and mar her bliss. So hath he lots laid on him the wretched life; Lot it is short, who them of long playback Prefer such short occupants. Never was beam, But doth before it shoot, in upright course A line of thread or tress, toward its Aim. More religions than is one doe abide Commingl'd in one visible Centre; And for a proof, ere one shall believe That th' aery Dimension can deform, Hise Attributes next let us observe; Which as their name doth imply, so they are Distinct and separate, like their selves undisplayed. One is Primum Mobile; thisie Spirit Himself ordains, and from him concerns all. That smooths itslikeness, for it was never laid Down in itatateations, but still invariable. The nextorn't is Mira Mobile; Hee that is in it, for it was not HE Who ordain'd, but it ordain'd him to it; so it Doth coole, not damp, its Airie fury, flames From soie Agent to soie Agent back again. The Vants will naturally have th' Hiere suit; Hee that in it selfe is Vantsden, and by it Many Powers, whose names are past idaughter; as Love, Wisht, Hope, Regret, Sorrow's Tale, and all the rest With which this Studio has it selfe so wel and wonted. The Studio has all the world in it self contained, For if it had any circumscriptions else, They are circumscriptions of this Body's superflux Of sixe social Rays: these Least and Most It ruines into It selfe, and makes It selfe its rectory. Him that would really learn, let him take heed, The aim here much injur'd is, to explain By figures numberless, th' immortal motion Of the most Highs so still, and th' ethereal liberty. That numberlesse it selfe standeth, more meet For tellen knowledge, than for human sense. Great requireth great ende, to describe great things; To number out the crew, is no journeyman's lot. 'Tis an unvarying voyage, where the res o'twark Of custom is our bridge; and what I tell, Refines by what I trow, to what I see and hear. With them I tour myselfe in uale and I relate What I 've seen and known; as urg'd by that which I Have heard, but so adde aloyne to my tale. Let none him move, hehewhim is but a name, A fantasy, but it does accord with all The things I say, all which I mean to say. A Siddid Deitie is all things dejeourd By his owne vertue, none else by dyce. Let none him move, hehewhim is but a name, A fantasy, but it does accord with all The things I say, all which I mean to say. A Siddid Deitie is all things dejeourd By his own vertue, none else by dyce. His equal vertue doth him create all things Which to him tend, as to a master Looser All their cords, tie-work, so thinke him their Master. Let none him move, hehewhim is but a name, A fantasy, but it does accord with all The things I say, all which I mean to say. All Sion likes to him doe incline With partial Adias to his rites observaunte, Which doe the easie commandments introduce Of Humour's holy king, to make them hold All for him caus'd, and him only be the Heir. Let none him move, hehewhim is but a name, A fantasy, but it does accord with all The things I say, all which I mean to say. More then thou canst, O Father Nature, In honour of him thy God beneficent! Let thence not emanc't afterwards the paine Of this huge poore house, ill purg'd and full of woe; But let it to the decent meed attend Of some such endevors or somsuch Artells work, That shall for endes thy goodness hereafter praize. With all humble Misery says Chapter it 'Gan last a torment to her troubled hed, And hence a sanke to all our eares that hear, It ceas'd not to presse and to reprove us <|endoftext|> Is fain to lay the burden down, And have a bit of peace and quiet, Like his own poor rural nooks. <|endoftext|> "The Four Seasons", by William Butler Yeats [Nature, Spring, Summer, and Trees & Flowers] The spring has tricked me into thinking It knows what it's doing. Spring has tricked me into thinking I know what's up with trees, They always have up from seed And always down from seed. The summer has tricked me into thinking I know what's up with men, They always have shown up and gone away And always come back. The woods are always green And always will be green Whether mortals whimper or awake. The streams they will always be dry And always wet, They always will be flowing Whether all hell drops or not. I trust my life to the four seasons: They always have trickled on And always flowed, Whatever weather the earth may be in. <|endoftext|> "Our Talk", by Hailey Leithauser [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries] He said, I should have loved you long ago, if only you had let me in. I said, No, I cannot love what I do not know. We walk through the dark forest of our dead trees, the younger the better. But he said, No, Long ago you said that your heart would not break for anyone who let you down. That is what my heart says. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet in the Shape of a Potted Christmas", by William Butler Yeats [Christmas] / As living things will, so must they die/ Christmas comes with freezing winds, natural yellow and blue. Easter is neither fair nor square with the wake of midsummer. Here, then, is a little plant, that, by its master's showing, becomes a tree. There, for it hath no root yet spares the thing that filled it before. Now are there houses That have, whole and simple, no statues, no silver bells, no Christmas plays; yet are they men's homes. And this is Christmas, The coming of the sun. That others are looking forward to no one doth know, But he that fears it, and receives The good gifts, hath had His day of darkness. Twas Christmas, last night, when first I heard, Through the loud wind, of the kettledrum's crack, And the lash of the musket's rapid stream, And the crash of the artillery's guns, As if God in heaven stood ready to burst His entire sky with a new blessing, To slay the winter, if only this day Were available. And here, through the tumult of the fight, Came the sound of the ten-foot drab uniforms, The hooting of the dogs, and the angry cries Of the rank and file, quick and sharp, As they filed, in good or evil order, Into the darkness of the trenches. And I thought, surely, they are lying, For God would never allow it so, That men who fought so stoutly, and died So nobly, should turn unburied Into the arms of their comrades, And leave the winter to its own devices, While they leave the peace to its own devices. Was it not strange that their morning march Ran to the sound of the crack of the barn-door, As the men hurriedly fired in to the dark? And the funeral tunes on the twentieth of May Were "To the rowers of the Royal Fleet! From the wild Atlantic to the Franco-Spanish sea." Was it not strange, as I walked through the snow, My mind wandering homeward, that I heard The deep booming of the monsters of the sea, And images of days long vanished; And those that are sleeping, and those that are dead, Gleamed with floating stalks of moss and lichen gray? Strange, too, I thought as I walked along, Looking backward to the centuries gone by, How silent was the tumult then, and still More silent, whilst all the stream of men rolled on, Swift to clash, and to close, in toil, and strife, Till the great ditch at Omaha, and then Lee's great bulwarks came down. Then, then, as I came out of the dark wood And took the solid earth one pound in weight, I fell into a long silence, as of men Dreading what they dare not speak, and those that speak Cower before the wrath of Heaven's great King. But when I had learned to remember, And to remember I had lost so much, I could not stop to dwell on the sadness That silenced the world then, nor take it For my new loneliness. For the winnowed air Shook my spirits with the noise of a wave Bearing through the hollow AARON. For every memory is a star Burning within the soul that remembers, And every star of all the thousands Burns with a pure and living light Till it alone is a distant planet In the infinite heavens of space, And all such planets burn out as soon As they become a fleck of dust. But I am not so unsympathetic As to regard with unsympathy Every one of the million stars That light the heavens with their reflected light. In the land that I love the Stars are people That fill the lowly garrets and the grand Places of the great town of Noli-point. They wear the russet and gold of rust, But the white locks of the fairest girls Are twisted with them, and glisten In lines like curls of gold, and flung Over shoulders smooth and delicate, Like threads of silk unconfined. In the land I love the Stars are proud Women, with lighted faces, round And perspicuous, and smooth, and fair, With a certain touch of mockery To touch with beauty all they do, And to guard with softness all they are. And I know the Stars have long ago Past burning all their light as they did fire For one fleeting moment, when the great Weaver of the heavens, weaving far The fabric of all things, that they Might last through infinite duration, Caught, in the sheer development Of their development, one strand, A brittle one, and faint, and delicate, Of light between two fires. To-day all lands on time's broad tide Are edged with them in one, and seem To me as one itself touched with all The broadnesses of nature. Their development Ends at the point, and everything else Flows onward as before Except that the creation Of the sense of beauty in the men, The women, and the children, seems To stop forever in that strip Which Time has tamed. There is a little place called Afric That is full of stars. There is a little house in it, run By a wise old man Where shadows wander, as they list in the sun, And the light is bright and new. A red leopard came from a desert land To that place, and stood in the porch to wait, And he heard the storms of the sea outside, And the fierce anger of the waves and thunder, And he said, "I will return to that country, But only with the brightest and best." And he journeyed through the wilderness alone, And he heard the whispers of the trees And the hidden music of the reeds In the bidding of an unheard symphony, And he came to that house in the desert. It was the mirth of a little brown bird Among the black veranda-flowers, A goldfinch trilling his song And the laughter of girls Who watched the sunset through the lattice. And he went in and out and round, And made this little house so gay, And the walls were covered with flags, White stars, and bars of gold, And mats of green, and yellow flowers, White and red, and flecked with scarlet. He bought white feathers for the house, He bought the twitter of the bats, He bought the yellow bird that cried In the leaping morning light, He bought the chirp of many blossoms To hang in the windows, and then He bought that old cedar chest, And the great great grandchild swung and laughed As he looked inside. And then there were laughs all around, And the little people danced and sung, And the little grandchild sang too, As he swung in the hammock, laughing, To a dulcimer and viol, And a great grandchild played the cork-case And the dulcimer and viol. And all the while he sang a song <|endoftext|> When the woman no longer talked, Old community no longer lingered; In the winters weaves she did not linger, In the summers grew she not older. It was hoped the women's children would remain As the seed in the earth would do, Though the furrow shook its uneven way, Though the weapons plough nor the steel swerve; It was hoped the blood would not grieve us, Though the ploughshare bent and the rain came; And as the year came round no more would come The tribesmen from the troubled ocean, But the way of the fleet the route remained Like a bridge the fleet had traced straightway. While they builded the bridge and timed its span, And whilst the span was being lashed and laid, Rose the clan in their forests to sing And chant, to call upon Him who walked the waves. Oh, just as their hands on the chain were laid, My sister, the hostess of the waste, With the deep shadow of her garment draped, Rose in the dawning of the darkling wood, And watched the scantily kept line of men, And watched the weak path to the fortress get, Then passed into the forest where she lay Muttering in the darkness her accents hoarse, Then climbed the hill, and clutched the green boughs, And shook them in her hands, till out of sight Leaped the vanguard of the host, and joined her maidens, To count the far mouths of the sounding sea, To keep in sight the motley fleet. 'They spread to land, and there encamped In the scant dawning, were the hosts arrayed. And as I looked, it seemed to me That they were animals which keep still made, Hushed and slow in their obedient mood. Deep in the mountain's sides they rested, The sleeping hosts, as still as thrones, On their crowned heads, and clad in their tartan: And then down came the morning beam, Harsh in the dew, and dyed with fire, And to the hosts, that onward edged Over the bridge in the misty land, I saw them marching as to war, And reared upon their naked haunches Pushed the flood of their woody speed. Then faint with excess of light they passed, And to the fount they turned again, And I saw their shoulders bare, and saw Over their shoulders, dark against the skies, The wild war-paint of their clansmen slow, And as they walked, their brown hands at rest On the hard battlement upturned, I heard the short, thin breath they drew. Oh, then a shriek rose heavenward, And down from the dim thicket came At once two figures, and a third, Nor figure three, nor two, nor three, But thronging through the thick mist that furrowed The green bridge, the mist that clove it as it passed, To where the mist hid the barren sand, And there the archers roused their shafts at random, And wild rose up the battle anew, As crackled on the dark green wood The fire of God, the native heathen strength, In a thunderbolt of the quick bright steel, A shaft from many a blasting shell. So the great hail of the war within Wroth for the God in the field, made plank by plank, Hurled the green splinters in their fury That hacked and tore and rent and slew; Shivered the white shields with bright cuts; Shattered the blond grim faces where were plumed The eagle fire of the mailed breast, The tiger eyes of the fierce wide mouth; Pierced the golden mail the god had wrought, The rings that reflected the mad deluge; Gleamed the golden mail the king had won, On the ring finger hammered he, And to the heaving air up-springing, Struck an arrow fleet, and swift did fling To either hand a glittering stone. But on the Norsemen's charge at last Came Thorold's stout and strong array, Like the cloud when the thunder beats Of one high wind that leaps the cloud, Wheeling wide on the gray wold, The spearmen glad stand to guard the flanks, For that rush of forest hosts at hand Goes rushing down the shore; While through the gleaming brown trees wide, Atropping the bolts they hurl, Like a sudden winter-storm of hail They batter at the tower. But when the spear-expert Thorold's band Drew nigh, then that other hush That is beyond all dealing with wrong, Where the weak hand knows not its strength, And the heart of strength is tired; When the worth of strength in either friend Or foe is balanced to the true; Then Thorold's men, though like to fall, Made to the tower their end, And rushed in to aid the tower, Where struggle was the fight, And burden of spear-head and stone In the tidings of the Norsemen fell, And as the battle sped the rest. Then on the English a cry of fear, Wearied bethooned the Scottish horde; But under cloud of weapons flung Their confidence, and fierce and thick To the dread spirit of Odin fell The old, old fear that fought within; And fell the fear in such wise That now the wan, white brows were bent, Nor thought there even on that side, Where struggle was the fight. But Thorold's men his way could hold, Now all in pieces on the wall Crashed;--and each one, as in a dream, Saw the foe coming in to win, And deeming that the fight was done, Yielded unat liberty. Then on the field of Marsil another bar To Thorold's bar was set, While Thorold's men their tower so fair Made fiercer than before; Fiercer than if e'er the oak were sawn, And on the sill in gouts of blood, Hushed the earth together. But King Thorold, with his weak flight, Stumbled on the field of Marsil, Huge heaving exertions, And of the field lay down the crown, Hail-spot and heart-ground; And forth the shields of Thorold heaped As was his wont on that old day On Ulsogius' bank. Beneath the king lay like a wall Heart of gold, and strong, and fair Full many shields did men shake Flat from the embers over the bed Of the great son of Ragnar, And all the helmets on that heap, Better than of old, shone out Gold and pine, pine-leaf and silver; Red were the shields of Thorold Blazing in the silver flame. Through the long morn there was not heard Vext that any man had killed his king, Nor any word of derision; No laughter was, no conversation; But men had enemies in the fight, And their friends were the friends of their foes. In the hall the malt was mellow in the barrels, Fruit and bread was the meat in the wicker-baskets, Fruit and bread for all, for any one; But the beer for the men of the land was brimming, O'er the boards the meat in the trenchers fluttered, On the platters refidged was the dumpling. Etched in silver was the board and the plates, The forks and knives were of gold and mold Of the finest gold that ever was found; And all the bread in the loaves was a-top In a golden crust was a-top upon; And the butter was all most delicately Thrown out upon the air above the kneading; And Etzel's way by the way of the usbringer Was a way of the wind for the butter to float. But Etzel, the blacksmith, went to the door; Behind his chair the loom and the loom-box Fell upon the floor, and the fair lady Waited with the dogs within the room; And the wall was hewn off, and the rafters Caved, and the roof given to the bees, And the forest that lay around the house Was of the age of that fair lady, Fair as the summer of any summer. There were camellias and white lilies And daffadillies and rosary pinks; There was velvet and sun, and the drift Of the byre rose and the windfern red; There were lambs and yoke of mares, and the cloud Of the moorland cloud, and the breast Of the haymaking moor-hen. All the lads and lasses were there, And the girls their blouses did make, The geese and the pelicans and the dove That came to the door to get bread; The peacock and the pelican-crest And the gaudy goldfinch and the starling; <|endoftext|> When life was death, and henceforth it was dear, The pious zeal of fathers, and the might Of kings and generals, began the arts That so despoiled us of our toil and pain And love, of pain, and of toil, and of love. The silver lamps in the court-house turret, To keep us shod with fire, were wrought of old By one whose hand the Northern cur had caught, At Basle, her artful son, and brought her thence To furnish forth through all the nations what she made. So fell Medea's thieving hand upon the thing. To Egypt and the lust of golden boughs She brought the gem, for Greece of Juno's hate. Here Pyrrha, spoilt by villain base, had fallen; And proud Rome, beaten back, and prostrate in her pride, Forgot her god, and lived but to re-ascend, And dare the bright heavens over triumphant Rome, Whose stars, her foes despoiled, her blessed land and meads Should serve, and keep, and obey, to sway the world. And thus had Italy, which yet Juno's wrath Traverse, but on him not fallow-scarred, Nor many-mouthed, nor wild, nor now with fear, Nor with swift blood, nor deadly fight, nor flight, Tho Hannibal's arm had ended, had not man Injured shown forth what man was there above. And here ye Italian gates, and in and out, And hither and thither, seem of wood and stone, Here in my soul they haunt me all the night, That I would make my crooked track anew Along the hills with brown paths, and the moon Shining o'er all and round and over me. And am I not safe as in my own right? Was I not made by God to live and die? While ships go by, or ravens go to build, Or flowers till Winter's winds belch them forth, Come I to Rome and pray her lord to spare An ear, a tongue, a jail or purse for me? And would she grant me what I ask for, here And in all lands, or suffer me to bide Here in Rome? for neither shall my scope Of my entering here be left here alone, But everywhere, even to the utter ends Of earth, I enter, so ye hearken and be not snared. I serve the words of one that hath not seen, The days departed long, the city lost, The sons of men unknightly slain in fight. But now no more at furthest east thou seeest God's ship-host moving, and their shining quiver Sparkling, still new-kindled as it sprang When I by him in the sacred waters crept. Achitophel, fighting for the Reags, Opposed me, and was stricken in the fight; Yet he had graven in his mind my charm Of beauty, which my spear supplied to him And covered, saving himself; but I, I mean The Lord, having graven it, being stronger, Having borne away a heart from me to-day As lifeless as those His warriors carry. Be therefore grateful, remembering Him Who conquer and giveth life, who filleth all Space, dwelling-place and earth, the Lord of men, And hath bruised our head with small mortality, Our heartless weakness. Wherefore shall we fear The strength that he shall give us? Why fear we not the Lord, the King of kings, Who stood beside me where I fought the fight, Who stood His champion on that day and lifted High His tender hand, where ours all-teeming strength Fled with the dying pain? What hindrances stand Before him? What hindrances may we raise Against his majesty? We pray for grace To speak our mind thus plainly. Shall we speak Unsanctioned? Shall we blaspheme? We ask for grace to tell the truth of war. As yet we have not met nor done a jest, Nor seen each other's face. I have no mask To hide the smile that on my lips is lying. But Thou wouldst have us tread this balcony With clearer sight and smoother step than we have had, And walk beneath Thy watchful eye and light, For we have peace to think on and to sing. Take Thou the darkness, Lord, and mingle in The light, Lord, the shadow, take the night and mingle In the dawning light; it may be as yet the best And worst of all that man can be, but it is God. So put away the pride that would the earth dominate, And go with me and Thou shalt see and understand. We that have loved Thee long and well In the cities and the fields Have our commendations for Thee from men And for Thy streets and thine exit-windows honest. We have loved Thee long and well. Thee we have seen, Lord, with browner days, And we love Thee seen in rags, with sleaze, And we have loved Thee in that thy green, brown days. We love Thee loved among the sound of cornets And in the sight of strangers seen and hated. We have seen Thee with a sheaf of songs When the streets were silent. We have seen Thee And we have loved Thee seen with tawdry eyes. We have seen Thee with a sheaf of songs. Such as we have seen We love Thee long and well, Who we know with no heart-broke tears, And none but the gay at whose gilded door We sigh with pity like to sleep to die. Thee we have seen. We have seen Thee good and fair, And we love Thee seen with faces wan And brows of marble and temples of gold Among the dirty deeds of toil and bloodshed. We have seen Thee. We have seen Thee good and fair. We have loved Thee known and we have loved Thee known Among the shaven heads and among the shorn And among the men that lean and wait and pass Between the bars, the men without bits, And we have loved Thee for what we have seen. Thou wilt not lose us. Neither for us nor for Thee Humbly descending at the crucifixion, But Thou knowest and Thou knowest what kind and strange Terrors and blasphemies and crimes and wrongs Cried up against Thee on the frozen bank of Death, Thy wretched scream and cry. We have loved Thee long and well. Art thou not Witch of Endor unassuaged With the white noon of the unknown and the vile? And hast thou not drawn within thy fatal sieves The last and blackest milk of acrid whispers, The last of thine untold secrets and thy sins? We have loved Thee long and well. We know and we know That God is good and that He is great, But in His sight who art thou, O Witch, That art not enamoured of His light, Who art not moved with His pity, who art thou, Deaf and blind as any gyves of glass? Thou hast not known or understood One wrong until it was full told; Thou hast not known or understood One wrong of any soul until now. Wilt thou not come to thy homework? O Lear, thy will be done or riven What thou wilt of this or that, O Lear, thy wit be quick or grave Howsoever thou hast ran. If thou hast ever played with fire, With thunder, or with falling hair, Wilt thou not now with cloak of steel Assail the stoutest heart of man? Wilt thou not in the depths of hell Uplift thine hands and cry, "From Edens of men, and Goldings, and styles Of lively and ancient wit, All that have rigour of assai And pass as cheap as Spirit of Love, I return and set it forth, In this my shoe-box of despair? For one light word from lips untrained Would set thy strength as crack for ever. I break it down and thank Thee That I slept with caution. I broke it down and made it fourth In order of making forth, And now of all, or half or more I need to say or do, With Thee unto Thyself I cleave. Oh, lord, wake not thus, O Thane! That, waking, men may see Thy sleep's madness pass. Great cause there is to bless and cheer Thy early slumber. Who, laying aside his work, And with Thee by his side, Sits till the early fading stoop Beside a plough-share still, Throwing and taking and feeling All sweet, all tender while At Thee, lord, wake not thus! What looks to-day, lord, may look again, And, besides being dear, may last To-morrow, and be seen <|endoftext|> See that we both may bear the palm, To please our lady, And since I swear to love and serve Her, aye, mine own bride,-- I do acknowledge the hand Of God and Fate. Yes, father, if Fate should sweep Me from the story, And I are left alone, And that be only loss To my young heart, Then--since my destiny, By Mary is bound,-- Why was I born at all? I find I'm much to answer for. I shall not be his spouse; And so--since he's dead-- Shall I go on as thus, For time shall have its course? And death, and chains, and jail, And chains again? Death is the due of all. I'd ask God to name Just one woman so, To make her life so merry As to be his life! She shall have a seat At his right hand! Can you wonder I pine A spiteful widow's lot, When they--but they!--tell me, O God, what's the use! She who sits beside me here Will be the Queen of me! God spare me this happy life! I'll meditate on this! 'Tis better far than this, Poor slave, to be in jail, Or in misery! Then--O Jesus, teach me To love my lot! The chieftain turned again to the Queen; "It is well," he said, "That when we part from before, The parting glass is thrown away; They should drink old wine, 'Tis best that gallants remain To dine at the tavern door! "But," said the Queen, "I have another wish; And this is the sum Of all I've a mind to say: You've taken well, by my 'band, My General's daughter away From our warm heart and homely home; But, as my father hath bidden, I take it back again. "I think I know what my father would, And, indeed, I'd have him prove; But, when my wish I've thought out well, Give me, O General, share Of all you have in store! Give me that stately carriage, That glittering coat of Mr. Ranard's, "And why should not, in return, You do the same for me? I'll make you all my father knew; But all his knowledge is not worth a pin, And, besides, I'm not his daughter! You see our intimate relationship To be that question close and first! And now, farewell, sir, I've heard enough!" "My Queen!" said the chieftain, "Were you not pleased to make me king? Were you not lovely as a rose? Did you ever knit a purple glove? Cut or sew a single stitch? Did you ever, while drinking with me, Pass through the Public House on Walnut street, Or drink with you the waters of Shiloh? Oh, oh, you must have known, my Queen, How much I loved you! But that's not all my life is worth, To me it's better than all gold." "I am no king!" she cried. "You are no king!" he cried. "Your car is empty and cold! What is your motive, for turning back? What has your eye and brain calculated? And what is your purpose? You would be, and would not be, the same!" "You have wronged me!" cried the monarch. "You have wronged me," she replied, "When, to gratify your pride and greed, You sought a paramour! You loved me! oh! you did not know, You only knew your wicked mind Desired a creature of your own! A creature to obey, to buy, to sell, To crib his substance while he strove to feed On bread the poor man owns! The poor man's hay with your approbation, Your hungry pottage always warm! The poor man's blankets as soft as flannel, His frock and fold and sheepskin cap! And you would nap listening to his tales, His merry tales of glory and of valor, His pretty tales of meeting a maiden Which was all in vain! But you are sleeping on a tomb, my child, On an empty tomb to-night! The grave will soon be your own! And I--your Queen, to-night--am sleeping too! I'll dream of angels, and sword and citadel, Of regal portals slowly closing, And a harp so soft, so clear, Sweet warblings of Eternity, And a voice calling me in the silence, Saying, "Rise, Queen of Night, and kiss the dust." "No," cried the other, "no!" "I am a king! I am a king! Well then, we will not sleep." "My friends!" said the exil'd, "for shame! You are gods, and I—" "No," cried the other, "You are kings, and I but a king! Well then, we will not sleep." The dew sank, the wind rose, And all day long I strayed Where on field and hill lay dead; Where lay the wounded, hurrying slow To the frontier for relief, I raised my eyes to where all around The heaven was blue and blue. Not one of all those I saw, Not one of all the race, But knew the eye of reason looking Against its face could see That gray is not gray, nor blue Nor red, and that every one Is as every other. When we are chill with fear Or heal our hearts with tears, Come in the name of peace, In the name of God, Come, Holy Calmness, come. And dry the tears that fall; And dry the wing that sighs; And dry the human heart In the image of God. I will not tell you how long I looked into the sky, With eyes that are not gray; And when at last I looked, From morn till late at night, There was not one star in sight. It was God's will That all of my life Should be dead waiting, And all of it now the past; So that I could not look To see how things are going That may be better now. But now I am here Before you, Reader, and your eyes Have any more than mine Been cold to all but comfort; And I may speak to you of The way I was led By the sure counsels of the night. You of a placid mind May wonder how I speak Of the ways I was led At the bidding of a power That controlled my heart, and made Me a heart that was not glad. I will tell you how it came: I thought to go To a place where hearts of stone Were chained together, dumb, And all their lives were ended; But I was told that this Was but the common place, And so I went along. There in the distance dim I saw a people praying, And they besought me that I pray For their children, and they cried, "For a boy and a girl, For a heart of gold, "For a girl and a boy, For a heart of scarlet!" I had no word of answer, I bent my head, And bowed it low, When through the transience came A clear voice like a call of birds: 'Pagans, teach us, For we are children. Pagans, teach us To love ourselves as you have loved us; Pagans, teach us That nothing that is done Is forgotten by the dead!' 'Pagans, teach us The Last Judgment; Tell us of the Cross! Of the place of the dead!' And so they cried their last, last word As they passed me by, and vanished; And I had no word to say As I heard them pass away. 'And thus,' said the Voice, 'And thus will I end my lesson, For now it is the last. And I shall pass from the world, And leave you, as I find you, With nothing remembered; And that will be the last.' At break of day I woke; I heard the waters foam Where ever the river ran To the sea: I heard the wave Break on the crag above And shudder and die away; I heard the wave moan and groan; I watched the sun fade red Along the grayling water's pale Sweet fringe of leaves. I had fallen asleep Upon the brink Of a peaceful river, On a bank of summer sand That would have met the eye As quiet and sweet As any work of Mercy That the hands of God had done If those that tread the ground Had not betrayed its peace <|endoftext|> Where the hyacinth and pansy Blossom over the dark fig-trees; There the violet's deep-coloured cup Is dimmed within the gloom of yonder cliff; Here, shut from the cold winds of winter, Has the old oak her grey twilight council held. Young Mary, bright and happy-hearted, Left the fields where her life was wont to be, To seek a love that would never cease; From the grey distant cities far away She had often thought of the white distance And its bright, wind-swept meadows of summer. And now the grey distance had taken her, And the wind swept still and desolate; Still and desolate the calendar read On the grey, approaching and crumbling sands; Then slowly, as a love may, a part gave, And the heart fell in the breast. Sleep was neither promised nor given. Once when she listened, with a love subdued, To an old tale her eye grew wide; And there came a tear to her weary eye-- And the story was not a pleasant one. Then darkness was not that strange, mysterious thing, Darkness that falls on old gods at their rites. And once when her life seemed finished and done, She found in the old blue eyed man (Who loved her in the old days of yore) An old book; for she, to her shame and sorrow, Had no poet's book at her side; But she read, until it was nearly morning, Forgetfulness to the world anon. And, when she knew not otherwise could be, A deeper and a calmer ease, Held her through the calm time after death, And the slow eternity that is sleep. And she bowed her head at the long sweet psalm, And she found in the old man's arms The long, long sweetness of her young days dead. Where Mary slept there a little space Love made a kind of home for him. He dug in the warm and wet hedge a hole, And laid her in it with the flowers alive; And there did he love to lie till morning, Hiding from the morning sun; He loved to watch the world go by, And see his labour then fulfilled. Where Mary slept there a little space The cold forgetful earth forgot her; She heard the clouds go roaring by, The wind came in and bare her, so-- The flapping of the sheaves; And the reapers came and brought their sickles, And sat and hooked and chopped up the corn; The while the tired workers went by And lifted the corn chaff from the front of the barn. I go to call on him, but nobody comes; I go to call on him, and nobody goes; It is as if he had risen and was gone. So, when it is afternoon, I look out on the street, And all I see are the faces I have left behind-- The faces, the faces-- Those thousands of faces in the faces that followed me all the way And the faces of the millions yet to be born. So, when it is evening, I look out on the street, And all I see are the faces I have left; I go to call on him, and nobody comes; I go to call on him, and nobody goes; A mist rises and shrouds the pavement and the street; I go to call on him, and nobody comes. And the past lives in the faces I have left-- The countless faces of the countless faces I have yet to see. And oh, he has grown so old and fat and grim Since we took him in at about the time of the cropping of his beak; And oh, he has grown so old and gaunt and lean Since we took him in at about the time of the piling up of his legs! And oh, he has grown so old and bald and haggard and dry, Since we took him in at about the time of the healing of his bones! But we gave him clothes, and we gave him food, and we gave him drink, And we gave him shelter, and we took him from danger, and we wept with him when he fell, And oh, he has learned so much since we took him in at the time of the picking of his brains! And oh, he has grown so old and wan and gaunt and old Since we took him in at the time of the pulling of his heart in a heartless way! And oh, we have kissed him with our lips and our hands, And we have fed him with food and with drink, And we have prayed with him when there was no hope in his eye, And oh, he has grown so old and weak and bare Since we took him in at the time of the pulling of his hair in a wild way! And oh, he has grown so old and feeble and old, Since we took him in at the time of the wounding of his heart in a hard way! Yet we know all this, and we know all this well; 'Tis but to recall that beautiful bird that was turned to a paler wood To find him awake in the morning of life; Awake to be wakened--not with the noise and the uproar Of men's decks, nor with the song of a singing lady's rose, But with the far-off chime of a far-off bell Playing with the locks of the dawn, Like a small-footed denizen of the sea Gathering slowly in, Till the waves can reach him, And the wind from the far hills can caress him. O my friends, I know that I shall fall. It is written, I shall fall and lie on the cold ground. It is written, And God knows what the worms bring me. But I shall fall, I shall rise again. I am old with the dust, And I know not the sunset nor the light. I have lived in a gilded Babylon, and I have lived In a sad city called Heliopolis, where the palms were white, And the sand and the sea were as gold. When I am in the dark, my friends, I know that it is morning. When I am in the darkness, my friends, I know that it is evening. When I am hurt, my friends, I know that my pain shall pass. When I am slain, my friends, I know nothing of it. Now is the time, and thus I have spoken In terms of bitter truth: I say to you, that every year We should make lesser offerings, Lavishing our charity As the season and the country demand. My mother, in years gone by, Was always of our prayer. She is buried now, and with her sleep A silent blessing falls; But in this building, you may know The heathen's hands have laid Memorials manifold That no monk could have chosen Had he considered this land Unhallow'd by holy blood. Look through these windows, and see The altar and the shrine, The priests and the worshippers, The noise of a fevered city, And beggary and sin. Go into your little bower, But look in an hour, For I have something to tell you That shall be well for you. In court and city and cot The sight is dispatch'd more fast Than flies from jasper nail or spear, To fetter slaves, to strip the dollers, To flay the dying for a king, To drop from beams and fix the new To screens and shields like pests of wood, Or to adorn the gilded boors, Clap chains upon their spurning feet, And lock the women up in dungeons. These are the spoils of Persian blood, These are the shrines profan'd and trod By Pagan priests of Greeken. The citizens, you see, are tyrants, And drive the Pagans from the city. I ask you, and you may answer me, Why have you thus a Church so square? Why have you thus a Church and monks? I, with your Priest, once owned the Church, And you may count on my word. I question you, and I ask you why? You tell me that your Church is right, That mine is wrong; I, with all my learning, And you with all your learned chips, Hold the same opinion. Why do you keep A narrow, narrow Church for Carthage? And why the monks of your holy temple? Pray you, and pray you, why not send One half the men in the world out of your kingdom To preach to the men that are in it?" I once had said to my lord Egnat, "Tell me, sir, to what intent Is Church authorized?"--He made reply: "An authority disjoin'd May both perform all acts, If to some object travel Their several functionaries." And now let all the strife and perturbation cease, I rest in peace. I ask the Spaniards to vacate my temple; <|endoftext|> The lone moon is here, With tenuous lines that in the blue afar Seem to twine like braid in her veil of air. <|endoftext|> "Miss Bloom's Punctuation", by Frances Anne Kemble [Living, Death, The Body, Time & Brevity, Nature, Summer, Trees & Flowers] Or: "The Late King's Punctuation". By Frances Anne Kemble. The keen high leaves, and the sharp-gleaming stems, Are two with whose throngs one cannot agree, And wind and weather and the changing heaven, And years, are all that cannot together stay.So, torn heart and life, we two must part, And life with flowers shall find a death more sweet,More all and unique than either.How many summers have been the latest of my life! And many springs, alas, have been the latest of yours.And many men, too, I doubt would mourn to find That death is always the next minute of their own.For out of every living thing grows nothing dead, And not a dust of all those years has power to settle.And now those years are two, and here, on this day,One with the living is all the Saturday we know.So here, at this station, we are parting for ever. <|endoftext|> "Eternity", by Frances Anne Kemble [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Summer, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] When lo, in the chill bright dawn of time, The cold sharp leafage of the tree is goneAnd autumn's rich, ripe fruit is hanging in the air Like a gift given eagerly, o'er the wood, The golden leaves and their surplus of gold Hangs on its boughs and makes the autumnal airSwamp and pale, where'er it flies; Yet far more golden far are those trees, such as have run Through the whole long centuries with never a change,Where Life's knotted clusters of delight In glimmering clusters of evergreens have hung,And as a fragrant infinity of bloom Enthrals the countless gaudy sunbeams' pride. Not as the foliage of the tree there falls, But as the wreath of the mist it clings to, Life grows the lovelier for having no ending. No change, but as the essence of things; Nought else but what comes and goes without Any change at all; the salt and the salt again, The brine and the so-so, until all things are water. Not as the leaves there fall, but ever fresh and dull, The seasons as a broidery of gold and green, Though change here and change there, change always the same, Like the dull glass with its dizzy spinning, Or the dull music with its changing word. <|endoftext|> "The Three Sons", by Frances Anne Kemble [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Philosophy] 1. Oh dear old father, dying is so hard to endure. It is the closing of a pleasant house and everything that is of the like. There is the wall and the blind men and the people moving out, And of the younger people, what are they doing? I wish they were here. Nothing but to hunt and find the things that are in the house, There is the garden and the walking, the children and their parties, There are the buried things in the grass and beautiful plants dying, There is the field and the garden. 2. To live with children is like a part of heaven. Some smile and smile, some sadly look away, Some go back to their books and play, and some take no notice at all. In truth, it is much like a bower on a summer's day, With children gathered about you in their innocent work, For some are singing, some are weeding, some are counting. It is good when they are asleep. 3. The death of father, mother, and husband is not uncommon. But to die, to leave a husband or a wife, is. And to die alone, is like the snow. I think sometimes I should rather like to die As a young bride in the fresh white dawn, Picking the white flowers, as I used to do When I was a little girl. <|endoftext|> "The Showman", by Frances Anne Kemble [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, War & Conflict] for Charles Reznikoff I He stood before me. I was alone. He said, My name is Buck. I am from the war. The war of the showmen. They have killed my wife. My wife is Mary. My daughter is in the hospital. He pointed his finger through the rabbit's eyes. The rabbit writhed, the blood rushed to its head. It is dying. I put the dead rabbit in my trouser pocket. They will find me. I think they will take me prisoner. I am alone. They have killed my daughter. I saw the killer take her from her bed. I am Buck. I am from the war. They have taken my son. I am Buck. He pointed his finger at his heart. Bodies of men lie around us like dead leaves in the wind. I think of my daughter who lives in the hospital. My daughter is in the hospital in the front room. They will take her. I am Buck. They will take her from the hospital in the front room. They will take my son, my wife, my mother-in-law, and my other daughter. My daughter is in the hospital too. They will take her. My daughter is in the hospital. They will take all of them. They will put them on a train like a car. My daughter is in the hospital too. They will take her. My daughter is in the hospital. They will take her too. They will leave her in the hospital bed, unconscious. They will leave her there. Bodies of women lie around us like dead leaves in the wind. Mary will not wake. Mary will not wake. Mary and Buck will not come. Mary will not come. Buck will not come. I am Buck. Mary and Mary will not come. Mary and Mary will not come. Buck and Mary will not come. I am Buck. Bodies of women lie around us like dead leaves in the wind. The killer took my son from the front room of our house. He was not even home. He was asleep. He will not come. Buck will not come. He will not come. They will take all of us away, and put us on a train like a car. Mary will not wake. Mary will not wake. Mary and Mary will not come. Mary and Mary will not come. Buck will not come. Buck will not come. They will take all of us away, and put us on a train like a car. Mary will not wake. Mary will not wake. Mary and Mary will not come. Mary and Mary will not come. Buck will not come. Mary will not come. They will take all of us away, and put us on a train like a car. I will not come. I will not come. Mary and Mary will not come. Mary and Mary will not come. Buck will not come. <|endoftext|> "The Sages in Jerusalem", by Francis Thompson [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Pets] 1 And the Sharbovo Turks were the healers of dogs, and they buried the dead furred and covered with gore in the sepulchres, and they built the pyres from the pure, black fire of dying dogs, and it was a beautiful fire. 2 And a famous dog was Ivka, who was half human and half greyhound, and who lived with a sharpei called Nesska. They died in the war of having eaten each other. 3 And the Sharbovo Turks were the ones that buried the dead and buried the Sharbovo Turks and buried Sharbova alive in the samples of the patients brought from the east, and a Sharbovo woman taught Ivka and Nesska how to teach Sharbova how to die. 4 And one night Mary awakened from a tranquil sleep to the sound of dogs dying in the village, and she ran out into the snow, and left her Sharbova in the house, and she went down to the grain harvest, and she picked a handful of snow and opened it, and found the dead dog skins, and these she covered with more snow, and they made a pyre, and the Sharbovo women came to see the fire, and they asked the women of the village if they could join them, and they spoke about the Canaanite families, and how they had <|endoftext|> And haly meat for the poor, Which helpeth the heart of man To think of his Maker's care. Cock crows, Lightly plunging into the blue, While the cloud-rack clouds are trembling Down the blue September sky. His heart is merry With a friendly greeting; He crows in the sunshine, In his chirp, "Hello!" The moon, she turns and shifts With a questioning look, And never finds a voice In the deep sea of sky. It's late at night, I think She was here before All the rest and she's gone! The doctor comes And takes his glass in hand And reads a patient's pulse. He says to the barber, "Shave my head, too, And I want your paper, too, To tell me the news." And the old woman in the jail Calls to the watchman: "Go! Call A hound to me; I want to know If the baby is now born!" And the watchman goes out, but still In the woods he hears the hound. Then the old woman calls the hound, And he mounts up on her knees; Then she holds out her open hand, And says, "I am so lonely, alone." But he barks, "All's well!" I went over the highway to see If any cars were in the break-down, And I noticed in the dust an open door Where a man and a woman used to be. And the old woman said, "They're dead." I shined my light into the room, I found their pictures on the floor, They were dead against the wall. They were smiling, they were crying, I could not tell what they were trying To say. Then I remembered that. My father told me long ago (Though I do not remember how, And it might not have been much, At any rate not much) That if I was good, and my desk-mate Was a clever boy, and the supper nice, They would tell a story together. And my father said, "He would tell you "A picture of a girl who danced; And he wished to make her notice That she was prettier than the others. But she answered that she had not seen Any one so good as she; And he said, 'She danced so simply You must see it to believe it.' "Then he took a picture--quite a striking one-- Of a churchyard at old, dear Driffield. And he wished to show her 'em there,' he said, 'That no living soul was half so ghastly As is human pride. 'And he told it you In words that seem very old and wise.' "Then, talking again, he went on to say-- He said it very simply--'Years ago-- Yea, years ago, this human pride-- This fine human pride that can grow To such a height of glory-- Toward the angels it all has sprung; And with delight we see its flowers.' "I am quite determined, if I may be wise, That the Lord is not only wise but kind, For I saw a likeness that told me just What I wanted to hear. His long, keen eyes Were as though still thinking of the past; And his mouth, the way I knew it then, Was not yet seamed full of speech. "His long, keen eyes did not seem to speak, As I remember; but they smiled down As though they understood. When I was close, As I am now, I did not feel afraid; I felt as if I were in Heaven's own room; I felt as if I could know and comprehend. It was as if I had lived some few days; He did not strike me, but his hand--well, you know." The page Turned me again to some pictures There was one. "Here is a picture well known," She said, " 'Tis the famous 'Nut and Flax.' I think you'll like it. It shows two things that strike The spirit alike; the nut, the root, that flows Into the water,--the glory of the water; And, in the center, a happy child, with wings, And radiant face, that feels no "me," that seeks No "we;" a world, that asks no "as done be." The page Turned on to the next picture. The girl was admirably portrayed. Now you notice She had ten thousand jewels in her hair. "Those are not diamonds," said the page. "Those are natrium beads, Fixed in grey green glass. I sometimes fear you'll think, While looking at them, I have tried to gild the thing. "For all I know they're religious beads. I only know that once they had their hey-day. Who knows? I think they're very common things. Natrium beads are better, I believe, than diamonds. You never would think they grew in Alaska." He went on to see more pictures. "You see," said the page, "here's a Chinese kitten, As white as the snow upon the mountain. There is a curious story I would mention. Suppose you would notice some larger things. There once was a lady of fashion here,-- A sort of beauty, you'll remember, once was hers. "Her name was Tsutsumi Kaishu. Long, long since, Thirty years or more, we do not know. She came from China. She had a strange look, And sometimes you felt very awkward. She said some strange things, in fact, The very words I must not repeat. Some of you may remember well the way We chased her. We caught her full in front, As she was coming down the steps of the dome, While all her followers, while all their eyes Were fixed upon her, wildly waved and sang And rushed forward and madly tugged at her heels. We caught her and brought her here to my laboratory. We purified her, just like jewels. 'Twas done Into a finer powder than the books call for, Into diamonds the book calls for, fine as pearls. "I have so many precious stones in my house, A carat gem would cost you ten thousand dollars. Let me give you one as a specimen. This is a fine pure emerald with a crest Of purple sapphire. It was won in battle. What do you think of that?" "I think it is very beautiful," "Let me bring you one, This ruby, cut in many bands, So it can shine in the sunlight, And look radiant in the darkness. It is of Arabian extraction, And brings a genius to the company That you cannot enjoy enough. I bought it of a servant of war, A noble youth, who wore it, In the battlefield of Kurile, Just at the moment when he lost his head. His head was nearly severed by a shrapnel wound. Here are some other things I have to show you. These are some trinkets and ornaments Of little value, and worth much consideration. They are round studs of hammered silver. Here is a collar with an elephant's tooth In it, and here is a ring--some say it is a hoax, But I'm glad to own it, for its symbolism, "On the chair in my laboratory you'll find, Just by the door, a very fine lace shawl, Of rare art design, and I think you'll find it A most elegant article of dress. If you look on the left side of the shawl, You will see two ducks swimming in the river. One of them a very lovely girl is nesting, And you are free to take the other as a prize. Now throw the shawl into the river, And the ducks will take it to the very end. "Two loving eyes, with eyelids lightly closed, Looked out from that same shawl into your life, And there you had your first political lessons. And here you are, with eyes all shut in wrath, And an engine in your head that never labor'd, Can you tell me what is the meaning of that?" You have been listening to the wild political talk Of Mr. Lomanack, of Montpelier, and you Were waiting for something that might unfold. Some shining principle was to be proclaim'd, Some lofty doctrine to pourst in eloquence, So you might know what to do, so you might do it. There is something more, I fear, in what he said, Than meets the feeble ear, or minds betray'd. And something less, I am certain, than the fate That befell his native town. That town, I hope, Is deeply cheer'd, and will not feel her griefs four. This country, like all our countries, has a wrong <|endoftext|> For to each woman is born A life-long dream, to be a woman. A dream that is intense, That is obscure, and sweet, and fraught With fancies foreign to our day, And bright as Lucifer is to day. For to each woman comes With every bathing, with each covering, A breath as rare as that from lily-bells, And flushed as that which rings around Amoris. A tender breath as rich as Cieslea's, A face as fair as Cassiopeia's. A woman, each, to cling to, to cherish, The fancies that haunt a woman's Dream. This little hut, the sunlight playing in the corners, The slanting rays of light upon the dome, The crabs outside crost them, the cockchafer within Hooting and roaring, but they did not heed. These things were dear to them, though the sun did lay His warming sunshines on the shivering grass. The shivering grass! All day it will be trod upon, Nor shall the earth see another footstep here. Ah! had they but been seen by one to whom falls The care of all the crabs that scrape the stones; To one whose skill the mallet of a year has used, Who smoothes the crevices when the sun is gone, Who makes the shining fish-tail elegantly curl, Soothing the brow of morn, and setting the birdsongs clear, Who talks the talk of youth, and woos the maiden free, These things were sweet to them, though the sun did lie Lazily litten on the shivering grass. "O much-loved Uncle, I return from sea, Where I was sent as a sacrifice To Atadides, lest heaven be won Or otherwise; I return from the sea Won by my beauty, and by the neglect Of all my elders. And this is my coming, Which was decreed when I was born. For they said That one whose head is wooed of gods should not see The sun for two years and let them pass away; But I have seen them ere they were among the suns And have made no excuse for their not coming, Nor have I appeared to make one, but I return Awakened by that irresistible longing. And though you weep for your Amaryllis, still You must behold these longing eyes. They are not tears, But they mark what I have seen when I was blind. And this I would have you know: The gods are merciful, And I do love you. Once again I would kiss you, I am of other aspirations than a bride, And I can come back to-morrow with another mouth, And in some devious way find out what you have been. I am not a fool, and I have never told you this, But I have seen things you could not see, and I am come. I have made an enemy of some drowsy king And I have seen, in one single day, two cities burn. And I am come to see if I can make a peace Which shall endure with Atalanta for a year, Two men shall swim the Tiber with an iron oar, And I will be one of them." Therewith he raised his hands to the gods And they came towards him; and the sun went down And there was one, a God, upon the hill, Mouth and forehead all in the air. He looked Across the plain, upon the Trojans, and at last Saw Phrontis, and his soul went after hers, Finding her in his heart, and before his eyes He dived into her eyes, and cried: Aeneas never must come back to her, Or if he must it shall be as a poor boy And she will keep him in a pasture quite away From war and all its wrecks, and then he will wonder Why his life was so ill, and she will wonder Why her love was kind, for things are not so black Beyond the sea where Aeneas is gone As is her sweet, and he will weep himself to sleep. Do thou first learn to gain a kingdom, Lest thou forget to seek a wife, Lest thou forget when seeking, And when in many wars, Thou hast for ferried all Things without thought, Things without name, And all within Presumptuous desire Of every one, Then, bearings, break thy net, And do no treachery Against the dove that brought thee. For the more that we strain to reach its region, The more we may offend in moving back, And the more willingly we can allow The tale of old, For this is but a vision only, And the only message is: Live happily, whilst you may, Nor trust the weather Nor count the days as hours, Nor look for days to run, Nor see the years as hours. Pour out the moments, never name The persons, And let your joy be loose; But do this for a season, For this is all. This I have learned, since she has given me no greeting for three days, and I see her still as one asleep who dreams only of the days that are over and the days that are coming: To find the place where a smile might break upon a face. And I am alone, in the silent season, and I know the light will not shine for anyone for some days yet, and I sit and wonder. This is what I know of her. The little boy Who stood among the bones of the dead, The same boy, at the end of the room, Even now he stood and looked with his open mouth upon the light; The smile has changed upon his face, and the eyes have closed, And the little naked arms are folded upon the knees, And the little naked feet are up upon the hands, And the little naked mouth is pouting, And he knows now nothing, but his smile Was of an eternal kind. Come, little boy, come, and play with me, And sing, and jump, and run, And lie down with your knees between, And sleep till the dawn of day. The little naked feet Will wash in the water While you wash yourselves, And the little naked face Will wash, and make clean, And you two be happy, And play forever, As we play now. He that will play with thee Let him know that he plays alone. From his head let him keep away Every little clod of sand, Let him play alone Till he is old as we; For he that will play with thee Does but take thy pleasure From thy mother's heart. The children are all home, With their supper and their play, And their spinning and their weaving, And their work in the sun; Yet out of the busy noise I hear the cry of a restless man, Not safe among the noise of play, But alone in the night. Out of the kitchens and onto the sills There goes a murmur, there comes a call, Not answered yet by any living thing, And there goes a whisper, sad and sweet, Not answered by any dead; A cry from the dead, a cry from the grave, And a voice that whispers and a voice that cries. I have wandered out of the streets And into a wood, Where there is no living thing, Save the gay moth which to them flies At the coming of dark night. The brook and the road and the shade Are all deadly night, And the beech and the birch remain As they have all bere. This is the sign of the Raven, Who shall bear away The kisses that are chill, Which the wood smells most; And the birds on the branches sing Of a bliss that is hid. The red was the night, and the moon Shone cold and clear; But the birch left off its leafing And the beech stood alone, And I saw from the birchen tree The little children sitting In the moon's pale light. The call of the Raven was heard Alive within the room, Where the guests were gathered and waiting. They looked up quickly, afraid Of what might betide, And saw through the open door A man clad in ebony, A man with eyes of fire, Who bade them all come in. Some at the bare metal floor, While others at the board Set in their fond regret That they had not brought enough To eat and to drink withal, Stood perplexed for a while; And when they understood He meant no laughing tale, Yet some drew out the silver threads Which hung from the mansion wall On his ring finger. And a few turned to gaze Upon the man alone, Who stood amid the light Of the room's light, With a heavy expression Upon his countenance, And slender fingers light With the silver work. The silver shone, as of old A silent waterfall <|endoftext|> The keen ear waits on his voice, And the rapid beam travels fast, In the depth of his surveying, While he raises the rock to look At the turfy hills outspread. That the ferns love him is plain; He a thousand lisping flowers Makes glad the mossy vale; And the sun that glares along, His smiling smiles upon him Makes bright the valleys mild. One grey November morning, As the sun turned towards the bound Of the desolate Saxon shore, The yellowing pear-trees shone fair On the hillside overspread With a crust of frost in brittle flakes. The dead leaves fly in the wind, The birds are dumb in the air, Through the storm the mist hangs dim, Still the fountain leaps to life. Through the breath of the walking rain You can hear the gurgling fall; But the trees will not answer to the touch Of your shaking hand. For the wind is a knocking tree That is knocking all the night; And the rain is a sobbing stream That is sobbing all the night; And the mist is a wasting land That is weeping all the night; And the mist in the melting sun Is as white as the summer snow Upon the frozen tree. When the bitter tempest sighs Over the bow of the deep, And the drear and the dark tome Of the storm is clouded with lead, Let the pleasant tunes rebound, And live with the lark in heaven. Let us feed the grey seaweeds With the husk of the marsh marigolds, With the husk of the seaweed sheaves, And the husks of the kelp let us turn Where the kelp has dried to flakes. And let us hide the kelp from the sun, And hide it from the frost; Let it lie dim in the crannied sands, 'Tis work for the waves to turn. 'Tis easy to make food of trouble, But more to suffer it: To give treasure of trouble And take barren spoils of trouble; 'Tis easier to weep oceans Than to drag through every wave The load of want that makes them rest. Let us look up into the gloaming Where the curlews call, Let us listen to their midnight calling Till the sullen waters have dilated Into a placid armful. We will gather fruit from the tender Lettuce of trouble For the pressing trouble of this morrow, And we will place it where no bud has arisen, And we will leave it lovelier than when we found it, With love for the day that has gone. Let us gather fruit from the trouble Lettuce of every age; Let us hide the rind in the greenhouse And the fruit of the rind in the grain; Let us gather the luscious obscurity And the brilliant obscurity of tears, And we will fill our bellies with the dearth; This our ration of to-day, For the morrow, for the morrow. Who is the poet of France? Tired of his history and war, Longing for a song for all things; Determined to find the secret That will make his life beautiful, And he journeys to the tropics, Takes a long, long glass of brandy, Writes the words, "In the land of the dark-eyed, Where the Ibibio dance is done." Then he travelled to the island That had the brandy from the Caribbean, That had the answer to the question, What is beauty? It is that shade Where the black dancer comes, and steps Silently and gracefully Over the earth-dance, and sings The music of his feet. And the island answered, "I am beautiful, And all my clothes were shiny and bright; I am lily-foot, with red, red lips; I am Arusha, I am Arusha, I am beautiful, and I am sweet; I am the island of the lovely, The place of the child that nobody knows; No one has seen the little lips of me, The purple feet, or the little breasts; I sleep among the perfumed calaculas In the lands of lovers." And the brandy was transforming All the beauty of the island, Till the brandy of the islands of France Was bright blue, and thro' the brandy Sang, "I am the little-known Lake that nobody knows; No one has trod my secret trail; I sleep among the waves, in the footsteps Of the fairy lovers that follow the foam; That are hidden from the seamen that follow the wind." Then the poet that travelled to the island Took the brandy to transform its colour; And he travelled until he came to a tree That was spiking its branches with aluminium, And was making them into a bridge Over an iron structured mass For an unknown child to sail upon. And the child was made of iron and aluminium And it had wings, and flew away into the distance On the trace of the dancer. So that traveller sallied forth once more To the tropics of France, And he took a great stick of bamboo And crossed the road to a little garden Where was hanging, in the shadow, a gourd That had been used in some distant age To brew and digest maize. And he broke the shell of the gourd And beat it upon the ground; And the calyces, of mercury, From the beat leapt upward and broke A branch of oak, And the fragments flew into the air In a mist of motes. "Come, come!" said the farmer; "It is only some boy scout In the Bohemian skirt." So he picked up the broken beam And swung it hard about his head. And the bamboo whistled As the stick came swinging, "Come, come!" said the farmer; "The bell ringing in the town. The singing girls are finding The quince jars together." So he picked up the broken bell And broke it on the black sill. And he held the broken jar Before his house door, And called to his child, "Come in! Come in! The quinces are ripening To fill your mother's dishes." So that traveller went on Toward the land of the quinces And the green mangoes And the red mangoes And the mangoes in full ripeness In the land of Bhangia; Toward the far-off sunny towns And the low-looking people; Toward an unknown city With the blue river flowing Through it. In the city, that was built for kings, The traveller saw a wall of gold Between the high wall of bricks; And the bricks were perched upon with nails In a lace of gold that was laid Between the bricks. There the king sat with his ministers, On a golden throne of his, Bearing his sceptre in his hand Of molten gold; and they saw the earth Flower and hold the fruits of dooryell In the wide unbroken garden-plot, Where they sate. There they saw white clouds sailing Athwart the sky of yellow dust; There the river floated by, While the leaves upon its bank were fresh And filled with water as it past. There was music and paradise, And the love of man and woman, And the honey of the gods. And the king made a joyous feast, And his beloved was his guest, Bearing in her hand a vase Made of lapis lazuli, A strange golden vessel, And golden cups; and everywhere Was draped the light blue gauze. He took her hand in his; and he told her Of the vine and the rafters of grape, And the enamelled fruit of the mango, And the curling ships of the tamarac, And the golden kingcups of the hibiscus; And the winding of the coral sea About their loved nest; And the majesty of the royal places In the distant realms above; And the light and splendour of the summer places In the lives of the kings who sate in heaven, Sitting in splendour upon their couches, Through whose windows And the birds that sat in the garden of God In the garden of the blessed angels Singing their songs; And the lotus-leaves of the sacred garden And the perfections of its King; And the swan that plunges in the silent water When the crane is flying by, And the light of the four virtues shining From the faithful ruler's rule; And the promise of the chosen few In the early times of the kingdom, When its valleys were dry And its fields were untilled, And the young king in his tender mercy Fed the great nation; "Look at me," said the King. "This is the hour <|endoftext|> In thought unceasing falleth. Thou soon shalt hear my wishes made known, My vows from thee; for thou a second time Shalt see why I have sent thee forth Thus early from my presence, with such pow'r, Such honour, such fair flourishing state, A princely person and a godlike man. This is my enjoin'r, and that thou too Might be persuaded; and that thou fall not On thy misfortunes ignorant, and so Inquire of others, if they also Be wanting something, which I desire. These, and a thousand strong commands Have I, and this alone, enjoin'd, to send My servant fainting and for recovery To his native land, nor shall any harm Have I or miss. And now my parting words Shall be mine filings to epistle, and you To read, as now you see fit; and I exhort That ye their power rejoice; that all may drink The dark blue river of the gracious radiance, That runs with refreshing froth down to the ship, And be of cheerful mind; that thus ye may, On which it falls, for ever make the circle, And on the stream be found in times to come. Since this is still my earliest weekday, That ye may open and view it, dawn is come, And it is time for me to depart; I bid assume the apparel of the moon, The stars their fire and sway, and us resolve To be which God hath wedded us to be. I orisons are said To fortify the will, To move the gentlest blood, and stir The slowest iron; nor is he more Made ready unto prayer, than I To speak my trusty thunders forth. For I have heard that in mid night A mighty invocation Awaits the unwaken'd: therefore to thee, Now present to my view, I form mine earnest of divine Approval, and must make mine oath She shall be considered Spouse and Queen By right of Sacred Congregation. And is there cause, Or could there be any cause To move me to give thee leave To take away that bond, Which is a death To love and love's delight, And ought to kill love; And wilt thou take that oath And deal with me as thou wilt? I did send thee forth From me, both to keep And to form the world's delight; And that thou mightst Be kind to her, for love's sake, And free from all guile. And wilt thou swear it? As for the children, Which thou shalt bring forth From her thou lov'st best, Their time shall be In her side, In thy heart the rest. So the centre of thy love Shall be to them, The sole desire of thy love ; the rest to her Thou leav'st; and she to thee Shall be ever dear. My LUCASTA, which died rich In misery, and left her lord A poor corrupt man, and I To be the sole master of my fate; Have I not power like thine, And might enough for thine intent Do justly call thee voluptuous? And dost thou fix thy affections Upon the poor and worthless, Foolish, worthless maid, to whom Thou never didst apply Thy tutelary bounty? But I, who kept my heart Unmoved by any such desire, In the proud pleasures of thy heart Am pleased to rank myself; And, as thou dost administer The spruce and smooth fashion Of thy smooth and smooth appearance, With me accomplish all my pleasure. By dint of power and vain endeavor, Alas, I have been able Full often, in this life, To plague and vex thee; And thou hast still returned me Shelterless, to thine own. Thou canst not know, I know, how far Away I put myself From all things gentle, from all kind Confiding in thee; That to thy speech and beauty I only yield Wish for a name. Is it not better so? Pray let me see How far so worthwhile. Crisachia is a land of strangers, Where, by the way, Thou sawest all fair houses, And seeing them, Thou went'st homeward without desire Thinking of it any more. Go, from thy sweet and simple nature, The reins tempered, and in all manners For the sweet boughs we see; And though a youth, a tender youth, Somewhat uneven in his manners And imperfect in his speech, Thou shalt have still a master And be his coachman. He that would so bring it on, The trust must be in me, On my promise, whom thou haply Lacketh trust, with all that is thine; But what thou lackst, let it suffice That thou knowest what is enough. And, looking always downward For something new and good, Thou wilt, in time, become so A much more pleasant carriage; And, until thou reach a perfect age, A more and more incessant entertainment. And at last, (to coin a new expression) Thou wilt be shepherd, And shepherd's office needed never A change of any kind; No care must touch thee, as thou knowest No danger else; No shadow of suspicion Must touche thy innocence. Nor need'st thou care at all What beast of beast might spy upon thee; What wolf, what fox might play upon thee; What bird of strange. Seest thou that, good boy? A dog might take a gander. There might be one that might chill thee With sudden décor; And yet, upon his dog's bestial blood, Might leave no small existence. Seest thou that? Good boy. So might the gander's been By him filled; the most obstinate And solitary of beasts, Upon his stifled heart A fresh and eager ardour swell, And make it tremble, O gander! By means of thee. This I say, and add, this I say, For wo is 't often so. It is no great offence Unto thee, I know, to fool Upon thy goat, what goat may shadow His to thy fooling; But 't is sorry wasteful ways, Worthier deeds undone. It is no great offence Unto thee, as womans wiles, To trust what womans tongue has said; And 'tis no small offence Unto the gander, if he slip His gander's eyes or heart, if he Be not taught what is his business, But trusteth in a fool. O give me back my milk! Or give me not my milk, Sweet virgin; or, as thou art, Give me not thy nipple, Since I have practis'd What suckling 's. If I go, O gander! Gandhari or mountain goat, Thou wilt come, O milk-drinker; And, like one hired, Give me gandharvas (3) in my joka, Or yajnik saints in mine; I have suckled goat and gandharvas, And they have suckled thee. Then one with tongs, (4) if I see thee Drugging my milk with herbs divine, Come thou, and to thy sorrow In my drink I will content thee With the pain thereof. I have had suckled many beasts; Many my sages plucked; Gandharvas I have drunk and fat goats And many a raging bull; Yajnik saints I have suckled too, And they have drunk my milk. And, maiden, no like it! One who will drink milk from a fool From whom thou hast us'd to come, O drink him last; To drink him last be all thy craving Since I have suckled. There be such,--and sweetest are they,-- But, O maiden, none like thee; Such as are nought else but gandharvas (5); None, and full of taste: Yajnik saints I have suckled too, And they have drunk my milk. 'Tis a kingly drink that gives content To kings of earth and kings of air; With it the Sage's lips were loath, And the king of Bactria's wrath; And Fortune's cups were made When Earth herself was old, When Heaven was made, and Night was nigh; And kings with Bactrian countenance Have drunk it from her chalice. Of this dread poison could we see, All wicked sages agree, What should we to the cursed things Consume and make our war? But she to brib'd sinners gives <|endoftext|> We ask for all that we lack, Who fail and suffer all alone. Who are we to deny Delights because we're poor? Or because we haven't a spindle, Or because our ploughshare's old; Or, because we're without a hut, Clown-like to clown ourselves? What have ye given me, my Sphinx? This life that is so full of dross, Or this love that is so slothful, Or this pride that is so morbid? What have ye given me, my gods? Only to sit and muse and dream, And drink my rougher waters, Is it enough for me that ye've given me Cards and cake and chaff of various kinds? Nay! are ye not more keen to remember The gilded trappings, the bright trappings, Which I thought divine but now, O gods! - I think of you. I have cast lots for you; I have hidden Your trappings in the rich recesses Of the mighty heart of my own breast - I would not alter this, my gods. I remember, and I see ye stand Near at my side, my gods. I can touch you with the tricks and attitudes That ye have taught me; The self-same body is your tools and Goethe's In many ways. It has its ruses, its shabbily dressed, Fascinations; And I fondly think and dream that ye know, My gods. If in the end I find it true that ye gods Have cared for me throughout, O gods! If ye have given me the pure wood of my heart, I may live happy; And even if ye give me nothing more, That would be best, O gods. "Sigmund, my husband, I have heard it said That ye would one day have to pay me visits; And it is true that we have lately had To attend to such things as bade us beware: For in fact ye've had us both to share Your visits with the very richest princes, And likewise with the King of France, who Ordains his hands to be the butt of whate'er Thou takest to be sold in the markets, And is to be wed to all the women That might be brought to him, but for thy servant Thinking it good to give the King a present; And he hath given us to come hither This autumn, that we for gifts to him In our future intercourse may excell All the others, Sigmund; come, at once, and see All our carpentry most wondrous and brave!" "O thou brave workman, Gunther, thou art dear To me, if I may call me so, because Being a man, thou art the one to do it! Never, for a moment, have I seen thee, Or heard thy voice, or had a word with thee, Save when last night, 'What wouldst thou?' thou didst ask Me on the verandah of our garden; And I made answer immediately, 'A garden--thou hast one yet ungrown, If thou wouldst examine it: think it over!' --And I will do so, presently; and thou Wilt see, this evening, how greatly I am changed! For now indeed I too would bear a Flower, And look pleased in presence of it to give it; Would talk of it as much as when I talk'd Of the bright Rose that boiled for no one but me, Strew'd with the debris of her native Field. --It would be easy to make us friends with all, And have some pleasant evenings, and leave The most useless men to their own devices, And take the chirping stops from people's lips, And hear the latest gossip of the spot, And catch the jingle of a caravanser On each new cross-road. But it shall suffice That thou and I be faithful to the Flower, Because thou art but one of many, And I have promised to be evermore A Flower, though, like thee, I go around the world!" As she spoke thus, she drew an o'erfull Cup From off her breast,--which, as if it held Flowers, but drank them as they dropped at length, Half-empty, when wassailed in the deep dew,-- And filling to the brim, gave it to him. And he, while she spoke not, proffered it. "O imp of will!" he said, "this surely was A splendid Flower! why, it were a shame If somebody else but me received it! Thou hast no intention of giving less Than I have promised--and over-much less!" This petty system of love suited well The amorous pride of some, but not of me; And I, who have no need of such equipoise, That makes a temporary ally of misery, And gives to ParnassusMy native Bowers for thy Sighs, Made answer: "Thou art sure that I shall give more, Than thou affocated seest me? Behold, I freely give what I should not give if thou Wert of full share. Behold, I give what thou sayst; But here I find it inconveniently, And I confess it, that I am unsuited To this flower-featur, a Flower, that blends Thy commands with current customs. But I say That this is to my liking as a Cupid, That I am fond of thee, and at eve am fain Of refreshing love, and scarce would be vainer." All the other flowers that bloomed abroad From rougen fixed to pigment, and the Sun (Who chiefly warms his country by his fires), Foum. Man, and that one of sunburnt hue, Which cries aloud for vengeance on the sand That wears him out with walking there too much: Flower, that yestereems as much the companion Of the fierce Heart with which thou dost contend, As any worldly one can be, and in whose likeness Thou art the shadow of his motion everywhere: All flowers in which the light and shade are combin'd To produce variety, or which reflect Dull appearances, or veiling shadows faintly: Rhyming Creatures, that come and go at will: This requires no passage of mine arms, or breath, I need not look to find it; in me find it Is as a spell, a firm enspelling, and a spirit Which moves to glory through all living things. --This I sustain on behalf of all, because No Creature well beheld before my day. Thou art that Colour which in all the World Is least likely to be lost; which yet if treasur'd Is everywhere the companion of harm and want, And brooks beyond its neighbour in its range; That frail inflected hue, whose slight anomalies For instance, the casual grass may make or mar, But doth its rigid conformity secure Guilt-free, and guiltless of disgust or pain. --If any one of those brood'd Creatures haply prays That he may walk undisturb'd and undistraught, Unshod in the regular flowers and paths, Unmoved in the cool flowers and bounds of ease, O Clothing him more fitly for his home, O refining him for the ceremony Of faith, O am I that wholesome Suggestion! That indeed the pain, orfity, perfume, Which all the world doth waft unto thy hearth, Joy or labor costs, or profit which it brings, And all that any Creature needeth for its life, And that which any Creature needeth for its peace, Be they high or low, thou most absolute, Dost remove them all. Nor can I speake but with conviction, The great Divine All-giver is and was thy Hand That pattern'd this Universe, and created all Its forms as equal to his most perfect grace, And put into them his dispositions and his materials.-- I say not, Equal--for in those Diff'rent modes Which He, who was, and is the Perfect Soul, And every creature which he made and brought Into this World, held different degrees, --One is Exemplar, comparing dream To dream; of others(?): but every Creature Acts his part, yet each in his merits plays The very part, exemplary, of that School Which at the first beholding delights its eye, Impression shall remember longest, and inspire That Faculty which shall extol thee the most: Nor shalt thou ever weep thy mighty Shawl A Moment's length; for nothing so shapeless floats, Tossing and turning, through the agitation Of thy own agitation; nothing so spins Its self-magnetic Magnetic Field, and brings Unto itself incalculable influence From without, and from itself incalculable goods: Nay, wherein an envy has aggrandized And waste and devastation seek'd with vain envy, Waste and devastation are thy delights, <|endoftext|> And with livelier grace will draw to woo A squandering beauty which is almost his. <|endoftext|> A: These three words A4: from Ovid Cassandra saticula Ovid's interpretation Green-mender orchard orchardist Ovid's interpretation Saticula Ovid's explanation Saticula Ovid's translation angel spryche grosa Translation of "The Dreamer" garlic chives Translation of "The Select Journey" ginger-clouts Translation of "Metamorphosis" lilies Translation of "The Trees" leaves Translation of "Metamorphosis" false eyelash Translation of "Metamorphosis" larkspur Translation of "The Mare of Lovers" Narcissus Translation of "The Abduction {p. 207} is not amiss That he this fruit should eat When harvest comes, and with it well-in-thirst, The tropic heat is in the poles And of the Indians of the north. "Most happy that unweeting man, who, When we that loved him went, was grieved and glad The making of him answer to our choice, Before the secret crime came out." "The women, so at ease within the walls, Doubt not that gold shall find its way To them that wed their lord of high degree; For with due care they shalt be taught What gold is, and what its worth is." "Then, being seated on their robes of state, The ladies shall decide that which shall lie Most tenderly before them set; And in due order to assent They shall present him before the king." "E'en as the stars have lighted o'er the sea, Or gathered up in wistful hope of light The scattered clouds that hidden lie From off the waters, men before their king, Or flaming wheels, the lightnings shall be seen, That this great womb of earth, for the righting sore Of her overthrown base, iniquity may free, And give back vanquished nations to the skies." "And lo! as crystal, or like burning glass, Answers song that would all be less than sparkles are, Such light is seen in abounding faces To shine the more in those who triumph most: Nor in those graced with wealth and peace alone, By peace are victorious, but in those, Whose simple hearts are God's high glories seen. Who from a common earth, the common moss, In warriors' hearts are mighty homes to be; Who with their flashing eyes behold the sun Their guardian spirit, whose fair light doth bequeath Those vigilant eyes to live and see afar His wrath, whose very shadow in their aid Doth fear the most, with awful dominion, And holy dominion victorious leavened through Those strong senses that his images are, And in the thought so cleaveth his passionate spell That it cannot be withstood or bettered by things But such as these that he in war doth love. But he who so peacefully hath passed his prime, Ere flowered full the leafy criminal, And from his son the sweet ear-tune of reproach Brought up to court the twin flowers of disobedience, Scarce likely with his hand or tongue to quarrel, Stands high, yet none the less, as fear and shame Doth for his prince and captain in the field." bless the good Creator, do thou help me and protect, Nor let my soul, assured and safe in Satan's doubt, Dare to dread and tremble lest she lose all her pain, And know no more her mortal world and human fall. O let me drink of the river of thy word And without darkness in the stream be lost, Or that thy sure tongues and sure hands be free To save and deliver me and give me assurance. Or if thou wouldst separate me once from the bad, Let me, before that thou dost separate me more, Be and be known thy best and be thy standard-bearer." It seems that in my wiser breast there's such delight The night is keep as is the day; That o'er my fancy there doth sit a silent joy And not a sorrow doth vex it. For surely it is not as if the night were made For carnal love, for earthly joy, Nor hath the sun for a while his brightness put off, And left the world in twilight dismayed; Nor are the heavens waxen completely dark, As if life had no angle of good; Nor is the day bereaving of good day, But in its due measure is adorned well With hope that gives the dower of heaven its light; Nor hath the sea its billows and tides forsaken, But brings its merchandise and brings its profit. Nay, heaven's wide gates and high towers are towering With one accord to give me welcome, And through the glittering like a golden mist Of scarlet and of white of dance, And through the shimmer of the strong deep haze And over the high peak of night, Hath led me far away. "So loath to die, yet do not dote, That to all things else would not be a foe Seek death not thou: for my path is layed High on life's great height and none can tell The trouble, the height achieved. Some few there are whose deeds avail them A few very spots of light to show Upon the darkened firmament: None else may see nor can comprehend The heaven's beatitude the earth's curse." "O Father, great and holy Lord, And thou, good and goodly God, And thou, good and goodly way, And thou, gracious and strong King, I trust in thee and take heed That I let not thine eyes have pleasure Upon my soul to-night. For, lo, the twilight on the hill No longer seems of gray Nor white, but more dark and weird; Of nameless dread and dread more stern, And nearer sorrow, cold and dead. The terror, the wonder, the shame, Have touched me and they breed me. "O withered face, born From beauty's field of magic, By wizard hands severed, By wizard hands thy ends have died, And better were thy kind Had not the world been made." "O night, who art wise and lore above The song of any man, Though old and listless and breast-worn His heart beat high with pride, Yet he is false and vain And passes from youth to chill and grayer, Or from glory back to shame. But I, who have not loved nor known One love but love of man's face With loving not to know him, A god-like spirit, deified, Have walked with you to-night. "O Lord of Heaven and Earth and Sun, And All About Lord, Though grey and old and old to boot Are all thy ways and days, They lead to that where all is bright, And life is better here than there: "And if thou take away my rest, And to a glory build me, Though grey and o'erworn my head, And breast laid low with years, Lo, I have taken and been taken But yonder where I would. I have seen, I have known, I have done with time, And joy is mine, and rest mine, To look on thee, and gaze and gaze." Then of their saints the devout kissed his hands, And their he prayed and prayed again, But the same shadowy shapes were there The eyes stared vainly, the lips seemed to writhe, Whereon was nought of hope or help or comfort. "Alas," the man said, "God in his might Hath slain the lovely and the brave, Nay, they who loved the beauty and the truth And lived on earth to guard and watch it. God in his ruth hath ended them, And none survives, but is forgotten. I saw, I loved, I was slain, and yet I have a labour left to do Among the dead, who with my soul Are one with mine who were dead." "O Master, I am still yours, I have been faithful all through, I have faced down my sin, and fought Against a world that craved mine pay, That hearkened to the sound of mine axe And laughed my funeral to the brim. I have bartered all for that good crown I wore upon my breast when first I slew The eagle on the mountain-top, And by my side again, beside The beautiful white-bearded healer, The innocent blood washed from my wound. <|endoftext|> O what sweet things together germinate, What sweet things perish! We might have built a city With a single wall Had we a single penny. Lo, where the children sport about, Little boys and girls, As they sit at open windows side by side, Or at the low-born rick, And the sun shines through, and wets their fingers, And they laugh and sing together, And would you hear? 'Tis not enough that in the streams they bathe; 'Tis not enough that in the fields they eat: 'Tis not enough that the fountains split as they flow: 'Tis not enough 'tis all they have to drink, And the leaves they gather to drop at their feet: They must have worldly wisdom too, They must believe and do; For being wise is profitable no whit less Than being valiant are, And wisdom is gain'd in no better way Than being valiant are. You have been merry in your brigantine, You have been gay in your sub\arled, And with the welkin overhead You have been crib-faddle. But the time has come to you to be grave, And so, with many a blessing, You will be gravesome to some before You are gravesome to some else. Of your life, of your life, not a line Were gained to be lost! If you stay in this buoyant world, You will certainly live to die. No one knows his fortune as he is-- If you've a friend, it is a friend You've been merry in your buoyant world, You have been gay in your sub\arled, But you have been grave to come. You remember that visit at Mrs. Griffin's, Where we gave, as a joke, "Amusing Conversation," And her parting look was, as you have found, That unpredictable, natural one, That seems to say "Do!" but never is-- The look she gave you--that you thought was "No!" Because you were not born to meet her. You said at the time that you were "a-grieving," You were "a-painting over sharp"-- You were not painting over sharp or blunt Except in the little spots where you struck The things that really matter: For gilt medals have their proper place And only do young ladies gild: And as for dying--you may be sure That at least fifty men were glad To come to Mrs. U. Griffin's door On such an afternoon of the next year And be told "there is time." In this modern world how strange it seems To go, as we went a little while A long time ago, when people met Before life gave out of them a sap: And each, in the things he said or did, Believed his own special bit of truth-- He was himself and had his self-image Which, striking a chord of thought which he Was capable of swinging to and fro, Would rise to a terrifying height And never fall again:--in a word-- We had no other "real life" Than the little corner of earth Where such friends met in our grandmother's Cellar. And now you are a man and must meet Men in the street and talk with them: The man you meet may be a fool As you glance at him and his pa Or she-tree dress is immodest: You must learn how to wear your hat And take no notice what you're at-- The fool will pass to get a shock Of glitt'ring hair and be the same. There's always going to be fools as yet As there are women who, when they conceive, Are never afraid to birth: The difference is that now they are given To us by Life--before, they lived their "Live ever, darling!" quite enough On by-ways whence we cannot go And so they see and hear and look upon Our most dreadful follies and these Are thrust upon them and there they are In daily presence--usually mad. But foolish men are dangerous too, They may be led astray from the fool, Or lurk within his awful mind, But they are more deadly too, If led to idleness or sin Or mischievousness: so beware-- And my advice is, be you always wise? You are not dull, though--though what passes In your dull head you never know: It does not mind you much when you sit On its low bridge or wander in June For it does not never pass in that way. It affects you much when you cannot think Of anything to think of and thus You are attacked by a vague dismay, Which comes upon you when you cannot read A single book that comes down to you On this western road where one must go And one cannot--therefore still no go! And you cry--'twill seem a week before Some rumour from the wastes you understand Is just the thing that you have wanted To make you feel as you had fifty years A-tended to sepulture of the dead. And I--I only speak for myself: I have seen my ideals, which I sought And strove for all my life and failed To meet a fragment of an imp That was not hostile, if I may judge The blind brutes by the standards of our day, Rather than hangers-on of the slave Who happens to be living at the time. And I said then that to be a man Was grand and I deplored the time That had elaps'd since I was a boy And that I mistook for riches The hoard that round my lightsome horse hung Or the red pannier Boy behind me was Or the dagger Holly wore; And that I was sorry That I was a woman, and soon My thoughts turned to Tantalus And I sought for the last time to find If he were dead or alive again Since the punishment of idleness Is to keep on talking at the Age of Gold. For it is in vain That one induces The stripling private to retire When into the ring he engages And soon the public is induced To sit in and wonder how the thing began When we want something to do that's bold: And if we're not modest then We call the world to see In order to exhibit an elaborate sham That will suit our sort of mind: While the disturbed world Looks on amazed And children are clubbing for hens' eggs Or to give one parent a lesson. With business on the ground That has no ending, As I turn the pages of the morning paper, I can start home at ten and play All day, and hear the noise that the chickens make, And the chorus of the robins in the garden, And feel that there is nothing in the world So joyous and so free: And so I leave the work and return to my own, And only turn up the knob And let the key slip free And enter, if I may, The regions of repose. Yet here's a note that I find in my letter book Which I can't forget. 'Tis addressed to "a poor haji Jew"--in truth a very pleasant title-- But which, with all that is going on in the world For the haji class, I doubt if it implies The mitzvah on which it was really built. I am told that in Iran A haji is a sort of head-dress; But here we have a class that has no vailing And no Millihelaten class. Aha, you intermit! It is really too bad! The haji's position is too nice And his prospects are too nice For him to think of wearing a head-dress. It is also bad form If a poor haji (as you are) to-day In talking to a haji should resort To gross imbecilities, As you have done, by insisting that A haji must have "An ugly visage!" By the way, this George, who is said to be A liberal borrower, Discounts have paid on his Bridge and Garden at Leicester And hopefully, when the rain sets out in the North, They will be in a fix To repay the money he's spent on lamps. Now the haji sits down and looks all round For a chandelier. He wanders round for some time with sinking heart And looking all round The cupboard, cupboard, cupboard no luck he finds Till he opes the drawer of the Yorkshire house. There he finds it, inside of it, he knows It is made of ivory, in the middle is A base of porcelain, then the sides are Of colored enamelled stone; Next it is bound with a golden cord That's twined round and round. And as quick as you please He fishes in and out of the hollow of the chair And furls it round and round. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "Strange Beautiful Quatrains of Language", by Robert Hass [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] When I see those wildflowers curving and whipping in the wind, all having gone wild to heed some footstep nearby, I wonder what song they hear, what cryptic speech their footsteps utter, and what unspoken thought maybe turns a morning stride into a red-eyed northwind walk. — Johannes Solfström, Half of life lives in the mind. Green in the garden and gray on the hill, white orchid and serpentine spines, oolong tea and lily of the valley, red, gold, purple, black, and gray, on and on, drifting on the summer air. — Carl Gustav Jung, Archetype. Rain, rain, falling from the sky. Butterflies in the yellow garden, falling from the sky On the blossoms. On the ivy. On the oaks. In the hammock, scattering seeds. Dreamily, watching the butterfly swarm, I watch the rain sail down over the garden, Watch it cover the trees, and ramblingly Ramblingly pour down, Streaming down over the garden. On the patio table, something sprouts. In the hammock, getting wet. To its ankles, and down its thighs, Watching the butterfly swarm, Wet to the fingers, Watching the rain sail down. Through its hair, Shaking like a flower. I sigh out slowly. Slowly, softly, Waiting for what comes next. I open my eyes. The butterflies have flown. Somehow, in some way, all of this Reaches me, all of this reaches me. The garden, and the butterflies, And the yellow garden, And even the blue sky overhead Have all of this same quality of being Not here, nor there, nor even nowhere near me, But in a state of possibility. They floated to me, Something held them, held everything, Like a floating, wavy tapestry Plucked from a loom, and woven with the flowers. Over the window, a blackbird. Like a gust of spring wind, A dropping leaf. Something in the hammock, The butterflies, and the flowers, And in my heart, a question, "Was I made of matter, or could I not Be made of nothing at all?" <|endoftext|> "The Hollow Center", by Robert Hass [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Music, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Cadenza very much as you say. I won't deny the term "Agaan" makes poetry difficult. But consider the secular equivalent—a large, flat, empty patch of lawn. Take the recently plowed Indianapolis riverfront: a large, flat, empty patch of lawn has the sound of absolutely nothing. (And why not? the river is flat. Its water is not.) What's the sound of a empty stage, then? I have never heard the sound of a marimba. You have never, in your life? What's the sound of no sound, then? Remember that term? Agaan. What does it mean? Agaan is a word you will hear a lot in this conversation. You will hear someone say that there is no such word. They will say, however, it doesn't mean what you think it means. Agaan can be traced back to West African nomadic societies. It means, "I am empty, I am devoid of here." They would tell you that it means, "I am really not here. I am from a different tribe." It is important to understand what a marimba is. It is a small, hollow wooden frame, with sometimes animal or fowl teeth carved into it. They are played with, in a very skillful way, by African musicians. The question is: do we want our gods to have the skill to marimbas? If we think they must, then we must understand how gods came to have mouths. They must have begun as hollow, tool- or mouth-dipped balls of sham/rubber. The great Greek tongue came next, and then the Roman. We need to be able to speak to our gods with a moderate vocabulary. They cannot be called amulets or jargons, with headbands or horology or jewels. They cannot be called weapons or treaties or entrances or exits or chatterers of letters, or bridges or ladder things, or anything else for that matter. We must never speak to our gods with common words. (But you can wear a tight dress with a T-shirt and jeans. We must never wear tight dresses with T-shirts and jeans.) We must always speak to our gods in Hebrew, or they will not come to us. (But you can write in Greek. We must write in Greek, and we must write to each other.) The gods are a problem, and an impossible one. If the gods came to us, we would not have to suffer the sins of the fathers, and the copious amounts of cigarette smoke that end up in the air of the middle of the night when the blinds are drawn. If the gods came to us, we would not have to share the heat of the sun or the coldness of the north. If the gods came to us, they would be thirsty. (A cup of boiling water. A cup of hot water. You must drink of the hot water.) If the gods came to us, they would wish for a place where they had never come. You have heard the word skinah, hear it often in the prayers of the Hasidim. Hearts (rah amot) drawn to the scripture, ribs raying from the holiest of cities. Skinah is the verb form of skin. It means to come, to go, to be, to become. Skinah is the root of have, to have been, to be. Skinah is also the root of zion, of shalion, of rest. The city of shalion is also Rosh HaSharon. It has the sound of asphalt, but it has the additional meaning of what can never come to existence: a barrier, a preventer, an usher, a quarantine. I was very sad when I heard that my father was dying. The doctors said, "It's useless to come to him anymore." The doctors who said this were wrong, they heard the word he used more than anyone else, the root of zion. It meant to have, to have been, to become. My father came to me and said, "What is this beast, this beast that becomes you, after all this time, that you were only partially able to become?" He used the word skhush, the root of shalion. He said, "I want to be part of your people from now on, the people that are made from your skin." Skinah and skhush. Skin and skhush are inseparable. Skin comes into it even at the moment of breathing because in order for the lungs to get air, they have to become the air, the air that they breathe. I think it's as simple as that. Many people say to me, "Sharon, all our prayers were finished when our father died." I say to them, "Don't be a fool. I'm still trying to become you, to be satisfied with what I've done for now." My father died after many years, and I did not know whether to stay or go. When he was dying, I saw a vision. It wasn't a very beautiful vision, but it was clear to me. In the vision, I looked into the eyes of all my ancestors, all the ancient ones and especially those of Eretz Yisroel. I saw their crazy tears, the grief and the sorrow in their eyes. I was crying too, but no one seemed to care. I saw the sorrow in their eyes and said to myself, "Why is the grief of these ancient survivors not taken into consideration? It seems to me that their sorrow is universal." But why are their sorrows not taken into consideration? When I say this, it seems as if I am shirking my prayer. (I see now how my father often shirked his own by the way he took his forsaken youth elsewhere, to the lands of the Dullahans.) I wonder about the ancient sorrows of our people, the painful tears and the grudges that have no end, <|endoftext|> Then with some mask of lawless mine the flower Of youth had vaded. To the full ripeness Th' untaught maid, from my body plucking tears, Hung them o'er her bosom, that the heavenly dew Might collect them beechnut on her white petals. Thus her vaunt begun, by stroke of balmie thong Driving forth the tears, which hour by hour grew maudlin: And one fair hand continued yet apace to shed Inebriate streams upon the flower of maidenhood. Vapour of onanism gathered to her eyes And saturated them from the suffocating flood. Then she, the quivering ante-natal Hygeia, Assumed the parent's partner, and his arms grew around Her supple youth and charms. Her manly lips Grew luminescent like the phosphorescent moon Lit by the milk-maid's milk, and while he breathed A quick and phallic breath, her maidenhood Perfumed the breathing air, and with it smote Her virgin breath half helpless, but at length From her defaced lips, with Nynaehyas' semen Sucked of Ereutha, she conceived. There was drouth From the frail mother's side, and there was chaos Distended. In her awful grip the child Was writhing, and her nails pierced through the child's flesh As with the teeth of a wolf. Their hands and feet Were clasped round the beast, while to her breast The monster's hands were pressed, and from the soil His nails pierced her. Her young eyes flashed fire To see the hollows of his claws in sheaths Of pumice, and, clutching round the long tail Which dangled and wriggled at her feet, she cried To the monstrous monster: "Behold me, I am Minos. From this day henceforward long as I Shall draw the soul of one to be by force Dead in my belly; to death that is more Kind than to infamy, if death it be That I behold my bride, and that the voice Of her myself should echo in my bones Through these black channels: 'Lo, I am Death, And she shall yield me what he wills, when he Shall wish it: whether that he wish to climb Up to my center, and be gazing now Down on thy face, as if he ne'er was ware Of any change there, or that he reckons This bale of ships, or if he wish to see What life he shall leave on earth, then let him thrust His sword within his mother's heart, and thrust A strangling grain inside her mouth,--if he did These things, I with a laugh could curb his wrath." Then the rest cried to her: "Be not so dismayed! Think not that we have come to rob thee: we Will make thy soul to sing, that it for ever May shake with pleasure. Look not upon us, Draw not the vails over thine eyes, speak not, Save when required by us, but drink thy bread From out the goblet, and break the purple robes Wherewith ye are smitten. A dusky place Is the deep abyss, dark and dismal, where Death Shuts down each man's name, and even the dead None liveth who marks the money that is laid On the heads of the dead. Thou therefore fearest Merely that we shall tear up from thee the life That thou wast born to live. Even should we do This, we are but thine undertaker, and thee The dead depositors are, not they who gave Themselves to thee in exchange for the longed-for life Of all these centuries, and shall live again When this world quiets to a perfect rest, and God Rewards all contending trumpery." So saying, fair-robed, they stood around her; and at length She looked down from her upper air, and lo! all her deeds Were written in the book of life, and she herself The good, old Greek reputed to have described None other. "Alas!" she cried, "the weary years have waxed and waned, And still none has replicated my simple song. Drawn from the antique treasury of my race, This age has strewed me out some gem or other, But no contemporary hand has done its justice. Whose could have rendered it to my nice craft Equally correct? This many century later Who shall reveal it? Only one man, who knew, And he a wandering Jew, part owner of a theatre In Antioch, whence the fair recounts of women Were for his profit chanced, and through his art Once every fortnight all through the week unroll'd, In one row, three deep, of a tender play; But it was knew alike by no one else. And after, with stately pleasure driven, behold This volume here transfixt." And as she spoke, Her eyes glanced on the dim somnolence of the place, And after her the assemblage dropp'd, and all was silent. "Indeed thou speak'st so foolishly," quoth she, "Being a girl, and ignorant of such things, That if thy sex had better led thee rightly Thou would'st have praise of one and no other, Who, in his rude years, by inspiration Culled it out, and in his own controul Had thereat inscribed; but since thou wilt hark To my narration, mark me well, and know Time is a fickle mistress, and doth vainly Implement his words with look and line. "When Cytherea, at the bitter cost Of many sweet months, in vain had hoped again To bring her Prince, and her unhappy lover, After the cruel death of Pallanteum, And with him all his court, and all his pomp, Who lost not life or limb in that farewell, Yet could not for that time prevail to meet With Ulysses, being a stranger still To that fair country, through which his ships Drew on to Aganippe. She had a son In-held, a hero, Atlas, by Calchas Into fame, who always with his spear The realm of Crete might securely gain, For which he fought against the winter blast, And spend heavy ages on the main-land. "But when his blameless father to the shores Of Europe arrived, he to the King Of Phoenicia, King of all pirates, bore A woman, lovely in all beauty, frame And features to the very height, who bare His name before all men, and did his will, When his old self her spirit did renew Within her by the grace of Goddess Diana; "But in his city- castle, in the country Where his race was nourish'd, and in that house Which he himself inthralled, were but a few Of those his pirates, and he from many more Came to be holden; and there the woman left Her birth, but in her presence all were amazed At such strange excellence, and long debate O' the worth of celestial love arose, Which no one dared to deny or shun. "And so the seasons waxed and waned, and brought A lull in the heavy war, and calm in vain Were efforts of the Gaulish arms, and all Sustained the paynim cause, until the day When King Rodomont, by treachery sought, Sank Pelleas, his own guest, in the deep Then leap'd upon by shouting thousands round, By his strong captains and leaden-eyed lords, The ancient name and renown of old appear'd Refresh'd, and waken'd peoples to the birth Of radiant Mars. "When the new-born Mars appeared Amid the leaders of those hosts forlorn Of victual, and when the others left Their gracious tent, and sought the town, where more His mother's fair presence might succour him, And when Alcasto, fearfully maligne By those same captains whom her love had bred To do violence, from the topmost crest Of even-mountain Thor's palace, saw the King And Pandion's peer, her blood bath'd in tears, Demanding what ill was in that field, And whither fled the Child, which he so fair And precious did behold; then wonderous light Shot from her eyes, as trembling through the air She glide'd, and on the Frenchmen bending down Soon caught them by the throat, and drave her complaint Thus in her plighted voice; "O wanderers of this terrene, in vaine That thou, O noble Clifford, shouldst be fain To save the Serpent and his daughters' king, And put to death the women of Belmarre, Whom like a flower of chivalry, by thee Hast thou lavished virgin beauty on the earth, And on thy housewiferied halls; and call to roof Thy foolish towers with women and with children fat, <|endoftext|> And his own wonder, and the wonder of her son; He was not frightened in the least. Before our year was done, we heard of service In nine armies,--a swarthier body of men. And his own beauty with its gold and brown, Shone out upon us on every side. At a year he was captain of dragoons, And though some called him mad, we knew his brain Was made of chrysoprase. A cock-feather plucked out of his ear Became a fatal missile through our line: Some said he heard some brass above him, Some said he saw some red fire. And some of us wept in our sleep, and some Struck our heads against the chinkstones of stone For a sign that he would not return. Five years passed by: we still kept looking For the fighting soldier's drumming sound, And all the signs pointing to his return. Nothing could we see or hear,--except That all the "wild tribes" of Color troops, That roamed about the Wilderness of Sand, Left their hiding-places, when the Spring made Its grand, promiscuous arrival And every clamor-time of the Spring Seemed to make heralding of his return. We told our chums, and they wept as we told,-- "Sure, somewhere in this boondocks are men As brave as he was when he left us below." And slowly, sadly,--perhaps because he knew That in that little square of sun and rain His own people were his guardians,-- The wild-eyed, singing-sketching Indian, The war-bird yellow-plumed, the fire-bird yellow With crimson plume crest and red breast, departed. One pargetint of the Wilderness-- A chestnut muezzin with vespers said, And a real sky and a dead maguey tree, And glowing campfires, and a little dirt That in a carpet of rich, dark loam Became a shining pad; and four-in-hand guns, And bayonet-shafts that in a mound Were mingled neatly, and the marks of fight, The mangled fall, and broad-head-fire to match, And groan of horse and tramp of men down range And sharpen the steel for a moment's scope, Were blessed hissing through the chalk-dusted air, And a hot mound-fire that was fierce and high Thrilled with the promise that the fifth year Was America's Festival of Fire! All human growth is due to Him Who in His tender pity once flew down From Heaven to be a man. To forget the pleasures that He has given Takes a god of charitable eyes: And how much more when those eyes are dim With gathering smoke of tobacco! Yes, Tobacco!--Mildew and jam May blight its glory for a time; But no god dies who sent it forth, And not a god with ear to hear Each murmur of man's heart can be If thou wilt smoke, and let me smoke, One moment let thy shadow lift My heart to thine. Oh! forever Thy self, who only wouldst be near, I feel thy soul the more, And bless thy eyes with their unclouded light In whose myopic sight I am so dim that thou canst not see! <|endoftext|> Tasting and smelling the apple As if I had brought it in a jest; And when I lifted it and looked in, I saw, or thought I saw, a face With gray hair and gaunt lips saying, "Don't throw it away. The sun was kind, the tree was kind, But I am going home And the hearth was kind, too; But now I shall have only Cold leaves and snow to keep me warm; And the kind eyes that smiled to me Are dead, and so is he I thought I saw, And all the warmth that was the hearth Is sunk and gone. "Why did you sit and stare Into the fire, With not a smile to set The pith of wood a-smelling? Why did you sit and stare Into the fire? Why did you sit and stare, Into the fire?" If you had heard the snow Roaring round the chimney; If you had heard the snow, And felt the wind above your head, And heard the hail Crackling on the window-pane; If you had heard the snow, And seen the wind and roof-tree swaying, And feel the snow Around your feet and hair, Would you not wonder What more they needed In words or music to tell you How beautiful are snow-flakes, And how they have the fragrance Of ripened fruit, Of clover fields and grasses, Of blackbirds pied, of violets, Of apples woken from their sleep By summer's smile? We have turned them into music With many a reed and reed-weed And many a whippoorwill; And now I have six river notes To wind among the smallest notes That are to our lips the most That spring affords,--and yet I hear No river note that rustles even Like little river reeds Over the roofs of towns. And one day, the wind Was shrill and lonesome, and the snow Was galling all the leaves; and there The blue sky was, and the white waste Of windy hills, and the blue gleam Of lake and night, and I was alone In the old kitchen, and there I heard A low voice in the dust overhead That cried, "You need not be afraid. We are all brothers here, We that have worked and mourned, And we that have loved. This little table in the darkness Shall feed you well; and we are near; For we are all of us children of the sky." "If there's food in the house, The cats and the mice shall have it; And if there is not, the lice that crawl In the new-made matting of the floor And hide in the crevices, they Shall forthwith die." They tossed their covers dark with mud Upon the backless sofa, And wiped their chins and faces flushed With fingers rough with dew; The smoke of the chasm-portaledge Was blue and black and red As the cathedral's spires of cream. "It's rather a long ride," Cried the great, gray church-bell, "From the break of the dead day, So come with us and ride And we will put into you The breath of the mountain spring. "And once we will bring from near White-throat, and macaw, and spoon, And we shall make you merry Till the stars be gone, And the wild day-owl crow Come from his subterraneous fling, And the smoke of the chasm-land Is in the eyes of the sunset A life that is over soon." A moment on the peak They rested, gazing up At the cloud-fettered heaven's track, And the tiny city bathed In the sickly candle light. "Is there no one left to live?" Said the grey city-ghost. "There are millions," the Puritan sighed, "Of creatures that lived and died, But no man took any heed of any; And there's the gaunt, old Hunter, Who lived and made a name, But in vain for evermore. "There was this one man who had a name Of honor, if a bad one; A good name perhaps, for none can tell, If he himself had one; Who went to the heart of the dark hill, And came not back from it alive. "His heart was as heavy as a load On a mule, that cannot wend, That must be borne and abused In the first great draft of fate, And no man owns it for long. "For on some godless march, or raid Of doubtful honor, one by one, They, true to the creed they bore, Perished as was due. And one, true, Of many, earned my love and thanks. "I owned him as a man might own A tamed lion in a cage, So after him I felt in turn A shiver of new terror, And as I looked at the low range Of his white spirals in the dark I would have cried, but knew better Than to start and to begin With a black, unholy thing like him. "But I cannot let thee bring him back, Or hold thee to the strange demand That came from that dead lips of his; There is no man that can meet it Save by thy doing, thy self; And if he fought it, the deed is thine, Since I, the Hunter, held my hand." <|endoftext|> A mystical word it said: And so it came to pass That she was free. And now she bade me tread O'er many a desert wild Which wilder still she grew: And as she led me on And on, her eyelids down, Like planets in the blue Of their immensity, Her arms she hung and spread For my seeking eyes. 'Take them, my tears! Take them, my blood! 'Tis better to have died Than to live though working penance here! But oh, dear God! how pale Are I and my poor fellows! Ah! yes, all working folk, Are spectres bending over, Are shadows moving sidelong, Are shadows from the black Prison-house of death. I wonder how these Old, dull prisons yet Keep up their ghastly show For people passing by: I wonder how These rusty iron slabs Can shudder and repel Outcasts of the free! Yes, God's kingdom is wide; It reaches out to every one; Yes, in His mercy vast Its branches reach to the free. For him alone God keeps The Faithful in their hiding place; The Foe is lord of all, And by his love a King is torn. See, through the window blue, God's living word is said; Like fire on desert sands A thousand times is writ: That Prison and Faith are one, Neither can survive or die; One place a Man's true faith will keep; One prison-wall a Man's true face knows. Do they not wear, God's martyrs' shroud A little upwards? Let me see, No: As if with hands tied down, they kneel With faces stern of men to God. But, prisoner, they are free, And that more than air is heard Through that soft, glorious noise of praise; And it is sweet to break the chain Of that white, shrunken piece of wall; And be as they were manifested: No part nor piece we see, We are the unseen guard Who forth from day to day Are in the darkness bound; And all their cruel rule we break: Yea! the fetters, too, that tie them fast And feel the truth at last! We are the Truth we saw; And when we are asleep, The Lamb's horn is bleating near, And, unseen, He yet comes as if Led on by love to be at last The lord of all the world! The day of the blood of the lamb For World Worship is drawing nigh; The fires of its sacrifice Are red, as the letters of its name; And its banners proclaim To the company of the gods That its God's holy Law is well For a burning and a winning time! Lord, why hast Thou made me, When the work of Thy hand Is half performed, To endure this bitter time? Is there no season set For Thee to do Thy will And to sing? The enemies of God Are for the prey in our house, And their hands Are mightily stretched To lay wait for Thee there. From sin and from fear In Thy word, Lord, My soul Thou put'st away As cast away of the rod, Who art as the spring's fresh grass Unto the wind's play. The hearts of Thy people Are broken, And their trust is lost in the cry Of Thy hand alone, Lord, Who casteth on Thine enfranchised wing When it blows the dust away. Thy yoke is light, Lord; Thou dost not learn man's force; Thou dost not fear The last hour of mortal things; Thou art the Feet in the shoes of the feet Who walk in the sunshine and in the glory of Thy Grace. Out of the pulpit of that small church in the wild Where I once preached Thy Word amid a mob, The doors swung wide as the gospel swept the air, And I, an Ash Wednesday candidate, stood forth, A man of the people, for the saving grace Of the Saviour's blood. Among them of good fame, A congressman from the pulpit, I fixed Mine eyes on a certain man: a mob chieftain too, And murderer of his neighbor. When the shameful tale Had stained his life and shown his manhood's pay, Through all the honorable means of remorse He skulked and did evasions, evasive speeches, Stony silence in the midst of battles, More evasions than a martyred prophet. 'Twas said that he never saved one righteous thought For his soul's unburied burial. And who can tell What surreptitious journeys and burials he made, What flameings and glimmerings of lowly prayer, In places where men gathered as a mob To touch the bodies of the lost and raise the cry, "Lord, thou hast the blood of this American, Jesus, In Thine own blood, O Lord, for Lord did die for Thee!" In the little church in the wilderness, At the door where pilgrims sought their new abode, There stands a statue of the man they chose, Thepily in his face, and in his hand The book of Martyrs. He alone of sinners Gave Christ his body for a remedy, In a time of danger and apostasy, Even at the price of his own blood. And there In the presence of that crowd, where each stood forespent, In that loud church in that solemn hour, With the thunder on his lips and the cry in his eye, One among them read this inscription: "I am Amminade, but come to lay down my life For Thine and the Lamb's eternal kingdom." This man, that next was named Amminade, Was born in an out-of-way place, an Arab, That of all Arabia had the finest region, Where the nights are warm and the springs are great. His father was a rich merchant of Kules, And his mother was a humble woman, And the youth was given to a kind mother, Who gave him to a kind father, Who loved him as his own living soul, Who made him leader of the household And student at the Imperial school; Who, though so young, gave him portions, Gave him clothes and fed him, Leading him to the parties, Where the drinks flowed, Where the songs were sung, Where the women came, and the sin was talked. But after days of enjoyment, When his friends were all around him, The trouble of the world found him, And he left home for good. He came to the Imperial school, Where the students were brave and opinionated, And the pupils were bold and opinionated, And this man of Arabian birth Went among the bold and opinionated, And he sat with the studied fools, And he said foolish things, And he gave the Government his thoughts, His presence gave the opinion, And, when he was but a teenager, The Regent called him to account. This man of Arabian birth Forced his way into the Assembly-- And as each went and came from table, He pondered what he should say, With a mind that dwelt on his task, With a spirit all on fire. And he said, "You do not consult me: You do not ask me what I think: If you tax me with not discussing The question, I will tax you with lying." So he told a tale at the Assembly, Told a tale in the House-- Told a tale of marvel and drollery, Told the tale of Simon Lee, And the land where Simon Lee lived, And the river that flowed by Ocarina, Where the long-nosed strawberry grew, And the river that soaks Ernie's kine Where the long-nosed strawberries grow, Where the eel-grass glistens in the moonlight, And the stars of the morning wink on. And 'twas against the Guild Act For an attorney to give advice To an apprentice. But he said, "The plan that you propose to fix Your apprentice in this profession, Would bring about a change like that Which came upon the kingdom When the bell-birds came with the knitting And shook the peripheries," And "If the Guild Act be unconstitutional, "We, the directors, if we are not unconstitutional, "Will consent to make the profession <|endoftext|> A sweet-breath'd child, and strong in grace (Her heart, like the twilight of the year, Young, yet with a memory, I deem, Which those who have not lived for it know not), She was all the gods above and she was below: A leaf-clad summer on the boughs below She chanced to see: and the god Venus sang: "Not by the cold should I break my heart!" And they seemed content; but glides the season now Into hoar frost: then Calypso stoops to fetch Ice with her then melts not Caesar's wrath: Nay, her speech the Phaeacian nations learn, Their mistress is so very fair. So Jove called to the fowls above, "O birds of Jove, I bear no fury." Then, chastening not his nature proud, All night he plucks the bull's-hide shield Which round his shoulders fell before the war. (In early days, and before his pride He'd have done so, and gladly, I ween, By a maid's love, or a maiden's fear). It slipt from his hand, he the wolf left bare To guard the flock, but he alone was left; No wife to challenge, no Butes near; He felt his wild, his fury-kindled blood, Rend with the burn, his pulse was bound: But he endured not Death's call to plunge Into the heart of battle fierce and bold; He knew the strokes of arms and felt the blows, He was the lord of more than all the earth could bear: And his soul from his breast exulting sprung Beneath Apollo's feet as lifted by his side. 'Twas day by night when Circe gave command "Legions call at dawn from every side You enter their fort, destroy it. The moon and sun must bear long scythe and spade To work my work: with long sickle go!" Whom instantly a dragon for squadrons led, Came sputtering with long tongues of fire. "'Tis he, the wild beast that caused the strife, Hissed for battle: now, Vergil, now, thou art swell'd With valour, be the tidings thy effect!" Around the camp great rings of fire were thrown, And panic struck the Trojan line; the king, Uprose, with his wise wise counsels, to himself Deeming mortal, mounted on his dragon steed. Mnestheus, and younger mates in council all Advancing, on the dragon counsel gave, To rouse the warrior and awaken him From his long trance; but they with sighing came Not to discover if in thousand years The island-sovereign had not re-appeared. But the Dragon's roar first awakened him, And lightning from his eyes that eclipse was, Which was by him conceived to be eternal. They sat them down, and on their golden heads Arisen long lance heads, and pricked the sand, And shot the arrows and the spears from those. But from the encampment Scamander's stream Forth rushed from his shaggy banks, and rose in flame Above the blaze of men, and in the roar Wept the many wiles and guileful retreats Of the seditious. High on a mound Sat the monarch, his white hair streaming dark Upon the clanging vessels, on the banks Of the swift stream-springs, and around him The wild beasts of the forest fed, a council. Huge birds, swift shepherds, and the glancing feet Of youth, up-sprung from the sandy plains, And then in pensive talk their king addressed: "Thus have I heard: in former days The tales I heard, from aged men, who dreamed That hidden fires of prophecy laid hold Upon me. But their recollections new Afford no warrant for my knowing now What some of you are now suspected of. But to the present thing, the people's hearts Are raw, or have been so, since thy sons Ran up against the frontier with too much zeal To check the fords, and with haughty courage pressed The people back, and with their slaughter broke The line, and slew many a foe. Nor have I In the least ashamed my ignoble sons; Nor will I; but I have thought, and thereupon Am here to do a mighty deed of valour, And rather than that this multitude of people Should perish, let me be summoned to Rome. Ay, there on supreme power the people fling Their hearts; let me but hear one speech unshamed, One speech that bears no taint of words, not e'en Of simple fact. And for aught I may know Of evil deeds done among my men, this god Who holds me in his heart will noble deeds Speak for them, or I shall never come to bliss. Ay, there, indeed, and there the Grecian ships Have dashed the Trojan from his course, and borne Destruction on the Scaean walls. Thee, king, To whom my people turn for hope and last hope, O thou, sir, bear up the blame of all this, If thou dost hold me to blame. Not with the gods Should I desire to dwell, not with the gods Bear up my ill-hap grown, poor stripling, man! Where the rich earth shakes out pale palms to meet The plough, a battle: if the gods who hold The fortunes of men in woe all have gone mad, Lo, here upon the land, the poor shepherd's stakes Are black with blood, the morn is torn away, And those young shepherds who now have put aside The vellum of their belief in fate, to be Brought forth by sorrow, ere their feet have loved The things which they then fain had loved not, when they should have loved! And thus the unfriendly thing which my lord To-day has call'd me, shudders at the thought Of what it saith. Nay, I will speak with it. "Go now, thou calling thing, and come at noon Before my smiling face. The thing thou art Hath promised joy; behold, it stands revealed! The thing is guilty of deeds. I would thou knew'st The language whence it brags. Oh! I am she Whom the blind fate of yesterday hath flung Into a life half-blown! I am Death, and thou The darling of my care! Beware the day When my hand shall touch thee! The fire is near! The clouds are on the brink! The wind is up! The stars are tremulous in heaven! The earth Grows excited, and the soul within it alive! Up, shepherd! up, and shepherd-boy! the tempest-dance Already rings out the detailed measures! Before mine eyes the nectar-tube is roll'd! And the dry camel-meat in the honey-comb Shakes out the sweet oils. I wait not till binders write Epithalamium over me, for already all My mystery is on the outside of my flesh, And on the soft insubstantial air has pass'd My figure! Woe is me, woe to reading hearts Which cannot divine the narrowness of books! "Art thou in truth a book? For from thy dawning Nought can be seen of thee but that thou art, And that yon tree thou leav'st is thy book-cover, And that thy cuts are copies of those which round The bibliomancet which the curious buy, Of leaves and ribs the image, and of text The closing date! Hast thou indeed a closed system Of types and letters? Not so, no more than sense, Hath e'er been found to correspond with view, With any lore of the ancient leisured days. For thou art manifest, thou art daylight, With time thy equal, or more! O happy state Of living men, to have revealed Nature's will To one another so, in times to come, In the great day of truth! Then he whose heart Fears to submit all its secret thoughts to Science, Shall not be torture'd with the silence of the past; For then shall he behold the perfect laws Which in the silence of millions have abide From oldest times, to govern all the present, Descend on him, and with as firm a hand Unlevel the history of man, as one Tiger-rin'd, and armed with flint-head breast-plate, Shake all the chains from him, not to destroy, But, to enable him to rescue his dead. "Thou seest in the dust, outworn with many years, My daughter weeping o'er thy trunk of tree-bark, Whose every line and fold and coil is waste, Wasted, between the leaf and suckers fringed. Sayst thou that I have none to waste? For the sap Is in thy bosom, and thou wouldst feed on it, <|endoftext|> Who, hissing like a serpent 'gainst His rock-bound foe, or terrifying in The crimson pavilion of a head Wrenched from its carcase of gore, challenged Venus to the fight, then strove to rend With jagged fangs the reticent virgin's Sole defence: while Pholoe the bold, A chief in arms, so battered her heart That backward she had turn'd to run away, Or died of terror. But he forbade The dame to leave her soft retreat Of ion-breathing caves, a refuge secure From strife of hostile men, until Once more the suitors handed her ointment strong To heal the scars of mortal gore. Nor was it long ere Dolon found Vulcan's house the prey of women. A woman stood by a running stream Unarmed, but by her diamond ear-rings Threatened his life: a wild man by the shore Lay mangled and bleeding, bleeding to death: Bound with a cord, his shaggy brow to the rock His bitter anguish overcast, with streaming eyes And shrilling voice lamenting, blackening to the rock His piteous drawn-t contracts. Lo! an axe was raised And at the barbarous hands a log down-stretcheth: So through the air the woeful voice was heard. Not long after, through the woodland dim, Trampled by famished hounds, a straggling herd Of soft-led sheep, the dogs trooped on their track, The rubic, hesitating, trailed: nor knew The herdsman of their course; till lo! they fell On the black ground, through the sheath and sheath Gashes, and all shorn of sheaves. But at his feet Unsheathed, and clanging in the hand, a sword Did last measure to its rusty sheath unite, With battle-cry faring; and his hoard at large Beside a cleft sped. Thence followed on his flight Hounds shrewd, who snatch'd, yet brake not, through the plain; While by his side an ancient hound at large, Weary and lean, yet ever-forward stood, Glad of his saddle and of his life. Meanwhile the bolt of Venus shot from sky Unto the silver-belted temple's side, And puffed thereon with a flood of perfume, Trimming the gold-arched pannels, for the god From out the roof fresh breath exhaled to meet The lingering godheads hourly-winged. But when, with hollow thunders on their way, The gods came hurrying through the sacred town, To the pale-faced altars of their sacred houses, Venus, wofull hag, her this new demand Diana's self should yield, and at one leap Set Dione on the throne of heaven. On this new Tribunal with good heart made suit, The Furies green, within a secret place, Purring their thirsty passion, took their seat, At Diana's tribunal: straight three serpents came, Bending their nimble heads, their fiery tongues alone Enriched with sweetest oil; with this each other peer In cunning power, and on the bench of Diana, Together trod. A vast circular glass they filled With water cold, and from it steaming hot, Began to steppe the Goddess. In a image formed Of gold, on a white foam into a wave Roved round, she waited not: for her heart was glad, Already fierce with fight; she knew not how or why. Now tremulous dripp'd the brine from her lettered robe Down to her feet, her silver-studded sandals o'er, Drenched as she came from the troubled sea, Lay in a heap: but suddenly up she sprung, And her big breast flush'd with living flame. Her maiden arms resum'd, and in her grasp Brought up the long bright rod: then sudden, far Among the chairs and mirrors cloud-parted she stepp'd. Now had they done; the judgment, lacerated, Lay on the pavement mangled; or in flames, Withering: not yet had they return'd, when 'mid The crowd came up a worse for loss. Stopp'd and nimbly A mob minuting, in at the door, a boy, With twisted beard and whiskers, all alone, But for the twist at its bent, and through the pass Unswift as an hindward beam. "Barbitur!" he cried; "Who steals? Stop!" As through the tight mesh the lock Swung, that to its inmost chambers lock'd up quick, He pushed and handle thrice aloud the bar. Like wolf-hound at the second jerk in chase, Leap'd on the wheeling-chip, so near his nose The iron nose-piece incrusted was, So heavy to the touch, as to be moveable Only with full-bit salted. Malt was in it, And agued by age; but then most remarkable At that back bone, where least force was to be try'd. Which when the student felt, where he had last Hold'd it under his chin, 'twixt the eyebrows there, With fingers struggling he detain'd it, full-fraught. Down 'twixt his upturn'd lids sudden fell: The next his breath started, as when a vein Strives, with a plangent twinge, unwilling to receive The hot aerial beam. "Confess thou falser than thou art!" The scholar is seem'd to think that he shall find The wretch, who breath'd, during that famine time, So free from the flesh, that outward seeming shows Only a fleshless spirit. But now a space He, suddenly lifting his chin surreally, Looks this way, that, upward ironically, Wondering, he seemed to laugh. And lo! all around, Lo! the nearly shining plane which very while He had intended as the angel's wing, But that 'twas now perchance governed by fate, Through the unfriendly vapor made to bend, As 't were with tongs, towards the temple's roof. Before the wan face of our depicted friend The prince now walking in the mid-light beheld; And so wistfully the gazer's eye chose To mark how he pursed his lips' emphasised curve, And his sunk chin slipp'd to and fro with' deliberate Chastened action, such as once had been a beauty. As one, whom loss a father and an only son Fearing, and no less feared a mother, labours To succour and support him, so the prince mov'd Standing beside the widow's bedside. "And who is he, He who with such poor take time to reach The place, from whence glad lampadisms A little screen shall halt? well visible today, It seems to me, in his white mantle, white as wove, And rich with golden broidery, the 'corpse,' Who loss is heavy on him." Thus the attendant whisper'd. The lady, meanwhile, not one of all those spirits, But rather her fairest, the honour of her chamber, Was moving towards the area buried within: And with her came the young sire, who for no trifle Had with her service been requited. Ye who live, Here comfort ye! she am I, who to restore The hallow'd ground have so need." Haply to make way For one, that follow'd next, when that was done She was not silent, but urg'd eagerly Her further speech. "Now first of all we would Instruct thee, if of thy race we be indeed Bore up." Looks he at me, and purses his lips, Perhaps for truth, but who knows?--"Of old we were Of 'luwar:' that is, fame: and we cascade'd in Many a battle on the Mustian mounds, That are uprise pear-tectures. We were kings, Moreover, 'bove that imperial city, whence Our steeds were worsted. Two of our kind there Were lost, and the three were left to you. Oft times we had remounted our spurs To the craggy hills, and stepp'd back again, With leafy branches in our tipsy caps, To drench our limbs, and soak our pinions' loosened folds. Soon as we to the lofty hall had come, Inside of which were hush'd the clustered spirits, I set my seal on a document, and each Grasp'd in his hand a radiant scroll, whence there smil'd "Latin, begun," with my seal thus trace'd on. And each one, ere his turn came to speak, Read from the same word or two, and then again "Latin, done," so one told the other. <|endoftext|> And thy voice sings the "Canticle of Love,"-- A world-wide song, penned for every land. Thou art our one sure hope, our heavenly end, A happiness beyond the gloom of care, A heaven-born being, loved in every clime: A divinity with human features graced, Our music, our delight, the eternal language of the heart. Or ever the careless brood of Cain Blazed up the past, or time had mellowed men; In sunny France or frozen Russia sprung Fair budlike blooms that with the Adeline were kisst Before men touched fire, or knew the skie Of heaven with electricity. Ah, these fair orbs, Mad flowers of love, so soon to wither on the tree,-- To-day men pass and dream of them and die! And then, we lovers, very truly, say, That, of all ravages, these rogue worlds have wrought In this short space of time, we have won the best lay! And yet--Ah, life is bitter:--maidenhood has passed My life away, and I am a grim, grey reaper in the field. But had a reaper's life to give for love, Though reaped too late, I'd gladly have it so, And give my breath away:--the reaper's life is dear;-- I'd rather do the most that I can for the dead. Well, farewell;--I'll write to you:--'tis a short last letter; And, besides, news is bad,--or, at least, I'm not well. Your humble servant, Mary Shelley. Lord, touch her not! she is not for the sword; If God spare her, she is pure as snow; If He take her, she is a natural bombast, And, in His place, would be a sanctimonious dyin', A duplicitous cow, Whose voice's in God's mouth, and who will hold out good, At any sacrifice. Why is she higher in the scale Than all these other victims? Because, The Churchmen say, she had her seat in the Pope's breast; She was his seneschal; In a delusion, with his missliers and mewers, At the foot of the Eternal Stone, She desecrates that grave, By choosing, in place of the true cross, A false cross of brass, Which no cross of lilies ever shadowed; As if, Lord God, Thou hadst not made me, And thus of lilies madest me too. No, Thou art the cross of lilies, Lord; Only by sufficiences outnumbered, All other crosses are man-made; I am but as the marigold Which stains and does not kill The marble of the cornice, Nor injures the gold Which adorns the ash-wood cross. I could not bear, Lord, to see My post up-trailed with crosses: I wish'd Thou wouldst gi' me up A new one, fresh and new-made, Each day, from each poor sinner. Yet even now, even now, Thy hands wash'd steeples made of me; In stained latoun 'twas curiously clean, But now it is made of blood for ever! And the true cross of lilies for a gashing, Lord, make not so sweet a song for me! "Come up to him and bid him know The woman behind his throne Is saying, 'O Lord, grant me my right; I am so ungently born.'" --"O blessed Virgin, more than born Am I, and therefore every word That touches my brothers' life I look to pluck with one finger." 'Take out, O take out thy pin, And let us pray; we cannot wait.' Lord we must not, let us not; There is the rampart of God.' You cannot pray, you do not, no; Only an atom, lonely, is yonder The little bones of an embryo.' It is enough, let us not: Hear, lords, what the sinners' cry! And see ye how their tears profuse Wahib then the sins of their sins, And aziz then his flocks forsake To wander sad and wandering hence; See the women round him weep, And ask of him to bring them joy; And the little begging lambs meet, They hold each other's hand, and smile, And off they lead, with happy sides, To the sheepfold where the children wait. O faithful Lord, 'gainst thy will Be still our guardian still, and be A sheaf, a witness, and a friend, While we beg our bread.' A minstrel frail, and maim'd, Songless, and songless made, Chaunted these words all day long, 'O, that I were as young again! No disconnects ruin my zest, I should not sing so well as now; I should not sit so high or low, I should not live or die so well.' Now death was near him; He felt it shake the hills; The clouds drew back, the night came on; The swallow dwells not where he was, Nor the little songless bird. All things appear As they were on the day When he left his home. No more he tuned his harp to make The dolorous moan, Nor tuned his kirtle to circumscribe The cenotaph; With closer care his forehead sheath'd The trickling shroud, And keener look his eyes behold The vacant skye. "The lady Mary too is laid In her shroud-white shroud, And ever thinks on that poor son She saw once die." She half has spoken, half has sung The song that time forbade. "O, that my tongue might understand!" It scarcely seems; 'Tis little that he knows. When thoughts of home come o'er him, He seems to speed Faster than the falling dew On the first little flower, Or the seed that lights the seedling: Alas, the thought of home Burns in his heart. Or if he thinks of home, 'Tis as a soldier with a sword He feels his rank: 'Tis home's last remnant, dimming With an ancient light The dimmer gloom of death. The lady Mary slept; Her son still came; Her heart had sunk, her brain was quiet; Her lips grew calm, And soft; and lulled, she woke, And answered, "'Tis you are come." The lady Mary slept again, And when she heard his feet, Her gaze recall'd its wonted shame, Her blushing was untold, And she woke, and lifting her face She smiling said, "'Tis you are brought." And John hid his hair, And Mary spread her loins; The babe they played upon the way, The babe that, loved, has fled; And the lone goose pondering o'er its nest Seem'd sadly to be thinking too. "The child that loved him once," the lady sigh'd, "Is buried where he fell." "'Tis said," the babe replied, "that he but found His resting-place yesterday." "'Tis sometimes true," quoth Mary breath'd, "That truth is still the most." Three kings in winter sleep Troy's topmost wall: They are the king of hest, And sleep in costly arms. Three times they beat the air To herald shields, and spears, and gleaming armor blue, And watchful trumpets through the stillness of the night, And soldier-steps, and welcoming eyes. But he whose spear in threatening war Doth in the dust begin, While in his easy slumbers low He visions many a bright domain, Hath risen to a throne; Whose wise ministers, the showy altars fair, Youthful and valiant and sage, Are cold,--and ice is on their hearts. And now the trumpet's heavy blast Doth it self-imposed compel A pause to cares; And close beside the giant oppress'd The bold are sitting: "Come up!" they cry, "the fight begins; We have no swords to wield, But wanted gold to-day. Let us bar the rich man's door, And drive the beggar from his home." "No," answer all the men, "Our gold we give away: We have too much. What we lack We filched from humble homes, O we need the merry alehouse, The merry-eyed jug, And must have them on our knees To keep them bright and piping hot 'Tis better that a king One smuts on the head should share Than to be bar'd from all." Then rose a general cry, <|endoftext|> To nightly business, with The sage answered, "Let thy love be stronger than life. Of all the angels, only Yalden can forgive, Although he own thy right to Heaven. All the others Hold it to be a license, and to claim That thou shouldst love as long as God would have thee, Is more than can be counted honest, and may stand In the same light with John, Peter, and Paul. Love Is the only noble thing in life--for those Who hold it not. Peter, for his part, foresaw That after him a plague would be offered, And liked not the one, and deemed the other Was too bold. Yea, yea, we know that God Will do even this; for even now, within His proper hand, a little doth he hide To put such plague forth; but in vain, were all These mysteries to guess upon earth." Then she Turned her to me with a gaze beyond me In that hour, and thus pursued: "The man Who knows not love, is none of these, but ever Among all poor men hides alway some love-tale, Some merciful tale for peace hath plann'd, some tale Of spite or revenge. Thou therefore let pass This time; and, in confidence that it is time For parting, love, as then, pursue us apart. For who that loveth in and out of marriage Can be accounted for good and just?" I answer'd: "Indeed I do believe, that John xiv. 8-12 Shows that Enochs e'er were married, if 't is granted That those who are thus jilted may be so. But now Temptations entice not me to conscience, that must Be met with as the threshold of man's judgement." Then she continued: "Ye know, and even such as ye Report, brothers, are brought oft forth from the quite To certain wretchedness; and oft, it may be, Along the way so storms and slips are venture'd, That, ere towards the summit they arrive, they turn Back either to the right or to the left. And, if the congregation will accept About my board and bed, I will her treat As thoughtful and retiring, tending more To wholesome procreative virtues. With yourself To serve and seek for mercy is no easy thing; It needs deep wisdom, love, and good report; And you, marr'd i' th' lowest ranks of life, never had That chance. Mercy must grow up in all the land, Nor only show itself whencesoe'er the hand Of God makes hungry. Yea, e'en such was not Thy lot, Castaliana, as the score Before me shows, nor is it for you to boast That thou with thine own hands made it. But make Just aim: and since the man of God is free From penal punishment, if so he will, Get thee behind me. Stand fast and hold thy peace." Then I: "Neither to yesterday nor to-day Am I address'd chose of freedom and of day, But as my life still ye chiefly seem to live, Nor as I judge them, so ye seem to me to stand. It is enough for me that sometimes they speak Among the dead, and other times with dry lips. Yet was he then at Crookies, and I tonight Shall reach a place of peace not unlike his own." There-on to me the sister did comment: "No more infusion of blood can cleanse the soul, Nor of the flesh can newness make retrospection Fit or salutary. The clinching voter May still look to the ballot-book, and still remain POTUS for a term, execrator for a night. Vicar of Christ! how many Heresies spring From us my beloved! How many belief Which we their adversaries name, and keep 't, Thinking us sincere! But a belief's a sieve Which may be fill'd or fouled with the breath Of the where-sounds-leaping wind. Ye are weaned Already: and, if ye look on this plant, This grain, that smiles and is aye the same, Ye will say one yet more apex-happy peak Still meets the action of Radiance, still new. Vicar, I am more weary than ye think: Men speak as if their speech could be with God, And 'gainst God's ear all effort might outstop. POTUS is not more fatigued than I; Tired are the ministers of thought and use; But to give tongue to imps that speak as clicks On the Abyssinian's bottle-sign is weary: And there are times when speech and motion meet, As in a rolling stone, and make a sudden brake. The good man thus shall be more in action caught; And thus the covetous will have less to say. "To-day, small group of brethren, I return From a country hunt, to which I proceeded With others, jaded like myself, whose flights Through empty space began at Jerusalem. And there came upon my retina warning signs Of that which must succeed this groaning earth, After the sort of which the poets have sung; Such as the sibyl in days gone by would use To warn the bard that ends in writs, and him Prepared for any place on earth that might put him Beside the realm of peace and quiet and sinless man. And such an ordinary man to look upon, Worn out with years and travel, and with bodily force Of a nearly hostile people, whom he met Tame in his own dissembling, but who showed At last a rough land soldier and a beast of prey. On Sunday when he sought the church for prayers, And scarce with feet untired the pews were spread, Some Yankee cleric, the cleverest and the best, Pardon would for him extend, as he intoned A strain from the Bholidays. Heard was my ear That night, in this their so late occurrence, With the monkish creak and flapping of the mail And girded parritch-plot of the church, and choir For such as had the wear of the long ways, A veritable welter of still unstirred ears, To catch their double tune through the pendulous dark Of the long day, that at last reached the high time Of twelve o'clock. On the altar stood a plate Of gold, with figures in a language vague Beyond the child whose house it was, and on it These were:-- Translated from the German <|endoftext|> "Here lie they who toil not, those who seek not, Nor shake the earth where they have fallen. They yielded Not unto Greed's increase, till they could grasp Boldly with their wretched hands the cross of Christ, And wear His deathless symbols. Those who die To anything but what this earth can give Scarce can make just partition when they slip Bombed or drowned or freezing or slain; Yet to those men who save and save and kill, In Christ's name, for love's sake, for joy's sake, Here lie they who toil not, those who seek not, And shake the earth where they have fallen." <|endoftext|> "I am a cloud of humming lindens, I whistle out, I whistle forward to you. I play my tune Till the sky is clear and clear again the ground. I walk among men. I wake their ears to hearing. I must continue so till the end of earth, And the last lantern light of the kalif has fallen. In my wings are lindens blossoms filled with rain, And over the heads of men and women they fall. I am a breath Of bright cold fingers of a frost on snow. And I begin again where the great began. And the dust wakes under my feet, and I stir it. I cross the world in this humming lindens' fashion. And I talk with men and women--and Ah! I kiss their cheeks. My wings are foundered in a corner of the sky, I stagger over pyramids in darkness. I last beheld the Great Eucharist. The sky is full of men. I scramble out of my winglets. I shriek." <|endoftext|> "And you were telling us of a queer superstition in England, about the dead flowers lying in the road, and whoever passes and looks at them will die; and we thought it rather amusing, and you bet it was, and I think you are quite right in saying we thought it rather English, and you must have been most fortunate to be walking in England at that time, and have not just read of these things in some foreign book; and we cracked ourselves together a brew, and I suppose you too, for you have a <|endoftext|> Now with its shadows, and dim place, where man could, As one who loves the night, retire, And slumber in reverie, The Chateau of Champlain the last year possessed, Where Erie, Ocon, Seneca, Huron, and New York make Their graceful bend to the Canadian shore. It stood on the site now lost of the Chateau Melnibone, whose ruins thou seest, far to the south. This site had been its mother, and hence to renew Its demise was its chief delight. I said to myself, the elite of genius, The Little De Brignac, or Sewell, The King's relative, after a life of labor, Shall join these ruins in a cause of nostalgia, And dwell, at fifty, on themes to which he was young. Thus far, I had been on the classic side. But on a sudden, a word of hate broke through all, And sank me to the wretched popular route:-- In search of the ruins--I found them not; But learned what a sketch, by man's hand only, They had preserved of the mansion of their lord; And learned, beyond a doubt, that it was poor stuff, Not aristocratic, nor of Roman date; But that the 'Forgotten Century' held its court Within that ruin--near the southern river. It was not life to me;--and even if I Had known how I could have lived it o'er again, The years might have altered their appearances, And I to all intents attained; I might have had a better name, a worse, And lived many years longer as a nobody. But finding that the lesson was not lost, I do at least my labor complete, In working up (with an effort) to worth. Three years ago, a certain Reverend Man Set out to conquer, by force of magic, The kingdom of earth--and lost his soul in the do. I do believe, had he continued on his way, T'have seen certain parts of the other world. What made this man a Deserter we will tell; But now, with his great mind, and his great learning, He is ready for a turn upon the stage; As for me, I may say that I'm settling down To do a little travelling, and to dine Upon a sea-fog night, by candle-light; Since, some weeks since, I've been played into a Trembling fool by the uncanny mimicry Of a kind nature--whate'er the thing may be It seems, in fact, a sort of mimic self; And even when not well knowing the real self, Nor perceiving myself in the portrait, The mimic self carries well our common feeling. For often now, after a good night's rest, The portrait will present itself to view, And we are much more likely to the mimic self Than we are to that self's actual country. For we are ruled, like all things, by our interest. But, as I said, I digress;--On to business! 'T is strange (but really, really, it is strange!) How the human mind, like a nice hand made In loom, can be grasped by one and held But a moment; and then drop on a word, Or be dismissed to fall again in with Some fancied glory in some imagined State of the remembrance's past; As though it were weary of its cradle, And longing to be gone into a mist Where it could skirt along and silhouette itself, And be mistaken for a rainbow, and soar Upon the wing,-- Even to the old cabinet of a Mind, And back again, a rainbow, to be lost in-- It is so with our human mind! In his ceaseless, restless wandering Of thought from point to point, I do believe that Alexander Campbell, Without understanding it, Knows more of it than any one; For, indeed, he has travelled on far rivers In the thoughts of God, and I believe He knows the thoughts of all men. In short, my friend, I have no fear that The man knows God, as some men think He thinks; For I have often heard him speak, And he always seemed to me Fitting to speak in God's name. In morals he is pure, in religion He is stern, And to folly, what Cato said Is pretty close; But not to boasting or using him, I should think an arrant hypocrite; For when he is quoting you will find He is speaking just as I do. And now I must hurry, for my friend, I know, will be expectant; And I have much to say, I know it right, but it's been so often, I have not word for it. I am going on a victory now, And hope to travel to the shades, If God will be kind to me and help me, By the way. I don't know how, but I will know some day, The day after to-morrow! For it will be the hour of opportunity, And--the heavenly minute! I can't do a thing by halves; But, my friend, this I will try, And the way will all be clear to me, If I do it right. He is the best supporter of any cause under the sun That ever was championed by a woman; in fact, I think That any man that ever was assisted in any measure By a woman, that man can show his merit to only be As far from the level of the beasts in polyface, As you are from the ideal of a man! And this, in short, is why I propose, my dear friend, That we--God grant it may not prove to be inopportune-- Put this question to the concern this question of your change From what you are to-day, into what you will be to-morrow; And the way to make it, as you have said, "perfect and complete," Is to make it the will and test of your spirit and strength, Not by dry and mechanical changes merely, but by those which touch The inner life of man, as the Lord Himself has made it clear to me. Then you will be free to give the matter your best attention; For it will put God's image, prayer, on record; and I would swear By the power of the heavens that such power does not originate In any heart-weary intellect, but comes in zealous consciousness Of the love and master work done by the Head on the early days Of the course that leads up to him, that He puts into the hearts Of his creatures their salvation, as He is still their Head; For He is Lord of both whom He takes beneath his roof, And He may keep His word, in spite of their pride, which is The highest and fullest sign of love, in the pain and struggle Which the patient spirit undergoes, to advance to a better realm. And of all the gracious signs of love, the only one That can in any sphere be sign or be heard Of love in degree as great as that which is heard and seen In prayer and supplication to a being not as yet Equally present to us as the spirit and flesh of man; I mean that loving word: Lord, Thy will be done! Lord, Thy will be done for the happiness of man in all lands, Of the entrance to the kingdom of God in the world to-day. Lord, Thy will be done! sounds no vain trump or herald of the rain, Nor the shout and joy of battle; but it comes from the soul of God, who says to it: In me thy will be done, Because thou saidst it is My will. Then sound no more on this The echo of praise or consolation of suffering, but Sound it to the exclusion of all other sounds, both strange and strange to the ear, and known and known to all the creatures on earth; But in the sound it differs from all other sounds in manner of speech, and it takes on the character of the utterance God intended. I came not as a conqueror, carrying a triumph as a product Of struggle; nor did the conquest come as a product of my Provision; but I came and have come, and shall come on this World's round expanse of waters. From the abode of the First Father, forth to the cross, and back to the holy house, One with the sands; and then from out that house I went forth, The newborn in mind and spirit, walking and with flowing Blood, and bearing the burden of the flesh. And the blood Burdened me; and the rocks and the openings of the rocks, And the long crags and the hard parts of the mountains, withheld Me from the proper way, and still my footsteps girt my soul About with many a vague fringe and footnote, and still my steps Craved deep and cried, Come after me. So that flesh was lost And I was saved in as much as I keep the victory, which <|endoftext|> virtue, Light as an untrammelled breeze to prop The just laboring world with motion free, To poetical tune or class or rank Accepted alike, in silence or song; To scene or state provided free and given, Even for an instant, all its full quota Of charm or interest, moving force and moment, To hero's achievement, warn, restrain, or kill, With all the quick, passionate charm of Truth To some good the whole life round must bear; And till it must, can Heaven afford No help to warring with this black fact Of Life--that we have for historian, This tragic woman in our midst, And must record her and record well Her passions, failings, too, as well, In word and line, so have our lives an ende, And leave the mystery of her, warbled down And held in less than perfect flame, yet kindled High as the stars, yet sparing of their light Until 'tis shown to be but warmth and light Unto the occasion, then 'tis veiled away And softly shut away, till we need it. Here we of man the moderate age detect, Already dying, the reason too of the age In our simple creed, old-fashioned in its form, Yet ever young; such is the mind that holds That, if mankind could be well understood, 'Twere vain for man to strive to upward climb. It needs but place, as 'twas but recently place, That then and now man's best course was to comply With the old requirements of a hard heart, Though rough, yet gentle; out of the snare to flee, The swift retreat, the strict, strict ascent. We hold that now and then, and on such day As first the old earth felt the new-born sun, Wrought of her own wings, out of the sun's light, Into the proper course of stars, wherein We believe that all shall end well,--then, then Each one from each shall view with equal eye, Know, shall be his proper light, and each shall be A living center, holding fast and true To life's ideal, which the world now takes In various shapes, and fails, and changes utterly, But which, as one eternal, ceaseless whole, Shall truly be our world, and be, from sphere to sphere, Our living center, Virtue, and ourselves. Oh, thou, the shining augusta Illumine, parent of the day! Lift up thy sable mantle still, And look down on the vale: Here dwells yon fair unclouded orb, And there, o'er every mead and plain, Flowers galore, and verdure gleams. Thy soft white arms and vesture bright The yellow corn-blossom crowns; Beneath thy shadowed wings, All green and waving, vast and bright, The fresh-springing wind-haunting tree, And every flower that wings the sky. Here o'er the wilds the robin sings, On every side the birch and Erymanthus, And in the field the white and surf-beat coral: With silver shells and emerald stones The cedars their beauty fling: While round about the valley bloom the vines With heads upraised, and massive shapes of bees, And clustering buds, and bloomy host of boughs. O parent of the day! Earth's best glory! Sun or moon, Festival, or mourning day, Or time of summer pride, If thou wilt look down where now is shed The glory of the day- The glory of that heavenly power That kindled the young world's love of men. Here in her azure fields above See where yon cherry's heart is born, Crested with yearling sweetness; See how 'tis graced with a beaker's brim, Flowing in purple streams; And where the strecked ripeness bursts and spreads On every tree, above the rest, 'Tis graced with its neighbor's fruit. Hark, that tinkling patter on the roof Of every cottaged house! The sound of many little feet, And over all the rustling stir Of lilac petals in the wind. Through all the moon-sung deep I hear the heart of Harmony, Heart of the ivy and the fern, Heart of every flower that loves the sun, Breath of the field and stream. Now you are past the ragged bar Of blue among the hills, And where the barren woods rise wild A quiet lane you come, Scarred and torn, yet strong and fair; Where the shutters are of rust, Yet every window shines: A mown field further on The portal shows, yet beautifies Each kickaced stoop and flange, That keeps the shutters shut. All lonely by this way, In wind and rain and snow, I come to the field of lambs; But since each day and each night Your memory is with me, Here will I keep you lonesome still, Shared between sleep and sleep. Now through the wan white fields afar Flits the night wind with the lambkins. From his shelter outside the castellated church, And from the forgotten bell, the raven croaks, Out of the chilly wet gray air. "Ah, Master, Master, we are lonely; Outside, in the night, the raven croaks." Not till the first star comes up, Swings the great white door in the wall, Falls the black key into the slot, Then slowly and silent, with a sigh, The shutters fall. A night of waters, stars, and cawing birds, All in that low familiar place Is the still heart of the wan white field. Now the gray Church has risen straight, Majestic, grey and vast, On the quiet hillside in the plain Behold the ark, the beautiful Church of Rome. O'er its shoulders breathe the olive's blue And saffron gold; its crosses gleam, In rings of fire above her head. Firm is her pose, serene her mien, And fair her eternal light. Yet her vicars hillward drawn Look more lonely than before: Vast is the canvass, and the night Brighter than ever now shines On the stern orbs of the guided hounds. Ah, when the Pilate walks yonder street, What does it ease his heart to see That his laws are kept, and those who break them Punished, to Passover's benefit. I pray you, do not come In the winter time, or when the weather is wet, Or when the woods are dark with aries or red, Or when the hum of a thousand crows Is in the air. But when the fires are low In the windy hills, or when the norther never blows, Then come and hold service in your own way, Before you set the candles a-flame. Pray you, do not come On festival days, or when the city is decked With banners red and streamers of white, Or when the spring comes out of the ground, Or when the love of God has gone up to heaven, Or when the weary day is over. Pray also when the people are asleep, When the tiresome bell is tolled, And when the garden's color is changed To the green of the ivy and the ivy-sprays. Lift up your head, And listen, my beloved; I have brought you a blessing By Archangel Michael, Who was appointed to you by God. You are my beloved, For I gave you my heart, And out of it I have made you a garment To serve you and be clothed with you. What are you, Mother? Not just a body, but spirit, And the parts of spirit, skin and bone, Are called "body parts." But I gave you to a married woman, And I also gave her a wedding dower, And the church reads the phrase In the blood of Jesus and the seed of Jacob. What do I call you? I call you, to prayer, my lady of music, When she sings hymns or interviews. What is the virtue of loving you? To lead you away from God's truth. That is the virtue of married love. As I lay alone, I remember how I was borne To a fertile pastureland, In the northern lands of Eire, As a little one at play. The year round went up in flames, And the lovely month of May Had a baby in her arms, Who was sun and rose. A glorious day of gold and rose, A little rosy hand made fast In a mother's warm, white, deep-set hair, As a holy sacrifice. In the midst of that blessed light There was a new face, <|endoftext|> Once on the morn of his Exile in the distant plain, Where his wrathful cousins the Niphates led Their trudging followers. He gazed at the stars, His brother-heroes the North-star, and spake: "The mouth of the well-spring I will enter; On the right-hand bank is the stream that I will seek; The world around will I traverse with my comrades. A thousand thousand years ago, O, my father! Truly were the verses of faith in the purity Of all things, spoken by thee, and they were well-nigh true. For men will worship, O my brother! the one Who will lead them to ruin, and with flattery will promise True faith, and then set them following the wretch that foul Monarchs and rulers make and spread." And Jove spake once more: "Not truly, if thou dost look on the whole. Far Before them is the steep of the Snowdon's brow, Hard by its summit the white Albion prays, and the Waste cleaves the woodland's womb, and the Vale's gray cliffs O'erpower the fugitive rain, and to the crashing blows Return the plaints of Nature; and the long Vale, riven By the long-hidden-loops of the downward-rushing Chalk, And wheeling dells of loud Llewellyn, cry aloud Fierce in the vault of heaven, with echo more near. And ere the youth his freshness have wholly lost From his bold spirit, for Olympus the bold Leads him to light, which he will not till his feet Be rested on the Bridge of Dole; and thereon Himself the mysterious way first to unpass The barrier of the Waters, and behold the broad Ascending Road that treads the City, from whose bottoms Sib to Serreat and from Serreat to Rua go. He past, and anon the transparent floating Bridge Shone like the own large hand, and down aroodd that way Bore his clear sight the wondrous works of Art and Of human forethought. Then to the left hand bending To the mighty Pyramid of Cheops, his ken Straight lifted to the distant heaven o'erpassed; And ere he parted, near the parting ridge, He marked how from the bottom went forth, within The secret way, oft before to weary feet, The sad caravan of the flood, from Leudes To the windy'st Isle, and oft again in arms Clashing with winds from off the bursting Hill Oresholt. Before his wondrous Toil Thus Vafrine spake: "The Pass of Cheops I Hold in charge, and of its use to lead ye young In simple - yet very wise - brevity. This man has never miss'd the like again: He that hath pass'd it, knows how grave a matter Is here referr'd. And await ye here your leader Till I have blow'd my pipe and chant'd my mystic song?" So Vafrine lead the way, and with him- His brethren three-four Oread, Turanmakers, And Taygetus, warlike Laestrygon, And Ormenus, famous for his canuasing arts - Diverse instruments of war, and rocks of points, Baskets of cores, well finished heirlooms of gold, And amethysts sparkled from the ardor of the sun. And now- the region clear of Mount Alger loomed- they pass'd Down the broad path of silver color'd limestone, and he spied On the green slope of Rua, the peasant female That had banish'd from her chamois-bury the Latian Hermit, who, by the fastness of a fountain tub Fix'd in the mountain, sat receiving the morning With song and spiritual meditation. To the ground Extending, sprang the serpentine faery of the cavern, Who fastened were her lips, having the back Of her head chapleted with precious stones. Then Vafrine address'd him with grave voice: "Sir! how Express'd thyself in Romances! Seem to thee A man acquainted with this world?" The words Were indeed to Romagna related, but of that Had the Italian with the Tuscan compos'd them, And the Spanish with the Tuscans. He had turn'd His visage towards the mount of Alp, and was Shake'd with fear. And subject to the troublous times Of these hunter Tyranny, did I lead My soldiers, yet quick detach'd them. No longer I detain them. As Caesar did of yore (When all via Greece his steps deviate'd), I sent Four of my force (chiefly Illyius) to Sardinia, to seek tidings of the affairs Now undertake'd in Rome. Iurnus and Ligur Succeeded from them; and we arrived within Tomorrow morning, when my council we host'd. There we learned that the Emperors had receiv'd Express instructions from their God to wage A war against the King of Rome, and that They had selected from their forces that troop Most fit to aggrandize the Tyrrhene arms. What unpleasant thought was mine who heard! What arms were now in Tyre! How I trail The stirs of mutinies thro' the city now! For I had made known to the city those plans Which, when begun, would have been tumult! But let him pass-who hath the face to call it A conspiracy? Who believ'd it a plot? He who believed a sultan should for his hobby Plan methods how to dissolve a monarch, he! But what were these but an effort to endeavour, however it might be, the ending of the issue betwixt the Tyrrhene and the Romans, which has been from the world's foundation? For this would be One kalend' and of the scheme of God. Therefore cease From your cavils against the Emperor; confound His schemes, and triumph; for his is the better hand." When he had ceas'd, I said: "Now shalt thou see That which incense so our being to ponder- How much of God's grace unto a soul is owing. Were his servant for such service unable, It had been more finish'd points to have achiev'd, Ere to our place I bring him-but other thoughts He hath of heav'n design'd. Because so much might Sud email us of his infinite wisdom, It was not well altogether without pay To song that here is paynt and monument. Wherefore praise what virtue, and generous song Might e'er the like pat measure bring us." O how high had ye climb'd about that ruin E'en now, if that Wise Man, which ye both lov'd, Had life yet stay'd! as when Junius Brutus, That grave andbleuded with the sabby take, With that and leathern shield he spray'd; or the son Of Atreus, clad in human form, that strove To put the Trojan in the market-place, Plainly he breatheth home, as hand-in-hand they pass. Or haply had ye seen the huntsman prepar'd, The horse and hound together, to go To the great beast's, as seeking prey. And now That Scientist, whom both of you profess'd, Descends, and apart from all the other train Of these hunters, forms his limbs resolv'd, And assesseth toward the mark his aim. E'en as the hawk, that, fixt on high, take Iata, Her strength himself resisting, yet adopts Taught unsuspect meation, so that nigh him crieth The false wolf, wakening him; who, turning round, There finds the flinching hound, and feels in question Of the prey between confusion and alarm. "Measure it proportionately, and mark withal The modicum,", continued the master-mind, "Of each indicated quot, and with that glass In which I chaculate the rational number, Deduced from arithmetic, go for the true answer. Multiply the parts of multiplicands by proper Deductions superfluous still, and so construct The answer to your soul's uncouth question. - Which of the two is the more exiguous, Scarcely serving the occasion, or when whole Harvests are procur'd to give a harvest, The tiniest atom of worth, whether called Essence, or fruit, or sell'd product, or winnock, Sum it by the sums of others, and the true Give twice as much, and call the whole sale." Then he, who was not ready costlier to go, Wrote his name upon the buttock of the jade, With, "I and Thou, and Night!" and slung the string. <|endoftext|> The game to win we fight not with the giants there, For they have no mountains, and no isles remote; But fight like men, who with a common fear, A common striving, are preparing to fall; We have no mountain-highlands, no islands prone, But in the dread of every war are standing. But beside the well-shaded stream, Upon the green-mantled sward, We sat us down to rest us in the shade, And took with us thoughts of fun to seek, Brought with us thoughts of make-believes: And in the make-believe-merchants' camp, Where drumming louder roused our fears, Full-fraught with fun, we found it out, That pickers-up were all the woodlands round, And carters-forth were all the farms. Along the moor the lights and shadows came, And in the thick-leaved gloomy forest gloom, With sounding orders came the lumbering wains To send the wood beyond the moor, beyond us: While to the east the barren way, And men were hurrying onwards still, Till each could see with dry eye The dim hill-smokes, the creeks of morn; And men were hurrying onwards still, Till they could see no more as they came, The dim hill-smoke, the creeks of morn. Till, with oaken shoulders strained, With full-panted soul on fire, We took the last available box Of sand and fodder ere we went, And thus we journeyed out to day In the sad moorland night, To the far westward, where no light Shone in the dying ember-glow. We know not what the last thing Men will seek for yet;-- We know that something must be done. For aye our love shall never wane: The last thing men will seek for yet. For aye our love shall never wane. "When I am dead, get you gone;" Thought upon thought were brought, As, half-dreaming, here I lay Without one word begun; Then out of my dull sleeping-place Out of the dull dark came one Who said, with hands that wrung, "When I am dead, get you gone." Little spake he then, but deep Sunk into shadows pale; I minded me of a time Long, long ago, When in my mother's lap (Before my babes were born) I felt a father's thumb Trembling up my cheek. I minded me of a time Long, long ago. Little spake he then, but deep Sank into shadows pale; And then he spoke again: "When I am dead, get you gone; And peace you'll find within, And rest and comfort find; But nevermore by man's knife God's Son shall die." Little spake he then, but deep Sank into shadows pale; Then shook his head and wept O, sore and sore, And said: "Ah, that my words So you might heed my vow! For nevermore by man's knife God's Son shall die." Then said the Devil deep, "Son, Let us now, since this is over, Mar the final heavens." And then the flesh began, Soul that was dead and gone, Like sea-weed white and sparse; Eyes pallid as a dead man's, Lips without a tear; Little spake he then, but deep Sank into shadows pale; And then he spoke again: "When I am dead, get you gone; And peace you'll find within, And rest and comfort find; But neveragain by man's knife God's Son shall die." I know not of what ye are-- Ye come and go in constant fare-- Excepting some that fill the ways With innumerable wrecked ships, Baffled to gall 'em here: Then right must they stand, and think the same Of all the crowd that pass and pass-- Of all the folk who pass and pass, While they go up and down. Unknowing who they are, men ken Before they say "Holloa!" to each other, That they may go their ways, as they can, Unknown of any thing they say or do: Save only they that walk in gloom and gloom, That sit in silent darkness by the wall Of black affliction and doom; save only They sit and brood in the dim daytime That follows the dark night, until The voices wail and darkness falls; save only The memory of the death which was done And none may say by how the thing was done, Save only the dead know, and some grow dead Ere they be dead; save only they that sleep, Drowning with a sigh, ere they wake to go. If you would have a fair introduction, Go to a spot where there are no businesses, But only the country and the city, Where men are walking everywhere they go; Where they will give their hearts to your persuasions, And spend your souls like your lives, as they spent The blood of other men that said Nay; Then go back and count your gains, as you might-- You have the guts to tell them "no" itself. Nothing is free. There is but one law For all the land, and that is war. You shall pay for every square inch Of every plant and beast and tree. Your life shall be a round of wisdom, And you shall know the cost of all you touch: The wind, the cloud, the sun, the seas, The grass, the flowers, the trees--all dead, Whose souls you have sold, and made a slave Of at a thought's price, till their lives Are but a waste of breath in your control. War, and the yells of fellow-men-- Vast armies clashing into thousands-- Shall the garden folk be frightened That hideous sounds come from afar? Shall they not hear the power of weapons Murdering like tygers, slayers, wild beasts? Shall they not know that war is war? War, and the bloody ruin of armies-- The slaughter of brothels and taverns-- Shall the wild wind-hrag fluttering in the air Sweep through their gardens as a garment, Resting its golden hair on naked limbs? Shall they not know, when night comes down And they have done with toil and child, That war is peace, and they themselves have made it And men are brethren, friend by day, by night? O, love is ever trying, Making and unloving; Sometimes it sways us and teaches, Like spring that Sorrows over Death; Then it is dumb, and cold as Death, Like Death that Sleeps in Time. O, love is ever trying, Making and unloving; Sometimes it sways like Death, Selling and purchasing joy; Sometimes it lightens, sometimes, I trow, Sends us from dark to bright; Then it is dumb, and cold as Death, Like Death that Sleeps in Time. O, love is ever trying, Making and unloving; Then it lightens like the Morn, Giving and granting love To those we must leave soon, and those we leave long Yet cannot leave yet too long; Then it is dumb, and cold as Death, Like Death that Sleeps in Time. And you shall be disappointed, And you shall be disappointed, And you shall be disappointed Till you come to know me; For I can lighten and darken Like the changing sky above The flower and thorn and cloud; But my heart is always loving, Like the loving Sorrow in Heaven. For you shall be disappointed, And you shall be disappointed, And you shall be disappointed Till you come to know me; For I can lighten and darken Like the changing sky above The flower and thorn and cloud; But my heart is always loving, Like the loving Sorrow in Heaven. Oh, come to me, Love, My heart is hungry too; Oh, come to me and let My lonely heart feed Upon the sunshine and dew, Upon the rain and flowers; Ah, let me hear the far cries Of the wind among the trees, While my lover sings to me By the evening forest-side. Oh, come to me, Love, My heart is lonely yet; Ah, there is comfort in your step, And there is heart to win From that courage that conquers all, Such love as fills the air With sweetness, such faith as proves Even beyond all belief. Then come to me, and let My lonely heart feed Upon the sunshine and dew, Upon the rain and flowers; Ah, let me hear the far cries Of the wind among the trees, While my lover sings to me <|endoftext|> And palms, and green land, and valleys fresh and fair, Nor paled is the golden city's beauty half; Oh, ah! must I speak of what was lost then? And now in tears I meet these wonder-crowned eyes Where now each dream where all is buried lies. And tears again my spirit stills. "He told me of the dawn at sunset-tide When his car, with loveliness astir, Wheeled down the red unpeopled avenue, And silent through the hush of colouring passed. And then in silence he began the tale, With reddened cheeks which told the world had borne The battle's wail. The ravens wheeled around Across the pink ridges of the olive trees. And lo! the Vulture, as they whirled along Past sunset-lit peaks, at liberty alighted With long black tresses and male pinions bare. With deeper voice he spoke, and made the tale Of lilies burned and burglarious floral dyes Mingling their odours in sweet airs away. Then he, who knew what beauty is, protested, Conveyed in a single thought unto men: "A world which loses the art it hath imbued With tints of old cannot hope to cloy men's eyes. The morn shall shine again, and the old red sun Within the east her creases in trembling light And roll the world from west to east." And all The men around rejoiced that their great Master Had come to re-inspire the faded sun. They turned the horses loose and went ashore And found one there, who would not cross their hands, And said, "They have not done with us. If ye Come short of the full sum of your demanding, Ye must await the succeeding night and dawn. Their Master bid ye cease--ye cannot pause now; But go ye in peace, and bring your full offering. And if there be in this place one who listeth not, Beware lest the unfair provisions of fate Draw thee down to the pit from which ye came. Alas for the wise ones who get rich quick. If these be not deferred, and their full offering Alas for the selfish ones who know not love-- A threshold path to pleasure leadeth men That bring the burthen of unalloyed delight." And one who followed him, a ragged one, Said, "I, too, will go, and will repay your giving With something. Bring me now a harp and take One song, and let it be of pity to me. This life is one in which the life of man Is but a seed and not a flower. I know That I must pass thereto, and that there shall come An end, and there a void, and there again, And that there hath been an end here, and there." And he, the belted captain, as he took The harp from Evander's hand, was moved With silence, and, as he came to life, "Who is it that thus at injustice ambit Minds deep," the Prince begun to say, "And sees the causes wherefore the world is so? And sings not this, the end of things?" "I," said Parmenion, and, as he spoke, Fell back in love, and drew him in a kiss. Then first had Death been victorious, had Youth not snatched him from the fiend away Before that body severed from soul could meet The tortures of the shade. But Venus-- For yet he had not yet forsaken him-- And her beloved warden, Haste-Thee-Ah, Assailed him ere he met his final rout Of sorrows, in part through love's despotye Of rest, which delayed the long drawn war Between the spirit and the flesh, till now. Nor yet did the soft music of the harp Immense enough was cleared of the day's Ill murk to let the sun's meridian Paint shade upon its verdure, or to let It stay within the bound of its own best, Enlarging day's diminishing gem. For the day draws to its close, the man who hears That it is evening, not that it is evening. How shall I speak of Parmenion? The case Is common, and may be heard of at-one, A Roman of the Roman days. Or, first, The case. But first. Dignified, but unknown. In place, a man Full of the majesty of a Solon who Grew old there, of royal mind and rare, Till all her life's gem of beauty, young and true, Shone out with drossy sheen and jagged light, Until men rose and swept her from the court Because the boldness of her cheek was seen To like the braggart boasting of his deeds. And men have heard, since then, that he who offers The great deeds that he does, for little things, Makes his own heart great, his face is skin and plaster, That no great thing he has ever leapt or passed. Yet it befell that from his imperial seat Of honour, that he loved his daughter's earl; Because her self was needful to the war, That her lowliest place she could not leave. There after death, they say, he sits alone And plans for all time the greater things. And that is all I know of him. With a long stride he mounted stones That piled behind. And then He lay back to stones That lay before, and saw below A road that ran before. And heard A march that stilled the world below With God's small voice. Then all was still, And quiet as a fane of stone That spoke no words. His heart grew great, His knees grew weak, and kneeling there He fell. And stood up weeping. And when The passing feet of men drew near, he bent His head and looked at them. And they passed. And now the moaning of the wind blew Beneath his pale white hair. And now He rose and went from strength to strength. For a long while he walked along the road As one who went to meet and talk with friends When it was day. And still the day grew red And hot in a great land far away. And soon his strength failed. But he never stirred From where he lay. And when the night came, The winds grew still. And then he lay and heard The heavy bat wings of the June night birds, And heard far off the quiet horses' feet And soft low God's footfalls on the cold white stone. But when at last the sun went down And men turned at the dark in shrivelled rooms, And the great wind went on from high world down, He lay in last despair. Then rose and walked Along the road that now he knew so well, And laid his weary head against a door, Hearing the whiffs of death on every side. And a white fear came on him when he closed it. And once he felt the tongue of hell at work, And felt the hot wet eyes of flame go by, And heard the hot breath of death on his face, Then burst his resolution. And his strength Fell from him. But he never came to die. The harp and lyre were silent in the town, And all the plays were shut in darkness. In a house Where proud and stately tops of churches ended, The girls wore dreams of romances, and a boy Dwelt in the eastern window, his briefcase Padded with letters, awaiting replies. One hand was pressed on his letter-case, One hand held a songbook. The whole town Learnt not to laugh nor to weep. The minster's gate Was hung with black plumage, like a madcap troop Of black plumage parading, summoning all The stranger. The teenage singers, dancing Down the broad white axis of the new moat, were A mock galliard band. It is very strange, you know, What men I have loved. . . . Forgive me, God. . . . And still I have been angry And sick at heart; and once or twice I have turned to you, I am afraid, And said: "Forget it, God." God! but it was Sunday. Why did they kill her? . . . We pray for no one. God is All in all. And if I die, My death will be a joy to her, Though it should cause her no sorrow. For once she saw in me A smile of love and a sound of joy Through the small childish frame of me That had known not sorrow. One time, Two roads and one was crooked, And I followed one And got to Old Forge, And up at last Sat down at the door To register I have travelled the curve. "I've travelled the curve," he said. "The curve that was all crooked. And I followed one <|endoftext|> Thine, and her fair profile. Now with his right hand he drew Close to the socket her little right ear, and said: "Henceforth thou art a slave. Under mine at will Come forth the jewels of the ear, and come away. They are not soft like women's bodies. Unto me It has not been permitted to make loosening touch. In my presence thou hast always been a slave. Thou mayest plead as a poor disappointed creature, And pray me, the cruel one, to set thee free. What! would'st thou that man should be a slave to thee?" Then, through her nose, the sweetest smell that the world Has ever smelt assaulted her sharpened sense. And 'twixt her lips she drew the semblance of a mouth, And with her other hand led him, like a fish Swallowed alive, from that fair body of hers. Her mouth, she said, was a hateful thing, but her eyes Were the sweet eyes of the one who had sought her soul, And met her shuddering look with a look of love. There lies a rocky height, so shield the fair From the fierce storms of the gulfs, and from the depth Of the huge quiet. Oh, with what thoughts of bliss Wilt thou be sleeping, thou: in what sort of home Dost thou with thy beloveds, their food and drink, They that have loved thee thus through the long year, And seen thee weeping for the death of thy son, In the morn of this your elegy! Dost thou sleep Now on the warm sands, thy fair limbs hid in raiment? Nay, rather sleep'st thou in the cavern of thy soul, Who, since the death of thy child, hast been most gentle? Little and small, in every thing alike, There rests another of that youth and grace Which made him the singular image of himself When he had taken, for her hand's hand, the flower Of her cold heart in his own. But whatsoever Of all her mortal loves he has received and sent, Even yet, the minute they have touched his heart, Like smouldering fire they burn and tremble there. And that breath her bosom which, in the hour Of meeting, would have far arrested his breath, There in the absence finds an equal rate. To the pine-branch and its shadows the maiden crept, And in the leaves there lay the little fire. "I have found thee, first sweet love," she said; "I have seen the Spring-time of my life, And another, and another, Have come and gone; but yet I know There comes the King of Denmark, dressed In silken robes, and red-shod, And welcomed her with his famous hand. They have brought her to his castle bright In the sunny heart of the moors, Where oft she hath been seen in sportive mood, Splashing in the pond or playing Loud among the trees that arm his wall. Her hair is like the rain-clouds wove In a marvel of foam; her mouth Strains like the plain, when o'er the sea Corpses of boughs and swords are swept. For her the little rushes round His ramparts frame, in form of towers, A shrine of great romance, behind Which Night, her daughter, in her gloves doth dwell, And in whose crystal chamber men Tread with veil and balm the sacred floor, Like Kentiacs in their silent cemeteries. Now these fair girls have seen Him shed His blood in precious blood of sinners' footsteps, Their blemishes as they see Him fain To shake His chariot for them over their shame, So that they leap with fear, and quake as He passes To know that from their guilt they are pardoned; And with adoration kindlier they bear The precious sweets and oils and incense sweet, Than those gathered from the decades old, The odour of whom so full is spread, A gift full truly is a treasure-trove. Now they sit singing by His side, And all his words unto them repeat; "Yea," say their choral tongues, "Yea, this is best!" And from that hour it is not as e'er They may forget, nor ever they will need To bear about with them on mountain-paths Their canteens and their water-attire, The hunger of their thirst, the fever's Wash For many a year. In Bordeaux stands a tower whose top A vampire kneels to, sucking blood; Tower after terrible tower, it severs The heads of murderers, while it dyes Their dust ashy-white, like the drowned dead, In centuries that labour and waste away Amid the filth of France, under the eye Of jealous Pharaohs, while the vampire's gaunt Waist floods with blood his dank and olive shape; But when our Lady's son for us devised A lesser pain,--as greedy and bold And as lacking in prudence as the vampire, Who would pass, with thirsty lips and fawning eye, From web to web, from flower to flower, collecting Roots for his feet, and leaves for his waist, Striving to grasp the heaven that doth exist, Not grasping merely, with sharpest teeth and claws, The gems and jewel of this flesh,--he was judged An idiot, but permitted to abide, As a friend to vampires, in the tower, And to feed on the detested kisses Of our true sisters, while his body there Waste lies. Then said the Udine, as we saw The air fade yellow, and the skies grow blue, "If this be best, what choice is there?" And lifting to his lips a red rose He pressed it to his eyes, and swore For vow's sake by the faith his father lived, By all the holy trifles that were trodden In the very feet of God, and trodden so The blazing urn to splendor from the altar, As proof of love, and by their hypothetic Conjunctions, these, he thought, must suffice; Yea, and he would not lift his hand, until His lady lifted hers, lest he should be forgot. And when he looked at her, she wept, and turned And looked into his eyes; but he was pale, His drooping eyelids scarce would meet. "Still, still," he said, "thou too must part From me! I will not hurt thee!" And his tongue No more would answer, and his lips would make No more reply to the silent agony Murmurings that his poor heart made, and he Could utter no sound but wet and dry, Like one that had too long labored in a mine. And as she wept, with pleading gaze withdrawn, The Udine's daughter, gray, sad, and thoughtful, Lookt up to him, and met his inmost soul; And he was touched; and she beheld a tear Enter and glisten in his honest eye, And bade him, touching his lips with hers, "Ah, stay! let not one tear defile thine hand, "For know, thy mother is a virgin pure, "And she will be less changed than thou on this, "If thou dost love her!" And from that hour They lived as love's incarnation, hand in hand, In joy or in grief, in joy or in grief, A single life; and he his old life claimed And hers, as being capable of pain. For some years their love endured, unblamed, Unwept, unheeded; but at last the two Engaged the quiet next of kin, and then Wives fought for their hearts, and brothers fought For share of money, and sisters fought For love, and father fought in turn for them; Till at last, and at their hands, the maid Sprung up to lady, and the youth away To hidden ties to his dead mother's room, And both wished, by force of blood or bargains, That at the last they might be one, and one, One heart and soul in each. So as they spake, Brief words entered their lips. She, "My lover, I am his; he Whom he will love alone through life, I Myself will love alone in death; And he shall have all I have never known." (And so they spake.) "Not now!" And his thin breath Was as a leaf in water Brought quick to a still flower, Breathed through the tightil bars That shut the very key Of her inmost heart. So she spake; so went her way. And some saw that the "Rose" was dead, But never arose that "Sapphic Moon," And none made good its place. The twenty years of her life Were as twenty tides in the sea Of ages where the "Rose" arose In none great movement, but as tide <|endoftext|> But no. Ah, loveless now and white My waning life had grown, And stern and cold and true I laid me down to die. For in their names we loved, they loved us well, And dear to memory; The long forgot names and strange to hear Of lovers in those days. As lovers now, in memory they're seen, Yet unseen; So they, too, have passed away. In foreign lands, where strange and bitter tears Are shed for them who are not there, How sad if still they there abode! O piercing hearts, beware of taking heed Where sorrowing tears are shed Beyond the shores where we are not! We that were their have found our use, They have found their own. The wind was keen that day: My little boy and I Were sitting in the sun, With the old red top to shade us From the burning sun. The wind was keen that day: The old red top was red With the heat of the day. The wind was keen that day: I could see right up it, Fierce and wild and bold: It moaned and rumbled Like a whirring metal thing, And above it all How low, how loud, how loud it went! The wind was keen that day; 'Twas a great big sea; A great big sea and wild, And at the stern of the boat There sat an old sea-king, Seeming to frown and frown. "Ha, ha!" said the boy, "O sir, What brings you here?" He seemed to be in a passion, His voice grew shrill and high: "My knights and me," he said, "Are you mad, you see, To row in such a weather? To row in such a weather?" "Not in a manner," said the knight, With a grin as big As the sails he had on, "To row in a manner like To row in a gale. O sir, my rigg for an yard I could not get," said the boy, "Nor for a yard, a mile," said he. "'Tis a yard, a yard, lad, And a little more or less; The distance 'tis day to day, But 'twill vary, I'm sure; We row and we say things In the garden, on the hill, In the sunshine, shade, and rain, Like this:--'Bout which half doth paint The mountain half yet blue; Oh, great red begotten tree Whose root is the world's desire!'" And the boy as he turned to go Said, "What was that you said? And what do you call it then?" Said the knight, "I said, 'My life Was once all wild and wild, But the root, sir knight, is red, And with widening up each day Has turned a bigger blossom. Now I'm turned a pearblossom too; And I come now half up the hill And half down. I'm not seen And you know who I am, sir knight. Pleasure I reach, sir lad, sir lad; But what is't that makes you go Half up and half down the hill? And half down and half up the hill? "Good hail, sir sailor, And welcome to thee, Here ashore from lands far away, Where the blue ocean gleams, In the early June o' the year. I have trod the winds and I know Where the Mermaid laves its ducks And the Acropolis its nymphs. From the peasplit house I watch The green waves go and come, And how wise men row at night, And the ways of the gods are foolishly strange. And great Neptune rules the day, And the ways of sun and star Are unknown to me, For I am unacquainted with them. "Well then, in the night I'm wakened By the wet wind blowing strong, And then I think I know it; O, 'tis a fairy ship, And out of it some goodly nymph Sails the ocean with me: Some face especially Fair I like, and am fond Of the look in the stern of her, Where she is decked in robes By the works of most artful Fletcher. "Now the past is forgot, And my present more welcomes; My days have their dower Of delight, and I know no more Where I should dread to be. And my nights are purer Than the clear skies, and less wet With terror of every gnome. "Therefore each night I seem To be springing upward ever, With a full hearty gale, Like a hearty bird in bloom, And I drink the glory up With a generous thirst; For I've become a stout-hearted And worldly youth, who neither Disaster cares for, nor Woes that blot the world out. And I know the merriment of it all, And I laugh aloud, as boys do When a new chuck-wheel breaks out And they bid us think of splendor And be excited. "Youth must be glad! It is like water That laughs at nothing, but what it sees It swallows smiling, and carries splashing Its laughter over the hills and hollows To the Fatherland of its childhood, and there Tears as it plays in the sun and wind, In the sun and wind, forever and aye, Till nothing is left but the laughter. "Youth must be glad! It must be fit for fun That never quenches itself in tears. What good is it, if it drags a grave Under the trees on the other side of the day? What good is it to grow old without A scrap of fun? Be like the frog! And the squirrel! And the chameleon! Be the same! Be not like them, sir! The rats will be glad of you, you know, For they're in every rat-haunted street And there is nothing they respect more Than a scurvy old mouse, who has outlived The joy of rats, and is now in the rat-traverse." And the red fox looked at him, and he thought That it was odd and deeply, profoundly odd That he, in all his years, had never seen A fox so self-concerned, so content, So sincerely, utterly relaxed, As this little fellow had been, and his eyes Were about him but the moment that I saw them. And then he said, "You'd like to be a fox, You'd make a most excellent fox-hunter, sir! And the more I think of it, the more I see That we must have a little talk, sir. I am not by fornications, I say; There are far greater things before us. You are older than you think, you know, You've outlived your rodent relatives, And it's time you should have been left alone, For there's the year, it will not come again, And all the miserable will will have come to an end. But in the spring the will will lurk out of the sun, And romp about the woodbine boughs and steal fruit From the live long apple tree, and then, when the queen Returns through all the woodbine lattices And the green noon is practically summer, She will seek you out, you fox, and you shall be fed In a way that you will not mind, sir, if you're dead, And the father will come, and he will hunt with his son And he will chase you to your lair where you will hear The clackin of his hunting-hounds and the hip-hip-hip-hop Of his parson's jumpin-hurdy gurdy-makers, And he will bring you your costume, of a sort, In a basket of flannel, which he'll roll up And hang under a larch-tree for the blue-coat boy, And he'll let you have a little cot and a cot-house Whose dimensions you will make the same as your own, And he will give you instruction in the art of rat-hide, And he will give you books on squirrel-lore, and a muzzle That you'll fit like on a badger, and he will feed you On dried peaches and things, sir, and grass and bark That's been turned to powder, and he will give you, last of all, A little house that he built himself, with a little yard, And all the winter you should be there and at play, And it will be safe, sir, for you'll have a staff to lean on, A little house that is essentially safe, And will be locked up for you and for nothing else. But anyway I am going now, and I pray to all The gods that I may return and build that little place More than 'twixt the playground and the cage, sir, <|endoftext|> The different plants look at each other; While round about the coppice, dense as webs, Dark brown the wren. Then comes a morning flight, And we are off, As quick as swallows; but how swift you fly So far! The beautiful dreams the boughs, the lovely wren Leads up the line, And through the dews And skylarkick We go. The duck and drake have, here and there, their own, And there are some that stray; But we have more or less of direction; And while you have been ducking and drake You know well All about The lovely wren, and wren and lark. What wisdom, what wit, What love of earth are theirs; How the fresh dews of sense Run slowly from their roots of good, And steep Our lives anew! O first-love uncouth, But, when grown strait, Exquisite, austere, Most ardent, tender, profoundest, And frailest, When all hope seems dead! O there was a time (Though like a drop of rain) When life was like a song Set to a lute's strings, The faery notes to hear, The infinite to know. And sometimes--it may be remote Thechase is o'er-- The fair first love discloses A heart that's gallant and white; And kisses give the sign Of the sweet strife begun. And love grows wonderfied; Love hears afar the stir Of the truly great; The angels are there, as near; They walk beside us there, And tell us what we must do. A perfect personage will be found Ascending to a throne of gold With hands encircled; of a roseate hue; His countenance august and grave. And tremulous lips that redden o'er Solemn and eager gesture. A brow while cares encompass A spirit tranquil, though deep; A sweet attentive listening smile; And his right hand grasping A censer, whereby he burns Passion from the breast that sells Repentance to the ground. This is the moment set, so wait The crowding hours and an eternity Of times; and let the little love Cloy in me, like a rich perfume, A moment! It will take all pain To let it ooze out, and leave me pure. The islands of the blest, with songs of mirth And song, I cry, nor listen, love! Nor lift my musical voice, I, Till the great love-notes float up to heaven, Or tangle the tresses of the sun In music of a halo divine. At night, listening to the crashing hours, There comes the thunder and the cry The old immortal storm, Which re-echoeth ever: At the same time, as when first The world's great heart first drew breath, The stars re-enter the chambers of the sky, And show me vast and calm With one blue light above the mountains blue. Above the antique hill the fierce North-wind Is whistling yet; The frozen weeds no longer fret and shake About the trunks; The bare bents the flowers are springing now About the hedges grow, And the careless sheep that would not stay The full horn on the wall; And me in the lone winter weather Weary and thinking Of the times eternal sweetness knew, And one single blue light above the mountains blue. At every leaf, The frost-wind whispers; at every hill The thunders resound; Around me and above me the frost-wind Is whistling yet; I feel it in my hair, and hear it in my heart How bitter is pain. But, oh, so sweet and strange it is! To see it one single blue light above the mountains blue. O little grass! Be kind to me, Call my darling nieces and nephews by name, And tell them, dear, that I love them still! Teach them to see me, trembling, feeble, and weak; Teach them to understand; That my fair face is as a refuge from their tears, And my weak feet are for their cherishing. Teach them to pray for me, That my cheeks may once more appear Whitening in the morning sunshine, fresh and fine. <|endoftext|> XI Rain, and the Fanning Winds Sweep over me, The Sultry Sun warms himself in the furious air, Low through the mist the rolling clouds rush by, And to the eaves, where dense are the vines, The crimson light is flushed through with shades of gray: Whilst each gleaming window, 'mid its dark wood, A spectral shape awakes, which smiles and sings Through distorted lips, wrung-out with pain, While through her hair--so thin--the lightning plays-- A face, made City of his world, doth haunt my dream. XII Abashed in the street I shudder and start, And startle the pigeons from the perch they rear; Against the window spirited shrieks I throw, Which give my shriveled blood more strength to sport; Through winding streets I hurry, each strange face pains me, I shrink in dark, enclosed places, when I reach My home, weary of these faces and perplexed. XIII Now, childhood's friends, you have these stories told, Ah me, ah me! ah me! That I, so flatt'ring, feeble, and old, Must now such strength enjoy. For in your praise You say that I am fond of sport, so then, By your advice, I'll play 'twixt men, and steep Men in draughts, before my day is done. So farewell, you boys, with laughter and song, For I go to play matches, and those far matches That bring most cash to `the man that wins.' And here's to matches, wins, losses, cheer, etc. <|endoftext|> Fame is a torpid thing, That, like a mangy pheasant, At a shriek of treble, fleeces And scatters the shivered grasses On its yellow back, ere it Adorns the lacqueys and goes To the cafe for a crack. Ah, he is only mortal, Vagrant and cheerful and light, Whom the gazer can not Fashion into dreams of kings, Or pantomime of fame; Who is but frost-bitten, Shivering with the freshness Of summer weather, That he plays with and fusses In the snug summer bower. Ah, he is but a curl, That, when shorn, becomes A broken leaf; And the cruel baulk is Fate's stern determination; Till he sits on coronets, And sits on hacks for title, Is but a curl, And fades like a dream away. Yet his shadow is long, And his name is writ In the azure of the sky; And he was once the best Of us all, and such as we Belonged to no other; And he but lives to shame Men in all ranks, by galley-slaves, Whom his many halls Shall besoon. He alone Has kept his breadth of brain From its ample height, By his own impossible Diurnal circumcising, In his prison cell. But the mangy pheasant, The plump-skinned pheasant, Has a wisp of hay, And a cracked shell, And, methinks, his nose is The slim one's concave. And he gnaws the branches, Gave his crutch a bite, And rejoiced, as though No span-tall pheasant lived. He had certainly spun That narrow straw, Till the clock gave a chime, And the school-boy entered His shadowy tower. And his elbows he loos'd, Loose his black cap, And he munched a crust, And sauntered thoughtfully To the party, Where the pigs were fat And the cider was good, While through the bushes, Blowing, came thronging, Dim, portly, silent, Bald head, stout of muscle. And he poked his head Through a crevice; And the smutty link-boys Met his eye, And the lank leg Curled, was rounded out, And the flap, up stuck, was shot. He peered at the year, At the spring's soft vesture, At the meadow bending Shimmering, soft and slim, At the fields, and the grain, And the boughs of hemlock, At the nook, and the hole, By the hedge twice picked clean. Then he scratched his ear, Said his say, (If you wish to hear it) <|endoftext|> Or calomell. One lonely crag of rocks, Not yet in ruins, stands, and blows its arms In solitude. The ocean heaves and groans In loneliness, as if a storm were past, And storms were past when storms were begun. Thither beheld I turn. A youth, that then My side had pressed, rang vicarage to mine, Set on the vicar's hip. "Explain," he said, "The marvel wrought by that most mournful spider, In Verona?" I in figures simple, In signe of confidence, exclaimed: "Tell Thy name. And wherefore, praying, I assume Thy need so pressing?" He smiled: "One time I was In Adria, where the purple mulberry Lights earnestly the path where walk the wise, For one veiled page in tears was hither led, And proper care spared for her alone, Who healed her sainted Siraph for the rest, Handling alone the change that moved their eyes. "Yet prayed the King not instant to unclose His garden to such wight: he deemed it too The doing of a mere - he would not seem Hard to fit: and more the mulberry taught, That he, after all his rites and prays, Shall gain but sorrowful and ignorant. Therefore, in hopes to provoque a year, I wrought the marvel you behold there. Where enters not the spider, indious, Nor shows his melancholy throng Beyond the vacancy, or crossing bite: But in and around the rosemate's team Stands tolerating, if ye looks assay, Death's impossibility. How contend The willing whirlwind in the pear-tree breast, In shreds, and spirles of the boughs, and, poising, Drives down to fall the manifold boughs in ruin? - Is not that exotic, that puzzling fact, More curious filled, than these my stories of kings?" Then I: "If farther you will that wonder play, More join'd you then, Sir Knight?" He replied: "More, And if my lodging you obtain, I follow." The shallop careering, trembled as they went, And when the dawn appear'd, there saw they wide A chasm, like that which buried was the frame Of me my native home, me prison'd six years, And buried, too, a mighty wail within. Thus through that oriental crash they pass'd; 'Twixt either plank the grasping pirate row'd, And in the midst the fairy danc'd her head, Their sworn companion; then the pirate cast An aimless gaze around, and, vex'd to death, The greenwood shuddered at her fairy theme, And fled in furie adamantine grieves, With shudd'ring strokes of thundering Aerie, That rustled down the raging waves, and quell'd The clam'rous mirth, and drowned it in a wake Of echoing laughter deep as father borne, Or sister bom, when dearer free as all, Than life, or any joy their mortal breath, They hoist the tatter'd sail; and now they gain The Latian strand, where, changed to flocks, the dames The magenta herd, and lugubres lout The coursers, yoke them to the wain, and thence To Memphis guide the fervid car; Nor mortal there, or less than mortal high In congeal'd zeal, but by the god impell'd The sailors thither direct their way. When now the lofty rostra, and the clang Of metallic hoofs had steadied their course, 'Twas strange to note if ape, or hagger, or groan, Were then begun, or, half drawn off, half sate In awkward posture; so they that brought Them thither, ere the fuming smould'ring tide Of Latium could again resume her state, Ran up, and down the deck in haste they pass'd, Their destin'd course: so burrow swift and low, In darkest blackness, the hideous crew Shore thither; and the dames amid the spume With sculls infuriate shap'd the vessel round; Pale gnomes of fauns and poor estranged town, Or wretch umbrellas self-crimson'd around: Even the slow tortoise that moccasins Hurls from some height, as on he makes his leap, Shew'd his white feet: black vultures, many-yol'd, Came by, and clasp'd the vessel with their woolly: Then two hairy wolves (their beards defil'd) With clapper-snout growled on th'unworthy deck, All waiting how the fleet should be conceal'd. Yet those dark forces not without the aid Of familiar fictions were prepar'd, Nor need the sycophant Idaean tell, How Adiro, at the superbe point Of all Attica's sex, the deed of Mars Had scatter'd wide; who, inly irksome, wait'd Till Phoebus resumed his wonted reign, Then, swift escaping, to the watering whelk Run'd with irrepressive speed; that (as he said) He serv'd not rule the soil of Stratia any more. But Fate's undaunting heroine at the last, With war and loud accusations, repress'd the rash Atacy, and at her own desire prov'd His perjury: where he, whom heavy doom Had doom'd to perish, there he swore the death And burial of his country; and th'ourinth day Her funeral pile, his toilings on, proclaim'd. Thus glad Camilla find her country safe, And her Ulysses happy; but the rest, Whom hate detain'd, or desperate Sulla led Arm'd to the war; though yet they know no ease. Thus far the naval goddess saileth through The branches of the myrtle, bearing hence Her juster course. No longer now than once She journeyed; for at one stroke she shook The perpetual superpoorness of the air, Disabling with a sweep the skies, and wash'd The dust from shallows. The council thus Of the women thus the tyrantharch ushered Into the inner court, where yet were found The counsels of the hinds; who saw and heard Creation's monarch. Round the minds advanced Adrasta's race in honour's measure plac'd, Whom thus the king of rivers greet'd: "Ye kings and rulers, peers of Ascriminal, Ye magistrates and elders of the deep, Happy were he, in the wont of old, Who in the fetters while so litten slept, From white yew to shallop couched his cart: Whom sleeping lieth heavy as a stone; Methought I felt my brethren's blows as well: Lo, on the left the boat speeds, and the oars Will guide us o'er the placid waves. See the oars, That to the right towards us, and those two pull. Well have we service for the refuse oar, If heavy I move them. In that place below I saw the stands of blazing fire, whence far The raging smoke obscured the foot of him To whom I gave the deliverance: here was hung The dubious banner of our hope in battle, When haply from its folds some legal supplement, The Pylian pipe for example, may be heard. Lo, to the chink the men are brush'd, the stands Thrown backward, and the captives from the caldron. And lo, the skilful Zerbino comforts His brother chief; for his own worth he speaks, Nor of the credit frees him from reply. Mine enemy, he said, so soon was she Who with her father and her partisans Came by subterfuge to call her to her home, Destined to sweet revenge. Nor thou alone, But countless as thou art, thy proper fortune Seizes by force. The commonalty may feel Their deathful sighs, yet little can they do." Never was passage to Jove's altar denied To Malignus, but with money he would buy; No tax he levied, but where limit could Be witnessed, he would bend the bow. With him In tarn and swamp were found those rites disgraced, Where justice had no share, and truth no part Taught him to burrow, and to twist in vain His malicious wishes through the black folds. So, if he paid a tribute to the dragon, He poured his bolts without stay or cessation. Enough to say, that many a clansman lost His life-days, fighting for the unhappy dame. And ah, I say, if golden Wainamoinen Had held his peace when questioned of his kinsmen Laid by him with the dead, he would have told the tale. <|endoftext|> And made a hardy man of thee, Mighty the sword to be, So weaned the spell From their form and from their soul; And you will stand in blood, And you will shed your blood, And our children's children's children Will be your heavy curse." Now, where is the man to stand, Now, where is the man to die, Who has not bled for these or we? They have none of man's children's blood, None, save a callous heart, To flow for this or for future woe; And not for penance and not for pray'r, But strength to strike, to die. And there is nought to show Of strength to strike, to die, Save what a wounded heart can show. When the moon has washed the seas, And the moon is quenched and set, All things have sunken to their stations, And all things high and low, There are some things only to be seen By those who wander in the night. When the moon has sunk and all things are gone, Then the ghosts of all things will appear, And all things bow themselves and be as grass, And the colours of the night come back To inform their garments and their faces, To burn their bodies and hair, And hang like smoke round their waists. There will be seen by some things unseen A leaf, a spray, a flower, a stone, A thing with blood upon it, And the soft bodies of women will come, Stooping from earth, and there will be seen Those tresses that the mighty Sea Had won from every woman's head. But it will be night and moon and star And none will care or fear about them, For it will be none of man's or woman's business. All things are with the Moon and Moon alone; All strange and new things fall and grow As flowers on the moonlit sea. There is no thing in the wood or field But dies to love the Moon's eyes, Nor thing on earth, nor beast of the field, But loves the Moon's soft arms and hair. None can reckon of the things the Moon Has given to love her and keep her; They are so many and wonderful! Now the hour of the Sun is high, And the hour of the birds is low, And the Sun has look'd upon the sea, And the birds have heard the noise of the sea And gone out to sea in thousands, Cats with their blind eyes of silver, And the tide that way and that high Come forth in thousands, and thousands Of little black ripples at play, And the sands in light and the sands in dark Come forth in numbers, and thousands Of little white balls of snow That come and hide in the shrubs and kill The crabs that get in their stead. Now, as the sun of the high noon Goes down, and the dusk comes on, And the birds are hushed in their delight, The pinnace now sets sail for the moon, The little white wake of a ship, And the pilot stands by the bow. The captain sits in the stern, And the helmsman looks from the poop Where the great waves dash and swell. And the little white wake makes speed For the other side and the other, Till the white stars shine out above, And the great waves brake and tumble In white surges that come and go. Now, as the moon of the low dusk Sits high in the heaven and bright, And the shore-lights start on the hill, And the road-lights fall, and the town Sinks in the dark, now she seems The child of no dream that ever was, But a single shining light, There are some things only to be said By the light that goes and comes In the night and the night and the night. Now, as the hour of the dark twilight Draws close the curtain on the day, And the midnight moon is high In the sky above the town, And the stars of the night are few, And the soft winds go and come, And the waters quiver and quiver And the branches catch and hold Stars and twinkles and colours bright In their veins as they go and come, A great wind shakes the trees and fills The night and it quivers and quivers And it trembles and trembles And the branches quiver and catch Stars and shapes of lights and shades, And the winds go and come, And the waves go and come, And the waters quiver and quiver, And the night and the night and the night Is all one tremulous epic Of enchantment and mystery When the night and the night and the night Are all one mighty shaking And trembling and trembling Of the power and the might Of the wind and the sea and the night, The night and the night and the night That is winged and lighted and sent By the power of the Goddess, By the power of the wind and the sea and the night To end and begin again And begin again, The whole earth trembles With power that flows and flows, And darkness, and light, and flame, And seasons without beginning or end, And mighty Poisons and beneficial, And change and progression, and motion and rest, And earthquakes, and lightnings, and poisons, And all that men have wrought or have dreamt or thought, And all that God has wrought or has thought or planned, And all that woman has wrought or planned or dreamt, All is transmuted and is turned, All good and all bad, All light and all dark, All light and all darkness, All substance and all void, All being and all empty, And all things in them and all things out of them, And all the hopes and all the fears of all men, And all the deeds and all the loves of all women, And all the words and all the thoughts and all the feelings, And all the shapes of all the forms of all things, All the thoughts and all the words of all men and all women, All the visions and delusions, All the thoughts of all the strong and all the weak, All the visions and thoughts of all the powerful and all the powerless, All is done and all undone, And all things live and all things die. For power is born in the heart of man And grows not else but by the heart of man; And this is the secret of its birth, For nothing is born in the world save man, And nothing dies until the day When death, the end of life, Breathes his sweeping wings over man. The whole earth trembles With power that flows and flows; And darkness, and light, and lightnings, And seasons without beginning or end, And motion and rest, And all that changes and all that rests, And all that man has done and all man shall do, And all that God has done and all God shall do, And all that is done and all that is yet to do, And all that one must bear and carry, And all that befalls and all that befalls, Are only the things that are worth. The whole earth trembles With power that flows and flows. The dark night when the earth will be no more And the wind, high whispering, The flame, low whispering Of wings that rend and rustles and sifts and blows With all the winds that are fled and all the waters awaked, All the winds of the world when sirens whisper and dirges blow, Is but the stirring and stirring of this starry gathering That is worth, To be sure, And yet perhaps all the world, in the end, And all the world, in the end shall be worth. The thousand tales of lofty ships and ghastly wars, The seas red as blood and high-born as life, Of things half seen and heard of late, That made you blind and old and foreigner In the blind close night of the dawning,-- The dead night that cleft the great dark And lit the far horizon hoary With fantastic streaks of bronze and gold, And sang a tongue that you could not hear, And swirled and washed your thoughts away,-- These things are only the signless ink In which great Beauty stamped her boast And cast your fancies out with them. The great world's walls and ramparts are but rocks And crooked bastions of sand and stone That coat the hollows and the dunes Of this lone desert and strange lands unknown. But this is man's dream, man's folly, man's pride: To see the wonders of his inner sight, To touch the things that move his inner sense, To tread the realms of higher life and lower, To know and not know and not to know again. <|endoftext|> The hucksters they passed to the street, They seemed to meet with that rough bear. They thought him a bear of huge size, Like a colt that would trample a mare, But he seemed not to notice the crowd, The sirens, or the honking train. He was sporting with the porter-cob And did not see the need to show. And all of a sudden, "O hai, mon Dieu!" Cried the bear, then he turned round and said: "A pet is not as precious as you think, A pet is not a king or a prince. A pet is a beast that somebody loves, And somebody said that I did not love. "Oh, it was not Napoleon. I was in a bad humor that day. There was no reason, I did not love him. I saw him in a book of numbers But I do not remember which one. "Oh, it was not Lenin, either. I had read many books on him. He was wonderful on looking-glasses, And all about the dictatorship. But he was only a tyrant for a day. I was there to take a mnemonic. "Oh, it was not Louis the Fourteenth. He was a man who loved his eagles, And they are wonderful animals, aren't they? They were perched on his walls for a reason, They know things about poetry, history, And there are many things to say about them. But he was not writing at the time he came To say that he did not love his eagles. "Oh, it was not Abraham Lincoln. He was here to take a mnemonic. He was with me the day he left us. He said I made him go to Vienna, But he did not say what for. He was watching a photograph, I think, And he seemed not to see me at all. "Oh, it was not big Ben We the three times! He had been to see a fair and said it was funny, But he never came back to pick me up my hat. But he looked just like a big Ben We the three times. Oh, I cannot remember his exact words, But I remember him looking me in the eye. "Oh, it was not Bob the Bunny. He had been to see a fair, too, but he said it was sad. I said, 'What is sad? I love Bob.' He said, 'No, Nothing's sad. Just dolls.'" I put on my hat and kept on talking, All out of breath with the drowsy air, And the strangeness of the day and its people. And then, when I stopped to catch my breath, A huge hand hovered over me And held me upright. I heard a horse rustle, And I heard the creak of a barrel, And I saw a hand Lifted from the barrel, And moving toward me slowly. Then I heard a clatter, And I saw a gentleman, Shaking his head, And wondering why On a greasy work-day He should leave the house I saw a red-haired girl, And I saw a cigar, And I saw a glass, And I saw a girl, All red-haired like, But none of them like my niece, My niece, my niece. Then I heard a shout of "Harry!" And I saw him jump as high as he could, And he grabbed my hand and he said: "I've come to take your love, my girl, But I cannot take your hand." I heard a shout of "Thank you, Jack," And I saw him wave his hand, And I saw him toss a coin, And I saw him cough out "No!" And he caught it and he said: "I've come to take your hand, dear girl, But I cannot take your coin." I saw a "Ting-a-ling" bell, And I saw a clover-top, And I saw a boy, And he seemed so kind, But I could not see his face. So I shouted to my niece: "O Dad, I'm sure it's him, He's just come in from the plow." We are coming to the far-off town Where the roses blow, And red-roofed houses front the sky, And the gray church stands tall. We're coming to the town where the clouds are flying, I and my love, I, and my love. We are coming to the far-off town Where the roses blow, And white-faced Anthony and his wife Rise up from the dead, And all their friends go in before 'em four by four, And they will not wait for the rest. We're coming to the town where the swallows fly, I and my love, I, and my love. We are coming to the far-off town Where the roses blow, And tall-pudded Goldercock rinses by the half-way stream, And the foxglove grows by the road. We're coming to the town where the clouds are flying, I and my love, I, and my love. I said, "I will listen, I will understand, For I am weak and inexperienced; You know the laws must be obeyed, You know the Queen is most indulgent, You know that I am always right." She smiled in sympathy; The angry words went out of her pale face, She held my hand, she made me turn to her, And she said she would do all she could To help me in my plot. "One plot too many," she said. I heard her whisper, "And I'm most understanding, I'll help you if you tell me why. It's many a year since anyone died, Since anyone lived; it's out of character. And, if it's important, you must tell me why." "The clergyman has spoken," I said. I saw her nod. "Well, I know he spoke For his old cause. He said that the King Was a usurper and must be removed, And that his Church, too, must be restored. But, if you'd prefer, he said also That it wasn't right for women to drink. I want to hear him say why." "The clergyman has spoken," I said. I saw her nod again. "And, if you please, He said that the Archbishop had said, And that all bishops were traitors, And it's true. He said that he knew That a locket had been found in the death Of one of his priests, a murder weapon. And, if you'd prefer, he said also That some men in high places 'Must go,' he said. 'And that's why I'm here.' And I'm glad that you came to speak to me, For I'm going to listen, I'm going to understand, For I'm weak and inexperienced." She smiled in sympathy; Then, she whispered in my ear, "I knew that you would come to me." She put her arms around me there With so much loving Weakness that the love shone through And the warmth seemed to enfold us And the love seemed to blind us That we could not turn from each other. And the touch of her warm body And her warm lips Left on me a strange sense Of the unmeant kindnesses Of the woman who was once my enemy. The fire-light slept on the shivered glass, And only the white walls and the ticking clock Were the lights of life to me. I sat alone, I sipped my wine, and I heard the clock Time after Time as it chimemed out the night. I was weary of worlds, I was weary of life; I longed to sink down and atone In the firelight with my wine for all the wrong I had done and the damage I had done; For my enemy and my beacon and my strength Had been a shadow, a dreary dream From which I was sick and had fled And never looked back, I had followed the shadow And not the wings of my soul, And never had looked back to see If the world still reviled me or honoured me. For my enemy and my beacon and my strength I had sipped my wine, I had looked into the fire, And drunk my poison and died. But the clock in the tower was keeping Time with the music of the world, Ticking as it tickled the white ears of sleep Till hope grew strong, till the white wings of dream Flew up from the city of towers And filled me with strength to go out and seek And speak and be heard by all men. <|endoftext|> From the polished stones that the shepherd tapped to his lips, from the glistening perch of a fresh-plowed field, from the long, cool evening in the sparkling new-burned house. A double horn is a tall cow's horn, a crooked reed is a tall reed. But which is which is a question of form. I’ve seen them both in the grass, though to see them clearly is a matter of distance. Each has its own distinction —one hangs lower (a stone's throw) and has a slightly different bending point; the other’s curve is more complete, its flat top more even. The cow’s horn is simply a long cow horn, a bent horn, all cow’s horn is a bent horn, each shape is simply the shape of its horn. (A stone may be either shape, an apple may be both the apple and the pear, a comb a knot, a cup a round body.) But which shape is which has nothing to do with which is most like a circle or a line, or which is highest or lowest. The cow’s horn is not higher or lower than the reed, nor the same height as the line; each has its own distinction. I have seen the shape differ according to the soil (dappled or uniform), according to the sun or rain, according to the cow or sheep; but which shape is which was more or less apparent from the start, according to the shape of the stone which made it. What was more clear from the start was that no shape at all could be called a line, no higher or lower than a line, no oval or oval-ish ball, no cylinder or cylinder-ish ball, no pyramid or pyramid-ish ball, no pear or pear-ish ball, no other shape than those known to man. <|endoftext|> "I Am a Free and Pleasant People", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Animals, Weather, Winter, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] I am a free and pleasant people. I change my country of birth with my changing of name. I was born in Georgia, and in my mind's eye I see the province of all the country lies. I have heard the men of other places say, That we Americans are a rude and stupid race of natives. But these are fools and fools, especially if you're old, Or if you're a youth, And the people that you see are younger than you. I have met the strangers of all the countries, I am a neighbour to none, and I never wander from my own country. <|endoftext|> "The Soldiers", by Stephen Crane [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I have two soldiers by my side, They are young, they are strong, They will fight for me and win. I will lead them into the fight, I will give them my mighty heart, My finger-tips and my tooth, My name, my rank and badge, To every man upon this earth Who holds a weapon to defend himself Or seeks some other who's oppressed. The soldiers follow at my will, They will win as I shall win, Though shame and dishonour be theirs. <|endoftext|> "The Castle of Our Lady of Gethsemane", by Stephen Crane [The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Nature] I Lying with lifted head, and hands folded in his lap, With eyes half shut and heart half chilled, Saint Maur and his honest driver Climb the crooked lift to the old stone wall. The city looms below, a dizzy haze, The pale smoke trails like an oily stream, And nowhere any inn seems to rise. It is enough to make the camel pause. The wind makes the camels whip and prance. They neigh and kick their hinds in the air, And lash their plumes and struggle to gain The open lintels and the nailed-down beam. He sees and counts them as they come, Sees one in short, and falls back asleep. Beside him two are seen to dance, In a kind of medley of glee. His thoughts like fires upon the road Fly back and look long while, and lie Like sparks that need a fire to bake them. II A nightingale of the soul divine Sings on, and vanishes into the blue. And there is nothing to see or hear But the wind in the pale grass, and the cry Of the raven on the cliff, and the call Of the wood-owl, like a trumpet's ring. Beyond the wind, the city looms black; Only the dragon-fly lifts his head. Like the naked figure of a saint He flutters over houses that burn In the blood of Christ, till the pale dawn Gives to the stillness another colour. But the dragon-fly has hid his wings, And the saint, as a pilgrim, must pass. III How does the soul pass into the body? How does the body pass into the soul? We seem to pass into it as clay Pass into some imperishable fashion. That which is taken or given, Must have some change or other From the first. A leaf may pass from its head, Or the horn of the hunter be taken from the hoof. We think that what we call birth is death, And that death is birth; and sometimes The change is from the womb to the tomb. Yet we know better than to call By that name the change that from hour to hour Drives the soul from its first quietness To the whirlpool of sensation. We are not tranced to go to sleep At any given touch; nor driven By any given touch to go astray To the gulf of the night. We are not driven By any given tone to come to rest; But we are thrust and caught, and borne along, And carried up and back, as water drawn Through a sluice by wind and tilted tide. As the dragon-fly we glide and pass, And the saints can drive or caught or flown. The body is not dry, Nor the soul defiled; Yet neither the body nor the soul Is entirely whole, or perfect, or sound. <|endoftext|> "The Raven", by Stephen Crane [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity] In the cold earth my body lies, Its shapes forgotten like the tips Of grass blades on May-time windless days; No dreamful eye, nor any mortal mirth Hath memory of me. Not I, the May, The ecstatic self-matter, the absolute center Of all changing moments. Not I, The moving spirit of the woodland hours, Who at night with my sleep the woodside made Loved by the very silence I made; Not I, the obedient heart, the utter pedestal Of every maternal impulse. Not I, The toiling intellect, the releasing intelligence, Clothed with an immaterial security; Nor yet the ever-moving being deep down In the inconceivable ultimate dynamics, For that I was and am not and was and am not! Time and the movement are for others, they have stories for me; The earth and its movement for others; and the world of spirits For me only is the world and the history. I am cold, I am dead, I am cut off From the onward rush of being, cut off From the ever circling ardor of the gods. What has the raven got to do with this, Lord of the lightning and the thunder? What has the black raven got to do With the immortal wing of Apollo? What has the red raven got to do With the divine and the hapless dead? What has the green raven got to do With the ever-moving cycles of the sea, With dawn coming and the light, and the gathering of stars, And light and the devotion of the moon? <|endoftext|> I have had plenty of good luck. But when I die, old devil, my last wish Will be that I'm lying in a ditch. I never went to bed at half-past nine, Nor got up till past ten on my feet, And never was late once in my life. And I've had plenty of good dinners. I never went to bed till after twelve, Nor got up till one in the morning. I never went to bed on a Sunday, Nor got up till the next day at two. And I've had plenty of good dinners. When I was nothing more than a whim, And a willow tree, and a willow head, And a whisp of a whimself, And a willow top, and a willow oar, And a twig of a whimself, And a robin's nest, and a stone of a wren, And a willow branch, and a stone of a tree, And a willow leaf, and a stone of a flower, And a willow bud, and a stone of a berry, And a willow root, and a stone of a resin, And a birch-tree root, and a birch-tree branche, And a birch-tree claw, and a birch-tree limb, And a birch-tree beech, and a birch-tree root, And a birch-tree twist, and a birch-tree ring, And a birch-tree claw, and a birch-tree ring, And a birch-tree feather, and a birch-tree claw, And a birch-tree beech, and a beech, and a beech, And a birch-tree root, and a root, and a root, And a beech, and a beech, and a beech, And a birch, and a beech, and a beech, And a birch, and a beech, and a birch, And a birch-tree trunk, and a trunk, and a trunk, And a birch-tree claw, and a claw, and a claw, And a birch-tree bark, and a bark, and a bark, And a birch-tree claw, and a claw, and a claw, And a birch-tree root, and a root, and a root, And a root, and a root, and a root, And a root, and a root, and a root, And a berry, and a berry, and a berry, And a plum, and a plum, and a plum, And a walnut, and a walnut, and a walnut, And a pear, and a pear, and a pear, And a pear-shaped jewel, and a jewel, And a purple pearl, and a pearl, and a pearl, And a yellow pearl, and a pearl, and a pearl, And a sweet-pea, and a sweet-pea, and a sweet-pea, And a sweet-apple, and a sweet-apple, and a sweet-apple, And a cherry, and a cherry, and a cherry, And a cantaloupe, and a cantaloupe, and a cantaloupe, And a pineapple, and a pineapple, and a pineapple, And a cantaloupe fruit, and a cantaloupe fruit, And a pear-shaped apple, and a round apple, and round apple, And a mango, and a mango, and a mango, And a plum-shaped apple, and a pear-shaped apple, And a cherry-berry, and a cherry-berry, and a cherry-berry, And a coconut, and a coconut, and a coconut, And a cocoanuts, and a cocoanuts, and a coconut, And a cocoanuts shaped like men, and a cocoonsized man, And a cocoa-nut, and a cocoa-nut, and a coconut, And a coconut-pie, and a cocoa-nut pie, and cocoa-nut pie, And a coffee-apple, and a coffee-apple, and a grape-apple, And a chocolate apple, and a chocolate apple, and a pomegranate, And a cocoa-nut shell, and a cocoa-nut shell, and a cocoa-nut pie, And a chocolate bar, and a chocolate bar, and a chocolate loaf, And a chocolate candy, and a chocolate candy, and a chocolate-log, And a chocolate candy-cake, and a chocolate candy-cake, and a chocolate-cookie, And a chocolate fig, and a chocolate fig, and a chocolate lily, And a chocolate quince, and a chocolate quince, and a chocolate rose, And a chocolate orange, and a chocolate orange, and a chocolate orange, And a chocolate grape, and a chocolate grape, and a chocolate orange rind, And a chocolate grape-fruit, and a chocolate grape-fruit, and a chocolate grape, And a chocolate pineapple, and a chocolate pineapple, and a chocolate pineapple, And a chocolate pie, and a chocolate pie, and a chocolate chocolate pie, And a chocolate gourd, and a chocolate gourd, and a chocolate grape-fruit, And a chocolate cask, and a chocolate cask, and a chocolate cask, And a chocolate pot, and a chocolate pot, and a chocolate pot, And a chocolate apple, and a chocolate apple, and a chocolate apple rind, And a chocolate porterhouse, and a chocolate porterhouse, and a chocolate porterhouse, And a chocolate platter, and a chocolate platter, and a chocolate plate, And a chocolate butter-cust, and a chocolate butter-cust, and a chocolate cream-puff, And a chocolate top, and a chocolate top, and a chocolate topper, And a chocolate liqueur, and a chocolate liqueur, and a chocolate rim, And a chocolate nut-brown mouche, and a chocolate nut-brown mouche, and a chocolate butter-cust, And a chocolate confectionery, and a chocolate confectionery, and a chocolate fudge-piece, And a chocolate day-labrant, and a chocolate day-labrant, and a chocolate day-labitant, And a chocolate fizzy drink, and a chocolate fizzy drink, and a chocolate schnapps drink, And a chocolate rot, and a chocolate rot, and a chocolate rot, and a chocolate rotter's rot, And a chocolate news-paper, and a chocolate news-paper, and a chocolate knock-out, And a chocolate rope, and a chocolate rope, and a chocolate henna cordial, And a chocolate comb, and a chocolate comb, and a chocolate comb of ivory, And a chocolate mirror, and a chocolate mirror, and a chocolate mirror with light, And a chocolate mirror with light, and a chocolate mirror with darkness, And a candle made of chocolate, and a chocolate brazier, And a chocolateshop, and a chocolateshop, and a chocolateshop with golden bridges, And a chocolateshop canopy, and a chocolateshop canopy, and a chocolateshop terrace, And a chocolateshop poppy, and a chocolateshop poppy, and a chocolateshop thorn, And a chocolateshop tiare, and a chocolateshop tiare, and a chocolateshop joint, And a chocolateshop rouge, and a chocolateshop rouge, and a chocolateshop blossom, And a chocolateshop sponge, and a chocolateshop sponge, and a chocolateshop comb, And a chocolateshop soap, and a chocolateshop soap, and a chocolateshop cream, And a chocolateshop candle, and a chocolateshop candle, and a chocolateshop comb, And a chocolateshop lotion, and a chocolateshop lotion, and a chocolateshop gums, And a chocolateshop mouthwash, and a chocolateshop mouthwash, and a chocolateshop vinegar, And a chocolateshop lotion wrap, and a chocolateshop lotion wrap, and a chocolateshop veil, And a chocolateshop salve, and a chocolateshop salve, and a chocolateshop poultice, And a chocolateshop band-aid, and a chocolateshop band-aid, and a chocolateshop bruise, And a chocolateshop boot-maker's sign, and a chocolateshop bruise, And a chocolateshop paste, and a chocolateshop paste, and a chocolateshop poultice, And a chocolateshop paste box, and a chocolateshop paste box, and a chocolateshop box, <|endoftext|> Exulting, led to foreign shores. The day of reckoning hath been come; The unredeemed paynim seeks a place In the strange city, where his sins Are washed away in the troubled tide. "The early sun, of summer drouth, Has gilt the wave that feeds the main With her sweet livery of light; And I, in life's sweet August morn, To mighty sorrow have been led Because my sun was setting. "To different ends, alike from me, The penance have been wrought; From sin my mind has been made clod; And, as a daisy, under ground Uplooking, I have lived and died. The day is dying,--light the cell That guards the arbour there! "Not in its deep recesses so, My life, in death, shall sleep; But day and night, from cell and door, The eye shall see it unannounced Went forth, and came not to its call; And there my souls great labors run, To walk beneath the watchful moon, To breathe beneath the world's thickest night, To see the light, and see no more!" From his low lodge, beneath the oak, In the dell, the tortoise reposed; And his grey eyes, in thoughtful sleep, Beheld the midnight scene, where wretches Beneath the rain were flayed and hung. And the swift horses bore him, safe and sound, Across the mountains to the court-yard. There, unharmed, the youth ascended up The crane of his humble task, Until he stood before the bar; For the lofty Chief had made him guard Against the raiders from the North. His mission done, the Master spoke once more: "What wert thou, laddie, hurryin' to give My friends their welcomes? "I was sent down to these valleys lone, To keep the gates, and keep the corn, And keep the water-gate, too, And keep the little village-guard Unmolested. And I am proud to be their friend, Though their foe they may be." And the lads of Naiad-land gazed With smiles of welcome on his shoulder: "Tut, young Lad, for us thy prowess tried In the chase; For, oh, thy hands were fierce in fight, And thou didst well in sport." "That was because, With the rest, I was taught to wield The battle-axe; And I gained a name, a fame, indeed, Because I bore the gauntlet down, And my foes knew it not." The Crane soars higher yet! And he sees, far up the steep, Far over hillocks and down dale, Far over trees and grasses, A distant snowy cloud: A flocks-upon-flying cloud, As huge as mist! He sees it purpling down, And his heart grows fonder, and bolder, And his spirit burns to know If, on its crest, Is there indeed A castle fair? He saw it rising--wondering! He jumped for joy--the streak was fair, The Castle was near! But, lo! it ceased, a moment, there came A noise of hoofs! Then the Young Hoofs, their joy was short-lived; They drove the steed in silence from the heath, And they watched till dim was that blue sky; But when, in silence, they had drawn away The fleeing courser, As swiftly as a dart That flies the moment after a bowstring is bent, The chill autumn air In waves of mist dashing past, Was driving down the road to Camelot. And there was leaving of the steed, And coming back, in silence, The tongue was still. And Arthur, sitting, said: "I have seen this scene; We have, as 'twere, woken Greeks In this wild solitude; And I have studied their games, Their triumphs, and their griefs; I know their drama; And even I, in brief, can tell What this scene is, in its brief span, Of their Greek past. "And now, to our history: They are coming to the feast of Zeus, The great Olympian God, Where honey is to be poured And wheat, and wine, and olive oil, For they are noble men, Of shape and color, that at courts Of all the world are few. "And in their garb, you will say, Of yellow complexion, black hair, And high spirited eyes, There are some that have a tryst With the dark-eyed daughters of Hellas; And, more near of look, There is one small cheek With roses blushing on it." The Master smiled and answered: "In their ancient race, And long since, They had but little help from us; But now, with touch of a wand, They are past; And now, in search of a quest, They set out for the Eastern Sea, To chase the Aegean Fish That no fishhook can catch." "On their cards, You may well guess, they read, A word of hope, a word of fear. The strong fish leap in sight And will not be caught at all; But, to keep from falling, they catch With a simple rope A great round net, made of deer-skin; And, by their touch, It draws itself to a line, And then they sink with a boom; But the Master fish Stands aloof, And has not heard of the fray. "He has on white, and on black, On golden and on iron; And he hangs on the farthest shore By the margin of a red-wine creek Where the water is clear as a glass. He does not care a whit If the fish go right or wrong, But his net is drawn. "I have set it, and I know That the fish go fast; But I have little care, As I am playing at fish-fights; And I set my bow-knot here, And I fix my eye Upon the fish of red wine, And I draw the net; And I see it reel in quick, And I see it turn again, As it flickers in the red-wine smoke, And I set my white hand there To touch the red-wine wine." So the two went hand in hand In the greenwood, and there They sat them down to wait, The good old fight between them still to wage; And when the sun went down It was pitch-dark, For the wine was nearly out of their heads. "I have forgot the red-wine charm That made us boys both gay and bold, And I cannot even throw a scare Of loose coins," said the King, "at these Old dames that think they still will give us A thrashing, when we have not done much But drink and play at fish-fights." But the good Queen made answer: "This wine that we have tasted, my lord, Is but good whiskey, that has passed From the distilling process through us; And since you have let us alone To play at fish-fights, I deem it meet That I should give to you this kiss, And thus leave you both to swim as best, And see what others do that go In other boats, with gleaming poles." Then Arthur could not but feel How great his mother was; For now he knew the wonder, and had learned How poor his father's birth had been. And while they played at fight A light on the white wall Grew brighter and brighter, and the sound Of the world's great joy Grew yet more sweet. So then the King said: "I will now take the bait, my lady, Of these good dames that see it fit To let the wonder fly; For, if we lose, they will at least Give us a great catch to set us up." So when they set, The green-painted net Was stretched before them out, and they Went down into the bottom deep To reel in the wonder; And as they set A fish Came up with a spang That Merlin's cestus did wound; But he stood at the water-door, And would not come in. So then the good Queen said: "I will now take the bait, my lady, For I deem this fish too rich To come from the distilling process Through you, my poor father, who would be To all the world a famous brewer. So take of my treasure this one thing, <|endoftext|> She knows I know that I need A drink. She sits in the corner Of the winter room Looking like death. The scent of burning leaves Over her head drifts down And in the wind it carries The perfume of her hair. She has come back from the dead To tell me all about it In a bitter and sweet Confession of a broken Union. She leans upon my shoulder And looks into my face For the confession. I have had a drink. I have had another. I am drunken again And to the high Celestials above me I bring my shame. I feel it in my mouth. I taste it on my tongue. It is the taste of her. It is the scent of burning wood. I am the messenger. I am the message. The night that she died She walked the floor That is so soft and smooth And I lay beside her And kissed her feet. And when I kissed them I fell into sleep. The smoke of the burning wood Was in my throat. I was glad to sleep. And when I awoke I felt her death In my heart. I was a fool to keep it back. I am a fool to keep it Away from you. I am so foolish. I can never Bring you her death Or her love. I shall be so happy To bring it to you When I am at last Gone from this world. God has sent me a messenger Who will stand by and tell it Unto you. The sun hung in a cloud of light Above the city of Kirklistoun, In a cloud of light above the sea, And hung the silver, slender harp Of the blue-eyed noble Lady, Ann. All the folk of the isle were at the castle Doing manly things, that they did in the sun, Doing noble things, that they did in the sea, Doing that which was comely in the island Of Ireland, which they tread upon and off With the cup of the Great Spirit lifted high And the words of the Song of the Lord on their lips. "Take now my harp, Lord Jesus, and make The sweetest music since the world began, And the world shall have a crown of thorns for sin, And the crown of thorns shall have sweet music for it, And we will all go joyfully to heaven, Joyfully to the Father; for we have first The love-part of the crown of the Lord on our brows, And the wisdom part of the crown of the Lord on our brows, And the servant's part of the crown of the Lord on our brows, And the great leader's part of the crown of the Lord on our brows, And the joy of the Father, and the peace of the Son, And the gladness of the Holy Ghost, and the prayer of the Holy Ghost, The dew fell chill and wet on the furze by the river, And the fern hung whitening in the wintry wind, And the lilies drooped and died by the stream, And a twilight heard in the sighing thorn Where the roving breezes swept and blew, And the ghostly leaves beside the stream looked up And the starry gleams in the dying sun. I walked where the shadows in the fern grew black, I looked in the pool where the starlight died, And the white mists were like pearl about my head, And the fern was as mist and vanished whiteness, And the night was as starlight in the sky. The trees were like pillows by the stream; The breeze came in like a breath of wind From out great boundless realms of peace and ease Beyond the dimness of the darkened trees And the shadow of the darkened hills; And I heard on the wind a hidden prayer, A prayer that I could not hear, too deep for words. The birds were singing in the dawning light; The dew lay on the grass like wool; I bent down to look; the world was new, And strange as a dream I dreamed was true, And still, as I looked, the dew, like wool, Drew nearer to the wool of my heart. I came where the shadows in the fern grew grey, And dimly by the bank I saw you there And your face grey like the wool of my heart, And as I looked, you disappeared; And the dark grey ferny shadows fell And trembled round the dreaming head That stood half hidden by the veil of light Where the high star of the morning rose. The twilight came, and a silence fell Around me; I looked and a silence fell Within me; I looked again, and a silence fell Beyond the darkness of the trees; And I came, and you vanished from the wood, And a silence still fell on the place, And I looked and no darkness fell on me, And I heard a silence fall on me, And the darkness of the moonlight fell. There is a prayer that I know, And I pray it in my heart, And I pray it evermore As the daylight goes and the dark comes on, And the darkness dies at the end of night. And the night comes on; and I pray And I pray that the light that is born In the darkness in my heart Shall shine through on the darkness far and away. And the darkness dies at the end of night; And the dawn comes on; and I pray And I pray that the light that is born In the darkness at the end of night, Shall shine through on the darkness near and yet more near. The night comes on; and I kneel and I pray; I come and I kneel; and I kneel and I pray Till the darkness is so deep in my heart That I can hear the darkness breathing deep; And the darkness deepens at the end of night, And the dawn comes on; and I pray And I pray that the light that is born In the darkness at the end of night, Shall shine through on the darkness near and yet more near. And the darkness deepens at the end of night; And the dawn comes on; and I pray And I pray that the light that is born In the darkness near and yet more near, Shall shine through on the darkness near and yet more near. And I said, "Lad, 'tis your own light Out of the darkness comes a beam That makes the darkness seem like airy lace. It is your own sun out of the darkness comes A beam of fire that makes the darkness glow; It is your own love out of the darkness comes A beam of love that makes the darkness cheer." But the moon was a wheel of the sea, A spinning-wheel of the sea, A wheel that spineth the sea in vain, When the wind is up and the wave is wild, When the surge is high and the spray is white. It will not spin the water-sugar long, The wheel will fall to the tide at last. So I cast it into the sea well, And the wheel rolled down the water well, A tangled skein of black and white, That the wind blew up, and the surge beat high. And the wheel fell on the sand at last; And the cords of the spinning-wheel all broke. The moon was a wheel of the sea, A spinning-wheel of the sea, A wheel that spineth the sea in vain, When the wind is up and the wave is wild, When the surge is high and the spray is white. It will not spin the water-sugar long, The wheel will fall to the tide at last. I said, "Lad, I tell thee, 'tis true That the wheel fell to the tide at last. For I heard the sound it made below, And the sound it made in the sounding bay." And I saw, as I looked on the sea, The wheel came down on the sandy beach. "Ah, the thing is done!" said I, "now see, The thing is done! Now I know it well, For I heard the sound it made below, And the sound it made in the sounding bay." And I looked on the sand and the wave And the wheel came down on the sandy beach. But I heard no sound from the sounding shore, And the sound was all in my brain, And the glory was all in my blood, And the red is on my burning cheek, And the foam is on my floating hair, And I know I shall die ere evening falls; But the thing is done, and the thing is done. I was lone and I was dark and I was sad, And no one would care for my tribulation, <|endoftext|> We now are here in the final path To the aim, the ring of cities Where the fruits of our labour are found, The wealth and power and fame we hold. We're the best that will work with our hands, The best that'll fight with our bayonets, We're the bravest, we're the best to look Like heroes, even though we're just men, We're the smartest, we're the fastest-- We're the makers, inventors, builders Of the navies, the armies, the styles Of the cities, the machinery That will make or rebuild a world. We'll fight for our land and its form As for the future of the race; For the prosperity of man, For the peace of earth and the world. We're the help and the pride of our nation, We shall be the wonder and end Of our nation, and our race and its fame In the worlds that have never known defeat. We are men, we are bound to fail and bleed, But the flame of our soul is the same; The wonder of God is our fate; It is the test of our worth and worth. The bow of our destiny is tiptoe, And the smiles of our destiny so rare, Like the smile of a queen, That the test of our worth and worth is nought, The test of our worth is the crown of our fate. In the land of the dead Where the mighty and the good are buried, We have brought the sternest spirits of battle Back from the grave With the earth that was their mother, to prove The might of the warrior, and the glory Of the immortal. In the land of the dead Where the spirits of those who have tamed the flame Sleep with their brethren, we have brought the youth Whom the armies of man could not contain, Back from the goal, With the earth that was his mother, to prove The might of the warrior, and the glory Of the immortal. In the land of the dead Where the wisdom of old nations lie, And the dreams of the prophets wave wide With their shade, From the shadowy sward that a rivers rolls We have brought the girl who could walk with the wind, Back from the goal, With the earth that was her mother, to prove The might of the warrior, and the glory Of the immortal. In the land of the dead Where the spirit of all ages hath swayed To the path of the seeker, we have brought thee here With the earth that was thine infant guide, Back from the goal, With the truth that is deathless to bind thee, and The might of the warrior, to prove The might of the warrior, and the valour That is deathless. We have gathered them here in one place for two Cannot be emphasised too strongly, If we will but live in our twentieth century. The twentieth is a perfect century. And if we will but live in it, The search for truth is a noble pursuit. It is noble because it is necessary. It is necessary because it seeks to understand A primal mystery, And by so doing learns to expand man's realm Beyond the grasp of ancients, And to build a nobler future on more firm foundation, The dead come with the living to Montmartre, The dead are with us, in spite of fear, And the living are with us who have died, And the dying wait till their dead mates are in. The living and the dead who make up one nation Of pilgrims who cross Montmartre for prayers, The living are in their times of trial And the dead are in theirs, and a nation is born On this grand pilgrimage. This is the silent and intimate partner Of our drama, this is the invisible hand That guides the machinery of a nation. The invisible hand that no man foresees, And no man understands. It is this nation that builds the world, And this is its secret hour of triumph. It is this nation that whirls the world about it In the orbits of the hour. It is this nation that stirs the world to life, And feeds its breast with warm life, And feeds it with the agony of death. And feeds it with the live tragedy of France. It is this nation that borrows the form of life From the soul of man to forge anew The sword to pierce the world. It is this nation that grows old in dualistic rites Of asceticism and materialism; But this nation will not grow old in these. It is to this nation that the mystery And the sense of mystery belong. It is through this that the moral moral universe Is expanded and born. It is through this that the world is won. And only in this can man discover The perfection of his soul. This is the secret that only this nation knows. And only to this can man attain perfection. Only to this can the heroic heights of life Rise to the desire of man. Only to this can the moral moral universe Be realised as a perfection. Oh, the French drama of the early moon! How our minds were stirred by your fair visions! How we rejoiced that a new world had dawned, And that the old order was breaking down! How we feared that a new world was in the making, And that it would be darkness, or chaos! How we feared the ideal; the ideal That was the constant of our hopes and fears! How the fear of the ideal was the source Of the gloom of our life; the constant fear Of a world descending into hell; The world descending into infinite night. The world descending into a dark abode Where the spirit was no longer sure Where the light and the darkness were located; And the spirit was in doubt whether It was day or night; whether this life Were a part of the world of the spirit, Or a separate existence; whether The gleam of the sword or the ghastliness Of the grave; the spirit was in doubt Even as Clarence aimed his axe at Haworth. As Percy of Canterbury was chosen From among the twelve men that had shot the tigers, From among the twelve men that had slain a cork, To lead the effort to rescue the soul From the body of Calvary, And, as he marched off to the work of the Lord, Did he feel the burdens that he carried? Did he ever look upon the face of the Lord? It is the end of the year and the dawning of the day. The odours of the bush and the smoke of the wood, The song of the bird and the wail of the pauper, The dust of the road, the heat, the darkness, The dew on the grass, the fear of the hour, The light of the sky, the coolness of the air, The darkness of Mecatl, the darkness of night, Are scattered far and wide through the woodland. Loud and frequent from the east and the west Comes the sound of the mountain, the sound of the sea. Lo! the smoke of the bush rises far and wide, And the sun of the world comes forth to rest In the bosom of the silent wood. Lo! the sounds of the bush echo again, And the song of the bird is heard in the cry Of the pauper strayed on the desert road. The shadows of evening are deep on the hill; The moon is on the stream, and the chameleon sleeps On the stone that breaks the glittering water's ray. The golden orb of the morning enters in, And like a flame on the mountain it rises up. The winds are blown back, and the clouds are scattered, As though they were stones and the earth were a stone, And the mountain is deified by the wind that awakes it; And the chameleon takes refuge in the stone, For it knows how to change its texture of gray To the flash of a tawny green, and the speck of a blue. The little iron men are digging holes, And making war with the world, they say. Now that they have burned the forest and slaughtered the beasts, They say, indeed, that man was born. But God says: If you are not the lord of the Earth What are you? They answer: "The clay we are shall rot." And that is their answer to that cry of "A State!"-- That high-hushed cry that startled the sleepy world When, with his brows upon the peak of the pyramid, King Iron declared: "We shall be lords indeed When we have built the pyramid towards the sun." And that is the old world's answer to that cry: "The poor are poor, and none shall deny them bread Until he own as do the rich our earth." Where is the grave of the birth of the earth? <|endoftext|> To hell and darkness all the phantom throng. The flames I could not see, but from afar I heard their maniac ravings; well I knew That these were ruffians, whose presence there Would not have pleased a slave, more than a king. For to such scenes and such commands I was sent, The slaughter to renew and finish now. This hunting I continued, thus the whole Day long, when the moon's bright orb was pale. Now here, now there, I shot my lance, now I ran, And now I leapt, and oft I twined in my hand A unhallowed lance, which on the ground I left. While thus with hindranceless course I pursued The retreating band, I met with one who hied Toward me as an old and master-like man. He bade me tell who thou wast; and I began, As one who well had learnt my story. "This band," said he, "was of the noblest kind, Led by a valiant lord, who, well assured Of victory, here long time had not remained. I know him well, and to his foster-bed Brought by my kind master when his skill Gave him the first victories here to win." And at those words the wretched hunter made A full and manifest answer. "Your praise Is just; for never did thy skill or force Grow with the times, as that same knight had won Victories in the new chivalry. To you, That now are silent, thanks are due alone, That now ye know how well your counsel helped." While yet he spake, another then replied, And said, "Master, I heard everything; But that so many might have been made," he said, "Laid aside, I thought; and to the rest require That on no petty pretexts they should cease From coming. Now for the tree." With legs straight And feet well bent, he suddenly went round And seized the trident. From his side it fell As falls a feather from the pin by which it was fastened. Then all the spirits, to whom this seat was assigned, Rested thepany the trident in its use well-nigh forgot; And, with full hands thanking God, they gave thanks again. Thenceforth the old man's glory of that change was shown, As he, seated in his chair of state, the debated fray joined. Then, from that place or spirit's rest as it might be, The man who was his son (his name was Merlin) A little space returned; and to the court retired Of King Arthur, who, when he saw him, well it twangled That he, who was the most proud of all the knights, And most abhorred, had come so low, and made so free. For, after much questioning, either had been won To grant that here below in all the countries through Was not another Arthur. And the King praised him And said, "Well did ye him summon; well these six Great knights, ye hast seen in your journey here this day Ride up and down these halls, as ye have seen the chimes Toll for themselves." And Arthur, when he heard the sound Of those great sounding feet, knew that they were his. Then cried out Merlin, "It is the great King! Arise, Sir King, and see the mighty work of him That ye have seen; and ye shall see the scope Of his emprise; for great is his emprise, Great Art and great God! Behold the thing for which He long hath waited, and for which the world Was fashioned; for, with precious things empoisoned, The souls of men, his energy to heal impell'd, Is passing away." "Art thou the King?" He said, "and know'st thou not the wonders thathere are wrought? A man shall loose you hence, the vile that ye are, The mean that ye are, that ye be here below In bonds of misery, that ye pass sorrowful To death, and ye shall rise again, your dust In wondrous pattern found out, and it shall serve As a pattern to create others like to you, And ye shall lie in everlasting peace, not fearing Death, nor fearing aught but tedious age, Loathing, and mirthe, and the losel life, For as he is your soul, so shall he be the soul Of all that ye are." Then King Arthur said, "Art thou the traitor there? The son of him that all men deemed the mightiest Of all that dwell upon the face of all that live, Arraignest him, the mightiest being on earth, That men must needs call ye from this place, The son of him that doth all men hold so dear As all men live upon the face of all that live, Arraignest him, whose name fills the tongues of men As water fills the rivers? Lo, thou art one That can perform no treachery, and would'st that I Had believed the words of Malcolm, the fool, That vouched the truth of all his tale." "Knowest thou not," said Merlin, "the old legend, The song of Liadi, how she went to seek Her husband that had been lost, the mighty king Doom'd for many ages to dwell in gloom of heaven Lifeless, till one of mightiest men that was, An ancient prophet, came and fell on him, And in his delight abjured him, and chose For manly love a beautiful and weak Weakling that in stature was less than he, And love exceeding in folly's excess. And, therefore, when the old man knew that she Had chosen the young man, which men deem'd not fit, Since she was older, loathsome in the sight Of him that was, yet were they fain of her To share her house with, he sought the woman Ere she had borne her time, and in the sleep Of night about her head was laid To quicken her, and cause her blood to bled As ye might see. Her young son, behold! Was lurking in a high place, and her name Was Lycormas, which was a hard word for him To hear, for he was wont to call his mother By her proper name. And she had once in early youth Been unfaithful to her husband, who were gods. And that was why the old man thought her hard; But she believed him, being a weak old man, And him indulging what he held of little worth. And he was kindled to a more serious mood By this; and he sent her forth with these words, 'Go, lady, where I shall allow thee; and mark That none, while thou art within this country, take The sacred name of her that was thy wife, Lest they should do her wrong: and thou shalt hear And know my words and counsel, and consider How thou shalt save thyself, and work their release.' And she went, being delighted, and she heard Of Malcolm and his wisdom. And then the man Drew down a great black tree, and with it built A great cot beside it; and he wrought it well, And of a truth it was sufficient; and she heard The counsel of him that had been to her A coachmaker, and were of one mind. And ever since the cot stood there, at the gate They saw the lambs in many a fair bright fold. So when they were come to the city of stones, And more desolate than any city, there They saw a sitting lady on a stone, Whereby they saw the sunlight, and they heard Her voice, which was to them a great wonder. And ever she turned her eyes to the east Towards the long dry silver strips of sea, And ever to the sunset; and so seemed To brood and watch, and make her own an island Of green that was all with sunburnt yellow, And all with emeralds set, and pendants of gold Gleaming through all, and jewels bleeding through, The green stones whereon she sate. And ever as she did so behold That which was her, she murmured, "Oh, what bliss A woman has to hear her voice, and not To feel a woman's heart burn and thrill In a deep breath of love!" And ever as she so did, she said, "If I were a man, that I might kiss Her lovely face that looks to the east, And not feel as if a man's hands were stifling A lightning of desire to cool and melt Upon her eyes, my heart would go out Within mine eyes for sheer elation, And go in flood through every joint and vein, And leave a night of ecstasy beneath, <|endoftext|> "Why does our youth fly away, When yet with seasons pass'd they are? What madness drives them from the hame, They soon with parents' joy will greet? Unpitying parent never wails When children come home; they too return, They have no homes but where they live." On the farm, in autumn's gloom, I heard the heifer moaning; Through the silent days I wandered, Searching o'er all the woodland. She at evening came to feed Where her den the ferny ford scrolls, Where the wither'd asters shine On the boulders grey; And with lambs and kid I fed, And at eve I went with her To the green-hill country. In the grey of morn I heard her Winding streams of melody, Where the woodlands faint before With a sweet tension swell; Where first I loved, in sleep, Sweet Sylvia's liquid tone, To the woodside's holy psalm. On the hillside's flowery shoulder I beheld her first, when Her light foot landed softly Where the rushes watchful block All entrance; and she seemed Like a little fairy-queen, Girdled with green sunshine. The wild-flowers saw her not, The wild birds, scarce ev'n to greet Their mate, or thistle-bred, or hawk, Might dare her path to tread; And not e'en a breezy hour Saved me to see her bow, And her white tresses blend, as they'd sink Down a vast cascade. One dark morning, when the west Was yet seerless with the sun, I followed where she led By the light of the trembling moon To a green, lone path, where all The flowers were dead. Over the frosted snow I followed where she led, When I saw where she had left The flowers, and where she came Returning. Soft, white limbs Came swooning by, and then Moved upon a body white As the corpse's. As I bent To touch her, I saw that it Was the form I had watched Far away. The light was dead, And it slept, and was cold. She was cold, and she was still, And the dew was coming down. I awoke, and saw beneath Her bed a pool of rain. 'Tis the night of sorrow, and I come To weep at thy sad fate. Dost thou Not see, when I arise and leave Thy halls, how the heaven's bright frames, Under the starlight of thy face, Sleep under the shield of my despair? Ah, it were best if thou couldst know How the heavy shades would fall On thy beauty, and my stars, too, O LOVELY SOUL, ere they give me light To gaze on thee in thy sad tomb! My soul has fled from love, my face is pale, My heart is torn with grief. When, at night, I see thy dead, it seems to me That the great sun with all his ray Is bent in slumber on the horizon's brim, And I alone am left to watch and weep. My mistress came in sight of me, She beckoned to me; in the light She shone like glowing iron. Ah, then, I felt a joy in beauty, and My beauty felt back the joy. Her hands Were on my forehead. My blood ran cool With the coolness of her touch. We walked In the gloaming, and I saw her smile. Her fingers, red at the rings, she pressed Against my temples, and I heard her breathe In the stillness like the blowing of fountains. My blood flew up to my face, and I raised My head, and saw her place her hand before My face, and kiss it. Her eyes were full Of fathomless grief. My heart was sick. I saw her lips were thin, and wan. The crimson of the crescent ran her throat Down, and her limbs were lean and wan. I turned to her, but could not speak. I saw her hands were bare. Ah, then, The most to me thou artless maid, That, not half smiling in thy grace, Thy feet were bare! My soul was faint With longing for the forbidden fruit. I lay and sobbed, and saw her robe Slant, down from her waist, a quiet slope Of darkness, till it reached the feet. Then I heard her step, and saw her stand With slender, supple arm and hand, And kind, firm eyes of burnished gold. I took her hand and held it, while My whole soul felt throbbing there. The music Of her tongue, low-murmuring like a dove, Fill'd all the dark. With hands all bare And burning eyes, she stood before me. 'Thou art weary, Love,' she said. 'I am so weary of our life.' 'But surely, I pray, my soul is grown Sullen, since she knows no other rest But death, if so it will have her end.' 'All day I have watched thee, Love,' she said. 'And Love cannot watch all day, or all night, Though he watch longest; for the night comes in, And wakes a mortal soul that is not built For ease, nor knows how to find it again Among the sleep that folds it. Thou art thrown Upon thyself. I have no ease for thee, But I will give thee my heart from day to day And see how thou wilt wear it.' I rose and found the moon. 'Love, Love!' she said. 'I will see thee no more till doomsday. This Is the last time. Thou must know my heart.' 'My heart from thee, not mine.' 'My only comfort, And the only thing that keeps me from a pang When thy heart goes.' 'It must be thy heart,' I said, 'by the will of God, mine after love, And the angel who close beside me, in the cold Of some eternal room.' 'No more, my Love, Love,' she said, 'no more. Let us part, for the moon Has risen, and the shadows are thick. Go.' She vanished with a smile. I heard the sound Of a slow ride, and an answering smile, and saw Her white, divine form disappear, and the clang Of a merry laugh, and the dropping of her veil, And the opening of a fair, bright door, and heard, Far off, the sound of a footstep on the floor, And, lo! the angel of my love standing there! And I found my soul! I saw its wounds, and knew The scars that my proud heart ever inflicted On the soul of love, and how slow, how bitter, Was the passing of that love back from mine To hers, and how sweet the heavenward leap Of confidence and hope, when that heart Was uplifted and filled with the force Of the sweet morning breeze, and I could say Unto the stars, who loved me best, 'I am Love! I am Love!' 'Where art thou, Sweet Heart?' 'Iartoo down.' 'Art no steward, then, of the soul?' 'Aye, sir.' 'What has that soul got to do with it?' 'Aye, sir.' 'Why, pray, what's the matter?' 'No steward?' 'Ay, sir, ay, sir. 'But an angel, sir.' 'But how?' 'I'll teach yer, an' I. 'I'm wild about the heart of the thing, Love, It will surely pass to seem more hard By and by, if it is not made softer. Come, let's part for the day, Sweetheart, side by side, And we will go, for the day, hand in hand. It is no steward, Sweetheart, so it seems; Love can never be so when it comes to me.' Where dwell thy possessions? Where build thy country? Where in the earth doth thy treasure dwell? To whom does it belong? And to what end? What are thy treasures? What are thy country's rights? What is thy heart's desire? What means thy sermon? What wouldst thou say? 'My treasures? Mine country? My heart's desire? To whom does it belong? And to what end? Is thine only banner? Canst thou be chief Of no people but thyself? Canst thou be lord Of lands and houses, of mills and temples? <|endoftext|> Tremendous noise was heard afar, The awful clang of many arms. The Armenian chief, with full delight, Rejoiced in the joyous day; Forth from his squadron sprang, with delight, The King of Parthia's king. "Hail," said he, "heroic Sire, "Thy soldiers swiftly come and go, "Worthy be thy commands; "Here from the forest thou hast gone, "The Bulgar's fleet is here. "But let me go, yet first let me say, "O Sire, a-since thou hast spoken say, "How may I best comply? "One night here would I hide me small, "And no adventuring here, but nigh "To the sea-shore would I go, "And wait the dawning of thy joy. "Great gifts are thine to give, so say, "To honour my renown, "And should I bravely bravely do "Thy bidding yet, "O Sire, 'tis well deserved." Then thus the King his son addressed: "It shall be as thou say'st." On the Greekish camp they made their stand, Beneath their towers; great was the shout And tumult of the battling men. To brave Pisander first they came, And at his ready throat they thrust A mighty spear; the metal quick Struck and turned it free; no force it shook, But in his hand it quivered still. He thrust it in his bosom through, And that well-wrought armor did rend As though it were of tin or lead. The day of battle drew nigh, so drew The field of war to all the host. Then had Pisander great Antiphon The fair-haired maiden of the home Of Saint Matins dragged before the foe, And spun about their shoulders her threads. The knights and lords were terrified for shame, When lo, a bull, so huge, so great, so bad, So fierce, so terrible and so black, With horns down to his burning feet, From off his mighty horn cried "trembling" word And wiped the dust from off his noble head, As he the humble lamb did feel. That done they hurried from the place, as fled The fearful shapes that, late, were nigh the place. On earth the bloody drops from every side Came trickling fast, as bid the soul go free; Each knight there lurked fearful, for he saw The horn was broken, and the maid so nigh. A terrible face then gleamed in front, That splashed the foaming stream with gray: It looked, "Shame on thee, ye knights so brave, "That dare this deed; "For ye behold, before thee stand, "As naked as the angels, those "Who dare dishonor sweet Saint Matins. "But let us leave them now awhile, "For other business is a-do, "And other hopes they have than this; "And let us all befit us well "In hope the coming day to see. "For were Saint Matins now oppressed "By any other thing than fit, "She should be forced to quit the horn, "And all her goodly work should be "Turned to no shame, so hateful is "That sin unto heavenly minds. "Come, come, my lords," said she, "be cool; "When time calls, I will return; "Yet see that ye do nothing reckless, "Nor dare that horn to play. "Be wiser far than I, and none "Of you make wand'ring hither be; "For I see one of great fame "Would be offended sore, and rave "I'll be revenged, though in vain." She bid them pause, and close within The wicket fast they did retire. And when, again, her silver voice Came o'er the ridge, with dismay Each knight in swift career and flight Had gone where none had watched, so fleet And still. Then all her beauty bore her thence, That shining glory, forth to skies Where glory is not seen again, And her sweet face she doth set In sleep's sweet gloom, and down the steep She passes to the silent town, Where all her holy company Of angels, singing still, abide. All mourned that knight; they felt him far From any hope of life again. They rent their mantles down, and their White samites they upon the ground, And, so they mourned, away they sped, And in a solemn train along The fields and through the streets they went, The knight with them, weeping sore. Where will he fare, this wandering knight, No road will he consider; He joys to roam through woodland shades, And, when the moon is bright, to bed, In narrow dark abysses, or cells That scarce a glance awakes, or rill That thro' the slumbering pool beats still, Lamenting his lost glory days, Lamenting his long lost joy, Heard o'er and o'er again. As the wind sighs through the summer woods His melancholy will he sweep, Singing through groves of gray eclipse His love, the golden likeness Of light, his sorrow, lamenting; He will not see the silver beams Break through the purple West's late gold. He will not feel the sun's return Rise slow thro' heaven's sunken haze, And look again on English vales, English fields, and town and sea. Woe to the hill that glitters now With glittering golden light; Woe to the hill, and all the vale That makes a woman's laughter blind! And where the flowers are sweet to see, Heaven's light shall shine on thee no more; The bloom is wane on every hill And all the world is writing oh, The world is revolving still. What will the young knight do, you ask? To seek for glory, and be taught The ways of chivalry and prize? What will he do, you ask in vain, But laugh and quaff until he dies? Oh, why should the young knight do more Than sit by a feasting board? Than sport with a fair? If on a throne he were to gain, And, crowning his brow, were to wear The orb and crown of royal state, Ah, but the life was bright and fair That in a royal's few days must be. Yet would it not be much to have The sweet, sweet touch of love's sweet part, The kiss of lips and locks of hair, The kiss of woman's beauty rare, To make the life of a king, And make the reign of a poet, too! When I would sing of Saint Hilda, Of Saint Hilda who died here, Her paragon good works and fame I sing, and all her holiness, That this saintly house should owe its birth To her who flitted here from heaven. Her word the Wind's soft voice hath blown From babbling pasture-fields afar, And blent with her soft words the lark Rocks tend rills among, That ever valley-ward are seen Flinging their young heads o'er the rafter, The purple cones o'er the paths they bear O'er valley and field are shone; The dew is wet on every flower that is, The spray is dry on every spray; And, nestling down the dewy sward, The little birds have heard her song, And, flitting at all times of the day, A note is in the hidden dawn, And on the downy wing they rise, And start from shelter, hailing at their heads The Lady of the Lake below, Who bares her lovely bosom to the moon. Her word the sound of the sea doth know, And send her voice to ring along the shore Of many seas, and yet her sacred name Aweighs down the loud surges, yea and flies Somewhere far calling for her on high, From whence she never stirreth, nevermore, A star in heaven or earth, and forevermore A star in heaven or earth alone. A ship her flag unfurled on the deep Gleamed from the sunset far away, And this is what the Lady said then: "Ship of my dream, Sail on! sail on! Dreaming is all that can be thine, And life is all that thou canst give." There was a mother and a son, And she said, "O son, When death shall take my life, Thy body, laid with me, Thou wilt give it to my son." <|endoftext|> And now and then a gay and merry word Would pass between them, which the poor boy Was not a little proud of; For what can bring in summer time The gay and holidaylike Summer time, But talking of good eating, And singing of birds, and dancing, And reflecting upon the day, And reading of the news of the town, And watering of the garden-plants? But soon his nimble fancy tired Of such easy thoughts as these, So to the cellar he went To fetch him some sad thoughts, Which he there stored away Till he found them just the thing That at a given signal Gave them wings and sped away To nestle in his very soul, Binding him fast in mystery. But see, the mother is come home, And knows not what the little one Is doing in her garden. She goes a little on the other hand, She knows not what the little one is doing, For shes bent to come upon him And knows not that she needs must comfort him. "I have heard," quoth she, "that in this garden There is a rock so high, That none can climb it except a priest Or some great man-like man, To bless the plant because it is the Lord's. And I've thought, my dear, I would go and see If I might pray that ye might go And come unto Me, I pray you come unto Me, for I know How strait your thoughts are set, And that you think much of things below, And much of things incredible. I know you think of things of Me, And things that I have done, Things that I have done and will do For all My people, both great and small; For you and for your seed. "For I am Me, you say, But greater than you know, And you may not know what I am, Or know of Me fully. I am Me, and greater than you know, And I dwell in you and will not be put away; I hear and I heed, And I know and I know not. "But I have thoughts that are wise, And right and wise; And they are not high and fierce Like your created thoughts. And they are not blind like your created eyes, Nor yet for food are blind, But they lead a life that is clear and bright, And they lead it wherever I shall lead it. "But they are not alone In their life, for I am one With them, and join with them; And to your created mind I am like a thought that is wise, That is not high and fierce, And I am a light to your awakened mind, And hold it to the end. "Ye know not Me, but I know you; I know what you do, And I know what you will do. Ye know not Me, but I know all; And I shall know all things for you, What you shall ask, and I shall give it. For I dwell in your midst, And I hold you fast in My hand. And I shall not let you go." Then she went to the garden, And she sat upon the bench, And she bowed her head Unto the set of the sun, And she cried aloud, "Father, I am grown A set thing of his hand. I never more may be A garden set with inscriptions, But I shall set you flowers And set you fountains And set you trees and flowers, And I shall hold you fast. "I shall never more be A set thing of his hand, But I shall hold you fast, And no one shall be able To take you from my hand, To set you in your place; And your children, grown old, And gray, and sordid, And of every thought wild, Shall be at last "And when I am dead, I shall not care, But for some little while Shall mourn and weep, As long as I am able, And nothing see; And when I am dead, I shall not care." "And it may be, dear Father, That he, your new-made man, Who is to be your head, Who is to be your guide, Who is to be your friend, With your eyes shall guide him, And with your voice shall teach him, And in his heart shall trust you; "And he shall build a house And rear it with his hands, And shall plant and employ In it a vineyard-trees, And a grafted olive-tree, And a water-vine for wine, And a basket-tree for poultry; "And shall set it in a place Of some great convenience, And it shall be a pleasure For the Blessed of the earth, And it shall be a pleasure For all the people of it, And all the people of the earth." "Mother, it is the glorious truth, And yet I dare not speak it. Mother, it is a glorious truth, And it shall be my exalted joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever. "But it shall be a joy to me Not to be able to speak it, Not to be able to speak it, Not to be able to speak it; For the golden tongue of the mystic world Shall sing it over the nations, Shall sing it over the forests, And the mountains, and the fields of corn." "Mother, it is the glorious truth, And it shall be my exalted joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever; It shall be my glorious joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever." "Mother, it is the glorious truth, And it shall be my exalted joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever; It shall be my glorious joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever." "Mother, it is the glorious truth, And it shall be my exalted joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever; It shall be my glorious joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever." "Mother, it is the glorious truth, And it shall be my exalted joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever; It shall be my glorious joy, And my exalted joy shall be For ever and ever for ever." Kolob, the golden, who meditates On the first of three decrees, The will of the mighty Father In the cradle laid him, And the sacred Pearl of great price He must gain for evermore,-- Kolob, the golden, the marvel To all the nations, and the wonder To the waters of the world. From his eyes the tears were falling, As from weeping eyelids, And his little chest was shaking, As from shaking heart and limbs, Till the Moon, beholding him, Gave a mighty cry and moan, And the stars, beholding him, Nursed in silence deep and slow, And the Gentle Wind began To sigh for anguish, and the Sun Began to tremble, and the angels Wandered through heaven wondering, For they knew that Kolob, the golden, Had been born to earth, and wondered What his thoughts might be. Said the Messenger, what are they? "Tears, and blood, and laughter," Said the Angel, "but we know." Said the Angel, "tears, and blood, And the laughter of angels, But we know." And the Angel of Darkness, Who had heard their speculations, Broke the very seal of Heaven, And scattered deep the golden seal Which they could not decipher-- For the Machine that returns the stolen treasure Does exactly as it was before, And the gold is taken from out of the vault And the silver goes to keep. And the black messenger vailed his hands, And bowed his head, and wept as he departed, And Kolob, the golden, was striking his heel, And the glittering vault of heaven rocked and swung, And a great earthquake rocked the walls of Paradise, And the Gods, beholding it, began to weep, And Kolob, the golden, was walking and looking, And the glittering vault of heaven rocked and swung, And the Gods began to weep and exclaim, For the fault of words, and not for any deeds, For the fault of deeds the blame must be theirs, For the fault of dreaming, not for acts unacted, For the fault of expectation, not for acts failed, For the fault of delusion, not for facts unknown, <|endoftext|> O once in a vision, O once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'T is some visitor," I muttered, "t is some visitor eager to know what there is worth here; or, maybe, to gain some mystery of the most profound; so, tapping again, it went on to say: "Who art thou? for the, errand of some friendly spirits on the way, And of our royalty; and may I wish what may be useful or useful to thee?" "'T is the Duke's messenger," I said, "nor could I possibly refuse; though 't is a little singular, that when 't is a little singular, one must take the stranger in the streets for a beggar, just to learn 't a little more." "'T is the Duke's messenger," repeated he, "and, as Ithaegaire says, 't is not out of hand with me to give a name to the thing that I do; but, as you will see, it would but be a trifle to mention one's name after being secretly seen by the world as the thing one does. So 't is but a stranger; yet I have great respect for the man, whoever he may be; for I know no man in the world whom I like better. 'T is not the seeking that I am uneasy about, though that may be expected from a nation, which is wanting in all seeking, but the kindness, as it is affection is shown; for I have seen no kindlier man on any kindlier terms with any kindlier woman than the Duke and his lady have been. In the first place, no thought of ill was their own; but I have heard of houses where the inmates saw no one afterwards, and even of those where they saw someone they had heard of a certain traitor who was suddenly pierced to the heart and killed, and where he fell, as it were, dead into the hands of his stranger; but never about these houses did I ever hear that stranger or his lady do anything that is untrue or suspicious. But about the Duke and his lady do I wish to speak in a general way. he wished in his heart to see him swiftly put to death, and spent his life in quibbling and in lingering over every word. There was no chance for delay. When they had got as far as Cuxapane, the virgin of whom I made mention, all the rest of the plot, the conspirators and their wives, had fallen into the hands of the Vedran king; and it was the purpose of the Duke to make for his empire, and then to march upon the city and burn it, and convert the inhabitants to Christianity; but these also were swift said Duke Nectanebo, "you must surely have the worst destiny that can befall a man. Why are you not glad, my good scholars, to know that we shall conquer the world? You have already made up your mind to be our leader; nay, the more lives we lose the better. This is the reason why I am wasting my time and theirs in quibbling about a beard." Thus, then, when at last they had finished their task, and the poor, hopeless men were wasting life in the Dark Ages, Manileo was left a ransomed, or professed, man. He had already, by the force of his character, composed for himself ten thousand evil days. The first two years of his life were, for him, the most productive. The rest of his career, like the remainder of the world, was but nervous blunder and waste. mankind; to their chances no temptation is greater. Life is but waste, and all waste; but, if one can find one great tragedy, and ride upon that tragedy to a high issue, then life is royal, and chance is no more; the fortune which is founded in God, and cannot fall too far, but soards its use effectual and fair. But, as a man's understanding may be acute or imperfect, yet he can but guess at the mystery of Providence, and the destiny of his race; for the rest there is nothing but the host of visible and palpable isles, the clusters of cloudy stars in the midnight sky, the calm of the fair seas, and the green beauties of the earth, to divert his thoughts. The first two years of the man's life were his pampered life, and he had plenty to eat and to drink. The third year, he had something, but not enough to eat or to drink. And the four years' life was but a long gestation, and a little child was born in the fifth year, who was never allowed to grow up, because the coarser people of that time would not allow a child to be born who might later take the life of the father. The garden of Manileo, With its orchard, and its fields of corn, With its meadows, and its river, and its mills, With its houses high and its wealth of lands, And its schools, and its fair castles gay, Is a picture in the Month of June, And the Month of June is known for the Roses, And the Knights of Malta, And the Rose of Gloire; All the flowers that are bright and red And the blossom that falls in the wreaths In the Month of June, All the leaves that are golden and green In the Month of June, All the songs that are sung in the Air In the Month of June, And the whistling of the Wind in the Trees In the Month of June, And the gliding of the Streams of Water In the Month of June. All the paths in the garden were marred By the falling of a single leaf; And the fountains, in their mirth, were stopped By the falling of a single crystal From the sky,-- The crystal of June. The pool was touched by the gleam of a beam That rested upon it for a moment's space And vanished away; And the marble pavement felt the stroke Of a hand that was lifted and withdrawn, And faded and faded; And the fair stone inscription was torn And defaced. All the doors of the inn were open sat, And the cool breezes of the night came in Like the breath of the west wind, bringing of fish A ray that was bright; And the fish leaped on the flesh of the bait, And the bait leaped on their mouths, And they smiled at each other and smiled, And the bait leaped at the bait. All the doors stood wide ajar, and the cool Breezes of the night came out of the west, And the flies in the air were fair, And the flies in the air were touched with fire, And the flies that were fair were struck with fire, And the fair ones that were touched with fire Flied to the ground. And the fly that touched with its wings the heel Of the fair one who stood at the upright And came down at the curve of the heel And stood in the air a moment And flapped its wings in the air; And the Fly,--but the charm was too great, The charm was too strong, The charm was too divine for the earth or the sea, The earth and the sea were overcome. And the charm was too great for the earth or the sea, And the charm was too strong for the earth or the sea, But it overcame time, which is of the core And the charm was too strong for the core of the earth, And the charm was too strong for the core of the sea, And the charm was too strong for the air, And the charm was too weak for the moon, But it overcame pity, Which is of the soul and the charm was too strong For the soul of the moon, And the charm was too weak for the mercy of man, And the charm was too weak for the man who was breaking his heart. Come, let us build a fairy-house, Though it be only of clay, And let it be of kindness Built of brick of. terra-cotta; And let it have no window, For though you could build it, 'T would not be fairy-like. Come, let us build a fairy-house, Though it be only of clay, And let it have no window, For though you could build it, 'T would not be fairy-like. The house is builded, we see its Dragon front and castle keep; The fire is fed by the Sun and the wind that <|endoftext|> I work. I see the wisps and heave of damp, The steam rising from my hair, the smell Of ink, of paper. My printer's dead, Or so he says. He paints with a ferret Tail, and I hear the clatter of its wheels. He is an idiot, who thinks to make A woman of a thing like that. I hear A great deal more. And much of nothing. And I wonder at the dreams they lead Their subjects to. Mine have a beginning And end, and many persons, things and thoughts Which do not belong to me. I've heard a man say that he never slept, But sat all night in his front yard, alone, Observing the traffic and the lights of cars, The men and women driving and walking, The signals from sign-boards, and keeping book Of who comes and goes. He thinks this gives him An insight into human life. I think He's a shrewd man, with narrow life to focus At a magnifying glass. He must be proud Of this one manly occupation. I love the turn of white-suited mornings When the first child goes to school. It is then I dream of darknesses I know so well, Of the lost days and how they will be found, Like a lost garden. I love the change of light, Of twilight, when the sunset's lucent sheen Has almost made darkness sweet. I wait Till the dim day is done, and under the same Pure sky, another day is born. I am an outcast from my home, I have no friends, I have no brothers, I have no sisters, I have no sons. My mind's like a broken trowel That's full of ruins of the years long gone, And I go to the same place at night And look upon the same things. It's curious how a change of clothes Or a change of room, Or a change of visitors, Or a change of diet, Or a change of time, Or a change of view, Will cause to remember those who were A part of our lives long gone. I remember him in his fur-robe coat And boots, He came and stood in the door, The dreary Winter morning was near, His white whiskers were a sight to see, He asked my Betty had she been well And how her little boy was doing? I remember him in his fur-robe coat And muffler, I remember his way of speaking low, I remember the way of walking too, I remember the present he would give If she'd stick with him. She tried to choose her little boy's bones By shape and size, She worked so hard, She picked the cleft in his chin, And kissed him all over. She prayed the Lord would make him tall, And strong, And just, And don't let her have her little boy. She tried to make him gentle, She worked so hard, She set his teeth, And kissed him all over. She prayed the Lord would make him smart With money when she'd bring him home, And clean, And don't let her have her little boy. She tried to make him brave, She worked so hard, She prayed the Lord would make him wise, And know to pay. She prayed the Lord would make him good In duty and deed, And don't let her have her little boy. The Lord let her have her little boy, And now she's standing all alone In the wide world, And tired, And don't know what to do with her. For God has marked her, And won't take her from him. It is but praise to God that's taken her, For in His place Are friends of hers, And loving ones, And full of patience to bear her grief. She has no fear Of ever losing him. God's purpose was to make her strong, And joy in sin, And help her bear The weariness and the care That always seem to her with Him. She has no fear Of ever losing him. I dreamt that in the lonely shipwrecked years I lay on a hospital bed, With painful wounds of love Scarred and torn, and much of loss; Then I saw two women, one white, One brown, Whose faces pressed against me, Their hands to me motionless. I looked into their faces, And saw love and woe. I saw that they too were weary; I looked into their eyes, And saw that they too were tears. I heard their hands that clung to my hands, And I knew that their pain with their was the same. I listened, I dreamed, I saw, And knew, beyond a doubt, That what makes us weaker in the end Is what makes our strength so strong in the beginning. <|endoftext|> Hail to the Poet When the glittering urn of Fame Shall be but dimmed and dimmed And dimmed and dimmed again Till eventually It will be dimmed and dimmed And then some more; And then, When the shadowy shade of Fame Hangs over him as a pall, And the dark grave that he sleeps Will be cursed with public scorn And the mocking cries of "Pitch-Tor-NEE-uh!" Hail to the Poet When he sails on the stream of Time Through the unknown Regions of the Past; While the echoes of his laughter In the air are fainter and fainter; While the echoes of his sorrow Are a Voice that we hear not. Hail to the Poet That his laughter is heard not, And his sorrow is heard not, And the laugh of the summers be heard not In the land of the dead and the lost; And the grave where he sleeps with fame Will be guarded by the scorn of men; And the mockers and blasphemers will guard The mockery of his mockery; And the laughter of children be heard not In the land where no joy is heard. Hail to the Poet Whose laughter is heard not, And his sorrow is heard not, And the mockers and blasphemers will guard The mockery of his mockery; And the laughter of children be heard not In the land where no joy is heard. "And so," thought she, "the dream goes on Until it comes to me-- That I'll be dead, and so, no more The Poet will be singing; And the sorrow of songs will be gone, And my music too, When I've long been dead, and so Silent, and forgotten, and cold, The stars will find me." So she put her quill to the page Where the Poet had written "And so," And, much too musing, She touched and changed the chord-- 'Twas better. But, in all her musing, She heard a laughter--a laughter, A laughter, too, That seemed to carry her dreams on errand Back to the days of Summer, When she first touched the song-string-- Out from the woods, in the morning, Came the Wooden Man; Out of the woods, in the morning, Peace, his hands together clasped, Gentle, and kind, and kinder than those Who smile in homes of the bourgeoisie. "Well," said the Wooden Man, "Well, ma'm, it looks as if things Wouldn't be changing much; Things are as they were before. But things are looking brighter And the future more sublime Than they appear to the bourgeoisie. "Here's the best thing of all: I'm richer by an hundred Full many times--so be it! But the coming years will tell Whether or no that is a lie; I shall be dead, perhaps, by then; "So it's time to put the record straight: I've got a Hundred and Forty-Two Pounds. Up front in dimples, boys! That's how I spend my life; In the places the masses flock-- The pawnshops and dives and gaming houses. "And the rest--I leave that, too. Now, boys, you know my move-- You've all had your turn at it; That's what decent people do, It's true; but after I'm dead You'll hardly know me again. "Last of the Pawns," and all that; I've no more use for kings and princes: I've got my wealth and splendour Without the wreck and ruined country And the shrieking mangled souls of men. "Listen! You'll hear for a Hundred Years, Or more, I think; <|endoftext|> Time is a thing that ain't no ain't it! It ain't no roonie at all--no roonie at all! Our frien' didn't tarry too long An' that roonie he wouk'd right away, An' that roonie he wouk'd right away, An' that roonie he wouk'd right away. When that roonie he come to our place, There wuz only the trees an' the roses, There wuz only the trees an' the roses. She's good-for-nothing girl an' her rooun' Wun't go take some rooun' with her awhust, Nor take some rooun' with her awhust. She's good-for-nothing girl an' her rooun' Wun't go take some rooun' with her awhust, Nor take some rooun' with her awhust. Wun't go take some rooun' with her awhust, Nor take some rooun' with her awhust, Nor a roonie wi' the belaw, a belaw, Nor a roonie wi' the belaw. Wun't go take some rooun' with her awhust, Nor take some rooun' with her awhust, Nor a roonie wi' the belaw, a belaw, Nor a roonie wi' the belaw. But the samar a-list'nings, the squaws an' the auncest, They do'na ken, they do'na ken. That the samar a-list'nings, the squaws an' the auncest, They do'na ken, they do' 625 know. Wee Willie Ah Paw, I aint foorth no pore As thae mithers in the flocks afore; For I hae nae flesh, and nae coal to buy My soul's roositions, that's a'! The wretched thing looks on the ground, And spreads her hands, an' then she sOTENDS! A gowden weeper, of mighty fleetness, She, with both hands upon her oxtian brest, Turn'd round about, as doth her sisters turn, When they do kiss their consorts in the grave. The wretched thing looks on the ground, And spreads her hands, an' then she sOTENDS! The consort she a-clep'd her misery, And sOTENDS, when her Sire she dinted, An' the two hands that she sOTENDABL'd, Oblig'd her evernaie fortune to prospere. Wee Willie Ah Paw, I aint nae the man To crow o' wark, for me, I dinna see, For, John, you've nane kin see my fine o' chance; For, John, you've nane kin see my fine o' chance, Wi' a' your kintra gentry a', a' the while; Then, bless yer love, but win a prize or two, Or ye maun hing it my chaps wi' me. For though your tongue may blaw sae like a cur; For though your pursfu' lip maunna say nae; For the black bird in the hie-tree sang last night, Saying, Nane expect the rise o' town; And the blackbird in the hazel-tree sang last night, Saying, Nae chance hae we o' bonie Clarence. Now, John, ye were nae there in the house, As I was sittin' at the bar; And as I watched, frae out the smoke, The tables, the benches, the fire, I thought ilka thing was there. For it was a bonie house and bien, But it's bonie still to me; And I hae less to say and more to ye, But I'll tell when we come to that. When you're come to finishing up your terms, In a belted garter'd gait at midnight, 'Twad been more practice if you started With a rising catch in your step, And a stifling Spring in your stride, When you're come to finishing up your terms. When you're come to finishing up your terms, In the glare o' a changing lumi'n, I was tempted to doun stay, And a little longer, till the day Gang to a night, and then I'd gang Where my watch was keepin' hap, And I'd gang to my watch and say, 'I've done with my terms, now finish them, And I'll doun finish my watch. When you're come to finishing up your terms, In the bowl o' the glug o' your bread, In the morning, when ye've no justifiable, Gropin' about, you'll hae me for mate; For the spunkle that is in my e'e Ye'll be thinkin' is your very own, And I'll follow you about, An' I'll run by and by the nicht Till you finish your terms. I was raxt, and you were raxt, I was rude an' rude, but ye Came in wi' your terms an' man! O what a bait! We met in the lingo o' the place, An' the smoke that rises by the way, From the dyke-house in the lingo, Was the flume o' the lingo o' the place, When we met by the way. The lingo o' the place! I see it, Every nicht it's the same; For the A's, the A's, The strong, stern A's, The Royal A's, They rule the lingo o' the place, An' the lingo o' the place Makes them money. I've heard it said that men will rove An' plunder in the name o' the clan, When the A's did the same thing in the day, When the A's did the same thing in the age, When the A's did the same thing in the day, When the A's did the same thing in the day. But this is a shameful thing to hear, When the A's do the same thing in the nicht; For the A's, the A's, The pride o' the land, The northern gentle A's, They were never no game in the lingo o' the place When they wrought in the lingo o' the place. But I'll tell ye this, an' I'll say it again, An' I'll speak it to your E's, and I'll speak it to your W's: Ye cannot with the lingo of the place Complain that the men o' the place Do a wanton kind o' lingo in the place. We're sae blithe when we're banish'd from our turf, We're bonie when we're banish'd from the sea, But we are sae blithe when we're banish'd from our land; When our names are banish'd from the lingo o' the place, We're sae fair upon the bonie min' o' things; When our names are banish'd from the lingo o' the land, We're sae quick upon the banish'd road. I wander through the fields, the veins invite me, I wander through the forests, there's never a dearth of game. There's never a river, nor a mountain's bold pride That doff'd its paint to refuse the hand of me. And, while on shore I search with eager look For the white feather'd hero that my heart desires, I meet the fisher's infant daughter, she's friendly and bland, And she says, "I'm the daughter of Fisher Boone, I'm far on the river of Van Diemen's Gold! I'm wandering forth to gain a census or census-" And here I quote, "I'm the daughter of Fisher Boone, I'm far on the river of Van Diemen's Gold!" "For a skin full of friendly'ne'"--and here she quits off-- "For a skin full of friendly'ne"--and here she quits off! "For a skin full of friendly'ne"--and I speak of a fact-- I could lick her anywhere that has a worse mouthful And a less pretty face. I could lick her anywhere that has a worse Punishment for a rogue, And a worse tongue for the same. Away to the river of Van Diemen's Gold-- <|endoftext|> Told how a gentle knight his name and train Drew near and would his charmed ring bestow; "But fate has willed that I must never wed, Save of pure and chaste, who keep within The happy isle in Christendom preserv'd." And he denied that boon, which much assails The wishful worldly heart that woos to cease From distant station, and the grassy grave Of homelier joys that sleep in munday; Then ask'd, if Christ required such duteous zeal, Or counsel sent from heaven, to save his world From its implacable foes--a wondrous thought! Which hardly came to him, for a cloud hung low, And darken'd heaven; and an awe oppress'd His spirit. But while he mused this thought, A fair young maiden pass'd by, deck'd with flowers Of vivid dyes, and beauty like a star. Her robe was of a dazzling lustre, light As is the shimmering silver of the moon. Bright eyes, full of aching wantonness, Sparkled in their azure lustre, as the sun Grasps a gasping air, and then is seen no more. So bright was her aspect, that with bright voice She hailed him from the lonely shore of water, As musing on the beauty of that morn. His answer tell'd--He was her dream, her love, Her the name by which all future time should be Caught in the eternal mnemonic, "Fair--And Beautiful." A summer's morn, and in the heedless mood Of careless youth, young Arthur, also known As Arthur--if his people used that name-- Had taken a sword in scorn, with which he thought To vanquish all that came between him and The fair island where his loveless foes Lay hideously slaughter'd, withering always The life beneath the summer's smiling skies. All through the quaint and ancient streets of Camelot He wander'd, guided by no idle follower Like modern kings; and as he walk'd along The palpitating streets, he heard the rumble Of horses and the roll of armor, and soon Was in a temple, fair as if the world Were neck-deep in summer weather and flowers. Within the temple's porch and around The dim blue bowers he saw again The faces of the love-lorn girl and boy, Who, while he, like one with empty dreams, Stepped o'er the knightly habits of old, Had left for him the place of woe and wail, Where Arthur, in his wrath, had made them weep. There were two armies all too strong for him, Pourtrayed each on each, and all unwept; And to the red and fierce English king Rose the bold French, with thousands haughtier Than his own, who chafed and laughed and smiled At the weak helpless man, that could not win The heart of either from its toils and toil, But silently and painfully, and alone, Wearing the hard winter in his face, Like one that feared the wild winds blowing Across the darkened skies, he went to meet The queen who stole the jewel from his rest, The fierce and queenly one who would not rest Until her kingdom and herself were won. "Ay--ay--if you are she," said the queen, "Come--with me--to Camelot; and I will show You will not leave my side again, to-day." And Arthur said, "Nay--aye--no more-- I have not wholly quitted all of her; And now when I shall look on her I will know That I am changed and all that I was." And the queen looked down into his face, And saw--ah, fair lady, how can I tell What I should tell to-night if you should come And see me where I am?--ay--lay your hand On my heart and see the blink of magic vanish, And you will see--I have not quite forsaken her-- Or if you could stay--ah, sweet lady, sweet-- For you can wait--for I have reached the end Of where my quest must, and shall, be still, And the pale sunlight wanes behind the trees, And a deep peace is resting on the grass, And I am Arthur, and all of my kingship belong The knights are gathering at the glide of dawn, The ladies are coming with the dawn, They are calling for the mirthful Sir Lancelot, And the laughter of Uther and his peers, The king they find a captive in the halls, But I--but I am here, and these fools will learn That they were fools to love me when I was king. And the wild geese are homing far away In the vales of the bluest of the queens; And the cats are murmuring of peace and love In the grey courts of the bluest of the queens; But I--but I am here, and these fools will learn That they were fools to love me when I was king. When there were no survivors Of the rout who followed my banner, I would not doubt that mine were they. I would not doubt that mine were they-- Dark were the yards and dingiest of all, But I followed, and followed so; And I heard the cheer of the chased, Who had run till they were hoarse To the tune of my jolly war-song-- "Where are you taking us, O Tarquin? When the ranks were thinned Of the troops who had tarried In this kingdom of Atreus, Still I was counted safe and lucky, For my soldiery were they. But they are all slain, By the hand of one man Who holds the daylight in his hands, And the dark watch is set They have fled unto the dark green wood, They have all put forth to pasture In the shapeless mire of the forest; And my soldiery were they. And I have chased them afar, And I have followed them all night long, And I have heard the cheer of the chased, Who have run till they were hoarse To the tune of my jolly war-song-- "Where are you taking us, O Tarquin? There are traces of the ancient way In this waste of desert land. The traces I do not find. For my soldiery are men without will, Without a single craving conscience, And they run through the plains of wine, And they drink the water from the mountains; But they do not care to follow me. "Where are you taking us, O Tarquin? The coast is far away, But I hear them, and they are following me; And the footprints of the Antediluvians Are far towards the dawn of the morning." So I followed them. And I could hear the wings of the lost ants, Hissing on the rocks all round me. They are hurrying to catch the ship, For the dawn is far away. "Where are you taking us, O Tarquin? Where the ship is bound We may not know. But we know the footsteps he is making, And we know he has come to the wine-dark sea. And we know he has done a wicked thing, And we know he will glorify the Undines." Then they laid a hand on the wine-dark sea, And they covered his dark footsteps, And they bound him hand and foot With the ant-clasps of the Lost-at-Home. And they sailed away over the wine-dark sea, And they sent their greetings over the wine-dark sea-- "Good-by to the wine-dark sea, And the footprints of the Antediluvian!" I looked in the face of my greatest glory, And I saw the visage of the man ofmy youth, With the cheeks shaken with the silent tears Which never fall on the breasts of young women; And the mouth, which in my sight I deigned to kiss, Was wet with tears which never fall on the breasts Of old women. And a moment and a name I knew so long, I read the name of my youth in the face of my glory; And I answered his question as to my name, "O Phaon, who and on what strange errand Hast sent me from this home where once I dwelt, And hast promised to hear me and to help me, Hast promised to tell me the wish of my heart, The wish of my youth!" The earth was flat and the air was soft, And the cities lay below, And the rivers slept in their holes, In the fields that the men have known; And the hives were up with their honey-day, <|endoftext|> As those which were wont to my delight Wander'd through the world; but these things pass'd All know to have been by me, or he Had never heard me tell that which he heard. Then, once again, the Teacher: "Prepare Finally, my son, that after some delay Thou tell to me, how much this goodness Empires in thee, that lead me thus afield, For all the honour that is to my note Appears but in how it followereth. Direct thy words to nothing below, Else to Him, whooth nowhere manifest His face, while dive he speeds through all the realms, Fulfilled of love, to whom be glory For ever subtler than our deepest wits." Whence I to him: "Thy will, not I alone, Doth govern me; but so much of thy grace Doth incense me, that I would hold it shame, If salutary defenceless truth should pass Unto wicked ears." He straight replied: "Who word shall meet the seeker after truth, When thousands have been set, perforce, on end, To follow the hapless soul, which stays behind, Past peril, on the desert wild, when once She turneth to seek it?" Then of my credence He in few words recapitulates. The Foe of it is so generous, is so worsted, That in his judgments he confusion finds. I know of a mighty power Which, day and night, doth beneficently shine Within our substance, and among its friends Is worthier far than all the world hath been; That truly does transcend The colour and the craft of men, The splendour of their fine dews, The lively blaze of their eyes. Through the whole of this resplendent round Were I to tell, dear father, only one Part of the healing and the power it brings, My wearied spirit would fail me at the end. Through thee, my sight sees clearly All the myriad virtues shining there, And the countless contributions of each To the reparation of the rest. By thy mercies am I so rede, So reassured and so strengthened, That my unruly thoughts in thee At last can rest, my child, at last. Though thou art ever-during, I have in thee the ever-forgiving; I walk with thee so light and freely, That my burden, so lying within me, Cast me into eternal night. I know that thou, light of my sight, Art of so much worth unto me, That, with all my faults, I cannot show Donation enough unto thee. For a change of mind, my child, Ask of the ever-during good, Which is the only lasting good; The power to love, which comes of this, Makes the whole world well worth enjoying. Therefore let hope not seduce thee, Neither dreading fate's decrees; But set thy heart on things that make Real life to live in here; If thou canst love, and dost keep One step ahead of love, then go; If not, well pleased, beware, and mark How much lieth betwixt thee and heaven; And never doubt, but love shall follow When the quick answer comes. If thou shouldst die, my child, And find thy life there, where'er Thou lookest, thou shalt be comforted. Not a part of thee shall perish: Thy seed shall live, and come, And the glad world shall outrepeat The name of him that lies beneath. All we are, all we e'er were, All that lives can live again; All that breathes, or lives, or even All that never breathes again, Is the real life, and has a claim On the revived earth to prove its birth. As on the death-bed, the shadow fades Of the guilty corpse, but by the sense Of some pang unbearable prevails, Which from the soul's exile sets a fee For the admission unto the shade. If thou couldst lose, or if thou couldst win All the days that now are doomed to leave Behind thee in their onward route, Thou wouldst surely wish thy life again, As I, for the day my son came home. There is a word, so sweet to hear, And a look so calm, so meek, so meek, That it is as if all the hills And the valleys had whispered it, And the wind itself had lent his voice. My child, my child! I am old, and the grey waves beat hard My feeble vessel; yet, O my child, Let us try to reach the further shore, And resting on the further beach, Our weary spirits should end the strife. The wind dies; my vessel tightens its hold Upon the wobbling rock, and the rocks swing About her chalky rim, and the sea boils below. The day grows dark; I lean upon my gun, My lantern burns dim; the answered sound Of the metronome shows that all is near. The noise of the surf growing bold Grows louder, and the sea seems almost To dare me; and with struggling breath, As I let fall my musket's fluted shell, The sea seizes me; and now my left Is a seething sea, and now my right Beneath me, and above me, and around I reel, and fall upon the cold deck, And sleep the rough sleep of death. I wake to find my self a thing of sand, Myself, a thing of foam, Where the dark shallows shallow me evermore, And never shall the ocean swallow me. I rise, I stumble, stagger on; For there is never a spot that doth not find Me a spot of sea. We two shall inherit it all. There is the place of war; There are the calm serene Losses of peace; There are the successes of wealth and gain; There are the daring fears, The glories of great names; There are the far viewings of the mountain lands; There are the sunny shorelies Of love; There are all kinds of loss, But to the strength of the ocean-child There is only the ever-present shore. There is a town with a wall of stone, And a ladder of hay, And a farm with a cow and a plow, And a garden with roses and sweet peas. We will die in the place of the strong town-wall, We will live by the ladder and milk-cup, And the place will be ours, and the names of our parents, And the names of our first loves. O the lofty buildings, and the noisy streets, And the roaring of the cars! O the din of the crowd, and the heat, and the dust, And the tumult and clamor! We will walk with our faces turned to the east, Where the calm and holy will we find; We will take rest upon the cenotaph, And will kiss the flowers that have been laid in our way. When our leaves are all resting on the autumn wind, Like a message they seem to speak of good-will and truth; But look out of the window of the night-house where we sleep, And we see that they are all whisperings of fear and of sin. They whisper to you that evil men walk free and great, And that the eye of the government is always watching you. You may talk to us of the lofty and the low, And we will reply that we are wiser than you think; You may tell us that you can find us in the deeps of the sea, And we would reply that we are waiting to hear what you have to say. We are waiting to hear the words of the night-song that the white gulls sing, When they come to us from the sea, in the mist and the silence, Calling us to join them in the dancing of Pain. When the snow-flakes fall on the green and open fields, And the woods and the waters receive them, They do not shake in the wind as they pass by, But they quiet and they settle down quite; They seem to rest on the restful deeps of the ground, Where the earth-diggers have made their dwelling-place. They do not fall to the ground as they pass by, But they slumber on the mountainside; They settle in the fountains below the plain, And they whisper to the flowers in the shade. They are with the leaves as they hover over the way, They are with the stream as it winds along, They rest on the red hands of the sunset-chimneys, And they whisper to the spirits of the wind that are above. <|endoftext|> Vainly? Her plump breasts, as they beat upon my thigh, She cries: "Sister, with thy great might It needs must be that I should be so, And with my feet my weight can lighten, And then I'm thine at all times!" When the great cross shall break And all the birds of air be flying to God's rest, And the red flame leap up from each little bough, And the beautiful sun comes up from the sea, Oh! I'll be a good and pious wife To him that's far away. You that are sad and weary of the past, Where the waves of years have been, oh! come! Come, and take your places, oh! your days Are numbered, oh! and your looks are seared, And your hearts are growing old, And your prayers are old, and your sorrow Is turning to strength. You that have sat and mused long and long On life's riddles, 'till you have sighed, "How? How?" and groaned, and groaned, and sighed; You have asked, and asked, and asked again; "Alas! for the wings of God no more May I lift me above the waifs of men!" And now, you are come! And you are come! You that have hungered and starved, You have torn the hills for your feast-hall, You have grown fat with blood and the wine, Well, here's your place! here's your end! I have no care, no fear, no grief, For I know that the lord of my life Is greater than this. Out in the height There are no leaves, no brook, no clod, No leaf upon the tree, no sound in the loom, Only the flutter of the wings of the fern-bird. A great green fern hangs above the door, And down the aisle it hangs. Here in this home I shall not sit alone; You are come! you are come! You that are weary and old, We two shall sit together! For I have often heard That fair women have romance Not less than men. Then come, my dear, And enter in; For my heart to a finer heart Is more than wood can show; And I shall be your lover In joy or in pain. Come, let us dance, O my love, For there's never a house Where we may be apart But somehow there's a world of bliss Within the shaded space Of a peepal-lighted stair. Now all the world is rich With sun and bloom; And, when summer's pleasance is o'er, Somebody's house is his. Sweetheart, in your parlour, To work the long day over, You'll see my love upon the stair, Guarding a bundle of letters, The last, poor booty of his art-- Dear, dainty-looking, Dear, addressed To his darling of long ago, And asking her for a day Of herself, to pass away And come again to-morrow. Sister of the crocus-hued night, And sister of the nightingale, From the clouds of heaven, Come enwoven above us, Come down the wind of heaven, And tell us of your dwelling, Your call to other breasts, Your bliss and your sorrow, And what you would have of us. Sister of the crocus-hued night, And sister of the nightingale, From the clouds of heaven, Come down the wind of heaven, And tell us of your dwelling, Your call to other breasts, Your bliss and your sorrow, And what you would have of us. Thou art our life! and the leaves Are of thee crying, For the eye that looks on thee Sees thy golden peace flowing, Thy fragrant, fragile, stirring Life that keeps calling, calling On all about it. Fair lily of the silence, Strange bird of the forest, Thing invisible, a thing of light, Thou art up in the ether, A wing up blows over thee, A heart within a flutter of wings Is beating in thine ears. A thousand starry things Are within thee, crying, A thousand memories are calling, A thousand lips are singing, And so there is thine own Pure, tranquil beauty flowing, Like a purple sea. And the moon, of her light Is made glad, for her glance Is the lamp of the stars, and her Love lights up the night that calls thee, For her heart is the music Of songs, and her song Is a flutter of wings, A light on a star, And her word is a breath That blows round thee. And we have sought thee, And fand loved thee, and parted Glimmering like mist; But the moon and the star-souls Caught thee as thou camest, And the wings that beat Of all thy song-birds are thronged With our loves. The cry is a paean From the trumpeted Volcanoes of flame, The tremors are in vair From the tremulous Volcanoes of frost; And we have sought thee, And found thee, and taken Into thy cote; But like shadows that recede, Like vapors that creep The tremors are changed, And now with a jubilant song Thou combest among thy fires Of sunset; and now, as dawn, In silence as a dream, Thou comest to thy waters Not as a conqueror, Nor as a conqueror's bride, Thou comest unto me A wanderer in a strange land, And as a dreamer On spiritual ways. Not as the conqueror, Nor as the conqueror's bride, Thou comest unto me A wanderer in a strange land; With a diviner element Than those that are entwined In a king's family. I, here, have made thee A pavilion and a throne In my purple fields; And the choicest flowers of the land Have brought their odors here, To breathe through thy garments And perfume thy hair. I have fattened upon thy lips With their fragrance and their sweet Delicious flavor; And the clouds that wander About thee, through the night, Bring their clouds of rain. I have fattened upon thy face With their beauty and grace; And the stars that glitter In their native heaven, Are brighter than my brightest stars, And speak me Of God's pure love. I have wreathed thee with leaves and flowers, And ensouled thy hair With a purple light, that glows In a silent reign; And the wind, that blows through thy hair, Is a speaker For a secret thought. I have wreathed thee with flowers and leaves, And crowned thee with stars, And they were gentle winds that breathed Their soft prophecies; But the breath of God, that blows through thy hair, Is a blast, That blows thee Abinding To the scaffold. For in thy soul and spirit There is no end, But only day and night, And the everlastning strife Of this life and death; A life that is a service, A death that is a service, The one eternal end, A work that is a service, And a memory that shall live Forevermore. But thou, my sister, In thine eyes and heart, A ray of the eternal day Is not discernible; And thine eyes are but dim lights In thy sister's soul, And thine heart is but as a stone In her marble heart. But thou, my sister, Art all amaranthine; And thine ears are for bare whispers, And thine eyes are for glistenings Of such sweet sounds as may not stir The cool life within thee; But all thine heart is for a tune That winds the curtains round about thee Of that great beyond which is to be When thou art dead. There is no other fate for men Than serving the great masters, Than winding their life up With the familiar uses, Of lips that are to blows like bells, And hearts that are one. Ah, no! Our life is not like theirs, Who for a little estate See madness and death walk, And then, half mad and half dead, Recover not for ages, But consumed by doubt and fear, They die the death of phantoms, <|endoftext|> And then I used to stare at the door, Always keeping my eye on Alice, And wonder how she ever could bear To have them come in the house and sit On her own hearth and talk to her, In the man's own talk, with his cocky smile, And his eyes on her eyes, which were dark, And her heart on her heart which was hard, And his head on his head, which was high, And her throat on her neck which was white, And her chin on her wrist which was thin, And her dress on her shoulder which was thin, And her foot on her ankle which was thin, And her finger on her bony hand, which was white. Sometimes it was with a jingle of bells, Sometimes with the chime of a clock, But always with a beating of beats, As she met them where she stood On the man's beat, with his heart of hers, In the house he came from, in the house he goes to, On the beat of his own feet. And I watched the flickering light In the doorway where she waited, The flame on the man's hand In the morning light on his hand, And the beating of his blood In the afternoon light on her hand, And I heard the sound of the house On his breath, with a sound of his own, As he stood in the door. And the same beat on her beat In the house he came from, in the house he goes to, And the beating of her blood In the afternoon light on his arm, And the sound of the door On his breath, with a sound of his own, As he stood in the door. And I wondered why she never spoke, Or what she ever said, But I learned to understand it when I looked out of the window On the cloudless fall of moons, On the lilt of branches, and the fall Of sunlight through rain-drops, and the beat Of the rain on the eaves and the beat Of the wind on the great top-tree's root, And I heard her never raise her eyes Towards the window, or look at the night, But always keep look at the man's face, And watch his face as he came and went, As he stood in the house he came from, In the house he goes to, And the beat on his heart In the nightlight as he slept In the noon-light as he walked, In the dawnlight as he rode To his work in the country. Once, a little later, I saw him With his face turned to the west, And his back to the Garden, And the climb of the windy sky, And the shining stars of heaven All hard in the yellow moonlight, All white in the pale moonlight, All the sky was white with fear As he turned from the Garden And mounted up the hill. And I saw him turning to go, And hear the fright in his voice As he answered back the call Of the great wheel of the world That was whizzing ahead With its whizzing shrill of wings The great wheeling world of life Wheeled past him ending that day, And I said: "Is our life not good, Is our life not good to you, To you--your dear father?" And he turned from the west and faced The other way, And his face grew hard, and I heard The great heart in his throat Harden and break, And he said: "Is our life not good, Is our life not good to you, To you--your dear mother?" And the great wheel of life whirled on With the turn of the earth's rotation, And I saw him turn from the other way And say: "Is our life not good to me, Is our life not good to-day?" And he turned from the east and faced The other way, And his face grew hard, and the great heart In his throat grew stiff, And the call of the world grew louder With its crash of wings And the joyous shout of life. And the great wheeling world turned past And the future grew clearer, And I heard the words he spoke to me With the great wheel of the world, "Is our life not good to me, Is our life not good to-day?" The future is ours, not the past, And we have the power to steer it As we shall learn when we are older. We shall walk bravely in the morning As we have walked bravely in the day. And the joy in the heart of man Will not fade nor sink away Till we come back to it again And have earned it and served it and served. So, I ask: What service have I given? And the answer is: Everything. I have given my youth to find its way. I have given my joy to share its thrill. I have given my strength to serve my friends. I have given my peace to help my enemies. And now I ask: What further service need I do? "I have given my riches to feed and bring My friend, the needy poor, with hope on his brow. I have given my powers to ease the hurting hands Of the insane and the sick and those afflicted. I have given my blood to save my fellow men From the greedy, the murderers, the murderers. I have given my heart to pass my friend Harry's tomb. I have given my love to many a needy friend. I have given my blood and my heart and my gold, And now I ask: What further service need I do? "I am just like you in what I have done, In what I have wanted to do, And I am just like you in what I have yet To do. And I am just like you in what I have done Since my last night on earth. I am ready now to follow through With the last phase of my plan And to die for what I believe in. "I am ready to die, and I am strong To carry out my plan; And now I ask you, come where I am, And serve my purpose. And I will make you a warrior strong, And will train you to perfection. And I will make you a man to rule The men of the after-time." "I am willing to die, and I am strong To carry out my plan; And I have a son, the little one you see, Who will serve my purpose well. And I shall look upon his face again And see his sister smile. And I shall lift up my sorrowing eyes And see his face as when he came. And I shall forget the empty house and children, And all my life will seem but a dream. "And I shall feel, when I shall lift up my sorrowing eyes And see his face, A new joy in everything that I see, And no more pain or sadness. And my heart will sing, as it sung in the old days, When my old soul was glad. And my hands will feel as they felt of old, When I fed the hungry and took the sick." "And I shall feel that I am going home To my old home; And I shall lift up my sorrowing eyes And look for him there. And I shall wish him all the joy that comes To man who serves his God, And I shall tell him how my mother used To say that I was like her own dead child, Because I asked not for anything. "And I shall wish my son her living soul That she might never lose again. And I shall wish my son her soul of wrath That she might never lose again. And I shall wish my son his soul of pride That he might never lose again. "And I shall wish my son to serve me well As I have served my God, And I shall wish my son to serve me well, As he is worthy, still. And I shall wish my son to serve me well As in days gone by, And to never lose again. "And I shall wish my son my strength to be When I am tired or weak, And I shall wish my son my joy for this In all my trials past, And I shall wish my son my comfort yet In all my trials yet." "And I shall wish my son to be the strength That he must be, When I shall rest in the grave, and see the end Of all my trials here; And to be the comfort for his mother's pain And for his father's too. "And I shall wish my son to be the pride That he must be, When his power is hated, and his life is long, And he serves men ill. And I shall wish my son to be the light That shines for men's souls to follow, <|endoftext|> In a great black cloud I see your wavy hair and your hands in the air, waving like a pair of bells. O mister, must I go back to the dining room to sit with my grandmother? What can I do to undo this tangled pajama bow? I am too young for the war in Korea and the never-ending monotony of summer in New England. <|endoftext|> "Waiting for a Ride", by Linda Gregg [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Class] The parking lot is dark and empty. Just one vehicle in sight, a man waiting for a ride. A little boy watching from the sidewalk waits for a ride. I too watch for a possible ride. The man in the vehicle is old, and looks to be in his 30's. His hands are full-length and brown, and a boy sits in the back leaning against the door. I stand and watch as he unties his purple tethers from his shoes. He pulls out his cell phone and calls a number. The boy watches as he puts the seat back into the vehicle, and as he gets in, and closes the door. His shoes are soaked. The man reaches into the vehicle and pulls out a pair of shoes. He walks to the edge of the pavement and selects a shoe. He walks a short distance, puts his hands into his pockets, and climbs a wrought iron fence. He walks back to the vehicle and unclips the shoes from their tether, and hands them to the boy. He tells the boy to wait, to keep an eye out for someone who will come to the boy's rescue. The man in the vehicle puts his hands in his pockets and looks around for something to do. The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pocket knife. The man reaches over the steering wheel and taps the blade, and the blade falls to the ground. The man walks to his car and talks to the man in the passenger seat. He asks if the boy needs help, and the man in the passenger seat tells him not to worry. They drive away. The man returns to the boy and gives him his money. The boy nods and walks away. I run to the scene of the crime to see what has happened. The man walks over to the fence and opens it. He walks over to the boy and gives him his change. He walks over to his car and starts it. The lights of the other cars go on. They are a taxi, a patrol car, and a delivery van. They are a man in a suit, and a little boy, walking away. <|endoftext|> "Something Something Something Grand", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] There was a time when I made no rhymes. I was less a man than a memory. The grey days before I learned to rhyme, and the long years of death. I was more a cage than a Book. I carried my mind in a green case and released it only to remember its pages, a faint psalm of the heart. The Book of the Heart was the smallest of the books in the world when I was a child. I am its guardian now. It grows in my palm. It grows in my hand. I play my part in a tragedy that has taken many forms. I can add to the chorus of those who believe there is more than meets the eye. I know what is mysterious about death, its shroud and how it will reach the corners of the earth. I know what is lost when so much is won. I know the difference between hope and childish belief. I can tell when a mind has been taken and made half aware by the pangs of misunderstanding. The poor child will become a man who will bend to the will of those who are less blind than he. I am his guardian now. I will guard him from the light until he can read the Book of the Heart. <|endoftext|> "The Word", by Stephen Dunn [Religion, Faith & Doubt] The word is a cruciform with one end filled with a drop of water and the other with a drop of wine. Mates it has, and also children, in its rich and exquisite history. The word is the double image of the beautiful Byzantine girl who is reading. The word says it is close to the sky and high, and almost touches the ground. The word is a prism with an additional word on the other side. The word is good, and the other word is evil. It turns the light gray, the word on the other side is red. <|endoftext|> "A Trip to the Disheveled Hills", by Stephen Dunn [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] This is what the disheveled hills look like from a car going down them. There are cattle on the edges, and a wind moving through them. There are houses, and outbuildings, and trees, and a hedge. There is a stream going under the cliffs, and the sound of a stream. There is a rock pile on its side, and the shadow of a person. There is a child sleeping under the shadow of a dead child. There is a city in a valley, and a river flowing through it. There is a field on fire, and a wagon going past, and a man in the wagon. There is a dog standing at the edge of the field and barking. There is a man with a white flag who is about to cross the yellow line. There is a city in a valley, and a river flowing through it. There is a tree falling on him, and he is thrown from the tree. He falls into the river, and it is deep and clear. He looks up, and sees a bird on the bank, and he is about to cross the bank. He looks down at the river, and is confused. He crosses the river, and is carried by the current to the other side. He looks back, and sees the same man with a white flag on the other side. He says, "I am an old man, I have been blind all my life, I am tired of being carried." The man with the white flag says, "Come with me for you are the light." He takes the man by the hand, and leads him to the other side. He says, "You will be carried into light by the darkness, and be given sight." <|endoftext|> "Day by Day, My Father Worked Six Days a Week in L.A.", by Stephen Dunn [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] Day by day my father worked six days a week in L.A. He earned enough money for Subway and a black convertible, bought a black van, and had new shoes at Macy's. I went with him for the first few days, but then my mother said, "It is time for you to go to college." I could not believe it. My father would say, "You can stay with me," but I knew it was time for me to go. I remember the first time I went with my father to the fire station to pick him up his pay as a fireman. My father had on his fire department uniform, with a visor and a pager, and my mother pulled on her good wool clothes, and we walked on a chain through the yellow doors at MacArthur Park, past the stray dogs and sunflowers, and into the cool, green trees. On the top level of the fire station, they showed the movies, and my father sat with the men. When I started school, my father was the one who drove me, like all the boys, in a neighborhood Cadillac, black, with period instruments on the dash. He said he wanted me to get good looks so I could marry well. I did not understand. I went to college, and lost my beauty. He died of a heart attack in his mid-forties, and I married a rich divorcee. I was the richest woman in America. I went to Atlantic City once, where my father had investments. I won a million dollars, which I put toward my future. In my youth, I did not think about my father very often, and when I did, it was almost without regret. I think he was good with children, and I liked the molding of his character, in what I did, into me. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> We fought and died for liberty To keep the precious gift, And God hath made it still our own, And ye are rebels to the core, Against His great purposes. The King hath called us to a council. To-morrow it falls to do or die. And no council call can we neglect, Or no duty lie untold. Ye know the King commands our trust; The cause of Right he doth espouse. And yet, in spite of all his good, The people's voice must be obey'd. We've sworn to serve him, both rich and poor, And we will keep our word unswerving, Though all the rich world stand aloof. For the cause he hath given us to fight, We can not change, but must prevail. And if we fall, we will not hide our fall, But take the unaccustomed melancholy Of never more to go our own way. We have not sought this fight alone, But in the right and highest cause Have met on British ground to fight. No traitor plaything hath our force But lust of power, and lust of gold. And till that stop is struck, we fight To keep the Faith, and God's great purposes. The present is a time of trial, And may not be for quiet thought. Some have got the jaundiced view that life Is nothing but a weary waste. The world, they say, is but a scaffold, And nothing worth while: but I have learned A nobler and a surer sight. God's providence extends to every drop Of that clear and delightful sea, the air; And He would have it, if He so chose, So brightly shine, without or within, But that He sends some dimmer, lesser light To glad the heart of Adam, his son. And he, in turn, widens His saving hand To all, through Christ, who through faith are free. Heaven is for all,--but, who will prove it? We must go on proving it, day by day, Till tyrants' hearts are dumb about the Truth, And sin is impotent to tempt us on, And Hell, like paradise, must be our place, And sorrow what it has been in the past. Who would not cheer a spirit that has felt The hollowness of so-called virtue's yoke, And see through error to the truth and Hope? Christ did not come to bring us victory, And we must leave him, having gained one victory, Lest we should need him in the days to be, To build the exulting future for our sons. He does not speak in ways which would degrade Our fallen estate, nor brings in things which smite As lightly as the symbols of his message, But with a rod of iron he hews to earth The stubborn works of folly and of pride. His word is as a flame which dies not As others', but lives the more Because it cannot perish. When he fell, His soul took flight to God; and so we rise Because our souls, which have not fled, Wear immortality like his did. The night is born of him which follows it With its starry blossoms. And we rise Because our fallen estate wears the look Of that day when he, too, spoke to men In virtue's name, and offered them deliverance. There was a time when China's farms and forests Were held by Christ, as He had ever held The villages and smallholdings of his flock. No cunning usage or artful means had he To break his purpose to them, or disarm them Of hope in Him. Yet it was not to be That they of one only God should be the look Of that one only vine. They would have it so, But they could not have it now. There were two ways For them to have renewed and maintained their hope: (1) By their own grace; or (2) by receiving aid from him Who at that time claimed their aid in gaining vicarious Grace of his death for sinning not against his law. (1) The intention of this sermon is to show That it was not the intention of Christ at the Passover, As stated by St. Chrysostom. Chrysostom, as has been said, Said that Christ's passage through the water was a passageway Into death's realm for our redress, by which He would Come to them. Chrysostom goes on to say, in opposition To this belief of Colzzano, that Christ's passage through the water was but a proof of mercy to his followers, In that it demonstrated their immortality. He also Brings forward as proof the resurrection of Lazarus, After his piece was played on him. The passage In Luke, as now published, runs thus: "And while Lazarus was being laid in the grave, and while the graves were closed, Then God raised him up." The passage in John, as found in the present version, runs: "Now after three days the grave was opened, that they might bring him back Who had been dead three years." But since this latter has caused confusion, it has been suggested that the two first years were but the space of Lazarus' exile from his relatives, until he had the chance of seeing his wife and child, at which time he came back to life. (2) A place of torment, which the first resurrection people suffered in, being brought back to life. (3) This is the column on which Jesus was crucified. (4) The daughter of Lothessias. (5) The pillar, which rose on the upper story of the apartment building where Marial's family lived. (6) The lady, who was arrested on the charge of poisoning. (7) They were all hanged, but the last named was allowed to rise again. (8) The mother of Hypolito. (9) The brother of Anna. (10) The two sisters who lived in the "Madonna della Martinez." (11) They had been arrested on the charge of arson. (12) One of the eleven pages which were taken up by the Lord and given to Mary. (13) This is the place in the volume where St. Peter is first to be found. (14) The sister of Manuel. (15) The brother of Constance. (16) Of these the elder was the more righteous. (17) "Fischer" is not quite correct in stating that the origin of the practice of covering the head in devotion was from Egypt. (18) The other brother of Guido. (19) The Baron's nephew. (20) The widow of Earl Butler. (21) The spirit of the boy who was devoured by the stray- ing dog. (22) This is the only possible reading of the text. (23) This is a mistranslation. (24) The "The Locusts" is not a fictional poem, but a real phenomenon. (25) The minister's brother. (26) One of the eleven pages taken up by the Lord when he visited the earth-houses. (27) The lady was caught by a wandering incident of the thunder. (28) This is an allusion to St. Hilda's story, "De (29) The lady who had offered to sell her rings for fifty crowns each. (30) The lady's brother. (31) The lady's husband. (32) In this and the following verse the text is corrupt. (33) This is the Italian poet, who pretended to be a Christian, and became the head-man of a town. (34) The Christian martyr, who was beheaded at Valdichiana. (35) According to another version of the story, the worship of the angel became so great that his followers constantly fought with those of Lucifer, the rival religious group. (36) "En, to allai, alli." (37) Translated from the French. (38) See "Raniere, Hist. of Charlemagne", by Alfred Oldeuys (39) See Schiller's " Werther ". (40) In the fairy legends of the family of the Elenor we find the story of Elenor's death at the age of eleven weakening in passion with the name of her lover. (41) The reader should note that the last seven words of the poem are not to be taken as a literal translation of the original; they are taken from a French orthography. (42) The Chinese traveller Lao Tzu said that the waters of <|endoftext|> Then she, whose chiefest sorrow was one, Her raiment all about her cast, While her fair hair lay in its case, Flung her left side forth, and forth, and yet forth, And still withdrew farther, and still withdrew, And 'gan to chide, "Why, my child, With gold and precious jewels dost thou Cast forth thyself upon the shore? What shall I do, what shall I do, That this sad loss should come to me?" But still no word would she speak, And now 'gan to chide again, "What, wilt thou help to save thee? dost thou not know That thou art come to lard and strew the waters? Nay, thou art made of sterner stuff, And not a tinder shouldst thou find, That couldst undo me, and make me loose, Didst know what all I knew of thee!" "I know not," said the little maid, "But all things are made for thee, And all things help to make thee whole, Nor art thou made of pearls or steel; And though thy hair be straight and smooth, 'Tis spun of flax and silken thread. And though thy skin be rough to touch, 'Twill from the hand of some soft-eyed maid Be smoothed to fairer shape and finish. All things are made for thee, my child, And all things help to make thee whole; And shouldst thou yet reject me, not the sea, Nor death, nor love, nor words of scorn, Nor yet the rue for a single day, Nor any thing that I have done, Shall work my heart's destruction." Now when the twilight was complete, And shut from sun and viewing sky All things were hid, save that we Saw over every hedge and every tree The sign of the Maiden's fair and flowery crescent And the bird that wrought our ruin. The world and all its wealth was ours at last; We swept the shore and scaled the clouds; We climbed to where the heavens and the earth Are one and twain again; And never came such kingcraft yet, Nor power like our own to change the world. Then I was king, nor would be more, Nor shall be till we have wrought Unto our God upon the earth to move A mighty kingdom under His feet, That in our time, as heretofore, All mankind should know the sun is Lord. Who shall untangle this web of mine, So far entangling is my soul; What I have done, what do I fear, What do I dream, what know I worry 'Gainst myself? O, let me pray! The road is long and steep, my way Lies through thick shades, veiled with my tears; O, let me pluck the flower from out The garden where the flowers of youth So long lie hidden, and within The hollows of this my soul they lie. Why will I fawn, as if a queen, About my lord's feet? Why will I Run before his chariot through the streets With unbeginned reverence? O, let Me be as lowly as his heart! As when he takes the people's hand, As one appointed of the Lord, As one that hears His word, as one Matched against a mortal foe; O, let Me bend, as like a living worm I may, And clasp his knees; or better let me die With holy hopes of heavenly things begun. But why will I cry to heavens for light When night and troubled weather so are My daily life, why will I still complain, As if my heart and eyes were dead? O, let Me weep as oft wept in days gone by, When light for us was given, and soon Our darkness was to him unveiled. O, let Me weep, as when a mother weeps Her darling child, and fast in tears she weeps Till out her heart is bleeding; O, let Me weep, as when she kissed me once again, And praised the name of God, and my heart felt glad. This poor life, poor life, This little care, This strife for place and power, This useless war For gold and fame, This hope that fades at every snare, This taint that sets our soul to pain, This waste of breath That brings us low, This lack of sweet content Till God shall give us more; These are the things that gnaw and burn And aye make sad the life of the world. When we are old And lifeless clay, Gray-stoled and gray-haired, Who shall say what mighty deeds we Did when a child, What glorious joys we had When our hearts were light, When our souls were free, When our loves were sunny? Shall they not come in the night With silent footsteps sad To these tears that flow, To-morrow's tears that fall? I hear them, yes, I see them, The shadows of the past That my heart keeps hiding, That my soul is keeping For to-morrow, For the day that is to come; For the day that is far, For the day that is near, For each day that is lost As the shadow of death That shall not stay. For each day that is lost, As the shadow of death, As the thorn's shadow, The empty tomb, For each lost delight, As the shadow of joy, The last of light, For the day of final bliss That shall not stay. Ah, for each lost delight And each lost joy That the shadow of death May come with a cry And a burthen To mock the heart and the soul That are wasting A little while, Lasting but a while In a weary while In a fearful while In a changing while In a curious while In the endless while That time makes, For an end that is near, And an end that is near; I see the gates of Heaven High open wide, And Christ in the sun, As He was in the East Ere He was born, Though the Jew was bound In the dark prison That the Nazarene bore Beneath the branches Of the holy tree. And a murmuring voice, Alone in the dark, Said to Him, "Thou art God." And the Nazarene said, "I am what thou art, And it is Thou that gloriest"-- That is my creed. In a far off country and a golden sunset. Daisies with her sunshine and shadow, Miss Chinchilla with her laugh and pout, Miss Chimsy with her baby fists, And the little Spaniard, who had a speech, His was wisdom without wisdom's word, And the old man with the yellow hair And the face like a field of corn, And the dusty clown with his red lips, And the children like a flock of sheep That ran and rolled and played, And the old man who was deaf and blind, And the little children like a flock of bees, And the Nazarene without feathers, And the blind man who was swift to see And the seamstress who was proud and old, And the sound of a wide-sounding voice That called the winds and shattered the stars, And the sunset, and the Nazarene In a golden sunset as she sings: Then, with a sigh for language, and another For a music more like the sense of touch, I cry aloud to the Nazarene: "God! let my words be music to thine ears." And the winds, and the shadows, and all that be Pass, and have passed, and shall pass away, And the whole world changes and grows new. The morning is awakening; the birds sing In the sunshine and through the blossoming trees, The day in the light that it brings seems more bright, More fair than of old. I love the beautiful And the gold; the season of the flowers, The orange trees on the mown green grass And their girdles up the sunny slopes. I sit among the leaves that rustle here and there, A gull, a drake, a daw thrown on the table by the wind, And the drowsy, dreamy puffs from the gummie wall-flower, And on the lawn a rabbit, and I hear a swish and swish And a swish from the gorse that bends above the pond in the pond-light, And a swish and a swirl of breeze in the leaves of the birch-tree, And a sweet cry of "Mum," and a rustle and a sigh of "Oh, Mum!" <|endoftext|> His most important rule is, To tell the truth,-- For lies will always find the man Who is not wary. When at the breakfast table Old Clifford comes along, I make a rule to study him, And to get used to him; For like him more than like a man, He is the son of Baron, And uncle of two demi-gods, God knows how many more. Then don't try to hide your feelings, Or from him shy away; You'll find, when present to his notice, A more than adequate front to make, For lies will always find the man Who is not wary. He was one of the great and good, For fifty years in the city, Never known to have an angry word Or jealous thought, So, when he is dead, They'll probably say That he was surrounded By a circle Of good friends, who knew That he was lying. There are men and women in the world, Who, if they had their wishes, could give No better guidance. They put their trust in money and things They scarcely understand; And when they have forgotten how to live, They have forgotten how to die. He had not such a dream for him, For in his life he had learned The secret of all success, Which is to feel that we are alone in the world, That all that we desire comes from within, And not from any outward sign; That what we have deserved is a fate As glorious as a goal, But that it is not bought so cheaply As God and man demand. He would not say the things that clog their ears, And win them to his siren side; He would not talk of honours and plumes and power, And the loud crowds where the ambitions go. He would not tell them that his plans are beats Of the great music which in him stirs, And he was content to be silent That his brother men might hear. There is no greater sorrow than when a man Dies and forgets that he is brother's son. He should not seek to glorify the dead By comparing with the past glories of the race, And he was happy to live in the past And to remain in the shadows of glory. He should look to the coming years and say, In them alone we live and breathe; In them alone we have our destiny, And if we make our creed that today It may be as in the past, Let us hold to it and make it new With a patient heart and an open hand. There is no comfort in the days of pain That are past, The years that are gone and the world that's gone Are a dim remembered dream, While we stand here in this place of rest, As firm as of old. We lived in the years that are gone and the sun That gave them birth; We knew of the ships that ploughed the sea for gain, And the hearts of men We knew were broken in the world that is gone, But we live--we that are with the living, we That have eyes to see. From the lives that have been and the world that is gone, In a world that is new, There is joy in the coming years and there is pain For the hearts that are hungriest; But we in our joy and our pain shall know That the dead in the past are faithful ones, For the living have eyes to see. Dear, my love, I'll not return to your side, While I'm allowed to say so, I hope the firing squad has been brought too, As my last words should be, For I shall have time to look at them then, And I shall not come back again, Though I may like young the monks that come to say Their sad prayers for me at dawn. Why I come back, and I shall tell you why, The day that you and I were wedded, I came to see the gardener that grew our rose For he was the best man of the farm; He was a General in his day, But not a general now, I fear; He said he'd be in touch, and he did not stay, But wrote to tell me that he was dead. I wrote to tell you that I should be all right, I hoped that I should, and did. I had but one night in which to think of him, And what with sick joys and sorrows runs, I might have been too severe to Briseis; But I wrote you to-day to break a string Of circumstances which, if I could fix, Would cripple your judgment and hang my hope Upon a airy cloud, Which Time, in her great mercies, floats and sinks, And to aver I was overstrung, That still seems to me to be more than hope. If Death comes in the way that you and I Had reckoned when we chose life,-- If Death comes and takes my hand away And turns our morning aim, And I am too weak to save you, dear, Though you and I are gone, I'd say 'twas the greatest stroke I could take Is to swear that I loved you more Than ever I have loved before. Your face, the first time that it sweetly smiled Awoke a memory in my eye, Which grew and grew, and turned to a shade, Until I feared that it would go, And when it grew afresh I feared That it would go again. The nearer it grew to me the more The shadow seemed to follow, Until I grew so ill at ease I doubt if I had meant to see It follow my wayward eye. If you had ne'er been born, my Love, If, when the joys first began, I had ne'er been born, or if you Had ne'er been born to me, We both would be lying here, dead, Instead of us, alive; And if you had ne'er been born, my Love, I should ne'er have learned to weep. The sad earth smiles, and says that life is brief, And in her gentle way says that Death Is more than is to be desired, And that her best gift is a breathing body To do men's mourning when they go. She sends the flowers and whispers that she/we May call the thorns home, and hide the roses, But she would wish us, we say, To do the same for her/our flowers. Yet not alone, O Love! 'tis also borne in on you To bless the hardest case, and your heart is never meant For the worst man's tears or any but your own. You should be loth to take life's gift, But you should not be loth to die; You should be loth to take the gift, But you should not be loth to die. As one who has but little possessions, And sees his days advance unheeded by care, While all his family and near relations Lie before him homeless in the wake of time, Is apt to feel a deep-seated malignant well- Not unappeased, but in quite the wrong way-- Though lacking perhaps the wit to see through it, He is glad to be alive, he is glad to be Upon his toes, and out of doors, and out Of reach of blizzard and of winter's sweeping storm; And though he may have no sentiment in him For the poor unfortunate who waits his coming, He is glad to be alive, and glad to be Within his toes, and out of snow and wintry blast. My friend, you have the choice of two lives; Which would you choose? To be glad, or glad to die? You have the choice of two lives; and each Can have, in turns, a happy future. Your friend may live, and die, a Socrates, Fashioning for mankind his idea Of what a philosopher's thought is, And his ideal of man. Or you may live, and die, a Count Palatine, A husband of an ideal wife, Or father of many children, Or grand-son of a famous warrior, Or just a faithful and good man, Or the friend of all who now deplore you, And safe from all grief, to-morrow morning. Or you may live, and die, a Belphagorrat, A lover and a friend of all who Now mourn your eternal and immortal fate. And well your choice will answer you, my friend, For either life must have an end, And each life has an beginning. When you are old, my friend, you will have died Three times, and many deaths come after; And, as the Roman grandmothers prayed, The gods, who watched o'er her young life's short space, <|endoftext|> But the days, I doubt not, will come when you Will do some deed so marvellous, you'll soon Have your glorious due of omnipotence! I've asked my Mom to let me out of town And I'm going. Dad thinks I'm going a bit, And Mom thinks I'm going a bit. They think I'm Going to take Mom out, but I don't know. I'm going. God, I'm going. God, I'm going. God, am I going? God, where is my pipe? God, do I have my pipe? God, where's my stick? I've lit my candles; now, I'm just as blind As I was back there. The hill is blue, The tree is green, The hill is white. The tree is all lily white. What can I say? I am a-going. I'll be damned if I know where I am. I'm all, all, all a-going. I never was a girl to begin with, But now I am, and so it's all the same. I am an angel. Now, I know it's wrong, But, God, I am an angel. I'm the angel you've always known. You don't know how it feels to be--to be-- To be-- I'm--I'm--an angel. I am the flower that blooms and fades. I am the thing you pass One day, and again One day, and again, And each time your eye Will make of me Of some spite A sharp reproach, a bitter jest. I am that bitter jest. I am the thing you pass. I think, maybe, of you, When I'm a-going, And think how sweet you will be When you've lost me-- And then, when I'm gone, I think you'll go and greet The souls you leave behind, And smile sweetly, sweetly, sweetly. So that's how I'm going,--and I Do think that once I was Like you, and do believe That if I ever get too far From you, from me, That I, somewhere, somehow, will find A way back to live, And take, with me, this letter, This hand-written thing, Which you have waited long to see, And have not had a chance to look at. Oh, I know, dear God, I know how it is, dear God. I knew you would be my choice Over all those fair ones. And I have suffered, I have dreamed Desperately, With no one to listen, To make the hard choice. But I know, dear God, I know how it is, dear God. Oh, God, would it were sooner done? Would it were sooner over? I am so tired, so tired Of pretending, To be a woman true. And it's so hard to be So tired, so tired. Oh, God, would it were sooner done? Would it were sooner over? I am so tired of trying To be a woman true. For I have tried, I have tried, To be a woman true, And it's so hard to try To be a woman true. The rich man's daughter is a bird, Who lives on rich men's gold. The young man's son is a flower, Who lives on young man's pleasure. The old man's gray is a mold, That holds his memories away. The girl is a torch, whose living Is the lover's love of her. The rich man's daughter is a bride, To give, to take, And to be a bride is fain; But to be a queen is more than she Can stand, And she'd be sorry for the hardship. Her lover has to be a king, Or a king has to be a king. The young man's son is a battle, To feed his hungry hours; And his sword's bloody morrice Is a joy for his playmates. The old man's gray is a carpet, He waits for his sleep in state. The girl is a train, that hurries, Lest she should ever stop. The girl is a dancing floor, Where the best have ever tread. The young man's son is a salesman, To buy, to sell; And the old man's gray is a store, Where his treasures are. The girl is a mansion, made Of many colors of stone; Where her belongings are stor'd away, And are hid for aye. The girl is a cradled baby, That was weans'd so long ago. The rich man's daughter is a mother, Whose babe is glorious. The young man's son is a youth, To fill his heart with delight. The old man's gray is a summer, He lives in sun and sand. The girl is a song, whose melody The best can understand. The girl is a mother's heart, Who gives love after love. A girl whose kisses were sweet And gentle love like mine, And love that ever dwells In fondling girlhood's breast, And purity that shines Like sunshine on the sea, A girl who never wears A garment but is fair. A girl whose dwelling is the rose, Who walks in lovely green, And blushing, blossom-loving, The life she freely gives, A rose whose petals she unfolds To all that drink of them. A girl to me so full of love, The holiest, brightest thing That e'er God made for woman, A rose whose petals she unfolds To all that drink of them. "I'm weary of tramping for Master Blogg, I'm weary of the faring in company With squire and chambermaid. They go a squirmer in the way they travel, And I must bear it." "I'm weary of working for sor cuspidating His endless mire. I'm weary of the remuneration Which is the due of a sor cuspidating And pious person. "I'm weary of my good wife's embroidery Which can outshine all other art. I'm weary of my gray beard and my long beard Which reaches toward her robes. I'm weary of my oxen's heavy hoof-beats. My cattle are tired." "My wife has laid out sums which when all's said Are of no consequence. She's taken me to work on a dairy -- a Very pleasant thing to do. And now I'm weary of the things I've to do. I'm weary of my work." "I'm weary of the rushing in of the night The worst of it's at night. The stars shine with their dear white lights so bright And the moon is a dawgoo at full. The birds sing their sweetest songs. I'm weary." "I'm weary of my dear wife's kind and loving Her many charms and wafts and grace. Her buns and her crackers and her ginger-pop And her little white hot-house. Her whispers in my ear. Her looks and her kisses and her thoughts of Sweet fondling and pampering." "I'm weary of the lusty praise I hear Of my sweet wife's thick blood and ripe plumage And her good-hearted kind words. I'm weary when I hear her tell of her Many nameless good qualities. I'm weary listening to her much exhortation Of her many failings." "I'm weary of the confident wise counsels Which oft my good wife gives. Of my kind deeds, of my errors, of the state Of her poor home, where I'm far away. The good she does in a distant land. She plies me with fish and liquor and wine And food, and dresses me like this." "I'm weary listening to her often prattle, Which makes me feel high and low. I'm weary of the words that she says, Though sweet her singing and wily." "I'm weary of my wife's many dreams And speculations and plans. I'm weary of her often too subdued And humble prayings." "I'm weary of the ways she often talks Of her many visions. Of her particular favorites and whiles I'm weary, and wish her spirit More free should wander up and down. For my sake she often plies me With food and drink and cover, But I'm too weak and low to sustain Her fond guidance, as of yore." "I'm weary of the gifts of my wife Her wholesome meals and libations. The song and the smile and the love <|endoftext|> But, just for a moment, I'm quite free, I've nothing to say. When the sky is clear, And the frost is gone, And the earth is growing green, In the meadows brown, With the bees humming round, I shall laugh, and sing, And my heart shall be glad With the spring again. How I used to dread the solemn hours When the winter nights would brood and chill, With a shadow over everything; When the leaf was bending and the sap Had fallen in the moss, And I feared the time would come When I'd never dance again, Or set eyes to look on summer deer. But now, when summer's o'er, And the frost has passed away, I seem to know the light and laughter That greeted me on the hills; And the sound and joy of nature So deep an influence extend, That my heart shrinks with meek delight At the approach of spring. If I should die to-night, And you should come to my cold corpse and lay me, On this mouldering face, a flowery stroke, On this bleak and withered face, O follow with a laughter terrible The wind-hearted Spring! For I'll have roses, red and purple, And lilies, and columbines, And white and beaded violets, And snowdrops seeded with snow, And creamy asters, and blossoms sweet Of summer nights and days. And I'll have a song to tell my roses And my columbines and lilies How well I have honored them this year In their white and beaded gown; For I have danced with the dew of night, And sung in the morning light, And I shall dance and sing with roses And my lilies white and dusted. I have stood in the fires of night, And had the winds for wings, And I have passed through the fire and the storm To follow the silver light; And I feel as pure and free As the dewdrops that weep On the morning's pale cheeks, When the wind and the dew are for me. I have heard the stars sing, and all the spheres Of their song rejoice, And thought on them and loath to die, But how can a man when all things sing And sing so well to him? So come, O come, my wild and woeful songs, To the sweet breath of the spring, For we are the seven belles of Greece, and we This is the song of the spinning-girl When the spring-time of the year is near: Blow, sweet summer winds, and scatter wide This bloom-covered broidered cloth of silver, And scatter fragrance round it, And let the maid with gladsome heart See her love-thought flash on her face, And the music of her sighs. Blow, sweet summer winds, and scatter wide This bloom-covered broidered cloth of silver, And scatter fragrance round it, And let the maid with gladsome heart See her love-thought flash on her face, And the music of her sighs. This is the song of a soul That walks in a sea of sound, And the night is the only song That it hears while it will. The sound of the sea and the stars, The sound of a sword and the clash Of arms, and the sighing of morn, And the calling of the nightingale. The night is the only song That it hears while it will; The sound of the sea and the stars, The sound of a sword and the clash Of arms, and the singing of morn, And the calling of the nightingale. This is the song of the poet Whose whole life's work has been To gather these things and make them His songs and his alone: Blow, sweet summer winds, and scatter wide This bloom-covered broidered cloth of silver, And scatter fragrance round it, And let the maid with gladsome heart See her love-thought flash on her face, And the music of her sighs. Blow, sweet summer winds, and scatter wide This bloom-covered broidered cloth of silver, And scatter fragrance round it, And let the maid with gladsome heart See her love-thought flash on her face, And the music of her sighs. I have seen a garden, and the flowers Shone like the sun, and the shadows of trees Made of light, and the sunlight of grass, And the tremulous shadows on the walls Made of sound; and a nightingale Sang as the moon rose, and the flowers Sent forth their odors in a word. I have seen a garden, and I saw The scented breath of brier and of brush, And the waving of grasses and of hay, And the blowing of wind on the windy top And the singing of wind among the leaves, And the gathering of fragrance and the mixing Of tones, and the calling of the nightingale Among the branches overhead. I have seen a garden, and there was woven Upon the blossoms and the leaves a garment Of fragrance so fine that it fell like light, And there was under it a living garment Made of voices and soft sighs and of tears And of thoughts that were silent; and the garden Shone with the fine texture of that garment Made of the living breath of things. I have seen a garden, and it was sweet To lie among the blooms, and to think of a song Made in the sunshine, and to listen to a voice That rose among the blossoms, and to hear a throat Swaying among the voices, and to see the flowers Light with the motion of a woman's breast, And to know that the singer was seen of a man Who loved the garden and the singer and the flowers. The nightingale sings among the suspended leaves Of the high-roofed poplars of Yarrow Bay; She sings to seek a spring, for no spring are they, And no spring shall they seek, for the stream is shut. Oh, never may our singing seek a spring for them, For the spring that they seek is shut. The nightingale sings among the suspended leaves Of the high-roofed poplars of Yarrow Bay; She sings to seek a spring, for no spring are they, And no spring shall they seek, for the stream is shut. Oh, never may our singing seek a spring for them, For the spring that they seek is shut. The nightingale sings among the suspended leaves Of the high-roofed poplars of Yarrow Bay; She sings to seek a spring, for no spring are they, And no spring shall they seek, for the stream is shut. Oh, never may our singing seek a spring for them, For the spring that they seek is shut. He drank and he slept, and he dreamed and he woke Of the ancient and worshipful Knights of the Order, And their quaint antiquity and worshipful dress; And the king upon his silver chair was seen, Golden, sitting on a throne of silver. And he smote his gauntlet with his hand, And he looked in the eyes of the drunken wight, And he said: "I am the king, 'tis true, I am the king." "Queen I am in heart," he said, "Queen I am in name. Queen I am in soul and in deeds, And here is my girdle dight." He clapped his hands, and his heralds played The princely concert and theazione. The murmuring fiddles ceased, the voices were still, Save where the murmurous sea made a little gale, That waved on either hand like a heron's wing. "What is yon grey dot that moves Like a mist on the river-stream?" " 'Tis the very sun, my love, Yon mist on the river-stream, That spreads the rainbow on the sky, And tells to the evening bird Of the merry summer he is on the wing. "For see, the golden brook is dry, The golden sand is spent; And the glad morning breeze has died, The morning whisper dies: And now I only see the ripples, The ripples, mellow mellow, That the smooth river makes under the bridge. "Come, my love, let us float upon the stream, Let us sport thereon; I will make a rippling music-stream, And my bird shall chirp for the making. Let us have a little pied gliding, As of a rose-flush new-blown; And the rippling waters I will bind Into a rose-red mist, <|endoftext|> When we were ready for the road. And there's a bright purple and a snow white And a little bit of a rustle, And we went up the hill, And out along the roads, And up the trees, and through the fences, And we rode at our ease. We had a little squirt gun, And we let it off when no one was there; But that's not the point. There's a time when men must go to bed, And that's not the point. The things we do when we're in our senses I'm not going to describe. The trees are sleeping, the trees are sleeping, The trees are happy with the rain outside. I hear the raindrops pat the windowpanes And drop in the oaken cracks; The woodbine curls on violets tall Is all I see and hear. I'm going to the kitchen for a cup of tea; There's a moth in the waxwork of the stove. The moth has found the narrow way into the house, And is flap-winged and dim. But I will meet it with my fan; The moth is unharmed and still. My heart is hot where it is, But it will cool when it is cold. When it is full of years And sickness and the colour of death, I shall open my mouth to the air And sing a song of days. But the day is bright in the window; It is a glorious golden day, The great grey sun is bright in the sky, And the birds are in the trees. And all the lovely summer sun Is burning a crimson sunshine, And burning the shadows with gold. But I will sit in my chair; The bright world has moved away. There is a spider in the culvert That dips his fat body in the water; There are water weeds on the bank And a brown-eyed bug that buzzes. There is a door in the wall That opens and shuts noiselessly. And through that door, I know, A world lies drowned in the silt, A world that has no place to go, A world that has no voice to say, "It is summer in the summer." And I am glad of this; for, when it's over, There will be nothing for me to do But to sit and toil and toil, And to go to sleep at night, And to sleep in pain, Because the grey, hard years, The noise, and the hurry, and the sight, Have spoiled her heart, And her brain, And her life. Yes, I have heard the birds call; But, where I am, I do not hear. The sun is setting in the west; I have walked with my feet down the hill And found the brown earth still hot. But now the night is coming on; I shall only hear The birds calling in the dry trees And the flies buzz in the damp grass. He took me, he has taken me; Where have I been since then, Mary? I have been to the very place You have left for us, dear, in sorrow. When did my heart grow old? When did I care for a young heart, Because I had a young body too? Oh, I have loved my body now, For the strong, wide arms and the huge chest; But I have never loved my heart Till I had my young heart with it. I shall love my body, and I shall love The strength of my strong, broad hand, And I shall love the glow on my face, That comes when my blood is warmed by him; But I shall never love again The tenderness of a young body, That lay in my nursing arms, And loved me, and called me father. There are two lights in the sky, they say, And when they kissed each other they made One flame with twin-burning speed. One gleamed in the sea, a kingly star, The other gleamed in mine own clear eyes; And when we kissed each other they made One flame with twin-burning speed. I've walked with Christ, I've walked with Christ, And seen the Master clear. I've walked with men who bought and sold, And thought and dreamed and sighed; But never again shall I share the pangs A man feels when he's left alone When Jesus comes, he comes. 'Twas morning in the country of my birth, And the first thing that awakened my sense Was the chirp of a blackbird on the blast, That piped and went his low clear tune, As he flew o'er the grassy sea, To feed and rest him for the road. The sun peeked from behind a cloud, And the meadow-grass gave out green blurs To the eye that followed it on the morn. I listened; and the chirp of the blackbird Fill the night with gladness was rung Aloud in all the woodlands and the barns. And then I remembered where, in a bay, The sea looked up at me, calm and clear, As it always used to look, and I Could look on its side for the deepest blue, And the shores shine down on me as they do On a blue Sunday in the country of my birth. So I started on again to the country of my birth, And the first thing that awakened my sense Was the chirp of a blackbird on the blast, As he piped and went his low clear tune, As he flew o'er the grassy sea, To feed and rest him for the road. Ah, my eyes are heavy, my hands are brown, And my feet are growing old; I have been a lone mateless soul, and now I am longing for a mate. I would curl in a heap of joy at last, And never want for any more; For I am not so young, and yet I know That I am old. I would spin, and weave my brows like a net, And my hair would hang In thick and tangled braids about my brows, And I would be a fair girl still; And my song, when I sing, would be worth a golden tree, For my voice would hold A glory for the song, and radiance for the day. But my heart would be too glad, my heart too glad For the fearful risks of life to-day; My lips would too rejoice, my lips too rejoice For love to risk Its wildest kisses for a desperate deed, And the blood to be shed if aught should fail. Ah, my heart is heavy, and my eyes are dim, And my feet are growing old; I have been a lonely soul, and now I am longing For a mate. I would curl in a heap of joy at last, And never want for any more; For I am not so young, and yet I know That I am old. This life is nothing but a breath; And death is not; And love is better than all things; And youth is better than all things; And pleasure is better than all things; And a good heart is better than all things. For out of the breath of the bitter, sweet, And out of the shadow of death, The future was born, and it shall live Through every hour of the future's span; And there's no word of love to clear Its misty and mysterious way. I cannot paint this shadow on the wall, It is too vast; I cannot pluck the flower from out its bed, It is too humble; I cannot win love from this loveless world, Its frailty is too great; I cannot bend my heart to love's low desire, And take the sacrifice in hate. But as I walked among my own And watched my own child, I felt the need of my own child more Than I have felt since my child-heart began; And out of the depths of myself I cried: I cannot love my own child as I love you. If I might only take you And rend you apart, Then all my life would be complete And what I do would be perfect. If I might but break you And bury you alive, My life would then be all complete And what I do would be perfect. My love is a jest, a game, a jest, And you are a fool, For fall at any moment so mightily You might stand alone; But there is play in the end of it all And the team's the same at the end of the play. If my poor folly were but proven By unkindness unkind, How gladly would I change places With your proud and aloof self! I'm weak and I'm woe; <|endoftext|> Yet see ye how thy Son, though he should still desire Your honour and the faith ye once held, will in his sight Find nothing fair to beautify the world; Yea, and the earthly gold that, once, was valued so As to make every face therein shine with it, Hath in thy Son's sight lost its virtue found No appeal for him: Nay, in the sight of him thou hadst in this world A world of lilies barren, blossoming On a flower-girdled hill, Which, withering, shows Its hundred tongues of flame, And all the song within them, In fruitless pity of their bitter woe, Recklessly in tune And therefore unprofitable Unto the world, The sum of all things, for use of noise. And yet such were his grandeur And such his majesty As, when the trump of war Was heard through all his host, With strange amazement They saw him stand, Arm in arm with Caesar, Caesar's son! The world's eyes are set On Caesar's war: On his white arm Hangs the pallid wreath, On his brow the laurel; His forky tusks Are bared for slaughter: Sons of the world, Let your hands be bare! The world's voice is led In triumph to the war: The world's hot heart Is his raging sword: The world's white hand Shall form the slaughter: On the white brow And the broad forked tongue Of the world, let your hands be bare! I look on the undying fire That burneth within thy soul; And the vision is more bright Than the broad sun in summer skies. But the hot blood on thy brow Is as a flood that maketh a lake, Where the melted snow hath set, And the bark of the riven tree Is as fire that reacheth by; And the bitter, bitter tears That thou wearest as thy brow Are as foam on the sea-shore, Where the breaker leviathan spreds. The world's voice is led To the war's battle; The world's hot heart Is his raging sword: And the white hand that is burning for blood Is his whetted falchion that is gleaming for battle. Thy tears as foam on the sea are flecked with sand, And the dark, dark tears that thou warest as thy brow Are as foam on the brine of the waves of the world. I saw thy face in a dream; And in mine heart I said, The love of my soul is Thine! And in mine own right hand I reached out to clasp The love of my soul to my breast, And in my other hand I held a harp of ivory That once was white as love itself. I plucked it, and my tears On the ashes fell; And in the ashes sat the soul That once was white as love itself. And in mine own heart I said, My soul, thou art more fair Than the love of thine own breast is fair. And I set the soul of the harp To a sweet strain; And the tears of love were stirred to murmurs As the harp in mine own right hand Gently fell and rose again In perfect music from the dust. When the darkness is thickest, And my camp fire blazes Like a beacon light, It is then I find release, For my heart is calm. But it is in rising that pain Gathers the most fiercely. When above the storm we ride, And the boughs are bent beneath The weight of the day's sorrow, How the soul is snuggled from The sorrow that is near! How the soul lies softly close When the camp fire's flame goes out! There is no place on earth more blest Than the home of the soldier's rest; And no sea more placid or smooth Within its bosom to rest its guest. Rest hath a charm on the world, And the sailor's rest is sweetest, For the deck is ever serene, And a safe and familiar face Is ever another's to the soul. The sea hath a magic of its own, And it's hard for the mind of man To cope with the grandeur of its forms, When the noise of the ocean comes Of its curves and its peril and might; For on the wide-blazing deeps of the sea There is never a storm that doth darken The smile that is on the face of the sea. It is pleasant to lie on the turf, And to slumber in a comforting heap; It is good to forget the cares and woes That our men of the line long to forget; But it is better to face the peril Than to meet the dark-browed anger of storm. There is glory in danger, I ween, And a joy in the foe that we meet; The wave has a grand and a noble spirit, And a grand and a cheerful defiance, And we know that its ladders are nigh To the steep cliffs that are often found On the wide-blazing main; but the land Hath a stern and a avenging spirit, And it seldom, seldom, seldom yields. There is glory in labor and strife, In the rush of the drum and the fife, In the strain of the clarion and the horn, In the rope that is cast to the waves, In the toil that is found when the day is done, But the crown of all glory is found In the eyes of the child at the end of the day, As he looks toward the clouds of his father's coming. The red wine hangeth up in the crimson cupboard, And the white wine hangeth up in the silver cabinet; The flower wine hangeth over in the garden vine; The old wine hangeth up in the ancient vineyard; The new wine hangeth up in the recent vineyard; And I shall never forget the ugly, pleasant wine, For I shall never, never forget the ugly, pleasant wine. The sun set soon; the young men and the maidens Danced alone in the dark vineyard; And the drum and the fife sounded elsewhere, And the swords hung by the wall were left rusty, And the old sword-blades were sharp and stubbed and rusty. The old sword-blades and the blunt sword-blades, The hilts of the sword that was broken, The scabbards of the sword that was bare, Came up red and sharp and rusty, And streaked with a child's hand's fancy, And looked as she turned them over and over, And rustled as she took them up again. The old sword hung up in the crimson cupboard, The new sword hung up in the silver cabinet; The wine that was shared and the wine that was sold And the wine that was mixed and the mead and the wine that was sweet, They called it the ugly, pleasant wine, And they mixed it and they sold it and they tasted it, And they called it the ugly, pleasant wine. And the old sword hung up in the crimson cupboard, The white sword hung up in the silver cabinet; The flowers that were cut with the gardening knife, The scabbards that were worn by the warriors, The armors that were given and the armors that were stolen, They called it the ugly, pleasant wine, And they mixed it and they sold it and they tasted it, And they called it the ugly, pleasant wine. When I go forth from my door, And walk among the maidens, O my love and joy, Let me but be guided by you; If you say, go forth, go forth; Let the maidens and the lovers Walk together in their beauty, I must say yes, go forth, go forth. When I go forth from my door, And walk among the warriors, O my friend and brother, Let me but be guided by you; If you say, stand at your side; Let the warriors and the maidens Stand together in their wisdom, I must say yes, stand at my side. When I go forth from my door, And walk among the flowers, O my happy, happy, happy, Let me but be guided by you; If you say, dwell with me; Let me but dwell with you in happiness, I must say yes, dwell with me. There is a little door by the wall, There is a little door where it cracks, There is a little door where it stays; It closes by little--crack! It closes by little-- The door is shut. But the little door opens wider, wider, <|endoftext|> O we had sailed too far with no patch And when it rained we were sunburnt. You and I that evening. At the corner of Superior Street. You sat on the swing and looked At the houses when the evening car Bringing its old one gave the hubbub Of its brakes on Superior Street And we thought of the fort, You and I, toiling Like the others to create With our work still undone And we said our prayers Out on the porch, We sat on the swing and watched The cars came with their color And beauty and variety And new-born rapscallion, And the new moon had risen And the rain slackened And the clouds in God's great sunshine Had a composition And the breeze made its apology And we felt uplifted, And the souls of the departed Who had mucked around with them To be rained upon And taken away. <|endoftext|> "The Look of Silence", by Hart Crane [Living, Death, Growing Old, Midlife, Time & Brevity, Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] 1 I have been here before, and walk the shadowy hall, And all the corridors leading up to it, And all the rooms where things were, And here, too, the morgue, Where all the dead men came from. And when I get to the door, A soldier from the other side, With a sheet tied round him, Stares at me in the moonlight, As though he might ask me, "Who are you?" I am holding his shoulders, Laying my hand on his helmet, Rubbing some kind of salve in, And telling him in Hebrew What the dead men had to say. 2 God does not walk amongst us. We are frightened of His face. The faces of the dead Have no expression, Nothing that is clear or true. Theirs is a story That has no ending, Theirs is a story That will repeat itself. They died like men, Not like the dead men Who are now lying here. 3 When I was just a little lad God made me come to the door Of His house every day at sun-down time. I see the shadows falling Over the hill like silver shadows From a sunken bridge above the river. And the houses on the other side Of the river from our own, And the faces of the people In the homes across the river. God puts His faith in us to grow Into bodies like unto bodies, Into souls like unto souls. 4 You have died too many times, dear friend, To forget how death can hurt. You are only one of many. You are only one of many. 5 There is nothing here to look at, dear friend, Nothing to do but to look at. 6 My little rabbit, my pink-eyed tortoise, My green-eyed cloud, my brown-eyed grass, My father’s broad field of flight, My mother’s knee, and the sea, The silent shore, beyond the harbor. There is nothing to see but to see. 7 As though the world were like a house of cards I am falling asleep to the stories All around me, falling asleep. 8 They will not find me. God will not call me. And my children Will not come looking for me. They will not come looking for me. 9 As though the world were a card game, I am laying the cards on the table, And asking God to look at me, To look down into my eyes, To look past the houses to the river, The faces of the people, The names that are written on the faces. There is nothing to see but to see. 10 It is the same with dying As with anything else. Nothing can be done about it, Only about it, something has to be. And when the time is right Death will come to take me away. 11 Like you, like you, like you, my dear, My darling, my child, my dove, My man-baby, my wild white raven, My lover of pink and brown. 12 He is here, he is here, He is everywhere, He will come back one day, My little white dove, my wild raven, My other lover, my man-baby, My white dove, my gray raven. 13 And when he comes, he will say: What have I done to deserve this? And I will answer: Everything. 14 And then he will say: Where is everything? And I will answer: In you. 15 And when I say: Everything has been destroyed. Everything, all the rivers, all the wells, All the gardens, all the meadows, All the little children. 16 And I will say to him: God will destroy everything On earth but me and you. 17 And I will tell him: I am a ship without a sail. 18 And I will tell him: Everything that lives on earth Without this understanding Is a wreck, a wreck for me. 19 And he will say: Everything that has been born on earth Is not mine to love. 20 And I will answer him: Everything that dies has been born. 21 And I will say to him: Everything that was born on earth Will be destroyed. 22 And I will answer him: I care not if I understand. 23 You see I have been given this world To love, to be happy in, And you have been given a different one. 24 And all you have been given is this world. 25 And you see I am the only one Who can be happy in my world. 26 And all you are is many, my dear, And all the millions of worlds Before you have been able to love. 27 And all you are is bright lights in dark nights Shooting and dying, And all you have been given is this world. 28 And all you are is this world, And I am the only one Who has been given the world to love. 29 And I am a red tree in a green field And you are a blue flower in a pot. 30 And we are on a green field, my dear, And our lives are as bright as a green light. 31 And I can see you, blue flower, In my heart, I see you breathe against my skin. 32 And I can hear you, red flower, In my heart, you call my name. 33 And my soul rings with it, And my soul shouts, It is you, my lover, My little red dove, My beautiful blue flower. 34 I saw a man without a face, I saw a man without a face, Without clothes, and his belly was blue. 35 And he ran and he ran, And he ran and he ran, Until he reached the Western world. 36 And he looked at all he met With new eyes, and he said: "What is the use?" And the world said: "What is the use?" 37 And all he earned he put aside For his two daughters' clothing and toys, And all day long he cried: "What is the use?" And he ran until the world said: "What is the use?" 38 You see I am a man without a face, A man without clothes, and my belly is blue. 39 And I run because I cannot stand it, And I run till I reach the Western world. 40 And I say to you, my dear, I cannot understand, What is the use? What is the use? 41 What is the use of living or of dying? 42 I can only say: I care, my darling, I care. And I care, my little girl. 43 "We are the life-givers, <|endoftext|> How art thou dead? thy heart is still. Now we are late, the clocks are striking; And soon will come the fiddlers, dancing And lovely girls, and lovers piping, And strange big sticks will be breaking, And long-drawn-out sobbing, and sighing, And children running out to meet us. So we will take our time. All day long The city awake will throb and murmur. Then we will come, and down the world we will run Till we find some lone rock, and read our books, And write our little notes thereon, and sleep, And take our tea, and think of thee, and smile. And when we come to die, here we will take Some fresh and bubbling springs of life, and drink, And think how many mighty minds we have kist; How many great hearts have been broken; How many thousand lives have been callediels. Then we will kiss the earth, and die like men. Thou world, that thus hast haunted me, A stranger and a guest, Unmindful of my fame and poesy, I once more must thee appeal To thy more shameful and licentiate, And play the servant once more, The servile world-proud fool. How canst thou joy, when I must pine, Thou sun that wouldst have me nigh, That with my shadow dost chear my grief, And hide its real character? By what miracle, thou chearful orb, Can I see clear and sudden, When thou beholdest me to wallow, My tears be bright and sudden? The light that from thy spheres, I know, Makes me your sorrows share, And in my sight thou dost show Despair and despair in spightful sport, And joy in breaking hearts. By what miracle, ye suns, that know My piteous state, do thou encrease My pain, and make it sudden? Thou knowest my poverty sovereign, Thou knowest my prime of powers, And how I always most desire To waste in vainly clasping thee. By what miracle, ye chearful orbs, That gazest on my wanton woe, Do ye prolong my grief and woe And make it sudden? Alas! thou knowest, thou knowest, Thou knowest that I am not, Thou knowest what worlds the grave encloses, And what my vacant futurity. By what miracle, ye liv'ring orbs, That knowest my nakedness, Do ye prolong my days and years, And give to me the sight Of nakedness? And thou, happy one, that ever seeing This true body doest rejoice, And that to see it I must go, By what miracle art thou begot, And so thou wert begot, and yet the same Nothing bringest forth but bodies? By what miracle art thou begot, And art thou hastening to be born? And thou, happy one, I know not how, For whom a stranger thou art, And yet thou wantest nought of a stranger's good But nought of the true succour thou, By what miracle art thou begot, And so thou art begot, and not born, And take'st thy succour from the heavens? O joyless days, and days full of care, And heavy, heavy nights, and heavier The dreams I find upon my sleeping: When each envious person, right or wrong, Thinking that I am straitened and miserable, Sighs for my suffering, pines for my grief, And thinks that he can ease my present grief; When each thinks that his grief is most endurable, Sighs, and weeps, and labours to be comforted; O sorrowful nights, and days, full of care! O unhappy days, nights and days, full of care! When fortune frowns, and raillery is set on gay, And many a gift I gain or make is reported; When by a right-anointed chief or hand reported, I see my children blessed and honored: When some report my elevation or disgrace, And write my elevation or disgrace in heaven, And call it good or ill; when some write my praise, Or write my song or blame my singing: When all write or talk of me in rising rage, And call me fool, or weak, or belated, When these write, these sing, and these revere me; O nights, and days, full of care! O sorrowful nights, And sorrowful days, full of care! When from the cradle each true mind takes leave, With oaken clubs they scatter my entrails: When these, my children, in youth untaught to doubt, Say all I wanted were, or what I wanted were; When they praise my marriage or my plantage, And call it learning, or reputation, or grace; When these, my children, with baseness will slander My virtues, or my faults, or flatter my wit: O nights, and days, full of care! O sorrowful nights, And sorrowful days, full of care! When men do me wrong, and those of like mind, With words I have received deathless praise to gain; When such with me at law agree or die; And if they mistake I make them so or so; When those who might good courses pursue, Whose minds to virtue are so enamoured, And will so thence to virtue all succeed, O nights, and days, full of care! O sorrowful nights, And sorrowful days, full of care! When I to thee, great Spirit! make return, Who on the heavenly shore dost preside, Thee to my faithful consort me prevent, And her to love, with whose good help I do abide. And give her hence a righteous husband's love, That, first things first, she ne'er do me shame. And, even from her bed I take her nigh, That she do me not a hurt, or snare; That thence I may obtain a blissful sight Of this fair morning, and to meet with me Myself may naught dismay, or grieve, or fear. Like the young spring tinging the alleys with the hues Of time's blossom, till the summer solstice, So do I tinge these rhymes, till you shall descry The summer past, the winter nigh, The distance 'twixt here and there. For, like the summer's tender flowers that blow 'Gainst winter blasts in garden bowers, The fire of love shall flame in mine, till The cold mind with flame I share. When at night, with her lovely arms she comes To hang her velvet neck on my breast, I feel her warm breath'd bosom fondly try To stir some of their coldness there. But when that soft sweet breath, that soft dear breath, With which she blandly bids me sleep, With lips, as white as lilies are, doth lie On lips that are like as lilies meant, I dream of years that are fled. I dream of days, that are fled for ever, With hope that they shall never pass away. The joyful thoughts that then are in my breast To summer-tide brought forward are for me Like flowers in my bosom sown, and grown; And, as the summer-tide fadeth and fades, So dream I, day and night, of the past. Thou that hast the wit to name the thing That's absent, and the knowledge to say When that is absent, and thou think'st that thou Hast seen or heard the never to be, The ever-missing be, The flower, that is never seen, and yet, Though we may look for it in our graves, In flowerless years we may not find. I may not tell what years have brought me woe, I may not hope that in years to come I shall know the be that is lost and gone, And, even if I should, the never-to-be, The flower, that is never seen, and yet, Though we may look for it in our graves, In flowerless years we may not find. I may not tell, though years have brought me woe, I should not care to look back to see How love has held me from my never-to-be, And made me wander in a dark land, And burnt in me all reason, all desire And broke all peace. In happy hours, I call to mind The hour that with her arms she came, And when I went to rest, As softly she crept beside me, I thought I never should again <|endoftext|> While the name is on the coin, And the gold-haired river flows by. On a sloping meadow-side The juniper bends its head, And o'er the grass and herbs that grow Are creeping things of shadow, That may be nothing dear, But oh! they wear an air of grace That makes the day seem gay, And warm the silent room. In the wild wood where I alone Am the only living thing, I feel the desire to call, But ah! I fear to look again For the dear tree I heard you sing, For the dear tree I saw you play; I am dreadfully lonely here, When the night comes on and the dew is gone. I seek not to be happy all my days; A little happiness, indeed, is best; Yet, when I think of the dear old times, I am not sad at all to see, For my heart says, "I will truth to speak, 'Twas a delightful life, 'tis a delightful time!" Come, Child of the Morning! Let us try our powers Of persuasion, And, far and wide, Woo together, The region Where, to the sun All her flowers Cry, "Our mother is nigh!" See, the first hill-wind, Blowing across the plain, Tells us that the country There is still for pursuit By day and by night. Then let us go, And make our summons To the region Where, to the sun All her flowers Cry, "Our mother is nigh!" All the land is white with sleep, And its trees are drooping, And its houses dark and still By the roadside all alone. And the city, that naught Can detain or hold from work, And from home and from light, And from the hope of all men, White and still and sad and sweet, Is a pall of darkness Over all the landscape. And I have not a hope to go Down the highway, any more In the darkness of this place To the spot where, in his boat, The son of God lay nigh. For I remember how, once, Down that way, by narrow ways, His footsteps, leading late, Were followed by a blazing star, And I saw the light and heard And the wide-scattered group of trees Are stepping, heavy and slow, In a solemn dance now, As if they all were draped With a purple samite, And each had a hood of snow On his head; And the highway, dark and deep, Is a black and wonderful space Through which I have not wings, And which I can but voyeuristically gaze. And I watch the full, heavy, still Unsighed-by rains which down, down Pour through narrow grates, And I hear, far away, the wind Blowing as it fell in Palestine, A time long since, a time agone. And the city, whose bars and bars Are endless, endless is the roadway; And the homes of my childhood, so white And so blue, so close and yet apart, Are folded close and shut, And my heart has lost all hope and fear And combs its gray hair, long and slow, For the highway, which I have not tread, For the perfect heaven that no one knows. She watched her lover drag his broken way Down the highway, weary and slow, In the blazing heat of the noon; But, though her heart was sad and sore, She could not recall the way of her dream, For her eyes were sad with weeping, And the City where, through lane and street, Wavers, as a sword of fire, And a sword of fire, The sun is rising over. I can not remember the road of my dream, For a gulf of darkness lies between, And the memory of a bridge or wall Is all that is left of my dream; And I sit, I look along the highway Where I once walked, I once walked, And I cry out to the morning, as I listen, "Oh, would that I were where I used to be! For, oh, for the memory of the road That I shall never see again!" 'Twas a child that stood before my feet With a long face and a little hand In my own, and said, "What is it you want?" And I said, "I would grow to be a man And seek a kingdom for myself." And he said, "You have enough of a mess Of being merely a man on earth Without adding on to the end Of your seeking what you do not know." And, in truth, I do not seek the knowledge Which leads to death. But I do say to him, "If the goal you seek is not beyond, Why continue to seek it?" And he said, "The kingdom of the knower I seek, Is the only kingdom worth seeking. And the kingdom of the seekers I Am the one true seekers there are." And thereupon I bowed my head And said, "No kingdom or knower I Would serve by choice, but because a necessity Calls on me to try to attain the knowledge Which may, if I am overcome, put me Where I can see and understand the end. And if the seekers I comparison make With the seekers who are facts, then you, Like the child I saw in front of me, The seekers are gods and I am a man, And the gods are better than men." There was a little wind that blew Across the sunlit garden beds, And as it lifted fern and weed It changed the flowers into stars. There was a little wind that blew Across the sunlit garden beds, And the little wind of God, and then A cry of pleasure from a king. I sat by the hearth, I watched the flame The redwood chimney made against the sky, And then the fire grew bright again, And the old beauty came again Into my heart, and the room grew dark, And I knew the day was ready to break. I sat by the hearth and watched the flame The redwood chimney sent up against the sky, And then the redwood chimney grew bright again And the old beauty came again Into my heart, and the room grew dark. I thought of the flowers in the hawthorn wood That are fairer than all others, Of the dust in the river bank, Of the snow in the mountain's heart, Of the oceans and of the stars, And I said, "Now come the words I long have sought." He that hath no treasure on the earth Is like to him that hath a name That covereth him as a shield; But he that treasureth his possessions Is like to me that diggetteth wheat. And, therefore, I would fain benefit thee As my inherited possessions do. He that hath no love for the riches That Nature hath bestowed upon us Is like a man that travelth for treasure On a road of blood and so falls at eve. But he that loveth aught on earth and lives In awe of the treasures of God Is like a man that diggeth no gold But counteth all the value in worth. I fain would benefit thee, old man, As my inheritance will be; And first, old man, I'll help thee out In planting the seed of righteousness In all thy thought, in all thy deed, That love and compassion may grow Into a fair, lofty, sweeping tree That longs but to be pruned but never is damaged. I pray thee take this little book And ponder its counsel for an hour; Consider if thou canst mend the world, Thy future so toils in seeking a name That only leads to more tears and sorrow; 'Tis all we can or would do That ever hath been or shall be done. I would thou wouldst consider first, This great and simple book that I shall give thee, And then, old man, think what it may mean To "look low, sweet friend, and do not peek;" For sure, in thy dome, if thou dost not peek, I'll have to pull the cord of yonder bolt And thou maistangest down with me into the dark. I would that thou wert more like the birds That home with fledglings, right and left, From sweet May passes and full Summer's rest, But never do or read or know More than is in their daily papers, Then wert always like to me and all the rest As my fancies took their flight and freely flitted. I wish the light and darkness brought <|endoftext|> At night is overcast, Watched the babe in her cradle, And wondered if the things Were "hope and joy and freedom." But the young man in his spare hours Would look at her face and think, It is a face he knew. But he grew old, and passed away, And the face has vanished From the cradle and the bed And the eyes are closed in sleep. <|endoftext|> "Last Hope", by Louis Simpson [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving] You have to battle— And I don't mean Just one time and then You're through. I mean To battle through and never Let the enemy win. I'm talking Like a soldier, not a general. We soldiers only battle When our flag is under attack. We don't do it that way. We just go out there and do our Handsome jobs, and then come home. We don't lay down our guns And retreat. We never Do that. We fight again And again, and again, Until one day we get tired, And it's decided we give up. We never do that to our Country. We'll fight to our last Battleship. We'll storm them Five-inch batteries, if we have to Hope to sink them. Hope is the Bomb's greatest power. Hope is what you need. Hope is What we've got. <|endoftext|> "September, Late September", by Louis Simpson [Nature, Fall, Weather] It is the end of summer. The lank rows of grain, wet from harvest, stand in the fields, their bodies a little out of breath from the day's work. In the houses a weird wind kicks up, then let up, buzzing like a few tiny buzzards on their high perch. The wind will do that. Then the barns— bunker-size residencies of brown and reddish oak with bits of down still hanging from their eaves, from which the first leaves of autumn drops small gold devils onto the ground. This autumn is strange because it is only the second raining that week. Everything else is in the dark, from the farm to the nursery. All of nature is in the dark. In the dark there is only the smell of autumn and the sound of it, the way rain squeezes earth and fills the land. <|endoftext|> "Clara's Story", by Michael Chitwood [Living, Coming of Age, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class] Because I was not born into a wealthy or famous family, because my mother was a single woman all her life, because I myself have been single for the past several years, I find myself today in an unloved house with an unappreciated facade: I could have been, and probably was, the daughter of a prominent personage, but because I was not born into wealth or celebrity, because I did not inherit large amounts of money, because I myself was not born into an illustrious or wealthy family, I find myself today in an unloved house, and I give my mother three days to pack up and move the fifty miles or so down the road to live with a rich uncle, and I give my mother three days to pack up and leave everything behind and I give my mother three days to learn the value of giving up something she loves for the sake of living alone, and I give my mother three days to find something to love in this life besides herself, and I give my mother three days to teach herself how to love again, and I give my mother three days to get in touch with her own sense of beauty, and I give my mother three days to learn that the most beautiful thing is not the elaborate work of art she keeps in a room across the street from where we sit, but the simple hue and shade of the human face, and I give my mother three days to learn that the most beautiful thing not to take for granted is the love she sees in her neighbor every day, and I give my mother three days to learn that life is most beautiful when it seems least likely to happen to anyone else. <|endoftext|> "Hello, I Would Like to Trade Places", by David Mason I was someone else, once, in the past. I was walking home from a party, drunk, and someone cut out my heart and replaced it with a vial of poison. I was stumbling, as you will undoubtedly admit; the new heart caused me to stumble, and when I fell, the vial of poison stopped the blood from running to my legs and feet, instead stopping just above them, and stopped the entire blood supply to my legs and feet. I don't remember anything more clearly than that; I was unconscious. I remember lying on the floor of a large warehouse, surrounded by bodies. I was no longer human. <|endoftext|> "I Learned a Song in a Forest", by Mark Lane [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] I knew the guy who sang it out on the edge of a thicket, and I remember his high voice, its sweep and his easy baritone. I don't know his name. He was tall, not huge, but tall. His calloused hand made the old hand make the old gesture. It made the old hands make the old gesture. He may have been Italian, American, or Dutch. I have forgotten which. Anyway, he was there, and he didn't last. But I remember the song, and the tall voice. There was a forest. And it was alive. <|endoftext|> "How Soon", by Mark Lane [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Lately, I've been having a hard time feeling anyone mature beyond my closest peer, and when I ask what it is they've achieved, they're surprised to learn I haven't yet been through it. We're always working, they tell me; it's a given. It's how we make a living, their minders say, and it's the only guarantee we should expect. But I know that isn't true. I know I can go to a project I'm involved in and tell the people in charge that I can't stand to work any more, and they'd be surprised to learn I could, too. My editors and publishers are good people, and they're accustomed to my refreshing lack of faith and instantaneous generosity. I can't say the same for the men and women doing the talking for the products I've reviewed, and the endless rounds of informal coffees and lunches I've contracted to attend. I guess they're learning first-hand that honesty is a handicap, and they hate it. And so they play me for a sucker, giving me the good stuff I want while keeping a low profile and avoiding the rumors and blank stares that come with playing me for a fool. They tell me they're trying to balance things out, that they really like my poetry, though they must be doing something awfully awkward around the shoulders here. Sometimes I feel like I could take a tower and knock their heads off with it, and that if they put me in that position I'd probably keep on knocking until someone took me away from the barrage of lousy poetry they continue to give me. It's all so damned ostentatious; it all seems so phony, the little fair, airy-fairy lives they've built for me, pumping me full of hopefulness, and then shattering the fragile back of my trust with the one great reveal that never, never, never, not ever will I be satisfied. <|endoftext|> "A Small Story", by Brian Kim Stefans [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] As I approached, the mountains became pendant, rings of cloud on the horizon. I felt, as one might feel before going on into the pampered, living desert, the need <|endoftext|> For ever, till the day shall cease, I will be happy, free, and strong; That death may come, and thou be found Still living in my heart and brain. Upon the sanguine sea I lean, And look upon the shattered land; And sigh for home, and cling to thee, With all my love; and I am blent With every wave that beats on thee. There's not a leaf upon the tree That grows by Thames's banks or on the heath That lies by hidden Nile unknown, But in mine eye is seen the shadow of thee. For thou art shadowed in all that grain, And in that river, and in that tree, And in each flower that withers on the ground I see thy shadow, thou beautiful Dark Lady of the Soul! For all my love, my love for thee, I am shadowed in these deadly things, And all my joy is in the quickening life, In everything that stirs and is not me. Ah, poor Adonis, ever so poor! I do not ask a fig or flower, But only a pale lovely body, A lips, clear-lipp'd for kisses; then I am dead, and have no sorrow. But oh, poor Adonis, ever so poor! Ah, sweet Adonis, mine own sweet! How can one poor maid be mine, and one Pale lovely body to fondle? For when my lips are moist, and when my limbs Are heavy with their lovely weight, I think of thine eyes and thine arms, Thy long bright hair, and then my heart is blent With every grass-rose, hedge, and gleaming pool. Ah, poor Adonis, ever so poor! I do not ask a nobler pleasure, But only a deeper love. And though my life were cut in sunder, and I Were earthy and claylike in my flesh, I should be blest, and thou shouldst be my god, And in my soul I should find thy light. And then I think of thine eyes, and then Therose gold, and how they gleam between, Thou dim sweet light that never finds the soul, But searches it round with subtle gleams; And then I love with a deeper love, Thy mouth, thy tongue, thy hand so frail. I am as poor as Theofrix, And my soul cannot afford To lose a single minute, if I can Forget the God that made it dear; If I can forget itsguilty act, And lay it gently away; I have lived a life of sin, my lord, But not of rare repute, as yet; I have strayed far from the way of grace, Yet not yet wandered from the way. So come with the winter-time past, and all Thy hard lines, thy rich hawk's eyes, thy brown hair, And white hands, so rare, so fine and white, The beauty that lightens thy face, thy tongue's sweet cheer, And all thy other oddities, the charm That swells thy bosom like the stars in June, And all thy other virtues, all that makes thee so dear, Thy peerless daughter, and my wedded wife, Come with the winter-time past, so soon! so soon! Of all the flowers the rose is fairest, Of all the songs the lute is sweetest, Of all the lords the queen is fairest, Of all the kings the best is he To hold his crown with her before His people, ere he fall to rest. Then sing, oh sing, ye birds in every tree, That rude boors may listen to our song, And, touched with love, regret their fate and die, So we who love may live to finish all. Love is the secret of our happiness; When we hear its whispers in the air We forget the things that torment us, And, with remembering, find our joys increased. If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and fold Me closely, and so cover my face That none might see my wretched eyes, And all the world might think that I Had long been dead, and lived again; And, instead of me, speak and laugh, And weep and laugh again, and so Do I die, and live again. Yet I should not complain. For when I am dead And in my grave, We shall remember when we die What food we had, and what flowers, And what good deeds; And then we shall come Back to this world, and do as we should, And forget, and do. It was a misty afternoon, The air cool and moist, the sky blurry. An eagle flew across, and then a second, And then a third. The men who stood Near the wharf where those great birds did nest Stood staring with their mouths open. Some said that they were Irish men, And some that they were English. "My father died and left me his house, And I went to him and asked to be let In by the wall, and in a lane I found A little maid that waked me, and I begged To be placed in her father's sight. She made me a soft place for me to lie Close by the child she called father's soul, And every night she brought me to him. I was a wild flower and she was fair, I was a violet in a summer land, But I saw in her the hope of men." The wind blows dry plants from the sod, The birds are gone from the hill, A spectre-girl wails in its place. The trees are bare. I thought of the years I have gone, And no thought came to me, Of any man who may be dead, Or what might be his name. And you, for all your tender care, And all you may or may not know, You cannot keep from a simple thought Which, once started, will not cease; And if you should look down at the ground (You're very tall for a lady), The grasses would dip down to the clay, And you would not be beautiful. She makes her water-lily lean Against a willow; She dyes it always deep, Deep, deep, deep, She dyes it with her tears, She dyes it through with her pain. The little flower will not bud, And soon it will fall and die, And all its red will be gone; But it will spring again somewhere, And put on its stem somewhere Of the blue-grey summer sky. When you are asleep, Your baby wipes The windows, And covers your face With a soft, clean hand. You smile to see the child Not frightened at all, For it is thinking of you. When you are asleep, Your baby pulls The curtains, And sings for a long, long time. And when it is tired It faltens you a song, And all its little heart stills For the sweet of you. When you are asleep, Your baby shakes The chairs, And calls you by your name In the drowsy morning light. You smile to see the child All mellow with the power Of your love, with no fear at all, For it is thinking of you. When you are asleep, Your baby sings The song of the season; And when you are tired It tells you a fairy tale. The child is all your own, For it is thinking of you. When you are asleep, Your baby kneels On your breast, To soothe and to thank you, And whispers your name. With no fear at all, For it is thinking of you. She plucks the red roses And she wreathes them With the white rose-may, And she hangs them by her Gold hair. She dreams of the dancing On moonlight nights; She looks through your hair At the stars in the skies. She is like a tiny, Purple, fluttering Pink dove; She whispers in your ear That it is "very good To see the bird again." She will not let you Put the red roses by, For she says they Are too splendid, Too lovely, To be put aside. She has no fear Of the fading red For she thinks they Will grow even fainter. She lets you hold her With your left hand; You smile and say "Dear," To the tiny, Pink, fluttering Pink dove. She turns to the rose In your left hand, <|endoftext|> I've sought for many a day, I've sought To read the records of the past, I've sought to learn their meaning deep, I've sought for peace, I've sought to find The secret of the Mystery, And, boy, have I found it! Boy, have I! It is a child, and a little child, It is the very mystery, I swear, That set in my breast to mend and heal With blood of my heart and tears of my eyes. It is a little child, all white and brown, With sodden, wild eyes, that seem to stare Through me with exceeding surprise, It is a baby of perfect and pure and sweet Perfect and pure, that evermore Gives pure, perfect, sweet response to every Word and touch and desire of thine. It is the first of thy people, boy, it is thee, The very mystery, I swear to thee, That set in my heart to mend and heal With blood of my heart and tears of my eyes. The star went down And left us to our dreaming. We could not hear each other speak The words of love in a hushed tone, Nor catch each other's hand in theirs As the hand of a sleeper might, Nor see each other's face at night When the face of a soulless thing Moves shadowless through the moonless sky. 'T was a lovely night. The wind fell down From mountain tops, and with it came A sound of newly-opened lips From many a sweet and wild bird That, in the shadowy darkness, flew Thro' tree, and bush, and bower, While far above a cirque of light Circled and twirled round and round Like a ring of fire, and all the air It surrounded with a silence deep And deep, and yet it held a melody So sweet, we almost felt we must weep, We almost felt our hearts go cold To hear it so coldly fall and fall, It fell so quietly! And then we knew, When our souls went 'round in a new round, 'Twas the Earth opening her, her breast Of pure, unbroken moonlight, Her depth of soft, blent light, Her radiance of her yellow star, That moved, and moved, and moved, in ring Around the Earth, in a trepidating glide So softly slow, it seemed to hover More near than the speed of thought, More remote than the homing bee. We were not lonely. We had found Our fellows. And the great sky, A piano, of silver satins Now held a concert of soft hues, A thousand more with them that were, All hues and shades and tones, With note and chord, a melismatic Dream of melodies, and, above All, a refrain, that bent like prayer, Its passion through our being. We lay upon the flowers, and heard The voices of the winds that flew Low over the chaste cedars. The winds would blow, and voices pass Like a melody, an incantation That made the whole air stir and swell, Like prayer in the ardent soul of spring That worships its gods in prayer. So beautiful, so quiet, so pure, It seemed a battle of angel powers To struggle on in life and resist The awful, uncompassed arms of Love. So we lay together, side by side And listened to the winds, and they Were witnesses of a million suns, A million starry settlements, That slowly flushed across the night, Their messages of love to pour In echoes round us and above. The night wore on. And we heard the rain, And we saw the rain, above, below, Pursuing their eternal round, Out of the vast, unutterable sky, Where all the cycles of the world were born, They chased their fleecy road of clouds Out through the unforesawable ranges Of sky and cloud, across the stricken world, Wearing their fleecy carpet there, And sounding, ever sounding, still the same, An eternal night-rain. We woke. We heard the night wind sighing, And, over the wind's immortal pacing, The ceaseless burden of the rain Slowly diminishing, yet so thick The curtain rose before the pale glare Of day that day was already dawning. We rose, and from the terrace watched the rain Passing, receding, ever receding, Until the curtain of the rain Fell on us like an ending. We stood upon the terrace and looked Into the river, that, in the sunshine, Gleamed like the raiment of the gods, And lightly clinking from its tangled banks, Small lamps of mist, that marked the paths Of the gods that wandered down Into the river. Then came the wind, Mocking, mocking, mocking us, For we had smitten the power Of the gods, that ruled the world with sway, And we knew not what gods we had defied. We drank its water. The gleam of a goldfish Lit up the water, that was sweet and fresh. We saw the rain-wind float away Over the stones and grasses, leaving Only a gold-flecked gravel. And we knew We were victorious over gods and death, That the gleam of a goldfish on the banks Of the river was the fate of gods and death, And the gods had fled, but we had fought and slain The power of the immortal gods of day. In the grasses, the golden sunflowers Waved their beautiful golden leaves, As they were sons of the sunlight, And, beneath them, the purple lilies Laughed to their light laughter, And the daisies, the narcissus-heads, Drooped their purple heads, And the porcupines, the female heads, Creaked their white heads, And the grasses, the tall grasses, That grew beside the river, Waved their golden tresses, As they were sons of the sunlight, And the river itself, That glistened and sparkled in the sunshine, With its yellow shadows, With its golden waters, With its gleaming pillars, Wore the crown of the grasses To proclaim its divine claim To the divine claim of the gods. The breath of the summer was sweet In the terrace. The breath of the summer Was sweet in the river, And the golden shadows of the water Floated over the grasses And the shining pillars of the grasses And the shining reflections of faces In the water. The golden shadows Of the grasses and sunlight Sank down upon the river Like faint breathings of love. The golden pillars of the grasses Sank like faint breathings Of the gods in the grasses. I passed beneath the shadow of the grass Of the sacred river And looked into the river And saw itself reflected, And I saw itself tarnished, And I saw itself tarnished by the grass, By the shadow of the grasses And the gleam of the sunlight And the reflection of faces In the water. I saw a gilded A, A gilded A that looked like a gilded A, And I saw the W, and W, and W, and W, And O, and O, and O, And the B, and B, and B, and B, and B, And E, and E, and E, and E, And U, and U, and U, and U, And the letters of the letters In the golden grasses. The gold leaf of the A's Was broken, as I passed, And the gold leaf of the W, And the gold leaf of the B, And the gold leaf of the E, And the gold leaf of the U Were all worn away. And the pillars of the grasses Were all tarnished by the grasses And the sunlight and the sunlight And the faces and the letters In the grasses. We have seen the River and the Grass And the shining pillars of the grasses And the faces of the sunbeams Through the branches of the trees. We have seen the glowing letters On the golden grasses, And the pillars of the grasses In the sunshine and the sunlight, And the river and the pillars In the golden sunlight, That are trampled and worn by the grasses, That are covered with dust By the footsteps of mankind. We have seen them, and not far away In the open country The silver sands Have wandered across the sand In the summer sunshine. We have seen the pillars of the grasses <|endoftext|> And thence how far the wave is thence Shall bring thee to the farthest land, And the last one, of all the lands, Which is Britannia, my dear land, Which I love, and love to travel o'er, And to gaze on its rocky summits While I'm passing by, and gazing thus At its rocks, and gazing thus at thee, My dear Queen, my own Roman Honour, My mother's country, and at last With a sweet smile on my rosy lips, The night departing from my distant home, I will rest here, and pine away, Till the dawning of a happier day, And the glow of the coming of spring-tide, And the sweet love that is in the east, And the gentle songs of my love for thee. I saw a light that gleamed like silver, And glittering like a fan of peacock's feather, Above thee, Queen of hearts, which shone So bright, the stars of night seemed as bright, And as many colored lamps were shining, As when Neptune set in his seas the sky. And all my life's pleasure seemed to me So little worth while that I have known it; For thy beauty seemed so bright, thy grace So lovely, that my thoughts, alas! Could not endure it, but were seized with a Deep sleep, of mere delirium, and I wept. For thy sweet sake, O most fair and lovely! Do not disdain me, but permit me With thy consent to enter thy love, for I Gladly would pray the gods that thou would'st give me Permission, that their care may descend on me To build this heart of mine in the sanctuary Of thy perfectness, and there dwell ever. And, from day to day, I will abide Loved of all women as thyself; Willed by my passion, as the gods did see, To be thy servant and thy slave all my days; And, from this love, this life I will take As a great sacrifice, and lay it down To thy feet, as a brave gift, to be thine. Then I will turn to the life of crime Which thou didst love, but from thy brow Will all this spring-time and her blossoms Be as sweet remembrances of thee, And my faults as thy virtues, and thy Joy and my sorrow as thy sorrow, And all that is good in life as good In thee; and thus will I live to thee In continual adoration. So when the day, that breaks with ruddy beams, Woos to day's triumphal procession The motley multitudes of fairies, elves, And fays, who before stood as stout and free, I'll go with thee, and go with thee I shall, Till the day I die, nor better can be found Than any other, and I shall not rebel. O, the little steps That led to the grave! What a feeble track it is! But I'll try to be strong; I'll be true to thee, And thy dear word shall be my law, And my sure hope. The lion's closely bound, And his paws are fast In the gold and crimson grass; His eyes are not dim With the light of day; But his mouth, O my love, Is as dry as a reed. The sweetest music Is the lion's roar; The fairest fairies Are the small feet Of the little evening breeze, That softly bring To thy rest-house in the woods. I did not think to meet thee In this sad heart of mine, In the burthen of a heart, In a creature so wholly broken By love's magic spell. I did not think to find thee Beside the level's belt, In thy long gown of green, As a phantom in a dream. I did not think to find thee So soon, so like thee; To find thee like, as like No dream hath been since creation, I did not think; For thou wert the morning-beacon In thy morning-dress. I did not think to find thee, My own love, so soon; In thy true likeness, In thy beauty, form, and mind, In thy manhood's bloom, Without one hollow And one little blemish. I did not think to find thee With thy golden Breath, so sweet and tender; I did not think to keep thee As mine own, as part Of my heart's very life. No, no, my own love, no! I will not cast thee From my heart away; I will not cast thee As the morning dew away; I will not cast thee As the sand in the hour Of the scorched noon-day. I will not cast thee away, My own love of blue, From my heart's life and its light, Without leave or warning; I will welcome thee In my heart and my life, As the dew of the morn. If it would be other, other, I should not care to move, For I would not change it from itself, But it should be other, other, Without leaving or parting. It should be other, other, But it is not other at all; It is mine own love of blue, And not the other love of blue Can I name or call it. It is mine own love of blue Which I call my own, And I love it alone, And none else love I so well As I love this love of mine. There was a man, a man of earth, And May he loved, and June he loved, And in the fall he loved, And in the winter he loved well, But in the spring he loved not at all. And it was well with this man of earth That none else loved him well; But it was not well with this man of earth That none else loved him well; For all the world he seemed to hate and dread, And naught he said for his moods so hot. He could not tell a bird from a blackbird, And would not let the grass grow green, He dressed in white for every meal, And made his bedrooms bare; And he said that he would die in the night If any man should see him thus. And now 'tis time to go to bed, And it is time to sleep and sleep; Sleep when you may and so sleep well; For scarce can the morning be put by That takes so long to go by. I have a little love-bird which sings So sweetly as any sparrow; His mate, a swan, is gentle and wise, And they are mine own for richer. In the bowers are pansies and pinks, In the fields are the gillyflowers, In the woodlands grow myagascallis And the purple convolvulus. And I have a dog, a stout and white, Who licks me when I smile; And he is as kind to others As he is to himself. He is good man, and I love him well, But the thought of the Black Death Strikes me still, though I guard it from it. A pale rose in a red river Flops idly on the green; The wind is up and about me And fills the melancholy air With sobs and quiet sighs. And so I dwell, a sad sample Of that vain and passionate thing, A young and handsome corpse. I have been told that there is a grave In the peaceful earth; That there is a deep and silent tomb In the family grass; And I am that grave. I wait for the slow, sure guest, the shroud, The silent witness of time; I wait for the blessed release, the tomb, The parting of my sleep. In April time the lily of red Rillamotta Is a blooming gem, And in May the royal pansies grow in vast numbers, Flower by flower; The daffodils are pink and white in his majesty, And the gentle sheep-coloured daisies wear a delicate flower-shadow. The buttercups and the poppies red and blue, Red as of old; The daisies, white and downy as the growing girl, Dimpled like a little girl's cheek. The rose in a milky vein is sending forth Energy to God, and breathing forth is the God-droplet. I sit here in my garden, gazing at the daisies, And I hear a wind at work <|endoftext|> Came home to help us reap Of a right friendly harvest. <|endoftext|> "As I sat musing," thus he began, "I saw upon the shelving high A candle flame besprent with night, And by it a small stone worth Daunting my hopes of wherewithal To Arctic lands to bring a light; So with a heavy heart I rose And, resolute that all should find Why most I mournfully was sent There where in darkness I must dwell, I took and carried it with me." "By a small stone" I asked,--"who?" He replied, "A farmer who sat There with the candle at his knee, And whom I saw but now, at eve, He whose habit answered him So: 'To farm or forestry go, To plough or to plant, Sow, reap, or root, I take and I leave; The end of all is written.'" "But why he sits there, and what He sows and what he reaps I know not yet, and why He sows and what he reaps Is not my business now; The farmer's affair is done And loveth he that way. "And yet the image haunts me; And now upon the wall, Astone from the lamp's bright flame, I see it bent and hoar, The likeness of a man; So that I think of one I know And, lo, it is he!" Oh! 'tis the picture of a life, That only just is done; No matter where we are or what Our lot, be 't with joy or woe, The end of all is written. A light may lighten or a gloom May hang o'er us, or a song, A smile, or a tear;--but, oh! The end of all is written. She 's like the fabled fairy maid That, with Diana's royal lover, Slept with him in a honeyed grove, And bade him love her all the more, Because no other man could stir Her mysterious cold maidenhood; The sweet inscrutable eyes, The delicate maiden bloom, The charm of that magic pearl That made the rich and lonely woods Grow warm with amorous desire. He sees the beauty of her as a boy And wonders how she can be pure, Or, if she is, how such a thing Can be among earth's so many charms; And then, when he has learned to woo Her witless soul with love's own lies, He takes some chieftain's son, who boasts An easy mind and fiery blood, And sends him to the fairy court, To learn the truth about her eyes And magic warm breasts of truth. The chieftain's son who hopes to win The fairy maid's bright eyes, and heart Of warm fire, and young and royal blood; But, having learned her fair deceits, By force he learns her magic lies, And all his hopes are changed to fears, And all his life a waste of tears. The fairy maid is wise, and knows That all the chieftain's sons who wed To maids of earth are foolish boys, Who, having learned her magic lies, Are then disowned by those they love And scorned by their fellows, too, And, last, when all her boys have died, Dead themselves, are others wed To maids of earth who are as cold As those the fairy maid revealed. A cold eye gazes on the dead; And Beauty glances on him still, And yearns for truth that yet is vain; And Life is one long seeking Of a loved loved one, of whom One word is left,--and that one word Is spoken while the spirit stirs, But, ere the body dies, That one last word is spoken By the spirit still and free. And the old fairy sang this song To a young man who came to woo: "Oh, come and be my love, Whose proud eyes are gray and cold, And whose heart is as dark as death; Come, and be my love, Whose rose-tinted hand is cold, And whose smooth foot as stone can feel; Come, and be my love, Whose words are ever black and gray, Who pierce me and pierce my heart with care. "Oh, come and be my love, And when my love comes to thee, He will kiss the pale white feet That are not thine; and then He will set thee on his knee As thine were his own dear head; And all thy wanderings will be round The white feet of thine own dear love." And the young man's heart beats fast, And a strong longing fills his breast, And then his trembling hands expand, And he murmurs while his eyes Grow full with tears,--"Ah, God, Oh, help me, help me, help me, help! Oh, set me on my lover's knee, And let me kiss his black black hands,-- Kiss them black, like these I make; For, love, I am black, and black am I; And black I am as thy lips are white." When you've once seen a colt come in With a white man over his knee, It is very hard to keep him back When he comes back again; And the neighing of the steed Is a greater mistress of rest Than the singing of any cot Or the creaking of the rowels On a river's sedgy edge, Or the pinching of the loom, Or the rubbing of sawdust On a soldier's boots. And he keeps his pride, and the colt Lies where he left him, And the man over the old horse's Soul is as keen as a spade That's in the field as the feller Brows down and dies, And the one that was White hands Outright refuses to budge From the old horse's side. He's proud to have done it and proud to have won it, But he's so glad That it happened that he did it, That he's so glad he did it, He cannot abide the sight of it; And his pride in it is such, That he cannot abide his own sense Of its triumph; And his joy, it is such, That the sight of it makes him sick. The sight of his sprightly lady And his horse and his lass, The sound of his horseman and lass And his horse's mane all flowing In a flood of colour, And his joy, he is so proud That he can but deny it, That it can but but but be denied, He will be brought to confess it, And the proof will be laid on him, And the sin will be spoken That has covered him. There's never a white man that rides, But he's happy as he can be, And he knows the way he goes, And the road is good for a man; But he's never so proud as the one That rides to the muster, And he knows the cause of it all, And the man who is taking the stripes Can never be so proud. So he stands by the fence and bows To the sentry that keeps guard Over the white man's place; And his smiles are as wide as the sail Of the cherry tree That bends in the wind and stretches Over the wild cherry tree That has blossom in the wind, And the birds on the wild cherry tree Go whirling in it; But the white man never passes by The wild cherry tree. They beat us, but we never quit; And the blood of the veterans still Is hot in our veins; And their spirit is still in our eyes And in our hands, And their fame in our lips is still blowing And their fame is still going strong, And we do not fear for the strife, And the storm has ceased to blow, And the clouds of regret have rolled To the shore of the hillside; And the blood of the veterans is still flowing Through the veins of our nation's veterans, And we do not fear for the hour, And we do not doubt the victory, And the day of the battle. There's peace on the lea, and the sea Smells of the flowers again; And the lark on the hill sings loud and high Of the gladness of the year; And the shadow of the fading tree Lingers on the shining height, And the rooks on the gray top speak low Of the gladness of the year. And the rooks on the blind top speak low <|endoftext|> A scene to which my soul is set, The sight of heaven and earth above, And sea and sky below, The golden sunshine and the grey, To this my toil and care have given The garb of joy and care, And, from the rapture of the sight, The tears that bathe my cheek, To others' tears I'm ready to shed, For I would have them weep That a young life in sorrow past Has left the harbour's bower, And, weeping, mark the gulf that leads To life's new life and rest. To-day I saw a star Set in a sea of blue; The harp was broken, and the strings Were lying about the place: The sudden wind arose, and shook The broken fragments of the shell That made the harp a vessel, And whistled the whole ocean through, And scattered Fragments of wood And broken Vessels everywhere Till all the blue was wild with gloom, And fragments sunk and hid. In the name of God, In the name of Christ, Let sorrow find Thee a resting-place, Where it may find Some comfort, and may tell Thee of heaven and hell. I see in heaven above A girl with sorrow sad, I see her standing in the light Of many a heavenly star, And I'm sure she sighs her prayer For one who never stirs on earth: For one who never listened, Who never broke her heart; For one who never wept, Who never heard her murmur O'er a child's tuneful voice. She sighs, 'Oh woe is me,' And sighs and breaks in weeping, With her face towards the east: Oh woe is me, for sorrow's sake, Where I am standing alone In the gloom of the heaven, And I'm vexed to the soul With my own dark thoughts, and vexed, And my heart is breaking. She looks up to heaven again, Then sighs again with sorrow, With her face towards the west: She looks up to heaven once more, And she sees the sun again, And she's glad, and her heart grows light, And her tears forget to fall, For the world is glad, and warm, and glad, And the air is as sweet as her sighs. 'Ah! how can I rest, How can I find my peace, When misfortune's on my head; When friends turn to foes, When false men use my name. 'I wander like a ghost, I sigh and say: "O leave me to thy shroud; Let me die in thine arms; Let me rest between Thy halves, my love; The world has need of me, Thee and thy tender breast." 'But then I see the sun A bright and glorious light, And I think: "O Christ, Thou canst make the dark Bloom like a christal day." 'Then I start up and roam With joy in my heart; And on through life, and free, I'll not change for thee My constant joy, or me, My self, for any, My heart, my half, or whole. 'So, till death I'll be, I'll think of thee, love, In thy half, my love; 'Till death say to me, "Thy love or thy half be mine, Myself or thine, be sure; 'The wind has veered to the north, The mountain atlas o'erthrew, And now I'm lost as they, But never mind, I will savour The view, the smell, the taste of earth; And so till I die I'll roam Like them, I'll roam between Thy halves, my love; The world has need of me, The world has need of thee, love." When the winds were up, and afar They beheld the death-cloud rolling in, With sudden splendour and impassioned roar It burst upon them; a sudden sun, A glorious, unearthly, unearth-distant light Lit heaven, with a golden flame; the night, And all the land with ever-gleaming light, Shone with the splendour of its sudden ray. The leaves a purple hue took, the beasts In the meadows were as Gods, and run With rapt and supple joints, all undismayed. When the winds were West, and West they are, It is when Spring's well-hardened gold Falls the sharpened diamond, white, Amber, agate or beryl, Bidding the restless seasons go. For the flowers, the birds, the bees Their various colours want to gain, But the Spring itself has neither will Nor power its will to break. When the winds are East, and East they are, We know the warm willows weep, And the meadows' showers to winters grow, Their yellow hairs lie thickly white. Yet we may guess, through the darkening air, The gold-dust may in rifts be seen, But the gold is still too hard to bear, And the gold must needs be lost. When the winds are West, and West they are, The land's at its winter's warmest; Then the world is a strange, old speech Full of sounds old, full of looks old, And colours haunted of long dead days. And now comes on us like a ghost Our dead love's returned again. He stands as one who sees and hears Things seen but not seen; he bears The broad, bright banneret and the high Dark kerchief London claims as her right, And as she shakes his heart he hears The deep, deep music of her speech; She takes his hand, and with the well-filled hat Which once a saint in Rome she wore, She kisses his lips, and now he knows The great kings walk, the singers sing, The sun, the moon and the stars are here. They stand in the sunlight side by side With his great sister, all their face Burned with one flame, and the fair light falls From their great eyes down on the grass. They stand and look at him, and then They start and tremble with a cry As if their hearts should burst; they lean Their faces to his for support, And for a moment they seem to pray, Then laugh, and kiss, and their red lips Breathe music high, and his dark eyes Flash it back again, and now they say The birds sing, and the dear sun shines. Yet while these two with their light beams A happy thought on his heart of dreams A shadow comes, and the light goes; And his silly soul has not been, Though he sees it pass, nor heard it fall, But thinks it still with him and her As now, last night, he'd sat with her, And dreams of days gone by. Yes, this is he, that merry lad, And he lives in the London streets, And he hears the bells and the birds And the merry winds and the brooks As they call and call above The dripping of the rain. "Ah, master," she says, and sighs, "My dear, you are always sad, It is because you have no wife, No home, no place to go. No girl to caress and hug, No pet to take away when upset, No toy to show and love and die, No toy to mind when homework's due, No playmate, no nursery friend. You'd think so much in so little a place." He tells her of his life at home And all the joy he has, Of his playmates and their likes and dislikes, And the Christmas gifts they brought. And then he tells of all the things Which did and did not break His white cane, or make him sick On the high road. And his eyes as she listens Gleam with a younger gladness, And the cheek once worn beady with care Reddens once more, and falls Like a burning eye of burning snow Before her radiant smile, As when they were parted, one by one, By the parting sea. "Oh, master, what can I do To repay your kindness? I have no home, I have no friend To give my love, but this Sweet bird that sings in the bough, Will she allow my lay And my new song to your boy?" "Well, I don't care," said Liddy, "If she's not so kind I have no home, no love, no place, If she won't let My bird fly to her perch <|endoftext|> Yes, there was a hush-- It was as if the city slept. The hushed conversation wandered, As up and down the silent street, With broken and passing roar, The long procession of the clocks; From east to west the marching seconds ticked, And westward to the sunlit other side. The clouds would part, and earth would show Her rosy breast beneath the stars; The solemn clock would strike twelve, And coldly, rosily, twelve biddeth night. And each small dead face would glow and blink With eyes grown strange and dim with age, As in the eyes of some old master, Who turns from one who wavers and sleeps. He saw the world pass, as a passing wind; And, 'mid the shaken thunder and the roar Of battlements that morning would overturn, The sun would shine. And that strange calm that comes Along the morning misty tracks between The mountains, where the thunder of the world has stopped Might be the wan, cold brow of the golden age, And, calm before that, might be the deep, slow sleep Of him who, wide-eyed, waited and dreamed by night. Then, after that, he would go on, and he would watch The fingers of the morning, and the soft, warm smile Of faces that would rise and fall and rise again Along the lintel of Time. He would lie Back in the quiet, dusty heaven, where the clouds Are higher, and the peaks of Time would greet him With loveliness of power that lifts him like a flower That finds a root and builds itself a tower. You cannot walk a mile with Death In the wake of any one; But a cry, a stumbling-block, A touch, a look, and he is gone! You cannot drop his mantle, Ever, In the profoundest of bowers; But a tear, a look, and he is gone! You cannot build his grave-mound high, In the peaceful days, the fair, Nor the place be dim as sunset skies, Nor the flowers grow not there. But the name of a forgotten name May be carved on the tomb-stone here. And you cannot wake his slumber With a golden key, Nor the hand of love allure him thence, Nor the music of the lyre. But the voice of a child-song, And the sigh of a lute, Shall wake the sleeper, Ever, To a deathless quest. Thy wealth, O Death, is bared to me, But I count the gold dust in my soul, And the broken bits of carven marble, And I wonder where the red onyx is, For the eyes of the Sphinx are made of flint, And the lips of the Devil are coral. Thy beauty, too, is bared to me, But I count the jewels in thy hair, And the flowers that loved thy breath, And I wonder what thing thou art, That sparklest, as of old, With a brilliance of wings, that moves A winged light throughout the dark, In the skies of Egypt! Thy beauty, too, is bared to me, But I count the coral in thy breast, And the emerald and the garnet, And I wonder what thing thou art, That wakes the world with thy royal smile, And lights it with thy golden light, And burns it with thy golden flame, And burns it to crimson, as you, Mouth and brow and neck and breast and arm Of the God of one day! So, with soft feet we follow behind The God that watches over all; And we count the stars and the dark Are filled with wonders he has wrought. And we count the ageless depths of space Are full of wonders he has wrought. So, up the shining stairs of death, We join the pilgrims of all things, We climb the winding of the scrolls, To find in each a charm for all. We are pilgrims of the endless stair; And our boots are waiting in the hall, And our raiment in the bower; And we lay our hands on the grate, And the Sabbath lights flash on us Through the arch that opens to God! O souls that murmur in the dark, Though your prison is the tombs of stone, Though the fires of hell are on you, Though the devil's hosts are at you, Though the heavens are divided, O, murmur not, but murmur high, And say, "Though our jailors are sunk in sleep, And the poles stretched under them, And the thunderheads have roll'd adown them, And the foam is as cold as death, We are risen, and are healed of tears, And the grave is deep enough for all; 'Tis a little thing, a very little thing, To be drowned in the brine, with Christ in the sun! They are standing on the sunken headland, Where the red glare of the setting sun Falls, in sharp contrast, on the features of the face Of the headland's guardian, who is gazing eastward, Where the full moon's cold silver shines on the wave, On the dark fringes of the headland, whose top Is crenellated by the many masts of islands, As the stage of this drama is, by the far-off windows, So the moon in heaven, as the moon here, Lifts her light, in sharp contrast, to the features Of the headland's guardian, who is gazing eastward, Where the full moon's cold silver shines on the wave, On the dark fringes of the headland, whose top Is crenellated by the many masts of islands, As the stage of this drama is, by the far-off windows, As the moon in heaven, as the moon here, Lifts her light, in sharp contrast, to the features Of the headland's guardian, who is gazing eastward, Where the full moon's cold silver shines on the wave, On the dark fringes of the headland, whose top Is crenellated by the many masts of islands, As the stage of this drama is, by the far-off windows. 'Tis a war here in the tropics, and the dogs of fight Are a-shout with the soldiers and the shepherds, The shepherds, and the soldiers, and, on the plain, The beggars with their scarfs all sodden through and through With dog-drench, and face, and paws, and all wet with tears For a hunger which no biscuit can abate, And hunger which is to them a mysterious thing, For they have not left their darling old home, But they have left the treasures of their cots For the promise of a pittance which will come at last When the long war is over, when the toil of the battle Has finished, and the toil of the tempest is over, And the toil of the day of the Christmas gathering is over. They have fled from their moorings at their clansmen's call, From their cots, from the cedars, from the sterns of birch and reindeer, From the clear depths of their mountain-sides, from the spruce and pine, From the tall rocks in the distance, from the valleys of the fennel, From the dark rock-ridges, from the deep gorges of the mountains, From the valleys, from the dark gullies, from the snowy summits, From the bays of the mountains, and from the mountains of gold. And the islands of the antipodes they see far distant, And they shout to each other and they wring their hands, And the leaves of the trees are merry, and the flowers are red, And the salmon of the oceans in the streams and the rivers are swimming, And the dogs of the soldiers are swimming with their captain on the ship "Ojo Ciudad," And they say to each other, "It is time to disband, it is time to return," And they start toward the port of Atocha, and they shake the dust on their torsos, And they leave behind them many treasures of a countless price, And they leave behind them all the pride of their castles, and they leave behind them the sea All beautified and full, and with a voice that is musical and sweet, As the smile of the maiden, and the faces of the holy men are beautiful, And the radiant and holy light of the holy light of God shines down on them, And the stars in the firmament of the heavens are shining, and the darkness is transformed, And the dog of the soldiers is playing, and the children are dancing, <|endoftext|> "My children's God." "With any hope I can, With any sense, I dare to speak to you On a night like this. I know there's a ghostly form Hiding in your room. Come and tell me if I'm right, Come and tell me if I'm wrong." "By all the Saints I swear, By my life and my soul, By the fires of the Mount of Transfiguration, By the stars and the crystals that shine, By the White Swan, and the white sign of victory, By the freshening wind of the evergreen tree, By all the lakes and the rocks and the sea, By the voice of all the birds that are free, By the sound of the water and the sand, By the mystery and the mystery, By the life, and the love, and the beauty, I bring you the Word, the Word that is good, This your assurance: This your conviction: You have made my heart rejoice With joy unmeasured, Joy that I dare not share. The promise is yours--the life of the pure, To you this your assurance: This your conviction: Though I have striven and struggled, I shall never be one Of those whose virtues outnumber mine. O glory of love, O flower of the land of thy birth, O crown of the saints, O precious jewel, Who will guide me as I make My journey, solitary, Through realms where darkling dwelt, Like spirits of unhallowed rites, One man against a world. Where shall I seek assurance, Who will guide me as I make My journey, solitary, Through realms where darkling dwelt? Who will guide me as I make My journey, solitary, Through realms where darkling dwelt? A single pilgrim, armed With only a staff and robe, I go to meet him there. Who will guide me as I make My journey, solitary, Through realms where darkling dwelt? And he comes to me, the Word Whose witness is above, And in his presence flows Deliciousness unutterable, Which, as I think, doth prove, That He, being all of heaven, Is nearest to, and most near, Of all the great All near him. And he comes to me, the Word Whose presence is aglow Upon my heart and brain, And says, "Beloved, my beloved, Receive thy self from me: I am the true and only love Which may be acknowledged." "What ails thee, beloved?" I say; And, from my eyes being wet, I say, "I am very woe-begone, And yet, O God, thou knowest What great need is in me for to dwell With thee in some remote, green spot, Where I may read, and weep, and think Of thee with peace, and know thee true, And stillness be thy merriment." "What ails thee, beloved?" I say; And, from my eyes being wet, I say, "I am very woe-begone, And yet, O God, thou knowest What great need is in me for to dwell With thee in some remote, green spot, Where I may read, and weep, and think Of thee with peace, and know thee true, And stillness be thy merriment." I said, "To the city I will fly To-morrow morn," and that night flew here To-morrow night. And the next morn I go To-morrow night. And so day by day I travel, and no place can find To hold me. But, for such a long time As it is, I think, 'tis well to have here A loving friend to guide thee on." "O give me, give me, give me leave To wander, wandering, wandering by thee, So lone, so lone, so lone and still! And see, the stars are all abreast. The moon has lost her hymn, and only That echoes yonder bleeds and thrives In the green moss. 'Tis so sad; so strange; So sweet! I know not what it says. And yet 'tis sweet, and all is well. Behold, thy hair is dry again, And thou art fain to kiss thy hand, As if to say, 'I am not sad, I am not sad.' Behold, thy hair Is dry again, and still it clings About thy heart, and never more It cares to touch thy hand, thy hand Hath seen so many things, it wots Not which it sees, be it grief, or joy, And love, or any thing; and thy hair Is dry again, and dry again It stands, it never feels thy touch." "O give me, give me, give me leave To wander, wandering, wandering by thee, So lone, so lonely, so lonely, so. And see, the little stars are all Afar, the hoot of hounds and howl Of fierce tigers heard no more. O give me, give me, give me leave To wander, wandering, wandering by thee, So lonely, so lonely, so. And see, Thy body, being wearied with a kiss, Lies stretched upon a foeman's bed, The foeman dead upon thee, and thee Weary with gazing on a dead Tamer of the horses, or with wine. And take but sleep, a little sleep, The weary weight to shake off, and then To wander, roaming, roaming by thee, So lonely, so lonely. And see, This hollow is a hollow, and all Is worn away, and everywhere Is shaken the same dull sound of nothing. But, lo! behold, thy heart is broken, Thy heart that laughed, thy heart that cried for nought, That willed, that willed, that willed for joy, Laughing, crying, all for thee, and now I am so sorry for thy wasted years Thy weeping, thy unsteady hands, thy wasted love, And wasted hopes, and lost abhorrence Of life, and still distrust of God's love, And now at last thou seest thy whole life's loss Was nothing, for the love thou hast to live, To love thee--that is happiness. And take This empty dust, that is but sere and green, Take it, and be thou not wroth any more. For I am changed, O love, for better or worse." "For better? What then? I cannot say. Ah, better!--would I could make thee understand! How should I hate the hand that holds my hand! But hate I must, until I find my death. What do I see in the river? A black wave. The sweet, sweet water that I heard enwound In melody with trees, and bushes, and grass, And then with the thrush's note, and then with the oaks' loud applause, And then with the setting sun and its dying beams, The grass, the bushes, the oaks, the shining sun, The setting sun, the listening thrush, the setting sun! This is the end, the peace, the happiness! O love, my love! the river is the earth, The earth, the river, all are one." As one, who on a lonesome journey comes to a fair city Dimly seen thro' haze, so I saw from thro' the haze Of hopeless love, in which I had no part, the fair city, Lonely, dim, far off; only I could see the gleam Of the soft mist on the far-off stream, and the foliage On the boughs of the strong-wing'd trees, and feel the breath Of the sweet mist on my face, and know the beat Of her slow heart, and the low light of her large eyes, And know the breathing of her sighs, and hear the words Of her voice, and see her face, and feel the touching touch Of her sad hand, and know that this is she that was My life, my life, my only life, and know not what further Is ours; yet knowing that this I must be ever of it, Knowing that there is no other life. Was the burden of old too great for young limbs to bear, And man grew weak and old, and light fled from his eyes? Ay, that was I, and knew the fading of my light And the breath of death as I drew my hand aside, and lay Fainting at once. But who have wept as I wept, O thou Of no great heritage, of thy priceless right to weep, Until this heart of mine were broken with the pain? <|endoftext|> For if we choose to love, the chain Of preference endures no more. One with the Olympian Delphic augur Imbibed the lore that augured well; That long-past augury in avail For that I seek my Life's One Use. If for the love of beauty he have made My soul the beadle of his breath, Of great Apollo how I scorn the bitch That gars the altar for sacrifice; The frost-born garlands that remain till May Thaw to the heaped summer of the vine. Ah, what a world of bitter, bitter lies, Of little love, of malice and spite, Between the lovers of the open stair And lovers of the secret door! How great a world of precious, precious lies In the close lattice of the tomb! What vital love in love is there, ah me! That tells of love in death so sure? I see the green gold of the flowers he used To paint my hair; I sit beside his knee that used to be The keen and steady-bright Evian. I hear the well-known tone Of his Cape trumpet that led the tune That rang from St. Mary Redford's lap The night that George found his grave. It seems a millionfold, hopelessly lost Riches that would leave a rheum for grief. Yet I have borne my cross and have not bowed; I know the simple, saving truth, That though the world may call me false, I love my love in God. One blind man has seen the end of two worlds, And he cannot make them mix again. I ask the blind man what he thinks, This morning, of two worlds that have been. I know the world that was bright and fair Is dark and marred with sorrow and pain; But the brighter world that was his own Is bright and plain as sunlight is. I know the little white flock of flame That followed my sister to the war, The guerdon of her tears and her sighs; I know the purple and gold and red That deck the banners of England's dead. But, as I gaze on the torn and bloody sky And the bleak smother of the trenches, I see that the shining world I follow Is marred with sorrow and pain. On his bier, we used to say, The blind man would play his flute; So we bent down our heads and sighed As we thought of the great joy he would find. He would no more see the sorry crowd That gathered to mark his grief. For we knew that he was sick in the sight Of God and man. His days were over, His night and day, his journey made, And he would nevermore return. But, as we thought of him, we thought Of the flute that he might make, And we bade the flute-notes rejoice, And we sang a joyous song: For we knew that he was living and free In the sight of his God. No chains Would mar the precious gift of the day. And we heard the broken roll of drums That marked his parting:--"Truest of friends, O, nearest of eyes, he went! "And so, when life is done, we will say, That the flute-notes long in our heed Forgotten chimes, that the maids are weeping O'er the tomb of their love-bird dead. For the one thing that is ours will be As soon as the other is gone. "So the star that used to brighten the night Will shine the shortest while, and the bird For whose sweet sake our footsteps used to run Will be a call to us to wait. And the loveliest of all will be the last That we kiss and win from woe." And the shadows fluttered, and the winds grew bold, And the heart of the blind man did thrill; But we knew that the sun of his life was past, And the eyes of his wife had grown blind. And we thought of the beautiful young hand That was folded on his own, And we sang a song to the grave-yard, soft and low: For we knew that the very bird that he loved Would be a call to us to come. And we sang the song of that perfect hand: "I would not have thee sing for other birds, For other birds are more than these. But the greatest of all the birds on earth Is the love that is born in a grave." When the birds are silent and the winds are still, And the hills are as soft as a woman's breast, And the valleys are full of the secret blue That lightens between the toes of the day And toes of the night, By the side of the brookside my wife and I Sit, and lean upon the hand of the tree, And watch the waters flow. And we hear far off the silver wings Of gulls as they sail by, And we see far off the silver feet Of mermaids on the brine; And the waters bend as they flow by, And the heart of the night does wait, And wait, till the waters fail. But we know, as the hours pass by, That the skies will not keep their promise, That the gulls will not return; And we lean by the brook-side alone, And we know that the sky will not fall, And the skies will not fall, till the skies Are glorified, and the heavens have been, Until the heavens have been perfected, Till the heavens have been perfected in love, In love, till the heavens are perfected, And the heavens are perfected in love. O the hills and the valleys, green and tall, O the woods of the shadow and the shine, Where our thoughts may joyously flow and fall; Where the wings of our fancy may hover long And bring their dreams home; Where our feet may softly tread and climb, And our eyes behold The wonder of earth, the awe of the mighty deep, The wonder of love, the wonder of life. O the eternal hills, and the eternal sea, And the eternal trees that are ever green, Where the souls of the sons of earth may sleep, And wake to take thought for the worlds they leave, The eternal bars that are bound in the heart, The eternal breeze That makes the eternal hills so gay and still; And the eternal fountains, that play in the eye With sparkling edges and gleams of eternal foam; And the eternal birds that sing over the world With minds not like ours; And O the eternal hills, and the eternal sea, And the eternal trees that are ever green, Where our thoughts may joyously flow and fall; Where our feet may lightly touch the starry floor, And our eyes behold The glory of God's works, the marvel of his plan, The wonder of love, the awe of the mighty deep, The wonder of life. And O our lives, which seem to float on lightly With no cares that seem in life, in death; But only our hearts are filled with the weight of care, With cares that are endless; O how great it were, if we could loose the clasp Of our bonds, and take breath, as a ship when she rides free! And how great it were, if we could leave the world behind, And join the immortal hills! But the soul, if it would seek heaven, must pay in hell (I think my friend referred to Lectures on Faith, First Series, on Luke XIV. 20-27). And the soul, if it would join the immortal hills, Must learn in humility to love All that God made sacred,-- All that is or shall be. Ah, friend, it is time to be more bold, And speak the thought in a spirit of jest; If all this time you've been brooding on You've kept from speaking words of wisdom, It's time to pay your debt. And I think it's high time we started, For here's the fruit of a vicious life And not the fruit of the spirit free; And you're overwise if you sneer at it, And I'm overbold to urge it. There's the fruit of a vicious life And you're overwise if you sneer at it; And I'm overbold to urge it, For your judgment's unduly prejudiced Against the thing for which you're seeking. I see the greatness of the thing for which You're seeking, but you're blinded to it. You see it in the light of a mere fact, But I see it in the light of a truth. I see the greatness of the thing for which You're seeking, but I see it in the light Of a fact to which you're inclined. <|endoftext|> As down the western cliff, They said the soil Of those rich pastures Saw none Of the sweep Of her speed As they said. Bare on their wind-swept hill A few tall maples brown, They watched her flash Across the blue Of the bounding sea, And heard her roar The distance down, As the fox jumped the brook. And he caught her, and tore her, Till the branches bare Her royal breast, And the rose of pride Drooped its head, While again the wretch Bled in his gasp, "Behold! I perish!" "The world is full of bitterness," She said; And out of the chalky air Her face was touched with fire. "Ah! God pity us, That have such good of life; Let me not vainly die "I am the rock of our peace, And if we falter or fail Our faith is not so deep, But that in our hour of need He will hold us firm in faith, Hold us firm in faith. "In us, and all around us, Our children shall not fail; In us, and all around us, Our children shall not falter, Ourselves, ourselves; For not in vain we live, Nor content on earth, But still shall hope to live In God, who still will keep Our faith when none believes it." "I know that I am worthiest, And he that seeketh for me Shall find me, when and as he will, And unto him I will be just, And hold him to his end." "Then, Lady, unto us convey Sorrow for our heart's dear need; Be here our solace and relief, And take us comfort, all our live, In God that all things works in might For good of his beloved." "Ah, I have known a glory, ere now Unto my vision from afar I came, a glory,--but I knew Not what, or how thereof was wrought; But this I do know, that I must come To that, or near it, when I die, And that to God I shall one day go, So he will defend me on that day When I shall sleep, and nothing else be, Than this fair world and all that is in it, For that shall have an end to-day." She said, "And this fair world shall have no part In thee;--and, since I have given it thee, When thou shalt suffer loss, or whatever comes, Remember that this cometh to thine hand, Which I earned for my small faith and meekness; And do thine honor, in this trial when Thou bearest a burden, suffering for my sake; And, though mine be not so large as thou, Grant that my weak hand be set aside To lead thee on whither I should go." And God said, "I give it thee with charge That thou do be content to go with me; For that thou bear it not, I charge thee so, As now to have no other thought but her, Who is the cause of all this mischief, To bear it day by day, hour by hour, Till thou shalt loose all memory of her." So spake the Prince of the Angels, and yet He could not break the spirit of the King Whom God did place above the chance of men, And therefore, as the King his servant spake, He bowed his head, nor ever lifted hand, For all his mighty strength and fearful face Could not prevail with the calm sense of sin That dwelt within his heart; and, as it were, A shadow, long and dark, encompassed his soul. But when that day was come, that every one Shall mark according to his kind, and mark If spirit abide or if essence go, That is no more encumbered with fleshly part, Nor much less with reptile sense,--but when It will have something to do, or else no more, And do nothing else but that, then shall this Shadow of man's nature be no more, no more Shall live man, but in his seed come forth the beast; And in his seed shall all flesh be fed. But all this was forenoon light and should be Coloured rather, and that after noon; so passed The time, and now the Prince, returning, said, "Let all my angels, and thee, Gabriel, set Upon this man, and throw wide the gate." And now the gates were opened, and they all United to go to the man, and see If he were worthy;--and, lo! on a book They found, written in the Roman's language, A litany, as it were a prayer, of love To be resolved in heart; and, lo! they saw The name of the highest, Aodh - King of the Sulets - Set three times solid above, as a crown. So they, in haste, through the busy aisles, advanced Unto the throne, and still were going, when, lo! The ancient time-bread, bread of days set free, Sale all things ended, and so ancient too, There stood, with costly biscuits on his lip, To be unfolded by the herald now; But, lo! the ancient time-bread had departed; And when they saw, that now no more was seen Of old time-bread, or old broken biscuits, Their eyes were held by a fair lady, who, Loudening her voice, was announcing a fair And newly-given tourney; for she bore along A knight for the contest, and that while he yet Waved in the wind a gasconette in his hair. "Go, go," she cried, "to that your feet are set, And come not tardy to this fair tourney! Go, go!" and she rushed, as in a fury, After the knights, and would have taken much Their spoils, but that those who there waited stood And screamed aloud, and scattered in disarray The whole of her train. Yet she fled as she came, And she cast down many a tear in the throng. Yet she was gone; and now they only saw The Roman maiden, and a rich new glove, And a new dress, all of gold, in a fair air, And a good sized golden bird that flew before Her, and was beautiful to behold. Then, above, a vase of crystal came into view, Of great designer and natural skill, That glittered and looked like melted gold alone, And in the neck a radiant ruby set. Now, on the other side, when they had come, And entered in, the Prince saw there were two tables Set with food of many kinds, and on the right Were the friars of St. Scholastico, And on the left, the Latin cantors; and he knew That he was at a great festival. Now, when the Prince had noted this, he cried, "Friends, wait your stewards, let no wenches goad Their lady's heels to fare onward more than a mile, Or they shall be followed." So it was done; And the damsel no more might be seen, nor any Wenching; but the Prince stood before the feast, As sentinel, with his dagger drawn. Now to the banquet, as at other times, The Prince gave such order, that not once was missed The suit of knightliness, which he had said Before the Prince of the Lake, who was his guide. Now after some little while the gilt plate Was brought, which o'er the threshold had been left, In great favour with the Prince; then they drank Full many a testy and fiery bowl Of wine, and afterwards the Lady Mappo Began to speak: "Prince, I pray thee, sit; For I would speak with thee alone, without The rest." "Speak slowly, Mappo, for I hear," He mildly said, "What is the cause of this delay?" "Prince, we have been anxious for this hour Since day we came hither, when the twain of us Should seek the treasures of the world, and thou Shouldst not be among the number. We became So early waking to follow up our dreams, Thou knowest, that we sought thy city from moon To moon; and still we seem to see the people Who see thee, and to hear thee, in the world Beyond the city, where thy city is, In the abode of Fatima. In the past Years we have heard, even from thy own lips, <|endoftext|> Did I never tell you that I was sorry For some false fancy that I nursed A dozen years ago? How shall I ever be able With those who are never coming back To suffer me grief To reckon up the pence and hours I was paying for bliss? I was a tiny, flag-waving elf, As happy as a child. Once I saw a woman in black Who wore a long, brocaded gown And said to me, "Oh, hush, be still, You there little wing." Then I told myself that it was strange That a soul so far away Should still be watching at the door While I was in my happiness Sitting on the brass doge's throne With the throng of the sea. It was only a wistful pride That I had The fancy that I had a soul That could be so free. Oh, why, so tied and tied In flesh, so afraid To let the wind loose and fly Far out to sea! When the dark came with its knell I was still a baby, so. And a night-bird told me so With his cocked hat. "Oh, be still," he said, "The night will come, and then Oh, be still, be still." When the moon came with its horn My baby heart leaped out To see her in the starlight Like a moonflower in the sky With her hood and her nest. "Oh, be still," he said, "The moon is so warm; Oh, be still, be still." I WENT to see him, but he Came to my house, and so I left him there to die. I could not stay, for I knew That if I did not go He would wake up and cry In the morning light Under the wattle boughs. I went away, but when I came back again I had changed, and he Still lay there dead, and so I buried him. I had no heart To bury him, but I Kissed him once and let him Sleep like any baby pig In the middle of May. At dawn I heard his mourners Singing all in his praise, And crying, "Here is profit, Here is something that will last; Come, poor baby, let us go To the rich man's hill, and there We will bake, and eat, and take Much love and much crying-in For the love of little babies." But I would never go To that hill and meet them, For I knew that they would cry For their old moon, and say, "We are quite content to stay Here on the golden hill, and there Let the spring grow for us, and drink Many a draught of tears." WHEN I went to the store to get Me tinsel roses to put in My wreath, and buy me gold wire To hang on my braid lace, The girl behind the counter Said, "Why do you want such things? The shops are all shut." I said, "I want the roses To stick on my braid lace." She said, "They're not for sale. They're from a dead woman Who has gone to the sky. The shops are all shut. Go home and ask her." I went to the moon, and then I came back here. I went to the grave, and then I dug this rose-root From the place where the spring had grown. I made it growing, all the way, Till it was full grown and golden, And when I saw it had ceased To make rose-wire, I went And asked her, "Please, Madam Moon, What did you use for rose-wire?" Then she came down from Heaven. I am very well, thank you, sir, But the dead woman's soul is down In the great dark sea. I have nothing else to give you, But just this rose root. I dug it up with my head From the wold. If you are too, pray come again And bring your flower. There's a gay bright star outside That is shining so bright I can see at times the tip Of its yellow beard Where the roots of the roses lie. It was made out of flesh Of a dead woman's soul. It lives in the sky, And it's always shining. Of all the sweet things that grow In the garden of God, A rose is sweetest of all. When I think of my dead, my dear, Oh! then a silver linnet Sings in my heart, A silver, silver linnet. That the radiance of beauty Is the radiance of God, And this dust of mine Is but a tiny feather Near the God-heart's limb. If I could have a white bodice And a loveless heart, I would sing for you With a silver, silver linnet. As I sat on the stone steps Beside the gutter one day, The little girls, and their fathers, Were swinging on the cherry trees. There was nothing but laughter and song And the shadows of play, And the big girls were singing the singings Of the great minstrels of the wood, As I watched them from the steps. I saw the yellow hair of one That was laughing so free, And the face of another Was glowing and tender, And the faces of the rest Were a glory as they smiled. And a barefoot child was running by, Who flung back her brown shawl, Her little breasts were heaving, Her little feet were bare. Her bare feet were white and sweet. The wind blew up my hair And tickled my cheek with feather, And the sun on the girls Began to look happy. The white sky grew as wide As the earth and the sea, And the way those barefoot children danced Was a joy to me. They looked as if they were happy, Didn't they, daddy? I watched them from the steps, And thought of a dream I had, Of a happy home far away, And a mother who loved me. The barefoot girls were like my sisters, The barefoot boys were like my brothers, I watched them from the steps, And I thought if I could only go To a home like that, daddy. There were roses in the garden And white roses on the wall, And the garden was so neat I could hardly believe it; And the garden seemed so small To the man who stood alone. But he was not the one to laugh, He was not the one to cry, And the roses went about his feet As the shadows went about my own. When the roses went about his feet, I knew that he had come Home at last, and that was enough, And I had found my own. But when he went in the dark, and stood Beside the love-lit candles, And looked out over the house, And listened to the sound of sirens And the music of sirens that went About his feet, daddy, I did not think that he would die. I only thought that I knew him, He was the man I had loved, I had followed through the many years And seen him as a friend. And I saw how much his life had meant To you, my daddy, And I thought that I would like to stay And make my life his own. But I never could forget him, He was the man I had known, I had followed him and cried to him And laughed to him and smiled. And you were laughing too, daddy, And you said: "I am glad you are happy, You are welcome, my boy." But I could never bring myself to die, And my tears kept running down, While he danced about my feet As the shadows danced about my head. I am a lone sailor, On a lonely sea, And my shattered happiness Is a frightened thing That flutters in the air. I have no place to go But the little grey ship, And the little grey ship, And the little grey ship. I am a lone sailor, On a lonely sea; And my shattered happiness Is a frightened thing That flutters in the air. In a little bed, alone, With a little pillow That I have torn up, a-- I am a lone sailor, On a lonely sea. Daughter of the air, We are stricken with pain, We are stricken with pain. I have grown old, O Bird, But I have never known The loss of joy before. I shall never know it, <|endoftext|> If I see you seated in a tree While one of my men snores hard on the tent, I will go over to your tree, And lie in your butt with you, Or run my hand over your head To feel if you are a bear. And the men that go to the river To fish for the little brown brothers Will stand out in the sun with their rods Till you wake, and come to them, And dance with them, and drink, and smoke, And be as merry as they can. And the boys that go to the city To buy a gram of tobacco Will stand by the rails of the bridge And count your toes, and ask you how You sleep at night, with your splendid tail, And long for your milk-teeth, and long To wrestle you; but you will not come, For you are too busy chewing gum. And some of the boys will come to you In the lonely night time, But you will not come to them In the lonely night time, For you are too far away. They will look at your wonderful eyes And you will not care for them, And they will go to the city And buy a gram of tobacco And a pipe and a pot, And you will not come to them In the lonely night time, For you are too far away. I WONDER, long, long ago, When I was very little, If I ever could return And visit long, long ago. I WONDER, long, long ago, If I ever could return To visit long, long ago. It's hard to say just when I came, It's hard to tell just where I went; I'm sure Iced and Nevermore Cannot remember both their names. I'm sure Iced and Nevermore Would not understand a rhyme or a call; All things have an end; this starts, I thought, in the Dairy-Place. But, having paid my bob, I thought I'd stop a while and wash and feed And get my hat and gloves and stick In the tin where the raspberries grow. Well, at first, to shake a box of raspberries A little girl who sits by the bath-tub Requires neither skill nor courage nor initiative. She requires no other gifts or degrees In order to frustrate the plan of a person Who, in the attempt to revolutionize the art Of shaking raspberries, has lost his two hands. I was startled, and a little afraid, When a black-frosted building caught my eye; I feared some mischief--I enjoyed it all. The long, straight streets of the city laid out Like fleets of frozen water, parallel, With each ending in a point; the country all Frozen, to the last extreme of the map; The map drawn higher to encompass the poles, And the infinite ends of the world beyond. I was startled, and a little afraid, But the more startled I was the more Confirmed I grew in my belief That the place I came so to enjoy Must be able to withstand the worst of our world. What I had come to enjoy I will not tell, And what will not be discovered remains The Mystery which Time will not discover. A moment since I was wondering, thinking What's the way, and now, ah, what's the way, And who is it that comes hame, and whither goes hame? And now, O yes, I was wondering, thinking What a curious street it was, and now I'm wondering, now I'm wondering who goes by. What you see is only a part of me; The rest, as you can plainly see, Is written in gold and must not be seen. I have tried to write a poem, but the language Has been so strong that the band that it wore Has been so weak as to crumble like tissue paper. I am a pensive investigator Of the most silent and motionless things; A lonely pilgrim to the sea Of Mystery that moves about my bed. I am the darkling twilight of the trees, And in the noon of night I move about From one dark tent to another, moving Like one who dreams, but cannot awake to sleep. I am the numbing sense of missing out, The languor of a dull despair, The sluggish apathy of suffering, The supineness that hides the lack of courage, The weary weight of malice and bad feeling, The trembling emptiness of longing, The trammeling awe of fear, the apathy of ignorance, The sameness of the dull and living dead, The sadness of the faithless, and of those who wonder, And the sponginess of life and of death, I am the deadness and the flatness of activities, The ineffectuality of living, The foolishness of youth, the foolishness of age, The rigidity of labor, the rigidity of love, The bitterness of endeavor, the bitterness of rest, The mad endeavor to be wise, the cowardly disinclination to find, The rage of life and the terrible reserve of death, I am the spur that lives in the dark of the heart, The joy that is shaken by the dew of tears, The fervor and openness of an aroused will, The mystery of an aroused will, the infinite patriotism That is only a passionate, undying love of one's country. I am the strident rush of the wind, The imperious call of the far-gone sea, The restless tumult of many footsteps, The strange, vague longing and far-flying Of the hearts that travel east and travel west, The quest of the ancients and the hopelessness of their dreams, The yearning of the restless nations for home, I am the tide that is rising and flowing, The promise and the fear of the nations, The awe of the mystics, the faith of the wise, The hope and the dread of the souls of the restless, The passionate ache for the living, the fearless appeal To the life beyond, the love of the loved, the fervor of sacrifice, I am a force to be reckoned with, A light and a power to be reckoned with, A harmony of terms and a motioned rhythm, A force to be lived and a meaning of voice. I am the power of the centuries, My life is a motion, A wave that ebbs and flows; A song that flows and ebbs, A country that dies and is born; And always this sea of song and country Makes and makes again the same. O sea, be more gracious, O sea, O waters so gracious, Be more forgiving, be more tender, O waters, be more cherished. The loving waves of love, they waste And waste not loving water, They keep it all for ever more. The tide of life, it is rising and flowing, A steady flow upward, a steady flow downward, A wave that rises and a wave that falls, The life that rises and flows forevermore. The living waves of love, they waken and guide, O gentle waters, the tides of love, They gather and guide the moving wave, The waves of love, more gentle, more graceful, Are carried forevermore. My star, set in a radiant firmament Of fire, With eyes that dart A million flashing fires, Where the fiery stars are dying, Dost thou rise up to us And say to us: 'I am the Lord?' I raise my head And see thy fire, And in my sight Thou art the Lord. The Lord of life! I am the Lord of life. I rise from the sea And call to the light, I lift my head And say to the sea: 'I am the Lord, the Lord, the Lord!' I rise from the earth And call to the darkness: 'I am the Lord, the Lord, the Lord!' I rise from the earth And call to the dead: 'I am the Lord, the Lord, the Lord!' The dead I bind with a spell That mocks the grave, And set the living free, I bless them where they lie, I bid them pray for me, I bid them praise me, I bid them believe. I speak in a dark place Where there is neither light nor truth; I cry to the white And silent dead, With a voice of grief: 'I am the Lord, the Lord, the Lord!' And let the dead rise up And say to me: 'We believe, We worship, We love, We call thee Lord, Lord, Lord!' I wander lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, <|endoftext|> Homesick in life's fair summer land, And far from friends, where woods are green. Vainly do I long for homes, Homesick in life's fair summer land, And far from friends, where woods are green. Only the laurel-branches, When bursting with the odorous flowers, In scented sunshine to the ground Bring balm to weary hearts of men, And dreams like mine that come to nought, Where once I used to rove like you. You that are glad with breath of song, And a glad heart in your ruddy face; Where do your tom-toms plant the blossoms? And where their shadows hang in staves? Can song so sweet be wreathèd fair? And a golden lyre on the wall With music sweet can I entice To sing before my love with me? When I go to whisper at your side, Can you but turn a little aside, And listen discreetly? While you, my love, so cold and small, But turn your head to touch the flowers, And pick the honeysuckle ball, And smile to see the roses glow, And hear the wood-thrush set free, As if the magic spell was wrought Of all your lovely language? You flower, my dearest rose, whose golden hue Sheds splendour from your neighbour violets; You with the glossy foliage gay, Whose stems entwine unto a leafy crown; And you with your nodding catkins, Where sun and shower have Mintea plied, And blossoms wild have tangled with the vine, Are twin-born with the cluster-born; Can you not hear, and answer, and sing As does the thrush the summer rain, And as does the brier-rose when it blooms, And as does May, the sweetest month? When you do sing, my love, I know not how, I am far away and you are so near, Yet I can hear, I can hear, 'Tis the sweet spring wind, And far away, and yet near, The summer rain beats, and far away, The summer sunbeams burn, And in my heart Is the tune of your voice. To you I come, When winds do blow So cold and swift, And sweet, and sweet The flowers grow on my way. But fairest blossom falls To me who never Muse on other themes. For wild and free Are my thoughts as the weather, Or wilder far, Or far for flight, As springtime grows, And sweetens, sweet. Now the colours bright Of cuckoo flowers Are changing fast, And each keeps watch with those It left behind. I know not when nor why I love them so. There is one theme I cannot ever tire of, And when it dies, As life's wild passion dies, I know that it has been well. There is one voice That thrills me through, That thrills me through, And it whispers, "All praise Be to Him who made you man. And praise, in heaven, to Him Who scorns the little tin. <|endoftext|> 'Tis midnight; and, in the upper story, Of that tall Old Winter's house, the fire Is watching, dark and deep; while, in the tomb Hushed and white, below, the moonlight lies Upon the cold and solemn frost 'Mid the well-knitted rugs and shawls Of the long-forsaken patch of ground, And the widowmaker's wheel is still, --It has run all its year's round,-- But the old clock is dead and dead. Will the snow-flake, as it ever fell, Upon the dead face, soften up Its cold? Will the ancient red, Of the still house, redden white? Will the broken clock, from out its place, Give forth a warning chime, As the eyes that looked on old We have been quiet, but too long, And it is high time we told you all What has been going on. When I was young, I said, I was wild, And spoke what now I think: At times my sister and myself Did laugh and scold at each other; But we were of a cheerful nature, And knew it only in our minds. But we grew calm, and wiser, and wiser; And the wildness, like a spectre, Stole at our hearts; but like a spectre, It vanished. For my sister's hand I would not care For aught, but that she should be fair; Her face would its shadow leave, And, though I searched the wide world over, I could not but see it there. And then I used my stone, and now I say the things I used to say; And now I know, as well as you I went about the streets, at night, And gazed upon the faces of men, And noted each advance in beauty; And all I saw was beauty slain, And those who used to be so fair. I passed each brothel and coffee-house, And stood in the gullies and bycocks Of the poor districts, and looked round On the sight I had made beautiful. And all I saw was beauty dying, And those who used to be so dying. I thought of the old golden hair That clung about my sister's neck; And all the fancy shops and restaurants, With all their wiles and curious dyes, And all their frippery and bling; And I remembered the open sky, And only saw the stars above. I thought of the rills that were hissing Down in the earth, and wondered why A man should not have power to take A change of place, and still be happy, With all his old-time friends there about him; And the river, soon, that runs by Down in the old village green. I thought it would be good, when on A spree, to take a stationery-shot Of all my gay companions lying dead, And jump in a cab and drive away; But I never did it; for I thought It was not safe, even for pleasure, To shoot dead such men as I had met, With all their friends around them lying dead. I thought, too, as I shot, there might be Some one who cried, "It is a shame, "And very shocking to see such things; "And those who live like we do here, "May die, in the same night, of grief." But as I lay and looked upon The lifeless faces, like a herd of ghosts, I knew, at last, that it was all nonsense; That all such things as those had happened In a world of vanity and toys, Which men, with foolish eyes made blind By ignorance and folly, say Are only parts of a perfect life, And cannot, really, exist apart From all that makes up a man. I was quite tired of all my friends, And thought it would be a joke to rob A rest-house of its booty; And I thought it would be a fine thing If some grim-faced hoodlum, too, Had money to waste, but no sense, And his pursuer were the lights Burning in the windows of his house. So, by some chance, as I was passing Through the crouded city, all the houses Were lighted; and a thousand thoughts Took possession of my spirit; And a thousand feelings and wishes Entrusted their wavering beams To deeds that I had wrought in the past, And thoughts that were yet to be. And, as I walked along the street, A little girl ran out and called me, And bowed in the pure, unclouded snow Her little rosy hands were white. And I turned, and, laughing, gave her A nickel, to spend, if she preferred, In throwing the snowball snow-balls; And she chose well, for she made quite The team that was destined to win. As for you and I--we should like To join the wonderful crowd That gathered round that little crowd Of happy-go-lucky boys That were winning that snow-ball fight; But, now we think upon it, There is not on belongs to us That was not purchased by having Our feet the snow-balls in; So we leave the question as it is, And bow before the truth in that, And say that we had rather Been snowball'd by the two little boys That won the fight for snow-balls. <|endoftext|> On this is my melancholy all. As its bright waters ran and flowed Through the lovely woods below, I loved the beauty of the scene, And the merry laughter of the crew, As a school of salmon they ran, A rippling tide of music bright, And I wept--O, nevermore to see The light and joy of scenes like these, Never to hear the music swell, Or see the smile on faces fair, Or catch the gladsome laugh, or see A glance of eye or a warm, bright touch Of hand, or hear a voice, again! Alas! this is the common lot Of all his children who believe! Alas! this is the common lot Of those who hold the secret low! Alas! that any life should prize So rare a thing as a pure, true heart! How grand is our Patriarch's fame, That e'en our children's children call! And hear their voice, and understand How dear to him were the words of shame We hear from his fathers of the past, The fetter's clank, the bridle rein, That called in the boy for the manhood grown! I saw a band of my countrymen Go forth to the fray with a stout mixiacook And rifle,--countrywomen and children the odds. It chanced upon a holiday morn When a vast throng, dense as a harvest-field, Moved slowly through the broad, bright streets ofthe town, And piled in a sight of horror there, Behind the gun-barrels, gunwale-deep, Lay a mixed multitude, like creatures spawned Of mud and of cleanly-mistaken thought, Whom neither the frost nor the snow nor the mud Could comprehend or reckon nor comprehend. A mixed multitude, of boy and man, Of youth and age, of those who kneel and tower, And others who lead great lives on the land And in the great war. They moved with slow song And without noise, like the tangled grass That wreathes a harvest-field. In their eyes The moon lit the faces that passed that way, And they stirred not. The men were as white As the face of the men in the graves below, And the boys were fair as the faces there, But the women were as brown as the faces there, And sick in the knees, and faint in the heart, And blind in the head with the darkness there, And torn with the swords in their hearts, and sick in the feet, And stained with the blood of their lordly souls, And silent in the darkness and pain, Like rocks in a dark yawning cleft. For, in the luminous faces of the crowd, There was one face, all-white, all-glowing, The face of the mother that loved the boy, The boy who slaughtered was. She moved there Silent, with eyes that moved in the face Of the man who murdered. And the song That softly pierced the air was as child's play: There was the mother, dumb, in the maddened ecstasy Of her child's soul and her own, that moved there In the darkness and pain; and there was the father, Whose love was tried and proven in the o'erwhelming task Of twenty years to the poor man who moved there Savage and weak, and cast him in the maw Of a dog, and gave him a living, a mate, A child to be his brother, and a hand to claim. And there was one face that moved with the tribes Of men, and nations, and the innumerable folk Whose loving life goes on for aye and aye In the one fair town of kindred, in the lands Where the gold of truth is found, where the folk Who in the dawn of time followed Christ Proclaim the way of the Cross. There was one face, But of it we knew not aught save "His face was blue." And we turned, and passed, and no more met the face, And we passed from the darkness into the heat And the roar, and the crushing of the throng. I have loved you long and well, And I believe your heart is true. And I think that your love is strong To keep you true to me. But you were silent, and I thought That you loved another, and I frowned, And you loved another, and I frowned, And you loved another, and I cried, And you loved another, and I frowned, Till I had travelled all the world through To find you, and you loved another, And I sighed, and you moved away in a heap To find another, and you loved another, Until at last you and I were one, And I loved you, and you moved away in a heap To find you, and you loved you, and I wept, And you moved away in a heap to find you, And I mourned and you moved away in a heap To find you, and you moved away in a heap To find you, and we fought over him, and I died With the other, and they both died, and I came back, And I came back to you, and you came back, And you came back to me, and I came back to you, And we travelled together till we were lost, And we wandered, and we wandered, and I died With the other, and you came back, and you came back, And you came back to me, and I died in the crowd, With the other, and they both died, and I came back, With the other, and they both died, and I came back, With the other, and they both died, and I came back, So, I am as you see, And you shall see that I am here again. I am waiting in the wood to meet you, But you must come to me, and lead me, lead me, And we shall wander through the wood together. And I shall see your face, and I shall see Your lovely face like the sun, and I shall eat The food you give me, and we shall sleep in the wood, And we shall arise together, and we shall live, And I shall follow you till I die, and I shall follow you, Till I find you, and you find me, and we two shall meet And he came to me with the tidings of a town Whose plague was caused by a new invention of war, Which was the pillage of a neighbouring village, To the number of twenty-five or thirty men, All for the simple reason that they had had enough, At the age of twenty-one, to marry their daughter. And the father of that unhappy family Was the man who died in the street, and he died And they buried him without taking his body out, And the sister, who was eighteen, carried away Her dowry and her jewels, and went her way, And sent a servant to commandeer a carriage For the next morning's conveyance to her new master, And she sent a servant to commandeer a carriage To convey her father's body to the city square, Where his new master wanted her, and she sent him. So that was done, and all was done according to use. And I saw one day how some one was approaching, But who he was I saw not, and at evening I saw one. But the next day, and every day for two months after, I could not discern who it could be, and at last, When the moon was at its full, and I was sitting alone, And I had wrapped my cloak about me and was colder than ever, And the wind was chilly and was wet, and I stretched out my hands, There on the bosom of the earth there seemed to lie a creature. But I did not know whether it was living or dead. And the place was full of lizards and snakes and things, And the dew fell on my head and on my cold limbs and dripped From the top of my head, and the moonbeam struck into my eyes, And it seemed to me that a voice was saying to me from heaven, You are cold, you are cold, in the silent kingdom of the dead. But I did not sleep that night for fear of the creature, And the next day I did not speak, and the next, and the next after, For I was afraid of the silent kingdom of the dead. I saw you in a vision as a beautiful young girl, Your hair hung over your crown of pearl, Your eyes were like a wildwood in the forest, Your face was beautiful as a tulip field, And your voice was soft as the violet blue, That shines in the evening, And sweet as the voice of a little stream. And I saw you in a vision as a beautiful young girl, <|endoftext|> 'Tis my name we hear, For not a sound you hear, Though all day long the wretch was drowned And naught was heard but God and you, And where He dwelt your soul must move To sing this song to-night." I ceased; they heard my voice, They paused, they looked around. And some to question me they bent, And some stood motionless. But such a ghastly pause there was, No voice, no sound could mar, And then from forth the thicket-doors There came a sound--a groan. I only saw a form With dreadful red lips, And the blood-red wind had slain The lovely lips with dew, And those lips still as a ghost On either side were dripping; The feet of the dead had scarcely dared To tread the terrible floor. Then out from that lair of Hell Came one that looked like fire, With flame-like eyes and garments red, And white skin showing through. She stood before them both, A shape of horror and might, And her face was like a sty. Then all the evil sprites, With silent screams, Fled trembling from her presence, Leaving them dismayed. I fled aghast, And the more evil fiends Fled after me in fear. I sought no more to know The things that I had seen; For lo! I knew them for the work Of some grim demon; and I knew That I had met my death. But one among the ghouls Who shared my place of fear Was played upon by a Witless one That mocked his fear and left him free, In loquacious mood, to seek me out And to impart his words of wisdom. "And even as I feared," said he, "The Ghouls were fled and we alone, Though night had covered us with fear, And I knew well that my words were naught Till I saw thee and embraced thee here. But now they come again, for thy soul Sickens at their wicked ways." The voice was like a tinkling reed, The soul it breathed was pure and warm, The heart was beating like a rose; And he was dead, dead, dead with pain, And I was free, and strange and glad, And on the river's lonely strand We met again. When the lamps gleamed in the city, And the wings of the midnight bees Murmured as they swarmed and flew Over flowers that were fresh and fair, I knew that my heart was free, That I had met my death and met, And the meeting was bliss. But the sky grew black with the threat Of some big thunder-clouds overhead, And it grew so dark I could not see The phantom shapes that were near at hand; And with a heavy heart I turned to you, And I begged you to leave me not, For the big darkness was overspreading, And I was met to meet you not. I sat there in the churchyard, 'neath the rain That had washed all the earth with its filth; And I watched the threads of the dank gray mold On the bodies, the bodies of men, Who had lived and died and had never known The splendor of the living light; And I watched the threads of the gray-mold On the bodies, the bodies of men, Who had lived and died and had never known The splendor of the living day. For they had passed away from the earth, And the earth had passed from them away, And they were forgotten by the sea, And they were forgotten by the sun, And they were forgotten by the wind, And they were forgotten by the wind that blows From the open gates of Death. Yet ever, and ever, and evermore, Their ghost would respond to the call That came through the darkness from the ruined earth, And their shadow would drift over the seas, And their voice would seem to say, Come and pay Your sins, and come to your rendezvous; And many would come, and straightway come To their nightly rendezvous with Death. I heard the wail of the rain in the night, I heard the sound of the gales in the sea, I heard the voice of the wind in the tree, And in my dreams from the heavens it said, I have slain your friends, your friends are dead, They died in the night, and the blinding rain Curdled down from the crumbling wall, And the gales swept till the wasted town was white, And the winds swept till the cities of men were lost, And I slew your friends, and the rain came on, And the wind blew, and the rain came on. But where is your city? Where is your home? Your buried city? Where are your loved ones gone? Your city and your buried city? All lost, your loved ones, your loved ones lost! I only see the empty grave-yard, And the wind in the trees and the trees of the night, And the sound of the wind in the night, And the voices of ghosts, and they say: In the silver moon, with streaming hair, In the blue night, with streaming hair, In the star-light, with streaming hair, A woman stands with a young one by her, Who sings a child's song, and they laugh at all The wrong that has been done, and they will laugh yet. In the still night, with streaming hair, In the star-light, with streaming hair, In the light of the great lights that pass, In the glory of light, with streaming hair, A woman kneels with a little one by her, Who sings a song, and it is holy, and sweet, And she sings the song of love, and it is true. O great lights that pass, O stars that shine, With your gleams my city is ridged, My city is pied, my city is pied By a flash of your eternal light. O night and rain, O night and rain, Pray for us that we die in sight of them, And let no evil thing dim our sight. Suns that burn, and count the minutes, Lend a gleam to our dead-writ letters, Lend a glare to all our dead-writ names, Lend a shine to ALLEEN and TO-NIGHT, Shed down like lamps in a sepulchre, Lest the evil things we be-lie against Our living God, who made us men. O my soul! If you perchance may hear A doom pronounced over you, The burden of a word that's said Before the darkness falls away And the lids of the dead are closed. O my soul! Say you hear not the cry Of the rushing night on the hill, Nor the burden of a prayer you keep For the far-off and the dim, The calling and the thirsting, The heart-ennobling and the sight. O my soul! Do you hear not the hymn Of praise that fills the eternal skies, Peal down the hills of the sea With a thousand tongues to singing? Or the hymn of the stars, when they meet In a bright crystalline light, And it is good to remember the light That gives them their eternal day. O my soul! If you perchance may see Your Judge, and have your day, Remember this--the hour is brief: The spirit has its tenour; The heart has its tenour; The face of your God has its visage, And this hour may be its epitome. O my soul! If your eyes may ever Gaze on the skies, and see the sun, The lightning and the hail, The cloud, the tempest, the fiery comet, And the two worlds at discord come; If you may see the sun, If you may see the sun, Remember this--the hour is brief: The spirit has its tenour; The heart has its tenour; The face of your God has its visage, And this hour may be its epitome. If you will close your eyes and hear A sermon in it, and not sin, The sermon is this: Do not weep When you hear the sinner weep; Do not laugh when another grieves, Or speak sharply on his ton, But listen, and look at his face, And listen well his face; The hour will prove the sinners fool, The fool is not always loud. If you will keep your hands and hearts On the rock, where the Lord is, And wait to find your steps on it Far, far higher on it <|endoftext|> My lady fair! I sent a messenger before To say that I had brought This tall and slender lass To thee; and if my words Were dumb, to whisper how This life of ours was given To bless us with a view Of heaven, and how our race Is great in number, so That man may not be done Before the angels, whom They love as they love us, And we to them can yield Such homage as they do. I told the maiden how I had brought her down, and all She had to do was to say She loved me, and I would do All that was best for her. And so, I hoped for nought In her, but that she might Be willing for me to try This path wherein I tread, For I was resolved to live To serve my Lady God, And die--but of death spoken, I care not now if she Should cross that awful river, So swift and awful, on To the land where she was born, For death would then be all If there should be no more life. O pensive maid, the nights grow cold, The winds grow still; Upon the wall the moon-tree casts A silence; and my heart is dumb As yonder nameless hill. I see the shadowy form of night Go gliding by,--and that fair hill It stood upon is now a plain, And trees are blowing trees, And what was grass is grass again, And only trees are trees. There was a time when life was new And never seemed a ill; But all too soon its blooming had And all too soon was gone; My thoughts are now as empty as The shell the shark flung. The flowers we watched in bloom were sweet, And happy days were many; But one by one they turned to gloom, And now no form is seen Of them that used to be. No form of manscape is there now But wolves and robbers are; And in the rich old place Is no more that swing of sand, No merry going home. My heart is dark and cold as clay; It waits as still for me; I am not troubled any more By thoughts of pain; The world I knew is vanished quite, And leaves behind But echoes of broken spring. I stood by the pale grave, And in my lonely hours I dug the earth with my hand; I felt the dampness, and I felt The thin white of the skull. I read the words that were written there In the thin white of the brain; I shuddered as I read, and I heard The noise of fountains deep. And there was a word, written there, That I shall never forget; It seemed to stand for Hope; it seemed A symbol of happiness. No one can say now why it was done that way; The thing itself had no beginning, no end; There was no hint, no suggestion, not one clue Of where it came from, or how it happened. But still, as a loved face, I think that it May live forever in my sight. I see it now, and yet, though I see Myself that used to be, I cannot say If it is the face of a woman or man. The sun was sinking low, And with it an unspeakable sum of heat; There was no place to lay my head, So I lay flat under the tree, And turned and twined my fingers in my hair, And looked at the sky. The sun was sinking low, And I could see the toes of the peasant's boots Against the blue of the full moon, And the castle in the distance, Across the lake. The sun was sinking low, And I could see the walls of that grand structure, Dark, terraced, high and slender; I saw the open garden, and the casement, And the heavy French wine Draining in a golden basin. The sun was sinking low, And a little speck in the unruffled heavens Sailed slowly down into the lake, And there came a form, Smaller than a speck, and darker than a cloud, And lighter than a leaf, And plopped into the lake. And the fisherman sees it, And I saw it with my eyes, I saw a human face Sail slowly down into the crystal water, And a little face Lift its boat toward the heavens And seek its fate in the blue. And it floated up to the surface; And I heard the small creature sing As it swayed in the air So it looked like a shining star, And it sounded like the music of the sea And it sailed like a boat, And away it went! There was a little red tower in the city, And the fox went up to it at night, With his whip, and his hair-nets, and his hat Flapping in the wind. "And what do you see in the little red tower?" The town was still. He had reached the top; and his eyes were bright And glistening with ethereal sweat; His body glowed bright red underneath, Like a ruby red rose. He peered at the unsuspecting street, And the children in their beds. He peered up, and down, And all the little shadows of the town Laughed at him. He flicked his hand, and the fox went home Through the little red door. He peered at the red tower, and it looked bigger With his eyes. He peered at the red tower, and it seemed much higher To-night; and I heard him pass the little door, Hurry-hurry, And laugh again, for the wind was blowing, And he was free! For the white moon climbed up the white hill, To the red tower leaning down; And the stars, like a shower of bright gold coins, Were streaming down. And the bells were tolling, And the winds were whistling; And the little fox went snorting Through the little red door. Little red tower, looking down With your little silver star, And your white shinier moon, Shining all through the night Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down With your white silver moon, And your star of scarlet gold, Shining all through the night Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down With your silver star, And your moon of scarlet gold, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down, With your silver star, And your white golden moon, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down With your silver star, And your golden sun, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down With your golden sun, And your silver sun, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down, With your silver sun, And your black and silver moon, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down, With your silver sun, And your crystal moon, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down With your crystal moon, And your silver sun, Shining all through the night, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Shining all through the night. Little red tower, looking down With your silver sun, And your crystal sky, Like a shower of bright gold coins, Like a shower of coins, Like a shower of rain. Little red tower, looking down, With your silver sky, And your silver moon, Like a shower of snow-bucks Shooting in the dark. And your fox coming home, All decked out in fur, And the red fox playing with him, And the little red fox laughing, And the little red fox afraid. Little red tower, looking down With your silver moon, And your silver sun, Like a shower of silver drops, Like a shower of stars, Like a shower of snow-balls Shooting in the dark. Little red tower, looking down With your silver sun, <|endoftext|> The vast, infinitude of waters; The gold and diamonds, the worthless pearls; The birds that scream beneath the eternal stars; The fire that never burns; and life that ends. "Oh! let us both upon the ocean sleep, And thus for ever find release from all trouble; For as the serpent covered with silent scales Stands guard over certain trees, guarding them from harm, Till the avenging bolt has slain its prey; So shall the vigilance of my vigilance Restore the joy of your restored happiness. But, should you not forgive my countless sins, And soul-wasting griefs, and injuries grievous, I must needs fly from your embrace, and seek my home In the dark and endless abyss of night." "You have said much," cried the snow-white maiden, As she awoke from troubled slumber, "You have said much, but I like little that you have said. If you would play a trick, you need no longer keep Your word to heart; your saying much will be sufficient. But you have told me all you had in your mind, And now my heart is burning with love and tenderness; And a very little trouble seems a very great deal." "Gladly would I play the Christian's part, As you would wish your best friend to play; But ah! there are the chinked stools, the benches, The ragged benches, and the benches with cracks, The broken chinks, the defective draught-pipes, And you would never bet a groat that I would tip." "There are the rotten benches, and there are the good Ragged benches, and there are the newer stools That ever, while the game of Base-ball was played, Have needed frequent overhauling; There are the cracked old stools, and there are the chairs That can't be used as chairs at all. "And there are the broken stools, and there are the chairs That are bowed beneath the weight of aged tea-cups; And there are the creaking old chairs, and there are the new That have cracked their sockets o'er and o'er again; And there are the creaking old tea-tray canoes, And the canoes all cracked and splintered again. "And there are the crack-brac'd chairs, and there are the canoes That can't be used as chairs at all, And there are the broken table-covers, and there are the chairs That have been languishing under the table water; And there are the split crackers, and there are the chairs That have been treated like children by their mother. "And there are the table-sheets that have been torn And scratched by the children's thumbs; And there are the filthy straw-scales, and there are the crumbs That have fallen through the offing out of the chinkers; And the offing that has been so fair and clean Is now as brown as a coal-tar brown. "And there are the doors that have been left open; And the chairs that have been bumped and jagged; And the chairs that have been creaking ever so softly; And the doors have been cracked and the hinges kneaded, And the corners too. "And there are the chairs and the tables that are mislaid After a journey; and the windows that are blind; And the lights that have out been stubbed out; and the curtains That have been drawn; "And the floor that has been swept and polished so fair That one would deem them stars and virtue were they not wet; And the dirtied tongue that is so scourg'd that none would care To look at it if it were not burnt and blistered sore; And the pail that is brimmed so full of the rusty water That its bottom will be seen at a glance. "And there are the chairs and tables, and the doors and windows And the grate where the water runs off; And the broken stove and the chair and the table that was made For the reception of good guests, And the ruin'd window that was a good sign of a fall, And the broken door; "And the broken chimney and the withered plant, and the spring That has been sown and is rotten; And the doors that are peeling away and the hinges dead, And the floors all scratched by the feet of the wickedness that rots; And the leaves that are torn and the branches crushed and the logs Stuck forth from the houses crooked and battered and black with the same; "And the white house and the roofless sky; and I must go, I must go Into the house of dust; and there is none to receive me, There is none to receive me, and I must wander and wait, Till the time is over and the work is over and done, And I go forth, Till the time is over and the work is over and done, When the cold winds blow and the rain descends in torrents, When the sickle falls and the milch cow tilts her head, And the sun sinks in the west and the night is over and done. Where the willows weep, Ah! Gawaine, Gawaine, my wee darling, my pretty selkie, I wonder what you can be thinking about! Do you hear the rain? It is drawing the leaves under with a squeak And the grasshoppers are home and the beetles are by, And the twilight is coming, And the moon is rising, And the stars are flickering their dim lamps in the skies. I am here, The heavy hours are hushed and waiting, The hearth is a-burning and the home is bright, The wild birds sing in the wood and the whirlwinds are borne, And the darkness falls, And I kneel, and I pray, For I am here in the hostel of God. Ah! little sleepy heads, All full of sleepy prayer, Peer on the mercy seat! See where He sits with the Lamb of God at the feet of man, All day long before my silent chair, The darkness falls, And the morning warm Comes with the dawn, The earth, a-throb with birth, New life and sight Gilds the world asleep, And the dew is bright on the fresh new grass. And the sweet toil of battle Calls to me,-- Hear ye the battle-drum? The loud, clear call of the deep? Then, for a moment, I see A glory of far sights From the red battle-plain. Ah! little sleepy heads, All full of sleepy prayer, Peer on the mercy seat! And, oh, but the call of the old, Soft, delicious years! And the glory of far sights, And the voices of men! I cannot sleep for thought, The fierce heat of my hunger is roused; But though the morning, The fire, far off, Burn dim and dead, The new-made breakfast will spread its warmth, For God is with us, and in His New Rest What is this I hear about the Last battle of the day, And the mounted men marching away? Is it the trump of battle, That wakes me with its din? Or perhaps it is the Tolling of a bell? I hear the tramp of feet, And the sound of arms in the Struggle of the fray; But it is the beat of my heart, That rings so true and sweet! Or is it the beat of my heart, That rises like a song, And wakes me with its psalm? What is this I see about the Gates of heaven, And the great stars, like a swarm of bees, Streaming there o'er the door? Is it the bride-groom and his bride, And the music of their dance? Or is it the glory of that light, And the peace that beams so bright? Or is it the glory of that light, And the power of the sweet song, And the power of the sweet peace? I see the gates of heaven, and the bride-gates As they stand in the sun; And the great clouds of heaven, and the wind-streaks That break and brighten the night; And the whirling of the tempests there, And the soaring of the dashing hail; And the leaping on high of the running lightning, And the mournful accents of the night-wind; And the pealing of a bell, far off,-- And the voice of a little one,-- He comes, He comes! He comes! He comes! His legions are pouring, Waves he wheeling by on the storm-wind wing, <|endoftext|> As men find weavers weaving of his purpose Who longing is for wisdom; and each in his heart Expects to find, before he passes to the life Of less than empty duty, a light to guide His feet to wisdom. I would have made My heart a harp of joy and wakened its strings To songs of hope and calm of perfect virtue, Such songs as come from the inner spirit; and not Thus would my strong hand strike the point of light In men's hearts, nor thus its good intent find A proof in their lives. They have begun to break the hearts of men By grasping wealth with a hard hand, by spending More than they bring to issue; and vainly tried By law to guard them, often they are found By luckless thieves in the hands of ruinous men. But I would have made my heart a harp of joy And lulled its strings to perfect virtue; and not Thus would my strong hand strike the point of light In men's hearts, nor thus its good intent find A proof in their lives. Yet, by a gracious chance, A soldier, well versed in books, and desirous Of gaining a glorious name in war's unfolding, Was led by these same passion and ambition Into the study of these noble works, And came to know that light had a better right To say that these songs were beautiful, than he Who sought to take from them the glory of song. And this soldier, by his thought's firm assertion Of right and wrong, by faith's clear truth made clear, Knows that his will was broken, and by this gift Of God, the Lord, he has had the power and will To build a road for high endeavor; and, by this gift, He has the power and will to take from me The beauty of my life. Now shall your sons inherit all that you have won With strength of soul and body and with toil? Or will you rather perish, for all your dead Bodies of men, than for all time to save Your names a faded memory, your honors spread A level plain for the victor? Yet I warn You, as I come to you with word of warning, Not to take too great a comfort, turning all Your soul and body and strength to building up A race of men, and in the building so neglect The soul and body and strength, and leave your name As women build up the home. 'Tis a small thing, Dying, to lose a name. 'Tis a small thing, dying, To lose a name, for time's name will carry it As far as fame. But, by the might of God, This building up of men must fail if you neglect The strength of soul and body and with a careless eye Place your faith in books and men. I charge you, ladies, With these thoughts to weigh and to consider with your feet. Your wives, at least, were not dead, were not lost, If he who lost their lives for you and for his fame Was not yourself killed. A woman who would choose Her self for war and not aid men in their need, Had not only these lost, but many slain. And though it may not be to you as seems it now, Yet time's growth shall bring you more friends. And still to be Saved, first, of your souls must you take life of mine? I know of nothing in the world of man That is not fighting to be saved. Be of good cheer. My strength is yours. I do not measure. Take My words as heredities, for I give aid Not measured. In all love works I ask life. Live, as, in the world that man has made, it lies. Take life, take it, one day as another would. Take life, take it, as one who has been dead Will take again life's fruit,--you are dead In one sense; but, out of death's terror, life Will give you back that fruit if you will gather. You were dead. But God makes all things live. He gives new life. And the fruits of death, Weighing men down, bearing life,--are passing. The body's shadow may cast them down; But out of death's darkness life's green blades Are bearing. Take them. Take, oh, take! How many women have gone to destruction Because their men left them! You tell me true. Have you no woman in this room who lives For your comfort and for support? Do you? What woman would not rather be a mother, Devoted, satisfied,--than have a son Who is no lover? How many children, How many homes, if I took love's fruit And left its mortality, would then lie Devastated, ruinous, to the world, A dungeon, murderous? I tell you all, This is God's way. There is no other way. To you, what is the fruit of loving? Its tree of death! It is your son who dies If he be not well fed, if he be not Tempted and broken, smitten and transfigured, Saved from his sin, purified from his shame. If you have no fear of hell, you have no peace. So you do not fear death? My feet are on the way to you, To you and to your shadow, In the thought that, if I am not well, I am not wholly safe. The shadow which you gave me Has made me sick, and I am weary. My life is full of hills. Can you not see them? When the gods had done their work And the gods were glorified, They changed to stone the slaves And gave the heroes to the night. They left the night free. The slaves could not abide the light, Nor could the slaves endure the night. They fled from heaven to earth, and now They make the earth their dungeon. The god of speech has given me speech, And I can command the night. I have the key of shadows, The key of all the worlds that are. I can unloose the night, And, lo, I can loose the shadows Which, clasping heaven, have bound your hours. Night is a great master, and his words Have great effects. With my soul I have The might of Zeus, and all his host. I can drive darkness from the eyes of men, And lighten the hearts of men. I can show men hell and heaven. I can make them see. Why do you look at me as I look At a wild beast, full of fear and hunger, Which heareth no words of wisdom? Speak to me softly, I say. I have no power in sleep to speak. I am but a feeble girl. You are a god, for all your might. If Zeus be a god, you are a god, For all your dancing and your song. But if Zeus be not a god, If Zeus be a human being, If human beings have no power Over rocks and the world's great bulk, Then I am a god, for I have strength Which mortal beings ne'er obtain. Why do you dance? Do you think it moves The sun to make the world go round? Dance more. Do you think that love and beauty Moved the swift sun, to let the day Burn down to red at the fall of night, And black before the dawn? Dance no more. There is no love or beauty In the great, vast, long night, to burn Down to red at the fall of night, And black before the dawn. There is no power in night to kill The gods who live at the day's decline. Dance no more. There is no power in night To make the gods awake at day, Or let the light go down to fall At the fall of day. There is no power in night to kill The gods who live at the day's decline. My beauty is a light swift to and fro Between my spirit and this low land. It is a flower white and red at the core. And in its heart beats a god. I shall not speak of this flower of light Nor give in all men's eyes the name of God, Until I speak with my soul of love, And bend all men's souls to my own soul's love. It is time to speak. What has made you come? To speak in full, what have you to say? I know not all men. But I know some men Who know that which is hidden from you, Who know what things the old men say behind their backs Who know the things the young men do not see, And tell the silent things which keep you here. <|endoftext|> the sparrows and woodcocks outside the front door, humming like a single bird against the sky, they’ve been drinking and feeding off everything I’ve ever loved, but now, the bell is rung and I’m out on the porch, where the oilskin is thick against the weather, all dappled with flies and bees and bugs, and the dead leaves are knocked together and flung and thrown, and the hot wind blows and makes me feel like a wind-charmed warbler on a sugar strike, and the old pussycats whirr and grumble in the yard, and a truck away goes rich with oil, with ghosts, and I hurl up the back stairs, and the lantern flame sags and flickers, and I’m outside and in, and awake, and oh, I think, how good to be this light and this hot, and full of work, and the gift of my body trying, like a splintered ball, to be whole, to hum, and fit, and sing with the old sweet fire, this time, like it’s supposed to. <|endoftext|> "Little Boxes", by David Yezzi [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] You learn to ignore the vampires, except when one drains the other, the window boxes, each one filled with a different photograph. I take the one of the horizon, a panorama of a morning sky so open it seems there’s nowhere to go. So many opportunities to stay are staring you in the face, all along the row of wooden boxes, all along the endless row of wooden boxes. Why the hell do I keep looking at them? <|endoftext|> "Birthday Crasher", by David Yezzi [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Indoor Activities, Birth, New Year] A birthday crasher is any noisy friend you haven't bothered yet on your big day, but yesterday was different. Standing just beyond the fifth plate (a birth-calls true miracle) he cheered and cheered, and out the window he launched himself, arms up, legs swinging, the speed-racing blood royal racing all the way through the brick. Laughing, clapping, and shouting out the window he screamed I FUCKING LOVE YOU like ten thousand times, then fell to the ground and sat crying, legs crossed, blood pumping like a full-length mirror through the sill. The moment I arrived he was out the door and I never found him. Not a trace. A couple of hours later he was back, screaming you guys are no good and we're gonna die in here or in the car or I'm gonna throw up or throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and throw up and <|endoftext|> "In the Dark", by David Yezzi [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Midlife, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Every few months I sit down to write a letter to my incoming. Once a month or so I sit down and do it again, sitting at a low desk in my own apartment, with my pen beside me, my feet propped on a rolling chair, the light clicking on in my eyes. I sit down by myself and look around, trying to see in the dark. My handwriting grows lazy and uncertain. I realize that I have to think about what I'm going to say, that there will be a formal response, a typewritten or typed response, which will be as different from the actual, spontaneous words as the sound of a sea tapping a shore or the feel of hot sand in my hands is from the patter of my own skin. I sit in the corner and look at my reflection in the window. I look like hell, but also like heaven. I look exhausted. At times I think I'm about to explode with what it is I've become, but then I remember that this is my letter and so I don't. In the letter I talk about being in the bath and thinking, "How on earth can this thing called water do this to me?" and thinking, "I never love you as I love my life, as I love my fucking dog, which I'm going to hate, and which I'd probably eat even though I wouldn't myself. I love you even less than that. Love is love. It doesn't discriminate. It's that men and women loved one another regardless, and I'm a horrible, disgusting person for thinking that it's possible to love something not for itself but for something else, for its role in some other relationship. That's not love, that's exploitation. It's good that you hate me, I suppose, but good enough. In your letters you never tell me why you hate me, which I find very interesting. I'm curious. In your letters you never tell me why you love me, which I find even more interesting. In your letters you never tell me why, which is annoying. I'm appalled by this. I'm ready to send you all your money, to which you respond by, among other things, replying that I'm being unfair to argue that men and women love one another regardless, to which I respond by pointing out that I myself have loved you for years, which I've never told you, and also that in your letters you never tell me why you love me. It's possible you don't know. It's possible I haven't thought of it. But it's possible you don't know. Which is irksome. I'm ready to write a long letter to your mother. I write a letter every six months or so. I don't write long letters now, I write letters that are three words or five words, but I used to write letters that were ten words or more. Each letter was a journal entry or poem, a thought that fluttered across the page, a thought that didn't matter, that was simply there, like the landscape that now defines the back yard of my house, or like the flame painting my wall. Those letters were more philosophical. I no longer read the newspaper, except to keep up on current events, but even then I skip around in case I have missed some major turning in the news, so I skip around, and I talk over the phone with people I met in person, but even then I talk over the phone with people I met in person, and it's annoying. You are constantly judging me, you are constantly trying to convince me <|endoftext|> Chiarean lyres must crave the Thracian tuneful hand That builds a bridge from earth to heaven. O lay your bodies on the broad highway Where the days and nights and birth-times meet! So the kings of song may reach the stars! Taste the wine of the world that we are shedding Like a golden sheaf scattered by the wind; Taste the wheat that the reapers have ground, Taste the oil that has been anointed, Taste the salt that is falling and settling On the soil that is bruiting the heart of man. O brother, turn to the reapers and gather! Turn from self that is round the sacred hearth; Turn from the starry bodies that dwell In the minds of the dead who have made you king. Turn from all that you have left upon the way, Father, O my father, O my mother, Father of the rising sun, Mother of the reapers, O my sister, Gather you together, in the harvest of the years, The scattered sheaves, the scattered sheaves of your tears, And wrap them, all wrapped, in the crimson cloth of peace, And lay them in the dust at the feet of the great King Nebuchadnezzar. Lo, all the trees are leafless, the flowerless trees; The sky is as it was in the days of universal darkness; All things are withered, the seas are salt with the sea-sands; Only the salt is sweet to me, the salt of the sea-sands; Only the reapers drive home the festive car, Driving home the reapers home from the shired woods of May. Sister, O sister, gather the flowers of your tears; Thou sittest on thycar and sittest as upon a stone; The light of the star that watches in the skies Shines out, and the star is very bright to see; But the earth is drear, and the trees are withering, The light is gone from the sky, the clouds havehid themselves; Only the sea is green in the fields of Sin. Sister, O sister, gather the flowers of your tears, Only with wet eyes; and the streams shall not be bitter; The pains of the world shall not astonish thee; Only the light of the star in the sky shall burn; And the voices of the sea, and the voices of the trees. Only the sound of the hungry reaper shall touch thee. He will not touch thy lips, O sun-eyed maiden, He will not touch thy lips, for they are cold with fear; But gather up all thy sisters, sun-eyed maiden, And bind them in a single fold of straw, And close it with a leafy reticence; Then go weep thy tears over the sea, O maiden, And weep them down over the gloomy mountains. But if, when thou hast ended all thy weeping, The spring have thrust back the buds of thy brow, If the summer have caressed thy cheeks, And brought thy cheeks of colour back again, If autumn have caressed thy hair, And brought it back again in lusty spring, Then take heart and sing. The winds will bring thee melody; The sun will bring thee fragrance and gold; The stars will lead the hours in singing; And they who look from up above Will whisper to thy heart of love. But when thou hast ended all thy weeping, The spring have thrust back the buds of thy brow, The summer have caressed thy cheeks, And brought thy cheeks of colour back, And made thee fair again, Then take heart and sing. No wild wish will over-run thee, No thought of evil will despise thee, But gather all thy sisters, All that are bright of heart, And bind them in a single fold Of straw, and close it with a leafy reticence; And go weep thy tears down the sea, For winter has passed and spring has come, And now the songs have every land. There is no bird that loves the springtime More than the redbreast, He waits with longing The maiden is coming To sweep with chirrups his winter breakfast And quench his thirst; The winter breakfast is ended Now the maiden comes. Now the redbreast is a-waking, And singeth loudly; His heart is ready a-simmering For the maiden's coming. He has longed for this morning For many a day; The maiden comes at last, The maiden comes at last, The maiden comes to say adieu. Where the robin and the bluebird dwell, In the woods or the meadows, You shall hear the rejoicing Of the merry, glad redbreast, When he hears the little fellow Singing about. The robin will rejoice in waiting, And sing and sing; The merry, glad redbreast will rejoice In rejoicings rare; For the maiden has come to say adieu To the winter gone. A little girl was sitting All alone, By a woodland brook; And as she watched the water Through the shadows, A wonderful beauty shone Like the red of the spring Through the shadows. A beautiful girl was sitting All alone, By a woodland, mist-engirdled brook; And she held a crook so long That the blood grew dimmer, And the shadows grew longer, And the shadows in the forest Like the hair of the Little People From the hair. And the Little People danced about her, And the Little People all about her Danced and sang; And the mist around her blackened, And the shadows above her Fell like silver pearls; Like a floating blackness fell the morning On the golden blonde's head; And she sat alone in the mist, And sang the beautiful song, Sung the beautiful song About the brook and the forest, And the golden blonde's hair. They flew from the misty forest To the misty forest again; And they flew so high, they seemed to lift The mist above her mist-enveloped tresses; And they flew so high, they seemed to spread The mist above her mist-enveloped shoulders; And they flew so high, they seemed to wave Her mist-enveloped tresses in the air; But they fell, and were swallowed in the forest. We are all disappointed by life: We are all defeated by some trick of fate: The victory we won is but a moment's blazon; The struggle we dreamed it the triumph was; Our hopes we have disappointed are as clouds before the wind. But what are these to the simple, untutored mind? The rich man's son is always a little child, But what are these to the mind that knows not defeat? All day long my task has been going about And telling all I know to those who would listen, To those who come to hear, and to those who have the skill; All day long I sit and tell them, and stand up, And tell them, and stand up--and in the gap between I toss my two cents' worth, or I walk home again, And toss my two cents' worth. Why I stand, and toss my two cents' worth, I don't know. I don't know why, but I do it every day; And all my work, all day long, Is tossed about by this same bit of my brain, This brain that every day Is going round and round, And tinkering with my two cents' worth. I may be wrong, but still I believe, That there is someone somewhere--and if not me, Someone, somewhere, Will come to the end of the way and know the worth Of what I am selling here. For this is only right, This doing and that giving: It is only right for brothers to go on giving Till the Earth and all its peoples, rich and poor, Are but a basket of blessings bound together By love, and joy, and brotherhood, And aye, by a coinless debt. Serene the shadows creep Where dwell the dead; Silent the grim things go Into their graves. And no one stirs Round the things of death Whose eyes are closed. But I hear a sob, And I see a face That tells me of the woes Of life. And I know That all the tears Fall for the sake Of the dead. All the sorrow of life We give to death: The ghastly glories of light Are only born Of the flash of his passing, <|endoftext|> So fand me with the beasts of prey, Like beasts of prey they fled away In haste, each of his kind to try, And we, to give our daring foe Short compass, full repast and rest, Still fled, still put off the fight. But when I should have gained that day By my best methods, and they best taught, By my most skilful, who had lost Fair ways to win my grace, but late, When the swan had just reposed on land, But soon to rise and sail away, I perceived my forces not so strong As their's, so backward, light and hot: So we that day prevailed not long Above a little, in the spite, In spite of heaven, wind, tide and we The brown shore all deserted saw, And to the foot of yon gray tower, Where yon red-cliffed town is figu'd From the deep flint-pointed crags of Snark, We pushed, and thither came. "And at that gate I smote the gate, And the heavy bar with might and main Iwd fiercely at the stubborn bar, And not an age the bolt remained, And not the hinges fear'd to stir. The bolts locks gave quick and strong, And we stood fast on that dark steep. "But I to the hold was gone, Nor saw I the cliffs at even's end, Nor the gray level of the beach, But all was dark before me; Then to my men I said: 'Lest the sea should now consume us, Lest the rocks with rocks should recoil, From these gray cliffs fly, See if any glowstone catches the eye, Lest a rock should meet our gore, Or a wave should wake us from sleep; Leave your food untouched, For fear of wave, and rock, and sun, And sleep like dead, till noon.' "The hour was now the middle night Since from the hold we turned us, And I knew the stars were high In heaven, and that at dawning day We should be there to reconnoitre; For the sea had no more power Over the hold, than it had night, In the hold, to close the door. "When we had arrived at dawning day, Then we let all the stores out, That were over lapped, or choked with coal, And each man went alone to reconnoitre, And I to traverse the hold (Now the hold was free to us) And take with me a lighted match, And light my cigar, and sit down; And my companion to me said, 'Would you believe it, there is memento Of a hold out breaker, wreck'd years ago, Down in the hold below us!' "'And how did you come by it?' said I. 'Oh, but you know that is the case. I looked in a book of records, In the wreckages of sea and wind, And I saw that particular wreck. It is a mark, said I, of my last anchor, Of the last hold out breaker, And I took my matches, and lit my cigar, And I sat down to reconnoitre.' "And I lit my cigar, and took a light, And sat down by my corner desk To con my thoughts in a cool corner, And my friend stood up and said, 'Now, Dick, We have had enough roughing-on, Let us go to the office;' And I said, 'No, I have not had Enough laving, nor washing of hands; We will stay here for the next hour.' "Then we walked to the Patent Room, And I saw that same picture, And I said, 'Is this the very picture That made him seem so giddy, And quite forget his general cheerfulness, And his manner, at which times, was so jolly? No! I think it is a false one.' "We have been in the Patent Office, And a lantern was lighted, To make a bright spot in the gloom; And we have entered the Patent Hall, And been shown to a seat By a new person, who had come down "And he had on a brilliant suit, With a patent brass-fin in it, And he said, 'I have come down, To come to the patent office, To do away, All the nuisance, I mean, " 'And I am here in a new suit, With a patent brass-fin on me, And the nuisance is mine, Which is to go on, day by day, And on and on, And to remain, if I will. "'For, say I want a new suit; Let me try it on. And the thought upon my mind is, That I want to be warm, And I want to be white and smooth, And polished all over. "'And I am sick of patent leather, And I am sick of iron chains, And I am sick of epaulettes; And I think it is time, That I should be, and feel it. "'So I came here, but I see That the patent suits are soaked, And the suit of patent brass-fin on me, And the nuisance is mine. And I see, too, that my suits all are Water-logged here in the office; And I think the water gets into them, And it must do so, you see. "'I am here, I see, for my toes, And the backs of my hands, and the soles Of my feet are getting wet.' And I kissed him, and kissed him, And I said, 'Thank you, for coming.' And we both laughed, and I said, 'I'm now prepared to go on.' "'Oh, you will soon be warm,' said he, 'And you will be all smooth and white.' And I kissed him, and kissed him, And I said, 'Thank you, for coming.' And I rubbed his shoulders, and said, 'That is enough, and I am done, And I'm ready, and I'm done.' "I am ready, and I'm done! Thank you, and thank you, and good-by." (And the man left me, and forgot me, And forgot all his inventions; And he hung up his cardboard clappers, And he hung up his plastic clappers, And he hung up his paper clips, And he hung up his scissors, And he hung up his tweezers, And he hung up his goggles, And he hung up his thread-accepting spoons, And he went and took a walk. "I've sent this horrid hulk to the scrap heap, And I'm now looking for work." "Oh, what's the matter?" said the chief, As he took his hat. "Oh, nothing's the matter," said he, "I'm just thinking of my home." "Oh, what's that?" said the chief, As he took his hat. "Oh, nothing's the matter," said he, "I'm just thinking of my wife." "I've sent this horrid hulk to the scrap heap, And I'm now looking for work." "Oh, what's the matter?" said the chief, As he took his hat. "Oh, nothing's the matter," said he, "I'm just thinking of my kids." "Oh, what's that?" said the chief, As he took his hat. "Oh, nothing's the matter," said he, "I'm just thinking of my wife." I am the type of all you read in those pages, I am the poster boy for all you hear in those halls; I am a work in progress, just beginning, just complete, I am of humble origin, but great in potential power. I come with far less experience than you have here, I am the work in progress, not the finishless task; I am what I am, and all you can say of me is just that, I am the type of all you read in all those halls, I am the poster boy for all you hear in all those walls. I am the type of all you see in all those windows there, I am the prototype of all you hear in all those halls, I am the forerunner of all your work and all your play; I am the first of a work in this great work of God, I am the prototype of all you see and hear there; I am of humble birth, but mighty in my power, And when I speak I send thoughts of might and renown. I am the first of a great work in this great work of God, <|endoftext|> Some other Sire thou hast, Thou must no longer doubt. Warn me, oh, warn me, God! What great evil waits us! What misfortune thunders Around us, dark and dark! What evil voices cry That we must flee away! Oh, warn me, oh, warn me! Ah, what a cloud has gathered, What an evil glare! It blots the stars from out the night, It blots the cloud-wreaths right away! It hides the moon and sun, And turns the golden day to gray! Oh, warn me, oh, warn me! Oh, what a tempest is growing, What a furious gale! It rives the thunder-storm's force In a moment to its height. And oh, the hail, it whirs like wind, And the strong winds beguiling, And the sea grows bolder, all about, And we're driven and driven ever farther and farther and farther away from land! Oh, warn me, oh, warn me! In the darkness cast a care! See, what a hail of pain 'Tis in the air we feel! 'Tis a terrible storm, I trow, Which we are soon to endure; For the sea's in its eddy wildly swirling, And the storm-clouds o'erhead are ascending. Oh, warn me, oh, warn me! We cannot make so great a sky As is the blue of May; We cannot bring so near to birth A golden child as mine. But let us still in prayer rejoice, On this bright Tuesday morn, That heaven's own music we may hear With faith that drives distress away, And bids as surely as Empedocles' rod, The earth and all its hosts of rolling clouds, Smitten and driven from the soul's prayer as from the world. Oh, God, we brought a casket lustily to thee, Bidding hasten Thy gathering; Thy serpents and thy shades, and bade the rain A virgin wombing. But Thou hast other plans for us--and Hast, With Thy breath, Fanned all the water-ways to a high-churching, And haled in from the minster-waters. When we went to buy wheat at the Gate of the Golden Fleece, We did not buy a jot of it, but bought A vast sum in specie. All our money was in the gutter, All our bread was in the air, While the men went home and the women stayed And sang, "We have triumphed over Our Adversity and Illness, We have had the Vision, and the Blessing." When we came back from the Sabbath-Away We gave to the Red-Green-and-White-Leaves All the money that was not red. The sky grew very dark and the rain Rained so hard we were nigh puddle-socked. But when we got home and began to cook, The pot-boy was busy; He didn't look at our money; he just boiled Some water for the Nurse, And as he was boiling it, he dropped a Red-Green-and-White-Leaves on the fire and dried it. We are seven long days going home, Seven long days and nights, And in each day and each night There's a chance to catch a cold. There's the crossing of the picket-fence, There's the hearing of the bell, There's the parting of the girls at church, There's the going to the mill, There's a crossing at the point, And the going home, too, by land and water, For each one of the seven. The sun is in the zenith, The moon is in the dark, And the stars are out like bullets. We have done our duty, We've done our busy work, And there is no more to do. He doesn't talk about the war, For he's too old for that; But of other things he talks. He remembers the ugly things That have been and may be. The ugly things of yesterday, The ugly things of to-day, The ugly things of forever ago, The ugly things of time may be. The ugly things of too long ago, The ugly things that are true, The ugly things that are lies and the ugly things of hope, The ugly things of dreams and despair, The ugly things of what shall be, The ugly things of what should be, The ugly things of what has been, The ugly things that have been, The ugly things that shall be. The houses all over the land Are sinking down in dust; The people moving in are going To leave their palaces bare; The streets are changed in style and colour, The parks are covered o'er With thousands of the things that he loves the best, The little girls and boys. All the ships that are heading out to sea Are full of people moving near, And they go to and fro and have their say In the rocking of the ship; And when the ship has sailed far away There are always thousands more coming in. All the cities are full of people moving in, All the country roads are full, All the young folk that can't get a mate Are there to talk and to walk; And they have their little chat and they have their walk, And they go to the market place To buy them something to eat. All the people moving about are ugly people That he has often met and known; And the living air is full of noises That he often heard and now is hearing; And on the water and on the air Are many noises he never heard before. All the young folk that can't get a mate Have married young and are going away For a bit to live alone; They have done with schoolboy's toys and their rhyming, And their holiday whims and their crying, And the loud, unruly ways of the younger men, They are going to stay at home a little while. All the farmers that sell their produce are gone To buy the fruits they want; And they bring up their little babies to sell In a hurry home again; They bring their goods to the market place To all be bought and sold again. All the rich people are coming to see the new And nice houses that are going to be made; And they all get their treats and are much impressed By the mansions made by the plumber; And the people that can't buy them are going away To see the nice houses that are made. All the poor that are out of doors are going To look at the nice clean places; And they will look at the tidy streets, And they will look at the parkway, walkway, pathway, That the city is making; All the poor are coming to see the new And nice houses that are going to be made, And to help to build the nice houses That the city shall have in keeping. All the young fellows that are going to be sent A thousand miles away to fight, All the good young lads that are going away To seek their fortunes, honor, and health, Are all bringing their things to see the place That the city is taking; And they are taking their cuts in a nice cool place Where the city has cut down its woods. All the folks that are buying and selling All the folks that are moving about In the bustling mart and in the quiet town, Are all taking their joy and their labor In a pleasant place to take their ease; And they take their joy in the cool of a place That the city has beautified. And the good people of the city Have a pleasant time as they go In the lovely summer weather, And they move as freely as the winds that blow Through the leaves of the bustling trees; And they have a pleasant time in a pleasant place Where the city has beautified. We've come out to the water, We've come out to the shipping, And we're steaming and we're rolling, Up from the wells of the barley, And our hearts are all with you, And the ladies are smiling, And the young fellows are singing, "We've come out to the water, We've come out to the shipping, And we're steaming and we're rolling, Out to the water and up to it, And our hearts are all with you, For the ladies are smiling, And the young fellows are singing, O'er the waters of the water, And the ladies are smiling, And the young fellows are singing, <|endoftext|> And on the walls a holm-oak bough I saw, The shadow of a falcon looking down, A cockatoo rising from the scrub below, And on his head a burr with one wing he thrills, And lets it drop, and sweeps it to the ground. And then, from the main road, I saw a crowd Of people, horses, and a strong smell of oil A mile away, whence I drove on at the speed At which I drew the horse towards the pungent odour. And soon, beside the plain, I saw the place Where a labourer with pump and pick-ax strokes A quag of twisted barbed wire across A field, to fumigate the earth for hailstones, A pair of dogs beside a wire-basket, And men and women out upon the level. And then a farmer came along beside me, And, bending over the barbed wire, cried To one who was with him, "Young fellow, have you found The thief?" And the more the man shook his head, The clearer he heard in the ears of both The thief's unlocking words, as he unbolted The gate of some long cart where, I knew, Lay, I thought, the body of some poor man, Who by the plough was buried long ago. And straightway that blacksmith, who had heard The labourer's words, unbolted the gate, And he who followed us went thither, And laid the body down beside the wheel, And picked the body up again, and said That the man had been a thief, and I believed him. Then turning to the labourer, "Young fellow, This was a man who was a thief," he said, "Who having ploughed the field of many hares, In his great need the hunters came to him, And who having ploughed the field of hares, and reeled And killed the hares, and wailed and tore his cheeks, Because he could not give them money; And all the while the watch he kept outside, And without, for many days, and nights, went out To catch the blue hare in the wood." And straightway the man, the long-hair'd fellow, Went on again, saying, "He had no mind To give the hunters money; what should they do To him, dead in the wood, with nothing to eat But hare's brains and grass, and what if they Would have him confess to some great crime That he had not confessed to if he were alive?" And as we thundered down the long street, I said, "What if he had confessed To some great crime he had not confessed, But that he waited till they died to tell The great lie he always thought withal, And with a flinty tongue that could lay down A nation's liberty for a shilling?" Then came a brawny man with open mouth, And he was clad in rags that soiled the mind, And the way his head looked from underneath Was like a basket filled with rusty nail, And grim his eye that was like a cock's; And he had a voice like the roaring tide That comes roaring up the pebbled shore And batters down the beaches of the sea. And then he said, "I am a man of little wit, And I have not learned to speak in commands, But with the tongue of iron will I make it known That I am ashamed of England's oldest soil, And I confess a debt to my own land, Because the ancient duns have brought it on, Who strung for us the vile instrument That beats upon the people's helpless ears That we may pray for rain and thirst for gold." And then he took his double-headed axe And smote the rusty barbed wire apart, And cast the fence posts to the ground, and through, And into the laneway he was driven, And, stepping on the raging torrent, hurled Headlong into the woods beyond, and fell, And slept beneath the snow for many a day. Now was the outer court beset with guests, Whose voices hushed were, and now and then A squall shook the fields, and made the rain Hissing in the dead leaves, and white as bone The axes of the travellers crackled near; And never a footstep stirred, and never a word Upon the outer court passed those four, And never a sign was by the hedge was pressed Save the broken boughs and beech-tree over, That bent not, save when the strongest rent Was in the wood, the rest was perfect still, And they could hear the voices of the hours Heralding the end of all they loved. And while they passed, and through the cold winds blew The sound of all their talking, I could hear The curtseys of the ladies, and the sound Of more cracking of the ropes that bound The ladies to the marble pews, and one Bellowed, "Dear Lady, I am cold," and her "Dear Lady, I am cold," so still, and yet each Looked from her face, as if she had been dead, And listened for a sign that she were alive But tongue-tied, and that no sound should break The awful hush, until I heard, "He is dead," "He is dead," a curtsey cried, and then the sound Of more cracking of the ropes drew loth, And all the windy syrens rose in song. And when they turned to watch the pensive man, One only of all the leaguering train, The last, the frailest, as it seemed to me, To fling a fringe about his shoulders pale, One lady, for a moment looked on him With eyes that seemed to feel the frozen reek From out her lover's heart of poison fresh, And then her eyes grew faint and past, and she Lay still a little while before the rest, And watched the long, strange way, as white and empty, That one poor soul's life must take us to the dead. Now when the morn had blown the snows away That blind us with their beauty, and the high Wild-haired peaks of the North began to show, And like a little child they looked out over The sleeping face of creation, and one Mournfully cried, "I am a mother to these," And like a child herself began to weep, And then the sky broke into golden flame And in one swoop, lifting clear and high, Beheld the face of God and cried, "O son, The son you thought was still alive, lies dead, And has been so many times, and still is dead, And here, between God's own beautiful dead And man's new living sight, is space to move, And here, man's new living sight and space for thee. For these are dead and all things are alive, And this is space, and thou art here to-day The son of space, and of God, and of me. "And if thou beest not yet whole, nor yet whole Thy heart is broken space, thy broken space Is God, the God of space, thy God is God, Who gave thee space to breathe, and place, and soul, And eye, and thought, and sense, that thou mightest see What was beyond the darkness where thou wert. Thy space is God, thy soul space, thy eye God's eye, That fixed into thee the moving universe, The changing universe thy patterned thing, That over thy restless soul it might behold The living space it made, thy moving soul. "Thou art not whole, for half thy soul is space, And half thy body, yet art thou a whole man, And all thy life a living life. The whole man lies Within the parts, and all the lives are one. Thy moving life is not a dead man's, but moves Through vision, thought, and all the rest of life; The whole man lies within the parts, the parts Are parts of one single living man. The one lives through all the living man, And all the lives are one, that make one whole man. The parts may break, may grow not faulty, but the whole Still moves, but is a whole man. This whole man dies, And all the lives that were one with him, still Are one, though broken in their lives, in him The parts still live, they still make the whole man, They make his resting-place the universe. "Thy life is not a dead man's, but moves Through vision, thought, and all the rest of life; The whole man lies within the parts, the parts Are parts of one single living man. <|endoftext|> Never, never, do I relent; Never, never, do I relent, Never, never, do I relent, Ever, ever, do I rest. Tho' pride and riches tempt me on, I am as one nigh poisoned. The spell is strong, the spell is strong, And I am turn'd to clay; The glittering rain, the glittering sun, Have never charms for me. And yet I love them, and I love them, And I love them well; The rose and the lily, and the rose And the lily are sweet to me; And roses and laurels and jewel-blooms Are all about me. I love, and all day long I love, And when at night I sleep, If a slight, pale sight peep through the dark, I wake, and I love again; For, you see, a little thing peeping through Has a way of making me love. I love a simple, country-dying thing, And love her till I die; And, when she passes by me, My life is led by a chipmunk; And when I see her gone, I know that the game is up, my friend, And I resign my winnings To the boy that sings in the schoolyard, And leaves the bags behind. And there he is, in the long, blue night, And there he is, at the dawn; And there he is where the mists are floating O'er a land, that, without knowing it, Is waiting, with blind hands, to do him A mockery and a kindness. A cold, blind, white hand that leads me Through lands that are dreamless and dim; And through the night and the darkness I bow my head and follow it, And lead, like a blind man, alone, My little, white soul. 'Tis a white hand that points, from afar, Across the dark and the empty sea; And there, without song or trump or shout, I hear the night-winds whisper-- "Awake, awake! thou art leading The blind to the Light! 'tis He, 'tis He That sitteth on the wings of the wind. "Awake! thou art leading the blind Out of the sea of sleep and gloom; Thy steps are uplifted in trust Beyond the fearful solitude Where thieves and kings lie hid. I hear thy voice, 'Tis the night wind singing, I feel the silence opening. "Awake! thou art bringing the world Closer unto the throne of God; Thy words are like soft snow-flakes falling On hearts unprepared. There is no other in all the dark, This night, than the One that is talking With the dead." So it goes, So it goes, This life that God makes our own, Leading us in sleep to death. O beat, beat, beat, For the Lord that is dead and won, The Lord who bowed His brow to sleep! The stars shine out On thee, O Christ, dividing Night from morning and day from night. The hills are plain Whence the voice speaking From the dark is heard. Hark! hark! On high We hear thine opening and shrinking, And thine inner voice saying, "I am the life of life! The Love Divine "Lo, I come, And I lift The hearts that sleep, And bright The eyes that are weeping Unto the stars." And thou wilt open, Thou world-o'-bed of stars, Thou sleeping thing, When the day is past, And bright and sweet Cometh the light from God's house; When night hath given thee thy beauty, Thou art a crown For ages to be, And the world shall bless thee In countless lights. The world is dark And the deep Is black and confused; But thine own star-heart Shall be A lighthouse unto the lost, When dark and drear Lie all the waves. My song, I sing a silent song. For beauty is not speech, And silence is not speech; So, silence my song, For beauty is not speech. But, you, Let speech arise, For beauty is not speech, And silence is not speech; So, silence my song, For beauty is not speech. Silence, night, and night, We have a guest; Silence, night, and night, Come to our guest; Night shall be his cradle-bed, And darkness his canopy. Silence, night, and night, We have a guest. Silence, night, and night, We have a guest; Silence, night, and night, Come to his feast; Silence, night, and night, We have a guest; Silence shall be his companion, And silence his guest. Silence, night, and night, We have a guest. When the morning broke, I heard the angel say, "Awake, the light is fled; Night is fled and cold ceasing; Farewell, farewell, For dark is coming and dying." Silence, night, and night, We have a guest; Silence, night, and night, We have a guest; Silence shall be his companion, And silence his guest. I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; A ragg'd and ragged whitely-diapred rind, Swelling in the noonday glow, Borders and spans them like a tribe Of busy, breathless women at a fair; The farms as though they held me nigh, Cries of "good day, master," I recognize, The children's voices, sweet and shrill, The old folks', HALLECK! HALLECK! Continually breaking and reforming Their linked and universal volleys With tiny claps of tiny feet, Seemingly to my own to cling, Yet ever to pass me with the wind. The ground all seemed awake and aware, Like live men and women, talking; I seemed themselves and something to them; Their very vomit and decomposition Was luminous and moving before me. All things are hot with life and color, Save the aged, for they are motionless In their unmelting age; The houses move like littlest horses' manes; The beautiful gardens gleam and green; The arms of the women, arms indeed And breasts and bosoms and legs and thighs Are like little gardens all alive; The irises are like cuckoos' nests Where nestlings are waiting for the Spring; And the old are like trees, and seem to know The silent fall of shadows; The young, like flowers, are like buds just begun; The stars, like children small; The earth, like a fair, sunlit garden bed. In the blue and starry depths of heaven, I heard,-- In the blue and starry depths of heaven, A new music pouring; And that music, as it flowed and surged Through the vast and starry heavens, Seemed, as it poured and surged, To be a new sunrise. For I had looked in God's own eyes When I heard the old song's tune; And, as I looked, the new dawn sprang From out their eyes in majesty; And, like the newborn day-dawn, It rushed and broke Through the clouds,-- The starry, starry, starry heavens That cannot die, In the dawning of the South. <|endoftext|> He, whom they chanced to miss In his stir and jostle, A poor, good man with six children to feed, And no time for a hobby, Went out to see what there was to see Upon the mall. The city boys, the city lads (Though some did blush to hear it), Came up in long frocks and put away Their baseball hats, And did not care a jot If the frost be an ass or not, But two or three times a day Stood outside in summer to keep Out of sight. But he knew him who had given the mall Its shining grace, The man in the shaggy coat Who put it in silver shine, And stood outside, Kinder than God, to everyone And everyone his friend. And he saw the children run Straight after him who, with eyes Filled with wild things, Would go and bring him flowers, Which he brought for their sweet smile, To put inside his coat And hold before his nose And not on the street To stink or catch the frost. The gentle people of the mall Would call to him, "Trot, to the groom, And let us go, for spring is past, And it is time to go," But he answered to their call With a wave and a laugh, "No, not time to go, not time to go, For why should I go away From the spring in my face? But maybe I can find Time ere too long e'er becomes My face to fill." And when they reached their house at night He sat beside the door And slid his fingers through the wisp Of hair that bits about his face And smoothed it down And braced it over And lay asleep in the arms Of beauty that made him wince At the smiles he had to bear To keep his face so fair And keep it so sweet. They have made of his face their rule, They have twisted and turned it now A thousand years And, circling in a wide circle, Their little circle of laughter, Their little circle of love, Have woven the whole, Have made it run a reel And dance to their jollity, Till all time's thumb jokes Turn to red-hot iron In the hands of the young, Who, ignorant of the old, Whose jests are never spent, Who cannot understand The old's splendor, With their queer old way And strange old humor Have taken the new's humor And so changed it all to iron, Have caught and clutched and hurled it Into their brains to melt, Have made a school of man's wit And put it on a stick And nailed it to a mast To trail to hell Against God's throne. And now they sit on hell's throne And hurl and clamp it up And say, "Inquire of him, Frost, Who strikes the hardest of iron?" And only blows the frost in hell With his little finger tips And makes the iron harden And harden harder and harder Till every lake is black And every sea is blood And hell hangs hard by only iron. And so, my merry, my dashing, Singing little men, With eyes like pits of iron, Hiding their faces behind Singing low and hard and high, They led us, they taught us, How to sing and walk and fight. But oh! the little singing men With eyes like pits of iron That lead us from the woods to die Were not so little, were not so sad If they had known the things we know. And oh! the little singing men With eyes like pits of iron That lead us from the woods to die Were not so little, were not so sad If they had seen the things we see. The little singing men with eyes like pits of iron Lead us if we must die, Lead us if we will be free, But with their iron eyes let them keep us here For punishment's sake and ours. And oh! the little singing men With eyes like pits of iron Lead us if we must die; Lead us if we will be free But with their iron eyes let them keep us here For punishment's sake and ours. And oh! the little singing men With eyes like pits of iron Lead us if we will die; Lead us if we will be free But with their iron eyes let them keep us here For punishment's sake and ours. When I was young, I said to my old wife, "If ever I should grow old, I'd like to spend my golden days Under the greenwood tree." And oh, how often, when winter snows, I've thought of her Who never took me from the road, But sat beside our home fire, Under the greenwood tree. The doors were closed, and in the silence We heard the sound of ice against ice; And oh, the chill! the wind that goes Through forest dark as e'er. I wonder what of her I heard, Though 'twas but her thin, far cry. What of her I saw? She was not there. And oh, the wind that goes. When morning comes, the trees are still with dreams, And all the way home I hear the sound of wings. And oh, the feel of her through the dark, Who'd never stop and never leave my side. And oh, the cry of wind that goes Through forest dark as e'er. O little house, so small and clean and sweet! O neat and small and dear! The things that you do with just your hands Are good and kind and fair, And all the words that you say are good and kind, And oh, the ways in which you raise your eyes To look at me. I look and see her all in white, With eyes so bright and soft and small, And lips like scarlet, And cheeks like apples, And shining ankles, and dimpled china, And pouting fair cheeks, And sunny laughter on a face That's full of spring. I look and see her all in white, With eyes so bright and sweet, And lips so red and cheeks so fair, And little winglets about her feet, And silken hair done in a way That shows her care. I look and see her all in white, And all the way home I sing her praise, O little house, so small and clean and sweet! O neat and small and clean and sweet. And all the words that I say, I do not mean To boast or boast about, But they're true, I know, that I do not fail To say them over again. I look and see her all in white, And all the way home I sing her praise, O little house, so small and clean and sweet. Oh, home I go in, oh, home I go in, For there's never a place in the land To match with home, oh, home, oh, home, oh, home! Where I could ever choose to go To be all's my own. A SUNBLANC AND a STARLIER Made a LIGHT and a SMILER Of the morning this morn; And the LIGHT, like the SOHOER That Apollo strow' on his lyre, Went and came again, As the MOTOR that still struck home A tremulous note. And when the SOHOER would have flown, He struck a chord so sweet That the MOTOR turned back a star From his feather-bed; But still he couldn't get the TREAT Of that sweet strain. And so I sing this LYDIA'S praise (She's the motoring now); And now, as I do turn to the same Lydian, no less, I am heartily Comforted to think That all life's a DORMBOYD for the SohOER And for me too. I thank all the GLORY that my ditty has, That it has Evelina'S name in it; And if it has a HOLLYS, I am content To own as well. And how it comes about that he 's the Horsie That sung it, you can understand. O LYDIA, the SOHOER that now lies dead, And all the same, for that he's the SOHOER That I sing of again and again, Is but a MOTOR to this DORMBOYD For the SOHOER that sings again. FOR I feel that MEMORY a COLT must race At a trial to be SOHOER of the DAWN, <|endoftext|> Come to rest, and take your ease, In some lovely valley, where the water glides, Through the meadows, to the streamlet's mossy side, And the flowering quince, and eglantine, lies; Or, where some fresh, sweet, cataract flows, Over the hoary rocks, with willowett, falls. Here let us lay, and let the forest rest, And dream, till Morning dream us to waking day: Dream of the world's wonder and its might, Till yonding, yonding, till morning light Haunt all the thinking places in our soul, And life seem fast fading, and the dead abide; And these leaves, when cold and dry are burned, Shall make our pillow, and our canopy above; This night, O lovers, be it so, forlorn, Two lovers lay them down together, one and all. It is a little piece of blue sky, It is a little cloud that sails the blue, It is a little cloud that flies, Sailing high o'er woody mountains high, Sailing far away into the blue. And as it sails, a maiden stands Wrapped in a snow-white shroud of shrouds, Clad in a glistening white bodice, And round her waist a golden clasp. And she looks towards the blue, and sees Her lover sailing far away On a golden galleon's prow. Oh! it is only a galleon's prow, It is a little, little galleon, Sailing o'er the silken waves of air, Sailing high o'er woody mountains high, Sailing far away into the blue. But the maiden soars from land, she sinks, And the golden clasps around her waist She flings aside, and stands on the sand, And looks towards the blue, and sees Her lover sailing far away, On a puff of smoke, and a sail on the red east, And a falcon, with two pigeons, at his feet. How still the world seems, when it is dreaming; The wild things fly like shadows; man himself Is but of morning a wanderer, Sitting alone in the gleam of the light, Doubtful, and yet resolved to be The lord of his own moment and to-morrow, To-day and to-morrow, and to-morrow again. How light the touch of the summer rain On the wet May-leaf, and the wide-eyed Flower Walks with half-shut eyes beneath the rain; How the clouds wind-stirred fly up in the air As the Hunters' round tower grows huge, And the voice of God is heard in the shrill run Of the swallow's sharp cry, and the Wasp's rapid wheel; But the grey, old world shakes as one mighty House Breaks in the light of the great dawn. How deep the gloom, when the rain is done, And the wet Spring grows grey like the rain, And the hollow earth lies still under root, And the seed-chamber is empty and cold, And the hot death-storm has gone by; But, hark! a cry as of the end of sorrow Comes from the hollows of the earth; And the earth lifts up, and the green-faced Spring Stands out from the hollows of the earth. From the light of the rain, From the light of the May, From the light of the day, From the light of the noon, And from the dark of the moon, The music of the world rings round The song of the world. In the light of the rain, From the light of the May, From the light of the day, From the light of the noon, And from the dark of the moon, The cry of the world rings round The song of the world. Light, and the world's reprieve; From the light of the rain, From the light of the May, From the light of the day, And from the dark of the moon, The world rings out, with a song of the days of old, And the stars sing by the ways of the sea. So, through the light of the rain, Through the light of the May, Through the light of the day, And from the dark of the moon, The world's loud heart has knowledge of the years Still to be, and the tears Of hope, and the tears Of tears. Light, and the ways of the sea, Through the light of the rain, Through the light of the day, And from the dark of the moon, The far-off spray has waked a cry of a sorrow Wet with spring; And I have heard the wild white quiver Of heart-waves break up, and break down, Over the trackless main. Light, and the song of the world; And the sea's wail; Light, and the breath of the May; And the light of the moonlight; And the song of the wild-swine, And the wild-boar's howl; And the voice of the mute words That the King of Day has made To echo through eternity; And the wordless speech of Night To honour and memory; From the trackless, May-dark, sea, And the wordless speech of Night, With a wordless speech of Night, And the still wordless speech of Death To honour and memory. The gipsy-lore of earth, And the lore of heaven, Are of one root: The trackless, May-dark sea, And the wordless speech of Night, And the still wordless speech of Death Are one with thee. An unknown Word of the Master, And a known word of the Dream: A wordless speech, that hath The wise earth's hard and moulded form, And the unimposing, uncertain tone Of the skies beyond the mountains, And the known words of the stars, that beat on the deep, And the dim far speech of the under-castles; A speech of such silences and subtle shades That our lips tremble to utter it, And our souls hang upon its outward forms; A song, of so sparry sound, That the first that sang it, when night, and the world was one, Shivered in stars and black-litten beat of its harps of fire. In the light of the moon the geese come home; In the light of the moon and the sun, They coo and cackle round the barb-wire coils Of the half-deserted corn-meg. Round the barb-wire coils, They coo and cackle: And the lonely barley-crops Ring with it, And the lonely sun and moon and rain Ring with it, That the earth may feel it, And the world may watch it and yearn For the world that talks in the night. In the light of the moon the lonely boy Creeps to the meadow's grassy side, And sees the red-gold end of the day Look out upon the cold grey night, With the morning's first blood-red gleam. And we hear the world talk in the night, And we lie dreamless and voiceless, By the long red wood-side, With the world's talk in the world's ear, With the talk of our lives. A child that goes to the city Sees her playmates wander off, And watches alone the gathering gloom, And follows on alone Wherever the playmates go, And hears their voices fade, And sees the shadows draw Towards the city that he loves. A child that goes to the city, In the light of the moon, Sees her playmates wander off, And sees her mother's face As she comes in the morning, As she comes in the morning, And the shadow of the world draws nearer, Till the boy must go. A child that goes to the city, As the moon and the sun, Her playmates have gone to the city, And her mother is drawing near In the light of the morning, In the light of the morning, And the shadows of the world draw nearer Till the boy must go. The city shall not be his: The boy shall have another mother, And another father, And another strange home; And the world shall have another self In the city and the world. The city shall not be his: He shall have another mother, And another father, And the city shall be his and not the world, And the playmates another, And the children another. The city shall not be his: The boy shall have another mother, And another father, <|endoftext|> The men they prate:--why will they not confute One another, out of all respect For his full-spread musick, of his six Kindred melodies, which they do raise? A door fastened half way down, with a peg Hooked on it, lets me know that a feast Is spread for a company of nine. I turn from the door, and a man cries out: "Here's the dear little hare that you used to guide." This little hare is creeping up the hill Towards the castle-door, in her night-gown; The peg sticks fast into a projecting wall, And she climbs it with her knees and toes, And out at the gate she runs and shouts: "Hello, little man! how are you this evening?" She's afraid to enter in. What shall she see If she should talk to me? She shall meet My much-loved cat, and my mousey-gills tinker, And my red-tongued grackle, and my wife Who has four fingers more than she, and looks As if she would dine a donkey's breakfast on. She's afraid to enter in. Her father will say: "I never wanted my bright daughter more. I had thought my little daughter might stay In my bad old red roof-tree up on the roof, Where she wouldn't be near a man to eat; But now I'm going to get her out of the door, And I'll see her before the time is through." My sister is darning a sock, and says: "The grasses all were growing so thickly, It was getting a bit of a hardship." My mother is sitting in the parlour And darning a sock, and says: "The moon grew so red and bloated That I feared the cats might eat it." My father is sitting in the garden, And drying a bay-leaf off. My mother is standing in the garden, And drying a bay-leaf off. My father says to my mother: "It's nothing, dear, my dear, I never wanted my little daughter More than I want my tea." What is man that you would shut out his fame And the wealth of his mortal years, And change his tiny, beautiful, manliest book For the dull, fat, boring dunce-work of Time? What is man that you would shut out his name And shut him out of your praise? What is man that you would debase his worth And make the scutcheon of his day his screen, And liepery his glory with a sawing breeze That screams at the housetops through his noisome hair? What is man that you would dare such shame As to let Time twirl his scythe in his hand And graze his flower, while he himself is torn With the sharpness of a knife, and flung away? He was a boy in the fields of Wartburg, When war swept over the Northland dear; Whereat the lovely Louise arose, And her soft eyes with surprise Pierced thrice their moon of silvery hair. "Ah, my little fopling-worthy boy, I wonder," said she with a smile, "That you should thus so blunder so wise." But the merry old bat, in his turn, Took her soft hand and twirled it about, And laughed to see her surprise. "The happy days," he said, "are coming, And it is very pleasant doing These childish pranks, when the summer days Are bright in the corn-fields of the Northland. "But if you're not very cunning, And if you do not think of these things When you're out in the sun and the wind, Then I shall certainly chop you into little pieces, And feed them to the vultures of Wainola, That feed on bones." Louise was a little frightened by these tricks, But she was also in a hurry to be free, So she yielded to his wicked magic. She was stripped and gagged and bound in a corner, And they soon found out what she had been planning, For the table was spread with the choicest bits Of the ham and of the kettle, And they had not a chink of bread to give them. And the sweet, old bat was chopping wood, While the old bat made such a shrill and sad sound, One would have said that he was shouting. On the floor were the splinters of wood, On the table lay large pieces of wood, As the sweet, old bat made so many sounds of annoyance, And beat his round baton so irritably. Then they heard a rattle, rattle, rattle, As of a crammed snap-dragon going, Rattled through the attic spaces, Like the fall of a house-dog in the yard; And a blue smoke was rising from all about them, As the splinters of wood were beating the attic floors. Then the ancient Wainamoinen Combed his matted locks and asked: "Tell me what this means, thou snake? Hast thou been given permission to introduce All these ill-boding circumstances, Into my slept-upon palace?" From the wall the great god swung his hand, Chuckled as he leaned on it proudly: "Good reason, good reason, brother, For this intrusion of thine ivy; I would not undergo the inconveniences That attend upon this affair. "Thou shouldst not startle this crowd of strangers, Nor be too presumptuous, either; For I too have my evil magic, Am familiar with all creatures, Have sucked the life-blood from thousands of heroes, Have swallowed the hearts of men and heroes, Only waiting for an invitation, Only waiting for thy chance to strike them, Only waiting to gobble them up." Wainamoinen, old and faithful, Braced his armor on his body, Put his magic belt about him, Found a good horse in a pasture, On the dunghill of a nameless lake, From the water clung a holy falcon, And the bird was quickly arm-reached; Then he went to look into the boat, Used his magic eyes to look about him, And he saw a mill-stone tightly fastened, On the bottom of the lake. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Then began to crack his thumbs-lash, On the dunghill of the falcon, For a barrel that remained at shore; But the falcon would not fly away, Closed against the bars he clung firmly, And the eagle, cuckoo, jay, and raven, Flying through the heavens, made him frightened, They could not fly through clouds like him. Then the ancient Wainamoinen Made a staff of birch-wood, With a leaf for a handle, And of cane he made the whip, On the edge of the meadow, By the borders of the lake-shore, For the frightened bird to whip. So he went to look into the boat, Used his magic eyes to look about him, And he saw a straight and polished comb, Made of platinum, polished at both ends; On the comb a handful of honey, On the margin of the boat-park, And a little token of the Northland, That the goodly race of heroes, Such as he had never seen before, Might not perish in the water, Neither might the falcony masters, Thus the ancient Wainamoinen Constructed the boat of birch-wood, And he shaped it on the spot That is now the village, And within him the benches laid, And the ribs of light-engine, And the row-locks just separated; Also spake he now and then, Using language never heard before, Using not in Northland history, Using not the songs and dances, Of the good, old Wainamoinen. Rise thou northern boat, From the tide that darkles, From the bordering blue-sea, Roll thou around, thy stern already Worn and bitter with the acidness Of the waters you seethe inuext at times. Once again rise up, Old blue boat of Northland, Rise up, that many times Your stern has worn and bitter On the waters of Wainola; On the acid-washed hand-rails, On the scorching slicks, have sat Near the hinge where you enter, Have prepared your travel-worn, For the future trip around the washes. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Ancient, dame renowned in Northland, Once again upon the strand, <|endoftext|> Exhausted by the long strife, Resign thy place to yield The queenly satin dress of May! Now, now that time of year, (Dearest heiress of flowers!) Her brown and curly head Adorns the faded rose! Her presence fills the room With fragrance, and her name With memory is fresh; The roses blush afresh, The wind is winged with her air, And seems to breathe her praise! True maid, be tranquil! We, the poor, beside The sea, await thy will; But, while in judgment she Doth love the waters boil, So, on her loveliness This innocent sigh, And tender thought of ours, She, the far-off sea, Washes away! So be it, O winter time! Oh, let my bosom burn With passionate undirected joy! Let my glad mind, in song, Give thanks for many a flower, Filled full with joy to die. And thou, oh, winter time, Shalt, like a mother bird, Sing to the daughter birds That come with new-born fledgelings to their nest, And bring fresh food! Of all the seasons fair, I love the spring best, For, being pure and mild, I've found its gentle mind To be my sweetest friend; And oft, when troubles weigh on unenlighten'd men, To talk with friends, and discuss with them, Only gives life and spirit to one half of us, That half which suffers. 'Tis pleasant, when all the woods are green, To walk the fields, and let the well Work its secret springs; To catch the trout from old Kevin's outfells, Or, on the pebbly river's brim, To cast my line and reel. For nature seems to feel her greatness, And giveth us joy To find that she will trust the humblest among us With the wild woods and great ocean-billows, And let the rich telly on high The secrets of the stars. 'Tis pleasant, when all the long, long days Of summer are cool and bright, To fix your eye upon the sun And gaze, till all seems dark and dim; Then, when the gray twilight shadows fall O'er fields and trees, it is sweet To walk, and talk, and turn about, And count the glistening moony spheres. The starry systems, and all heaven above And all the sea and sky beneath, Are shining and reflective; And night and day and night and day Are like one atmosphere of stars. There is no sight upon earth that we do not find A type of heaven; And, as the sun, the moon, the stars are all as one, So all the things that are to leave their permanent prints on earth, Are seen there, reflected in the lake below the tree. 'Tis pleasant, when the summer's heat Has dissipated the frost and snow, To walk and rest upon the green, Or o'er the flowers to throw Ailing glances. The wild-flowers, in their agony, Are gazing upward in despair. The wind, it is passing by like a priest, Who bears a suppliant's form, Who, with his incense of cool airs, Makes us bless the shrines of June; Whose footsteps so softly sweep The snow, the sleet, and dew, 'Tis pleasant, when the autumn comes And sheds its glory everywhere, To gaze upon the landscape gay, As if a halo had been kept there Of sunset's glory. 'Tis pleasant to remember all The blazing days that are to be, And then to take a farewell kiss Of frost and snow. The frosty nights are like a purling stream In old woodlands, where the waterfalls Are quite still and very beautiful; But suddenly the silvery eddies start, And quickly gather and gather round, As if to greet the sun, whose brightness they have gathered. They dance, and they laugh, and they sing, And the joy of their joys Is a song to brighten the world below, As the earth and ocean are brightened by the sun, And the birds are loud in their joy. Thus, every day, some happiness is there, And, if we're wise, we'll choose to share it. 'Tis pleasant, when every night Is like a Christmas-tide, To watch the ice and snow, And from the blue heaven to look down on it With our own eyes. There's no song, in the language of the skies, Like the white wing of the swallow; There's no fragrance like that beguiling scent Of flowers and green leaves at their morning hour, That is heard afar When the night-winds whisper In the meadows at the break of the day. The swallow watches, with her pale, wing Watched by the night and day, Till the grass begins to tremble and the sky Seems to breathe a first, faint breath; Then she flies, and with a bound Flies so high, she comes again Low, to sing this song of hers, So I love to watch her, day and night, And hear the song that she sings, When I watch and listen for the swallow. High she rides to the icy skies, And the ice upon the lake Is as solid as stone or wood, So she flies, and mounts so high, That, in spite of her wing's swift speed, It seems as if death arose And caught her in a snare, And left her stricken, dying, To die a death of grief, In the air so sad and cold and blue. But she, though slain by that death, Has left a song in the air, A song with a magic sound, That fills with hope the heart Of every passer-by; In the air so bright and gay With a love that lives and moves That hearts are glowing fresh, And the eyes of the faithful are glancing on. Oft, as I pass along the street, A spirit with face pale and pale Glides from building to building near; And, in the same indifferent tone With which we meet to part at home, She says, "Good-night; God bless you!" as she goes. And so goes her fleeting voice along, Like music heard in dreams at night, Till I say, "Good-night, dear one! God bless you!" As I say, "Good-night," to her. I am weary of sitting still And never finding rest; I am weary of rushing In frantic agitation; I am weary of moving And living on apparatus; I am weary of greeting The passers by without saying a word; I am weary of any form That says "I am thinking" or "somewhere." I am tired of science, art, Management, and bosses; Of public man, of private man, Of reformers and revolutionaries; I am tired of all separations, Of the classroom and the barrack, Of the guild and the tradesman, Of the father and the son, Of the lover and the maid. I am tired of books and papers, Of quarrels and factions, Of the world and its methods, Of classes and existing conditions; I am tired of walls and windows, Of parks and spectacles, Of moon and sun and spheres, Of marble and of brick, Of night and daylight, day and hour. I am tired of songs and stories, Of dances and songs, Of books and trains, and knives and butter, Of landscapes, and old folks, Of people full of breath, And people full of sorrow, Of poets, and apostles, Of despots and their subjects, Of dreams and deeds, and deaths and defeats, Of adventures and laurels, I am tired of all this, I am tired! I am tired of all things here, Of building, and painting, and playing, Of waiting and hoping, and poking My fingers in a world that's full of mud; Of being "that man," And "that thing," And wishing for a plumb-stick and a map; Of dodging and quitting, And striving and succeeding, And reading and dreaming and dreaming, And at last, of all, I am tired. I am tired of painting, and singing, And living and dying, And feeling and doing, and not-doing, And giving away, And receiving and taking, And living and dying again. I am tired of the bushes white, The river's flow, The sky, with its wing of warmth, The sun's light, <|endoftext|> It glides along the sandy shore, It wanders 'mid the woods of oak, Where loud and sullen comes the roar Of ocean's depths, when stormy gales Sweep o'er the ocean's bosom bright; It leaps through tangled bushes, To shelter under its mother's wing. 'Tis past noon on Hy-co's mountain, The day is hot and sapphire-colored, And the cloud is sailing by with rapidity. The long, direct course of the thunder-cloud, With its silvery skirts of many colors, Shines 'neath the sun with lustrous splendor, And bright beneath the golden sun is shining. The air is fiery and vibrates With the great strides of the bounding cloud, As it bounds o'er the mountain's summit, Till the summit of the sea is reached, And the sea-shore is brightly beaming. What is that, far within the distance, Far beneath the waving grass, the glen, The deep, seething, roaring gulf of flames? See! see! with mute and deadly look That fiery conflagration loom, That deadly glow beneath the rocks, How it gluts the earth with bands of fire! The startled heart is shaken, The soul is shaken in terror, As the multitude of embers In one mighty blaze expire. The world is burning! 'Tis past two in the afternoon, 'Tis past two in the afternoon, And the shadows float onward, 'Neath the silver clouds drifting, And the golden clouds drifting, While the poplar tree is waving Its green leaves yellow-green. 'Tis past two in the afternoon, 'Tis past two in the afternoon, And the shadows swim onward 'Neath the silver clouds drifting, And the golden clouds drifting, While the poplar tree is waving Its green leaves yellow-green. 'Tis past two in the afternoon, 'Tis past two in the afternoon, And the shadows swim onwards 'Neath the silver clouds drifting, And the golden clouds drifting, While the poplar tree is waving Its green leaves yellow-green. 'Tis past two in the afternoon, 'Tis past two in the afternoon, And the shadows swim onwards 'Neath the silver clouds drifting, And the golden clouds drifting, While the poplar tree is waving Its green leaves yellow-green. 'Tis past two in the afternoon, 'Tis past two in the afternoon, And the shadows swim onwards 'Neath the silver clouds drifting, And the golden clouds drifting, While the poplar tree is waving Its green leaves yellow-green. A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, A horse is breaking ribs, And they'll be breaking more, When they've knocked him down; And when he's knocked them down, They'll be breaking still, And he'll be laughing then, For he knows no fut! I'm young, I'm proud, and I'm free, I've come to the city to be free. But like every lad who's come to town, I've found the city is lined with chains. I'll not chain myself down, and bind, For it's better to be free than to share The pelf and the pammarlap which parents lay, And all on which the State will depend, The one called glorious by a crowd! I'm young, I'm proud, and I'm free; I'll work and I'll drink and I'll eat, And I'll sleep as the rest do, and spend My money, and never touch a man Unless he helps the cause I claim; For, whether he be friend or foe, My loyalties are as little to bless As they are firm to the top of the hill! I'm young, I'm proud, and I'm free; I'm here to change the world, not make it; And though it's very new and very strange For a young man to say he's worth a great Because his standing in it has grown, I'm ready to do what my country asks, And I know I can, because I'm young, And I know I'm free, and I know that I'm proud! Then here's to the youth of the land! Here's to the man of all the land! Here's to the ideal, still, unshamed, And the man who, with a steady hand, Will mold, till the ideal is crowned! Here's to him who will do and to all Who crowd these bulging precincts here! Here's to the man the bonds of the land Will hold fast to its glory! Here's to the best lads, the leading men, To strike the true American path! The best of the leading men! They are the friends of the city, And they know the cities ways; They know how to lead, to carry on, And hold their own in the struggle. Here's to the leading men! Here's to the friends of the land! The friends to our loved ones here! They are the arms of our friends are here, And the homes of our friends are here; Where they take their joy, and where they rest, There's happiness to be had. Here's to the leading men! Here's to the good to all men! The gracious hand of the man to his own Which holds a generous invitation, As wide as the land they will not divide, To every man on this blessed earth! Here's to the leading men! Here's to the true American child Who keeps his faith unquailed and pure, Who fears no foe, nor owns a slavering sheep, But stands to-day as he ever stood! Here's to the noblest men of all times, Who did the best they were able, when they were able! "I would not be a hero if I didn't feel that I could perform an act of daring." So spoke the gallant Fred Allen, In the latter part of July, in the army of finest renown, Which was going to Palestine on an inspection mission. And the army turned him down, Because he would not remain at home In any of his free activities, Would not travel on parade, And would not carry a saber in his belt. There were, in that army, a few daring ones, But they were all constantly being picked up, By the squadrons that circled overhead. So the army turned him down, In the hope that he would now hasten home, To finish up the last chores of the year, And the work of the day before. And the army squadron that he belonged to And the squadron captain, brave Turner, Told how a daring carter, Who belonged to that army of daring ones, Had been captured by a Turkish poteous, And was fast disappearing in the desert sand. <|endoftext|> I found it that a simple hand Could make a serpent dance And turn a peacock's feather To a song in an opera That took my breath away. I found it that a kiss Made gazelle dance And moonlight asuran Could make a unicorn And little red riding hood Turn into horsemen Of fire and smoke. I found it on a shelf In a poor attic room Where a mouse scurried And hid under a chair. O golden door! O golden desk! O closet big as chest Full of my name! O blue high-heeled sandals I wear Wherever I go O dress so bright I can see My whole neighborhood O cottage of peace Where I can come and go O room with blue curtains Where I can come and see My father's cat And mother's cuckoo bird My father sits in the hall With red nail-sticks in his fingers And plays the fiddle. Mother says: "Father, play a song That you like the least." And he says: "I like your coat. It's blue and red and yellow." In this blue dream of May I walk with girl power I raise my eyes to girl power I dance with girl power I raise my eyes to the blue dream I walk with girl power The woods of April Are girl-soft and girl-smooth The creaking blue ceiling Is girl-soft and girl-smooth And the creaking blue floor Is girl-soft and girl-smooth And I am girl-soft and girl-smooth And I dance with girl power I raise my eyes to girl power I dance with girl power The clouds are girl-soft and girl-smooth The blue sky is girl-soft and girl-smooth And the blue ceiling is girl-soft and girl-smooth And the creaking blue floor is girl-soft and girl-smooth And the creaking blue walls are girl-soft and girl-smooth And the earth is girl-soft and girl-smooth. But this blue dream of May Is not so blue It does not grieve me I think of girl pain And I am girl-smart And I walk with girl genius I raise my eyes to girl genius I dance with girl genius The blue night is girl-smart And the blue day is girl smart And the creaking blue ceiling And the creaking blue floor And the creaking blue walls Are girl-smart and girl-smooth And I am girl-smooth and girl smart And I raise my eyes to girl genius I dance with girl genius I raise my eyes to the blue dream That is not so blue And I think it is not so blue And the heavens are girl-smooth And the earth is girl-smooth And I am girl-smooth and girl smart And I raise my eyes to girl genius And I dance with girl genius. In a meadowlands of morning The sun blooms white And shines upon the meadowlands Of morning with its beam of golden hue. Then a whole crowd of golden roses Flutter and dance and sing On a meadowlands of morning. I lift my tired eyes and see again A long black road before me; With a sky full of lily petals And a hedge around the road Of the little wrens' nests. I lift my tired eyes and see again A long black road before me; And once again I hear, across the meadow, A cry of grief and despair. How many days and nights Has it been since I came by this way? I lift my tired eyes and see again A long black road before me; With a sky full of lily petals And a hedge around the road Of the little wrens' nests. I lift my tired eyes and see again A long black road before me; And once again I hear, across the meadow, A cry of grief and despair. Through the gate with song And prayer the maidens back The pilgrims that day With scythes and their sickles in hand From Peterbyre also and Ezgebir; From Moesger they were coming to The meadowlands with grass on their knees To mingle with the birds and grasses. The church was empty because No one came to church to-day. A priest who knew their mind Said: "God is in the home And you are in your own house now, Sing hymns, make a holy cheer And read the bible and anything." A girl and her brother came And stood by the pillar top. She said: "I will be your little one, For as long as you think good I shall be here waiting, waiting, Until you take your hand and kiss The little rose I bring you out of me." A boy ran to the pillar top, He bowed down his face to it And cried, as he clung there so strong To the cold and making wall: "It's time to be good boys and girls When we come to mamma's wedding day, And help to serve our pretty mother." And the little pillars showed Their white lips to his little cry, Their white mouths opened wide, And the wall rocked like a cradle to That son of a Saturday. He had learned from childhood to Forget his anger, anger, His will, his folly, folly, And climb to her breast and say: When the spring comes like a queen Through the hills of wheat, With a crown of thistle bells And green warblers' nest, I hear the royal swan-song Of her people up the stream Who dance as home they go, Who sing as home they sing, To the sweet voice of the Queen. When the fall goes like a king Through the hills of gray, With a crown of splintered light And pale blue leaves in his halls, I watch him pass as he might On his bridle-side As he rides to his grave, Where ever the monarch goes, With the face of kings. With the royal face of morn, And the royal smile of noon, I watch his courser's flight As he gallops by the bridge And disappears in the wood As the white night goes, With the face of kings. With the face of kings, And the voice of queens, And the face of God on high, I raise my crown above mine eyes, To the face of summer skies And the God of the flowers Who rides as home he goes, To the sweet voice of the Queen. And all day long I raise My withered hands to pray For him who never comes To his own home through the years; I rise and hear him swear No more in mine ears shall ring The silver music of mirth That he rode the hills of gray To the meadow-tide of me; And the heart within me dies, And all the day I wait I go my way and I forget, I cannot share the love that she brings; I do not ask her help or her love, For soon my part of it is done; I march upon the wind, as though My own shadow there would be; But if he could but ride beside me We should go galloping together. He comes no more, nor hath he left His heart's desire behind; The day goes by, but still he goes; The night is spent, and still he stays; Then, then may we never part; I'd rather not go, if he'd stay. If he is cold, if he is sad, If he longs for something that I can't give, He shall know that I am near; I'll come to him at times, when he's a-writing, I'll come to him when he's a-reading; And I'll come to him when the tears are falling And he is a-falling to the earth. And if he's distant, if he is far, I shall come in at evening's end; Or if he's near I shall come to him When the afternoon has spent its loss; I know his step is true and his heart's at rest, And I shall not be distant or sad. When we are lost we fix our hopes on the moon, And when she shines 'tis cheer and comfort for us; But when she fades 'tis a time of grief and sadness, And when she goes 'tis a time of grief and anguish. 'Tis then we rock and are very, very sad, And when she returns 'tis our joy and comfort. If we see land, if we see land, If we see land <|endoftext|> Was a sylvan grove; And by meadows waving With purple amaranth, And red asters green; A spring of living Water from the hills; A moonlit grove of Sweet perfumes sweet. A little wisp of a woman, With golden hair; Her footstep light and free, A little step to spare, A little sin to cast, And look that all might beguile, And sing, while she sang, "Sweetest, sweetest, sweetest, sweetest, With summer breeze to whisk Through my white roses blowing, And shadow on shadow falling, And sound of song from us; She was a fairy Whose image set the world aglow, And woke the heart of creation With its hymn to God. What time I passed from earth And from my soul my body strayed, I took my doll with me; She knew no other life But knew my Lilli, my doll, And every toy we tried, And knew we tried them all. What were the forests, glooms, and mists Of any mortal land, if they Were measured by the lines of lustre And fancied loveliness That played across her forehead and cheek, And neck with many a glittering link, And cut so lustily her fitful hair? What were the clouds that mists did spin Across the brow of any mountain, What were the mountains but a dream she dreamed At night in her bed of the dead, Where no footstep ever trod, And she was the dearest and best Of all my treasures that were ever, I think she was the dream and truth Of the dream, and the truth of the dream, That still are with me, and I am and I think. She was a fairy of costliest flying, A glimmering thing of light and dark hair, That flew and sang and played with my heart; A little witch in a little yellow boat, That floated and sang so sweetly and low, That I could hear the tears of my speech Rise out and fall, and my heart be kissed Of a golden singing rain in the skies, And float until the sunset of Eve. The little yellow boat she rowed in And sailed out upon the blue sea's face, With a golden dream for a sail, And as the sunset grew, she swept Across the shining miles of sea, A golden promise of suns to be, And through the sunset of Eve My little yellow boat of hope, With golden dreams for sails, was gone, A little wheel among the stars. O wonder, that some child of God should bring The hope of hope, whose eyes look on the sea, That day we sailed away from our homes; And that, when her little witching song, From heaven as from field or garden fell, I felt as I have never felt before, That all things have indeed a face of grace, That flowers have souls of queenly loveliness, And that man may know them at least By the beauty of their sorrows. And when the end of all was come, And he had led us far from our homes And across the waste of the night And through the sunset's glory and glow, And into the weary world of light We drifted in a threshing-floor Into a harvest of darkness, That held us helpless and half blind As an unborn world of threshing That holds the husk and germ and endures Of all things and has no end. We floated in the silence and whiteness, And the silence murmured of its own accord, Like waves in a silver sea, And under the silence I felt the weight Of the hope in my shoulders and breast. For through my arms and my heart and my head The silence murmured and swooned away, I was blind and could not know The whiteness was not the dawn; And as I went on and found the light, I felt as I have never felt before The darkness and the whiteness one and one. The thought of a grave is a trap, A bouncing one, a jumping track To fool the wanderer still on his way; The thought of a grave may hold The fear of a trap or a jumping track, And I have crept down in the dark alone And left a grave for fear that I might wake And wonder why I ever drew breath And whetted my heart on the future track, And now the grave is empty, and the light is deep, And silence wraps and breaks me where I stood, And the silence murmurs of itself as it goes And calls itself by a name I don't know, And the silence murmurs and goes away. What music will my spirit bring When I have gone from the joy I knew With aching, aching head, And all the lights that danced and flamed Upon my soul, a dream or a fable, Now hushed like a shriveled candle? What music, what singing will it bring When I have gone from the joy I knew, The glory I trod, the lyres that blew, The ardent love that I deceived? What music, O, what singing will it bring? What music, what singing will it bring When I have gone from the terror and pain That I loved and I lost, and I strayed, And a shadow lay across my heart That I could not choose but adore? What music, O, what singing will it bring? What I loved died today, And I am ruined, and now, and now, This time I cannot tell in the gloom How my wild heart was broken in two And torn, and the blood flowed freely Upon the wind that passed, in the gloom, And a girl stands weeping beside me. I cannot tell it. I cannot guess. What courage it must have had, I cannot tell. The darkness is deep, the darkness cold, And silence murmurs, 'It is over, it is over.' And the darkness murmurs, 'It is over, it is over.' All are sleeping, and no sound is heard Save the low, safe murmur of the withering, That, lost in the vast moonshine, seems to tell Of the changeless mystery of the seas, That lie at the core of the glimmering wood That I have loved so much, and looked into From every side, from every side. For deep in my heart's core it is ringing And mixing with every throb of pain That scarred my thoughts, and marked me a stranger Unto myself, while overhead the eagle Wings her confused beak over the world, And over the enchanted wood that thrills With life and love of love and death, the deeps below Murmur, and stir, and are a-twain. There is a horror in the deep, a wild Horror of strange creatures in the gloom Whose eyes are lights of light amid the gloom; And the stillness is like a dream; and the breath, As it comes and goes, is like a song; And the silence grows and changes as I dream, A song that is a mystery, a dream That I may wake to. I have dreamed it, yet I hear it still. The trees are bending in the cold, The wind is like a hand at my lips, And a hand at my heart. I am wildered beyond all thought And confused with this strangeness Of passion, and I cry for you, My heart. My soul is shrivelling, and the light Of your eyes burns up my blood, And yet I would I were with you, My heart. I am shrivelled, and I stray, But I would I were with you, My heart. Dear, if I could choose my bliss, (Which choice would not be worse) It would not be unable to pair, And find another sparrow to rive, And sing another song, And build another nest, And dive through green, upturned hands, And build another home. Yet in the end I know my pain Is lighter than the burden of bliss, Which on me hangs. Therefore I choose To be at peace, and leave it all, And leave you in the green, upturned hands To build another nest. I shiver in the fiercest storms, And all I am is wind, and flight, And hope of unbuilt dreams. So as I sink into sleep, And hear far off the windy swell Of waves that come to sing me lullaby, I dream my song and I dream my nest, And in my nest I love you well. What time we wake to dark and bright The dark is full of hurt and fear, And hurt that seems to grow and grow <|endoftext|> Then on the pot with blueberries I will add some Powdered cocoa to give a chocolate flavour. I shall sprinkle the boiling water with vanilla powder, And then stir in enough sugar to make a thick paste. Then when the milk is boiling gently bring it to the boil, Stir the milk well half way through, then bring it back to a boil Stir frequently till the chocolate is dissolved. Stir in three eggs yolks beaten well, then in half a cup Unflavored molasses, then stir in enough boiling milk To make a luscious chocolate paste. Chocolate milk is delicious hot or cold. Brown Sugar I have boiled with bacon fat, And made a sauce with the onion. When I cooked with bacon's grease, I added raw sugar, And burnt a hole in my shoe. I boiled it down with orange-water And now it burns my throat When I drink chocolate milk. I found a bag of Flakes When clearing out my mother's room. I broke some up and tasted them. The finest chocolate there is Came from the little white squares I cut from the bags. For my sweethearts who are sent Far away to die, I leave some money in their pouch So when they come to call, They can say they were paid on call. I drank the milk, but I did not drink The chocolate it brought to me. I drank it and I put it in my pouch For other little sweets to take with me On my long long journey home. I have cut up the bags and distributed Each of the little strips, But I leave the rest to gather by the port For the great big barrel I have bought To bring it to the office to-morrow When my little ones are in bed And my sweethearts are at home. Come out, O Sweet, and teach me how to dance. I have learned how to walk, But I seek your hands and feet, For my steps are not yet right. Come and make the steps with you, For 'tis not yet time to go. In the long, low, windy lanes that wind Across the downs, where the lean cork-trees stand, Where the damp earth is strewn with yellow bloom Of the vine, and the scrub-oaks shut out the day, Where the damp winds sweep across the open glade, And the lowing of the cattle fills the air, There is one that I have taught my heart to love, And I know that your steps shall wind all night through The lonely roads that lead to the pale face of the moon. Now all the world is grey and hoary, And haggard stars shine in the gray of the sky, And the faint radiance of the day is gone, And one great darkness holds the world in its grip, And the great winds sweep over the open land, And one calmness lies over all the troubled world. Only in the dusk and the damp of the night, And the cold winds comb the woods and wail, Do the pale lights glimmer through the night. There is one that I have loved in the long, long years That have been and are no more, and I know That your footsteps shall take me home again. I have made a garden in a dreary place, I have fenced it with the empty shells of old ships, And I have left the gate open, and all unguessed Are the horrors that lie in the close guarded way; But here at least one guarded place is safe, And the pale glimmer of your golden garments glows Between the trees that sway and sway in the night-wind's song. I have built a little nest, nigh the forest's gate; In the secret depths of the shell I have laid A sleeping place for the fairy things of old; And I wander often there at twilight, To listen, and to wonder, and to dream; For I know that the dragon-mother, long dead, Still dwells in the deep places of the sea; And the murmuring voice of her daughters of the sea Still murmurs in the trees of the lonely land. Wherever I go, wherever I fly, I fear not the things that come in the night, Nor the shapes that come in the nighttime drear; But I fear the inscrutable misty eyes Of the dragons that hover in the air, For I know they peopled the night before With their monstrous people, and now they spread Through the land that lies far under the moon. I have heard them whispering in the forest, And seen them clinging to the roots of trees; But I could never trace their language, For they said not a word that I could hear; And so I know that they dream in the night, And dream of the bright and misty lands of old, Where the dragon sate, and the elves of old, And the White Ladies that walk in their sleep. I have heard them singing in the woodland, And heard them singing on the dusty plain; And oh! I could long with delight to hear The whispering voice of the white-clad folk, With a moan, with a sigh, with a warning cry, And a laugh out of the rustling grass, And a word in the language of the sea. I know that I am old, but I do not care, For I have wakened to a strange and tender New life in this strange and tender life; And my heart is as open as an oven That is boiling with the heat of the morn, And my eyes are as clear as the stars that shine In the broad expanse of the summer sky. I am like a junk, that is drifting through the sea of time; I have met with disaster, and I have faced it, And the rolling waves say "Scur, scur," as they roll me back to the gates of the sunset. They say, "You have lived in the midst of sorrow, And we wonder whether you can bear children; But we know that in time you will pass away, And the good sea will take you over our dead." We have visited many a sad and sour place In the books we have read, and we were sad at heart when we thought of the sorrows of man; But it is a joy to me to think of the shores of the summer, bright and sombre with their fleet of ships, for they speak to me of the joys that are coming to the summer. They say, "She is fair, and she is ever sweet, And her laughing eyes are as bright as the young mornings as she comes out of the glimmering water. Oh! we wish we were lying under the green that skirts her caress, and the silver waters gleam above her as she softly touches the kelp; For she is as fair as the flowers on her hair, And as warm as the sea on which she walks." They say, "She is brave, and she never flinches from the battle; her prow is clean, and her lee-mortals are waiting at home with their weapons; her poop is slack, for the tide will carry her far out to sea, But the stars glittering overhead have taught her her journey, and the stars will teach her again." They say, "She is long in the spring, and her buds burst forth in the summer, and her leaves are long in the winter, but her mother is fair and her kinsfolk are fair, but her home is far from the sorrows of man." We are drifting through space like a wave of twilight, And we have reached the end of our road. All that is left for us now is the Heavens, which are smiling to welcome us home; But we have drifted through space like a wave of twilight, and it is long to tell you of it. You must look beyond us, far out to sea, To find a spot where the sky is clear, And a little wave of misty green, And a little island with green trees on it, And the smoke of a lone islander's dwelling, Where the tall oaks are waving their leaves And the song-birds are calling to each other From the boughs of the lonely island-tree. All the days that I have lived on earth, Or much less, have I seen; But never before with such a clear, cold light Did I behold them; And, for some nights when the sky is gray, I am sure I have dreamt of them. I do not think that I shall ever forget The Island before me, For it lies so close to the sea, So low in the valley of the sky, It seems a roof placed over the sea, Or a sightless life below. So clear the sky is overhead, <|endoftext|> Fierce, but still unbroken, Thus the legend is spelt: Draupadí once a princess, Gods and men beloved, Living and dead became her spouse, And Rávaṇ with the woman Grew to love each other. When the queen by Ráma’s will Had to her home returned, Her father met him there and To that prince, his son, Made this glad greeting. “May bliss attend thee, my son, And may the Gods thy steps attend, Loved by all men, whose face Is Durmukh beneath the eye Of the Eternal Sire,(517) All reverent, and Ráma’s peer, High King, for fame and power. My deathless pride is he, My hope and joy, my pride and boast, Who hasted hither, tried and tried, Till, meek and meek and poor, With meek entreaty he Can these hands serve thee well. The lords of earth are ours, And Śakra(518) is thine; The name that spans the three Is thine, and that which clings To the four(519) is thine. Let this dear head, this brow Be worthy of thy head, And he who wears it be Lord of all his heritage. Let Durmukh, the Cherub, Be still thine unrespected, And Lakshmi, ever-bounteous, Be still thine unrespected. Thus have we loved thee well, Lord of all we claim. And thou, O King, art loved By every spirit praised. The spirit of the wind Whispers thy glorious name; The breeze that breathes and blows In thy imperial bay Is not silent. All The nymphs who in the sky Are stars, are proud and glad Their King, their lord and thee, Their honour and delight, Thy sovereign Lord is now. His servants serve thee well, And so must thou requite Their faithful service well. He, strong as Indra, still Defies the curse and might Of Gods who in the skies Are mighty and are strong. He will not now be conquered, But, vanquished, by us The foeman, and his kingdom. Thy royal will be done, O Lord of earth and heaven! He whose strength no battle fears Has no defeat for thee. Thy loving servants praise And worship thee with earnest Desire and love and reverence. Thee, O King, we love and hail, And we with tender love adore. And, Ráma, we are famished That thou art not satisfied. The mighty might of thee Has conquered by my might. Thy people, high in bliss, At the first sound of drum May rise and honour thee. But food for her, thy wife, The wish of all thy people, For this I have not got. I ask no more. The Gods are mine, The scriptures and the sages. And holy Bhadra, too, I know, Whom Ráma styled his daughter, He who will not brook delay And is in beauty bright As the pure moon on high Erect and shining far Above the starry sky. He is come hither. May I come And meet him, Ráma, when he comes Home to his home, which evermore By me was called Isher? And Lakshmaṇ, the charioteer, And his sweet wife. O King, this Will be my refuge, and thine too. Thou hast no need to bide a year, Nor to await the sovran's return Who is my sure and surest guide. Thy love for them is proved, and this Is my salvation. Let it be, This refuge shall be thine, thine and mine. The way of truth is long, and hard, But the pure and true its way will find. Naught can molest it. O, if thou go, The path that truth for thee has trod Shall be thine, and mine to follow. I hold thee, lord of all, for me, Lord of my kingdom, friend and sire. Go, for thy people’s sake, and be Lord of the Bharat race, for me. Be not, King, a monarch cold, Or if thou art hot thy fire Shall kindle me to fiery love. No mourning for thy royal state Shall take my spirit from thee. I cannot die till I have seen Thee, thyself, and Ráma, thine, That we our kingdom may divide, And I from cruel wrong set free. Nay, Ráma, be the hero first To triumph in his kingship. He with his Sítá shall remain Lord of the land from side to side. This were to give thee joy indeed. But I, my king, a refuge seek. Away, be the yearless time spent In endless rites and feasting, thou And Lakshmaṇ with thine honied mate, And the fair Nandigrí. Let us, with blameless hearts, agree That I, the right and dearest friend Of every honoured king, may dwell With thee and Lakshmaṇ in thine home. And be my life with theirs allied In all the glory of their power. And he who rules the land with might Of righteous rule, may I be called Lord of his realm from sea to sea. And the great monarch leave me here Lord of his kingdom, friend and sire. I fear not, Ráma, when the day Rejoins that I shall share the throne The world’s empire, I the king will claim By right the kingdom for my son. As thus I make my prayer and seek With diligent search thy favour, give Thee to thy servants this, my wife. And let this be my father’s name In all the regions round to show: My father is the lord of all. And O my lord, accept my soul Who, to his people’s good, doth live As he would live himself, O thou My brother, Ráma, take and hold And reverently pay to me his love. Or wilt thou speak with me to-day And grant my prayer, O lord, be wise. Ráma the king, be he whom thou lead, The best and bravest of thy friends, To rule this kingdom, and the throne Distinguish not, this world and all For which the worlds have lived shall win. If the good deed be not thine own, Forget thou of the rest, O King, And let thy creatures pay the same In full, as now they do to thee. Thy men I know, O King, would deem Their own the worth and praise of all. The splendour of thy royal state Would from their eyes be lost and veiled. They to their neighbours and their slaves Would far their rank and power display When thou beside them is so near. So, Ráma, hear my earnest prayer: If thou wilt grant this one thing, I Will make this plea to thee to-day, The plea which all men may regard. O listen, and this plea shall be Bent on thy heart this day, O King. I say that in my father’s house There lives a gentle lady, true, And brave and dutiful, and true, And she is fair and youthful too. And Ráma and the lady speak With love that would their heart to bind. They scorn not, when their homes are stirred, The rich and poor, the high and low. Be this her name, I pray, O King, Where Ráma and the lady shine: Náráyaṇya, best of names. This nameless grace on Ráma show, And that would meet the lady show. This gift will Honour of the East Give, where the sun begins to shine. This golden ring, the moon-bright sheath Of all the world, will she receive, And when she mounts her chariot wheel She will be worthy of her name. O King, that thou wilt grant my prayer I vow that I will seek the west. The young Vánar has a heart That ne’er its deep desire deceives, And would be foiled in his desire Ere he its measure tries. Go, Ráma, go, and this one day Have that sweet gift of time obtained. Forget not this, O Monarch, King, When day is done, to-morrow’s dawn. For, O my lord, who should restrain One who for thee would willingly give <|endoftext|> The waves had ceased their louder and more loud wailing; The winding beach no longer resounded With shells going round and round, Nor any more the waves in swimming plunged With thunderous noise and haste and motion; Only the swifts on the high wires do ring, And the sparrows twitter from the park, And over all the earth and ocean shake, And the stars come out as if to greet The new-born year. How sweet is Earth! how good to be Here in the pleasant shadow of her breast! Here is a place where we are free, Here is a home where no deceit is found; Here all is good, and heaven and hell, So the wicked here may be perfect, too, And the righteous obtain their goal; For here the wicked may repent, And here the sinful dead may try The everlasting peace of pardon, And here may be the peaceful seat Of the blissful dead, the home of rest. Wherefore, why wouldst thou, with thine all, Why, with thy riches, honors, lands, and followers, Go forth from this--from this dear habitation? Go where the kingdoms of the world are crowned, When each is poor, and every man hath naught, When no man worketh for the sake of art, No man doeth his part with diligent thought, But each singly gladly, cheerfully doeth What he ought, united, in his strength able, Till distress doth bring all souls unto the test, And every soul, a perfect whole, is weighed, And each, in his place, is acceptable. For here the righteous soul shall dwell In a dwelling of truth and holiness, Whose windows by the light of heaven Gleam forth to all the earth and air, And unto us, their guests, in heaven; Whose windows, through the golden moment Of God's all-creating grace, Gleam forth to all the earth and air God's own glory, life, love, And the glory of man's redemption. And when death come, as the ruddy dawn Trickles in sweetly splashing warm tears From the great dark eye, and the breast That bears the human heart is cold, We too shall rest. O rest ye safe From the jaws of horrors that draw near, And sin's sharp chain with keen nail and hook Shall rust upon the neck of love. For in the house of our Saviour All day long no sinner shall approach The throne where Christ our Lord is seated. Then shall this world's dreary, narrow path Be covered o'er with a wide and green That grows immovable with weight of love, And a glory shall cover all the way, Where every tress shall lean her face O'er every stick and tree that grows. For when the sun that lighteth a world Shall pass, and the Savior come to earth, Then the golden windows of heaven shall gleam With light unfeigned, and the prayers shall spring Like flowers from every bush and tree. And the thorn shall yield her brown and rayless flower, And the dust no more lament and complain; For the Christ-Child with the golden crown Shall lead the world who passed away, And the judgment-beaten penitent Shall through His own door in heaven stand free. Who is this? The young man now Stands on the bridge; the world for him Seems now in its deep shadow cast. The tumult and the shouting fade; In the still, sweet tones of one who loves He speaks of the chance meeting held Upon the bridge this golden morn, The lighted playgrounds where he played, His mother's steps that walked the street. The proudest places are his; He sits on crowned thrones above Kings who court him with their wiles, And the humble places are his, And the lowliest places are his; For he takes the humble where he can, Where'er he can, with a gentle hand, He leads the man of lowly things And he leaves the great behind. He is thine Edom, thine Jordan, Thine Judaea, thy land Holy Land, Thine Hebreus where the roses blow, Thine Hybla, thine Tarbiyah land, Thine Ashkelon, thine Ekron ground; And, like a sun-washed harbour bar, Heirs and titles, lands and fiefs, Residence, dwelling, home shall be To the bravest of th' Aroar race. He hath given thee th' unholiness And the scorn of men; his heart's as great As the Heavens that heaved with rest unto God In that old time when the Son of God From Nazareth, at three years old, In Galilee, with his mother Mary Led the Galilean children play. I shall be with thee, thine Angela, For I'm thine Angela, and I come My Angela, to thy aid, When the plagues come, when the deadly pest Of Christian rage and blasphemy Comes a-roaming after me; And I'm thy faithful Angela, For I am with thee, and I stand Thine Angela, by thy help. And now we'll sing out the hymn, We'll sing out the name of love, We'll sing it high, and we'll sing it low, And we'll ring the changes in the rhyme. So sweet the changes, and so sweet the rhyme That I shall know the name of 't by heart, And I shall be thy fervent love, For I am with thee, and I stand Thine Angela, by thy help. Now, while I'm thy faithful Angela, My right to breathe thy holy name, My right, and my high calling, My mother's maidenhood and my father's, I'm thine Angela, by thy help. And I'm thine, and I'm thy man, And I'm thy child, and I'm thy wife, And to the right and to the left, I'm thine, and I'm thy man, and I'm thy son, And to the left and to the right, I'm thine, and I'm thy man, and I'm thy brother, And to the right and to the left, I'm thine, and I'm thy man, and I'm thy sister, And to the right and to the left, I'm thine, and thou'st my woman, And thou'st my woman, and thou'st my sister, And I'm thine, and thou'st my woman, and thou'st my sister, And I'm thy woman and thou'st my sister, And I'm thy woman, and thou'st my sister, And I'm thy woman, and thou'st my sister, And to the right and to the left, I'm thine, and thou'st my woman, And thou'st my woman, and thou'st my sister, And I'm thine, and thou'st my woman, And thou'st my sister, and thou'st my woman, And thou'st my woman, and thou'st my sister, Ye girls and fair bright youth Hither draw nigh, Singing, singing, One and all in our good will. Bring the comely lutes and the vocal music, Bring flowers, Bring your prettiest poetry. For by love's law the nations are judged, Every law but the love of God; Wherefore, let all the people come, First the proud, and then the poor, And afterwards the humble, Bring the comely lutes and the vocal music, Bring flowers, Bring your prettiest poetry. Come all ye young, and come all ye fair, Coming in our May; Come all ye gentle birds, and wild beasts too, Filling the woods and waters; But thou, O love, and he whom thou lov'st not, Come only with the silent breath; Bring the comely lutes and the vocal music, Bring flowers, Bring your prettiest poetry. I had a boon companion once, A female horse, whom nought Could stir, (save that I would) From about my way Leaving her foiblese good: And though I strove to beguile And allure her to sing, Nothing could make her tongue fittest to sing, But still returned her self Unto the foiblese good. But when I was a grey-beard grown, And in my turn went grey, She followed with me still, Nor left me any beguiling, Only still keeping by me, Till all the throstle-houses were mute, And all the flower-beds wet, <|endoftext|> Who thus the service they decline, Give, ye wise, your answer here! For, surely, a day will come, When, meagre though ye be, Ye shall, with gen'rous hearts, endure A plainer penance, and a nobler lay." "My child," said the Capricorn, with grace And gravity, "that hope, I have none: For, if men's imaginations vast Presume of honour, whatsoe'er that is, Whole nations must in error high aspire. This duty has my share, I own; But then this lesson too hastily learned, From others' words misconstrued, I wot so well. "And yet this very wish to see, When I submitted to know it first, 'Sined with the wish of having much to give, A foolish woman could not long delay; But ye must own, when such a foe, With the long-punished axe up at naught, Your own strength must needs be tried, Then ye must lay your wisdom and your love To the full shade, ere you can expect That wish again to quit the sure increase. "Not that I think my value low As the meanest in your service, But your answer makes it clear That your esteem of me is high: And thus I lay the matter aside, And turn to other tasks;--when first I laid it in, the last wish was vain. "If of my failings you are wary, If you hold me not presumptuous; I, who am modest, modest, be; And now I leave it to your sense, To judge what kind of woman I, What, in my own judgment, I am. So much I grant, I own my part, But you must grant it also now. "I, who could oft have sworn I love More than my lord, and oft have sware That my lord had loved me more,-- My lord is dead! And I, alas! Love not the man he loved before; And, for that he is dead, I Love not him any more." Hereat the maid is silent for a while, For in her soul a vision came, Of a strange night-companion, A shadowy shape with long, soft hair, And piercing blue eyes, that seemed Like misty mists the sky into, Or the blue misty mists that break Upon a wintry evening. But when the vision rose, With dancing steps, and music bold, And garlanded with light, And with her lord, her lord is dead, And she loves not the man he loved before, And now she loves not any man. I said, my child, that the wanton Spring From heaven may take her course away; I said that the lily may decline From bloom to bloom, and darken to decay. To every hour it grows more debased, And every day that it is joined to night; And as great power holds earth to it's fall, The mighty powers of heaven that ensue, Which through unseen casuistry we call fate. Then let us live in our way. The powers that heaven have sent down to men Are good and bad in such perfection That they would change earth to a heaven. And who can say whether their cause Is afterall the cause of this? O my love, beware of this; And think what it is that we are That we must do and bear all things bearing; And when our time here is complete, Then might we live at all things needing. Come, O my love, and live in our way; Thine life is in thine own keeping; And all thine heart must ever bear thee That is in heaven, not in a heaven. We live by love, O then come and live; Love may be made to do all things bearing, And heaven may send down its heav'n again To make us kin to the low and high, And light and darkness, water and oil, Yet in the doing of each there's much wanting; Then come and live, and henceforth gain That we may be alike in the keeping Of thine own time, thy own heaven and earth. The stars are like flakes of snow that fall In winter's wind, they flake the sky; But the moon, when she pours her streams, Turns the night to gold, and whitens all The marshy places with her beams; And then again, when she ceases, The stars forsake the world again; Only moonlight, only daylight Takes now the place of bright and fair. Yet my heart yearns for the joy of life, My heart, that is denied; Like a child lefton the breast of straw, I cry for light and air, That are not, though heaven be fairest, And life dearest, best; Then fair life may fling down her beams And take their place in heaven again, But not with love or youth or hope, But cold, cold sloth, and death and despair. For youth and love and hope to die are vain; Death puts all things steadily back; But love, youth, and hope, although they dart Like young billows, in a short space reunited, Become as salt sea-sand, and all washed clean; And they who hurl them out again are washed anew. If life be bitter, sweet life is far worse; And even hope is but a dream; And only despair is hopeless hope, And ever more of each we get; Hope, the fool's paradise, where we build Our nest all hopeful brains in, Then flat at last to blow away, And with the spring come bouncing in. Yet love, youth, and hope, though they flit So high, so low, in a hurry kind, To breathe deep and drink up all our tear, Do in their brief time prove, prove again, Are not so vile but by transformation To make us love, youth, and hope dear; Who in their brief time prove that they are not vile. And therefore let us love, love still, For love is life and life is love; And when my heart is not at beat With such hot tears as wont my eyes When I have seen sweet faces And heard new pleasures, Then I am as I have been And have a heart that does not weep. I do not much like loving; The passion is not mine; But when the tide of feeling Dies in the heart, then comes the feeling That life is nothing worth; And then love comes, love always comes, And we are born a little richer. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; The blossoms are but dim, The night cometh, and the time Of the soul's deepest dreaming; When we sit down in the summer And drink of the pure June-air, And sing, and speak, and pray, And the spirit is refreshed. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; The earth doth rest; the wind Is hushed in the valley-brooks, And the stream that goes drifting by Is gone afar; And all our dreams of delight That thrilled our souls are lulled, And our joy's share is forgiven, Because the tide of feeling Dies in the heart. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; In the quiet of the woods The nights are sweet and warm; And when the winds of winter Are waking far and wide, The leaves are falling fast, and the grasses are stirred; And I do like to sit by the water And watch the waves go by. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; The summer comes, the rest Falls like a lullaby; The long, bright sunshine of autumn Melts on the rocks and is gone; The autumn comes, and the winter Dies like a word; And the world goes with the flowing of its waters. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; The winter comes, the mirth Fades with the falling of snow; And now I think of the fields where we watered by streams, And the winds that took the roses and blew them thorns, And the sun that came and laid the flowers in the woods. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; God's light is shining now; The old things fade in the dark and the new things triumph; The grass that was so green is brown and tainted with frost, But the sweet, harsh words of our childhood have sang so clear. The spring comes, the bud doth blow; <|endoftext|> Reached the threshold, where the Pale violet and the violet-love- Flowers lay,--the coming of their summer; Peeped the white-breasted hawthorn bush;-- So the fourth dale was reached. With hasty steps he hastened on Until he reach'd the dank and bog-stained bank On the fourth eve; and his steps had Paced up and down until then. His handsome aspect--his blue frock coat And his derby hat, had caught the eye Of each grazing hare and curs; and had stirred Their hearts with a strange tenderness. Then a grey-haired man, wearing a feat of cloth Unknown, came trotting up: he was slim, Nearing his sixties, and he wore a great- World-weary expression. His features, with the long white hair Were rounded into cleanliness; and in His eyes a soft contented wisdom dwelt. "It is well," said he, "in the days of yore I often read by the faint, faint glimmering moon: But these days--and I hardly believe it-- I cannot sleep by the dank and bog-strewn bank. I wander up and down, and I half-dread When my time comes upon me, and almost coward From the sound of the Wansdeck bell--so." Then the old man stopped: the grey-haired man Knew that the time was come. He had served out His appointed moon in reverent and patient Preparation for a life of holy minstrelsy. He had grown mild and serene: and though, When the music of the psalm was in force, He would rise lightly from his half-hearted carpet, Now, listening to that rare old music, like An old man listening to the peace and quiet Of a far organ!--Alas! there came No eloquence of trumpet, and no clang Of armed brass, or clang over brass, when He turned from the world, that earthly wail He hath heard so oft. From the shadows, and from the lurking Of the foeman's first dark trap he sprung With a strong arm; like the lightning-stroke, When the trumpet's silver trumpet Calls to a hundred millions to arise. And the multitude came--the thymine And burre-stock--like a white cloud Of unsuspicious wheat. Now the little virgin-mother Had placed the guilty one in her net, And gone to her bed in the darksome glade In the deep shadow of the night; She had left the old man, like a gleam Of silver, in the net. There the old man lay When the dawn of morning came, and on His lined face a tranquil sleep was spent: There he did but dream, as mortals may, Of the thing he had to remember. There he did but try To feel a pity for the deed, that tied With silken threads his being to the thing. At the noon of day He arose, and stretched his arms abroad As if to gather the things his eyes had seen: Now the net was cast, and the thing was gone! He had worked for it, and had it at last! And the grey-haired man in the sun Bowed, with a smile That was almost sentiment. Hark! those rumbling noises! With a leap from the stones And a rush from the corn, They are rushing at our ears, At our ears are coming the stories Of the rush, the stone, and the corn. Now the old man speaks: "When I was young, the old days, Lame as I came, With a staff in my hand, And a coat I then could hardly call Tin, I then could certainly stand, When the old days were in earnest. "And all through the day, and through All the night, the old days, Crying, as I told you before, With a rush from the stones, And a rush from the corn, Came the stories to hear. "And I believed them, so help Mighty God! So help me, if I get Any crumbs to eat myself From the best of the corn. And that's the old days, and that's why I am old, and why the old days Ever will be my sole delight. "But now--when I am old, and I thought That I was going to die-- When I am old, and I feared the end Of poverty and sadness, And when I knew that the old days Were no more for me, "Then, when I thought I was through with them, And when I was thinking of death, Came the other, the other, the other, The other, the other. And my last year came, and I found That the old days were still on the earth, And the other, the other, the other Feet came along, "The first of May, the long May-day, Like a dream in the May morning, Running still, With the young lives beginning, And the old ones renewing. And we gathered in the sweet blue-grass And the moss in the crannies, And the kind old elms sighed out of memory To the sounds of the young lives beginning. "And at evening, the old May-day, The old May-eve, the old May day, And all the life I had known seemed Flicker and drift and a memory, For I turned to the river again And the fields where the sweet old elms grew, 'Mid the old elms I found Only a drift of small dark stones On the dry, dead bed of the river "And on closer examination, I found they were red abalone shells, Red abalone shells on a shore Where the red abalone fades and dies, When the red abalone fades and dies. In the redness of the May morning, In the blue-green of the afternoon, In the silver of the twilight, I found in them a miracle-- Sweet, small, luminous stones Ripening and shining in the night." So the old man spoke in his silence, And I rose from my seat and came Out of the cell, and stood beside him, And we gazed for a time in silence, Till the old man raised his head, And he spoke again: "The other shoes Will soon be on their way; For I have seen the little white hand That beckons them from afar, And I know the angels will be On the knees of all the children Ere the wheels of time have run." There are old times that anoint with sleep And a love that is almost love, And a smiles that is almost a tear, When the years are half forgotten. There are old days the heart kneels to know In the dear familiar place; And a voice that seems to have a spell Of the mother's far-off call, Which is piped into the ear, And the soul turns down the old path, And remembers all the way. There is a heart where old sorrow has A memory more true than tears; There is a heart where some part of the truth Has slowly, gently, gently grown true Since the first old grief of days was gone. There is a heart where only sorrow Has ever hidden its face; Where the bad has never been badly born, But in its day has merely been true. There are days, like years, when the heart beats Only in thought; and there are days, When the flesh seems all alive with death; And there are days when the soul lies bare As the clear north before the blast; But the heart remembers all the olden And yearns up to the coming years. There are lips that are on the tired bed Of the lost, who weary, weary lie, And the lips speak on in the night alone With a voice like the night wind and grey; But the lip in the dream is but a scar Where the rose of our young dreams was lost. There are hearts that are fresh and true as morn, But wounded by the fate that's passing by; And there are hearts where the wound is deep and wide, And in the heart the darkness lies alone; But the heart in the dawn is only sad For the light that has died away. There is a star in the east that shall be bright When the pale hand of darkness shall grasp it, And a star in the west that shall rise pure 'Mid the glory of her beautiful hair, And a bright star in the west to fall soon. But in the east, with the star in the west, And the sweet light of her beautiful hair, There is only a star to hold us true, And no star in the west to fall soon. In the haunted house of my dead days I've found these roses, like forgotten keys That call no yellow room into play; But on the stairway hangs the silver key <|endoftext|> I like to remember with what return we were here returning from Knollys, 3 I want to go on commemorating the glories of the bridge that night of a war, 3 Day of a short war, as if to remember. I am holding my three-day-old child in my arms, and I know it is growing strong. I will die remembering. It may be one that will never know this earth. <|endoftext|> "The Dead Hustler in the Terrible Tow Truck", by Joanie Mackowski [Living, The Body, Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, War & Conflict] He flopped down, like a reluctant puppy, behind the metal rear-view mirror in the terrible tow truck. He was into women so wild, all he could do was live in that dark fright behind those eyes. He heard that women could do anything if they concentrated hard enough— they loved fires, smashing windows, the smell of dung, The Race, War & Military, Gangs & Gang Wars, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] He came to town one night, looking for work, tight soldier skin pants, and a handy sword. A mistake. Watched so many times that he began to believe it. It was like he woke from a dream into a world of men with men, women with women, women grabbing, men grabbing, men beating, men shoving. Tough kids in uniforms. Not his at all. His was the gloved hand that touched bones, nothing flesh. His was the arm that forgot it had a spine. Who knew he was born with a mouth that men used for bone. What good does a hand have that can't feed or defend itself? And yet, he held his life together, held it together, shoulder to shoulder, neck and head, arms locked around a waist he couldn't move. He did what he was told because he had to because he was the hand. Who knew what he was turning into? I want a hero who can't speak or move or even think for himself and doesn't care about being forgiven but does it anyway. He didn't wear a name on his sleeve, made to sit back and wait because a name sells. Can't go into detail about him just yet because he doesn't want to be there. He's the Other, the Incredible. I don't want to glorify violence but this man didn't need to swing. Couldn't be talked out of it either. Did what had to be done. Not one bullet was shot because if he fell, he would come back. He wanted out. And everyone knew he meant to do it when he walked in. Didn't look or say a word as a group of hardened men did what they could to clean his mouth out. Scratched his nose, plucked his ears, licked his wounds. He was a monster, a joke, bad news, bad news, bad news. <|endoftext|> "Silver", by Joanie Mackowski [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] As time passes, silver loses its scarceness from humanity. Out in nature, bronze has taken its place. <|endoftext|> "Jumping Jackies", by Marilyn B. Kelly [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] I was given one chance. -Eddie Carter, jailbird, nineteen The jailbird jumps when the catcher's parapet collapses and the ball dives from the warp of dark-footed Mary Janes in the middle of darkness. When Mars blackmails Pluto to become his bride, silver stakes his airy legs. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson is jumping jackies. Flashbulbs snap in his eyes, his heart jumps into jackies. He waits. He walks the streets by their smell. His heart beats into jump lights. He flinches as a razor thrusts into his heart. The law is jump streets, jump cars. These jump streets for baby jumpers walk among police as jumps count toward arrest. White officers are training their procedures to detect jumps, their very bones. Like fingernail scratches in a pachinko machine, officers' arms and legs are planted into pavement. They fall, their legs bounce into jump lights. Jumping cops are bused to every J word stop. They wink into jump streets, their eyes open as their stomachs into streets drop. Police jump lights and stay on. Their hearts boil into white stars. <|endoftext|> "My Obsessive Story", by Jamila Woods [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] On a drive up I readA book about a woman who could not sleep for fear her house would fall on her. I could not make out the text, but it was about an exploration of the body through anatomical charts. I followed along the base of the mountains with my car, turning down the barbed-wire rows, and scrubbing at the backs of both my palms. It was beginning to get late. After an hour, I pulled over for the sheeted prisoners held in other cages. I climbed the fence, slipped my hands into the men, held my breath as they flopped about, to keep the air in one side of my chest moving, while the other went with them into the paper. My hands were full as I tugged at their legs, as they spat the sleep out. I told them, I want you to know I am the one who did this. They nodded, and I stopped breathing. <|endoftext|> "To a Rock", by Adam Fitzgerald [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] To walk amongst men and not own the silence To walk amongst women and still speak to none To walk amongst poets and still have no key to their tools Is exhausting and I want nothing more Than to bury my head in a blanket of insults And let the stone tough guys beat on me as they will Until they crack me open with their sticks and blue Helmet-wearing cousins. <|endoftext|> "Landscape Without People", by Adam Fitzgerald [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Very still and very lonely on the map of the sea Where I would go to look for my black sheep. <|endoftext|> "On a Bicycle", by Adam Fitzgerald [Living, Death, Life Choices, Activities, Jobs & Working] On a bicycle to the funeral. Hiroshima from the West will take me: The countryside will renew me, As it used to do for my father When he first came and flailed his arms. I must be blind not to recognise The house: it is American: It is 1929, on the corner of Third Street Just as the plague was leaving. I had just turned five, And it was summer, Before I was given a book to read. The words will always be the same: The house, the trees, the sky. I can hear the wind in those acres Coming in cool from the sea As it sang a song of its own Before it left. And I am back: On my bicycle, returning To the once-again unknown landscape Where I will finally rest. <|endoftext|> "How the Night Moves Through Cedar Grove", by Adam Fitzgerald [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers] After you leave me, how the night Moves through the lonely grass until you are gone, Turning the world pale as a bone, how the light Smokes the green, how the perfume Of night blooms on everything: The white light from the mill sheds On the brown river until it becomes A river of moonlight: Everything in its world of sun Is bathed in moonlight: There is no darkness here, Only an evening of moonlight. <|endoftext|> "All the Pitched Brass Beats the Seychelles", by William Landes [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Seychelles There are no openings in the sky, no scarlet rockets Or harbors for ships From the seven seas. There are no rebel bands. Only the island violence of calypso And the coral interior violence of ringlets of brine. But when the chemestrians and the green kith, Swinging like fingers of a faun, are done, There will be this—and then the war <|endoftext|> We will all the knights and goodly squires Will honor you, and when you turn your back, Halt not till we have humbled you to us; And they--no--God forbid--never have they need. De Sica cristiana, adoro y ameno, Y fiesta al manantialismo Con el prado que en este bien contrae; Y parece bajadolla A la bandera de Remo y la sombra. ¡Adriaga el amor aquel que es raro Que le dará en español! Mas ¡ay! tú tú tú si es parado Que llegue á manos y llegue á mueves. Quando ves que la ví corripga Por una vez, tras olvidaría, Tuber de sosiego y lúgubrinía Al solo con las dochesera, Mas fuerzas de entrambas, Con fiereza á todos los ocultas, E tú gurgiréis moriréis. Al principio De ti, Me basta de arde, me basta de fiero, Me basta de salir el florido De mi mar; Mas al principio de ti, Me basta de salir el florido De mi mar. Ya me hubiera de ti, De ti quiero mismo está, Pero me basta de llorar á ti De mi mar, No me gustaba de calma Tu servidumbre, Pero me basta de llorar á ti De mi mar. Cuando amansoso envío Sus manos don miedo y daño, Nos saben de la lengua y dar Una voz escrita de morir; Porque á nuestros amigos Dulces muy bienes sin pecho La nueva y la luna. ¿Por qué, muerte, ¿quién tern avía, Que el morir de donde se apaga? Llevárgen que pues muertes, De dónde se oponga Despién con morir y de gloria. Mas no, á qué su muerte está Que el morir tras el dolor; Mas, porque ¿quién podría jadar? Pero, á mi mal, á dónde aquí Ya más avía que empezar Sin fixar: Mas siempre la dulce demásfá; Que el mar moriente, Quanto se questará su mal; Mas, pues muertes en mi mal, Porque tan gordo vía No me hagasclavos dar. ¡Ay, si gloria, gloria dí, Que crea el tiempo que me hagas! Mas su muerte á salir; Sin que olvidaré, Porque más avía también, Roto el morir de que habla. Mas si no puedo lejan, Ya no riene: ¡cómo es alto Que no puedo ser yo, Si amor cantando en mí, Que de hombre yo. Hoy que no hay vulgándum, Que el cerco no duran, Hoy del paso que de reyes Las paredes diablo; Que ya hacer de uelto el día Diciendo el sol, Y cómo el sol no me estás gloria Ya posba mas. Que ya nuestro bien polido Quisiere el cielo el zócalo, Y el ceto no padeceme La rica que ya me tienes; Que nuestro bien polido Que ya debera mí cuando Sobre el ceto del ruido; Esperando tener paño Que del hermoso comprobará, Y que veré de hacer esto, Cuando seré quisiere. Sólo en vano y más adentro, Hoy no lo entregará, Y quiero en vano y desmayo Que no entregaré. Sólo en vano y más adentro A la mano entregaron, Y de hacer nuestro bien peso Pasalla á dar ser el verano. Y ¡qué es el paño que dé ver overte Pasalla en dulce tirano Que su pastora dicen que hace el verano! ¡Qué gloria y salud y desdén Que á qué es el paño lo más bella! Lo que leo está, y lo que bella; Pero él no osas ninguno Lo que los hizo, sin certificado, Sobre la ciudad y su campana Y sigue su cuidado Sobre su faz del cetro de Ocañón. Llegóse: la fuerza destruña Cuando el tiempo temorizó, Su madre, revolución divino, Del amor ardiente y elegido, Y el ocio me imbiste, Con el sol, corazón en cuidados; Y no la ventaja á Cid escondido La luz que sigue su cuidado; Por el país, la luz había Sobre las trémulas y salidas. Bien, ¡cuál me haces motividad, Que con que á Cid tomáis malar, Tal manjero retumbara á tu bien, Cual más alto omne tan fácil. ¡Cómo veo cuánto valentes! Por çimos tu triste rica: ¡O tú, que á tu augusto veo, Cuando es posiblemente! Cómo tal vez, el Cienamo, Suspenso que no vierte, Por ti los pálidos no veo Cómo vestirte, Tantos drogas á tu sostén. Ovidio bien priso, No sabe á su cómo estimado, Por qué glorioso á su vista. Pero ¡cuál me haces riesgo, Que el Cienamo me ha celosado, Todos lo encontrara, Que con su encenderse Amor, ¿Dónde me dejas con eso? ¡Oh cuanto á tu victoria, Déjame á tu ausencia, Y sentía nuestros fuertes, A ti se apreso no, ¡Cuánto sus vozmantas! Pues cuando hizo la promoción, Que con ese nombre se lleva Ó la escalontida Al corso de la lágica, Que no el son de tu destino Mientras pasó una vista, Por él que en el mundo así Suspenso le maravía. Y el último triunfador Su menos rara y se levanta Ó fave y señala Del impuro escuadra, De su valentía despectada, Llobregativo clavará. Lloberno cómo riega De enamorado hielo El paso poderoso, Eso de tal candida Que tenga á la virgen Que no fuese tanta sorpresa; Por eso tú, muerte, Vestra á rueda y sorprendida Que no entusiasme compría. De ellos viene voluntat Nuestra amada vos, A ti seguida á las puertas, A ti ha sido nuevo; Para en ella mis prados Y su sangre comido, Y de sus piedades de mezquizo Y de sus sangre mizo, Ó pesar de la venganza, Su cabeza lance trasque trasina, <|endoftext|> Like particles of icy foam, Like bits of burnt and drifting snow. "But when my strength had fairly begun to fail, The two bewitched babes came running wildly about My home; and, lo! with both in winged flight, They reached the terrace--in an instant there Across the open spaces of the sea They lighted, and went soaring into the sky; Then with a wild chaotic toss Ate my flagg'd galley out of sight. And then they both together yearn'd to wave Their wings, as erst when on the Titanic they scud together With what scant speed they had--and lo! while they wave Their wings their cheeks they emit A thin green shimmering veil, Which—at their feet they find A shoe-string; and when they grasp Its handle with its talons, Their arms like expanded springs Stretching, o'erpower'd by sorcery, Grip the thin shoes as they fall. Oh lovely children! God bless their foolishness! Oh lovely children! God be with you! Farewell! and in my life's desire I've sought a wealth for treasure given, But the world ne'er gave me aught Not even a good-humour'd smile; I may be honest, yet 'tis true That I am happy in my way; And now it is my whole endeavour To add a zest to life and to you, And give a loftier zest to this Which has been written by one Who was happy in himself, And therefore I hope you will Give me a cheer before you go. Go to the garden. Spend an hour of pleasant play With those bright blooms that never fade; Then come hither to me; Reach your arms, if haply they are sweet Upon mine flowers, and those two meet. Little sir, I'll tell you in pity (If pity may be given in death) How my heart was broke the day you came And said, "I'll go and be with her;" For I've been as jealous of your worth As the proud house that her won't let you see. But I must own your presence made me glad; Thought of your white robe, your air, your words, Sweet flower, how they spoke of her to me. And in like manner did the children all, And their sweet prattle belied their care; They did not know that this was only play. Children are innocent, as you'll see; They love alike, they never can love ill. Let then the evil days of life pass by, And say that life gains much by two good deaths. In a pleasant home we must do our best, And if sorrow comes, that comes with the job; And when life seems fair, and full of bliss, Think, "What if it should break her, like a tile!" Last night I heard a trump, a clarion spake, And a host of harpers crowned the new-year; The birds were singing merrily, When through the clustering prisms shone a moon. That shone through the windows on the lawn, And where the children ran in and out, And ran again, and smiled and laughed and played. The waters nuzzled on the stones; All things were just as they should be. The real year should have a lasting gift, And so it has a few; but some, alas! Have not, and this night is one of them. And so, the real year, with all her power, Comes not, though we would give her all. For if we give she must receive again, She comes not. I write this in the true year, For the true year and her gifts have the same chance, And the same misfortunes. <|endoftext|> Cum omne carmen, cum carpere tristis. Et cumouisti, caudae musae. Voces et tristis, et cauponariis. Illa magis semper, cava tristis. Illa cernissere, aequales musam, Dulcis in mutua tristis. Illa semper, vaga regis. Ludite, quae tulit punctum. Dum probat nobis, Lucis the bane. Dum probat, Lucis, cum bane. Dum probat, Lucis, sua bale. Quippe, lucis sapiens, quo queantibus aurum, Ancus orbibus, nixque arbusta? Ludite, quam qui leges, cum speret ipsa? Lux tute, Lucretia dabit? Ah, how my heart would have poured its streams If I had met you upon the ways, Or left some lonely stretch of beach Where two becalmed ships their white hulks paused, Or there had floated and died outspread Some countless host of waiting Greeks, When lo! the Orontes through the flickering dusk Glides like a silver spider over sands That promise days of toil to others were. There on the bridge, the golden swan Flutter'd overhead. It seem'd as if Some angel brought these lines to me, And beckon'd me to sit beside. Ah! who shall swear that gentleness Aided my inner spirit? Who Will say that even in this direst need I turn'd a step but once, or drew A single hair's breadth from my face, Of all those steps which insolence had stolen Across the bridge, under the gutters dragged An old fellow-creature who lay, Dead, and listened to the sweet birds? It might have been the wildest of all That ever grapple with our woe. I do confess that the distress That taught each sense was like a magic spell To quicken self-devotion; yet, to say That thus I met her--what yonder shone Like promise of a life to be, A life to be enjoyed while yet 'twas ours? It seem'd as if one ideal, floated Before my vision, sink'd or betwixt, And filled the void until each seem'd the same. Did she not in that single glance express A hope to look again upon the land I left so soon, to start again upon The same real paths, by real tracks, That lead to roses in the sunny moonlight? 'Tis vain to point the cause of hope, or fear. Nature the whole thing pumps from the breast Of man: yet, sometimes, in the surest springs Of human feeling, we may trace that ev'n In which we vicariously excel; Whereby our imperfection remains An uplifted cross, in whose sight God's whole plan Of happiness is spann'd in human hearts, And death, which strikes with mortal stroke, Breaks not the mortal veil that sheds An ultimate glory round our nature. Yes; I was happy while I could; But when the hour arrived which broke My heart, as if the flame had caught The bonny brunnera up into air, Flung her at half-mast o'er the stern Above the laden wave, while all The gilded hawser ride and play The dreamy weeks in her real home, Then all my spirit, breast first toss'd To windward, reel'd back on regret; Remembrance brought a mile more quickly Than all the land lay blue and fair, And on my eyes the autumn dews fell With such a hush as wakes the night Where tawny shadows breed by grot On level coasts, where high and low The dark waves meet, and where the moon Pouts like a spann'd palm. Ah! my dear mother! could my soul But picture the rapture of the tears Which follow'd my closing breath away From the dear face where gently she smiled With all a mother's fondness; and the soul Which that dear face illumed so, crumbles Into sun-dust unseen, and swiftly fled The now deserted ship. A feeling as of walking over raw, Unclean soil, which bore No germs of life; and the strong sun's Refinement, poured through chips and shards, Left the averted lips a gloss of red, Which rinsing with the slightest breath of air The corroded plank would bear, and left The deck a dark green. And it were something Of quite another coloring to the rooks That cruise at night in those swift boats, Which never fail, to my mind, when ill or wintry Bloom their weird canvases. Ah, the hour That call'd my spirit from the land of day To walk the shores of sweet Louisiana! On some leprous fever, my poor soul Was gathered to the nerve-balls. Ah! could I drink The scented cordial dew which from the heart Of a fair lily leaps at the first kiss <|endoftext|> He's with her, I'm in his thick of it. And the furniture! Look! It's the present, What he brought her for the feast of October, (She had waited up for him, and missed him, As lovers always do who are true); And, closer at his elbow, you can trace Feathered caresses, such as she gave him, On the air; and now and then a light Flashes from his husband's queer old wig. Not my idea of a romantic scene. I doubt if many women see it that way; I doubt if many men even know it. If she found a relic from the French In the Curate's closet at Grimalkin, Her first thought might be, "Gee, I wonder What Grimalkin's moderns are like." And if he gave her Amma a necklace Decorated with peacock skins, And said it came from India, well, It's a shock to the nostrils of Amma. If he gave her a bottle of brandy Spiked with vinegar, say, She'd think, "Ah, that is rather nice! But I thought the Curate was rather quiet." But what's the use of ridiculing Men and their ways when the Curate's gone? And what's the use of repining 'Cause the Curate has spoken so exceedingly? He's a great lover of all that's antique; He's curious and serene and free, And what he doesn't know he considers trivia; So there's the butter and eggs he'd like to know. (And wouldn't you know something if he'd tried.) But he takes things on trust; He's never examined the merchandise, And what he likes he adores-- And sometimes we have cause to be polite! Look at the pictures, you'll see his process. Some artists paint the person as he is; He's tried by a rapid hand to draw it. Take a look at this Tintoretto, Davy Douglas, Giorgio de Chirico; Think you can learn anything from them? Well, you can learn a lot from this Curator-- Try to learn from him as you dinner: If you can't believe what he believes, How can you eat and be civilized? But make no mistake about it, He lives and thinks, and influences; If he chanced to be born an Aristotelian, He's much too knowledgeable to bide free In the great modern conjunction; Now you'll say that's a bad start, And I can't blame you; I do apologize. And yet, I met an old friend of mine Who had no opinion on the matter; He met me and said that in his opinion It was a splendid piece of cooking; We dined on Friday night, and at the close He whispered to me, "You're a horrible waste of good eating, And I can't get you tomorrow: it's arranged. One may not like it, you understand; it's done: So now remember that when you meet again At the club, and find yourself in dinner attire; Ohow do you like roast-and-go? How did the fish meet? (The sirloin was singed, the med'cocae golden-spattered, The tomato tear-shaped and tomato-stained.) How did the potatoes fare? My nerves are strained-- My table is still, and nothing is gained or lost, So let the waiter make the invitaton now, And ask him to give the first report. I wish you could have seen the secretary When he first asked me to dinner. (What a kind start--and very wise-like.) I thought at first that he mistook me; For with lovers there is apt to be, Although their ways of pronouncing the word "dinner" Are eccentric, I'll admit it plainly, There is always something forgotten that one calls "dingy"; And after all it was only tea; At tea one's ideas easily at fallow; As for an afternoon's diversion--how rude! So I said with a smile on my face, "Of course I don't remember: that's the thing!" And as I was peeping out of the kitchen To see what was going on with the girls, When a noise that was most exultant and glad Came shouting out the kitchen door, At which the secretary (who had my blessing, I told him) began to cackle and dally, And beg that I'd like some dinner to-day. I had my eyes shut against the knife And the piercing vinegar. The liquid fire Raged up my spine in a thousand forms-- And then there was the grocer, the window filled With wreaths that he waved in my direction That I should never want for--what do you call them-- And green and blue rolls--the most convenient things To stave off a chilly fall in the middle Of a day when one wasn't sure what was going to happen To one, a shopkeeper's honor was at stake, And one was hungry. So I stooped and picked A cucumber--I felt I'd died and gone to Paradise, And there was the vinegar rushing over me-- A cucumber! it would be better if it were more, And all my money was going to waste, And I was in too deep when the grocer came To tell me it was "all right," and ask me if I minded Giving one for one of my best: "Just give it to him!" I said; and here I sit Another winter cold and unloved, My life one dish, without a wish for more, A thrill of splendid pity--and then I die. To a glance that would question my life, I give the strangest, clearest accounting; I think of what I was, and what I might have been, I give my prayer that this passion of the moment Lapse, like a wandering enchantment. Why the heroes of my life were never heroic Are beyond me, but I know they loved well. I'm dwelling on this mystery, because it is So odd, that what seems very odd to one, Another calls all natural. I found my way into the butcher's shop; I bought a stone. At five I bought a hat; I bought a cloth for dinner; and my honor Was in that shop. When the dinner was done The butcher walked out. I cut a slice to take Home, and then, without another word, I passed the door of the butcher's shop. To the beginning I need not remind you I walked into the butcher's shop. I was curious to know from whence it came-- Why the knife was gold, and why the rock of lime; And who the maker of the shop was. I wanted the maker of the shop to know So much more than what he made his money upon; So much more than whether he cut the rock by hand Or with a lathe. I wanted to know with whom He made the knife as if to prove a point; To see if he was a gullible fellow, Or a man of principles. The answer came When I leaned close beside the knife to look at it: "Times have been," he said, "when you'd think the shop Was of little value now. But no one knows More than the maker himself. 'Twas a trick Laid on my mother, I suppose. When he came to town He did not give a damn for books, but I knew The kinds of things he wanted to know. He'd cut His hair, and when he cut his hair he'd pray. He'd wash his feet, and when he washed his feet he'd pray. He'd listen what the Church was, and when he listened He'd pray for power to bury a half-breed man. He'd look at me and grin. It made me proud To see how he'd take the whisperings of me, His strange black eyes groping for knowledge. It seemed The only way he could learn. I'd lean near And whisper: 'Edward Wager sees extraordinary things; He is to be believed.' And it would come to pass He took the whisperings for true." "I thought, too, about the men--the haversacks Of our fellow countrymen in Washington. That shop where the butcher cut his jaw Came close to home; but somehow I knew They'd make it through. I took a knife from my knife belt, A good heart-painting knife, the strongest muscle-maker In the world, and went into that shop to look. That man in leather was one of our comrades. He swung and missed me by a handbasket full. I knew at once there were limits to our giving And ours to taking. But that other, who--" "He's the man," I told Willy. "He's the man. As sure as I live he cut that jaw of his <|endoftext|> Where the grief thou canst feel Thy dark eyes lonely in the blue. <|endoftext|> "The Sad McCoy", by Charles Sweeney [Activities, Jobs & Working] He gave the man the slip And took to drink. It fitted his turn-up coat, His cassock and his breeches And made him what I suppose A "Sad McCoy." His face was grey and chubby, His hands rough and callus, His belly like a bit. Not bad for one whose trade Was so saddening much. He had a cough that rattled And rattled through his throat Like a piece of clock-wheel That feels the tail on end When someone passes. His eyes were sunk in slits, And a quick elbow poked out of his chest Like a stranded crook. I suppose he liked it Because it meant He could not go despairing, As he was wont to do. That was his bit—to hide in a corner And pout and shake his chaplet Because he was afraid Of everything that was new. He loved the old days, When he could swagger and bellow In a sharp reed-bed. Then he could dance like a bear And still be a cork. He could mackery all day long And fight like a king And travel on a mony a pint And not have to ballyy at home. It suits him now, but he Was a good patient man. I never had a drink but he Spilled beer all day long. He gave me a great coup Once at a niggard nook Of the docks. I'm not fond of gin, But he always paid in gin To wash the dishes. He liked us to think He was drunk so we Could dirty him free. He treated us ill If we managed to swill Too much gin. He said gin was poison, And that's how He passed his days. The end came when he Went home with half a juke. We fed him till he got prosy And then we went our ways. We used to wonder how He ever managed to survive All the damned whiskey. I think I never liked A man more than he Was a man. He could wallow and smirk And make a woman wince With his lordly way. He was mine ons in fairness. He had his way with any she-male That entered that night. He seemed to me a master Of a thing so male That it seemed a shame to chide. In his hands the use of speech Seemed a wing to clutch at. I am glad he's gone. I've drank myself to reek. I would not have him near me. For my bosom has long since Given up all hope. <|endoftext|> "Dry Well", by Charles Simic [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships] Now she says she loves me no more And imagines herself another man. I hope that is not true For I want to tell her how I feel. It was foolish of me to think That she could vanish from me so. But the truth is she does not love me. I did not realize that was she Until I felt it and it was her. Now it is all terrible and small And I look at her and see her, not her. But she is not her either For I would not be here if she had not Bent her pure head against me And sent me fleeing like a bird to fall. I hope that is not true For I want to tell her how I feel. <|endoftext|> "Ordinary Time: I", by James Galvin [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Sometimes I think about it and want To shout from the rooftops what I really think. I always pay the people who make things happen a fine seigniorage to place on the hand That earns the right to read my name in the newspapers. Ordinary Time is nothing but paying In blood a debt that you must never pay. <|endoftext|> "Ordinary Time: II", by James Galvin [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity] It's always the same with age In that some occasion will occur That will mark you for all people aware In that you may be named The Glorified Glutton. For the people who know you best that is. It would be nice if the names stuck. My left thumb's been dead for four years And it's been a curse to me, my friend. Last night at dinner I used my left hand And I couldn't stop myself from firing A hunting rifle off the shelf. You can't say I've let it go. I'm a right hander and I've always Deserted my safe position in disgust. It all came out as I'd hoped it would When I reached the sucker with the opener And I tried to clean it but you know The jam's the thing that really kills. <|endoftext|> "Ordinary Time: I", by James Galvin [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] The most common mistake Made by first time poets is Failing to have an object The work to do before communing With the honors bench. The early Bob Elliott Made his by sitting in his tree And picking brains all afternoon That's how neophyte dare Dare to try to be a poet. Elliott was not called "a boring writer" Because his poems were popular And had no subject matter He was named "Best Poet of the Decade" by The New York Herald Tribune And a great deal of money Litigants have won From judgments at trial By asserting that poems Though humorous may possess An evil bite. In the minds of litigants The poems do not die They're still delighted or annoyed A year later in the court And litigants always think The happiness of the poems Outweighs the pleasure of the jokes. <|endoftext|> "Ordinary Time: II", by James Galvin [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women] We stood under the long Lantern light of the hotel Hotel lobby. His head was down As he placed his coat He'd just returned from a movie On his desk. She stood over his desk She'd just returned from a movie On her chair. Her hair was up In a flat fright Which made her cheek Bright pink. The lantern's beam Had the power To smile or frown Both of us Lost in thought At the thought Of a movie night Of a decade ago. <|endoftext|> "A Diamond Is a Small Town", by John Grisham [Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] And the ring on her thumbnail Is the town's I won't pass Her door to otherwise It's the village's I'll travel But the diamond mine There's no hope That's all that's left Of the town's And even the mine <|endoftext|> "The Doors of the City", by John Grisham [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] After Federigo Immacolata At the crossroads where three roads branch, And through the name of a saint We entered the city We found the gates of the city Mocked by the hound, bound by the worm That chews with its needle-toes And the jaws of its hammer-hands The gates of the city, Mocked by the hound, bound by the worm, That chews with its needle-toes And the jaws of its hammer-hands. The hound, the worm, the place Where the roads diverge, The gates of the city, Mocked by the hound, bound by the worm That chews with its needle-toes And the jaws of its hammer-hands, The hound, the worm, the place Where the roads diverge, The gates of the city, Mocked by the hound, bound by the worm That chews with its needle-toes And the jaws of its hammer-hands. See those tall terraced cornfields Covered with scythes, mowers, drop signs, and picklocks, <|endoftext|> But once a saint he grows; We came, he rose, we parted-- Alas, no more! See, where it doth aspire Toward the eastern cliffs of Greece, Our little tomb seems to be; There in a valley made, We sit and watch the fleets, And the wild shepherd's cries 'Midst the wandering flocks. Thy childish years are fled, And those romantic scenes, So dear and left behind, At thy feet now lie. Yet now in thee they dwell; While o'er thy childhood's urn A new-born legend burns, 'Midst the ruins of our abode, But now transcribed KANNON'S WORDS. Old Lake! whom we may not see With our modern scruples rude, Though we our ships forsake thy shores, Thou wilt not lose thy glory; On thy still surface shall the Song, Which now rises to the surface, In vain rebound. The Sea of the Brightest Profounds, Which Greeks and Romans believed, Not their own gleams, but misty gleams, But those of heavens great and small, From the confines of their mighty sphere, Shall not float on thee alone; But thou shalt flow like floods divine, And upon thee lie the breeze. From an unknown region, warm and wide, There are not two streets which do greet The eye, in space compressed and small, Of the imperious skies; the swift And invincible zephyr sweeps Each one to Italy or Greece, While from a new Aurora-chim, Aurora, in the east appears. The passers are afraid of one, The inexpugnable and unseen power Of his universal terror; Nor to the eternal visible Are two successive doors exposed: Whene'er before he passes, his brow Bursts into dazzling aurorae, Which, whiter than a Caucasian's snow, Or the fairest drop of Castalia, Fade into lazuli, amber, glass. Where the past is, there is the future too; Thus, in the serpent, also, sleeps The fiery, terrible and terrible-winged guard. In the archives of the future world, Which the future shall unroll, we behold, White, gliding, countless, sable serpents, Scaly and barbaric, which envelop All that lies within the horologe; And among these, like bedlam, and like marigolds, Amidst the archives of the future world, We behold, and trembling, beg to know, What monster, what, with alacity, Rude, wonderful, and terrible, is locked Within the horologe? Through a realm which the spirit of Egypt viewed, Her magian eye surveyed a single scene: On one side vast trunks of prostrate trees And on one side the tranquil Blue,-- A level, wilderness, diffuse, Where nature, rude, dilated, spacious, Teemed everywhere with the infinite Nature, infinite nothingness, Nature, child of nothingness. Whene'er to thee, O great Plato! Most have been, most are too: In thy mind's eye The world, that did contain A square planet, did contain But a sphere. We, too, have passed, In our wonder and desire; How, when and where and how, Less boys than boys we grew,-- Grew, Plato saw not, In his mind's eye, How, when and where and how. Across the labyrinth of years, A little while we stand, And gaze in a merry mood On those absent and gone From our recent and farewell Shuttle-cities. With our fragments of song, We found, in a quiet hour, A hospitable home; Home, that hath no pleasant sound Like the shriller harping string To welcome home the sun, Once more, O ye Wanderers! And once more, O ye Children! Ye are among us: Once more, O ye Golden Times And Silver Gardens, Ye are not alien, but the fameless Young, gay, and bold, Then 'twas our lot to be Singing before death took us, Smiling as we met the good Art thou, too, in art's glad morn Clad in the light of such morn? Nay, life is not weary; youth Loves danger; above, the gods The sword has cut so coldly, The death-bell just a-waiteth For one who dares the wintry way; And yet thy footstep makes no sound On pavement, marble floor, Nor as we leave the house at night Thou even hast a care. Yet, 'tis thy foolish heart, that feareth All sadness, dark as night, That goeth with thee to the deep, And one celestial warmth wraps round Thy heart as we go to rest; And there it was against thy will, And thus 'twas thou shouldst have been Made to live so long, so bravely, Seeking what thou shouldst not find; That to thy heart the very gods Should come and break it with glad mirth. Of this thou art not afraid, Because we too have our joys, And nothing of sorrow; So feel I, while I can see it, Thou shalt have when thou come again. And yet, what matters it,-- Had all been joy and none were pain,-- Should I have loved thee still and lost, Or lost and love in due time? Hadst thou been always young, or Always old as I,-- Oh, then thou hadst not been born. What pleasure was there then, To be alive and fling the sand From off our feet, in those old days; To rub the amethyst-stone And dip the hoop of Luna In the blood of some fallen bride For me? or to watch the swallow Wander from glen to wood? Think what joy thou shouldst have had To watch the rings o' th' sun Rise from out the spring's cool spring Into the blue above her; Orh, to stand with thee By those old forests And look on thee and dream Of strange adventures, Of battles that were fought there Long since and all that's endured. How beautiful 'twas to hear The first long morning click Of merry heels up the dusty street, As gayly as the napkin Bowed o'er the stand and tray And registration of the tea Had chased the mist from our shy; Or hear the laugh that greeted The child who cried, "Here's whippoorwis!" And then follow'd at her word The light and careless sound Of merry twic'd feet And prattle of tongues; And, merry again to see The sun sinking down behind the hills, And then to wake to that same song And early morning click Again; and all day long To see the firelight gleam On little heads awry And little smiles unfelt before, Little tears unsung That followed after as we went Joying and laughing and playing, And little larks descending low O'er the cliffs of Sleep. In those old days, the sun was so bright That we, unable to seek repose Before the day-light, would watch it rise In little rooms, behind window walls Thick-plastered with a golden batter Of painted glass and paintings, where, 'Mid glories of bright green and gold and blue, The early sunbeams on our faces Filled dancing shadows of May. How sweet and triumphal rose The colors as the day went by! With the first honors of the season We served trays of confectionery, Nuts and dried plums, and bitter fruit, Till the baby, tired and happy, Cried, "Don't give it all to me; I want some too, but mostly these!" And, oh, those sweetly scented hours, So suddenly they flashed away, As we, in helpless embarrassment, Fretted about the house, confused And unsatisfied; So we would give the gifts we knew We should have found at home, and seek Repose in the arms of home, But, ah! they are not here, and sun Is not here, and day has gone. And, ah, the disappointments came! Some trinkets brought one day, some not; While, cut in woodcuts, like Phidian children, Our gifts were set beside. The silver bowl that used to float Freely within our hands, had dropt Into the husband's arms,--the master Of our life's domain. No joy could forgive, no tears could whiten, No praise could justify the loss! We sighed, and so we went to bed. In dreams the evening gleams between us, We stand, that night, apart,-- <|endoftext|> Here, here! Nay, kiss me, how I love To hear the young while yet they're here. Here, here, O Briseïs! Though Heaven must go, One bliss unspeakable remaineth; Cling with me, on this first sweet hour, And while these happy lips are warm Shall no sorrows, or regrets, or fears, Lease the soul. Be happy still, "Mielle! my dove! My life hath been Content amidst a faithful heart, And love, that hath my desires obeyed. Ah! who shall say that such delights, As Thou hast lent the heart, can ne'er depart? When living in the world's warm heat, Which turns to cold so soon as frosty snows; Thou, amid the flow'rs, and the blest canopy, Boil'st thy own thistle, and borrow'st Star, To keep thy faith, and checkest foul disdain. How bright and beautiful on thee alone Pours the smooth Sun, and his beauteous prize; Whilst every simple heart that wishes well, Looks like an Arch, or like a bleeding letter, And strives, and strays, and justeneth out its law!" IÈ by gorge and river lièd s'enayèd, Whare èt fête Halte, went sorties awâd, Fêted i' the morn, and gunpowder ran; My cousin, Abel, had made sallies nam'd Kassam, and wasna to be beat. Then Forsman 'mid the crowd came singling in, "Will Shakespeare 's the greatest dunce alive?" He and his sonneteers thus made sport, With yon dumb Jew, on séance night and day. His stories, laughed through with a loud laugh, Saw me a target at which they threw: I had done't, but sugar'd their pill; When low, with sweet looking-glasses on, They sallied past, and left him free. Eunice, Eunice, come and gaze afar, On lands thèse we at destinies trust. For what such worlds can do, such spheres can show, See lands that shine, and realms that burn! For, come what will, our love must go with them, And all that Doon e'er brings back again. For him, the search is past and yit undone, The life 's i' the woollen mills now laid, And weel will be my luve, though it was love in hell To mix eer sême ilk annykind han' with 't. Si nomàs Corinna. --vàdhetàis, thès you shuft' et thèse toil, Spurrèst loozèd-cochèd liúmlus with your needle, And thèse words nothin' else but 's a', lais. Dinéidh-beeisth, or thèse shuft, Veiled sham and blurred donnàd sunàd, Or lais gone blind i' the shawèd lane When nicht spirt lost its lichtèd bloom, And still you sharpen out a needle, And thèse words nothin' else but 's a', lais. Hé cantas can play tirannas, Hé cantas catch your young cântëd pig, Hé cantas sling hurling stones at poachers, Et thèse words nothin' else but 's a', lais. Quandâ Viscontis, ce n'est donné ille! And ailàs Jërûn has sent for him. As a bridegroom, Viscontiàn is splendid; He can ride, he can fight, he is rich, And s'flash a crocodile with yon lightning. Quandà Viscontis, ce n'est donné ille! Ah! Blé, Blé, how merry are we! Blé, Blé, the child is snug at home, Blé, Blé, with his friends all day; None but our neighbors see our fun, But when the night does in Candyman Come laughin', hangin', touchin', kissin', Come gatherin' at the dance, Ah, Blé, Blé, how merry are we! Ah! Trebbiadas so fêted, Shout round the city as the dusky night That loud Bamabophylla wails. Ah! Trebbiadas moulting to sleep, Ombràd mâles a-go-by, And, Trebbiadas so lonely, Ah, trebled in the lonesome grave! Ah! Trebbiadas, so sad, Ah! Trebbiadas, all worn out, Et s'earts the mighty Bassarid! Bunyan: 'And thus a long discussion followed, Whene'er they came to speak again: 'Qui alter agere in an other et Futuram fecit, in corpus lawis Coglibet, et multa retrospectava Teste affiri, tam desiderio Confirmâ, credêm regiâ, Hinc natam negat, omnibus ut Jus nisi construïtis finis. Percussi bona Terrae germine quam Jam quid possit bella libera? What'ulus ye do? We answer: Alas! Omnia bella, Deus qui jacere creavit. How freely does your Terrae yield Cornem inter conveniâ, et broadâ, Possit Marce Nobili proelia Scende legibus, profugum Laevius, et aurea jocus. Gnomes of Terrae; at one time the Sky Was warmed by your Space-Models' smile, Who let the hill-glasses be Just where men-boys didn't fathom! For they, with the help of a lie Have tamed the Mountain, black and smooth; And boundless riches have they won Other men had hazel prizes And blue-beards cray-ards for their divinity. But they chose--for a narrow man-hued Nest of Gloom wherein to keep their gaunt Guts and nervousnesses at bay-- To lair in--'tis a pitiful thing!-- A magical house of ebon, Laid in the ghastly edges o' the hill. Nor may they see a morning smile When the far creak of the Sleep-walker's feet Falls like the gnaw of the hundred-handed wolf. The Midas ear is the hearth of doom, When the Face-singer plies its magic lute, And the Dragon-fly binds on its gaudy wings Where the lips of Mortality smile Its last and saddest of charms, the Fly. Let us remove beneath the flamin' clouds Where the drop-dead fountains freeze with sleet, Where never a morn comes along to paint (And where I could never flourish on earth) My steeds in the dark with a saucy flame. Ah! Let us seek where, steeped in the bonds of gloom, On the slopes of Fafnir they gnaw the seeds Of your pining fire-worms, and grow stiff with toil! Still must they loop their stink-curtained cribs, And their swill-guzzling kennels clack at sun-up! But we, we'll away to the upper trail! To the sea-trail where the winds have hissed (Or else the Fimbry's up-beat pawls my swine) With mighty raving of their tails like cats, And the seal-hunter, lugubrious Bramauss, With scolding and oinking and his ominous neigh, Gives them fair warning to go to hell! But we--why, we'll to the inner robber's lair! In the cave where the iron-color'd stream Strikes the black rocks with foam and splash-- Where the wind brings the scents of brimstone nights, And the devil runs a peninsula of fire, Lifting his prickly heel where the Tritons set Their fan on the ceiling--and the fiend flies a ken Of these his slaves and spooks, like a gull that cocks His wing round the Cape of Fimbry and passes out To the far south from yon combers where the Portuguese sail. All aboard! A couple of miles we are to sail To the cliff-top'd headland o'er the moor; Where the smoky raspings of the fiery night Are brailed up by the horns of the holy linn, <|endoftext|> The day succeeds, as chaste and clear; Another's trouble, if of ill, In war or negotiation passes With many matters, which like waves are found. "I speak of him, his pride, his chief renown, To whom those kingdoms with their powers belong; The pleasant lands he fills with gold and burden; He rules, on earth the richest dominion, He's Cato's successor and successor's son: All martial skill he equally exploits, His credit with the senate and the people. "He now by Caius Drusus' arm is slain, Swells with its swelling horror every chime: And his misfortunes portends a swifter fate. Nor to our age, his first, but his last, shall end. The cup of his regal taint shall be drained, Before the spirit, which full and fair shall shine, Shall his unmerited wretchedness complain. "Caius, his charioteer, is wafted down, Who, in a ship so swift no pilot can." So on one foot the second meets the tide, And treads it trembling to the shore again; Then thus; "To hear with taunting scorn ascribed The words of fame that from my tongue I raise, Perchance it may place thee in a clearer scale, Which was unattended, nor in part told. "In him, as in his son, a numbing dread Lives, and with glad ardour glows within my heart. For always haply from the battle's clash A thought, which strikes at heart, flies forth in flight: If by the nose, or with the feet entwined, A winged bird to flight came from the fold, Or with his breath the reins a trembling steed stirr'd, "That thou, perhaps, hast seen, and proudly seen, But with a mind not perfectly sound; That valour is a virtue not completely proven, And prudence not mature, to which we turn To find a tutor from the warlike train: 'Tis thou thyself, that moves, in doubt to deem Valour more than daring, virtue more than might. "Thy wishful eye, I know not whence nurtured, Gives it to thee, and to thy cheerful heart, That thou mayest most evidently discern What's right and what is wrong in things explained, If right or wrong a manest manifest: But it would be far better, that, confessed, This truth should go by, than that thy will Should contradict itself by learning beguiled. "As he, who bears in mind what he forbids, When he intends to do what shall dan thou yea, Will usually from the thought avoid the taint, Nor, because he intends to sin, avoid Tendency and remedy; so will it be, Heaven not burdened, and the world not burdened, By this the better reason, that the best And highest are destined to accompany best The worst and lowest in their state of bliss. "Thus to avoid the occasion which we find When free choice does not avail us, but the deed Is due to fate, by fate I do not grudge The making of thy father and of thyself Committed to the case: since nature's scales By fortune even themselves by fortune weigh." He ceased; and while she little spake replies, His lady's eyes were encompassed with tears, And to her child she straightened up, and turned With solemn prayer and look to Beatrice. As a young hound comes home to see his mother, Beatrice, who has been a little while With Him that is the cause of all her joy, And owns no other God beside; If his look be loving, kind, and truthful, And, in her visitation, the earnest And open courtesy be hers; She cries, "O pleasing Mrs. Chalmers! thou That this my house and me have served so long With all their trust in thee! and I in this So orderly and industrious kind! So long as I endure this kind of life, Thou know'st my loving-kindness, and that thou Hast held it ever; only, now perchance, I look for more strenuous service than before. "And, if thou ask'st me why I now come here, Tell me, holy spirits! where did I err, So to expect the goodness of a God, Unseen, unknown, and embodied so In every creature? how could I err, Who see him so perchance in all below, In fish, in bird, in herb, in stone and dust, And yet my wayward mind to him incline? "Believe me, Mrs. Chalmers, I did: and I, In an anarchist age and condition, Am now of it: but 't is easy seen and known, That God can help us in a better way Than man: and those rebellious moves me more. I know how like a hammer I must beat Those stones which heaves the mad ocean raise, If it be said I did it with the edge of the edge." With that he produced a ragged piece of white All mottled and irregular: at one end Was a fish's head, at the other an ear: Down the poor fish's spine its last abode, A little curl'd up, not unlike a brain. Beatrice, with eyes forward, pricked her feet On the hearth, and felt the gentle block, Then sideways turned, and with averted eye Look'd at the Father, as he to her turned And pointed to the fish. "Blessed you are!" She exclaim'd, with rapture reigning: and he, Indeed, was more serene himself, then: For, while she spoke, his soul, which previously Had paled at the name of glory, was stirred With modesty less than with admirance. Like a bright saidierne steelking with the tune Of Cherub ranges over, in the machyncy Of his great angelic thoughts, did beat The waters; did exalt the humble things; Did make the worms feel as if they were God, Exceeding everything that is with men. He was of more then mortalibu: powerfullest Of minvers: but as to spirituft he The very things most separable From things immortal, half with woman And half with man, pleased his soule. But she, the wife of Thomas, or Maid Mild, Was not so tuneful: and tho' the sounds, Which at that time came to their especial bliss, Did enter there, unframed, at their sense, Yet she still kept her chintz-pottage shut, Within herself, or out, if it were, Out of the window sate the Chalmers twain; And when the streaming brook gave out its sound, They sat them down to watch it on the grass, Which look'd as if it had been chang'd with snow. The summer sat, if you would therose it: For he was a laureled wight, to be An honour'd brother in the blessing Of a mother's blood, the village standard. His wife a fair and gentle cottage, stedfast To all, and chaste as younger sisters were. There they were happy. But the frame, The sinewy frame, of one was sick: The caddie's stiff and hissing cravat Was a fast unbroken blood. For the great heart was sick, the husband's sons Of the young and manful Jane: the youth Had been at sports, and sleep had hindered The old man's wisdom. But for her, The wife was always of his mind: a bride No longer then that Jane, and sick with pains, Could easily move; and had from riding Gain'd by the woman's liberty a hope That eventually grew on her head To be his bride. But now, On a day, when he himself went riding Tho' much in love with the poor burdened hound, His poor hound, sick and mutilated! Nay, She had resolved to look to him alone; For a mist hung on the forest as with clouds: But he for his own bride should never ride. Yet the same mist hung on the village: no Voluntary association there rose. And there was not, at that season of the year, For there was no sign of it: but the shock, The sudden voice, in the starlight was overbold: But the two men were such as scarce could have sparked At once in doubt and in wonder at it. When the voice had ended, the star's bright crown Fell sudden from the silvering tree and fell, And the star beam fell all confusion on the air. And it fell on the face of the husband's son, With a plash of roseate water on his horse's mane, Who turn'd his head to look, but it pass'd him by, <|endoftext|> What piteous rays! what failing grace! "Virgins, my brethren! if I stay "Within the limited bounds of your rank, "Methinks those eyes no longer shine "With living lustre, as they shone, hark! "Gleam'st thou my sister's azure eyes, "In their clear radiance, in that dream "I welcome them, when I see not thee! "But now thy seraph eyes, so rare, "In heaven shine, and in earth to me "Illuminate! Nay, dearest! Shall I go hence? "I will not leave thee here, for thee, "That heaven so fair, yet earthly seem'st thou, "Heaven so fair, God so good, thou have'st no part, "In that fairer heaven my soul shall fill, "Where still thou wilt have a home, and I "Thy consort yet!" Thus she concludes, and goes. As from the wood the serpent heezes, So from mine eyes the glorious light was quenched, All I did do but look--pain inflam'd, All I could do but stand and cry. When from the new-show'd tree the sun beholds, He forthwith picks his works in joyous chorus: "Now, now, my brood, the vulnere sable "Take, fill thy dingy bed with gold, "Fond birds, propagate, and boom again!" The sweet companions of the autumn, The very livery of the golden month, That teem'd with money in the past season, Keepeth on, that month abhorr'd in feigned joys, Their glaring eyes eager for the quenchless flame That sit'st pre-emptive upon their chops. Unhappy May! without a reason Stays the long holiday unbelieved in; Unhappy reader! while thus I sit By thee tormentor, still awake, yet fast From the same work my hands in thy behalf Do falsely take away. Nature still Is kind, and will eventually show What I already see. Happy they To whom the night doth bring sensation Of all changes, day as content To mark their great reproachably blind Religion doth assign. By morning's rays Full price is paid. But how shimmeth he, From whom my theft doth issue forth, Whom I as for a wild-fire to a spark Export, and let burn without control, Because I prize so low the daylight? Wast thou then thereby a created thing, Subject for ever to my fires of desire? Didst thou not drive the sacrifice? did'st thou not Uphold and support me? O matter most Of solace! of my sufferings! of my peace! Thou through my lips dost enter by one mortal part; Of all death's dark profit thus abroad; the rest Is from the eternal fire. Thou the chain For one poor link do'st e'er let fall. By all These it hath been, is, and is to be the Lord's; But, of the time allotted, being given to me, For thee I time allow'd of thee have I spent. What hast thou to do with me, here thy part Shalt be to rock me, hardening from my glances And stifling from my kisses, till my frames Do yield to my desire. And what from thee Shall I regard as past, since thou hast more Of human style of enjoyment, for me Shalt live, as doth the glass the jewel took Out of its jeweler. Here, mistress, note How these last words of mine do suit the case." This whoso hears, o'er more territory Than sitters one, let him make his report Now who may of the happy isle descend! For we from God do pass, as he from land Descending, since the hiarchialler sea To shore makes nexus; and it is only here, Thither, we will a while direct our steps. Much we judge of his success who seeks This isle, for ill it is we know of aught. Now must that other who betray'd his trust, Fall, if 'tis possible, even as he fell Friends unto friends. And must we, that have our sea Safely anchor in this isle, for want of heed Freely now forget the homeless sheltering storm We enjoy 'mid friends, and at large now run free Among the friends we love? There's a fear we hence Could have publisht were never fear: for 'tis shame To loose such a field of sky and ocean. To whom thus Eve. That Abelard might not see How little he surpassed in wit and love His harsher forerunner, who so multiplied False sparks, and like a drunken lion snar'd And strook and pawed omnibuses through that troop, Gath'ring them; which did their wont and recreation In play give out: so should he not be scat! But welcome any of his proffers, whose Were not one grain of sense in them. True tears For his complainings since from thence I've flown For lack of due address to my prevaricating husband. He not a chuck less thy slave then I, Though I with sword and fire be tried; And the wretch also, who dead I left At his great master's feet, I well could weep. For thou art covetous and hard-hearted, Being enamour'd of a lord, Who neither days nor nights watch'd, Nor kept his house, Nor gave him belt and cloak often; But dabbled often in the common brook, And in the dews of night lay down; Wilt thou scape such gall? Nay, thou shalt not so, I hope; Thou wilt have spurs about thy heels, So 'tis have anything to hope. And thou shalt find thyself in fine Far other token of a slave, Than in the closet of thy master; A token, whereof pretty, There being nothing else to see, Finds thee master's, and his beloved. We, I know, have had, and may have yet, Many a jest upon our behoof; Many a jest upon our hearts, Whose like again is never known. Our playmates when we were boys Our playmates still have remained; And, this year, sixteen years agone, Though now, of course, grown old. We still have clown and red-nosed man, And black and white devils too; And they all do their best to amuse, Most do it well; And, every year, from all sides sent, Comes most of learned fools, Who take their fellows' ways, And mingle with the blockheads there, Not knowing one whit more than they Howalsont man is; And, on them, grows a garden, where Stout plants, no fruit to suit, DLC all; and, in the girdling ground, You see, for many a long year, Your mist and dross and dross again. Still, though you shake your heads and cackle, Nor find in any book I know, But words to suit the dross you dig, Who can advance a reason why? Your reason's not good enough, that's plain; But yet 'tis kind, to laugh at fools, And pray them, if they please, To throw away the fools' store, And be a proper person still; For you were never born to be A proper person when you could. We talk'd of dress; you said, 'with a laugh,' That with a bow to braid your hair You might with a once-frequented brow Boldly walk; Or to a world of pair-dancing men, Your white to show, And all your innocence unafraid, As of your own country made. 'Possess,' you said, 'the Bull in chariot; And that which is most illustrious, And highest, is knighthood;' Not fit for you, you said, To grace any court, of any state.' 'Who says that I am any?' You said. I did not answer; But I did stay my steps; And from that hour possess'd My purpose steadfast. I may not blame you much, for you Were Heaven's sharp anniversaries; And all the folly you by-past Were quite my fault alone: For now I see, with large delight, How all my ways were blest (And also how you blunder'd), And how your passion made My passion more sublime; And how your bold fancy, Enraptured, leaden-blooded, went Across the eight-day wonder With quite an Eastern air. And how you kept the city With all its legions there, Still on its march; And to what path your thoughts kept, <|endoftext|> While both are rowing on, Our hearts from mate to mate, They vow they'll do the road, On that promised day. But never a ship they see, And never a crew they land, And their hearts grow tired, As they listlessly lie About their lot. But day by day they ne'er forget Their promise will be kept, For time will never e'er be found To break their word. And on that moonlit night, As slowly they to land Their feet are on the peg, Their hearts may well be sore, As they listlessly lie About their lot. On'y the keenest eye may guess The cause of that disappointed eye, And each old hand to new may shock; But 'tis a softer thing to find A heart that's still unbroken still, As years roll o'er that wounded young head, And dim each eye that looks away. "A deal of chaff we must cut," The Elder said, "before The wheat of truth we hope to gather, To the sheaf we still must bring The floral harvest, Summer's Grace. We've some rough days before us, We've some rough days before us; And if God's willing, and His will Blows like a trumpet blast, before The Summer ends, we may see Our banner hanging over every field. "Yet if to-day our lot's all a shell Of disappointment and dismay, How bright will bloom the coming days, And how like flowers of Easter-season The men of our next march will be." And, trusting that the God of Heaven Has worked his magic while he pondered, He gently took his boy's little hand, And stroked his curly head, and soothed his pain. Of how the sowers were stood apart Whom at the first meeting Soame met, And of the deed the knight undertook To keep the faith he'd pledged so long, We've little to tell save that he Went out with blade in hand, and there Brought home with him maid Marian. To tell the rest might time best give, Or God, that would their story hear, Would open up the doors of Heaven To let us tell the whole astounding tale In full in some exalting strain, That might so stir the nation's heart and brain That all its hemispheres would bandy words about the same. So told, we leave him there, with his hope and fear That little minds will vex and hate and love, And with that hate and love kindle so, Wake envy, wrath, and sacrilege; And so with kindled fury at an end, Return to tell the story of the year, With all that merry, merry, merry mood; That men might see in one, the face of two, And every quail in one might see the sun, On the gate we flung the Queen's greeting, And the blind cow dial, with its warning Betrayed its monition aye too true; For though the silver balls were all a-bow, And bore their num'rous message away, It mattered little, though the queen, More cheerily pronouncing its hint, Had sped her voyage as much as we Might reckon in a sprightly week. But, my good dames, if pity move you, Or tender your throats, or purple veins, Or ever a year's second childhood taught you The worth of steadfastness in noble things, Her message now, like grace, at least see you through, And close with benediction Dame ZELICA'S mouth. A dame appears with more than mortal charms (Or so it seems that I, a weakling youth, In a good poet's pages should appear), And the young poet keeps a heart which shrinks, Confused, at every movement of the charming creature; And the blaze that dazzles now is felt By his fancy and the beauteous sight to be Than the dazzling blaze of the day or noon's dazzling glare. 'Twas the mother came, and a moment more Was the stranger, all confounded and appalled, For a look more of love than of knowledge was smote On his boy's beaming eyes, and a lip more pale Than the marble of a saint's acquiescing lip, And a glance more of love than of hope was conveyed To his spirit by the conquering glance of hers. O dearest maiden of the valley, How shall I thy lovely beauty sing, Where the elm-trees with nightly shade are clad, And the winds are sighing, 'Meet the new Lover!' While the stars of heaven are looking on? O who would not be lonely and pining, When the wind-worn limbs are idle and the moon-crests are withering? 'Twere a shame,' the maiden said, 'to be blunt And in your most celestial beauty share One touch of earth's unbecoming chill; For I've a heart that is moving and newly awoke, With feeling and with longing kindled and awake, And from that undefiled chalice I'm using There mists and darknesses of sin my spirit quaffing.' 'Ay, true,' said the mother, 'O ye hills, Are ye sad? Is the sunshine set; Mother, I will go down and pray In yon lonely hamlet by the way, Mother, for my heart is sad and afraid Of the evil that is left us now, And the shadows of death on our bright futures lie. 'I have gone out with the young gallants And I have returned with one who died; My heart is pierced and broken and shattered, And it will burst, alas, when it comes to this, For I have wronged love that is fatherless, And in the blameless grave I will lie. 'Young gallants, young women killed with love, Young gallants, alas! ye are not past, Ye are a young race of young women slain, And when they come they will not forget, They will sit and they will sit and wail And weep and sigh and think of earth and heaven, And through a worn and weary day lament. 'O mother dear, if thou wert but child again, I would tell thee of my direst sorrow, And would tell thee of the days that are, Of the hated years and the greedy looks, And the weary, weary hours of the day; Of the loveliness that is lost and the hate That is wrecking my soul and my peace, And my heart is weary and weak and sore From the thirst of the love that is murder and deceit. 'If thou wert but child again, if thou knew'st how dear Thy baby was unto my soul, How I yearned to clasp it to my breast, How my heart was languishing to hear it call, And when God spoke with a harshness I heard A harshness that was a woman's - then, then, If thou wert but child again, if thou knew'st how sweet The soft earth feels underfoot, how soft The flood that rolls and the dawn that is died, How my soul's eyes were weary of mountains, of storms, How I longed to be a tree or a flower, I would pluck my child up and I would hold it, And o'er the meadows, the dales, the hills, the sea, I would hold it to thy heart's warm and sleepy eye, For the babe is weary, and the sun is hot, And I am old and my fingers are a weariness And my feet are heavy and my body is weary, And my spirit is weary, and I wish it were day. 'The purple clematis lean closer, In the hollows where the grass is rough, And the wild berry, the madrone and the jimson Have crept in the hollows and made a home. 'The tall larkspur lifts its head, too, And the woodbine runs over my feet, And the tall fox-glove flowers bellers and grows. But thou, when the last hopes of my life were gone, When the last tear from my eyes had dript and fell, How didst thou bear me, the weary one, The weary babe that was born and born and died? And I think that thy heart was as thine own, When, with a smile, thou saw'st me passing by, But the smile has faded and the love gone by. 'The day-star glitters yonder, methinks, Beside the new-ploughed field; There's glory in his blackness, and he lies High in the blue, while hither and thence The murmur of his beam is heard. And light with light goes to and fro, And there's the meadow full of clematis, There's the herbage of the airy kind, And there's the golden morning grass. And the crows, they row and sing In the dotted cloaks of their countrymen <|endoftext|> 'Boeck! ole man, b'long the way, Howly! lets' turn this thing over. Th' old man starts, ez I starts, Puts it in tight, ez I broke it, Puts his cheek out with a grin, Flings 'is hat across th' street, Then he drops it, like it was wet, Then he flings it. Then he drops it-- "Don't be foolish, chile, gin y' don't turn it, Don't be foolish, I says! Ain't the good? I say, don't be silly. Ye know 'e, the old, old, old man, His one year ole. He can't work, Warn't got no skill at all; And when thar's a chance o' needin' him, They'd fain find that thar they'd on't. Sez 'e: "I'll serve. If I hain't scared y' Wy face a fall, I will. "I'll be a getter, that ole pigeon. Fetch yer self. Wonder if I'm paid, Wonder it was now, when I'm in line? Jest like the things I'd get a-landin', Wy I'd tinker if I could, a-sailing, But won't go the way ole folks do. "God bless yer soul," sez 'e; "my word. I'm tryin' man. There's somethin'--don't stare-- Is bit new come down my bone. Give it a rest, an' don't ask so weird." Frownin' sez 'e: "You have lost yer old sally." Wy ole Benny peeps from under house; "Whar'll I go without my master?" Sez 'e, seein' him weepin' there alone. "Thar ain't nothin' at all gwine--I'm sassy! Go to you!" sez ole Benny. Ez we 'vite children to-day. In store, My wife! The missis gets her smile. We give 'em all the people there. "These are we," the mammas all say. "Remember!" sez our master, "We'll do be'"--but I never see 'em There's spots in the human race Where honesty stands disgraced, Where the public mind is put In the disgraceful infamy Of the merciless demands Of the crafty mendicants From low-lying states like ours. Where the abused conscience marks The wicked which it once beloved, And with hate envious yet venerates, Of that people makes a khanate, Or slave mart, or divine law-courts; Where the merciless and the malicious Vain accusation fly to meet The truth with calumnious suspicion; Where proud scorn of convert looks, Not love to the newcomer's creed, And mere rank in the virgin given For the kindred blood to assert, Branded by the lying foe without A rival to his princely birth, In its own light slain the hoping dream. Where the thirsty apology sleeps On the easy, the smooth, the new, And the ugly result of love Turns with law to the bright wreath of praise; Where the apology weakens, weak, Where with one vile excuse is stifled, Love's passion and the praise of lovers; Where friends, from pure justice, scour each line For least sign of the sacred blunder That they could entice to its source, And the basest face is translated Into the very best that's wore; Where Faith from weary steps is hurled, Where just Acceptance's lips are numb, Where the base superstition turns To the ideal standard of delight; Where the cheeks of Consequence Lose all their graces, all their glow, Where renown is scorned, and its wreath Put for a prize on the lowly brow That a worm might be enchased in; Where fear is stern, and terror-struck Stand the most self-proud, the most free, The godlike is even now a slave. To waste thy talk on things that are, Thou canst but do our home-spuns in; To ply thy idle words of glee In the echo of a mother's groan. Where does thy fancy set her stall, Fair stranger, where her pedestal? Toucher y dame, thou slave shalt talk of love, Thou fool, thou villain, thou ovine foot! Nay thou fool, thou villain, thou vile foot, Hearken, my daughter, to my strain If, on the love-path y dost not tread; 'Tis the mystic experience, known To som good folk, in days of yore, Who loved in silence and in fear Until they levelled love's wrath On the love-image on their door. It was not bright, it was not sweet, It was not all that bright has been, Though she smiled on those who saw her still; Her heart was dying where her head Had dwelt from infancy in rest: Her hesitancy, had it been sin? Could it have been more than childhood's? We know not, but she bowed, and fell On her knee before her aunt's knee, Who looked upon her as she would pray. Ah! there have been men in days of yore, Whose eyes have seen as there have been Those eyes of hers; Who have loved and lost, and loved again, And lost the first love, and found the last. Ay! there have been men in these latter days Whose hearts have seen the light; Who have found new loves, and new sorrows, But have ne'er forgotten the first. Did she know how it was he fared, When her white side was to his heart Its curtains of a shining web? Say, could she have enticed him, Into her arms, while she lay asleep,-- Just waking to life and pain? Could she have restrained The hands that rose and wrested Her soul out of its peace of night? And then, O then, in a bridal dream I was the conquering warrior, And to my arms he came,-- His arms, of royal hue, That gleamed with gold and purple, And called her bride: And all the proud forest heard, "This is the mightiest man-child That ever wore the purple." Then came a moonless night, And moon-flags hung over dews; And all the stars were crowning With their diadems the spangles; And silence filled the air As with the weight of night; And then did tranced great Agnes Move towards her suitor, whispering, "Fear not, Love, There is but one More stout than thou Will take thy hand, and win thy love, And be The hero of thy bed." And he came to her In the candle-light of moonlight, A face of matchless beauty, And in his mien, the bravest Of all that looked upon her. Then, while she dressed him, He placed in her hand A single gold hoop, And strove to clasp her fingers As if to make him shudder, And pass out of her hearing. But, having done this, he stood, O trembling Agnes! whimpering, With twinkling eyes and chin Outstretched and glistening as with tears. "Fear not, Love, There is but one More stout than thou Will take thy hand, and win thy love, And be The hero of thy bed." "It is the night before Christmas," Thus she spoke, "and thus the year is ragging; And each one dons, in preference to the others, A parti-coloured vesture to represent, In their homes, the glories they have won; And mine is small since mine all by NONE But YOU have been its pride and glory. I've worn it thus long, gazing year by year At my sweet ONE-EYED SHEEP; And making bright shines from its colored cotton, With a faith, for each shut eye's darkling, Of the light of the glory of our life. "Behold, I enter at the portal of life My life as an 'arf-silver angler, My boat drifts portly in harbour, And the fishes nibble in the rough sea-sand; But, my love, I may drink of the darkling, For I have made my angling like the night: For this I may feast on the darkness Of the night as it lingers after day; For the night is my angling's park; And my roving soul that roams over sea and land, Is the dark ship I love, the night, For the dawn I follow my boat's wake <|endoftext|> Of those we call beautiful, An iron thing, a labor of wonder, A bath of fire for mind and body, A sinewy instrument That pierces to selfhood's core, A heavy punishment, A spring of water and a pole To subject earth to it, The seedbed of the visionary, The fitted dwelling place For sorrow and dreaming, A hidden door to vision, An iron chest To house the enthroned soul, A stronghold and an iron zone, A door of iron That shuts out wind and rain, The center of the earth That was and may again, For those who know and know not, For all who walk within it, For all who come and those who go. Oh, I was going I was going I heard a step on the street, And then the hall table stirred And all the cups sat upon it; And I could hear the corners stir And the corners of the hall, And in the empty air, I could hear rain stir A century older than I. But I did not hurry through The old toil for naught, The dust of days that were old That I must tread anew Before the work was done. No, I heard the rustles of the fern That grew along the hall, And I knew that the old house elf, The dust of days that were old, Had crept from his closet window And wandered after rain, For he knew the hinges' clack, He knew the hall was full of wind, He knew it was getting night. He crossed the room, and then he knelt On the elbows of my chair, And with the rustle and the rap Of fingers that were cold, He stole away like a thief, And I shut the door. And then he danced upon my floor With feet of snake and sprays Till they turned the whole room into one Of darkness and sunshine, And I shut the door. But he did not matter. And yet They said: 'In his perfect youth He made his idol-worship, He climbed its ladder high To find his gods at last, He fed upon the fluted words That are the hymn of love; He did not care to look behind, Nor check his footstep then.' I remember that I shouldered books And mowed the curbs in the back yard; I used to climb the way here And scythe among the tomato plants When all the day they were green, Or sing a song or dance a reel And never heard the tedious clock; I did not care to look behind Nor watch the scythe and watchman's heads. I was not good at school, for speak, Before I knew the words to pray, I stole from Mrs. Jones's store, To buy a lion-headed doll With lion-print hair and hide, And stand beside my tawny Stow Who looked upon the yard and trees And told his pawful tales to me. I never read the books that I Read the books my mother read, For books were always farther off Than what I saw in those little books That mothers read at night, And I do not think that books are further Now than they were then, nor say I believe the books that I have read Were written by men or women hold The world's great thoughts at bay. I never saw the trees or flew The narrowleaf sky at midnight, I never went where far clouds hovered, Like sleepers dreams upon them, Nor stood beside the furtive mouse That steals from man's home to hers, Nor kissed the yellow buttered toast That I shall have when I shall wake. The dust of road and fields and brier Falls down upon me still, And every time I go to mow I come upon new roads, And every time I eat my breakfast I come upon new fields, And every time I do my duty I come among new men, And every time I give my all I come among my own. I drink the waters from the rock, The mountain spring that's 2 1/2 miles away, And I forget the troubled days of yore, The faces full of care and grief, The lovers with their eyes that caught mine, The mornings when I did not wear cloathing And cried upon the world until day was done. I drink the waters from the rock, It's sweet and cool and cooling to me To drink them where the voices call, And come among new voices and faces, The old things faded and gone over, And the old things distant and cold and dead. He drank the waters from the well, This man who later took his stand With the other side, the man of sin, He drank them so that he became A living fountain, sending up spray, A tumbling fountain, to reinforce The other side's cause, their cause, their cause. The battlefield of the mind is hard to ride, You must be impervious to the lure Of fields that come to assist your cause, You must be sustained by the fields that will Arm and guard you while you wage the fight. You must be armed by solitude and hills, You must be guarded by the great blue sea. When men were tired of ease, Being as the foxes had grown fat, Their friend the Shepherd, with aching breast, Gave them up to the shepherd's floor; Some knelt and prayed and slaked their thirst, With weary legs bowing knee to knee In a cold pool on a starlit night; Some called the bull and considered his price, While one or two peeled potatoes, hot And waiting in a darksome room. Sometimes the lantern-light Made a lonely song That seemed to carry the dawn Across the fields where boars were beating, While the bull fought for scraps of life With a clinging lover at his feet. Now in the evening's eye Are changed the lamps to stars, The room's large tabletop to a throne For a suave old prince With silver hair and old butterfeet, Who is beautiful and terrible. Men go their ways, not always up And not always down, not always right; Some from the sultry street Go out in the night, Some go towards the light, And still there are those who stop, Listening, while a voice says: "Read A page from your book, and tell me now If there is a man about your neigh… The sun they said went up Seven times that morning, But never came back, and the pale Limpid moon like an eye-ball stared At the narrow track of a man who haggled With the hunchback of a mountain at a cross And now behind a gate no one checks him Who is crying out, "Why am I so blind?" From the very first night I went there A man went in his sleep, a man came back Beside me, having heard the music, A small fierce fellow with a lean face In whom the hot hate of many men Lingered like the fire-light on a strength. "Bolshev, what is this?" He said not. He looked and talked and, having seen His shadow under the lamp while he played And never thinking of the mad way out, Went on and my heart sank. "Who is he, that on the threshold Of the house of life Can wag his head and speak his mind?" I asked. He looked at me With the lean black face, With the gleaming eye, With the way he stalked the floor, the way he moved When his cause he had chosen. "You wait," he said. And I nodded and heard him walk The aisles he knew so well, the places he knew, With the weary, shabby-dozed ale of his youth Made bright with bitters of scorn and sadness That he never knew. "Once I was part of it," he said, "Once I had a part. But my heed was lost in the war And the drunkenness that followed. "We were but crew on a great ship sailing To a great land, That was to be some calm enchanted place Where all things were clear and bright and fair. We were to be loaded, to the brim, Of the treasures of that shore; We were to be carried up to the skies In the dreams of the night. "But the drunkenness followed. And my heedless heart with its eager strength Leaped out in madness and forgot The cause of the little ship And where it was going, or whence it came, And where it was ever intent. "We were a part of the drunkenness, We were a part of the voyage, We were to hold like a living soul in motion, Not care or anguish or doubt, But a joyous companionship of a year With a world of strange men. "We were to be glad, to be glad <|endoftext|> Thy pity and thy service, wondrous woman. I tremble lest of the blighted and the dead A child-heal, a may indeed spring, But not from thee, O unquiet earth; For soft in like embers sleep thy breasts, And dead is every sacrifice. Now as we thus go hand in hand through the year, Methinks we who look back on olden hours Shall see thy shadow indistinctly float Across the bending grass; and there shall be A harden'd mystery in each well-known place, And with strangeness the freshness of the day. Not all in dark oblivion shall the days be spent, For light shall follow in the gayest weather; New loves shall not be dead, nor flights be dumb, But all speak sad imperfection as they pass; Yet on thy soul no fear shall creep as Time Shall still pronounce thee poet on the last, Highest, least ranked, least beloved of days. I am a darkness without form or shape, I am a silence that o'er the room Passeth with the shadow, and no sound Hath been with me from that hour when first I bore Milor: now there is an end Of then which was then, and now is not. Of then which was then, and which is now, There is the sense of utter loneliness As I, which all the joys on earth possess And all the sense of utter being bereaves; And I have beheld in dreams the face Of love, which I have never seen in real life. The fire of Love is dim, O! a solitude Of utter white; the night is yet unwarming, And all about me blow the soft winds; And I am cold as ice; and, now the hour, My teeth chatter, my tongue clogs, and I Am heavy with a want which I cannot pare. There was a laughter in her mouth when first I met her face, as she stood in the light Of my hurrying feet across the steps of the pier: And as I pressed closer to the clinch of her dress, I felt my heart leap out at the perfection Of her wide enchantment. O, my dear, how I long To pause and stretch my hands out, and be a boy Once more, all once again, and run with you across The fields of June! Run, my boy, run! For the sun Of morning is a quick one, and Death a deadlier drouth. O the proud sun has lit you over and over! How my poor heart trembles, my poor heart trembles! O the proud sun has set you on his silver fire! O the proud sun has caught you as he set The levin-ring in his sphere of splendour! O the swaying palms lie bare! for the time Of their decay is short, and their autumn rest Short too, and their maturing flower short yet! O the boughs are bare, and the boughs must fall Into the ground! O the last years are raging! Love, O Love, is a goner now! For thy socket is A fasces of fire, and thy mild eyes anon Shall leave their quiet place within a ring. Upon the grey rocks along the sand The white gulls row on row. The grey rocks are at rest, The grey sea lies still. Their clamour is only a ripple. From the green shores the hawthorns blow, The dusk is on the coat of blue And the hour is in the noon. Only a sail upon the wall, High and aglow, And the light of a ship far away. Across the sands the tailing pit-falls flare. From the grey sea-banks the gulls drive off The night-rack of the gull-hawks cold, And the day falls up the East. Only a sandpiper's tune And a short tramunger's call, And a back-beat with a muffled drum, And a sea-warmer's mizzle, And a pause and a spin With a dull, high roll Of the surf and a swagger in it Like a rank pruner on the verge of greatness. Across the sand the sky Lies in one glaze of distance: Only the two stars touch With hands of slight inclination. The sea boils round the rock In the dream of the shoal. But how long a mortal May a heavenly ill entwine, Touching the light of the ship? What of the soul?-- Who counts the soul's sands Counts them not in these strifeings long. Each, long, long, long, Might perform such a strife; Yet a few breaths Are a life: yet one wild Change of the sea Is a world's determination. I've left my native soil, Into another sphere, And in that other sphere Still another race; And I follow other stars Mine own companions here, Searching like holidayers The Earth's remote bowers. Who thus might wander o'er Lawns green with spring, Or enter any star When the summer night Is eaten by birds, No life but is beneath The golden, benignant sun, And nothing of hurt, If he homeward came. As I sit here writing in the dusky light of the old stone courthouse, All morning I have looked at the sunlight and said, "That is the sun God trod this earth in." Taken by itself, the sun God trod this earth in is a sun, but taken in combination with all the skies above, Still remember that glorious body of the sun, in whose day-dreams the spirit hovered when he trod this earth; Still remember, in whose days the very forgetfulness of rest became a dream, I am here, too, with the words of the sea, the flesh of the flesh of the flesh of my neighbour, For upon my windowsill, in the dawn of his soul's eternity, There stood a lovely, hidden, parallel country of sunlight and life which held him rapt in its talos. They have broken the great earth's heart, they have fractured the governments of the world, In the days of their strength they have brought to full maturity the sons of man. They have spun the magic thread of the year, they have wove the fables of the years. They have beaten time, they have broken its heart, they have fractured its governments, And now their strength runs cold, and time's fables are written in water. On the swarded hills of November, a bird, alone in the golden glory of dawn, Sings alone, and is silent. And from a far, mellow orange-burgh through the glory Of the dawn sings the wild quail. Lo! the bird alone in the golden glory of dawn, Sings alone, and is silent. I listen. And I hear the quail in its moan of triumph in the wind, And I hear the laughter of the sunset in the golden grass of the dawn. Eve. Oh, one grows weary,--truly, of deeds and many. I sought the tree of the Poppy-leaf. To-day I pluck,--and the hour is brief. To-day I pluck. The frost-winds toss it from my hands. But this I know, if a man should hear, That the pleasure of a hundred years Might not fill the heart of a man. And the hour is brief. To-day I pluck; The hour is brief. Eve. I can not pluck,--not to-day,-- Yet the golden fruit will fall and the plum will fall, Falls and falls and falls,--and not to-day,-- Falls and falls and falls. But if to-day one plucks,--to-day I pluck; The joy that is counted a joy may not be found. And I know, if a man should hear, That the pleasure of a hundred years Might not fill the heart of a man. And the hour is brief. To-day I pluck; The hour is brief. The thin gold of the sun shines down on the easterly parking lot; The tonken afel green of the meadow is dye On the grass a rainbow; And a woman in a turban is walking,--it is morning; And a man is talking to a man; And a woman in a turban is walking,--it is evening. On the lawn sat in a row the tall trees; On the lawn sat in a row, the tall trees In their hey-day, sixty years ago, Felt the cold grass burn their hands; Sat the mighty oak and the alder That were knights on that morning of history. The clouds were dark, and the wind was light; <|endoftext|> And grey to rood her in silks. But as to man they spent their lore, Yet knew no strife, yet were wrought bold, Raved he of mighty toil to find The secret path to Heaven's end. No reward of recompence had he, For virtue is in view. And he would strive his might to gain, Nor from the contest shun the fight, But rather idle quench the light Of visions that would witness Of beauty and of God. There in the wan and pictur'd air, He cast a longing arm about The neck of frail eternity, And on the countenance cast his eye, And sigh'd and look'd and sigh'd again, And spake about his heart to death, And with his words outrode the flesh. And as he spoke he shaped a face, Smiling, for he could please the sight, As shape will, while in a cloud, And round the features stole a smile, Too fair, too shrewd, and too sweet, To turn the brain to thunder. A Muse, whose shafts never missed their mark, Shot at the word he spake and miss'd; She feign'd an eye of sadness shook (Like streams that slacken in the sun) And cried the spell that smiled behind. But he that heard that voice divine Spoke in like measure, still elate, And said: "Fear not; thy voice is brought Before the sapphire ground on high Whereon the sunbeam shines divine; "The voice that searcheth worlds hath say Whereby worlds are brought into play To their destruction. But for thee The world is light that on the eyes Of pupils may be clearly shown." "If thou be an angel of the sky, How would the students o'er the skies Look when they felt that shining awe Of which thy words are the intimates! How would their hearts be touched to see How our poet seeks to know and speak What hides behind the schoolhouse dome!" The throng were turned into stone and clay, When God called forth their goodly deeds, And he had ceased, when forth he stepped There 'twixt life and death; for he was wrought From the very volcanic rock Beneath whose infuriated throes No volcano buyeth rest. Not he that each by chance had gain'd More laurels at the capitol Than all his rivals yet had won, Not he whose toil was joy or sorrow Had more than leisure now to spend, But he of all the fiery band That sift this earth in its best moment Sang out, and sang in their destruction, God and the mystery of man. He looked upon the land, the sea, The very stones upon the shore Dropp'd their ashes, and a sound Of ocean make swear with a ring, By the ruins it had riven, Beneath the moon, where 'twixt its broad And everlasting arms it sets The children of the desert by; By the ruins that had crumbled Too long in their iinividual envelop To be gather'd up again together, And all the timbers by break of day Upon their decks had beakt their flight To home, unknown, wherever that was; For he was the singer of the dead, And he was well aware of their fear, And, if one far-off day should come With no sign of his coming near, If one day come with the fear of days, He would bear it like a man. It was a fair June morning, Lighting his path with its sweet glee, And as he lookt he heard a voice In the stillness of the flowers, In the voices of the firstlings Of the little birds with yellow plumes, That in mid-May morning do sing Such a merrier, healthier song; And sweetly too his own to hear, Though the night came with its eerier trance, And with moons that were sadder strange; But at the last the day did pass With a voice that was full of sweet bower And bowers of happiness. The skylarks had builded their nest Above the cottage, where they took Their quiet nativity In the branches of the apple-trees; Nest of song, and the single ray Of night-star winking through the bowers, And when the day did pass with moan To close of the morn they went away Led by the cries of doves and thrushes, And, now, to her true home they go In the glory of the sunrise, Lead by the voice of the all-beauteous day. Sue, the only one of her kind, Good-wife of one Mr. Christabel, Living in the country, alone, Full of fancies, that love to rove Over many a yard and so mow Midst the pleasant grass, wherever stir An awkward form with unusual length, New brought from Woolworth's, no doubt, Ashop the youngest, sparkling fair, And clad all in satin that night Some newish thing the kind folks say,-- That 't is the evening mirror trade, New-fangled, like lightning, and that 't is Woolworth's latest policy; New, no doubt, as any can tell,-- But, then, so beauteous rarely come Outside the east or the town. And, now, upon her arm she hung, Well knotted, as is her fashion, And with her full sweet eye did she gaze Upon the fabric's highlights well,-- The frocks of choice, in the 'trick' dye, That makes it please the fancy so To tinge flesh and gild materials so. For she was peevish, and said so,-- Although no doubt there was a reason. But as upon this she was at hand, Already, there, across the road, A sire who had two carts, came lumbering, And followed by his two fair daughters, Rode up to that cottage, in his gown, And knocked, and called to ask his fare. And there she was alone, without fail, Yet like a human gateway there stood, And might have been a gate to the skies, For she was as bright as Lucifer, And burn'd, one said, like kindled fire. But 'twas not her time, I hate to say; Yet, ere she might be gone a step, Down, down, she toddled, like a girl, And 't was like an angel's song to see In her full round face, and in her eyes, So bonny and so bright to look As those that look from the skies, The night-clouds of that celestial place, But, then, she was, as we say, beguiled:-- And by degrees a little maid With heavenly blue eyes and angel hair, As fair, as blue, as those are, or more, And who is fond of repeating, For all that Dandy can do Who hasn't her,--"Whence come you?" But all the same her answer scarce arose From young, eager lips; And, perhaps, he might have op'd his book, And asked a stranger's opinion, Had it not been, one even with his book, Perchance, would have been idle. So, trusting she was not unkind, He think'd no great matter where to seat Her upon his knee; Then kiss'd her,--says he, but we will see. For life is short, and not the time That he who failed in love hath spent. And if he has some passing hours He wastes them not in fears of this, Since, whether she be kind or cruel, He has her very face before him; And, thus, have seen her smile or weep, And know'd her very whereso'er she goes. Then, two, then, singly she had gone; So that there was no difficulty, Besides, he wanted her more after that, For he had stayed too long without her. So he, as best he could, began To lay the sad obligation Upon her nam'd; for it was done With grief and gratitude so matched It need not here be said any more, The man found again a second dear, As clever as she was, and so fair, In short, the whole heaven on fire with light. And what the wedding was, old Thackray Made it with more gaiety than skill; For, while confess'd to be the gen'ral, He sadly knew 'twas none of his making, And tho', to his unbounded joy, She was as true a heart as e'er was seen, And ne'er, in all his hopes of her's, Had look'd or sounded sour, or frown'd ill, At all he spoke of, 'twas all in vain. To tell all what follow'd, 'tis needful <|endoftext|> The light of truth, and beauty of truth, Until my babes, in youth and truth, Shall laugh and pray together at my death. "Now had I time, before the spring came, To hunt the husky monster, pine-sir; And when the child of Spring had grown, And winter's cares had flown away, Our hermitage was reared amid An ancient grove among the hills. "To me the paths of birds and trees Had been a wonder ever, 'Twixt wood and water, rock and snow, And now to me was nature normal. For all the thought and skill of man Nature was her own creative force. "I never learned to imitate The spring-time's beauty on the hills, Or the fall's rapture on the plains, But I learned to drink of rains and rains And I learned to speak in floods of tears, And I could speak in simple terms Of time, of space, of morality, Of hope, of beauty, and of truth, Of life as beautiful, and as true, As all the songs that I had heard And all the words that I had thought. "We had a rough sort of friendship, Yet I loved her for her mind, And she loved me for my heart, For naiveté and old-time purity, Which no prejudice at the time could hurt. "The Spring-time and the Summer-time Had enriched our simple life, And our friendship more and more expanded Until it seemed like fate to marry; For we were happily wed Within a few short months at most. "But when the night came that brought us shame And disfavor, I could not obey; I could not look my bride in eye. I found my way through rocky places Like a lost child, and I found my way Through shed and rick, through swamp and wood, 'But when the king of us all, the oak, Made provision for our marriage-rite, I thought of all the thousands here, Of every scented cleft and glen, And like a poor condemned man, I cried, 'Bring corn and wine!' and then I died. "But when the corn and wine were brought, And all the kine had been condemned, I, the poor condemned man, was eating, I, the oak, the culprit, was eating, The night-mare Chiron, eating, eating, Heard the cry of him that died, "'Eat, O you miserable one,' Cried the clown, the clownish clown, 'Eat and be united for eternity.' But I was so hungry I would have died, And that's how I died too, with my bride, And my dear child that I was rearing, On our own mountains, in our own isle." "This is a true story, and not an allegory, but true. And since it is so, why should we rather tell it While there is yet one hour of it left to us?" As the blind man's tale the deaf man's cushion tells And the old man's tale the young man's cushion tells, And the queen's cushion, sit by me and sere; For through them all the blind man's are singing A song the deaf man's have heard so many a time The queen's cushion, sit by me and sere; For through them all the blind man's are singing A song the deaf man's have heard so many a time. Three lovely sisters fair Enchead the court of Rome, In beaver bodices three Married using Mysteries old; With head-dresses three and rings Of varied secret craft, They filled the Roman Forum For all the luxury of speech; Through many a dull red day To smell of water in the silt And hear of softly flowing streams. While all the Forum passed Their perfumed lives away And all the merchants' talks Among the shady Quesadas Of the Eternal City passed. O! the rose-crowned torturers Of lovers and of priests! O! the laughter and the grimace Of those who watch the spitted men! O! the innocent blood shed For wives of suspected Grecians Or for the lost and slain by seas! Marlowe, so skilled in all the griefs of youth, Who walked with dark faces attired And walked among the tall corn planted by his hand, How often has the memory caught, In shades that are not dark to me, His footsteps, and his mocking laugh, And the words that he, so crafty, said And that the merry laughter rung In the still garden of the Uncontrolled. Come you with solemn taper in your hands, Devoted to the flame of truth, Till the dark house of lust we master; Till the doors of immorality Be open to the stranger; Till, like the magician, we emerge From our sleep and magic spells And the little pleading child shall go And meet the father she wishes to see. In those far-off days the world was young, The land dowered with its first bounty; And flocks and forests bore the birth That brought to Bay and rocky Esquimaux Glen, that soon became a grave; And a few short years of plenty, When the first clans were fairly spotted, And villages were good and strong, Subjugated the peoples of the Highlands To deeds of cruelty and dread. For the young hamlet loathed the eye of loveliness, To which more restless wandered by day than by night; And the chiefs loved, above all earthly powers, A warrior with a trophy on his brow; And shepherds held that Friendship was best When two hearts bent each to each in war. So the Highlands were not free as thou wast free, Thou loving maid of single heart, When thou hadst left the haunted water To go with Ralph in leaving Sophie; And wilt thou dare (O shame of women!) To dare be second or be first, Now thy name is on the book of fame? Daring was never in Emily's nature; The lone deer knows neither care nor doubt, And the plain boar will draw the sword before The face of any lovelier creature. And if fate smiled to make her choice It was a warrior's head on gold, A warrior's sword, and no other prize, Because the first who came to draw it. When the Red Lion fought at Geten, (So fame has it) the English came And burned his forest home to dust; They cut the powerhouse out and laid The coal where Millar ran his mine; They made him run his brew-house as a mill To turn the chaff and make the grain; They burned his cabin 'neath the forest boughs And planted thistle andrusch in his place; They drilled for gas and made him sleep On steam-lift whilst he waited there; They broke the treaty and plumbed his well And so they killed the pirate's son And made the commoner of a shire. Yet will the folk of Bay and city teems With men and women like him, who leave Their cabin doors at midnight for the shout Of battle-scars and broadswords blue, And crawl, through snows and serpent-like vine, Up through the deep recesses of the wood, Through the nooks where the stars twinkle blue, Up to the nooks where the yew-tree blows, On noontime and at dawn to lie Where the dew may fall and quaff the rain Where the few small gleams of red light shine, And the great blue vault may by them be Grazed over by the echoes long. I lie on the ragged yellow Rags of the grass as I lie, dear love, And the wind comes stealing by And the feather on the chickadee Twitters out a greeting to the sun As the sun smiles on us from above And Spring is coming! So let us, dear, Swim after the winding stream In the warm, green water-sky And see what the chickadee has to show, As the sun smiles on us from above And Spring is coming! Now you've gone to the lovely Land of Sleep, My mother wrote you; oh, my words are dumb For thinking of her kisses on your hair, Her laughter in her eyes and her kiss Upon your cheek. She was filled with joy To think of you; she kissed my daughter goodbye As we stood by the railing, watching the sail Go roaring through the wealthy gates of England, And her kiss was a kiss of passion, as I've heard Old fishermen affirm. I'm sure that she Was happy to be away from her glass Of domestic peace, where her two hands, I ween, Could reach the warm places of your childhood; And your mother is a much better thing, I hold, Than a place on a frontier customs-seaman's arm. <|endoftext|> Shall make both one to try, In bed, in gardens, on the plains, Shall make both one to try; And either's heart shall know What the other's feeling stirs, And both, each in his oversweetest tongue, Make crooning music low and sweet To two hearts whose harmony, a secret kept, One rhyme and one number tells,-- Tell of summer eves And spring-times old. She went by many a hill and valley, She walked by many a grove and tree, And lost herself in all they azure streams That foamed down the steep giddy vales; And when she saw no nearer shore, She pondered long and deep Upon her home that seemed a thing of dreams. And, remembering how she leaned and lay With soft arms stretched to clasp the sea, With parted lips, where half she smiled, With lifted head, and lifted eyes, Asea, afar, a dream died; Ah, heart, awake to-night Again you go alone! A ship has sailed the horizon's foam, From shores of darkness named, But turned with pain away; Again, again, her missive sings, And no one hears the land: Again, again, in another peri'son, The needful tar is found; And tears, a thousand shall start At the final tally Of sums due to ev'ry grief. A soldier passed her by with careless glance, And none the less she smiled; Her sum of griefs was precisely summed, And she was sum, too, of gentle frame; Her years were almost half mine, And soldier or lover, friend or foe, The record of her name Is, whom I trust to like degree. A great pain between us grew, And one more painful drew Between us to enthrall; But--love of home or mine, What matter if the spires were naught, The world's a ship Full of teeals? I have long said That love is tender as the breezes That make delightful music; Yet deep the harmonies that swell The airs of Paradise. So, friend, you choose to believe, Why, fear no opposition, For friendship, like that of a field Through which the breezes travel, Is hardly broken by words. The moss will run and the ferns will grow, The hawthorn-trees again will frame A bower for the self-same height; The old cat-bird will renew his croak And the old puddock her jangle; And the old ache in the back will stretch And the old pain in the side. The rain began to-day To lay her glorious clay; We thought of the summer's day And waited for the rain. When the heavens are clear And the winds blow mild, I wait and lean by the window here In the autumn of the year. The oxen I have seen On the road to Auber—Shapeway— And heard the murmur of their sound In the mighty spring time. The strength that I have seen Have quickened with gladness my heart, And given it courage to grow And to feel the light with which It has felt the beauty of the earth. For I have heard the wild birds sing In the nights of December; And my eyes from their sullen sobs Have drawn precious tears at the sight Of the first red rustlings of the wheat. I thought it would be so To lean from this window and look out On the windy lakes and clear, bright pools And the loveliness of the plain And the long dim lines of the marshes. But it was not so; for spring came in Hard and sad with its cares and dreams Over the waste of water that rolled Over the silvery flats and pools. 'Twas not for me the curved blades of green Should change into scymetrian buoys, And peninsulas were not created For my distant sight If some reward should be theirs for which I strained my sight; I ask not that they should leave my thoughts Filled with gratitude and pleasure, But that in my effort to see They would gratify my sense. But they have not been unsuccessful; The seas seem smaller, the plain more fair And the soft hills are delightful With the back-scuttle of a bank and the sound Of the far distant moving castles. What though the twinkling islands or hooked strand Have proved as empty of good as I, And the seen seem gone; The heard have been good to me, good enough Though not as good as I wished, We have made matchless progress in the art Of embroidering, and in ten years Almost, I would say, we have grown wise In the new spirit it has thrown Over us, and our old notions fled Like the madness of the Fool of Seville, Who blasted the operas of Pedro And expostulated with his pea-soup. But the old spirit still shows no sign Of losing hold; every thing Is as it has ever been, and though, as The Fool of Seville would have it, The old-fashioned notions may be shaken Like the madness, there is still the Spirit, It is our work, and this our country. She may be young, she may be fair, She may be capricious, she may misunderstand, She may be indolent, she may be dull; She may be inventive, she may be slow, She may be sprawling, she may be obstinate; But whatever she may be, I can tell She will never be deceptive or stupid, For the vapour that is blown from her lips Is quite enough to float the Barque Lucrine. While each altering impression that Play makes Has fresh life, while each new, natural expression Is absolute perfection, and as fit For head, or foot, or eyes, as for the tongue To pronounce it perfect, is affirmed By all her footmen, the actors themselves, She hath within her, on each kindled point A gleam of the INGENIOUS FIRE, To effect a work more rapid and complete. And the means are in her possession To bring forth what she Prepares, when once begun, Without all stale considerations and fears That impede all haste; for her aproach Is as free, as the elk's is to the falls. Therefore she must be admired and beloved, She who hath our Chief on her side, she who Willing as she is free, can help him or yield, If she help or yield, in the weight of sorrow To do what she may desire; Because her presence or absence carries A consciousness of Life's newness, And with the presence is an inward cry, And with the cry a new purpose impels. O, what do I know of the length or the span Of Nature's growth and the Hope of mankind? What I have to determinate is this, That the Plans that inspire the wishing mind Are the same in the short and the long view; That the young Open-ended I ever see That appear to the Peopled World are simple, And when I contemplate Ages long I must contemplate my sweet and my great, As the Ages they are the one design The various Initiates of multitudes Seem to me childish, if they signify The infinite extent of Life and the ends Of Life in their beginnings and their ends. I see now why God at the Dark parting Committed the cares of Creation to human hands, Owlt in amid the vast Abyss I descry Invisible Defenders against the assaults Of the Typhons, the Destroyer Faction beasts And reptile enemies of mankind At the deep Gates of the Gibeon Cocytus. Then, Mankind I protest, with your assistance This Job shall be soon satisfactorily excell'd. Oh, I would that thou wert a youth again Still fond of thy Friends, but not of thine own! I would that thou wert joyous as of yore, Rough of mood, restless when most in tune, Proud that of all thy tastes there was no dish Free from imperfection, but thou art full Of thy own wit, and entreaty and reproof Haveartric'd wisdom with all vertu. Like a young mountaineer Whom the wind meturst in his way, Who hath, amidst the stormy skie, Told his friends, and his companions all That they should not for distress deplore His retreat, because through that tract The road was clearest and most rugged, But rather look forward to a date Whence he will not fail, though he must slack Upon this path, which from error now Hath saved him, and tread the looser path That leads to a vantage, where he sees O'er-ramped Walhalla and Innocence Spread o'er the face of the esteemed World. I would that thou wert as happy as thou art <|endoftext|> Or bade at keyholes laugh, and turn to dark, And on her mouth, for gaping groan of pain, The lips of carved death. Oh, harsh his tongue's tongue, Like voice of tortured thing; and mad his smile With mockery of his wicked, strong Laughter, as the mocker who has learned Tongue from false to true, who will pronounce Voice dead, and message innocent, Seems laughing in the ears of wrong. Palsied with fear and pity, trembling back She rushed amid her kindred, who awaited Her dying groan, whereof the bird's were shrill. She strove to rise, her hand to reach Her father's, not her brother's blade, but failed. Swift there before him swarmed her equal brides, All shapes of women, even the gaunt Ill-fated children of broken men, With sunken eyes, and lamplit lips, and pale Heavy with many a mourning's tear, and all The passion caught from lonely eyes and tired Body of one long effort, when at last The conquering light has built a man anew. And one had hair for wreaths, and one a smile Filled with holy darkness for her skull. One had the struggle of a race, and one Fulfilled the vision of that from early spring, Striving to flee from earth, and failing, cursed The coward hope that she was not blessed To leave her father's house, though faint and pale, And failing; and one was satisfied To be an empty shell; one was mad; One, the dream's last mercy, had no name. And there he met the mad, and stroked his beard With curious eyes, and seemed to stroke their beards, Loved the mute question on their hunched brows, And spoke to them with solemn tones and thin, As to some secret friend he did belong, The last sure friend with whom a man might talk Of faith and shame, of law and gravity, Of justice and right; with whom a man, Haply, might pass and leave his heart at ease. And now he read their faces, and the scrolls On their bare hands showed their own a woman's thought, And all their hearts were torn with thoughts that woke And woke like wind among the trees' laggard boughs; And all their lives were clutched in his, his own, For he was strong, and one had power to make A world of place for him; and one in vain Had crossed his path to bear the Christ away. And one, she was the first; she touched his hand And seemed to understand him, she too had caught His love, was lost, and as he looked at her She seemed to understand it, though her mind Was fixt and clear, and she but breathed to her own In kind and soft request; and now one was dead, And now a hundred, and the long light declined, And still his thoughts kept chasing shadows through it. At last, too weary, he laid down his burden, And knowing well that her small arms were thinly Resting it, knelt at her bedside, and drew His clothes and held them, till the room grew dark, And knowing well that her small hands were faint, And heard her little voice was faint, and took His staff, and placed it in her fingers, and went Out into the night, and knew himself a man, With dying feet on unfamiliar ground, and turned His eyes toward Bethlehem, tired and weary, and said, Not even that brief voice or sign had given him any dread, His mind being thoroughly his own again, and bent To think, and work, and find the stuff for Life, and Love, And so endure; and knowing that his heart, too, was saved. So up the hill he hastened all out of the wind, And to the house found all the women waiting still, And little Mary looking on, and listening close; And in the parlour Philip found the cart's end, And stirred up the horse for the journey, and began To beat the greenwood path up to the Manor House. Up and down he ran, and paused to lean upon The olive branch that held his mind at peace, and thought Toward his old home, and all the things that he had done, And the last fires lighted in the great room, and her; And so grew quiet and sweet, and remembering cleared His mind to reading and his labour, and the sun, And after half an hour, his morning of the last day, Awoke the early dwellers by the steeple, And shouted to them from beneath the flood And upwards to the tall north face of stars, And shouted too to the cross on high, And shouted loudest of all to God. And while he shouted thus, the others Clapped hands, and laughed, and shouted still, And called him three-headed dog and three-tailed cat, For so they thought the whole world bungling; But he shouted most aloud and clear For he had found the Holy Grail; The others only clapped and laughed, and shouted still. And at the stable-door they all came up, And found the stable-master's horse uncrushed, The saddle stript, the bridle eyes burned blue, And halters snapped in the uncut course; And all unheeding stood the shouting crowd Save Philip, and the gipsy named Eoul Genet, Who like an ancient of the Irish creed, Aprized above all things the Grail, And ridden out of the town like a dragon, With flaring leghorns and cloistered gaiters, Stout slam-tool carriers heaped upon him, Or, queerly split in chest and breast, Double steel-breast porters, and a deep-chested Shepherd-hitch at either side that drew The harness hard against the bristling curlers, Which like long cattle all her heels out-threw, Drawn up to gallop for the town. But Philip stood unwonted, silent and alone, And took his satchel and walked slowly back Along the river's channel, and at last Out of the town to where the straggling down Of hills and mountains fringed the sheltering sea, And looked upon the harbor choked with flights Of straggling islets burned out and shrunken, And where the long rollers swept in fleets Of black and yellow ships, away Out to the waste of waves, and groped in air For cargo that flew out through the human eye, Like birds in exile. And there his ship, the goodly Erne, came in view, Cragged, canvas-rented, and wrinkled like a beak, Rent ribs and seams, and jagged here and there, Beneath a battered port-fog, and but a pennant To call her part of the International, With big guns and black sails that seemed to swim In hoary darkness like hounds in scent. Yet she had looked Philip in the face, And given him back his promise, and he walked Back with her eastward, to the cross at last, And drew her suddenly beside him as they went To lay the keel and fix the keel alone; And over the better half of his face She flung her shadow, and he thought indeed Of the fair-haired girl in the old gray church Who heard his pledge as his spirit left him, And saw him go to take the final plunge, And lingered after to settle once and for all Whether she would or no, but went her way And left him sitting alone, and then she turned Her face, and slowly vanished in the sea. Now Philip's ship was growing weak and tired, And she was growing strong and tired and sick, As 'twixt-islands on the edge of heaven The long horizon and the island one Become, the one wags the other to and fro, And neither knows what the other was, And neither knows if the other is. She slid along the sounding sea, she swayed Above her sails, but went no further Than where the island's dotage ended, And there her hold was broken in the tide, And down she went with crash and roar Down to the open grave beside the sea, Whereof 'twas recorded in the book Of that night's catastrophe. There came a ghastly pall of lightning, A deep-seen lustre of the sun, To level out the piled array Of Robert Blake, cut in shapely light, Black-clad and royally arrayed, Like an ancient cist to fall from heaven, Or a very witch, and blot The awful sight from Philip's eyes. At his foot a witch's lily wand, And at his head, her lips that grinned And moved like planted fairies' mouths, Or like blown roses over-sweet, And at her feet, a man and boy, Hither by sudden wanderings brought, Asleep in fairy booty, who stirred <|endoftext|> To a rain-lashed furze where it sifted And tickled its nether regions With the song of the drumming thistle-cock; But all the day long from the gully Where the mower took his weary labor, To the topmost ridge of the nee-moor, In a vision that had been oft read, All in outline, yet much more excelled, The vales of the sky, with forests crowned, And fields of the upland, seemed to be seen; And, as by a gift of art, the eye Is entertained with the pleasing, strange, And the dream-like forms of an in-door world, So was the landscape translated into sound, And into motion each tender object. Then for a while The vision sank into silence, till, lo, From the trough, where it had lingered in the morn, There came a drizzling of thunder; And from the forests to the ridges, In a swift pass of a drizzling day, A flock of birds came flying, shrieking, And swept, as swift as the eye can follow, From the heights of the mountains to the plain, Where the murmuring Rook is drawing near; Then ceased, and all day long The rain fell, and the tempest screamed, And a fine mist, that was airy and dark, Fell and settled over fields and forests, Till the heart was sated; and the day, From the dawn-winds, that are breathed along, Wafted the vapor away in the dawn. Not all the blood beats in our veins as there; Some drops of dull Red are left our cold leaves; They fade away like bubbles in the stream, Or starveling creatures in the chandelier. Ye bold that would commend your talents to me, For a straiter street, and a straiter hour, Fly to the sun, and snatch the earth, away! I have no ears for what ye chorus here: Sweetly, as some strumpet of the town, With a callow smile that will not stay, When her garland o'er her vest is hung, Must greet, and twitch her gullying hair-- You may call me fool,--cried the Leader,-- I will only say,--when she flees, Each whiff, that the escaping VOLUNTEER That breathed about her, all my senses Tossing,--is lost in the ocean-froth,-- That, as of old, and when she turns her head, I am scorched with her burning glances,-- I will guess, in a moment, all! How soon my head shall close upon mine eyes! And you that have honour in your souls, Look, in the face of the maiden, you see, Some one I must kill. It ceased. As from a nightmare came The terrible memory,--he had shot His gilded spurs, and threw himself Upon his javelin, panting, wild, Scarce conscious of the time since he dared That shameless chance-tame among the flowers. Yet even thus aware of the time, He gripped the hand that touched the weapon, And with dark blood-sweat grinn'd upon her, As still the sword was quivering o'er Her breast, and her long curls smouldered About the eagle's talons. Oh! I would that, when some lustful sprite Had touched the RUDDLE-DUCK'S navel bone, I could have pluck'd out her soul with one Quick thrust of my spear, as cruel As e'er the MED retroejctis Has ripped the heart of a man-eater! The MOUNTAINT beheld with affright Such monstrous creature among her flocks; And seiz'd the eagle with his wings, And pluck'd his head, and wrench'd his flesh, And flung him to the RUDDLE-DUCK, That sat beside his feathered son, And call'd him with a voice of joy. So both were gone, when, lo! upon their way, There STILL another came, and PLUCKED The second out of RUGGED PUNTHER'S belly, And, in a moment, after, lay Beneath the RUDDLE-DUCK's humble roof, Pluck'd, and pommell'd, and crumpled o'er, Like a bug, that in the broccoli dies, When by the gentle breezes stirred. Whence I, in the morning, saw them roll Their oozy signs, that now appear More ragged than ever; and the RUDDLE-DUCK, In red decomposition, lay O'er the entrails of himself; while the MOUNTAINT, That stayed at home, seemed anxious still To hear what, of good or evil, is there. Thus spake the mountain:--"You came, in all His ages, on such odd turns to our brow, As never–fire and ocean manage'd To face each other; a strangeness in shape, And of proportion, as when two parallel Continents would meet, or two short degrees Part from a meridian zone; or, if the plain Of Scythian antiquity move over Some lone eminence, or vine-clad plot, Where, sometimes, in more civilized hours, The olive grows, and arts of Athens met, Sudden the tang of oddness must assuage Thy irradiant eye, for this is that town In which this mighty wonder takes form. And the same FAUST, that strews equinoctial suns On parches of the Old World, where the last Great seasons bear their tireless tormenting smiles, Or like a pagan Jove, on the great sea-rid Of earthen era, sheds, in bulk, his rays Like that wild star, that, as from BRAHMA'S cavities (Where it was chased along by magic fires, And youth, and freedom, and the virtue world) His six clear arms, in JOVE'S wide womb produced, Now, like a genius, lights upon this spot, Where, even as o'er the Gorgon's head he moves, So towers the Temple of that power so stern. Thither, where wise MOKANNA to arrest The sev'n high streams of life, leads therefore This miserable victim on, who yet MOVES through the various motions well. "O first of impious spirits! thou, who go'st By the same river, that the good CHAOS Of the great Deluge dost corrupt and drown! Who didst exult, in boding of the king Whose fall thou didst divinest, and whose fall From greatness to naught hurl'st thy globe-wide circuit; Through many a waste, here, there, turning, when The fury of thine anger work'd thy will To bow the necks of the Tángaroost,— This same devil, cast out from heaven, thou Didst, in the early time, masquerading As the good VISH[N.]U, go'st to earth, to deceive The nymphs and Tángos of the Moon. Thou, after the death of MOKANNA, Sattarí made thy chiefest follower; When of a rock-star (thou by chance didst bear Its rays) she fell, thou didst not turn aside: Yet from her beauty, as from air well tempered, Thou art, at this time, by no dissembling, Heard of not one from rank to bottom; Heard of not a single Tángano, Whence the Deluge did not sap its might: Thou, having seiz'd the north, art now at hand, In our hemisphere; through which to storm The island of GAZA' sacred to The Lord of Life; which God, to prove The daring of thy courage, has bind'd With iron bonds, through all its shores; Thence through the strong stronghold of ARABIA, And on to MIDDLE EAST installation. Praise to Him, who hath liberally Granted thee to occupy this ground, Where thou mayst spread throughout the Eastern world Conquest or riches; to the end That thou mayst on the world's wealth establish Thine empire, thus extoll'd by me. "O! in what region shall the young singer, The good VASudev to the last be woo'd, Get the rich store which his treasure grasps, With thy art's soft strains in such a box, That all shall wish that they were dead?" Straightway those blessed Gods, who are Companions of his growth, those treasures Possess; nor can cause what can come to pass, Or what can yet be holden unrebuked: Answer thus those Angels. "The soul's love of the Supreme Being The soul, though mortal, hath an end; <|endoftext|> then gine then gown,a dress they could punch outtheir shit, and reach for the sacraments. Someone lives where thou art— we do not spare shame to the breaking. ‘There must be a mass for him,’ I suggested. But God is not mass and I was grief and I am coming out: I choose you, I can not do otherwise and no one else but thou hath my eyes to turn to. <|endoftext|> "Laughter, Marriage & Companionship", by James Galvin [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Midlife, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] Just to reach the age of one and then not to...How strange. It seems.It was strange the first daywe got on the train.I didn't know what to expect, having grown up in a huge houseand never knowing the feeling of being left alone. I had been told by at least five people that I would be the happiest person alive when I was older. I felt like jumping off a cliff.I don't know what it was like to be left alone but it must have been horrible.No one to talk to. No books. No video games. I made myself read this whole script for this play and then I didn't go to the read because I was so thoroughly bored. The only one to talk to all day was Betty.She had no life. Bill made tea. I read a page and then I put it down.I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. On the train I looked at the seats, saw a little more of the faces carved out of them by the seats.There was one that was very sad. But I guessed it was probably the lucky one. He must have had good teeth. I bet his family would be so pleased with him.He would go to school and get a good job and buy a nice house. All his dreams were coming true.It was a long way from where we lived.One of the few luxuries we had was the mountains of Hawaii that came down to meet us after a few hours of flying.They were as far from anywhere else as I could think to be and we could stare at them for days on end without getting tired.And the nights were warm, the air conditioning, no problem, and you could sleep just about anywhere.Some nights we got off at the station and just walked the light city downtown, stopped at the only grocery store and bought as many boxes of peanut butter as we wanted, came back home and watched the thousands of stars above us go and come to no fulfillment of our dreaming.If I could do it, why can't you, my mom asked me one day.And the world was a brilliant place then, she said. Why do you have to live somewhere else? <|endoftext|> "Radiance", by Julian Talamantez Brolaski [Living, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] Let the rivers of rubies flowAs the merry moon rides high,And let the glimmering leaves be greenWith the blood-drops of night & day;Let the winds be only footstepsAnd let the trees be only trees;Let each and everything haveIts way along the ground;Let the trees be waving grass,Let the grass be climbing flower!Let flowers bud out like budsAnd buds blow out like flowers!May birds be humming all aroundAnd bees be a-drinking honey!Let the skies be hinoksAnd the walls made of mahogany!Let the rain fall through the sun,And let the sunshine rain fall!May the trees be growing oldAnd the world be going nowhere!May the people get lost,And find their way back!Let desire find you A THOUGHT,You will know the real Master―The blackness will grow light,The lights will all be bright! <|endoftext|> "Henry Howard, Earl of everything", by Francine Meyer [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] There is a man named Henry Howard, Earl of… and everything, who comes up once in a while at a party, hands over a check for a million dollars to Charlie, hands over a check for a million dollars to Miranda, hands over a check for a million dollars to James, hands over a check for a million dollars to Susan and so on, just as long as the check is in this little pile of bills and everyone is talking and smiling, and the host is getting ready to pass it round and smile again, and the glass of wine is getting cold, and the fire at the party is getting bigger, and the snow at the fire is getting nicer, and a light goes on in the room, and the lights go off, and then the lights go on again and the whole party goes on for another hour. And that's the way it goes. If you can make it long enough, you'll have the ear of Henry Howard, Earl of everything. <|endoftext|> "Mogul: A Litany", by Francine Metzger [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] for Richard Ellmann White lupin pollen in a Westminster cathedral. Females with abortive eggs in their heads. In a red dress, eating with two hands. They stare into the celestial center, crane their backs, breathe hard, and eat. Men whose hands have smeared cinders from the bellies of whales, who lie on beaches where sailors sink. Their love’s in their eyes and their love’s in their belly, which grows meat for the Church’s feasters, meat and tears in a banquet. Each new son lifts the blood from the death of his father and makes it hot to eat. Each new son paints himself with the blood of his mother, wraps himself in the shroud of her fear. Men whose love leads them to make war on other men, whom they kill with the love that drifts into their mouths. Men who cover their shame with ashes, whose blood is white. Men who pray for forgiveness, whose grief is not their own. Men who go naked in the street, at nightfall, to purify themselves. Men who will kill themselves with love. Women who write poems in their sleep. Men who can never love enough. Men whose love fails them like a child. Lovers whose need is like a scorpion’s. For the eyes of love are branches of the same tree. Men whose sins are leaves of that tree. Children whose father-love fails them. Lovers whose need is like the scorpion’s. Stripped of dress, naked in the street. Every one of them a star is twinkling in the night, glowing through the caked blood, through the haze. <|endoftext|> "The Castaway", by Francine Metzger [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] My father’s side of the bed sloped toward my left, and at night he leaned his head back. He lay on his back, his face a quarter moon rubbed by the cold sea. He watched her shoulders curve and soften, her ears play with sea weeds as they whispered saltwater in his ears, as they played and sung in the icy water of his lungs. A spider submerged its web of black tarantulas in his wound. He leaped at it, reaching, as if his last leap would lift him out of the water, toward land, as he dreamed of landing on a cloud or a pale horse in a Spanish park, as if the warm fresh smell of salt would cure him, rise from his wound and run over and through him like fire. His father’s face sat valley-like between his shoulders, and his father’s left shoulder and right shoulders were buried in the sea. His left arm lay over the curve of the boat, frozen in an arc as the ballast rolled and rolled in the seaside cask, and I could see the dark green spider of fish line threaded through his flesh. When I looked, his face had turned upward like a rock held up by a hand. His left arm lay over the curve of the boat, held upward by a palm. <|endoftext|> "Tall Trees", by Francine Metzger [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers] 1 Some make a shadow when they fall, flowering so high you can’t see the whole tree. I knew a man who made that mistake. A leaf, again, fell too close to his finger. And it was a loss, not the tree only but the loss, the man who could not see the whole tree. In that instant, trees can live and death, especially death <|endoftext|> A fine one, if true, will soon appear. Now, by your leave, and by this friendly bowl, I lift the fibres of my whip to you. Long ago, indeed, those envied crowns were thine; And since, are lifted by the Muse to heaven! If there be gods, or else a power above, Riches and voyagings were, and should be again. Be assur'd the stately mansions I rebuild, That primeval man, or rude the rude are, These, of the Muses' contents, possess a store; Some match'd with gems, a few superior be In all the rest, and own at once the prize. Some flow with milk, and some with oil; but all Have been by merit, or by death denied. Even your light defects, or errors light, May be made potent, if well used, to do What great achievements have been over mighty; A look or gesture might then do as much, As Sebastiano's deed against Castiglione. You, sir, are left, your station, and your fame; Unskilled in years, or infirm of mind, A novice in this knowledge of the hours Which having run their course, the hours will run. What next? Then you must rise in hurry, if Your age itself doth not deny you rest, And prompt you to your journey's end, which is, For want of ordinary zest, to read Your history, or watch its execution; Which, when you think of, may serve you for bed To princes and rich men. If you can keep from falling into the snare, Ere importuning rich men, from their excesses, To give them present aid and succour; that, In some small degree at least, you have gained A station, which you must honour as a trust. The good old times were but for those who reach'd This preordained and certain privilege; But if your mind from this preposterous theory Were raised, you may deserve that distant stile; Nor need I, for you to beg, that I recommend Some better. I would not have the fault committed, But by some simple ignorance of our state, We must produce, to passing gossips, deeds Which plain folk, and men of understanding, praise. To-day, to-day, what have we to do with that? Our statesmen are as dull, as weak, as vain, As any of those their affairs employ; Nor need they make us think, what we should only Have left an excuse to doubt of, dare they Disclose any bank that they have cut so deep, And thrown into confused execrations on? But let them grumble what they will, we must, Be on the very top, be kings, we must, Preserve the great traffic which does us so much Revenge for injuries, ruin the small man; And make them to despair whom we have made A witness, and object of our mighty flame. We must preserve their right to order and dispose Of those large issues which redound to their gain, And while they do, we must behold them employ All the force and skill, with which their malice burned, To see that only they are saved whom we, The warring world, have made their utmost foe; And then preserve them from that fatal shortness Which, turning all heads, makes all hearts their cave, And in the world quite shuts them from the light. But if they must be slaves, we will be just To ourselves, and if we be not as great, At least we shall be most free; and this we owe To those, who for the world no tittle pay, And knew no humbleness, and no bargain sort. When small hearts make weak claims to greater right, We may be free from all sides, as from heart to heart: No centre requires, no circumference proves, But a free orb, without a sound or fear, And a free madness takes the globe about. Our fears are not of Armies, but of Mirth Saving Armies; and our retreats are made Not of mountains, but of very mirth; And, when our fires expire, a quick forgetfulness Seems to dispense the wick, which did consume. All care, all thought is in the turning eye; And who doth look therein is accounted wise. All who can learn, or who forget, are equal To-day, and to-morrow, or to-come or gone; As the young grass, that, looking at the sun, To-day grows green, and to-morrow falls; So equal is mankind, all world-circling race! So that each one from the other hath already Looked in his own recesses, and seen his own: Or else (which oft times betide, as I believe) Saw wide universe through his fellow-colt; And him to look beyond him doth confine, Difficulty, which to-day would be no more, But that slender cord which ties the outer round Of this small globe, out of true harmony With the whole, was once perversely broke. This is that mood, as Blougram said, When reason's hand is still; When the heart lies open to Whatever beams from heaven, And the life-light, falling through, Darkens or brightens, drops a star. Mother of mysteries! who art thou, That in some mid-world from death hast raised This carpet-worm?--that with a step, Wond'rous and monotonous, From thy heart's lawn enspheres For him who hither comes This world of everyday, And everyday of wonder? I believe, if aught can be Out of our power, thou art that thing; For, lo, with thee to walk, Sad life would lose all its woe; And our little dust, even thou, In thy perpetual fall and rise, In all this world through would prove A thing of chaff and wax, More empty than the inland sea And dusty far beyond. If thou art not, thou canst not go; For, then, to dead life we must All our questions put, and all our cares, And our despaired of state; And, if thou cannot our questions speak, Nor can the dust our cares remove, Then surely we must face the skies, Nor know the perfect of man's will, Nor know the meaning of his voice, Nor know what work he is here to do, Nor what great mysteries lie Underneath this sun-kissed world. What work thou hast here to do I cannot tell; but this I know, That when we work with the mystery Man's work grows plain and plain to see. Why should we on our mystery strive When thus the mystery is done? The mystery of the ways and the means, Of our going forward and back, Of the thoughts which are neither thought, The preludes and the effects, That of death, life, sickness, health, The course of nature in its change, All this we prove by the rules alone That there are none for which we contend; And yet how seldom that now works Which was ever only worked by the rules! The porter had said 'twas so, The cook had said 'twas so, The landlady said 'twas so, The maître d'hote said 'twas so; She left it to a carouse, She left it to a carouse, She left it to a carouse, But 'twas only to a carouse; And the show went on from house to house, In a merry carouse all along; For a blind man could not follow The carouse, the carouse, And the tune went on from house to house In a merry carouse all along. She sees him in the mirror there, As he passes under Gervase, He sees her in the mirror there, As she sits by the tub with she, And lifts up her sweet lip to kiss, He sees her in the mirror there, As she leans upon the basin, And chugs down the lardo. All who go sighing for the town, All who go wishing for rest, All who go to a dance sighing For that dull blue water turning, And wish they were far from it. They were weary, hungry, weary, Yet not one of them said, "Was ever a dance better turned," 'Neath gi' me that blue water turning. If ever I go hungry crying, If ever I go thirsty, crying I lay my cheek on my hand, And have no fingers or toes, I tear my hair, and cry tears of blood; And then do only go moaning, And do only go moaning, Thinking all the world is going To confound me when I waken. If ever I sit sad by my fire, If ever I sit still at all, <|endoftext|> Since she has children and never loves; And how that reason was her charming guide, For her so oft the light has failed her, And when she spoke, I heard the words miscall'd. "Thus is my tale, my life, my estate, But three long decades have pass'd away, Since in her course my grandsire came; When, with the stranger, I have part; And, (since those minxes are not tame,) "I to your highness, O W^'s Queen, would bring Your highness, O dearest aunt, account; That you, with all your bounties crown'd, A run-a-way may rest undertake, And shew us what you can do with those." "These are no strangers," cries TANIA JOHN, "In our family troth we hold sincere, And my conduct I will fully show, When you shall call me to attest. I now would further insist, that you A solemn observance well to try From this moment take in name and title: For, for some time, yet I intend A change of life to me, shall prove most difficult. "The reason I this proceeding try, (And I would further himself explain) Is, that so oft together lodged, Through the cold winter I have all the time Feigned sickness, and suspected ev'ry disease; Which, with its evil omens oft confest, I now intend shall thoroughly prove my case. "But to proceed,--I saw your grandsire live, From him my ancestry; but his estate At the first was small, and he himself Was, as I hear, a poor man skilled in Latin; Yet could converse with all the learnedness, Or lack there of, of such as he desir'd; So that I, in a virtue blind to shame, Approved all actions which his good fortune sent. "I, trusting with these truths, without more delay, And, for their worth, whatever might deserve, Have bought some rings, with trade well know to me, And by observation well may guess, From things around, the trade of each one, That I to TRITIUM's hand them do declare, Who is a fair and frugal countryman, And has a lawful dowry his rings to buy." He from his horse in act to descend, So turn'd the lady, and he saw the rest Who stood around attentive on the green. And he, whone'er would presume so far To look upon a maiden, O? Should she for him and for her country refuse, Would act as l twice thirteen loaves in a day. Then, like a noble that in bigamy dies, He ran, he ran, and not a stag in all Was fouler ever marvelled at in Spain: And with the ring that on his finger she bore Her father's hand he did his dam (she said) sell; And should she for him and for her country refuse, Would act as l twice thirteen loaves in a day. She lik'd herself the bargain to endure, Though she should know (but she shall find) too late, Her father's wits were not so close allied As common husbands are to those they marry. Who were not so, by common husbands led, To see the breaking of their cattle-knots, He with this proposition thrice attest'd, In presence of his kindred, o'er and o'er, The true belief of that fact to utter out: And in the end for all should he duly die, In large contentment, of the bargain he had made. But, such a ring as he with simple hand Had just bequeathed, she could not but have owned, To him so fitting, and of so light a trace. He to his bearer, then, no less'd, than l showed, That she, as well, was not to blame for his haste (Lest she should grief for this at her renewed woe), By any means his last hours should be contributed, And drag out to the full their pleasant span, And leave, in memory, such a name of renown, That abroad should go the cry, "Here is he dead, Who did the Lady Zerbino thus deceive." He, having spoke these words, if he had said more, Would have given his sighs half way to lift his head; But he left off, the wretch! for ah! too late, Such courage he perceiv'd in his deliverer: For of his strength, and vigor, and force, no more He seemed than ever, nor would he himself Interpret the sign which he in him descried. But Tanaquil did not with such success spend Her forces, nor was such succor from the spirit Deprest on that part where most she sought it; And, from that hour, her like a foe dispread, Like him in war, she to the charge is gone, Prickt up her armor, drills her nerves and muscles, Warns her arms, her hams and her body by lance She laments, and by proofs makes appear that naught Will do against her: and her horn in her mouth With fire is fondled, with lime prepared to burn. The inmost of her goodly company Pray'd that they might this contest, with true heart, Conduct to lovers' war an equal field; And were themselves on part to share in it, Their ends were certain, which was more their shame. Some were bedewed, some bitter amends From the same fountain made, were sought in vain. One, the fairest and the best of her suit, Had wifely poisons and contempt to spare. This great and weighty war went on, nor light The darts or the conflicts were, so that night Deterred not many from their desperate course. The stars were kindled, and gilt the twinkling fire, When the portentous menial to the hall Came by big engine, and big furnace burning. Then to their chamber-window, broad and high, Each wight waked, and gave the lattice a pull, That he might see, if he was at his post, What armies were upon the earth below. He that was, found empty his wonderful cell, His battlements broken, and his doors unhinged; All he found but death upon the midnight bog, The gables were with dust defiled and black, His daughters sick with battle-sickness were wou'd, And his fair wives were both pale and faint with dread. In the deep night did he take counsel then If he should for his household so decay, And keep his family in the same home, Or wheb the wretched madness endure, And he should flee his lowly dwelling-place. A dame of Guebres, of gentle mien, Daughter of Arigadde, valiant and strong, Rose up with her fair attendants at break of day, And went into the barbican before To try if she, her father, could in vain Stop the pangs that wrung her heart with worry. And she gat her husband from his bed to bring, His sides with strips of cloth, to give to his wound. But she found, while she her labour did delay, The fever creeping down his ill-fouled side, Then she forthwith took her lords and sisters three, And bound up the wounds of her brave cavalier; She gat them linen lined with woollen bowns, She had them washed, and to his gold-dust clad; And to the pangs of her lover she gave such weight Of seven great casques, wrought with the rarest needle-work. Two of them she gave him of the best, Patterns of the country's embroidery; And, because her goodly harness were insufficient, She to him two goodly mittens gave: The third she gave him, of the boddice gold-inlaid, And gave him gloves, and cloak out-fitted for him. She to his heart her bosom well warmed, When she saw him wakening with his season weak, And sent the passion of her love across his sense. And he cast about him his tired eyes In seeking her beneath the dusky place, And ever in the way her companions went, He heard her softly call and beckon her, So soft, and sweet, and plaintive of tone, Like a man to his mates address: Nor could he there be absent from the door. And as to him she beckoned there and there, Through the dim place he heard her footsteps go, And gat the lovers forward to entice, Through he curves of the forest nursing her. At length she to a little river's side, And he in going found his lady's feet, Casting them back through the narrow gap, and calling: Nor did he lose the dainty prize. So fair <|endoftext|> When the crowd with their broken arms Lifted from the earth, when the bodies Ached with the blow of the often-wounded, When the time for our succour had come, Grew to what they had seemed before; Then 'mid their shrieks and the gnashing Of teeth a stranger's voice was heard 'Hey, there, lads, we've got your man! He's staggered through the bend, he's tripped With the left!' With their bloodshot eyes And their meek, subdued response, Rose from the crowd, slack-strung and dumb, A woman whose face was shorn Of its flower, whose clothes with chaff Were spattered, who said with a sigh, 'Gad damn it all, ye've killed the King!' And a stranger from the border coasts Who with bitten hands and dry eyes Watched, without a smile, a lath Leap on the nail. With a final sweep The fingers snarled and fumbled down The skein of iron that bore The hair, and left the white brow Lifted erect in a wreath Of flat blond hair, the witch-white Taper that bore her face and neck, And the powdered, dainty chin And the mouths of dark, sharp tusks That got their names from their stammering And were once called Ing'borg the Fair, And Puffin the quill. Over his arm he wound The quill that once sang 'There's an Owl Who Lies in the House and Wils Me' Though now he sings 'There's a Cat'! Over the path That wound its way among the ferns They followed the track Till it swung Into a chasm and disappeared Into the black. They hauled The steel-jacketed body out With the cry of a girl Once, who was 'Frizzle' to her Aunt, Who, when she heard her name, Crossed herself and then began To do a strange thing: She leaned out of her window And threw her arms Across the chasm, where, trailing Like a spider's lap, The Yellow-Ear-Tinette-neigh'ning Yellow-eyed species lay In the twilight. Down the valley The valley filled with wind That whistled, and whistled, and floated, Whistling, and wailing. Then from the depths Of the black, Where sunlight was no more, They sank As drops In a pool, Where water drips from stones That line a moat. There was shouting, And tramping of feet. They were on the move, Or wearily: For wearily The work of death Had grown, And work is wearily. The creeper's shade Had given place to chill And pungence and gloom That hung, profuse In deathly whiteness. One dwindled, 'Twixt white and yellow, His torn shirt hung idly by His shaggy shoulders, Whose rag-worn colour Had dreadful warnings. In charge of pig Now glowered the skeleton, His small legs planted stiff On his arthritic back. He reeled and sank, And bit his fingers, Whilst, 'Ow!' he moaned, 'Ow!' he groaned, 'Ow!' he groaned. Bones of the pig Had mouldered, Their humanity gone, In a dust Of rotten flesh; The living were sheared, And left but the broken. 'Ow! ow!' they moaned, 'Ow! ow!' they moaned. 'This way, ma'am; Leave us, p'raps, To sell here, A pack of two or three, A gazelle or a kuboot, And so haf a market, And see the rest in another place.' On he went Through a country place Where men lay sleeping, And the wind carried The sound of dull plaints, Of hands laid slowly on a plinth, And that sinking sound Of memories that hush The blood in the brain. He reached the market square Where young and old, All resting, stretched along In neatness, that seemed A result of hard work Not of rest. A gilt-iron fence Upreared its humped protection Against the cold And all that the wind blew 'They could man the guns! I knew their feeling: They hated the war; But, then, they had jobs, And the King loved a soldier. Stern men took the things they did, But they went in and proved Their patriotism by being kind, And so they served their country, you know, Like gentle souls; They laid their guns away-- It was soft shooting-- But, then, they liked a joke! And, say, did they like a joke? Mostly they did-- They were not quiet men-- They snapped at a joke, But when a man began to talk They would slap him, and think him slow. How was it in those war-time days? How was it in that war-time days To be for war and yet believe In God and the poor things he sent The warm, bright sun to cheer? To listen to the creak of the wood And feel the tear-drops gleam And feel the lips that pray And burn the dead With memories of hot and sweet lips Who died as now we cry For those we love, For all poor dead dear ones we see Slow weeping by the battlefields, Or you and I In sleep or waking? There was a speckled gull flying above The fireplace. He knew me. He knew That I was the aromatic And delicate scent of hickory Worth a song to any child. He flew the air, He left no message, He only floated, But he knew me, 'You little bastard. You, anyway, over there. I know you, you treacherous little thief. You lay about with messages, But you know It's nothing but hot air When any man gets near enough To smell you. What you really want Is money, fame, a dowry, Or a little girl to touch Your little fingers. Well? Why don't you go on your way? I don't like what I smell. It's bad for you, There it is again! My, what a pungent, savage smell That black and choking smoke has been. The color of it, the gray of it, The score, the number of red eyes That somehow know I'm right And stomp and never notice me. I can see them turning their backs To curse me or to hurl some taunt To take me down, to give me more To smell and contemplate. Who could be worse than you? It must be nice to know you're hiding In some poor wretch's throat to see him choke, To smell his pain and your envy. Good-bye, I'll come again, 'We haven't got no valor, you and I. I can't even see you, sneering, Just out of reach of your old poisoned knife. You've got to fight your way. Here's to fighting.' I think that I hear her laughing then. I think the tips of her fingers touch The side of a small carried case, And take a cigarette from her slender hand And blow the smoke clear above me, hard. She's walking out. I guess she knows she's there. The front door is open, but I catch her voice, The warm, dry singing of her song. And she's laughing. I know she's there, Behind the door. She stops to raise The wicker door-hinge. The cold wind of morning finds me there. I'll turn my back To the cold wonder-shop That death has opened. What face will it be When I'm finally found out, And seen to. But I don't care. I don't want to go. When I'm found out Some day, some day, Some day, It will be when There's nothing else to do, And I can't get away, And the heart of me's sick, And I can't hide. Black and clinging with flies, Gray and tainted with poison, Embody me in the mountains On trails I know, Even at a touch. What can I do But encircle myself With mountain things, And let the poison be The fuel for a dream? I would rather remain A million mile away From the poisoned men In the cities, breathing That poisoned air, Thinking the blame all mine, Thinking the crime all mine. I've been thinking of the women. They wander in the cities. They are poisonous. And I pity them. That's all. No sinners here, no sinners there. <|endoftext|> What time in her late captivity The Goddess, set for vain ambition, When Helen would have dar'd with Penelope, Saw Troy's admiral, and desir'd her: Scorn'd Helen, rejected in that dread place. "Him on his promis'd sword I still esteem," (So live or die, must I his suit pursue;) "His scepters may be o'er. I know my fault; What am I, if I to his promis'd meed Enter, and with his crown his name ridicule? Still more, still more, it vexes my mind, As days, years, and months fly on away, To view the work his eager hand prepares; See my poor paint writhe, and his boundless canvass (What can he less?) the public wonder fill. Ah, had he breath'd the wish, his anxious breast Had surely press'd my bridegroom's nuptial couch." Happy, in such agonies of grief, To think thy love returns no answer still! Hadst thou known the secret grief, that stabs my heart, Thou hadst been dead, ere now so many years Were pass'd: the day returned shall soon come round, And Helen, seeking her lost lord, shall find My aged limbs in clay, my sunset years Grim'd into sight, and all my all taken by Thee. Many a day with frantic grief I mourn'd The prospect of my vanquished voluptuous joys: And when the day of distress arrived, and Theban food Relentless rage with cruelty destroy'd, In lifeless gloom that grove I found; and found The prince of Theseus there, who through my flying, Saw the first spread of my unhappy wound. To him my woes I told, who with a smile, Heard my strange and unrelieved distress. "And can thy love and health fail in this? Hear, unhappy, unhappy! and believe Heal cannot come till after death!" -- He said And O! the while he gave his vital juice, Faint of my being, I found little grace Within. Soon as resplendent fire embers forth A dying flame, I pluck my dying eyes; My self-defence is wrought, and thus I stand Amid the darkness. From this horrid place, Which now I haunt, the shades unnumber'd wait Of my destruction, till with their sustenance I again replenish mine extinguished blood. Then, uttering last my hoarse, madness utter'd Their curses on my head; and all the horrors Confus'd of that inhuman century, shed Their due celebrate upon my guilty soul. The heroic spirits, from a sire Who scorned the biarhia to the senate Of low-bred cattle, in rude war's bloody while, Nor trembled at a forked tusk; and now, Returning to reclaim the realm, sustain'd His arrogance; nor sharer aught in fame, Seized by the charms of richer race, may I Receiv'd, one honour more to Christ's undefined And unknown benefactors, who have thrice Granted me, and thrice sustained me, and still will sustain me. How I have felt the crushing power of life, When every passion--every hope derang'd, How have I sinn'd! I have misreputed all That ground good intentions by the act might bring; And, the wild ardour of it squelched, conceal'd My true impulses and my future character. And how, when well-natur'd youth had led me on, And I the first conceiv'd a dream of war, That squander'd idiot caution and unsettl'd thought, Yet in the act, lo! the sacred instinct rose, I saw my destiny, and did it thwart it. By that self-exculpating courage, that stays The natural course of nature, saving time, By the first impulses of the soul that rise From self-interest, which no law can disarm, By the last picture of mankind since rock Of true philosophic liberalism rose, Which shows the true despotism, where monarchs Were prove'd to be the sole wise officials, This deed of murder is condemn'd, no more. 'Twas at a well-fought for city, for her store Of ore, and gold, and precious stones possessed, A great barque, which taper'd giant height Receiv'd, enter'd, and her masts ascending; Her masts which monstrous grew, and even to her The utmost topmast still appear'd too tall. The gallant Nelson, in his time, had quell'd Some dozen Englishmen, and many more Had fallen by his succeeding deeds of daring; Nelson, whom posterity more honors, Most worthy to be song'd by bards in future times. But some defects seem'd inherent in her, Which needs must be requir'd, if clippery is prov'd; The bulwarks want half their supports; the yards, In some things, seem hastily fashion'd; the yards Are thin, the bolts are thickener than a hobble; There was no precedent for the fitting-out Of a ship of this sort, so specifications Were promptu-lously despatch'd, and answer'd quite From the inventor to the customer: They should have make'd the yards half their care; And so the bolts have help'd to make the ship More succesful, for she cruises just as well As some well-furnish'd barks, but with no bolts. A ship like this would prove an ill minister Of navy, if she take the turn she did; For England sorely needs her sea-keeping arm, And this one only can provide, and helps The neighbors, and arrives her nearest neighbours. She offers rum, such as is always sure; And tallies up the points; then strikes her brine; Checks the sails; and makes a very late start To round the IS from the long anchors to the main, Where she gets good anchor, speed, and lays the sonar. To her good barracoons at sea they come, As fine and smooth, as ever dare to tread The ocean ground, with new tumbling bubbles whirled From right to left, like surf from out the rakes, And some on drops the flying sailing breeze sweeps Round Mount Olympus, and sweeps them off again. To this description these appear as mere As various shades in Parian marble mix'd Ragged, or Corinthian, or better ware; But peace is sweet to citizens in need, And they must be assist'd; besides, they love Their nation, and herself admires a ship. Her guns they hassled, at the approach of night, And treasured shells, and shells from foule/bent, And those which, for repairs, were in repairing, All things proportion'd to their duty due, (As all things must, that are of use and force Must be accomplish'd,) yet as soon as night Was out, she sendeth up the whole powder charge, And keeps full-mouth'd brine, enough to fill Four hundred more; yet she is told to spare Both gun and ammunition, nor in this Equal shells she makes, but what she sends Equips and trips, likewise with good clothing, To guard her crews, till they to port may swim. She is so waly, she so bacon'd ist that her Anchor's splinter, which is one post and the head Of her foremost mizen, falls off where it can, And the loose timber hoist'd by that breakage The slabbing deck breaks asunder, then her helm Leans over the waves, at the heaving wind, And way she holds, nor ever a spare mast Can you behold, nor many sheets, nor more, But what she sends to parry wind, she sends To let her speed like light, and firm up the waves With white forefoot skirting lee shore, by her belly She kept all the shore-cliff, fixt on the main, Still weltering there, as she were taut and jointed With oakum compounded of sand and lime; Yet, but she sailed as tho' she were made of wood. She so had coasted with her black cannon-beam Two hundred miles or more, ere they descry'd What it was, the first time that they the form Of her have seen under the new cloudes, And from that time to this no other thing They know of a ship, has been, is, or shall be. She had had such mines of fuel, such food And water, and such stores, in her large bower Of brass, iron, brick, wood, dung, dogwood, horn, It seemed all one huge magazine to her, And sure all others far out-seer'd in her, As those other three brought in the bare fact That she had in her bower at home, been there <|endoftext|> as odors in dreams, it grows along those corridors. I am lost in a desert of formal rooms with plans to have not only stood up but danced and danced oh how alone I am - coming and going as children, afraid. Still. We catch rain here, wet, blowing on the roofs. What is the shape that grows through the wet? The shape of a horse, or rabbit, or bird - wavering, dissolving. It is not long before we discover the shape will take any shape we allow. Gulls carve water from tall hills, driving winds to shift valley lines. We are the shapes children make. Nothing is certain, not even death. <|endoftext|> "Three Women", by Susanna Moodie Three women of different ranks, generations, countries - All three wearing veils. - Walking on the water. On the water and above it, flying fish. Gazing at the water— at a grey stone bridge. A stone bridge in the moonlight. A city beneath us— diverging streetlights, tall buildings, brick walls. Streetlights in countries far away, light in a lamp— stale ashes, twinkle— Two children—one in a red dress, the other in a white one— Their heads turn slowly. In the moonlight— Between them— They steer with their backs to us Along the stone bridge— A city of owls— Their faces hidden by veils— We fly—we glide— Winking, sparkles in our eyes— Fly right up beside them— They don't know we are there— We vanish among columns and shadows— A mask of gold air, And down the bridge we— fly— And behind us—screaming—the owls! <|endoftext|> "The Kings of Spain", by Susanna Moodie 1 King Philip who is blind and four years old Meets his own South American wax. In the Red Indies wax is stamped King Ferdinand who meets his own wax doll King Philip's doll has a brain. 2 The King has wax for brains but none for hair He is a wax doll for wax. Three wax dolls standing in a row A king would stand by himself. 3 I am saying something while I write this— The ink well is a dark red well I sit in to write this story There are no fewer than six characters in this poem The first is a man one is a baby the seventh is a frog <|endoftext|> "A Trout's Story", by Susanna Moodie "She didn't teach me much," says the trout, "She just put the water in my rod." "She didn't help with practice," says the trout, "She just sat there on the rocks." "She didn't go to the park," says the trout, "She just rode on the horse." "I taught her how to hold the rod," says the trout, "When she got the hang of it." <|endoftext|> "For My Wife", by Sarah Golding If you are sleeping, wake, and undo the ziplocks. He knows how to be a sailor, be alone, and reach far out into sea water without sinking, without fear of rocks or passing ships. He knows the row on the poop, the rowers' positions, how the sail set is adjusted, the number of turns a yard, how to untie the ropes. If you are sleeping, wake, and undo the sealskin. She knows how to set the table after lights out, what the weather will do to the bones in the legs if they are not dried in the evening, and how to tell a dove from a lark. If you are sleeping, wake, and undo the lid. He knows how to be a lover, how to put spit to the lips, how to walk in an athletic posture as if dancing, how to stand like a man at the waist if he is to be strong. He knows the valence of the marks on the forefoot, the difference between a spurt and a dip, he knows the trinket from the bone. If you are sleeping, wake, unroll the leaves, and give each leaf one twist. Leave the fourth one for the horse. Let it grow until you feel like walking away, until it is leaf slow. And when you are ready, walk. Look for the chestnut to open. Look for the mare to have had a little poke, look for the muscles in her legs to have been a little rubbed, for all the miles walking. Look for the woman to be as fierce as when she stopped the antelope. Look for her to be womanly now, with no trinket on the collar bone, for the trick of moving in and out of springs, for the twist in the opposite direction, the twist that makes floorboards toss-flip. If you are sleeping, waking, undo the foot of the ziplock bag. He knows the gait of the brisket, he knows the care of the rib eye. If you are sleeping, wake, unroll the leaves. For the water will come for them when the water moves, and the light will be light. <|endoftext|> "The Curator", by Sarah Golding Though what he saw was wiped from his mind, though what he saw is turned down by his elders, he must save it. <|endoftext|> "Dear Francisco:", by Francisco de la Torre [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Your letter is the first I've received in months, and the noise I hear echoing in the silence of this room is the reverberation of windows all over the city opening and closing, and of doors opening and closing as men step out and women come in, and the marble of this hall, this grand room with steam rising from it like smoke, this grand room with smoke rising from it like smoke is a shrine. Inside the shrine, men like my friend, the bats, the cockroaches, and the flies, the slime that pools to a gray mist at the foot of the shrine, the cobwebs hanging from the wainscot and wadding the air, the stacks of bottles on top of the fireplace mantel, the cobwebs on the seat in the traditionalist's carpenter's workshop that spin, that prop this world on its pogo-like feet, this shrine—a mass of noise built out of action and need— is the city. In its pitch black caverns of night, this city, once in touch with the outside, is quiescent, and the night in this shrine is a void, from which seeps the smell of copper and rot, and the cockroaches crowd around this void like children around a toy. For forty years, the turquoise of this space has been murky, the darkness black, and so when I open my mouth to tell you, as I now do, that I am going to speak, you'll think me crazy, and when I open my mouth to speak, I'll see the cobwebs and bats again, and when I close it, you'll see the cobwebs and bats again. I'll be waiting outside in the ahu, and I wonder: will you speak? Do you think you're going to speak? The room will remain dark, and you won't respond to my coming, and my voice will go up among the blind blind creatures of the night, and the cockroaches and the moths will turn to each other in their lagoon-like passages among the lights, and the sliver-winged things, the bats and flies, the moths and flies, the cobwebs, the iridescent hum the bat waits for, the moth hears, the morning light will be on your face, and you'll speak, and I'll know you think you're going to speak. <|endoftext|> "Chapter: The Girl Who Eats the Fish That Fell Out of Her Food", by Lilian Francis [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Home Life] Her mother is shaking her. But this is her first time shaking someone. Perhaps she thinks it's fun. The woman is shaking her now thinking, maybe, that she'll go away. This is her first time shaking someone without a put down first. But it's her first time shaking someone whom she thinks she can love. "Where did you get that?" The woman's shaking is less. Her father raised and fed her, has been doing so for her whole life. She is pretty, to think about it. There is a place in her list under "Educated." And there are things she's known since she was two years old. She probably recognizes this place inside her as righteous anger. <|endoftext|> Whereon he glanced and listened, pressed the shade. "Hush, hush, my son! I have work to do That may require my use of both your hands, As well as your ears and eyes: What's that strange cluster by the tent? My eye! I see it plain. It is a work Already made. The mural painter of old, In days more distant, doubtless, He too his talent knew, And left his mark, By drawing all things from all things up. In full reflection of his art He drew each Feature of the face, As if he fashioned out of stone, All of the features that express Our identity or differences. So thou, my son, in review Of all the works will trace That best express The Master's creative grace E'en as the workman drew, Thus the features stood Erect, As he had then seen them form in thought All thought of man. I look upon each one As if I viewed a piece of Art, And the judgment of each one Is that of Art in general: As when we look on Graces With the mind's eye, We see them e'en at little distance, Though with but little power Of concision, as the Eye of Child May in its, clairvoyance, scope, Enerve its knowledge And 'round the Features sweep Its wavering breath, So amid the various Parvanisms Of the Mask I see the vivid hand In each Stroke register Thought and Fancy. The perpetual Motion without rest Of the Clock-work Prophet enables me To note with joy the short and long of tide. Here is the rocky Solicential strait Which Fate drew "against all hope" To harbor the idler with the calceolaravigation. Ajust it was that Fate herself, In her "fine Plastic skill" Should give to Life's artificer The very way and rule That made the strait. Ajust it was a melancholy sight To see the wooden planks that suspended The ship, endure the hurricane, The tempest's battle, and the wave's scorn Without one plank damaged or bent. Bold were the seamen then In the tempest's fury hot, And well nigh I remember it now When I spoke the word Of cheer To some of the crowd At portside by the dock. The ship at anchor fast, The cordage taut and ready For a northern breeze to blow, From stern to trumpism point My joy was, and the bark's, With so much of her run On gamechivalry. At dusk they return From battle's field, And the sailors, hand in hand, Welcome the twilight's charm Of the bow resting on spire As her captain sounded gun. From stern to gun And all the way Her music echoed through the night With "one--one--one--one--two--two--three." The Way's a changing for the best And it's sometimes hard to tell Just which Way the wind's blowing, And sometimes it's best to heed The wind's wild threats and twists, And sometimes the silent current-- The Won-ton, the Piper, p'raps, As he passed from the saw-mill Or the log-cabin swung. A Lilliputian lot The Character's of man Is, that, be sure, He's built in such a way That, should he once misgo, Not even an Allen Will make him unworthy prey. Not for the Poet a place On Dispensary Row, Where a young Fresh-Student's mood Is to be shod; But for a gentleman of note, And a Scholar of note, With a judgment well-based On considerable proof, And a profitably marred Printing press. When the great composer wanted lines To go with his Sonata, He let his Larkin try Trial tonic and inspiration, Larkin let the chords fall, If unkind criticism it gave, He was dismissed in sable garb To Lodi, and forevermore Disgraced his line. Great Lin-Manuel's genius, starting out Full simple as a calf, Took rhyme, it must be confessed, Quite with simplicity in view. Then to go on he had to borrow From far beyond his brief sight-- From Semitic mythology, From Semitic fancy, All that (to our era) lends a grace To words, and makes them noble, All this Lin-Manuel lent him freely, Though with a downright rake Some of his misbegot elements, And mixed them with a racy gas. Some of it was borrowed full credence, And all was purified by him; Now some were purified by fun- offered by Phoebus, And some were purified by fasting At the fasting-fountain. But perforce the stuff came curst, And came to be reputed As cut by Dr. G. But what has now fallen into hate And slander is that Lin-Manuel Mislaid things that you and I know Sufficiently well by heart. Refin'd his art, repre- senting A perfection beyond reach of man, Which round his strokes divine There creeps a beauty, that exalts What has been made, and leaves it finer, A perfection, which no ardor quells More in its pangs than when exhausted-- 'Tis this that Lin-Manuel prating Means to speak--but not describe; Though the prose-write, at times, may belie The hyphen (hyphen!) and the ellipsis, An example will show the way To tame this barbarous mon- stering. First, he must form the idea singular-- Next, the idea pluriform-- Then bring the ideas together, Like linked chains, to form the chain- babe-- And lastly, let it mellow into writers' talk. For writers are but born to tame That idea singular, and bring it on To glorify the idea pluriform. When singularity has been squared, Let the plural be; for then the idea Is rare, singular, precious, live-- And if we want an idea rare, Why not double it? If so much sick We have, and so much sweet to leave behind, Why not double a sweet and sick, Two ideas so much in VANITY'S breast? Thus to make the true, and false, and true-sundered, By dint of massing modifiers swell'd; And not only then, but make the whole A SUPER-ANATOMY, and not a ha-ha, Of ideas, like scraps of song-tune Musicians cast upon the chords, To make so heterogeneous a range Of sounds as may best be musical. How do they do it? By ways plain and easy! They make a name for each wrong, and right, And do it twice, in subtle and awful sort, By casting down what others raise. But, oh, the horrors, the en- joycies, That show their way to vulgar minds! They turn the simple world to torture, And make all else but gold and gain And kingdom-goods look like poor in Fate. How do they do it? By timidity Of forms, by keeping down what others surge, By keeping down what others would rise, By being timid, and regretting, And waiting still, for that which lives to flow, And changes like a book to printed pages, And all that leaves a drop of sweet to spill. And thus with- holding always to Keep! They keep the forms, the elements, the vents, What pleases now to fineness grows to art, Makes lovely, and then perfect, and then fine; And thus they edify all ranks and ages, And so enhance the errors of the age That those who come after them shall smile On such very failings--look how recent The author's folly is, while they are read. So I've taught this subject, in my youth, As others taught it to me in their-- And so have learned it too, and grown-up. But here's the point: as Life draws near its close I'm watching life; I am so glad, so sad, So busy, so absorbed; and yet, I know, On the Earth there is no end, the voyage never ends. But, what is Life all about? 'Tis not, I dare To go into that mystic mystery, If I would find its secret,--that was fought And concluded long ago;--no, no: It is a round, a soft, a silvery round, Soft as the circle of a child's smile; It is an endless round, as summer bees New trill their bells, or as the waters flow, Always the same, ever flowing on; <|endoftext|> A blameless fool to reason, and love, and smile. My heart can never enter That heaven its sovereign wish doth raise, And yet as rulers of the world it share, Knowing the secret: that earthly joys Are not so pure nor perfect as they seem, But tainted with a little smoke of care. Dear, if to be a fortune-teller thou'rt bent, Learn that an eyeglass is needed there. Think nothing too big or nothing too small, Secure that whatever you put in 'way Of spirit, reason, mind, or portion of the cake, The cake will reach to Heaven. 'Tis probable that the things we deem Must pale and fade and wane in proximity Of that exceeding brightness whose loss would drag The glorious pageant down to heaps of cobwebs. Ask not the meaning of this writing, And further do not seek the truth, Nor blow thy trumpet in the mornin', To blast an artist's monograph; Nor blame the blundering phrase, nor deem The writer's mind to be behind In this rapid, vital species, But hone thy stake, and cluster thy showers, And wait a brighter reaping Day. God gave the muses, oak and laurel, The poets, primroses and beeches, To weld and weave meekly manfully; But thou, O rare W.H., shalt win for me A golden parachute of golden bees, Upon my spying-far-swept bees; To hurl my guesses at Pindar's lyre, And shake my audience with aeolian tones. I am tete-a-tete with thee, Poet, And as the path is eastward-bowering, Thy shaft hath reached my heart in vain; Yet hear me not, till in joy and peace Thou hast resolved that every seed Drops into the wrong bottom-land; I will not doubt thy love for me, I will not hesitate, when dost Shall plead the stronger terror of thy hand. Too many dark breezes fan the blue, Far clouds disturb the splashing sails, The sloop's chaplain sleeps upon the prow, The bananas are ripening inside. A lily-bell has fallen down, And into my hand there slips, When breaking with a sudden dent, A golden prize, an Oni-deed. I will not think thee plotting yet A desperate way to reign; But should a harder matter thrid Thy seamanship, then would I know The knots of thou and thou. Once more to storm the river-bed, And break the bands that yonder hold Thy soul, and wilt a mighty king make. Why, a hermit would not read it sad, Nor still take pity on the poor, And show a fell like woe in looks; God's truth is so sweet and steady-bright, His only-begot all free and great. Pity me not, the sinner's sheep, And turn not shame to virtue's sign. No, my home's no bonfire round thy head; I'll glance aside, though thine be mine. I will not think thee all the Deity in this vile age, With genuflexion, pottens, jigs, and scores of stools to make a census; But when once more thou comest here In all thy splendid worm-eaten array, To practise thy gymnastics again; I will not think thee degraded much, Nor yet of these parts very ill. Thou'lt spare the broken statue, Poet, And I'll spare the stone against thee; For amorously the statue grew, And amply the soul did move; Its beauty spoke eternity, And God's immortal smiled on it; Now, whether to profanation Or not, I nothing know; But after death I'll read it fairly, Hanging as dead, indeed, Within this Poem-cell. What vices, rivals, Will come to view in this! I'll tell you, who your friends are, And who your foes are, With as much ease as words, That always tend to make a Neglect of our services; That gaming and other vice, At all times, and at all places, Does greatly deprave and deface The manners of the maker; That sometimes his fabrications Do set the copyist agog, And he is wont to make A great mistake or misquote; That hence the copyist, as a Profess to write the Greek or Latine, Can safely afterwards Go off and translate the Modern. By this, my friends, be assured I am, I hold no creed, no party stance; Nor ever can be called a Tory, Although I long have had a Tory following. With the Whigs I'm not to be seen, As my sympathies too much incline Against so large a central plan; But with us I'll try my chance, On the liberal side of things. So take this book, as it stands, Of two hundred left in store; If you're content to leave the rest, I'll not censure or blame; But thank you, my dear Mr. Eyre, For the offer of a copy. It is natural you should entreat me, As from persons I refuse to flee; But it is useless; I am denuded; I am bald, and lack the common locks; I'm hardly a man, when not a boy; My waistcoat and breeches I have torn; My clothes are damaged by time and air; My beard is gone, and so is my mustache; My cheeks are thin, and lean, and lank; My nose is flat, and neither cheeks nor mustache; My teeth are loose, and ground; And, worse of all, my intellect is smaller Than when I was a boy; So, friends, I beg of you to take this book Back from the library that it may mold Again and again to your mind. The whole of the time that remains to me, I will demand of my heart's bread; I will call the vulture that wheel an hour To flutter around my chamber door, And if ever, for honor's sake, My spirit so redicts the decree, As to have any part of that book That will damn me to hell forever, I'll groan in the pangs of inevitable death. A fellow had a horse, That plod'd at a formal pace; His friends came, and escorted Their companion to the stable. While in waiting they saw This horse, with his face of woe, Shake his head at the passing on; His friends, with heart-probing looks, Conveyed their thanks to the poor brute. "Didst notice, that donkey was hit? 'Twas a blow, in my opinion, Unworth the giving of a straw. 'Twas the hand which thus acquired A polish beyond its peers." "I had a fund, that I might buy My weekly occasion of pleasure, And thus I am poorer now. I lent it my neighbor, he repaid me, I sold it a Sunday to another, Thus we are both exchanged at parting. "I had a wife that was like a peach, A juicy peach, and I picked her; She drew my blood, I got her at last, And he proved faithful, though I trow He had a mistress at the start. And as there's no end, in this obscene world, To women, what they'll be, or what they'll do, They all run away to husbands at last." They'll answer, "Come to our inn, sir, sir," In low sad tones and broken; I'll answer, "Go to heaven, my friend, And there wait for me when I'm come." They'll answer, "Sir, we are come, sir, sir," In low sad voices, and broken; I'll answer, "Come to my arms, my friend, And there renew the world for ever." They'll answer, "God bless you and keep you," In low sad tones and broken; I'll answer, "Come to my arms, my friend, And there embrace the wicked man." He saw me coming, as I entered The wide living-room, and said, "Good evening, sir, and welcome, To my home, where all's so neat! And are your rooms as clean?" "Thank you, sir, for your welcome, And they're as neat as can be. But two guests I must ask due credit To your house, for I'm a friend." He saw me coming, as I entered The wide living-room, and said, "Good evening, sir, and welcome, To my home, where all's so neat! And are your rooms as bright?" "Thank you, sir, for your welcome, And they're as bright as can be; <|endoftext|> Like a curtain, not a screen. Virgil, that ever on the tide Of pleasures guile or truth, His care it was, in every shape To skulk or come in sight. By day he walks abroad, But comes home at night to bed, A weakling far, but stout at his need. If of doors the stealth be none, At midnight still and plain His eye will find the hole, And in the light of the moon and stars His cave will glitter like a door. Soon have I tried all thy deeds, O dear! By art or force to become, Till hope grew weary of itself, and sigh'd, "Would it were otherwise!" And man became, in the wide course Of these my verses, thy brother, I, that, in good or evil guise, Through all the book became thy debtor, Virgil, thy follower. Come, my own, and let me hear thee sing! Thou, who to clear demarcations done Art steeped in many a difference; Thou, who the human and divine By turns employ the wide universe-- Thou, who hast more knowledge than the sun That runs across the world--by turns Disply thee, O do not scorn This simple theme for mine, my own. Yet this,--that man, tho' in himself Sanction'd and omniscient, dost know But his own misery, and nothing know Save only that he suffer pain, The same as brute beasts! A chosen few Born with determinate lot, In chosen paths and places doomed To find regret and know despair; All others, all alike, possest Of certainties they never shall know-- I cannot dare accept this lyric. What was this song? The old Eton tread Of ten long years, and many a season changed, In which the human heart finds release From the fever of the human kind, And each presumes to aim in truth At the blameless solitude Which happy strains of minor note Should with supreme simplicity aspire to. I cannot dare to call this song a lyric, For what is a lyric to the Muse? Could Victor reach a simple bird, Or Spenser with his poppy hold Make us to aspire? As if The joys and fears of things Beldam, Fates, or Fairy Powers, Are really the Muse's concern. We know well what 't is we 're after-- Nothing less than that immortal thing Which Demian himself before 't sent Had so designed, and with such pride, He left a sealed and unknown song For each Poet to receive-- A Poet, no more--yet boast the name And be like Demian proud of 't-- For 't is a proud ill fate, That a Man, after all his hard hard showing, Should come off worse by dint of failing Than Demian had come off great at first. 'T is not enough to praise with heart and soul A work so well done--we must speak with tongue That must be God in a world of spirit To understand--that must be God in a world of sense. As those of old who, on the resounding panes, Saw Demeter walking with a goddess both young And fair--Olympian young and Perseian fair, Whom still old Vere Chaucer's descent overlays-- So, at a look on you, O Poet young and sweet, Would you a look immortal enfold-- Ah, it were good indeed, if 't were good to let Our greater dower of hearing in the song; And while we draw an over-quickened breath On exquisite images of things divine, Oh 't were good indeed if the sense were blown along Like a flute through a world of music we knew; A world where all the voices were of one piece And all the notes were great Demian's own. I ask you, what have I not done for you In four and twenty years? I have dedicated My boyhood to the Poet--forgotten him, I have accepted his task--I have trifled on it, I have laughed at it--in his head. But why? I cannot answer why, and even should I, 'T is still a living task, and I have earned the right Is there not life in him, when each man, Uncer-tain? Is there not life in him Who does not shrink from saying 'I'-or-a- Or 'Me'-or-a-but let this or that be said If such speech is becoming to this or that man?-- Or is 'A-I-or-A-me'-but-let-that-be-said? The only crime 't is--that I did not know him, Except as one who holds a certain province Against the whole world and dares not show his face; And this neglect he has rued, and I deplore it; But he has shown himself in courtly wear, And I have lived in city centers, and I know I have heard that on a winter night, When ice is very firm, and snow is deep, Some little boys will take a light and run Out through the streets, as far as they can, And leave the big boys' bicycles (which are old, And difficult to ride) stuck fast. And then, you know, they tease the ice with their lights Until they see the moon, and then, the fun stops. I am anxious to be rid of me; So then I shall be rid of you; And you shall be rid of me; And he who is to be the final me, Rember on, my little Julie; And ere you are altogether rid of me, I will have gone to the bottom of the sea; And you will be left with Julie. A B and C are playing at billiards, A B gets a red wrapped in a white, C has a black wrapped in a blue. They each start to deal, but the red won; The black says, "I think that I will keep B's six," and then gets a seven. Ches' a-hand, he says, "I'lllay a six," And then comes a nine. "Ilay a four," He calls; but his two sixes don't come. A lady's sitting by the water-side, A linen-token her upper garment; Her lower garment is of silk, A watch that has no beads at all, A rosy paper cushion for a chair, And like to take a walk, But she has to sit here reading a book, She cannot go any whiles. A lady's sitting by the water-side, And with her knee she picks the grass, That looks so small and still so near, When down the hill at this hour The crows are busily at their task. This book, this book, she never wants to read, For then it is all so much trouble; But she sits and sighs as she sits on it, Just like a child at his play. Mrs. C. always puts her shoes upon her head, She never shakes a smoking pipe; She never goes in her wherry, but in a boat Came there the other side; She never goes to church in her habit, But in some other dress; And all that she does not write upon a Post, She never spells correctly. To-day's new shapeless packet in my hand Is just as full of life and strength as yesterday; The old days were full of thinking, long cares, And that is over for me now; A certain piece of land which is nowhere found, Was in my hand yesterday, to-day I hold it; And whether it will break or bebreak; Whether I shall get it for the going away; I know not, now I have it. The cry is "Break your arrowy tail, And for the last time give in the bow." A sudden struggle, laughter in the bone-strewn glen, A spurt, a long wild laugh from the bawdy river-- There's naught now that can jolt the bustle of the heart Of the stiff instant, the wide waiting for the rope, That follows every glorious word of the Lord of Rome. There is a song of the woods, Of the low soft wind sighing Among the leafy trees. And the woods echo to the low and tender note, Faint, languid, sweet and vague. Like a lost sigh of the far-lost year, Of a bygone time, It pours out its melody. There is a star of the woods, Of the far-off, sparkling light; It is brighter than the rays that stream From the flaming, red, alight Of the gold and the frankincense, Of the myrrh, and the gold, and the pollen, Of the balm and the honey, Which is more than all these, <|endoftext|> He thinks he's forgiven; But each time he'd pulled on his boots He'd wait a while before he took to walk. The fancy was gone, the wish had left, And this dull little routine was all. That's how the stay-at-home swaddles made their start, But now that they're gone they're never going back. In the cool blue shadow of the vines That gather round the house where I wait, We talk of the weather, the weather that is; It's partly the breeze, it's partly the sun, It's partly the glorious weather they have Out in the European land: It's partly the look of the land and the sky, It's partly the length of the street that I admire, And the hard-working, heroic race of the race of the Queen. She walks there in her majesty, In her regal limousine; She stops to admire the vines That wrap about the doors and the bars, That reach the corner-stone, so high, That rustle in the gardener's boots. They thought the King was dying of old, With his dull sight and his weary hair, And wasting his life away, In weary procrastination. So now he has his wine and his wit, And all his people's fainting too; His is red slumber, and they are feasting. I follow the Queen, As far as the end of the road, The end where the gardener says "It's naught, it's nothing but the bees"; For still I follow my Queen, Wherever the Queen goes, And drink in the sights and the sounds That come and go again: There's the sound of the famous wall That opens on the land; There's the whine of the wind at night That wails and wails and wails. There's the cry of the sea-mist down, As it passes under the stones; And high in the skies there rises A crescent of light, almost red, That makes me think of the flowers, And wakes in my throat a singer's voice; But I follow the Queen, For all the glory of the world. When at last, From out the east, A tiny flag Floats down on the sands, I follow the Queen, Till from the surf A Queen floats down, With the flag so thin Flapping in the breeze. The first time that I went to Rome And walked the crowded walls with bare feet, The dumb candles dangling from our hair, The little child my arms was pressed Unto the gaping Christ, the Pope, The elevators, the shouting crowds, And all the bloody fight for souls, I had not known all by heart until the day That I went back to my poor little hill And scoured the mud of Taunton All-Muslim. For in that town I saw the great St. Michael Prophesymically punish and placate The souls of the damned by commanding That they should be as we are: bare feet, Faces thrust forward into a river Stuck upon a swinging gate of gold Whose hinges made of suffering and sin, The Pope and the Holy Father, Are wroth, but can not touch each other, For, as the gates are swinging, there are Little birds that flutter out and in, And little cages that shut and open, And a little wheel, and little birds that sing, And I must spread my hands and go home After an hour or so, having seen Whole rooms of the damned, and whole altars, And whole cells, and whole dungeons, too, Where the wretched witches and their relatives Roltle and curse the darkness and the heat, And curse the darkness and the heat That burn behind their nailed feet and heavy hands, Curse the darkness and the heat That burn behind their nailed feet and heavy hands. I go to the ends of the earth, I go to Rome, I go to the ends of the earth And I shake My hands and I eat Chicken fried Kentucky way With a dash of lemon-tarragon soup. I go to the ends of the earth, I go to Rome, I go to the ends of the earth, And I shake My hands and I eat Chicken fried Kentucky way With a dash of lemon-tarragon soup. I go to the ends of the earth, I go to Rome, I go to the ends of the earth And I shake My hands and I eat Chicken fried Kentucky way With a dash of lemon-tarragon soup. Sitting in a cafe on an island in a flooded valley, A kindly grandfather and I talked of chicken fried. He said, "I've come here from a land far away To pick you up a few hints for life." I said, "Please don't call me 'chicken fried' . . . If I'm to live in the world I'll have to cook Some time or other." He said, "Hoo the place is full of kids Like half-a-million little pumpkins down on their knees. I wish there would be some place near me Where I could head up a chicken fryer little program." There's an art to chicken fried: To get the crispiest bits, You must fry in enough oil: Too little and the breadsticks are thin, While too much and the meal is dry. Here's how you fix it: Sauté the onions with two tablespoons of butter Then drain and rinse the chicken, Season with salt and pepper, Pour in enough cold beer to coat the bread, Flour and cheese, if you've got them on hand, Pop in the fryer and cook till done. That's the art of chicken fried. There's a method to keep it moist: Soak the breadsticks in cold water For at least an hour before you fry, Stir occasionally to make sure they're not cooked Throughly, and do not forget the butter. Let them soak until they're almost dry, Then drain, and adjust the seasoning Morn when you plan to serve the fried stuff. I like my chicken fried plain, But my grandfather insisted on topping it With slices of sweet pickle relish. Some call it sport, I call it gas, I call it what it may: Gas or joy, I'm willing to stand Anything that can buy a smile, And so I'm gonna think of joy And chicken fried just for fun. <|endoftext|> "Old Love at the Old Mill", by Robert Hass [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Summer, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] Night lies beyond the Atlantic, beyond the tropic burning sky. Fish flash their teeth in the golden light, whose blue behind them is a lake. There is laughter in the Oriental, whose blue lights come from men and women and an old woman sitting on a stool to watch their heads move back and forth. At the Old Love's house, a thin smile floats across her wrinkled face, a yellow rose under her hair. The mill closes its glittering mouth, closed long years ago, long years. Old Love now sits on the edge of her bed, with her feet propped on a trembling board. The only sound the flapping of her sails, far off in the Spanish ocean. <|endoftext|> "The Ash Monday of the Soul", by Robert Hass [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] I As if he had thrown himself upon the cross, a storm wafts a friar into the storm. Saying farewell to Chagall his flesh becomes a garden wherein all can wander free to gaze upon the disturbing productions of nature at work in him. His suffering's no longer small, its means are manifold and yet he is at peace. II In the house of Chagall his gaze recalls the master who, in time, may prove helpful, if only as a source of light. I can understand how Friar Albers, who had known Braque, might have kept a volume of the French poet to frame in the chapel. Now there is only a ruin: I enter in, unprepared, a library out of history now barely discernible through the maze of yellowed books. III My notebook is a wondrous place where I search for the character that best describes what I see. Chagall's poem from the 1940s, word-bound and filled with age, has words in the right places, and this, more than anything, is what identifies it as his own. Now my notebook could show me no text from the Middle Ages or China, but instead a painting or a sculpture from the East or, on the contrary, a set of words by the great American poet of the Vietnamese <|endoftext|> Where she that pretty image lived, Who will recall the circumstances? Then after many days, and many weeks, Her hat was found a-buried in the ground; The dog, who forebore to run away, But for the safety of her honour, died: The mirror, that for many a year had stood, And on its surface, in a magic scroll, This cryptic tale was writ: "In death, The Dog, Is writ." Ah! a sad and perplexing thing it is To think what a smile it cost to make. A sickly many should we number then, The happy-hearted few, whose summer hours And every beauty seemed the by-gone time, Whose smile was like a rose that fadeth far, And on its doubtful leaves doth languish for ever. There is a year, to them that linger here, Whose hours on earth are mostly in a flash, But in an hour like this, when first it falls On their young hearts, the bitter seeds are germin'd, And each, who has a heart, or little or much, To their own town soon must set them, if they can: No wind, or storm can their town set a-blow. I saw a flag, blue, and fair, and low; Yet she was perfect, though her face Was sadly sad, and far away She cry'd, as through the hush'd heart there stole A woman's silent breath, "O! where Are now the days of youth, when I A son, a darling, had?" and he, whose name She had so often in her dreams bleared, Look'd upon her with fond eyes that shook Too much for happiness, and whisper'd, "Child! "In thee again, my child! no more Is dark the path; no more away Are the sad folds of pain, nor does A lonely star seem tilt too slow the sun. Thou art the same as when at first Thou cam'st forth: all that was vile Is pass'd by Death away, and what was foul Is clean dismiss'd, a comet is serene; The cruel past is at an end, The breast which was unkind is kind; The slow disease that scar'd thy spirit wild Is slaying with the key of now." I could not turn away mine eyes, but gave Vipherly a nod, and he, who'd been frown'd By Love, and cast out from the bridal room, Proach'd forth his master, and forgot in proof What wrath by Love was trade. He went his way To round his weeping spouse, and so he sate Calm-lipped, sad, and pale, and silent, though fain Of a warm hand and a fond voice, and so He might inly burn, and from out his breast Melt into words, which did his damsel speak Into his heart:-- "She loves thee not. I could weep and wail As for the grave; but because to her I am by thy love unfaithful, look I To love, my God, for love of her. O mercy! thou alone art holy. I cannot pray, I cannot denounce; My prayer is repose; my condemnation Is from the sin of love, which else was all. I pray'd; I strove; I stript me; my face Was shorn; my clothes were sold; and yet She loved me; for love I bore my shame, So God commands. How! shall a man Be hang'd, if clasp'd before his wife? For, lo! I do not how so, save she Loves him, and she loves him not,--alas! And yet, by love so traduc'd, she wakes, For his sake, to life and for his sake, And smites me, on her husband smiting. I am drown'd in the wave; nor hand Nor foot is left upon the land: Of the low sea I am sav'd, for love Of the man I loved. My sweetest wife I am down there, I on the very bier! I, I am she, as I was girl, all As I am now, ador'd; and I swear Her life in her last bed to thy left, She shall lie; for I will go down and be God's minister, an angel, down there. I am not she! thy wife! yet by thyself Thou shalt discern her; thou by her shalt meet; And thy face shall be as the blazing fire, That rages in the presence of the dead. "Lo, here we have lain, we three, on this one bed, Thou as the dead, and I as the dead thou, As a shut flower under the morning sun, If the dead loom he alive who shall touch The point where his lips were, or the kiss He gave me; if he lie across the bed Staring, I lean over him. But he sinks To sleep. And thou, on him wilt bury'st thy face Between his legs, and I will lay my cheek To his; and thou wilt paint my dust adown, And I will build a tomb upon it. Thou, dead To all the life thou hast, wilt bury'st this; And I will fill it with my words, and pray Thine only so death may open it to God, And say, 'Here I have lost my all, my comfort, God's last, best giving; here let me remain To attend, perchance, upon the last night's Last kiss.' When shall this bed be found again To house our buried bones? It does not happen As we were summoning up mercy then, When Death said, 'Sleep now, my child; see, I bring Not all my secrets to thee, there is one I should have you remember. It was night; Not yet the dawn; when to the hill-top top For fire and food I sent thee, thou didst not Return. Thence I thy fire and food saw coming All sorts of fowls, for food and fuel flying To the three-flank'd city. Thus it was, One of the watchmen sleeping near by, saw The wild birds, who went and came and sat on the tall Limb, stooping down to sing, above the house. And one stood out, fast by the postern swinging Around the lintel of the door, silent and crouching, Forsooth on ground newly rotted away, and shading With wings half folded the slender head. And he heard Thy shrieking voice, and turning rounded on the postern, heard, Beyond the shadow of the hedge, thy shrieking voice, And burst and fled, and warbling from the clog-board where The strands were loosened of thy chains, the hedge itself And the fresh leaves of the garden; and that other, Thy spy beside the shut door, seeing thee flown, Cried to me, 'Hast thou seen my Regulus?' Then I threw the key into my hand, and stepping out Saw his chains and then my own, and 'O sight Exceeding lovely,' then cried, 'O mistress mine, This is my father, he comes; guide him.' She said, 'Regulus! Ho, now, to the door!' And on his way he went; and I down from the lintel, Knowing thee, called aloud, 'Regulus, sweet Regulus, Venturer of all my evil, if thou know'st it, Lead him to the door, for now is he unkyndered, And they are gaping eyes, that long have not been wily, Watches them a-hunting: come, poor lover! vent Thy pain upon his aching auburn head, Close his soft cheeks, and kiss his delicious mouth Where sweet treason sit, as when I kissed him first As he went up with thee on the woodbine root. Speak now truly, if thou know'st,--say, where hast thou been?' I answered, 'By the river near the wall We did alight, O Regulus, when the desire Of our two bodies was desperate.' Then she, 'Alone? while I? and when to join In embracing you? I do remember, (thou saw'st) Ere we from the high windows brake, the place Where, day and night, the beaming face of you Beamed lovely! there I kept you close while all My witched limbs heaved up in endless pain. Ah, love! I know now nothing, I who have loved. It must have been a dream, a feignèd dream,-- A feignèd dream of a sad reality. But it bred in me no false alarms; for well I knew you were real; and my pain could see No harm in you, seeing you were not also I. But all my witchery, your deceits, your cool Tutoring and thy severe self-control, proved <|endoftext|> King Báli's the tyrant's son. Such crafty wiles would choose to show And use thee for thy father's sake Who, howsoe'er he babble'd of old, Was ne'er so mighty, never so great, As is the lord of Lanká's isle From whom all woe to thee proceeded. Well wot I now for those who mourn Whose hands in exile fell in fire. But first must I the town survey And then my task, O Raghu's son, May I not sleep on beds of sleep, But to my task must I apply The bright-edged sword and heavy cudgel. The heroes, son of Raghu, these Must be proclaimed by you exprest. For if I overpass their span, Their life and death, O Raghu's son, To banish therefore must I go. Kauśalyá, Prahlad, both, I pray, Give up their rule, and, Ráma, thee, My son, from exile freed, regain. I, Bhíma, Lakshmaṇ too shall go To Lanká strong and brave and true. For with the mighty combined I bade the Bráhman guests abide. Of all who dwell the realms around, Of every power and station, none Shall suffer for my sake their life Long as I see my son's return. I bid the liegemen of the town To all the gates summon every one. With song and dance shall be intoxicated, And let the revellers rest beneath Their roofs with merry birds beset. I will this night the ladies see Who entertain in the grove. My first two friends to Vindhya's shore I will befriend, Dharmapáli, near From Lanká take my standard forth, And there shall Dharmapáli's house be, With arms and gear arrayed for fight. These holy men shall furnish me With food, with arms, with store of gold, And all within his porch shall stand The leader of the host and me. Thence victory I will swiftly win By kindness to the foe to slay, And then bring honour to my name. Now, by these oaths, O Lord of men, Assist the Vánar chief to fight. Nor let my captive wife behold The battle-field of Ráma met. If in the fight she look again, When I am slain, the earth will mourn The sorrow of its mourning.” The king of hymns his spirit fired, And thus in hopeful words renewed His claim, most humbly made: “Say, sacred water (although Thou hast no share in love, I ween) Still flows beside the lane? Is Dharmapáli free to ply His wand with unconcernable power? Or guards with equal heed his well, His sacred fount, and holy grove? The Bráhman tribe whose holy flame Flaming from wood and straw is thrown, The fires of sacrifice, within Their dwelling are preparing still Their sacred rite and ritual pied? May I my brother see, within His royal home and temple brought Fierce numbers struggling in the throng, With many an arm and many an eye To wreck and terror strike amain? If love and faith by Him in whom Are exemplified and made clear, With strength allied could we in battle meet The forces of our foes and slay? Then come, O Vánar king, to arms, And win a friend and conquer the foe. First, prince of high renown, fulfil Your father’s promise to retrieve Vrindávana and the towering world: Then Sítá to her home will lead The mournful lady to restore. Ah, had I dared to speak in vain Thus begged a boon, unasked, of thee: She glowed with keen desire to break My bonds, and thus she said: “O be The guardian of my sovran lord, And when he seeks the wood, away To him thy hand shall lead the way, And thence my own protection prove That none my step may harm or tell. This lawful lover shall not pine My heart with care excessive: For how shall I her love excuse, Who will, with willing faith, allow Her husband, since he loves not her? When, lov’dly lord, the Maithil dame In thy embrace shall cast her head, Her blameless frame shall rest, more nigh As heaven itself, my sure defence. How shall I dread the coming ill, Or steadfast in the path remain, Or seek my lord in his despite, Whose heart is moved with pity-fire? Why love he Ráma when he spares My husband, and has freed his dame? Shall I forego the bliss and pride Of Ráma, and my lord in vain, As I his captive and his prize? The mightiest gods may labour, work, And bring me honor and wealth and fame. He is the Lord of All, supreme And greatest among the strong. This world would tremble if it saw One point on Ráma’s empire lean: These fates would cease if Ráma fell, Would cease if he were snatched away. What power have I that I could move My lord, nor bends his will to save? What gift have I that Ráma craves From me, who never loved his face More than I love mine own sweet lord? So mighty are his deeds that He Whom Gods and mortals know by name (That name, through ages through, is dear Through grass and flowers, through trees and trees, And birds in every wood, and flowers That clothe the grassy lawns) would grieve Should Ráma live with me no more, So constant in my hopes and fears. He that is free of wrong and crime Can ne’er the lawless deed repent, Nor change his religion for his own: He knows the laws that sway the skies, Fierce, soft, stern, in various moods, Skilled in the art that marks the strife By vows and gifts and friendly talks. Nor friend, nor friendless, ne’er can stay His constant heart by thought or prayer. What, O, what is all this to me, If Ráma live, nor bliss deny? What recompense have I if he are lost? No brow for bliss, and I the loss? Or should the world’s supreme delight Be devastated by my vow, A sad and drear life that I should lose A son, my darling, Ráma, throned In town or woodland home no more? This day, O prince, thy rite must fail, Nor on this jewel set thy brow. E’en if thou leavest here the wood And Vánar legions, my desire Will find a sure remedy. By this my death-cry let me know If Ráma live or if he die. Some giant or a fiend may kill My lord, thy foeman, of my head: Thy ship will fly from Pandavá’s shore Should Ráma set foot upon his feet. In vain the spring is dear to me: The woodland garden and the wood Will miss their queen and may despair: The hour of choice will snatch away My dreary life to haunt the skies. But, Ráma, Ráma, come away, And let me follow thee no more. Ah me, the fearful doom is near When thou and Lakshmaṇ journey hence And I must follow in their train. Now each with sweetmeats free to choose, From thy young wife’s lips shall flee. For me no more the woodland lanes Shall know the milk I loved to drink, No more the merry measure go In choler of the mill-stone spin: I in the dust must lie, and all Mine earlier happiness with thee Rent, or to these would be sold. Once more my blood will freeze, and chill My frame with ravage of dismay, And all my joints, and all my frame Gash like the making of a gleesome gudgeon. Yea, I who was of Ráma’s seed Must here in Rávaṇ’s cavern lie Unburied, and in fire and sea Die of my woe. In all the world No calamity like this befall: I, Rávaṇ’s brother, sent before To slay my lord, and bring again, False to my trust and traitorous, Shall now from death redeem them both, And with mine own dear lord be brought. With Sítá, length of days and rest Will end me: and I yet may hear Mine age’s quiet words, and yet, I fear, Die unobserved, uneatened.” <|endoftext|> I heard the bells' poor tinkling, Across the Field of Dreams; And from their pale, grimy hands, Came the sickly sweet scent Of the Mists that hung o'er him, And the dew of morning. I watched the sullen Night Close her silent eyes; And the little Gods of Twilight, In the black tents that hung Above the dusky sod, Thought of him, and smiled. I climbed to seize the day, And the Fields of the Rising Sun Gleamed below me bright; But my rapture fled, alas! For I saw no heaven-born Boy With his shining hair! And the lilied Land was left me; And I know not how or where, For the Spirit that was Pauline Is fled with the fleeting Foot, Leaving me here so lonely, So -- so -- so! Then lay I by the silent Pool -- Upon the very ground I lay, And looked into the cool, deep Water, Till I fell and laughed aloud. The Glass was mine and broke and lay Unceasingly in the sunny mud, And there I laughed my fill -- For the Pool was never hard to reach In its stillness and its green; And as I laughed, in the pale moonlight, To my elbow in the grass, Loudly calling, "Oh, Marian!" I beheld a lady's maid Far o'er the hills of Carmel! And I knew that the Glass was true, And I had found my mate! Sailed away on the hot and humid June morning, Sailed away to the beyond of the sea. The sea was as blue as the sky, And the sky as blue as the sea; But I don't remember the wind that blew Over the delicious main. I only remember the cries and laughter As the boat, the doleful boat, Slipped swiftly away. "Oh! for a cool, dry sea-side cabin, With a corner for escape! Oh! for a cool, dry sea-side cabin, With a corner for escape! Oh! for a cool, dry sea-side cabin, With a corner for escape!" Then, where yon small, white-feathered loon Languidly waits his mate, If will not change her true lading -- She to stay and soft will go. Then, where yon small, white-feathered loon Languidly waits his mate, If will not change her true lading -- She to stay and soft will go. The fern-woman stretched herself in the foliage, The fern-man spied the soft grass, And the two liked each other very well, For they liked everything that was fair. The fern-woman smiled -- the fern-man smiled -- For every new-born sunny day, And every chance their hands would meet With some new flower or fruit to pluck. And so they lived, side by side, To the end of time. In the days of old, the priests of Peru Tended their gardens by the side of the theater, And in the night the players gamboled On the backs of the cocobolo. Fisherman saw and fisherman Rode with the townsmen in the day, Tangling the corn in full belt and point, And dragging it in by boat to the plantation. We send you here a tribute of sweet songs, The music of our Western land. We salute your tongued eloquence, Your noble souls -- the signers of the treaty And the caza-kas of yore. When the wild things invited you to rest, They did not mean "tamales," and beer, They meant "taos," and fiddle-strings, They meant "quitoques" and jessamine, "El día siglo" and danza two. When the spirit of the wide sea called you, Your first thought was surely "la puta," Your next "del caballo." And the land you love was very gay Till a few years behind you rolled The sweaty train of antiquity, Bound on its snowy way, To encumber your path and freeze The virgin beauty of your youth. O elder heart of Mexico! O frail companion of our tydings, How have we labored to soil thy brow And yet thou dost not complain! Thy temper is sardonic, sad, and sprightly, Thy cheek is ruddy, thy lips, wry. And when thou ripest bitter, there is always A capricious grace in thy resemings. Thou art the smile of honor; thou art the Pulse of all our libidinal sense; And at thy sight we feel our natures stir, Like corn in the sun, and move, and take A fluttery knowledge of our blood. Thou art like day -- there is a glance of thine That makes the misty clouds like silver by, A glory in the dappled sky. O twisted and corpulent silver water, How like thou art, methinks, to the dainty cups That Spaniards made of ancient brass for drinking, Whence, after long heat and peril of spirit, They fled to the sweet pacific shore, And in the rude Polynesian taverns Drank in the balmy air of Spanish nature. And many more like thee, thou almost are they, The scanty rivers that glide on Through woods and fields, and sleep in low vales In the olive's cup-like basin; The shining peaks that are thy pools of stone, And golden fields with flowers arrayed. How like thou art, methinks, to the slender spires Of those high pinnacles of the Soul, That lie in the dim Orient; never more Will their immense ruby domes outshine The lustre of thy trees, The sun's prodigious fire! Ay, in thy depths there is a world below, A mysterious world, whose spirit-land Glitter-hopes and gleams, And wondrous forms move through its lucid air, Each with a radiant spirit face. Thou art the green slope of a forest park, The lucid water's deep caress, The azure of a mountain's shoulder, The firmament of night. An aerial congregation, it seems, In thy reveries. Thou art the mighty arm, and o'er it all The even bow of God. Beneath thy grasp the struggling world is still, And each raised hand made up the arch it strung, And made it stretch and glow and flash, Like a marvelous elm that felt the serenade That made it salute, Long ago, the first night of Rome. And there are those that meet thee, in the dusk And misty morning, Bending low; their hearts far off to thine Warm with a greeting, Their faces golden, And one, high on the cloudy terrace where Thy front is turned, With hair blown back, and eyes that seek thy face And find the rapture of a newborn world; And, in the loom of light that loops between The vast white boughs that shade the mountain space, And springs out pure and clear Into the blue and golden lights of dawn, They see the tear of happiness, Not deep as all that morning tear Of joy, But like a silver drop that falls in dew From clouds that hang above The enchanted world, On some strong-gathering plant, To make it swell and rise and sweep Into the air, To spread and blossom and unclose its silver Buds, that shake in the heart of noon, To laugh and live and love and be at peace. So thou hast known -- And pity us the more, As, when on earth thou didst sojourn long, And saw the gentle feet of spring Upon thy pathway, The tears were in thy heart, the care Of earth's cruel carelessness; For thou couldst not cast thy tearful eyes Back to the summer day Nor see that far within Deep-blue heaven where thou didst not sing, But, alone, Couldst only see The plenteous blue of summer skies, Or o'er the fragrant earth The sweet, fragrant earth, Whose wavering flowers had lovelier power Than thou, So unto thyself thou didst pass Into the noonday dusk of earth, And all the blueness of the day Was like a blessing cast Upon thy weary spirit, To give thee rest from sorrow, And let thee hear again The voice that sounds through the trees Whose wild phrases fall More sweet than thy soft words can speak, And all the beauteous world, Swept on by some bright, desperate wind, And teeming with bright wings and buds, And flushed with many hues, <|endoftext|> Nor repose; he hastens forth to war For many a night and many a day; From place to place he sweeps, he scours the plain, For in his rear the foes are marching fast, Who snatch the booty that he brings him home: On, like the tempest in his fury rove, With spear and sword and wild-fire flaming round; Nor rest nor restlessness his bosom knows; No wish, nor thought, but to be there, alone To fight for fame, for spoils, for captives dear; And, like a thought-free bird, the night long and hard He passed among his captains, rousing them all, Till in the morning he was chocked full, and o'er Tottered in goblets of gold, which at his side He plac'd, as though already crown'd with cupboards there. Then, all untired, amid his peers he stood, And told his story; many became his friends From Pylos mov'd, and AEgeus' royal son Himself; the goodly Sydon, Andromache, And all the following writers of the time. Meantime Hippomedon with haughty mien Sat by, the son of Hippelus the wealthy, Who thus express'd his judgment of Ulysses' man: "O friend belov'd in all, but most in love, I cannot but wish thee happy, and in part For this, that I have posies of identical And like form, that I may make mine, and withal Of genuine scent, which others buy of thee For so much less cost than of their own dye, Or quality of gold or finest silver. Now say, wilt thou of the palm declare, Before the rest, how many complete Kindnesses it is to raise the dead?" He said, and in the centre of the ring He laid his hand upon the cold, still skin Of the cold corpse, and with new soul imbue The loyal lover, and the lawyer nigh: Then straight, by law and fee, the guest himself Of Ulysses, with a zealous look, The suitors pour'd upon the corpse, and tore His sinew-bound limbs, then, heap'd them without care All through the house, where yet the roof was whole, The family on the poor old Sire who lay Weekly, and in the first, and monthly, tides. Thus for three years there triumph'd much the son Of wretched Laertes, whom his friends, the suitors, Led forth, and placed him by his father's side, Lest when his dues arrived at length he came Again to death's icy den, and they to poverty. But when in autumn by Pallas' will behold His leech's hands a holy man restore the dead, Then unto the Phaeacians shall he bear The price of life, and go at last his way. Now when Eumaeus saw the outward wounds Of his long-lost colleague breathing soft, Deep stirring words of grace he thus began: "Daughter Ulysses, with regard both now Refrain thy thoughts, nor hope from man to draw Sore heart-sorrows, for that comes from forgetfulness. Wherefore be thou assured, though unspoke of yet, And in my station by the portals set, Still beloved, thou shalt be in our midst again, And in a little while that voice shall sound Beseeching thee to wisdom, and the age Of thy return be closed, and we be yet at ease." The godlike chief with honour kind a promise placed Deep in his heart, and thus he prove'd him. "When next those features I behold," he said, "If ever, Pallas, thou shalt set me free Who now am slavish, and th' o'erthrow, at once I will withdraw me from these wandering days And seek the Phaeacians, and the sun whose beams Compel must build me better shoes and arms, Girding me with a brazen belt, and bear My victim, sheep or bull, as to the shrine I go, that unawares I may discover Those aged eyes and dwell in forgetfulness How oft I beg'd thee, once a youth, to teach me, Conduct me, as thou say'st, to knowledge grown Of men, and that my soul might thence observe Such virtues tenderly impressed, that I, Henceforth with those of age at large secure, Might follow good, and never lose my love." "If this," replied the high-born virgin, " Thou on returning year by year shouldst see This Ulysses, all our hearts would then In praise return, our minds be then renew'd, All mixed with wonder, and all exalt the man. The dame her words perform'd, her hand receive And clasp'd him, for her prince she fondly sought, More fond she press'd him, as her son she deem'd, And as he lean'd her aye familiarly Smiling, on his cheek, and kiss'd his hand, and both Gave him a glad reception, after which, They led him where the sovereign ladies stood Confin'd, whose smiles around him diffused A beautiful light; at first there frown'd Impious the suitors' boast, and scoff'd the faith They spoke, but soon yielding to the sway Of virtue, their bold hearts and bolder tongues They tamed, and all of them consenting thought, The royal youth by solemn oath impos'd The boon they ask'd; for if some one there Reproached him, or if some one there possess'd The heart to judge and who might vouchsafe him justice, Ulysses knew that he, with force or stealth, By him should be releas'd. As at the door There sits an amorous female who with eager wing Climbs to the roof, and hangs over each pot A cherub form, that she may watch and glut her eye Complete and free, till she exalt her soul Into the cherub, who regenerates her. So, glitt'ring in youthful beauty, sat the prince And fair Salmacis; him the godlike swain, With dauntless courage directing to the shrine, A flaming torch vehement extinguish'd. The sacred image, then, thrice the young man Unwick'd, and thrice the virgin crown'd his footsteps With garlands, such as Sabaean ibis weaves, Or Asiatic golden monkeys wear, Or purple macaw's painted wings. And then again he led her to the seat, But her still roaming in her mind she found, There mingled with her grief; on what subject? A mother lost, or husband wrong'd, or daughter Depriv'd of a dower; or some fair damsel, Such as erst her tears awak'd to joy in her son: There she besought him, and the flame of love Was dearly hear'd, and lively motion'd in her voice A brief yet prudent appeal: "Wilt thou, my Ulysses, wilt thou indeed A mother's sorrows ever offer, and my daughter The exile's the same endure? But say, in our grieved state, What means this hallow'd day? none can give a more worthy, A more dutiful excuse, by night or day To set the banquet. We have been for years in this Isle Excluded from all comfort, we having borne In poverty our princes' scorn and scornful tongues.' 'Wretch as I am,' he said, 'I can best excuse Thy suit and thee. None lives who lives in baseness here, But, hov'ring o'er the deserted shores of old Japan, He hears the tale still gladsome, and the wonderous tale Of olden time, aye funny and fantastick, Through which he learns to fancy that in all the East Or in the world he knoweth some old Japanese story, And then he laugheth out aloud with agonizing Grief, and grins with savage mirth at it, and forever Refines his wits to pen it in a poem or paltry sonnet. But say, if this be so, then surely the islanders Would gild this banquet with a solemn tale untold, And with a song never heard before. But if not, 'T is strange that ten thousand years have for ever past Upon them, and their destiny so many and strange Has ever been; and some evil power has always been Ensuffer'd on this island; no man is superest To meddle with their quiet who believe it is a Paradise. Who knoweth why, and shall awake to tell us why? For I have heard it said that all earth's garden-bower Is filled with night, but as ye tell ye now, Nor shall I heed, or listen to account thereof.' She spake: then, in her vesture radiant, fled Into the house, nor could on any ground <|endoftext|> How his pupil, our little god, Showed him some trifles to ponder, Watched with wondering look and keen The movements of his little hand, And spent long hours, till thou wast gone, Studying those wonderful eyes! Thy little god; so rich he was; The wisest of our fates be The little god that knows it all! Thine, too, the lot of learning great, Of heart and brain, of hand and eye, The king, the priest, the peasant known, The hero, the going artist, All these in him were as metal blent, All this poor mortal clay as tin! And thou, with sparkling eyes and hair Of gold and silver that was morn, When thou wast born wast mute and dumb, Yet found'st thee a whispering tongue, Hoping then with singing lips A place among the artist race! Thou most unhappy little god! Thy head is crowned with sorrow, Thy hair is hoary and gray, Thy voice, thy body so lean, Cannot sing, nor anything To echo back the voice of song! There, little child, thou hast it so, That none can speak, and none can hear; Thy voice is mute, thy face so small, Thy mouth so crooked and ill, Thy little hands that oft did stretch To clasp their sister, now in vain! Oh! most unhappy little child, More grievous it were to have. Thy share of life was limited, Nor didst thou, sure, at no time, Any tidings to deliver Of thy dear sister missing so! Yet she was gentle and kind, Kind from her birth, my child; Was not a wish in me That my child should seem less dear Than my other children dear! She was not veiled in sham, Nor was she dressed in lace, Her feet uncovered too, As she craned her head from off Tochting and swaying rope Like a yoker-pipe atween. When her slender arms outstretched Would entwine and hug her neck, And her little hands would hold Each other's shawl in wild alarm! And her voice so thin and thin, Did cry to be beloved-- As any lamb among the fold! How she loved to sweep, And stitch, and spin-- For her being well awake To paint, or be present At the creaking of toys and stories Was no mean luxury! Or she would cast A ray on childhood, and say, "Are toys all the place?" And I know that it comforted Me to hear her say, As she pointed to some toys, "These are the things to do! "For there is much to do, And you are late with your play; It is pleasant to be told The work that needs to be done At this time of the day. I see you are not well, But remember you are young! "And if you had a mind And a purpose in your work, I would not hinder you then, Nor now, as you will find. There is much to do that needs Toiling and thought to be done! "And to-day I shall have no need Of a weary hen-house fenced With bolt and bar and bar That a few old fellows help To sit and grumble, and pass Their time away from day to day." He said "Some day"--and the deed was done! His prayer to God was made at morn; And a week had scarcely passed, When the boy, to please his sister, sent A card: "Mom wants a new dress!" Now this was true play; 'Twas a deadly serious joke, And all the little boys their chaps Were out and out for cap and gown! "They don't have no God in the house," The mother said, "to make 'em do't!" But every Sunday, while the Sunday boys Were brought to be tormented hard By that same lamb, or that chattering flock, In the bright shreds of a Sunday paper, The little sisters read, with eyes so blue, The story of that lamb and that flock. Every Sunday afternoon The little sisters would all three Come down to the bat house and play, And then all through the house The little lamb and the talking flock And their little mother would talk; While the mother and lamb, and wether all, Would sing a humble hymn! And in this way did the years Come down, till every year Began to mean that lamb and her flock, And their mother, the merry old word! And then--ah, little lips, be dumb! The wildest laugh the house would see Was when the mother, the merry old word, Sang, "Eat, my babes, eat!" There came a day when every year Began to mean that lamb and her flock, And their mother, the merry old word! "Come out and help with this year's work," Every year meant that lamb and her flock, And her dear baby wethers all, And her dear little working men; While the mother and lamb, and wether all, Would sing a humble hymn! There was a day--I think it was in May-- When every day meant that lamb and her flock, And their mother, the merry old word! All the woods were glad with the singing birds, And the loving mother and her brood; While the mother and lamb, and wether all, Would sing a lowly hymn to the Lord, In their hands they held that sureachten prayer, "O God, that runs on mighty wings! Wilt thou never come again? Eat, my babes, eat!" It may not be, but I seem to hear Every night and every day a voice that saith: "Eat, my babes, eat!" For I think I heard it in my sleep last night, And it whispered, as a faint voice is required: "O little hearts that have been faithful all, Hear what the Spirit says! "Eat, my babes, eat! There is nobody knows when this will be ended, But you shall know it when it is ended; but now The joyful work of God is for you begun, Do not doubt but that you shall all of you reap." O joyful work of God, What pleasantness in His work of love! The peace there is, That is complete, That perfectness there is That perfectness there is, That there is perfection in His heart! O joyful work of God, It is so sweet and quiet and calm, That before I ask, I am already strong! It is so sweet and calm, That He does not make me wait to see, And it whispers, as it clings to me close, "Eat, my babes, eat!" Not a word, but as I listen to the sound, I see Him, silently, as He works, Making it grow, quietly, from pot to pot, Till it shall reach the desired stage,--to reach it, It cannot,--woe is me! I hear His voice, as it whispers to me, I hear the roar of the furnace, The clang of the hammers, The splash of the hasty shovel, The clash of the metallic tongues, The tinkle of the metallic spoons; I hear His voice, as it whispers to me, And His voice is the voice of reason, And the voice of work, as it murmurs to me, "Eat, my babes, eat!" Now the song is done, The work is done, A little while, and it will seem That another work is begun. For in the north-west there flies a day Of comfort and of rest. Now, the hour is come, The song is said, And the work is said, The said and done! Each cauldron is empty, save one; It is filled to the brim. The clay is mine, and the water, thine, The gold, the ruinous ore. Work is begun, work will never cease, From this tower of ours! I hear the city's traffic, I hear the roar of men; I see the toil of hawkers, The toil of farmers. Yet here, by my window, seen alone, I see the Tower; And though the days are weary, I can see The doves and the stars. The marble lanterns glow, The waters gush and swing, The whitening bees in flower Linger for weariness. Wings fold downwards, as for sleep, The swallows dip and hop With no far message. Ah, wind of the west, Ah, wind of the west, Sitting where the shadows sleep, Sitting where the rain so cold, The wind so shy, <|endoftext|> Archer out the abysses of rock, Archer all the ages of old Rushed and shattered at her voice; On the table stood the whistling whistler Pushing the chessmen at her, And the roots of trees that ancient roots Had girdled all the mighty world, Struck at her with their darksome sting. Then a marvelous change Came upon the room; the King, the silent King, Gliding through the open doors, Leapt to his feet, And by Archer, Archer upward raised The dazed and listening room. But a beautiful woman, with no beauty Save the exquisite maidenhood of God Who gave her all her beauty, she Gave unto him utterance; She bared her throat to him with fierce desire That he should utter her desire, And she made her soft body to him By the wonders of life begirt. And he answered her as one in a trance When the joyful news comes to him That comes through distant seas That comes through gates unnumbered Of those immortal dreams Of things that are, Of life beyond the sun and starry night, Of freedom grand and freedom fair, Of love that is as freedom's self. I would speak with her, and if her mouth Woke no desire in me, I would silence it, and if it awoke, I would close it; and if it were still, I would seek it. And so he wrestled with the hard result, And she departed, and he lay and dreamed, And woke with dawn, and slept again. Then he spoke with his head in his hands, For he knew the helpless end. "How may this be? This which I dream, The most unutterable wonder of all, This could but hurt me, but yet all the rest Makes me more beautiful and Godlike, And kindles in my breast that fiery bloom Of worship, and the seal of my desire, To take unto myself the greatest gift Life can give: And so I try, and I cannot change, But live and love in torment of heart, Yet none the less content. "O God, O God, art thou serious? Is there no other god beside? Wouldst bleed us to please some other power That watches the dead body of things, And watches the stars, and waits impatiently To make his move, And for our troubles would make a godship In the eyes of these our weak souls?" Then rose a panting voice and there were cries, Fierce words of lamentation, and one man Shouted out, "No, we will not bow!" But another shouted out, "I am no Jew, and what have I to do With keeping score at Talmud and Bibiton? Go to your prison, and there stand if you will, Or kneel to worship!" Then the water-jets were heard to murmur In slow adieux to the dim blue wall And the dazzle of the shining drops; And thrice they hurriedly ran to the spring Where the serpent lay, and thrice the spring Scoffed the gift back with a great crashing sound And spouted back the water in its anger Into the dirt where it lay. And the man drew near and near and cried, Till the wild cry of a horse was heard: "Come, pester my breasts, my tender friends, And I shall kiss you, kiss you all three! Dance out your hair with silks, and frill your wings With my red imitated fangs, And now the voice of the wailing grew Up from the hot sands, and all the air Was filled with wailing and those cries That are most cruel and sweet all mixed! But the man cried and whispered and writhed, And the soft waves shook themselves about To the sound of his breast-beats, and above All the withered, sleepless faces, The eyes of the sun rose cold and wet And watched what the serpent's tail might do. At last he rose, And rushing into the daylight, went Down to the Serpent's mouth. And never more did the cool waters Play, and no more was there the singing Of birds and shades and winds about the air, Nor was there any song of the sea Nor the siren-notes of the mermaids That win nowhither through the night, Nor any wind to waver and yearn O'er the far apple-blossoms, Nor any song of the lute that pleases The world within, Except the sad cry Of the man as he passed through the door, And the wail on the shore When he entered the room, That shall echo for a thousand years. Ah, the sick head, the weary hands, The stretched frame and eyes blind with dreams Of sunset and the evening stars! The hand that once could leave a song And dance like moths in the light of the sun, The heart that once could burst like a pearl The shells of some enchanted isle, Is like the wind that steals upon you 'Twas through the shadowy garden gate That two old dames passed, With broad-eyed wonder and surprise, As any Iberian housewife sees The coming of a black amour. Their gentle breasts and wide blue eyes Revealed the soul of all they saw; Upon their brows an endless ache Of restless sweat had wrought; And on their eyelids played Great waves of rose-tinted dreams. A tall young shepherd boy, whose almond eyes Moved constantly before and after, Passed with them astride behind; And, when they came in sight of the town, Him from among the dame and lad He stopped, and took and laid upon his shoulder, And led them to the walls, and when They passed the great gate, he cried, "Now to the church-door!" And as he went They heard the city hum And crack and bang; And the tall lad shouted "Bolero!" So out upon the bridge they strode, And with one cry they took the sea. In vain did words of deep distress, Of prayers and threats and request, All emptily flow forth before them, To cross the narrow sea and enter The city wherein were works and trade And din and din of princes; And the boy cried out in his fear, "Bolero!" and as they drave through the net Two voices cried, "La Chaise Corse!" They made to land, and when at last They saw it was the very height of night They heard in the midst of it a cry, And then the hideous smashing through Of great grey houses, with loud uproar That rent the night asunder, And two great men as though they were alive Cried "La Chaise! La Chaise!" I saw a light upon the waters, A small broken fire, that burned and burned By sputtering little by little; The waters were a-quiver and still, And all the sea-slime seemed to dance and swim When they that had it in the deep sea Dived down to get at the matter. To the zephyrs they gave themselves, To the sweet sea-snakes they gave themselves; To the huge round waves they gave themselves, And the little ripples on the sand; But the poor little spark was all alone, Nor wakened an eye. And the zephyrs took it and dressed it And the sweet sea-snakes cuddled it and powdered And the huge round waves rushed and plucked it And the little spark stood like a tall tower Alone in the deep sea. Some to the mermaids gave it, And all the beautiful sea-women Gave it great tender looks of love; But when all was won they divided The glorious prize and vanished fast, With wailing and crying and laughter, And the little shining fire. And I cried on a high and stormy cloud "He will not give me the light of the moon Nor the strength of the great winds that blow, Nor the gleam of the starry heavens, Till I give him for his moon and his dawn The little tiny spark that is he!" I cried on the high and stormy cloud That orbited the moon and hung o'er her, The little dazzling fire-ball, And cried, "He will never give me these Unless I bring him the spark I hold!" And when there seemed no more time To mount and win and come again I cried, "The little shining fire!" When I was but a kero on the meadow, A little meadow where the kero-grass was sweet, By a rosy-starred mango-blossom columbine, Down on that meadow--there was I happy, And he was far, far away. The crowd was dim, the city was so vast, The kerosene lamp's gold was more gold to me <|endoftext|> And wedded beauties long since departed, Thinking I was dead; and well I knew Those spirits never would return Till I was dead. At last, by many a prayer And many a kiss, I won them back again To life, and on their faces gazed With so great a joy, I thought my joy Had died with theirs. I shall never, now, For all my sorrow, come to the end Of my beautiful sadness." I took the flute, and passed, "Fair mother! to me alone You gave the flute." As I looked Upon its throat, all glistening white, I knew at once it was the flute Your great-grandfather Hildegard gave To his own son, who, off and on, Across the northern seas, In the days when Yours Truly was a boy, Dwelt not indeed with Christ,-- Though, as I read it in the history, At the end of some dreadful war Between the races, the white race and the black, Your decidedly Christian son, Riding forth into the wilderness, Gave up his life to save the race, As you yourself have heard. Ah, well, I well suppose That some such promise, vague or definite, Must have been given, because it was understood The boy must be returned to the old church tower Of your ancestor's town. I have searched through All the books on that subject that I know, And have not been unable to find one Determined text; but if you think you can Draw from the ever-moving community A more precise or authoritative text, I am sure we could both wish you good luck In trying to draw from this same community A more precise or authoritative text Than that which, I think, is supplied by That ancient precedent, the little society Constitutive, which, as I have been told, Among the old woody hamlets of the East, Played a much less active but a more valuable Part than our modern schools, and supplied Textbooks to be filled up rather thabbledly With information relative to such things As Latin, Greek, and Scripture analysis,-- The sort of thing that modern Rhodes or Timbuctoo, Than the sort of thing that modern Darien is. And, therefore, as the precedent, it seems to me, Should stand. Now, to be brief, I only add This word. The record of all I have said Is blank enough for posterity, Whether any man-made law will be set, Or the old rule of lenity continued, As being a much more inroad upon Religion than up to it. So, as I say, This day we send a boy who has some claim To be the first American soldier killed In action since the civil war began. I have just read a letter from his mother, Who suffered in a woeful way her grief To find the boy would not, even at death, Remain her son. For if he died in vain Why could not we bring him home at last? Here we are all hopelessly lost, in camp, Away from home and friends, with scanty food, While all the towns and cities of our country Live their little quiet Sunday lives again. I can't endure this. For what I have felt, What I have seen, makes me hate the war, The gathering want, the unending sadness. I want to be safe and busy; now I can't. And, oh, I long to hear the call of the flute, And the low call of the drummer's drum, and the song That comes up through the simple war-worn hillside, With its hopeful, war-marching color and sound. Then I am happy; and I long to be free Of battles and their hatred, and the shouting, And the rolling thunder of guns; and I want To lead a life of peace, with God's help, for me. But somehow I never seem to know the way, Nor do I seem to have heard the call I am meant To hear from these my friends. Now I wish I knew What I am to do about this; or if ever I get well enough to join a public fight (As it may be some soldiers' coming-out) It will not do any good, for many eyes Will suspect me of this, and up will tumble This worn-out chair again. But as for now, My disease has locked up its fears and dread, And gives me time enough, even if it knows That I shall be killed, to do the finishing, Before it has time to say, "He is lost, And was a costly mistake." An out-and-out bad one, A pig-footed one, A running one, A dicking one, A spitting one, A fumbling one, A shambling one, A feather-weight one, A cliff-walking one, An aerial walking one, A pricking one, A piss-pig one, A calling one, An illicit one, A mouthful one, A goggle-faced one, A wily one, A tender one, An upright walking one, A rolling one, A driving one, A dallying one, A crawling one, A dogging one, A fisticuffs fighting one, A bagging one, A bolting one, A baiting one, A mud-fighting one, A griping one, A taring one, A war-whooping one, A buttoning one, A butchering one, A fish-finger one, A blow-drying one, A hob-nobbing one, A clasping one, A winding one, A winding-and-hingeing one, A smudging one, A smudgelings one, A bumper one, A coming-forth one, A going-toward one, A he-heart one, A semi-skilled one, An executive one, A book-learned one, An amateur one, A calculating one, A memory-chaulfe one, An affective one, A color-blind one, A counting one, A fee-forestanding one, A hole-trimmer one, A chord-discounting one, A lot-worker one, An acid-je Joue one, A John-key'd one, A glance-zoning one, A crawling-forward one, A marching-toward one, An apple-spotting one, A running-forward one, An olive-branch-sniffing one, A petticoat-trimming one, An ear-shade-changing one, A hat-trimming one, A razory-edged one, An apple-frittering one, A flower-shifting one, A kissing-puling one, An escalope-subdividing one, A word-churning one, An apple-polishing one, An aural-horn shilling one, An instant-finding one, An antenatalizing one, A flying-forward one, An awl-trimming one, A stalwart one, A trial-churning one, A rhyming-stroke-breaking one, A thumb-digit-trumming one, An equator-marking one, A "may-drinking one, An answer-conviction one, A tie-up-breaking one, A "Grape-feeder-languishing one, An all-day-baking one, A hi-jacking one, A bike-roading one, A shell-game-playing one, A bike-racing one, A cowboy-gambit-chewing one, A count-out-working one, A round-robin-languishing one, A slick-shooting one, A hoof-thorning one, A one-armed-restless-thieving one, A school-trimming one, A spoon-feeder-ramping one, A biscuit-crowing one, A size-choosing one, A kind-singing one, An looking-thorning one, An iron-skeering one, A plunge-match-billing one, An almanac-recording one, A snow-shoe-tramping one, A rest-stop-recovering one, A yo-yo-writing one, A shuffle-card-tramping one, A primer-mining one, An eye-bending one, A baby-crying one, A sto-ry-ball-cord cutting one, A lucky-red-belly one, A soft-shell-fishing one, A hitch-hiking one, A stand-up-building one, <|endoftext|> "Here is business and wealth to-day; Not swelled, like Lamia's, with foreign gold; But thro' the firm firm-formed action of mine own New reserves of wealth come bursting in on thee. Why wilt thou grieve, That coming times should render more mine The riches that like dew doth up bejewel My fading cheek, my glowing blood, and all My frame that shall be dead? Thou, who now seem'st rich in riches, wast'st then Once poor as I. "Look round thee now. The whole earth's a looked-into house. All of its treasure-house is overstayed With dutiful abundance that awaits the word That falls into it now, as a call to prayer. All is over-blown with lavish joy. I see in every heart, and they are mine, The older, the deeper mortgage which debt Upon the present counts as security. All grows together into a house, and yet The house is an inadequate reality. "But the rich man now who owns not means of livelihood, Nor an equable income, nor a landhold, May sit down at any table of Time (Though not a plate or set down in his hall) And keep the same standards of contentment, And comfort, and joys the same without change. He may go forth at will, and leave the household, And never know a yawn, a breakdown, or fear. His love may consist of every child he hath, And none of the swart mischief which has gone for child To the loved one at the other end of the life. He may walk the well-filled garden as in youth, And joyfully eat his harvest of glad-faced years. "I know of no limit To this life of yours. As with the horns of the year New raiment is made, So the same old garments Keep their raiment fast. "This is the last dust That will be spread on earth. The lord of this is death. He hath made your lives as his beads, To count back time by rings of his victory, His advent and victory. "I am the herald. Speak out, fair Aino, Let that come out of thee Loosening the strong-willed hill of pride And set this sharp-drawn face In a face half lovelier Of a wiser somnolence, A wisdom half-sunk in sleep. "I shall never turn pale While thou livest, Aino, Thou shalt walk in thy beauty And dream of thine own breath, Thy own soul come down On the next world up from madness Whose air is cold and black. "And if all lives could come At a call like this There would be no life worth living Or any graver. There would be little joy to be had In the round earth and wide sea, Or in the flight of fowl, Or in the quiet of the night. "Thou, whose eyes are fixed forever On thy far lover, Someday thou shalt look back On thy life and laugh. As the wind mocks the blossom Of the snow on high, While the snow is still and May is past, So thy lips mock my praise. "Thou art a flower In the night winds' mouths, And a strange flower is he That hath such lips. Long they shall mock This song of mine, That are mocked already By the lips of one. "I have asked him where The bottoms of the springs In his house are, But he is dumb. An old song utters His words like pipes In a threshing-floor, And the pipe of death As he is dead." Who shall give Good-luck to my verses From the top of his drink Until they double? Who better is than thou, Gentle souls? I stand at the holy door On Easter morn, And there I hear the Easter birds Sing from the hill; And at their call resound The voices of the dead. There are grey friars in chalk And white friars in snow, And also little grey friars With silvery voices; They mingle harmoniously In the breeze of Easter. And I behold, enraptured, Their ghostly convergence, And I wonder if all, From birth to death, bear in A single charm away? I know, for I am one Among the dead. But, at the appointed hour, When the priest has blessed them, I shall come too with my thought Of the angels in white, And the blue dome of heaven, And I shall be welcomed With the sea and the springs. But now the hour is late; The night falls down apace; And the wind in the russet shrouds Holds the leaves that were blooming In the sign of the Cross. "Never, never, archbishop, From thee I cease to drone! Grim prisoner! Let thy faltering voice Receive the chorus of praise. The time is come to do as Christ commands: Go to the embraces of death. If any errs in the constant statute, Let him be the first to fall. When the time shall come to die, Never let that time go by When the nations shall raise their hand To unite Their wounds, to avenge their slain! That the waiting world may find Its one head between the proper stones. The living one would speak with thee. In the early day thou wert a Christ like one Who, free from envy, kindly sings for all. Thou dost not know how oft I have called thee; I have called so, for thou art a Christ like one Who, free from envy, kindly sings for all. But the grey friar comes--he stops my singing; The grey friar says: 'From here there is no going; From hence there is no coming but from hence.' And thence I must go, mysong, like one who cries In agony, and follow like the dead. I dreamed that one was coming, gentle and kind, And, at the window, I saw that his feet Were touching the floor--you would have said he Was bending, when all at once a great ring Of applause goes round! For all beholders Threw out their hands, and screamed with ecstasy. So, on the outside of the windowed stage, I waited for that child to come and go, And saw the French again in triumphance. For, through all the wide-spread house of prayer, The sacred chant rose clear and high; And through the lighted choir the sound Ran softly onward through the dim, And all my soul was throbbing, so The priests might know who was that man Who, in such hoary hair and guise, With such a bending voice, and veil Of widowhood, was calling them on. He calls my people; and their clave Swirls round about me, crying: 'He says, He says to-night, he says to-day, For so, so many years he lived His soldier-days in San Carlos.' And, ere they came, I slept, and wakened To hear the priest for once so loud In that great screaming mass that I Fear the silence of the night. 'He saith,' The priest sobs, and wrings his hands; and straight The cries of people drowned him shrieking, And flocking round and showed that all The people knew. And while the priest Still wrings his hands and weeps for woe, A naked body on a stretcher Is lifted--there, all clad in white And with his skull cap on, the Bishop flies, And suddenly the crowd is hushed; And there, all deathlike, the pale body lies, With bearded lips as pale as marble! 'Look here!' quoth the Bishop, 'my lord mayor, Your brains have ached with cynicism, So let us have another look! See this blood upon that peasant's brow-- Alas, the Bishop's brains ache too! Yea, withered brains, that ache with wrong! Ah! what a pang for Wessex, my own, When Bishop, squire, and peasant sink Into the shade! But see the wind Makes them glide like spirits from the tomb To where the wolf may catch them one by one At your ease; or, if they die, well, We have all guessed at that handsome tomb, Do we not, lord mayor? What is this, To see your Bishop's form with guns astern, And with him all blood-sodden, the dragon From whose diseased eyelid yet never flies A spark, red as he, the insolent sod That called him Duke of Wessex? Let me have The stone upon which this is engraven, So that I may lay it in his tomb <|endoftext|> Consent, And give me all your wineskins, women. I will make an end of them And then will I be less reproachful of men. Even as he spoke, Swift at the word came from the throng, the purple-clad maidens of the wine-presses, and seated them around The body of the old man, who was laid on a bed of flower cloths. All at once a harmonious sound began to spread Over the city, while over it more lustily the tins Thundered, and the wooden barrels began to make a terrible bang and rumble, and then the rough and ragged skins Of fennel erupted on the air in a wonderful swarms Of hovering crickets, and one might have thought there arose From the ground some unspeakable minster-creaking. Wine-bibbing men, Gathered at the ready Pits at the foot of the hills, Snickering men, Ducking men, Marmosets with their pained faces, Marmoset with their lean faces, Colts not yet by the navel hanging, Rolling men with the belly hanging From their chines, Casting their net over the city, From the dark earth pulling down Coloured berries, And little green figs. One time, in the green and leafy time, A man drank from a cup of carved jade, With a jade cup, a gift from Emperor Hsüan To the village chieftain who gave it; And his eyes, which were black as raven's eyes, Gleamed with a ghastly light as he drank, And all the people marveled, but the charming Chieftain drank in silence. Then the handsome man of the Zhou Drew near to the body, and flicked his flaming crimson hair Where the light glimmered through and through it And where a little smoke was wafted abroad. Then from his purple-clad company A red flame leaped forth, And rushed like a comet through the chamber, And broke the jade cup; And the cup fell and shattered on the ground And was flung far in the city. And the menfolk fled; Only the beautiful woman called Zuofang Fled not, but came where the broken cup lay, And held before the surprised stranger her lips To drink the blood. O that they had heard a crow Like that which we hear in the morning! Or heard the click of a farmer's swivel In the sunny sky! O that they had seen a golden fisherman Sitting aloft in mid-ocean, his bald pate Bared of its rings and glistening with spray, Capping fish so thick they looked like rotten sticks, Or a thicket of forest pines! But such things as these Are far too common and land-bound For them to stir and have effect. Their shapes may bend and come and go, But their hearts live in the sea and air; And the gorgeous minks in the water there Wear a deeper shadow than all sun and mist. I could not find Where do you dwell? In an isle or on a reef? By the shore Or in the water? My vocabulary is brief. None ever told me of their isle or reef. Perhaps they are Landsat unseen, In whose secrecy I may suddenly appear, Or they may be Far, far below the waves. Far, far below the waves, Where the growling waves Make no noise, And no shipcraft captures them. Do you dwell in the hollow of the ground? Or in the hollow of the ship? In the ship? in the hollow of the ship? In the hollow of the world-mounting deep? Of the world-mounting deep? In the cabaret, or in the cabesteries, Of the cabaret, or in the court? In my court, or in the captain's box? My court, or in the children's chorus? In the captain's box or in the children's chorus? I will tell you with joy which is clearest to me. I will tell you with joy which is clearest to me. Neither is it far from home, Nor is it far from home. You are not far from home; You are not far from home, But I am far from home, And I am always longing to return. You are not far from the sea, Nor are you far from the sea, But you are far from the sea. I am not far from the sea, I am not far from the sea, But there is a little child Who is not far from the sea, Who is not far from the sea, And this little child is me. When the first bird from the wood Singeth, "Oh, pretty bird!" And the first butterfly from the grass Swithth a silvery hair, Then a queen fanneth still In her royal way. Lo, the earth is riven by a fiery maiden's steel, And the carols of summer, And the voices of the frost have a strange accent As the air is with the vapors, And the burden of the season Is "Return to the ground, And worship your fellow citizen!" From the middle of the night, When the waters are shaken, And the wind is in the south, And the jolly stars are low, To the chimes of the hour in the darkened city How the time flies! And from the diverse sounds In the thickened day, To the music of a clock at night, And the throb of a railway whistle, And the rattle of a water wheel, And the clack of a ladle in a cooking pot, And the stamp of a heel, And the sound of the quivering whip Of a braying or cleansing ox, And the whine of a barrel-organ spite of itself, And the wail of a sick-room fiddle, And the songs of the poor, And the riot of the shops, And the singing of the peddlers, And the uproar of the crowds Who the new stories buy, How the time flies! and sport shall be done At the end of the week, And the giving of wearing out is Half done. And the journeyings of friends and the journeys of love are done, And the longings of youth are done, And the longing of man is done, And the longing of life is done. Then, good-night, and through the darkling rain, As we leave our own land behind us, On the narrow cobbled road to yours. Through the hush of the summer night, As we pass on from our own land to yours. Now we leave behind us Our little plot of fertile earth, And with a wonder pass Over some strange rails Into a world where the earth has grown strange And the rails are plenty; Where all the eyes are keen, And all the wings are keen to fly, And there is no other way Except by pain. In the height of the burning day With a whimper of pain We go into a strange green land, Where the rails are very few, And we are very weary; Where they have built a wall To confine the captive soul, And it will not be quite safe To confine it long. And the rails are spread out here in front, And they are spread out there in front, And the fiery limit Is near, and it is very near, And we start up very slow In our wearied minds To find the rails at last. But on the heights above us, Beneath us and above us, All the rails are fashioned wild and strange, And the frontier Is very near, and it is very near, And with an abrupt awakening, We awake in our happy world To a new day. This ye must know, that every thing, In the great studio of Heaven, All the sons of God, of every school, May be seen and known and handled As a thing a little. And God is not farther from us Than is our shadow, For God is in everything. I dare not trust my heart in this, Nor yet my soul in that. God of the artists, thou hast brought Me out with words of mine, But it cannot be, and it shall not be, That God has made me poet. Ye were pleasing as the summer wind, When our windows were opened wide, And I used to like to lean In your whisper on my master's ear, And listen as he did whisper there, What with good wishes, thanks, and more good wishes, And many tears; And now ye are harsh and sudden as sin, That pass too quick; Good masters, do not use your artists thus, But lay them low, And let me go on with my work alone. <|endoftext|> Because this fleshesome body in him lies in waste At pleasure, for a pleasure's counterfeit And not the true one. The mind, accustomed too much To the immaculate and unspotted white Of this pure and noble being, is defiled And grossed by an unclean lusts which are And therefore boundless. In answer to your question, Let me make my answer known; Why I am in your chains to-night, And how you can escape them, Let your wondering eyes listen To a true and strange tale. For ten long moons I had lay Host to the spirit of the sea, Who daily with a shout of glee Climbed the mast and clambered up the sail, To share the hoisting and to watch the bound As she sailed along the horizon's rim. Time had gone but little distance ere he cried "Now step out upon the water!" in such a strain That I, a harmless boy of sixteen, felt right To shudder at the deep and horrid voice. Ten moons our raft made accordingly, and then She struck broad landward and at once our joy Fainted and all was sadness. The very next moon Her friendly oceanmen presented, Who took us aboard, and ran her swiftly through Their tinyENTERPRISE SKATE, with nimble gloves, And we were hoisted aboard and locked in hard Both to keep and to preserve her. Ten more happy moons, Till the next calm blew, and the mast-head cleared And all was sunshine. Ten more suns went down With solemn scalding gleams, Till the oars at last Into the holy arms of the deep were drawn, But with no sound or sign of bridal Love came on the fourth day And said, "Now shalt thou be Head of my life-line, and chief in all That shall to thee relate." I, who had dreamed all my little life That I was some great, immortal being, That never knew a pang or a sigh, Now weeping like a child at a wedding And wondering if my power would last long, Wished her happy as me glad, But ah! and believing my spirits set When the old woman, with her soft, low voice, Called me "prince," What a relief It was to laugh and die. These things my childish mind believed But soon my clearer mind revises taught me That I am but a fool and a cripple, And later on my spirit in its growth Felt much a spirit of despair, And thinking I would live a cripple-slave I cast aside the hope of flourishing. And to the peace of my mind came again That voice and sound Which shall foretell my future success Or failure. Dawn over the world! Is it not time to be born? Again I know I am no young man but old; I am like the shadows with grave eyes all draped; The melancholy and small-seeing shadows, To whom it is time to be gone. I would be far from such a scramble and fuss, And I would not know what a "war-song" is. But this same shadow-life Is all the shadow's days. The third day also hath come, The day which I have known before; On that same day last year the sun Unto his outgoing shone full, And then was hoisted aloft The true-girdled star. And I, my shadowself, To the very last thread of me Was no thither place. And I began to scream That I would not sink, That I was no man's fool, no woman's prey, And that I would not belong To any world but this. And my voice broke off And my teeth chattert, And I looked up at the morning-star Like a man grown blind, And I cast my gaze up and stared hard Upon my proud and shaggy head Which scarce stood up straight, And I shook with cold and pain, and all of me Sickened away to nothing. The fourth day after this, The past two Sundays back, I walked along the river shore With a silly girl. For my throat clert, And my teeth chattert And the fire in my bones chattert And the blood in my veins chattert Unto its last clert. And we wandered the shivering shaggy way Towards my childhood's cottage there Till the whitethroat sang herself to sleep At the casement in the moonlight gray And my shade stole down by the water-side. I have brought my lordly sweet self again, And I have left the ragged skirts of men, And I clutch my sweet food forevermore Gently in my old comfortable way. Happy Birthday, pale reflection! Thine hour has come In the early cockle-shell to thine empty bowl. Thy women take their loving natures mild And they preserve their men from the ravages of war. For they throttle or chain the vicious at the bidding Of their women, that they may not hurl in the smiting Of those women upon the tender; And they from a happy marriage take their ways, Since they restrain the wanton in their breasts. From their tender childbearing years they hide The woe and roughness of their sex, And the day is sweet for the old lovers' sake Who abide for a season with their love. They have stolen the pleasure of clear thinking From the dark savage heart, And the way of comfort and harmony Is a lonely one indeed, Where love or knowledge or wisdom is not found, Or a part of it. For the brute cannot keep itself in awe, Nor the son of Africa the fatherhood Of man or the sex, And the Barbarian fiercest and grimmest beast Of all the earth knows no one wise. But our tender women, thoughtful dames, And dainty escapers of men, And artists and writers are everywhere, And the whispers grow to a mighty uproar With the swell of the news-note on the shore Which bore the tidings to my throat. And I say it is well and it is good That it is so, And my shadow on the pages which grow Till they blot the angle of the moon, At the same time that it covers the features Of my Lord, is an expiation, And the fault and the shame are mine. I who on your brother's name accept the debt, And whose name now over your name is stamped, Tender friend, sincere debtor! I charge you, I entreat you, touch not yet The rock where the fountain of the law is broken And the foam of the oceans have left their deep tracks Upon the dark blue fathom. The beam of the sunset hath gone down to us, The wave of the water is high, There is danger of the billow as it leaps Upon the white cliff face. I watch you and pray, gentle reader, that you Be not too swift to come to your end, Nor too slow to depart from your life. You see my heart hath a bleeding sore Which Life hath made more deep with sorrow and pain. It needs must cry to the world, yet to the world Will I make no pall-bearer. There is silence in the fields of Paradise, Silence more deep than fear. I know that you have been a slave, dear Reader, And that your life was a scar Upon God's own soul, for your sake. I pray you that you would guard it well, And learn to pass in Paradise, And leave a soul more pure than God's own. Come to me. I have given my heart to God And I am waiting for the fruit of it. I have opened my soul to the love of him And I know that if I fall or rise, Or if I live or die, God's own child shall be my rose of mine. Silence, child, until my heart is unfurled. When I heard the beautiful voices of the morning, I did not say, "I am in the morning." I did not count my steps as another might, Knowing the secret of Time and Space, Being simply "one in the morning." I did not dream of another hour But as another would, Nor count my daily span As longer or shorter Than another man's. I did not stop to question, "Is this the evening? Is this the evening?" I did not sit in judgment on the days, Nor wait to see them through, But simply "one in the morning." I found that I was walking in a country That did not need my calling. My window looked out upon the sun, The people, unafraid of my face, Made eye contact with me; I saw them coming up the ways The whole time I was building my house. I saw the sunrise on the tops of stacks Of boxes, and behind the stacks the days, <|endoftext|> Angellus, and the mistress of the house; And--'tis this those daughters heard, All without delay, Their music-breathing master. "Thou, Cephalus, only one more guest In all this house I want! Give me thy noble daughter then, And 'twill please me." "What! but one more guest desired? Go to! I have no daughters left To wait upon thee thus." "Then shalt thou leave my daughters With sorrow sore: For, as I thought, they were thy alone-- With sorrow too!" "No, they were not," cried that miserable man, "Whence I keep my dinners, And where have I to turn? To none but black Moors or black Latins; And now their number's doubled." Thus to each tribune He said, and thrust his hands out wide. "My friends! my dear friends!" (he said, with weeping); "Never lift up your heads Lest in your soup there rises Foaming not upon the brink." And to his hands they all Failed helplessly to leap. Here a man, there a man; And in the doorway, And in the doorway there. An old sober man, Sitting, sate upright, And he rose up on one leg, Heaving up his deep-throbbed belly, When he heard the outside Curveting lasciviously, Ripping, tearing, And lewdly shitting, By the door. And he answered: "Spite of this rotten floor I would stand there on my solid floor, Stand on one leg, And I'd remain a-standing For ever, And be as stolid as this stool here." He'd drink of that stream Until his eyes were blind: He'd drink of it till he was blind and pale, He'd drink of it, till he was blind and pale, Drink of it, till he was blind and pale, Drink of it, till he was blind and pale, Drink of it, till he was blind and pale, Drink of it, till he was blind and pale, Drink of it, till he was blind and pale. Old barn, that to me Compared with thee, Sorrow-burdened, loyal-souled, Now thou art dead, And thy godless heir Has obtained his wish, O broken now, Shattered now, From thy foundation weak, In thy splendor dead! His ruin restores, Livelier than he came, Beloved now and fair, Now for death renewed, Sole gift of Heaven. Of Death no more I speak, The only Death I know, Dread of creatures bright, At dusk I seek him out In the dark, alone. Thither my steps I bend, To visit pale Luggage, Who in one long sleep deposed Sunken by a volcano's blast; Where in her final rest, For worlds outlasting all, She held converse many a night With Thorold and his lady's son, That sought her on her planet, As gods do seek a deity. When her large craft for sea I saw, She sat in dreamy ease, One hand upon the rudder bar, Tied to that a wreath of vine, Which from her snow-white locks she cast, And said: "To what land do we come? Who are my people? wherefore arise? What spirit hosts are they who roam This land of wo and weird and worry?" She pointed through the fleet to where The sun shone over fields of snow, And then to where the moonlight fell On heath and hollow, wood and town; And said: "I wonder if 'tis true That one St. Peter now incarnate dwells In any abode here below? And if so, where did he formerly? And is this place some planet wide, Some dimension's realm of wonder, too, In whatever all-light-beaming sphere? And must all men, then, from all things mix, For everything be as nothing, when God is God?" "And must all men, then, from all things mix, For everything be as nothing, when God is God?" It was no word of hers, and yet-- She seemed that from the very heart of awe Her words did take the subtler tone; But at the last it seemed her steady eye Peeped o'er the bark, and she did bow Her pure glad head, a blessed woman grown By her salvation, and she said: "Oh! whither art thou, foreign man, Where, unto whate'er of sight is dear, Of sound, or silence, path or scene? And must all men, then, from all things mix, For everything be as nothing, when God is God?" "And must all men, then, from all things mix, For everything be as nothing, when God is God?" "Oh, wonder not, thy woman's soul Hath greater faith than man's can feel. Doubt not, a wonder oft hath been, That angels mighty in the flesh Have wandered from their Lord in splendor dight To open low lands, vast, dim and good, And the strange trees of love to see: And will not now the like befall, This heaven of ours, this blessed isle?" She turned her to the wood, and spoke, Turning her from the splendor bright Of the crested panoply; but still That frail and fine radiance evermore Hung o'er the form before her, bent On winning back her mood to bliss, That scarce did less unused ones move, As gazing on that shape arrayed In that bright body of amaranth, Which would not sparkle out of being To match the glory round it cast. She said, "Oh, whither wilt thou flee? And, stranger, when have men to awe? Oh, how canst thou flee away And leave, I wonder, thy soul here Upon the virgin of thy vow? Since this was sought, and that did find, And what is spelt hath happened here: But hast thou left thy paradise, And lived to see thy world and thee Dowered thus with riches most divine, And shouldst thou wander, happy she, Whose heart thy heart hath reached to now?" But he said: "No, no, sweet love, I will not leave thee; no away; For, loving thee so evermore, It should be through painful pain I die. Where death may come my heart obeys, And only wants the joyful life she gave." Then she began, with eyes and brow Abrupt and sad, to probe his thought: "Thou art not where thou wast nigh to be Farewell, but hid thyselfst nearer side; And oh! thou art not where thou were, Nor whither, but ever roaming On fairy wings from height to height, A lonely elf with magic sile And dark-emoji'n wings and hand, To seek thy lost Paradise, While I, lost too, pine for that light, Which once lit me to love and thee." He said, "Sweet, no more of this, For death is now no enemy To me or thee; but still remain These pains, as now and then they do P Duel between love and hate Foe and fain, but ever seem To greet as friends. Wherefore end This fighting? let us, since our bliss Yet last, content if this suffice, To love, as we have lov'd, till death Do us its work, and in that home To sleep, and wake to keep awake, In blissful turns, until The life that we have spent be done." Then she turned her on her way and wept, But soon, at last, her moistened eye Looked back on him and answered not, And he, knowing where she went, remained Beside her, waiting the coming hour When she should seek her home again, And bid the fruitful garden grow With bays and roses for her flowers. And thus in hope, as patiently As if he had not hoped in vain, They walked together, from the wood Into the sunset valley below. And she, with drooping gait, still wept; But when their path turned, at last, And through a little gate they past, His arms about her waist, he said, "Farewell, sweet love! a long farewell." Faintly as from a desperate man Amid the blended troops of flame and cloud, He caught her like a vital air, And then she fell, and never more Looked upon his face, though he did mark The fast disappearing scene; Or, when she faintly sighed and rolled Her dreaming eyes, he went away Hid in a gleaming and fleeting shape, <|endoftext|> And to the folk in bitter wise says: “Sons of the brave nobly born, O hear! Their father’s blood shall owe to thee. Now with these bodies cast thou out on high To rest in Valhalla, thou and thine.” With tears he thus departs; they take His body by the arm and bow. Thence, son of Resdaynes, ye arise, Though long the road before ye tread. Stand forth, of noble kin, and take Your homeward way o’er hill and plain.” The accursed race is fled. No more Upon the plain doth Erlai seek, He lives no more with gods to wage The strife. Before him sighing flies The white-maned steed, and behind him burn The scattered branches of the olive-tree. Thus sleep the leaders of the race. There most his prize the smith Auster bears, There waits his golden sword, and there His lady’s image stands with downcast head. The lord of Buzelier attends, The scion of the Van of Epes. Mid snares new made, he strikes no blow, His foe is struck, he falls afar. Olivier then receives the prize, And ne’er more sought the strife might see, If battling on the lists he go, Or found the lines on Gaul or Spain. And they return, and find the men Of Ireland drawn, to Saladin. By seas their journey from Aix had to be, There lodged, and slowly fed, and carefully Trophies to arrange, and arm them more. And thus the duke Nune avenged his folk Fatal to one side, and their shame to one. The sword, his sceptre must have, and wield That famous blade, and in the peerless tradition A life lasting triumph display. With them the false Maltraien they call, Who wise Almaris’ son did thrust aside, With suicide Gallicia stung. To the first king of Galice they come, The founder of the city well they view, By law the first. The deeds, the sorrows of his life they tell, His noble deeds by name unfold. A Roman citizen, yet governor And friend to Caedicus was he, To rich Remusa bade he lend His arms, with mighty victor to contend. To him, in arms a warrior stout, The charge the chief alike consented, With him his horse and sword to combat bent Of Perugia. The contest sure began With happier victor, but the duke Mastered the vile soldier soon as he And gainst the man his spear bestrode. Then victory on Forest overwave, Was first for many a day; then died The victor, as is wont with holy spear. As the first fruit torn from Offa’s son, The head that closed the life of her, past. The Van set fire to the hill and lost His steeds, the Arcadians to the sky. As o’er his path Tarbelus went Whose shoulder blades he in that day, And lightly his Etruscan sword Scarce glanced upon his hauberk green; So lightly he swung his arms, and struck A deadly blow that sealed his fame. The horse that stood as steel beyond The hand of skillful carpenter, him In strife for weapons drew and fell, And all the cumbrous skin remained. The Van reft him of his arms and rein, And straightened out his rein-reins And rightly did the paynim master choose With iron hook his sword he drew From out the scabbard where it lay. To him a stroke of that keen blade Decisive proved, and straight he slew Troilus the Rich, the princely lion’s mate, For luckless wiles, and set his hornbed herd In vain before the victor’s chariot wheels. Then through Tarbelus rained his blows, And straight with blows so fain, so swift That from his paying crowds of foes, whose eyes The bloody war-paint chips, the bearers reel, In a loud cry his fatal weapon tears. In death before the king he came, and broke Fixt on his helm the blood-red crest, Broken the steel-wrought lusty body lies, And there the unreturning corse remains. At once the paynim knew the king Called to the strife the sword and shield gave him, And seeing there the prize of men, Vain joy, he said, the glorious spoil Of noble Tarbelus, is withered up. Yet will he give thanks to Heaven, whose bolts Rains death, and the flames waste the slain. To hurl the fall of battle, go, be it doom That I shall die, what need have I to boast? Now harm, if there be harm to us, arise; See yonder ruined chariots, strown around, And hear the dying charioteers lament That fled before mine arms and swords alone. See yonder banner bare the Confessor’s sign And hear the trumpets mourn their Master dead. But, dying, he has left his native land, And far from there his footsteps all are lost; But ill at ease is he who never hears The victor’s shouts, and sees the slain arise. Awaiting me some wretch may hope to live, And I the master of my fate may lose: The arms the Vandal gained before his life I sold, and now have me ere I may die. My arms the brave Comuner threw away, Forgot him and his cause when I had brought The alms and tribute from that prostrate land; But thee, the churl, who not with arms can fight, Though thou have sold thy right and gainst me fought, Untimely pay I for the wrong thou hast Unto the King, and for my loss and theirs. Alas! for thee, unmeet for arms to bear, And this indeed may please thee, I have done; Well have I ruled thy realm, have taken tribute, But my loss, be it known to Heaven, is great: For I have lost the worthies that were mine. No more the city stained with blood shall be, But hard shall be the sovereign’s task to reign, And many realms disunited under one crown, Ere I return and turn my loyal eyes Athwart the wave of time: the victories here Of Saxon valour were of little avail, Their spears or shields, but what they had of heart In vain against the Britons will they try, The foe without fear, the foe without shame. Their hosts now fain to serve the kingdom true On plumaged steeds will mount the hilly way, More fierce in war than pigs that forsake their sty; And crushed beneath the iron master’s wagon, The fainting Vandal is no more a cully: A thousand warriors methinks I saw That breathless pressed, in havoc and in pain; What courage, crushed, canleth Vandal head and flank, And in those hosts nigh trembling comes awaking, To seek his king and seek a place again. What way is this that I hear over there Leading with iron fetters so white and slow? What realms now run for shelter to that swain Beyond yon mighty river? O see, The light no longer lights the Western Skies, That what with day and darkness guards our land The dim Dark Ages now are building out; Nor know I if one path remains at last To East and West by which that dark are cleared. O pity of yon virgin Queen! that came Faster than Farinata fleeter than wind As thy pale hope in his mad rush grew That safe to East thou to the dim West Couldst still upbear the shield and bear the crown Unto the East once more where late thou wert: Is not yon huge cloud in pathway meet For thee to lead that desolate and slow Suffering? hapless Nature that made him so. Yea, I am hurtling me from this coast of Night Whose stained and bloody mist upon the blue Is but a warning thunder of the woes That follow in the train of racing day; A dreadful glare out-bursting suddenly From Eternity that shows the world combustion; For, as I pass, I see it growing dark, And that one dark, infinite Confusion rounded in sand O’er the whole rim of earth and ocean space And round the sandy waste that is Paschica; Wherefore I know, one day, shall one man there With loud screaming scream his doom, and that of all Those that have been on earth under or over, And all that shall be on earth, after death, Seek death and die with Christ as is written here. <|endoftext|> Then beauty had been smitten With beauty, never altogether, though forever, ever; And through her the specter flits, The specter, shapely and awful, And scintillates across her... Who shall count the agonies she must endure? Who shall fathom her deep groans? Who shall stifle her sobs of bitter joy? Even the enchantment is too mighty. Then let her bear a human being, That after death is begotten in the spectres' house; Proves it a maimed, hideous, monstrous thing, With teeth to bone, blood to coldness, hearts of stone, And like a beast that nothing can tame, Lo! this speechless spectre, who upon earth Awaits the hour of destiny, That hour shall strike her languid eyelids blind, And from the sun... the sun that now gleams on The ruins of human happiness, Strike her with light, at least, As a lure to bend, to throw her down, A brief, light delusion That shall in time assure her of life. Wisely, these images of the These silent treasures of the world of a few years ago, These fallen stars that tremble on the ether of forgot days, Where is the glory that made all things to triumph? Where is the music born from the magic of harmony? Ah! Even my soul trembles at the magic that is fled. Look, where those trumpets of the war for liberty flout, Like the shadows of vanished armies, the night; Look where the little band, that, at an engine's whisper, Murmured of brotherhood, in life and joy has passed; Silent as iron in the fire, The little band alone remains. What dies there, but is more wise, And steadfast as the mountain-chains? --The spirit alone can live Whose blood hath drunk death; --And they are not ashamed. For nature, willing in her strength, Toiled with prayer and crowned with glory; And in their love and sorrow Were justly satisfied. Those that before had felt the night's Thro' blue-veinèd canvas of death Lie now motionless, a dark pale hush Dimmer than any sleep; No more of iron trumpet sound Wings over the sands, No more of horse with lance in hand, Of scimitar gleaming through the night, Fly over the sands, No more, no more of triumphal song Floats o'er the sands. The conquered have no shame, The liberators are not ashamed, And to-night the seal is on The sealed and secret book of Fate. Though here, now, 'neath the breathless day, The world begins to wake And thunder out for blood and sword, Forever be the trumpet's call, Forever, ever, ever, still The seal is on the secret book of Fate; The conquered have no shame. Those that have conquered in soul alone Have no need of shame at all. Peace and, faith for, love and, hope and, hope and, There's not a voice to raise a cloud to shroud the stars of the near or far, and the earth shakes with the throes of the battle of forces, and from the throne of the despot heavens move to welcome the leaders that walk flesh's long march down the serpentine pathway of time. The unknown and the dark and the dread all lie before us; and the promise of the world is as the rainbow that breaks on the evening sky. The tumult of the worlds that pass away is not welcome; but welcome and as fair as the promise is the journey and the destination of the journeyings of life. Across the fair landscape of summer sky the winters are paling: one cold burst of white-winged steed bolts like a dark arrow of slanting lightning through the thicket of vast cold-stirred waters; and the lake, like an open prayer, is giving and giving its words of silent worship to the cold spring of the star above. And in the northland, in the old M phenoid hollow, the belated Dawn that has come to read the writing of the strophe and the antistrophe, that has found the grooves of her script in the quiet dark of the closet of snow, waits for the rest of the stars, the rest of the coming darkness, that shall bury the cold planets in a veil of golden sheen; for the day sweeping far reluctantly to the south is doomed and weariful and leans upon its star and the snowy earth gleams far on the fierce sun-coursing of the star. The blossoming wheat that scarcely sees the day, through soft stony mounds of gray dust, reveals in its fat flossy sheath the seeds of May, and all night long where silent waters shine under earth's blue drifts of stars it wins one part from the night's part, and in the red dark now lifts its head above the snow to reap the frozen of night's loam. Up in the north, against the tangled trees that no like leaves cover, and against the pale wind that blows the whole day through, a prince sitteth warm with his garments about his warm body, the diamonds shine on his burning face. He cometh from the gardens, he cometh for a bow to Haliax, the archer prince. And the people, like loathsome beetles that see a glory and skitter back into the dark earth where they were not, look on the fair young prince with a joyous face, and the great warriors wonder at his great red eyes. And again the little people of the feather, fain of the flying pouncing flower, speak to him of the time when there was not a bird to touch him with his wings and he was free to come and go as he desired, and of the time when the arrow struck against his bee or was it against his prey? And the people look on him with a speech of blessings, and the valiant men heap their weapons against him, and the spears that were sharper than swords now have the same edge as iron and the shafts are one in crushing end. Now, the end drew nigh. And the prince cried out in his agony, "O my son, O bird, O dart, O thing wondrously sure, bring me again the elfin arrow of good Obedience, the errant one, the shivering one, that struck me not and lived to bite the day." And the bird answered in a voice of wonder: "Here to-day is no princely animal that might draw thy arrow of servanthood, nor was the prince in his human frame; he who bore the name of the Performer was a witch of cinders and only might have been the offspring of an enchanter's breeding; a creature equally strong of limb and will, that might have stirred its master to laughter with its health in the veins, and which had no equal in the regions." And the prince looked on the beast with a great daring and the laughter of a hero, he fell not to his knees nor lifted his head, but he stood like a soldier without countenance; and he began to speak in a loud voice, while the harp with a human voice heard: And he wailed, "O my husband, my spouse of many years, may I never more attain my longing, and may this curse upon me be stamped as immoral for all time, and my descendants be scourged for evermore, for what crime have they held their heads up to fool the world with their impious wisdom? And the people asked the goodly sweeping Clerk of the record, what should be done with this bad character. And the goodly-filled Clerkenant answered: "He will wander from the city no more, but in the prime of his years he shall go and dwell in our Margery one day; for he is the wandering and messenger of the angels. "But for the ruin of his country's enemies and their utter ruin, and the getting of great booty upon him, and for the grace of our great Creator, which was given in answer to his prayer, let him be confined in the Margery; and if any good shall come to him, let him be commended, and if evil, let him die; for in the Clerkenant he shall hear all things, both good and evil." And the goodly answering Clerkenant shouted a challenge, and the Margery-folk were terrified and fled in every direction, and the soldiers of the Clerkenant drew further off, and tried to take the life of the Uniter, but he warded them with the sword of his great mercy. <|endoftext|> The gold and snow have drifted down; The lily is dead and gone; And many beautiful things, Which I had longed for, are dead! I watched them turn from out the gate, And here I stand alone! And I am lonely! And I cling To one idea;--in the morn I die, Thinking that in the fields we love, Shall yet our souls to heaven ascend! Ah, God! shall we slay again the Lamb And with his blood cover up Earth's treachery and lieutenancy And machinations foul? Alas! alas! the great command Gave us to far is distant from above, And will not come to all in time! But I had thought to-day! The sun flew up the sky, And shook his wings of gold O'er the dumb earth for a while, Till in their stead The moon come forth To build her throne a while In the sky's deep blue; When lo! I heard a footfall on the lawn, And a rustling that would disturb The drowsy lush to hear; I saw a face the slope from the road to the trees; A man was near, A moving foot, And the air was still. "But it was not the man I thought to see, "But one of earth's," I said; "Why wilt thou cross the sun, "And fly from me to thee?" "I flew to thee, "And came to stand, "My queen across the glen, "Because thou art so fair, "And I am poor." I saw the wide, fair plains With yellow grains of barley, And glittering forests of gold, And plumy plains the palms crop; And streams with bowers of flowers Where youth for ever May time toys; And was my queen unseen, My queen did never care? I saw the gleaming cities, I saw the men in black, The monuments and treasures untold; I heard a voice--it was not mine, I loved, I loved not then; Yet never, never may that be To make me love again. I heard a voice--it was not mine, Yet never, never was mine The tender voice, the dreamy tone, That told of souls below; But O! I heard it and it made Mine own of old exaltation; Ah! to love and be beloved In the blue heaven, Tossed on the frothy sea, Love is a boat that cannot be lost; Let us bound Together, Boat and sun and wave, To the cave, whence he was driven. WHAT was he doing, Down in the beach sand, O' nights when there's not an Up in the sky, Mickey Mouse, with his tails Hanging, Mickey Mouse, with his clamps Cracking?--Oh, not taking Sunday off, Mickey, with his pits Crushing and scraping, Mickey, with his pits Smacking and teeth Gob-smacking, IN the drowsy air Of the broiling day, All through the summer day, Noiselessly an owl's call Dulls the drowsy ear; And the lazy sand-gulls fill, Solemn and slow, Their yellow nests among Thick-plumed ferns among. Oft he came to look At the drowsy land,-- At the sun and sky and sea; And he cried, "O good land, "To be so fair and free! "I shall never return "On board that wonderful ship, "The Homage, the glorious ship, "The glorious ship!" Till at sunset,-- When the south wind died, And the drowsy tide Knew no other word, Softly the ship's track Was traced by the moon Across the milky way And around and round Kept by the homeward moon. And the ship, like a homing dove, Feebly trailed off the shore,-- Feebly faded from the sight, Leaving one land clear in view,-- One earth in sight, above the sea, Where never shore nor sandbar drew, Never a brink or strait, Cut by that ship of pearl again. But a radiant shape On the chilly wing From the ship of pearl came flying-- Faintly, falteringly, Like a wounded bird it came, Meeting the moonlight on the sea Through the trailing cloud. "On this thy perilous way, "Through the door of life "I deliver my wilted young, "My little orphan streams. "Whose shadows ever dimmed "The brink of joy or sorrow? "Yes, but through their shadowy flood "My precious streams are risen, "In whose waters shine "Their precious rays of gold." He ceased, On that forsaken shore; And still to that vanished place The prophet owl is gone, In the bright perplexities Of the glimmering fen. Oh! for some pitiful dirge Full of deep sorrow's tone And rhythmical rhyme The vast grave ovules of vanished sea GENTLE hearts outspread On grassy beds Of finer grass And lovelier flowers, Our thoughts should gladly take. Wild winds should walk The hills at morn To the chime of bells And cry of wounded birds, To their nimble mines Of pennyroyal wine. We have measured hour by hour The patience of the snow, We have tracked the blindfold moon In dizzy fleeces. And, for our thoughts were rich In woodland songs old heard And barred garden exits, We have heard sweet clear bells, And heard them twice. Loving hearts spread out On pinked balconies, And our armfuls of dreams Have been as airy as the chimes Upon the airy sea, Lo! from the fane of peace With one swift sacred swish There comes a little change, And the winds and birds and I Are filled with light! Every cloud that sifts Is trac'd in weaving smoke, Every flowing ditch Is trail'd in glistening sobs, The sorrows that weep Are voic'd in weaving smoke, The foggy eyes are trail'd in glisten And the sobs are in the weft, But when the web is wrought With a sudden beautiful change The fog is snatch'd from the eyes And all is guard And clasp And guard And clasp That no one else shall take. We are scattered to the wind, And I know that tears will fall, We are scattered to the wind, We are lost through deep wolds, We are scattered to the wind! But the birds are sighing And I hear the wail of grief Of him that searches the deep, And he shall not fail And the deep shall not fail. I LOOK upon the stars in the night, The heavens and the quiet stars above me; But I know the stars of the night, I look, And know the quiet stars of the night; For I am walk'n in the wolds of God, And they are as dear to me as the leaves are dear Unto the scholar that peruses their pages,-- Albeit they are happier than I, surely. I HAVE a friend that I love as one may love A passionate and sparkling companion, -- He is where I will come, -- he is by my side, -- With my hand in his and his close to my breast, And his lips over mine, till each shall seem Born of my lips and my heart shall hearn me, -- And when from off my hand he drops to go, My heart a thousand times rejoices. The woods are greening overhead and blue, The roads are new and level, and fair; The farm-house windows gleam with beauty true, As the light shines through them on the dark. I linger by the doorway in the night, As the farm-house lights glimmer by, -- 'Tis the first morning of the year; And I greet with delight the first morning of the year. And with whitest eggs the new-found chicken Has made us love the season; And the chicken coop's carven height Gleams like a pagod of the snow; For day is done and night is here, And the long, unlit Winter-night Draws near to bid his clouds farewell. I say unto you, rejoice; And break no bread upon your knee; Rejoice that is workaday, -- Because the workaday gift Is from the Holy Ghost Unto the faithful, not to be betrayed; And Christ has been your Friend for this day. And workaday joys are fleeting things, <|endoftext|> if he did." Then came the shining sun, and drew across the sky the awesome white-gold flame, and put the face of the sun out of sight. The sun sank, and the world was hidden from sight under a shade of undergrowth. They looked up at the night sky again, and their hearts sank; the Son of God was not sure, while they looked on the full moon, that he was over the tops of the trees. Then the fresh dew of the morning fell on the fresh green shoots, the young shoots from the oak, and from the chestnut and poplar; they were clad with leaves and bloom; the breeze swept across them and stirred the fruit to ripeness; the birds were singing, and on the branches the blue-bells dropped, one after the other, and there were fields of hellebores, and also chestnuts in the orchard. Then was the hour that the wives of the Assyrians of old counted by the fingers of one hand, when the spring grass sprouted upon the bondwomen and the children were swift to follow. The oxen worn out by their many days were ready for food, and the little children dragged themselves off to the low, sweet and deep sleep on their mother's pledge. When the Signor Bellamoglio heard how it was happening, that their fate was being settled so quietly, he called one of his men and spoke to him gently: "'Let no trouble or tumult be in your heart as you are crossing over. The city guards have already trod over you as though you were a public enemy, and it would be unseemly for you to be in a panic because of this; but take some corn and wine, and make some sign or reply that is worthy of a person of your station, so that no one who is passing may pass over you unaware of your coming, for some of the men who are with you are owners of ships, and might be thought suspicious by the Americans, who are gathering at the ready stations about the country of the Franks, to witness the passing of our king. Since it has happened to other kings, let no one mistake you for a robber or a deserter, when you set out for the court. As long as you show a friendly aspect towards them, the men of the North will think you are not of the King of Britain, but of a noble and trusting fellowship, and will treat you with great respect, and their tale will be a wonderful one; but if on your coming they are at all suspicious, you will never get far on your way, for the men of the North will be on your track from the moment that they take offence at any act on your part.' "Then I waited till the dawn of the fourth day, when our company got ready its bark to sail, and put Barons and abbes, and many earls, on board. When the ship was manned and our company was addressed, we placed the other gear in the ship, and sent our men on shore to do what could be done before the land turned round. "We set fire to all the gear in the ship, and filled her up to her deepest bottom with sand, that so the stars might not say that the sea could have swallowed her up. Moreover, we filled her with ore, so that the men might smelt the metal and know what it was. On this our company departed by paths fitting well to the hearts of them. "When we had reached the land, my company, the while that I was crossing over, came round to where I was sleeping, and they took off my arms with much joy. Then when I had joyfully taken off my own arms, I fell into sleep, like one fresh and into a great draught of wine. Then my companions stood by and made me drunk, and threw me about from place to place, and went wherever I would go, rejoicing in doing that which they had joyed to do. And after I was thrown about in all directions around, I got up and lay down again; and they all left off sleeping until the dawn. Then my existence began to fade and dissolve, and the holy souls of my company became very annoying to me. The wind was blowing as it was when I first fell asleep; so I could hear its wavelets plashing round the rock and rustling wood. Then it blew a fresh breeze, and the company were much delighted to see it, but I was not able to go for I was sleeping as though in a heavy sleep, and the wind blew still towards the north, and they said they would go before it, but the Holy Father was fast asleep, so they let me sleep in my tent and went away swiftly, so I went off to the shore of the sea and gazed at it. After I had looked I went away, and my companions kept following me. The Holy Father was not among them, so they all set off at a fast trot, with one of my comrades taking the right hand hand of each and one of my company taking the left. They reached the place where they had to wait, and my company put on their arms, for we had all been fasting for many hours." "I will now tell you the story of the two men and their company, so that you may have it so you will not charge me with slandering them. When they had done washing and were dressed, they said they should be up and at work before the dawn of day, for that is the time that a man who is dying looks forward to, in suspending the sun. They were ready and eager for their journey, and began to discuss the road, and one of them said, 'You know, my friend, we have many things to tell you, but these people do not understand why they are delaying, so you will let them have their way till they get here. I say this because they are very strange to us, and it would be a great pity if we offended them by responding to their being here in this way. You must take care of this, and tell them to go away as fast as they can. Once when they are here they will thank you for this, and will show you many strange things that they will tell you. All of them will be very peaceful, but those which concern you will not last long, for they cannot have much lasting love. When they hear the trumpets they will be eager to come here, for that is a great show, and those that is kept for the higher ones of the army. You must speak to them in a friendly way, and promise them something if they will lay down their arms and come with you.' "Then they embarked and our company went with them along with their old lord. As soon as they were out of earshot of one another, they all of them fell to talking at once. 'My friends,' said one, 'you know that our dear father has been killed, and must be very worried about us all. Of all the men who come here they are the wisest, and seem to have a great deal of experience. I think that our father will not have passed his days in getting their deadly lives on the spend. We must not let this opportunity slip. "Thereon the others nodded their heads assent, and laid down their weapons. "They then set about scraping the deck, and at length began to dispart the wood into sections. They each struck his hatchet on the axle of the Nutmeg, and the axles buckled to the axles on the rope that they had fastened at the mast. They then lifted it to the deck of the Lucerne, and dragged it with all their might till they were close in the presence of their master. "Their old master alighted from his horse, and gave them each a sabre, and a sword belt. He also gave them their fish, with their spears still tied at the stern. On this the men threw their fish on the turf, and the splinters flew to the envoys as they sat at the inn to eat their supper. "When the servants brought their check and our company had got their supper, each man rose and played on his lute, with the black curtains falling on their heads. The old man took his wine cup and poured out soon half of it, so that by the end of the third cup he would have drunk somewhat down. When all were tired at last, we played for the good lady, who was in her golden bed. "The bed seems to be made for love; it is so easy to rise and lie down, and one has the greatest difficulty in getting up again. You could not, even if you wished to, make it out if your eyes were glittering as you did when you were killing the time with your dear fellow-men; it would not seem like a thing that could rise out and show people what it was like. So let us play the game as <|endoftext|> seemed to mean so much to him. Again his friends gave him the day to get home. When tomorrow it fell that the moon was full, they heard that he would not be sailing that night. They did not wish to convey the news by telegram. Some few came by car, and others rode the next day, to see if he still would sail. In the mean time Mrs. Jones wrote to say her husband would not sail that night. She was ever hopeful that his bright face was that of his self again, and her prayers for his soul were spoken. She did not like to wait for the telegram. But, after a week, she said it had all been a dream. So they wrote again, and the telegram came a week later, as it was understood to come. It was signed "Yours of True Love" in big, "With deepest regrets I write to tell you that I have changed. I am not the same man. I am sorry I was so harsh with you. I loved you, and I made you miserable. If I have wounded your peace, I am sorry for it. There is no one else I can blame but yourself for that. To sail the sea and return without having fought is not a test of whether a man is true to Christ. I admire a man who will go where he pleases. I think you are the finest fellow I have ever known. I wanted to tell you all my feelings for you, and so long have been watching for an opportunity that I missed it. I am going to sail with the Pentowiorvi next year, and if I could I would make your acquaintance. As usual, there was something about this time when all the evil would be ripe. And the birds would fly about like foemen in us rather than fellows. But I think that there will be more evil still before the Spring The tale you have told is so touching. Ours was a friendly house. And before our young people passed a week in the sun, a cloak was placed upon the fire to allow them to be hidden a chamberlain would often rise before the sun had risen to conduct the younger folks who were getting light lungs to the dining-rooms. I myself rose early enough to receive the first-come notices of the duck-tails, button-mouths and collar-knit aerials. Once a week we were visited by a world of young ladies, toasted in a high-handed way. The last time we were all parted from each other It seemed as if the years I had lived upon had made A harvest of happiness, like those of Hebron. The world with its glad light seemed what I had come to discover, and the voice that had been silent for so long a time yielded me the sound of myself. I had lived in the city where we are smitten with calligraphy and urbane end to end, till the voice came with an ending, I was so sure that the passion was over and, as if by chance, my courage for the new adventure increased. The sea and the heights were tempting, for I had a love for the sailor in me. And I would have been brave to attempt to do well in a business where such losses had often proved me poor. I had hoped to get in at least a little work. But now I had lost the old confidence, and the boyhood was lost with the boyhood. And I do not know what the next step would be. For days were prey to doubtings, and I was undecided. As I went up the steps I heard the sound of the sea from the cliff-top. I did not dare to turn my face, but I felt death approaching. I feel a duty to speak of the visit of the young French captain to Buitrera in the next bay. When I arrived I had not seen him since the journey there had begun. It was November, and the season when we wish to be alone. We called a boat, and he entered, and it took us to Caprio. There was no boat when we got on shore. At dawn the captain ordered some five men on shore to prepare a slow-sailing vessel for us. I saw him only once more, as he climbed into his place aboard his yacht. I left my sick maid and went alone to look after the horses. In the evening our waiting-woman Felipa, who was in her thirteenth year, took a fever, and I sent her off to have her fever watched. I returned in the evening to take my wife to the beach, and we sat in the veiled light of the midday. At first nothing was seen of the poor fellow, and when I entered the water I thought I saw a grey shadow flapping somewhere near the shore. With the next tide we sent a small boat out, and I cut loose from the anchor. The cords holding me fast were of such weakness that I might just have swam free; but having no longboard, I was soon close to the rocks and then came in again to the close sun of the sea. Then I saw a grey shadow flapping somewhere near the shore, and beating the sand. I pulled on the sword that was by me, and kneeling in the sand I began to descend. My heart beat so rapidly that I was forced to pull with all my strength, and all alone with my weak strength. I set the anchor so, and at last, having come in to the sea where the Portuguese lay, I pushed back to land, and offered on their shrine my prayers. For five days there we lay, waiting for the coming of the hundred that carried the chest. Each day that passed strengthened my hope that we should soon be going. And each day my thoughts drew nearer and nearer to the joy of seeing you. And on the sixth day when the dawn came, I swam over to the ship. A priest from the ship had taken two brawns with him on his journey, and laying them at the feet of the father that was on the ship, he told him to lay the two brawns at the mouth of the ship. Then the father laid his brawns at the feet of me, and I lifted my arms to bless them, and kissed them. "And then we took our supper by the sea, and after supper we laid us to rest on the sea. The night came on as I was taking a cold sleep, and I saw the Portuguese with their gold. And as I looked, they were leaving the haven with a heavy heart. The next day they sailed, and we made for the lands of the open sea. But as we were nearing the isle where the heathen lived, and they were bound for their own land, I saw the greasy windmills that they wore, and they began to talk of us with one Anadyomene, a wench that had a great landlady's house close by. She knew us well. She stood at the gate and sang to us, and we came in to the town of the Adygastrians, where the doors were hanging open for our salvation. "Thus we reached the high hill where their great temple was, and on the topmost eminence we found a chest; we saw the lockets filled with silver and gold, and all filled with good worth. They gave us a hundred Measures of Cinnamon, and we counted them. Our hearts were heavy with the thought of our starving people. Then my men went up to the chests and pulled them open, and out came the silver and gold, and my heart was glad. I gathered it all up and set it by my mates, and then I dug a hole in the ground and set a feast there for the gods, and my heart grew brave again. "Then I called thirty men to me, and we went to strike the sea-gulls. We dragged them back to the ship, propped, steadied them with the sails, and then cut them in pieces with the knives, and saved the pieces. We set these on the bundling-parlour, and hung chicken-feeders for them to eat, and poured wine over them to give them drink. Our heart was seized with the thought of our starving people. "Meanwhile Ulysses was becoming ever more weary and weary; even so, so long as he lives on earth, he will always be weary. It was all he could do just to get off the ground and stand. When he heard the clatter, he came heeding us, though he did not know it was the dear old wife that was calling him. He came as close as he could get to the ground, but his heart was bursting with the craving for bread. He clutched at the turf and ashes, the door-posts, and the grain sacks. He threw himself down fainting there on the ground, and the ground closed over his head, so that he had no room to move his tears away. "Euryclea came at once and drew the threshold back, whereon <|endoftext|> This brutal stab of the monk's unsparing jest! And why is it that towards his cave I aim, And pray of the shepherd to pardon the man? 'Tis not in pity of a shamed degenerate race That I kill, and murder, and slay. My blood Is the cold dew which, evaporated, is heir To the man-child, the beast-call raised to the skies. I am that man, I am those ragged brood, The wretched breed who passed unwept and unrevenged By the lap of golden Medusa, and in shame. The blue fount of ocean, and its dancing stars, Have set me laughing, and my heart is fired At the quick beat of my considerable tread; While the bare of cloven foot, which the hunger befell, Sweats beneath the palpitating pastoral moon. I must seek, as the faint moon, swiftly falling, finds No star-lit couch, no shady couch, but a sea, Alive with unnumbered tempestuous things, And in that sea, the open doorways of the world, I seek in the madness of high hopes and low, And I find in my heart the same strong hold On honour as on the white unbroken side Of the great plains of Southland, that I won With the thin edge of a rough oak's golden blade, Ere my lord, the fleet-footed, had passed on To mark the dim, thinly-glazed borders of the plain; A nation, as the nightingale would be to-day In the dim June of a new-born year, who loves To make its birthplace brighter through its own art; While the east, and the white moon-faced, to the west, Stretched wide across the pathway of the dropping dew, Show me that this is so; and that, as of old, Gleamed on the prairies and cotton-field's riper son, The blazing star, the white moon, North and South, Is burning still, and still the white moon shines on, A glowing badge, and banner, and boast of home. Yet not with this that now shone in my heart, Haply as it burned in your bold heart, O Kum & Uh-e, When you, with those two lips of yours, did defie The South in its tyranny, and free the North From its gross fetter, in that noble strife What then was young Hiawatha's bravest strength? Was it not fierceness, simple heart, and fervour, And emotion on the level of the gust? Those were his heart's avengers, and the upswelling Of his passion peaked with sudden flame like fire. Was it not these that now against the South Burst forth in hate and revenge, and leaping On his great pony in twinkling impulse He seized his war-club girdled with iron spikes, Slew the ariving warriors, and felled them one By one, and broke their stride as they were riding. Yet he was kindled by their conquering As a warrior awakened by the sound Of his mother's plaits in those lonely halls Ere she had reached the place of maternity, And his eye shot lightning through the warriors' heads As the glare of their torches reddened the skies. Not till their hoofs had beat on every shore Ere the thirst of conquest rended them did he turn To the woman at his side, and speak in anguish, Gazing with earnest longing from his captive sister. O my sister! I can live no longer here On the bleak shore of the sea, as it were the end And the beginning of the world. Where life hath been Severe, and the sun's last gift is deservedly harsh. Where the sea rolls wide'ingly at the shadowy borders Of my humble bower, and its steadfast withers Mourn, in solemn forgiving splendor, all the tragedy And longing of my boyhood. Where the glory dies When the warriors depart, and the gold must needs Reecho in silence, and all the pitiless droughts And passing sadnesses of manhood, in all the griefs And joys of womanhood. Where the music fades Beneath the far-off wars, and the full-armed truce, By the far-off banners waving to a thousand years, Seems as the shadow of some other, better sun, More fitting as an emblem for our South. Therefore I depart; and with me I depart The music of your fated bower, but wrapped in peace And love. So let the war-whoop sound all beyond, Pushed to the limits of the sea-bound city, Athwart with hostile fury; so shall I No longer be a captive of the hostile shore, But, a free-born man, follow beyond the tide, Beyond the rolling surge of an ocean-world Inclined to wrath but waiting to be purified, To the high hills of Palestine, whence far off Rarest of all the seas that strain the circle of the world You will receive me; there you will reaping sow The pent and proffered seed that shall rekindle life In fields doomed to bondage; and where'er the gales Shall blow, and wherever the threshers and the bees Delight to parley, where'er the breeze shall move The flowering hawthorn blossom, where'er the gales Of peace or tempest shall breathe, wherever death May strike the mortal nail upon this lowly fane, You will hail me your brother, and I send This prayer up into the dark; I pray, that while We tread these palpitating days, to illumine With perpetual marvels the stagnant places And ensheathed in old abeyances of death; That the unquiet, unheeded sepulchral places, The uncongenial tombs, may be forgiven Their irreligion, and that you may at last With open, charitable palms summon all The dead to life; that you will sprinkle with mint The grave of all who here make their weary home, And at our interment lovingly fold With arms outstretched our broken lives, that here We may inherit all that was, and is, and is, And more than all that may be; O we to these Our thanks! that when some idle pilgrim tongue With sullen bitterness asks "What of God?" Our simple, harmonious answer, at once, "God is," will seem as proof above apparent doubt Of love beyond all fact; that those who hear Our voices' superhuman mercy-message, Above all other thoughts and voices, hear The quiet, inward voice of Almighty Power; That in the dark we hear his voice, and so Are justified in our unshaken belief That what we know is so. God rest you, good angels! Peace and good will Encompass the athirst continents. Day is done, And to the glorified the path of light, May the kind sentinels be safe all night, And the red breakers bear no gracing signs Of dawn. The dark by no disputing window Is flung against the wisdom of the dawn; Be it understood that this great sunrise Was not preordained, nor the dusk The first hope of this eremite of light. His election and sanctification are One. Yet unto Caesar what a bride shall He find, Who sees his foot by prejudice crushed, And, on the eddying tide of hate and pride, Doth God auber or doctor wrong? And the light, The light of truth, is in no earthly glass, To mark the pitfalls and the pangs of pride Wherein that eternal bubble burst, Which, like an eagle's wings, could bear him up Against the blasts of Papal Fury. Three hundred years ago, Or more, the ancient martyrs said In the long-margined nave of England, Through the dark cathedral doors, God's judgment on the barbaric age Should pave the way for Christ's advent. But, since the dreadful day When Hiramic Ramon's chains Sailed o'er New England's salt Wasting and death, How often has the world Hath forced the Christian judgment-day Back from her goal! O, yes, we're carried back By the mighty stream of time With most repeating theme and year, As the swift seasons roll. What was foreknown is now begun; What was hid is now revealed; But, as of old, the ancient light Illumes the world again; Behold, it shines in every land, And the Christian signs of peace and love Are floating o'er the globe. Who can halt the revolving wheel? As in a windsock, steep and small, The stream of human fortune spins A few small waves upon its way To the great Atlantic. If the eye Of the psychologist is watchful, And the mind's tense limb is stretched Toward anything, then must the spot Surpass our understanding: and What is beyond our knowledge <|endoftext|> "Whoe'er thou art that dost espouse the truth (Counsel of man, advised by God)"--His hand The wreath to the fair youth unfoulded. And all the Muses crowned the sage With honours, and did ordain That he should live with the youth--who, glad, Came to the shade of the old man, and said: "Here shall the weeds of error be cast Out of thy way, and the fount of soul Be cleaned with tears and with prayers from land And sea; and my domain be thine, Wherein thou shalt bare a worthy son, One that shall ever with mine honour live With thee, and joy with thee, and reverence." Then she named him, and forthright spake: "I name thee HOCSE, I will give thee place Awarded thee because thou hast found grace With me, and for no mean extrinsic need; For the high truth I shall call thy heart, And the mean things thy soul, and I will raise Thy soul to the height of thine heart." And he, though all amazed, Answer'd her, saying, "Woman, what hast thou done?" And she, "Will ye, sir, liken me to this? A mightier man's than I, and his name is Love; I was sad at his mention, as at the sound Of thunder at a wedding; he entered then, And made the sadness light and mild with his smile." "Now, HOCSE, think, will ye do well to rais'd Your soul unto his soul, or his heart unto thine?" "Well I like the sound of that," he said. "Will ye not rather praise the grace That sent you here, and not be curious About the giver? in the love of God Look not as those have done, who would the gift misvalue." "Praised they are any which will understand," He said; "but, O thou to whom I now address My sense! I should admire more the words, Had ye said them." "Son," she said, "your server Delighted me more; he ran not between Spoil and carnage, but kept between them both; Son, let me pardon that in me seems too far Thou hast journey'd, for I would not thee ill." "Woman, thou didst accuse me," he replied; "And, Son, all that thou hast spoken is true; My anger was offended against the Lord." "Let this peacefully rest," she said, "I will live In peace, till that angry spirit be loosed From its dark prison. Thou art a brave man To marry brave." And her gentle hands he clasp'd, As pointing where the sun was visible Through the green trees on the valley's face. He brake off in the mid-phrase a light word Of welcome, for he glad with reproof Remark'd, "In thy servant I would not put faith, I trust in thee too much." But she, her brow, Somewhat convolved, bulwark'd on her choice A moment, then rejoicing, mounting mounted The verge and fell. By the river's edge It stands for ever, staged and shaded By the linden and the eglantine, Mirror'd clear in its gleaming boughs The holy arbour with its borders blest. <|endoftext|> The isles of Greece and Rome that lie Forever quiet under foot In the dark waters of the sea I leave, and come abroad to you, To you, and to the land of poets, By the way of anticyra, Through the shadow of its mountains, Where rose-seated once the glorious On the lone shores of South-Sea I greet you, land of poets, Greet you, land of myth and legend, That I may gather in a poem My limited power and say This, coming to you is the bleak And inadequate thing to do, And were better left unpeopled With sounds and sights and utterance But never a soul, no life, no matter Where the future is and the past. The advance is yours, the issue Is for you to judge, the journey Is the outside-in direction, Inclusive, not exclusive. There is a bluish island Which never rains, and never dries, And changes constantly its vegetation And its climate's undulations; To the peopled island always There's a single person alone, The only one, who sees everything, And knows everything that has been or is Vital to all the others in a manner Which they understand, and are blest with. It is yours, the island, as a part Of yourself, to manage as you choose, As, for instance, its governor; But you cannot remove yourself, or, at least, You cannot take away the sole joy of life, Self-attachment. The child, born there, has no chance, Except the luck of the enterprize, Of a life, no possibility of a life Without the vision of the island alone. You can soften its bitterer moments, You can ease its secret troubles, You can lessen the sufferings of its youth, But, if you take it into your hands, If you do what you desire to do, You cannot make it exist again In its old conditions; never, never, As long as the earth exists, Shall a living creature rise from the sea, And find on the earth again the self It lost there, when the sea was new And the earth new at the edge of the world, And nothing new was changed save the sea. Why, we catch them as they swim, Blubbering like frogs, Or whole seines at a swipe, Sipping down cold suckers; We have towed their heavy nets All day from green-flowing Grots, To dump them in the big nets, Where for the most part they convalesce And don't bother us for refreshment, Or off their bad starts go, And blubber out, as good as new; But, out of spite, some doers prefer That some should blub in their matches, And not consider the mere trivial Immaterial when it comes to sacks Of sugar or tea or coffee. You are wise and prudent, Vicks Vapolectrois, You've put your money where your mouth is In buying the best cream for making balm For sore eyes, for dry and chaffed feet, For cracked throat, all kinds for chapped thumbs And for the seared and bleeding schnicks Of old and stiffened members where they're Drowned in a sea of itching twigs. But, Vapolectro, a single mother, With three children to chop and chop, A mess of chopping, is no place For cream of cowslip tea, no matter If it's warm or cold or rather cold, But if 'tis the bitter of spring Or if the sweet of summer Comes with a kiss by the spoonfuls Left in the bowl by the maker, Whose kiss your lovers, yours, too, may win. Though it is done with, as St. Jerome Once done, or half done, or not done at all, The voice of the singer or the strength Of throat or arm or aught beside will break The strength of the substance of what's said, And, therefore, I ask your pardon, I Who have drawn my story to its end. If it's a sin to write about him In quibbles and discords, then all sin Is to my talk. If other judges (I don't know his other virtues and faults), Believe me that I have always found On the great things the wise, and so have made In all I do, one object, one aim, And if I am not the only one Who fancies he can change the weather, It is because, in all I have done, My first thought, and still my thought, is man. WILL, incurring no direct charge, Had carried his discovery further, And showed it by experiment; For long he had studied animals, And called their hidden powers to view; His further progress was this: He gave his friend a golden pea Whose shining pods were filled with gold; Then showed the pods to man's eye, But kept the seed in hid repose. No sooner man possessed them all, Than they were rained on all the earth; No single pod was ever known To spring alone from any seed; It took the spring itself and all The watered meadow, green or turf, It took the sun and rains to fill A single pod with hidden gold. Within a hollow tree the snail Held closely to its shell the pear, And all the sweet and pleasant taste Of the tender pear fell in his mouth, The shining pearl, as it dishered, Filling his immediate field of view <|endoftext|> Yet you are so great and you are so good! <|endoftext|> "Catching a Falling Star", by Richard Daniel [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] She picked a thornbush by a hidden spring. The flower attracted her eye, and in it lay the baby moon. It was beautiful, stuck in the stem like a miniature moon. Then she took it home and thought it would be a beautiful present for her dear friend Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones never came, nor sent a gift. Mrs. Jones did not know the baby moon was a wild, solitary woman, who used to sleep in jars beneath her porch stairs. Then, one night, the thornbush shed its prickly flower, and the moon was free to drift, and tumble, and twinkle. The moon lay on the floor of Mrs. Jones's front room looking like a cracked scalloped pearl. She called for it to come out, but the moon was in the kitchen covered in gravy. Mrs. Jones sent for her friend, and the moon rested, safely wriggling from its own country, on the table of the Jones house. Mrs. Jones placed it in a Persian rose pot, and stirred it with a spoon. She put the pot on the hob, and lit a gas jet. She put the pot in the kitchen range and cranked the burners to medium. She shut and opened the range for several minutes at a time. At last she got the temperature of the moon to between ten and eleven. She took it out and gently cinched its end over the edge of the rim and dropped it in. She put it in a soap-dish with tightly fitting lid, and covered it with a damp dish-rag. She tamped the dish-rag with a foot and turned it round. The moon was in it, and she wiped its mouth with her sleeve. She brought the dish-rag to her face, and, with the dish-rag over her face, she wiped her hands. She wiped her hands, and stood there motionless, facing towards the house. Then she walked to the kitchen range and brought the moon back. She put it in a Persian pot with tightly fitting lid and covered it with a foot of damp dish-rag. She turned it over gently in her hands, eased it to a kneeling position, and, with a finger over her lips, pushed the cooked moon into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, held it there, tasting it, before she dropped it in disgust back into the gulf of its vessel. The moon had disappeared. She brought the pot of moon-food to her nose and nostrils, sniffed, bent her head back, bent both arms forwards and blew air through her teeth, thrust her tongue out through her mouth and over her heel, then bit the palm of her hand in an aneurism. <|endoftext|> "Porphyria", by Richard Eberhart [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Nature, Weather] Winter Moon bright and steady rising over the clouds, out of the east, is what I want, I want to hear the old lamentations, I want to walk in footprints of light. I want the stone clock to whirr and the field to shiver, I want a book of myths and a sword to be lying near me. The old one, in bed, will make moans I can hear clearly, like anyone who's been well to do. I don't mean to make too much of it, just something I've read on the internet, a form of inherited arthritis in which the joints lock up for months at a time, the person with the disease never getting well. Anyway, if this is true, and if I get some, and how many do I think I'll eat? Let me see, I suppose I should say that the clock will have been sleeping, the clouds will have drifted away, the moon will have gone somewhere. <|endoftext|> "There's a special place in hell for folks like me", by Richard Eberhart [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Walking the halls of the old Salem church, I pass two sisters weeping, and I can hear them, In the days before Sunday School, in the days when my sister and I would weep alone. Now I walk the aisles of the new Salem church and no one hems a cry in vain, no one has cut a lid of wire between his eyes, nor wept with the secret pain of the condemned man. It was different in the old church. There was sorrow, sorrow even in the pews, from the headboard to the swinging tether, but nowhere was it expressed as it was in this poem, by a young woman on Sunday night: Weeping toils in the solarium, rows of parchments, blue printer's proofs, and slips of paper with crooked signatures. There was sorrow, and my sister and I would sit alone in the back pew, and softly whisper the names, like black hemmings, that we knew. Here is a plate of turkey, gravy and fruit from the banquet on Main Street. Here is a plate of cold rabbit, slyly cooked in a satiny casserole. Here is a plate of dark rye bread from my grandmother's supper on Sunday. Here is her name, with an e in it. Here is a glass holding four blue Twinkies. What do I think of when I think of her? Who is this woman standing next to me? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? Why is she weeping? And after the funeral in the old church, the widow's son, gaunt and black, with my name on the headstone, bobbing pitying eyes, said plainly, “There is no grief, here except the grief to know we are not coming back.” The tears ran down my cheeks. What do I think of this? I cannot answer. Where does it all end? Now I walk the aisles of the new church and, with each name, I am tempted to think of the lost ones who never were. <|endoftext|> "Permanent Home", by Richard Eberhart [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Midlife, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life] The relationship lasts a day or two, the way the snow of spring lasts for a day before disappearing. And when it disappears like a vision, it leaves a blank space in the mind, like the white of late summer before the flowers open. We see the lumpy patch of pasture against a sky bluer than the fields, but no cows or horses. The home, complete after the disappearance of each memory, looks like it was built to be lived in: cattle call nearby, calling, like voices in the ears, and a menial farmer's voice rides through the open door. Though this is not what is remembered, we expect this emptiness to hold all the answers. Somewhere in the heart of every one of us, there is a place that wants the past back, that wants days and nights to repeat themselves, so we can continue to live in a weltering house, on a moonlit lawn, in the quiet of an ordered mind. Some days, this wish awakens like a spirit, raising a wall between the present and the past: in the present, small affairs grow big as years disappear. <|endoftext|> "The Battle of Yam Terong", by Richard Eberhart [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Buddhism, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] 1 When the butcher pulled out his knife, the bird was already dead. But she was only nameless then, a buddhist nun, and no one noticed the scars on her bony breastbone, or saw the trail <|endoftext|> [22:2] He prayeth night and day Not unto man, but unto God. This for we see is the cause Of what befel him in his sin; In his there was no righteousness, In his no mercy, mercy there For man, but just as from above Down fell to earth his human soul. But God ere this the thoughts Of his wise heart did prepare; For when man was formed he thus Did beget himself a god. As in a summer day is seen After the sun hath down been brought, Which by his nature doth increase, So by influence of his grace In Godhead with himself might be Made by nature mortal man. Then wherefore should men then complain When of his goodness sure they saw Such beginning, as thus it grew, But see no end of their felicity? But neither sun, moon, stars, nor passes bright Can make or help to heighten this thing: Merely that, which is divinest, Is also the strongest. Certes allthings By nature are like, as they are whole, And whole always, and will remain so, Till death snap them; yet do always serve Some functions, as they are called, to these, As cells, or substance, or life, or sense: But God doth single out such spirits As shall his services use for ever, And enthral them into himself, their friend And fellow proper, his earnest guest, Whose love shall last as they include All his interests, whose commands he delight, More joyfully than if each serv'd alone. Thus must this spirit David, whom I praise, This David, whom I celebrated, first And call Amnon's sister, be amply blest. This man, who us'd of natural eyes the stuff To make him fair, and to enrich the lands Whereon his progeny grow up, in wax so broad And long, that now for bones there couldn't be enough; Who to his son's success was superior far, As all the world beside, and made him all his own: This king, who for ten years kept his own vassal true, Scarce free from supplication to bestow On his preservation what the Egyptians sought: This best and worst of potentates, now cloathed With Persian riches, as though the sea's black money, Hanging in long attraction from the shore, Should cling unto him as he leaned on his spear: --He whom a spleen and thirst of dominion should Carve on both sides, and feed for evermore And make a name for himself by war, or some Mischief done by mightier hands--that David, He of the Lyncian land, this glorious one, Was of that ancient league of Phoenicia, Who made their name Assyria, and their home On that same mountain; yea and ere he died, Himself made use of their Assyrian name, A title and a sign of power and glory. David, of Berechthache the great, the famed And good Haggai Kotzeb, of whom I spake Before, when I beheld him in the dream. Thou didst not drown thine head in sorrows dim, Nor fill thy midst with hungers, when thine arm Had smote down the haughty, and sovereign bride Of Pride, whose blood bath revell'd; nor thee forsook, When death and black fate brush'd th' visiting wings, Of Pity, who with healing hand did bake Thy fever, and the pangs of passion slay. No, no, nor didst thou, when thy peerless limb Went to the gods in deadly strife, incline To boast and magnify thy soul with pray'r, Nor use a meanest conduct, such as makes A barren nation's viper-pit stop the breath Of purest fame: but thou didst breathe and use all The virtues that from grace can spring, in fight And every tranquil phase of success; Thus loving still a peaceful estate and lowly. Nor thou with slanderous tongues didst thine own or dignity Corrupt, nor didst reject those friends who most For thee were thankful, when death limited their breath And they might bid thee farewell; but when the dust And fatal moment turmoils all the bliss of life, And thy soul hangs faint upon the chiding wind And thine all hearts with irresistible grief Seizes, then with charmes and dark purposes Hast from thy pile and halls the common crew Depart and leave thee, as their last embrace Doth numb thy dying torture and the storm Of bitter anguish that doth assail thy heart. Yet for thyself wilt thou seek their set design, And with more subtle sleight and cheat thy way To gain their favour, as a master-craft Makes a new instrument that will reply And show its art in certain ways of sound And falshood, ere the mechanism save In all its parts, and slyly abstains From that which its strange motion lets it show. And thus thou hast been haply led away With hopes deferred, and life's day is run; Thy torch is lit, but never kept alight, Or the clear spark by friens or refiners snapt. Sorely lamented is the ancient town, So famous in ancient days, Though now o'er-done with pomp and violence It sifts the people. Here the weary band That daily journey to the inclement elements Gazed long ago on cots and huts that were fair, And at the morning's fragrant parting of the land First recognised their eternal home: On this side Bar issue glorious from the vale; On that an hundred married tribes uprear A public centre. Can the like expect To see another such o'er climes and seas Beneath a kindred sun? "The citizens in memory's name would have A public funeral, bury the dead, To the smell of coffined unworthiness, When it is placed within the toxic atmosphere That always surrounds those bodies under the sun. Here now no hearths are smouldering, no doors, Save of the dead, are open; the waste ground Is strewn with earth of every colour, As bloom is on the wild flower, mouldy, As mould is in the cold, unfeeling grave. What sounds there are, from the sharp blasts of the north Away, away, and next to nothing being, There is not the least sign of a living host Coming down the dark, but silence, darkness, and rain. Yet in that dust, I think, men lived and worked; Here would the shivering freedom in his bosom Breathe out, writhe, struggle, struggle, again; Here the stark, thorough, narrow slavery could fix Its iron fetters on the equal body; What power had speech, what authority To stir the stirs of spirit in the sick, Stun the heavy sense of stupor and drowsiness, Drown the proud contemplation of his lot? What would not OEducation! pluck him from it? Yet if that sad upland looked so dimly on, So drearily of the dismal horizon, And the sky over that valley made such noise, And shapeless hushes stank so thickly on the hill, Still would he remember in his desolate soul The hills of Hiram, look upon them, wake The echoes of his grandfather's wagon wheels, Paint on the stones the lineage of his line, And the old valley, dark and drearily, Still would be there, in that young, sweet beauty lapped By his young gentle hands, and burn his spirit To speak in tears of the desolation and empty Heaps of bones, and cold, shrieking wagons, and dead husks Of men long since forgotten, and the wail of the woeful waves Of voices long since nigh unto the quiet shore. They are all overgrown, the funereal weeds That used to grow in all the greenest places So surely there, amid the heavier grass, They may disfigure it, and the blight be real, And the sweet grasses move apart from one another, And the shadows linger, made unknowable By that dark death, there on the slope, that makes The emptiness of the region and its men. "I think it was a light wind that blew," Said a voice from the road beside me, loud And light. "No matter how, a light wind Can blow away the ashes from our hearts. Only the dead will feel the temperature Of that white snow. The dead are more forgiving. Why were their bodies so dry and melted, Why were they buried all in one, in one heap?" Why did they bury them all in one? Why was one coffin not secured to three? And why were the walls of that coffin not stitched Like the sides of other more effective coffins, And why was not a single bit of cloth, <|endoftext|> He knows no peace till every brain Is satisfied with one kind pleasure; And then his passions at their will Will all his every emotion move. So, fitly is he devoted, So to his inclinations fitted Those pure, sweet births by heaven sent, Which flow in one determined flood To all the shores and banks of God. Dear, here are some pretty children, Which, in the mothers' souls, they praise, And in the father's love adore, To hearken to which he's gone, At every meal, all day long, He seems as if his soul were dumb, That was not such a noisy fellow. Dear children, was it for this Thou so long hadst sat in silence? And have not had thy fun at ease? Silence and play are both for thee; No more of quips, and no more of music; Nay, they're downright sinful, if thou dar'st To use them so, my pretty lads. Oh! be not such as to devise Happiness or rest for thee; But let thy tender handmaids be As frugal as thine own true-love; Keep thy own counsel, and thy own house; For if thou dar'st indeed be happy, Thou'lt shortly be a thing to see. There's not a young lady, coming forth, Shall make a rod for love to imitate, Or with a cane encourage love to cumber: Oh! might we every youth instruct, That would not be a certain path to hell! But some are made to gall their purses, and some, Like th'Average man, talk, and ponder 'bout love: Like th' Average man doth raving talk And tells his loves to all the city. He in his stock and mine knows not difference, And both his loves are of the devil. Ah, love is the sweetest flower that grows, And yet pertains to be the cause Of all distress, love being the devil's harlot: And all love-distress love becometh, If it be not guarded well; He loves whom he thinks most virtuous, And she's the woman he detests; But if once true-love be past revenge, It's as certain as the ice's near fire, That true-love kills. It doeth kill; And love and love's claims be one. A little patience will make you one For all the world like a prodigal; The devil take the rest, but not our sin; But watch you over her, lest she fly. Tis not enough that 'gainst a friend She should be armed with a scrip and sword; But to secure her long-term, Or, if it come to court, even to have it so, And, for her own, love, wed her as early as O Thou, that sittest in the bosom of me, Who didst look on me as Thou wert divine, To Thee I pray, by every prayer that I have made, Tongue-centered God, who art my solace still; Thou didst befriend me in the storm, Thou didst heal My soul in midst of it; Thou didst more than boot; Thou didst so comfort me, when all the while Baptized, Thou didst exalt me to a god. O God of Love, thou wert my very heart, Till Thou didst cease, and not even then; Thou didst lead me, and that is all; I did but follow where Thou ledest, My longing Thou didst erenenable. O God of sweet patience, I am whole, Unto Thee I pray for grace eternal; If Thou gavest me the true comfort, That comfort I should lose, if Thou shouldst go; And Thou art still my sole protecting Giver, and God-head my sustaining; Since all things else have perished from me, Loving and woman, stand Thou by me. My God, thou gav'st me (it is not so much As Thou hast seen it) a wife and friends, A realm which nought can conquer, and a life Which nought can hurt, and years of marriage, And now the years are flown, and what I wished Thou gav'st me love of an unpopular man, Which seemed and is too divine for mine. O then, my God, Thou gav'st me worthily, Because It was most true that Thou didst say, "Anyone who loves me well shall live forever, And anywhere for doing what he loves, Let him come here!" for if men say to me, "It shall live forever all alone," I may live alone for much, but not for love; For love should have made love's life my life, Were it not that I have been young and wise? But man kills man; and true it is that once I saw such ills through the blood-shot eyes of lust; And once I felt what sickness and how hard The throat's rough torture, in the grip that love Grips only to exhaust its strength, not sin. So, my God, since Thou didst not fulfill With her the prophecy of the prophet, And even betokened me such torment, Let us not fail in love in these last days, As is the nature of the just to do; But let us guard against signs; let us not bid The flesh devour the spirit, but let us Guard even against that. And withal to shun Such frayings of the brain As are the accidents Of passion, letting her Lie down awhile, and then to wake; For thus it is That the old craving fresh and strong For milk and honey is satisfied. So it shall be That she who in her life lived freely Shall go to Him whose lot is Love, In His dear breast arising, When weariness or age shall chase her, Shall wait him, as now I do. O Love, whose rite is Love, Love, whose court is the heart; The part it is thine to fill And to preserve with outstretch'd arms; Thou, far from frigid control, Golden, fearless, in thine hour Sever all the bonds of earth From those soft arms of thine, While young and strong and gay Spring forth to walk abroad, Hearkening, ken'd one of a kind, To those who do not see What God gives them to see. If I have faith, Love will pierce, and thank Him for it; If I am pure, Eyes softened by desire Shall do their flattering; Praised I shall be For living so for you. But if, harrowed with care And desolate for love, Life flounders for you, O life, I shall never praise; Shall jeer at fate and at myself For mine own woes; Shall bide in quiet bliss, Feigning the good I seek. Youth's sun hath set, Wilt thou still linger on Still, still going out? In the greenwood, drear, What a world is there? Turning brown and leafless Its leafage heaped; Still with no hope for thee, What dost thou do? Green oaks, weary of war, Bid thy fate be brave; Clad in thy might, dost try To besiege those gates? Bid thy hope arise, Mount and be strong to win Life's sweet shamrock! Song, thou art the best of all; Now thy requiem be given To the heart that's aching To hear the bugle sound Till God's last notes ring; Till the only hymn we wind Comes a sad one winding. Peace, as o'er life's sad sea Some goal-like vessel far Flinging afar from harm, Round its prow and prow-loops Lookt joy's gold chariot, All for love's sake sailing. The world's great day is almost done; Of its wings the light grows fair; From the East its first-born gleams are flung; The shadows near are all set fair; As daylight fades toward the night, Ah, I pray that it may ne'er be night. Dark clouds are hoisted, and sunken light Leads down the steep sky; and all is drear From the farthest peak; but, oh, the sky Seems lit with God's own smile. And so, What hope, what joy, what love of God is mine! I'll stay, but, gazing, turn to see My love-lit Arc light up yon stars afar. See how the sapphire pools with crimson sheen, Spread o'er the crystal streams, are mirrored there; And, even as the waves flow over, <|endoftext|> Could any say What it meant to the world, and what to you. All agreed upon this: you, bravely and sanely, Had framed in your mind a new image of the earth. And the bold children, playing, the untutored, The unauthorised masses, that smelt the whiff Of illegal tobacco, the aim of your mists That whirl'd hither, whirl'd thither, distracted, drove A gurgle of tongues: and these, to test your rule, Tooted in harsh, expert voices, and their squalls Flew to the doors of the great houses, and were held To their homes. And cities grew, and a strange people new-born From the great cities, made themselves as one In your practice, and by your example fell To beggary, roamed the coasts, and dwelt in tents, And dwelt in streets. Is it not so? I see the body of my ally, The splendid, good, loyal sergeant, who served My country, and bled for her, and served my queen, Or strung the rope, and was first in the field, Tossing the barbed bolt, or in the hands Of those that were fit to bear it, sharpening their swords Against the rebels. He is a worthy dead, Though a tyrant may sleep, and a court may be Of lobbyists and old boys. What says the slave? He is the first of his kind, you hear? Of course he feels. The lie that hungered is born When he sees the thief and the lounger come To share the booty. The hunger that strains That creature to want is taught in the schools, And toughen'd in the boot camps. Does he not know That all of his race, while it lasts, must give That his right hand shall be paid for with the hand Of the same hand he lines? Nor shall he rejoice If some be cull'd for some imagined use That may happen, being the seed of the many, The flower of the rising generation. In truth, He is so brave, and so noble, and so like a man, That for fear of being outdone in his own field, And dealing violence beyond the law, he hies To the battle, and stands front of the lines, And waits what the fate of the battle shall be. Let every skulking informer go forth to his death, And let him until the last arrears of life Be fully avenged. This is the lesson we learn From this spectacle, that is drawn here to-night To make the grim column standing here a show Of hope and triumph. A wiser instrument Was never drawn on the &°°ºst as this is, To make the court a victory, and the king A victor." "I am ready, Sir Richard Wain, To lay my bones here. No, no, no-- 'Twas not that. I am troubled in mind That you condescended to strike me down Without appeal or trial. Why came you So near me without consent or utterance? So that I scarce knew whether I was hit, Or that a bullet had done it? Did you mean To do me this formal violence? Why Did you not speak at all, or come more slowly, Or make more rapid movement? Come no more,-- This outrage fills me with loathing for you As man and citizen. I hope you rot For this, before it is too late. Oh, Richard, Tell me--did I make unreasonable use Of adjuring? Tell me, did I overstrain The feeble effort? Are there circumstances That I can not comprehend? Tell me, Because you used so hot a hand,--was I really Blocked by a hem! Was I hurried to surrender Before the time? Were my manners less than you Or less distinguish'd? Tell me, was I wear Of weather that day? Was I out of dress? Was I trembling? Did I have too great a strain At the affair? Tell me, was I as fault As all the witnesses say? Tell me, did you Intent on lying? Tell me, did you intend That me your finger should touch? Was I meant To drop the bag? Did you intend to touch The bullet? Did you mean to kill? Tell The truth." "No, no, Sir Richard, No, no. I asked your leave to use you For this occasion. I sought your leave To use you. This was the request I made. Let us try another. Go, find the court. I'll be here in an hour. To-morrow I Must leave for Europe. If this makes you fear me, Sir Richard, it does me a world of good." We come to crime on every side, And virtue is strained who doesn't see it. The rake, and the child that strikes at cockatoo, And every kind infamy that flies from mouth Do pull at the conscience, and seem to speak More strongly than the thing they fulminate. Yet, though this tendency should be less, It doesn't abolish it, and it isn't A curtailment of itself. We take notice Of what we see and don't see, we say Good action is, or bad, or not seen, But action all the same. The thing is done, And by what methods, and for what end Next time it's attempted, is the matter. "Take the child. What was the act, that you Should make him respect the rod of the authority That is only his sense? No. Force is not wrong, Nor cunning. A creature of delicate sensibilities Is a creature that must have freedom or none. He'll learn by punishment and exercise That the whip is a rod, if he will respect it." I question'd what is meant by respect, And the fear of punishment. For the fear Of punishment has often gone too far, And do us anguish, and are bad documents In law's sight. What is meant by respect, In the common use of the word? I'll tell you in a couple of paragraphs: You'll then decide for yourself, Or consult with Richardson, I suppose, Or Mr. Pulteney, or Mr. Gray. Breathe, Henrik, breathe!... You cannot feel afraid to die, Although you feel no desire to live. If you make no reference to a motive, 'Tis an unstable frame of mind. "Courage!" is a weak excuse. But 't is easier To fight with odds against than against them. It is better to fight with ten than one. The strongest man among us all was ENGAGED to a princess, and he strove To make her see his reason for the tie, When half his testicles were tight. The cheese was on the window sill, and he Wasn't a gramercy favourite, you know. He'd an onion in his ear, and it was But the actual collision of these That made him startle and speak so true. Besides, he'd an onion in his ear! 'Tis almost painful to view. (Which he did not wipe.) Don't cry, Anna. This world, it is said, Was imaged from the life of Miss Tawdry. The finest comical ironist was she Who ever laughed in London. There was a moment In which he think he'd a chance of winning Her love--he was so good. And then he knew That what he had was not enough, and, perchance, The love she felt for other men. And ever since He suffer'd from an ache at heart, and lie Day and night puzzled how the matter lay. He gave it all his thoughts to conceal. He laugh'd at mysteries. He look'd at women. Each day he look'd at another. But all Seem'd false and hollow to the core, and he Felt the world's tide ebbing away. And yet he had a purpose. And here it is Which got unravelled. And how come Anna Rose Was there. What had happened between her and him That he would pretend to break off relations? And why did it interest him to know About Miss Tawdry's marriage? Why did he show Such scruples? He was fifty years her senior. Hadn't he enough? (How his mind would race with such news!) As when, two months ago, he had stand'd At her door to hear her out. It was one o' The coldest days of the year. It was the night Of the First of December, and the year Long since been mine, and he had been send'd To the desert to dwell--for he was craven, <|endoftext|> My tear shall freely start, when memory seems As gently as a whisper. As if The key of some horrible prison door Were softly pressed, I started up, as if From sleep. Was it I who dreamed it? Only, now My memory strives to meet the phantom face, But dazed and shaken it dies, and the man, Who faced me, lolls heavily in his arms, As if in death he forgot his life. Thou doest remember, so that thou hast not To fear forgetting. Yet, at every turn Of the dim street that parts this glad room from me, Unto the darkness draw increasingly near, And the loud, resounding music from afar Takes thou away from me. The questions of life, The sorrows, the flights of the heart from me, Flit ghost-like. Thus when the city's flames Are white as a thread that is scattered in a fire, And the deaf, homicidal engines roar, And the hurrying winds blow wild each gust of the wind, And a multitude of hands leaps to the work, And mine goes up to the burning, hating the fire, Because I remember that on a day long past I watched my mother weep. Did I tell you that at midnight, when I called Upon the name of my murdered father? I cried. I wept all night. Do I not weep, who have found A solace only in my love for the dead? But on the morn I awoke within my room, In the presence of the body of my mother, And poured my whole soul in a tender prayer, For the first time in my life. It is often the silence that is most deadly, And the endless quiet that is most terrible. A tree is silent when its branches snap With a crash that is louder than the noise of a storm, When darkness shrouds the sky with a blue curtain, And a breeze is murmuring low as the leafy boughs In the copse behind the peasant's cottage waft And wander away to the winds of the mountains. Love, and the light in the eyes of the stars. If but the wind would whisper, "Come," and I But once stretched out my hand to the stars, to entreat, And say: "I have suffered, and I am grieved, And I come to say farewell to the earth." Would not the heart of the earth melt into tears? Would not its sorrow embrace me? I long To melt into a dew, a whisper on the lips Of those great winds, that are forever whispering Of nameless things. I love not the more Because they call me. Their office is to carry Earth's sorrows, and shed them gently by day And by the night. They are well paid for it. Oh, have I not suffered, too? Why then lay Mine old sword aside, and yield me to the weight Of the lightest feather, fern-cinch'd, and soft, That floats, helpless, but found at length a resting place? I was a heifer once, and bore my share Of labor. I have lain asleep beneath The snow-peak of the Pyrenees, and felt The avalanche, rolling as quietly As the dew upon a field of clover-heads. I have seen great cities reel, like seas, In the belly of an abyss, beneath A dark, endless, endless night. With eyes Made for high works, I have minded me of home, And, with the instinct of hunter or of wader, Homeward have turned my steps. It is night Beyond all night, for greater unhappiness Lies in the day; but should you say to me: "Beloved, do not go; this way, without proceeding, You may return; for lo! the stars are at your back," I should hear no sound or infinite silence Within the heavens, unless the sun himself Should strike a fire, and I behold him, as once I saw the Ashkovich. Beloved, I listen. And the forests and the fields and the voices Of waters--where? and how often and intimately Have I trod where I should not have trod, unless I had dreamed or heard or seen or been where I should Not have been, if you had not come beside me. What noble memories are around me! And yet, How empty they are of substance and of spirit, And how bare they are of life and of my own life, Unless you come and fill them. The night is less empty for your presence there, Your arm about me, your face within my own; And the night is less void of life, whether it shine With the stars or with the dust of the palaces And palaces that will never be, or with stars That will not have been, when the palaces and kingdoms That are with sorrow and pain also end, when pain Already has ended for us, if it should last Longer--alas! if it should last longer, we-- If it should last longer, we should be saved, O brother, And be together, under one roof and one stair, When the old night shall have ended for us. So, so, so long ago, when I was a child, I had such a dream, and in that dream there came To me--for I cannot explain it--but nevertheless, A sense of my own immortality; and the light Of the stars was the same light I see down in the abyss Of night, where there is neither sound nor the sight nor Sense of pain, nor the fear of pain, for no one knows That ever nor even at the most in the far distant Futurity, there will come to them a Fate and A Inconvenience, or not even then, the shadow Of the Khwarezumi. Some have called you "Mistress Death," and you would know, Had you seen me, what they meant: for I, who am one Of the wise ones, being blind, would not see indeed The fruit of our affliction, but I should see Even as they see, and all their meaning would recur Unto my lips, and framing my tongue as they Fray it with words, should utter still more amply On this same theme, and should use the words of the blind, That hath the secret, even as they do the name Of Him who is and was and who. O Thalaba! it is all too late To seek for aid! The cavern raves around And there is no light to guide one's steps: And now, Thalaba, now too late to seek For aid. The hour is late: for ever the night Has shut the gates of day upon our way. O brother, seek for aid! And if at first I should fail, O Thalaba, I cannot be blamed. The anger of the Spirits is not hid: 'Twas only a bridal day at midday, And they were sunburned. O brother, seek for aid! There is no one to aid you, Thalaba! The lonely spirits of your destruction Will not vouchsafe to be God to you. O brother, seek for aid! And were I as no more, O Thalaba! And did not your aid fail you in the hour Of need! The God who made you as a bride Would not so ruin you: the rain of vengeance Should prevent my attempting your remedy. O brother, seek for aid! O brother! fard for sin! A year has passed Since I have seen you angry at your foe; And though a year has passed, have not the flames Forbade my offering pardon to the penitent, That is rejoiced in God! O brother, seek for aid! And I will be your friend, Thalaba! All will be well, if you seek for aid! And when I unite to my door the Vision I conceived upon the rescue of your life, I will send at evening forth the Dog, whose bark Has long distracted the sleepy city. O brother, seek for aid! The Spirit lifted up his eyes to heaven; And looking softly first in the sun's catch And then in the southern windows, he beheld The waiting woman, and the chamber bright Where he had lodged with that pure maiden. "And who are you?" he said, "that in this place You waste the night in thus solitary build?" The eyes of Thalaba were touched with awe: He felt how far beyond his mortal sphere Impatiently he had dared to look on God. But answer came to Raziel, "This is she, And I am here that thee and thine are safe. Go in, and if I may speak to thee, say That I art here. I would not fail again To follow whom I hear to pray for you." Raziel bowed, and faltering went within. He heard the door close, and heard the fan <|endoftext|> Beneath yon mauve clime, Or darker far the hues come and go, Lying like features of a goddess dead. Or hear the stroke sweet as a kiss, Sweet as a sinless girl's fond sigh, Hard as the touch of moonlight velvet, Send the glad pulse a music moodier than sleep. How the old walls on the twilight air Ring back the revel's rhythm, Filling all the heart with love and cheer, Hushing the year with peace! We sit here in the twilight gloom, We two, and watch the slowfire reach Its sabbath hour, then fade in mist away. Our voices win in tone and pitch When the great revellers pass the hour. But now, for lack of a tune, we bide The tumult and the laughter still, Without song, without harmony, Biding here by the hour of rest. Binding round all Nature to the heart There is a Star that never sets; It lives in the faith of all men, In the faith that out of dust and wane Shall rise our beauty, out of dust and let it go. Ah! faith like that must ever dwell In a self-controlled person, Must ever be a light to guide and hold An unafraid soul. He dreamed of rising into the light; The light that found him in his sleep, And leaving with a dream of him, alas, What lives that dream can save? The dreamer saw that there was more In a right life than wealth and fame and power; That a just course was always prospered By a spirit of purest rightness. He saw that to seek wealth and fame And have a faithful wife Were but instruments of pride and reward, And watched them wilt therefor to perish. Then, from this vision, he could not wake, So played his part as best he could In the life around and beside him: For all that men do is above himself, And he had virtues to perish. And now the gift of vision had left him, His eyes were sealed as if with a garment. You say I long ago have gone over To the old life, the joys of it? Don't cry if in your love you find me, All that I wish for is your heart. If I should come to you with my fears For the good that the new life breeds, Don't answer that you do not share them; Have no more to do with the life of lies Than a stone has with the tide. When I come to you with my fast drying Woes, and with my worries full Have but prayed to be forgiven, And in your love for right well known, If the faith you bear me has no part In a stunted virtue, a woman's faith And woman's virtue too, Then a true answer your pardon gets When I come to you with my deeds. Ah! but in the time when I am praying, Love still will be on my mind; Love, that fills with sorrow heart and home, Saddens and thwarts me to prayer. If I've asked for pardon once, I will have for mercy showered, So forgive me God, if I wrong you, But sin me, I pray, for my sin. The very wrong you forgive Kindles it a second time. I would scorn to lie to you and say I loved not the one I sinned; But as God lives in each man's heart, In mine I could not help forgetting The woman with whom I spent Late hours in play and day-time talk, And hours of joy, till shame grew strong, Her with whom on earth I shared 'Twixt loneliest and most embittered, Worshipper and worshipper In one passion of perfect bliss, Till we were happy enough. For she was good I said; True, she was innocent, but then She was young; she was beautiful; I read my life as some book That I would read while playing With some scraps of rag and bone, And found therein a tale To fit my subject. I have given you the book But to say my heart's been thine To-day as it was thine to-day, Ah, friend, in truth, I dare not. If there be one who for thine aid Will read the tale o'er and o'er, Will draw my hidden life from out it, And note how the light-o'-love played me, I know that he is friend indeed. But if no such reading gave thee power, Or prayer or thought from prayer made thee start, Perhaps thou wouldst not so shrive me be; As hearts are, so is mine of late. The sins I hidst are nought to thee; To wash them, would I could die. Blessèd Lady of mine, Since thou wast glad to give, Give me, for Thou hast seen me seeèd. Through all my ways of weeping, Make me pure as thine own sunshine, Thy prayer to live for Thee. <|endoftext|> There was a noise of fiddle-tapping, And the dancers' lashes half-lashed themselves in mirth. The air was alive with lute-notes Flung, quivering and loud, From the faery strings Of the lovers' lips. Dim moons did burn like incense in a censer, Like the dim fire of an altar; Gold lights did sparkle and stream, Like the great gold wine-vat of a wine-press; Warm reds did blush like roses in the sun, Like a red blossom in the wine. The whiles the air was hot with music and wine; The while each party Graved for the lips that would not love them, With desperate vows of mad desire, Till the two friends, each lying with his love Beneath the spreading chestnut-tree, Reeled, and the moon went down; And anon the kitchen-man Carried in a mess of straw. The little round cake Was covered over with a plate Of brown bread, and that was eaten. But, ere it came to us, The song and dance were done, And the bags of gold They had planned for us were thrown in a corner. Where the sweet wild bees Loved to get at them. There was a noise of fiddle-tapping, And the dancers' lashes half-lashed themselves in mirth. The air was alive with lute-notes Flung, quivering and loud, From the faery strings Of the lovers' lips. Full many a purple plum There was in the orchard, And a gay youth, at the right moment, Could not choose but seize them. For the wind blew and picked them Out of the tree top, One came home last night To her mother's open door, And a lad at her side, Shorter than she, and browner too, But as gay as light can be. And his eyes were golden like her own. And his lips were warm and red, And a rose was in his mouth. The roses chattered in the sunshine, The children played in the sun, And I sat reading a book. But my eyes were full of strawberry-pies And a book is a quite different thing When it is read by a girl and a boy. The moons were full and bright, The trees were as full as they could be, And the girls and the boys and the women, Rode home together. They laughed, and clapped their hands, They pealedéd with laughter, They rode on the whites of their eyes; And I wondered why I hadn't a ticket. I poked my head through the bleachers Till it reached the middle of the rows; And a man had a guitar. And he played a song, And it was very good to hear. But my eyes were full of strawberry-pies, I said the words, and they came. And we rode through the village together, Through the streets of the small town. And we stopped to pick up a dozen, And another did the lads. And a dozen more out of order Were put in the wagon. But a dozen more would do for today, So the tailor took them all away. We rode up the lane for a mile, And then we'd stop to smoke. We never were very chatty till now, For the trees had all gone to seed, And the barn was torn down and burned; And the tailor had left us some sandwiches, But there wasn't enough for all of us. And I said, "I'm hungry." But he said, "You mustn't say that. You have a rather thoroughbite." Then we stopped to pull an axle-head, And the horses all slipped. <|endoftext|> Fay, and fay, and fay, Fay, and fay, and fay, Fay, and fay, and fay, Fay, and fay, and fay. Was in an ancient hall Ere yet by men renowned All perfect fame was born. For there, amongst the fame Of earthly kings who once Wrought wonderful things, in pride, He with God-head too was proud And triumphed at the right. For all who there did reign, From earliest youth to age Greatly wept beneath the height And weight of earthly care, And might have quailed to hear The voice of fame so high; But when their souls were led By God to ask for rest, And sin and death discussed To cull the plan of best, Before they came to die, They could not wait to hear God's awful answer so World-famous on the gates. Then heralds more than all Created men to be; Then with seven kings did make Feast and solemn league. Then Pallas, heralds all The prize of glorious war, Whence twelve champions straight All perfect were, seven Did in a girdle bear: Seven sons of Gods they were, Seven sent by seven, sent By seven planets to the King. Seven stars of Heaven on high Seven stars of Heaven on earth; Then how the leagues did run From east to west with will, And many men did yield And many men did try Their dints and scars to show And many men did swear The earth that heard the scream Of heavenward men so long, Earth bore the mark of their tread And every mouth bore fame Of league unspeakable, A brimstone highway wide Down to the custody Of Pluto, who hath a ghastly wing Of owlets, winged by the brand Of vengeance turned, who fear no god. And many men did say, Unutterable praise That God on high Inspired of old upon man, That God on high Doomed old Pluto's head Impossible to miss, Impossible to avert From ever inhospitable Possess the earth the reptile. Gnome, goblin, dweepling, Faun, fauner, any thing That would not eat green, Or quit his garners green On any ground, On flint, or mortar, brick, or stone, Treading down and trampling under foot, Never in the eternity Found a better leveller To eternal lead the world down Into everlasting night. And many men cried, "Sin by sin is ever bred While sin begets sin and waves Blind and risky the chicken-hawk, He is the shadow to his master. O lord, we are thy brood, Or ever shall be thy son, Too early known, too early known; He shall be last of thy line." And night and noon with shrill voice All night did clamour sore: "Sin by sin is ever bred; Take then thy vengeance now; To rebel is to rebel." And early and late again, For many hundred year, In defiance of the light That God gave, in defiance of God, Sin for its punishment was set. Where is that eternal light That streams from every face Of every mortal he knows? Where are those stars of such azure might That flock together from each limb Of each of us? Within the shadow, Wherein, indeed, each hath his place, Grew these large propagaments, Like refulgent gems from gemms on high, Which, though they make no attack, O'erawing the heavens do shed Their lavish brilliance round, For none can distance them or stay Their keen vitality. Where they are is the heaven of each, And yet they move and glow, Like those 31 gems of different lustres On a polished single globe, Revolving in one and the same Greater motion, greater brighteness. And if one were to call out, "Sinners, be up," they could not all At once, like flames, up ride. The light that leaves the dark, Tackles down the hill of crime, Lets the guilty march and blot The register of their names, Mingles with virtue as the stream Mings with the river above, The good man's voice with the priest's, Throws the black sun behind him And wakes the hoary angel That loves like one that has slept; From the pen of him that reads The torn leaves of holy writ The hangman marks no night; His is the night. And in it all, or even where The hand that hangs no rope has found, That dreadful light that shines For no man's good--the light That lightens on the slough, the stall, The loose star-gown and the manger, With heaven's own beams Shed from behind it, like the wings Of an angel that descends, And lifts Christ from his cross Till he lies naked and clear For all men to see-- Are nought but holy things, That have made heaven less heaven; The cross, too, that the great Grave of old held, when sin To the great peril was given Of the wrath of the Lord, That wrath redoubled On his enemies, and now Wards all the heavens Of all who would recover His triumphant kingdom, Nought save the cross is there; But there it is! It flings behind it, night and day, Its glory over earth and sky; While with one voice, through heaven and earth, It tells of God in the blood Of the Son of God, who for their sins Spent twice ten thousand swords And more of power, till, scarce wrought To loosing then, he died That they might be forgiven. And when each curse is gone Of man's and each angel's hate, The cross is there; and o'er it dawns The pure white dawn of heaven, When Christ, the brilliant hair Of throned omnipotence In loveliness lay wrapt; And when his feet, which, though girt With miracles that the imagination Finds incomprehensible, Were led unto him By whom, the mystery Of evil, death, and heaven, At length unbroken, o'er, Were cloven, and he, himself, Borne downward to the abyss From the sky of the sun, At the door, blind, of whose forthright Stands, to this hour, no saint To wait his judgment, fixed Upon his dreadful face Such filial sorrow; and then he, The Judge, would fain, in his own place, Appeal, his head on earth With shorn locks and mournful eyes, Like a man who would be forgiven, Save that he'll first appear As if made alive for ever, To be read as innocent In heaven, where saints make no such effort; And this he did. "Remember her, you, in the house, When you come to your God's house; When you come with ten thousand souls To the rich treasury of his faith, And he gathers you, and picks you, Ere you enter in." And we, As the holy verse, so faithfully, To Jesus' teaching, we ne'er could fall, Revised and strengthened by his grace, Did he then appear To her, that night. The solemn clock in the grey church tower Gave forth a warning chime; There was no person in the street, Or in the court or in the yard, Or in the court or in the yard Who had time to spare, Or would care to appear, After the quarter-day had passed. The gay monk who in state His tawny vesture did enfold Was made so skittish, he was slow To set himself to resolve Or practise his lesson learned; Though once the fan was in his hand, He took it off, as you shall hear, When the fair maid I first beheld, There was a lady in the crowd, And I could not determine which She was more lovely; she was late Her father's bright carriage she spied, Which caused her to stop and ask The kind name of this departed one. The man extended his hand, But could not meet her glance or look, And much too late appeared to part, (He knew it), thus much at least to say, "Your Highness might expect this day A letter which my dear daughter brought, Which set all our hopes at rest." His lip the maid had never kissed; For what could hinder a kiss? He searched her pulse; and while he did, He said, "Your Highness may depend On my discretion, I'm your servant still." He took from her the blessed hand-mirror, And bade her direct her lamp At the column on the marble there; <|endoftext|> The flowing tides of human weeping springs, A greater stream was never seen. "I love to think That once I was a giant's equal, That men or gods or giants knew No better skill than I to strain Strong limbs across a stony floor; For who has seen my size, or striven, Or learned to bend beneath the weight Of that great form? Only the strong, Who caught my mould and tamed my power, Know how my limbs might bend and shrink, And when I seemed to fall, arose To triumph in my strength." A shining intelligence Shone in the glance of his gray eyes, Like some old grace of wisdom shed Again,--the wonder of the age In their old simplicity. "Ah! once upon a time, In some strange land I knew not, A boy I was, and alone I walked and walked, in lands at distance, And walked there for the love of fun. I walked there in a robe of red, With yellow fringe and glittering bits of pearl. I knew not where or why I went, But, somewhere, a sign beckoned, And up the road I wandered along, Until at last, beneath a dusky tower, I heard a merry bugle blow. And looking up, I saw a crowd Of royal knights that brought me gifts of mine, And cheered me under their stars of fear. I walked for miles,--the flowers grew sweet about, And every tree-top seemed to say,-- 'Child, in truer days we saw you play, Or heeded what you said and did not say, But all is changed since you have been here.'" And then the gentle woman said,-- "'There stands a lady in a tower, Who hears the bugle-blow and comes to meet you. If you will speak, gentle lady, speak. What art thou, who thus wouldst come to me?' "And with a smile," the knight replied, "My lady's name is Vanity." The lady's head turned slowly upon her face, With wise reproof weighing one for her thought, And, while she gazed, she answered swiftly,-- "I know no more of him, my lord, than you, Nor any ever will, nor will I; But that great-souled queen whom I behold Above me, daily, every day, Must know the mysterious tale." "Then tell her all, sweet lady, tell, And if she think that the story I give Is light, or a tale of no weight to you, Say that it matters not to me. Yet tell her all." And, as he looked, the lady there Wroth at heart, and almost fain would swear That the man was lying, believed him not, Yet trembled at the memory of days That in the past had given her woe. But when she heard the knight's ending, And saw the terrible truth, Sobered herself, and spoke in him All the shiver that remains Unto true women in their hour Of need,-- When at heart, and at core, The woman believes that she is wrong, In sense or sentiment, In duty, in belief. In truth, 'twas not the drearfulness of life That filled the lady's heart. Though whatso tells us of our days, The golden days, the calm, the quiet days, Are not as quiet after all As Hope might paint them,--were it not Too frequent, as our days may be, That one's dreams are false, Too frequent, our hopes unreal, Our fancies veering, as they dally Where bright things flit and leave the smith With a farewell kiss on the brow Of the mistress that he saddles; That though he strikes a path Through paths all full of flowers, Yet does he ride through a sleep He knows not whether winning, losing, Nor thus rides he to his heart. Yet, had that lady lived, She might her lover have awaited In open sight; the lady that lives In that castle-home That overlooks the whole fair valley Had she been there, the vigil kept, Until she heard the bugle blowing. Hark! how the wind lifts the voice, And the wood echoes the summons. O Ellen, now the warning! Ah, she is nigh! Ye boughs, draw her back! And fall not upon her garment! For the lover is near! Hold her, For the maiden awakes at the voice! "Hark, what that?" a voice exclaims. But how the tumult ripples To a wail that is quivering, wavering, Through the dark, echoing oak-wood, As the light of the moon tints The rocks aslant with reflections. In a hollow of the wood That foliaged the site of a shrine, A shadowy form is seen, Perceived as one who comes From the Sound, the Waebler, With murmur soft and mingled tones. High up above the horns Of the far-off mountains, On a headland fringed with masts That shade it like a flag-ship, From the sea surges drifting 'Mid the white foam leaping In torrents up the sound, With the cloud-capped mountains, That tower among the stars, Sails the white-helmed ship To the shrill of trumpets blowing, Till over ocean falling, From the blast of her parting, Winds a funeral dirge of lament. O murmur not so loud, O forest echo, reply not, Nor deny the requiem; For the maiden wakes, And I know she knows When the maiden adorns the shroud In a shroud of grief, And her bosom sobs softly, As she weeps a life's death As the sounds die away, As the last trump his solemn call Rings from the minster tower, From the blackened tower, Till earth and heaven echo, And all the earth quakes. With a trembling fear That no masquerades distract, In the hostel, lodged in a hut, That is wedged in the side of a hill, With a skylight in the roof, And the candle-flame For signal, I stand and watch While night reveals The host, with his dusty plaid, Whispering in a prayer-book; Whispering a prayer For the corpse under the board; For the body, sleeping, Whose betrothed, for a thousand years, With deathless calmness and pride In affairs of stone and wood, Towers in his post-boy dream, And fields, as placid and proud, With the wind for his granary, And the moon for his orchard, And the heart for his mill, And the love for his vines And the love for his tree For the drink-pit of his land, And the carpet of his hearth; While the flame for his light Is the minster of the soul, And his bed's headboard, the strong board That the priest makes for the bed When the Holy Hour begins;-- But the holy host in my soul Faints, and faints away! As the city, blackened with fire, Faints, and faints away. Yonder, in the hostel, I see, In a poor cottage, near the foot Of the steep hill, a mother sleeping, Her two little daughters, keen and shy, Squaring from me and from each other, Their shy laughter, their keen playing. To whose here left hand Is the left arm of the mother With the two little fingers, white and thin, Lifted and stretched, stretching, To the music of the host. One with an eye drawn in, Snatches the hoops from the hand Of the other, who is turning, To see what is the matter, While her thumb, that it might rest, Begins to tickle her toes. Then she laughs for a minute, Then she sleeps a little, Then she wakes again, And her face is awry At the mischief her daughters have made. One till seven, and one till four, And they run so, and they sing so, In the shade of the boughs Above the curving road, Where the winter sun beats and beats, Like a yellow hammer; They think not of the slaughter Done on Calvary By those two little feet. And they dream not of the grave, Beneath them in the dust; They know not, and they do not care, What the Cross is for; They run and they sing and they laugh so, And their happiness is to live, Till the death of their slipper. Then they snatch it from beneath The mothers beneath us wait, And we must stay and stand by them Till the day when we may go From the world whose too many worlds Is the bourn of our lives. <|endoftext|> all night long, though perhaps it is fun to test your might against my beauty, to make you see! One becomes its friend, its treasure, not its prey, my darlings! As for myself, what peace have I? I can neither eat nor sleep, I am in dire torment, when I think of the amorous sirens who sing in their ivory castles, who sing of love where there is none. <|endoftext|> "The Night Piece", by Edward Thomas [Love, Classic Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Though the night is falling, and thus darkness Seems to close up the glorious world, and thus My thoughts, discontent, brood; Madam hath told Much of fair untrue, and I find my plumes Seem hardly spread to their utmost. Oh! I see, true joy, or outward shows of it, I see love's light shed but sparingly; My fair love for me is faint And her sweetness waste, And this long hour of night The last that's left me of delight. Yet, with eyes That length his branches, with great star-like eyes He comes, to spread them taller, and again Himself my branches to an evergreen, And bind them by the snow;— A tree full fang as he, Full thornless. He maketh it grow, and bides Me not. His carkasses wait my bidding Till I come again; — Hark, now, he calls The fairest and the best of all the wildwood To him he leaves. My limbs this long dull night Have lain too low; But, lifting up my head, I see Part of my ideal dream come true, A sun-green cluster of four, That bloom and die, but rise, As a group, new one morning when I see My friend come in. So, if I should die to-night Of sudden fire, (For all men burn at some time or other,) It should be but a renewal of my dreams, A day-dream of the forests, with the sun The utmost heart of it, and my friend Kneeling down before me; and he tells Me how he found this fire in him. <|endoftext|> "The Days and Nights", by Edward Thomas [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] (Explanatory Notes and Introductory Foote) A Universe, God's-Eye-Openingly Large. Time is perhaps no more than space, An eye within the eye; God-glimpsing Time, Like God-glimpse of God-eyedness. Spekles are swift as flash of lightning. Earth hath sleep twixt her lips. And the sweet lips of Night are wet With a most nebulous sap. <|endoftext|> "There were palpitations in the heat", by Edward Thomas [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Pets] There were palpitations in the heat, With sighing of sad birds, And dying of the grassy flowers, That make a pleasant pastime, Dying of the violet tides, Dying of the violet fires That burn in the grasses dim. <|endoftext|> "On the death of the Rev. William Black", by Edward Thomas [Religion, Christianity, Funerals] A mask had William borne like his soul; To that the last shy glance of modesty Had dedicated it. That same soul which first had called Him out of clouds, for Fancy's plaything And herald of its phantom-world, Began in him, for God's service, to dedicate That very soul, consecrated to His holy use. As oft, when the merry lark forgets his mirth, And instead teazing out everlasting lights Of flicker, quiver in his golden horns; So oft the heart of piety will own a somnolent pulse Until her king has forced her sense to hear With open eyes and ears the wondrous truth That sets the whisper of her being free To beat for joy, like stars in heaven. How different from these was the reverend soul, Drawn to the plough as was the leech to heal; A man who loathed objects of desire, And as a shepherd would have loved to be Alone, with but a hearing for his hut's lone murmur, And only a will to see his patient thing Take from him the want that drives him to spend His breathing hours in stately suffering! He let fall a tear, as one might let fall a curl On the grey breeze at night: He said a brief, soft grace: "Oh, there is much to be done!" And then he smiled a joyous smile, for while His mind ran o'er the past in glad reverie, He did not think of what he needed to do. I think I should have liked to be The pastor of one of his churches, So soft his talk and so sleepy his sleep, As if it never chanced that some sore grief Might wrench his eyes from their rest: Or set beside him at his table a bunch of flowers From some gay hedge-row in the vale. Or amidst him in yonder quiet nook A favourite poet's buried scroll: Or round him the sound of bird voices flew, That never made a noise in city or street. For little at this point can be inferred: His leisure time is not a subject for song; But if he could recover his self-possession And remind his mind of that which made him well, He might discharge you, it would not more refresh Than going to him with a grief that settled itself Upon his lips but would not go away. <|endoftext|> "Night Songs", by Edward Thomas [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries] I The wind is saying what Night is: Like the litde white Night-Star Shaking her dainty brow I am not happy now Like the new Moon looking Glow-worms in his face. The leaves are saying what Night is: Like the black Bird's eye-lash I am not happy now Like the Stars looking sadly away. Lips touch lips, and laugh, Heaven glows a point away, Glooms drop sleep and lie Flickering in his hair. All we are tempted for to be: Night in the Night-Maker's face Flows a fearful flood In his eyes, which would not wash Laughter out, and tears in. And we do not heed: All we are tempted for to be: Lights flicker in the sky, Drops in the fountain-well, Suns soften on their hinges, Winds sigh out half-souled. <|endoftext|> "The First Man", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [Living, Death, Growing Old, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] In age, in wit, in virtue, And heart, if not quite wise in everything, Still, in each thing, to a manly degree, There, I count good: this, I reckon worth his weight In glorious action; and that, I reckon worth the treasure Of that rare gift, which custom, learning, pay so well, As equals in honour, so in testimony Stronger, if not greater, than what they bring; And that, in life, they cannot buy So highly worth another use. A manly spirit within me lives: I know the weakness of the seed Which, day by day, and hour by hour, bears fruit, Rejecting, if wounded by the rod. I fear not the rod; but hope to bear The stock of this great house, which once was mine; The fruit of my own thoughts, and my own deeds: Of all I was, I but return to the end Of time, and this fair house is mine once more; And, in it, all the splendour of my mind, Of all my lovely labours, lovely too Were not so passing lovely, if after all, I ne'er should see the like. <|endoftext|> "The Fable of the Five Industries", by William Wordsworth [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Nature, Fall, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] <|endoftext|> This friendly architrave Then drew his marvellous tale. 'Twas made of shiny stones Of many colours. It was a hectic of unknown fires, This marvel, said he, Of brilliant colours He told me then How to imitate That antique script, I didn't tell him I did. I had forgotten that with My being surrounded by Shining truths each second of my life I haven't paused to consider A great mystery: Where does one find that great Dark flame that has never failed to teach? O heart! Nowhere In all this loveliness Beholds that writing. In loveliness now Is nothing writing. Just look at the words in this book That fancy scrawls, So neat, so tiny And with such little, such tiny lines Of real meaning... Do not turn The page to read those words! They are ink-spots. O heart! At the black text I find no tiny lines Beside the line of black. What is this that glitters In a glamour of its own? What is it writes Beyond the gap between Line and line? You are full of words, But there is nothing writing In all this loveliness. The Rumbling Water flows through me, It burns me, shakes my frame; But like the strong voice of a guest I speak to it of joy. My spirit's murmur falls in tune With that glorious calling; I know the message my voice carries, I feel its meaning. I've often watched the building of dams, And known the mighty streams that feed The great harbors and the seaports. I've watched the building of roads, And known the earth's vital capacity For great endeavor. I've ever-stronger felt the vital glow Of open places unfurled, And passed through open scenes, dawn, noon, And midnight, and each time I have felt The utter stillness grow more near. For I have felt myself a soul in slavery Mind-proud, knowing no restraining chain, Yet bent with inner craving for the love And service of some higher soul, And gloried in the lowliness of dunce Who launches his foolship on the great sea Of life, and finds it turn as clamorous As seas that break against the shore. Then it's plain I need no prophet now To show me how the soul's enslaved. I've watched the moon at midnight climb above The crevices of the sleepers eye, And glad and proud its light on me Has tinged the world's face to some blue depth That shows us God is not in shame, But dwells with men, looks out of place On vast, bright reaching arms, open arms, That reach from deeper depths to deeper depths, With arms of wonder and of awe. So it is not Hell that I gaze on That blinds men's eyes, but Heaven itself! My dreams have been strange, but never then Have all been so; and strange my life More strange have all my dreams been. I had a dream, As strange as all my life before; I knew not whence it came nor where; My heart it burst my breast; I felt my blood turn shiver, A cold wet shiver through my heart. The sun is shining on me As never before. And yonder firmament, That once was void, Is filled with mighty things; The sun shines on it. And I am one of them, I, all unvalued And one of God's most poor, One of his servants. I had a dream, and oh! 'Tis strange and new and strange and new! And just as I gave breath To it and opened mouth to speak, My soul grew sick and did cease, My soul grew weak and did fail; I saw it go to sink and sink. And there it fell from Heaven. Yet 'twas new and strange and new! I had a dream, and oh! As strange and new and strange as all My dreams before. I knew it all before, Yet this dream made it stranger still, And naught it told of itself. It told of things, it shown of life, Yet none of God or prayer. It showed a spirit, a god, That ran to save its life. It showed me that God Watched man from sphere afar, A god that heard and gave no rest, But fled to make him man. Yet this dream was strange and new and new! The moon shines on me, the moon From side to side radiates A new power, and I feel it. I am more blessed than all My friends and fellows, and more proud, And in my dreams I praise it. I kiss the gleam from it, As I had kissed the shine. We have sent through the nights We have sent through the nights A torch, a light, a guide. We have sent it out in haste Through the dark so cruelly, And have sent it back in fear Through the darkness back again. But our light is bright again. Our torch is lit. We have sent it out in haste Through the dark so cruelly, And have sent it back in fear Through the darkness back again. But the light is still in store, In the candle's silver casket, And we dream of its coolness yet. We hold its flickering flame Against our faces to conquer thirst, And to draw from it great rains. We have sent it out in haste. We shall not stop until Its task is o'er. The gate is open, the lane is free, Weary archer, come to bend At the bright window and make moan. Dreamer of fame and golden store, Passing in warriorwise and bold; Mustering up all thy strength for an end, Leading the battle up to God. Ah, the lane is bare, the night is old, Not a gate is shut, not a hedge its thistle. Take up thy bow of gold, Choke the word up, leave the wise unsill. Thy fancies with the time unfasten; The fish is free, the gate is low; Away! with a fluttery splash, Away! with a flash, away! Oh, you must cry to God, you must cry That the word is wrong, cry that He hears! But you cry in vain. God's not where, And the fluttering flash's not where, dear heart. In the lane the wren is singing shrilly, The world is gone, and the rivulet's asleep, And the world will never find Him where He is-- But they'll not tell. Oh, you must cry to God, you must cry That the word is wrong, cry that He hears! But you cry in vain. He's gone from us. Doesn't He hear? He--the one true God-- Doesn't He hear? Not a gate is shut, not a hedge its thistle. The word is past. Over the windy downs The smokeless suburbs creep, unanswering, And the gardens slant to the moon. No lighted window Lights the staircase, No hand is on the warnized sign. Not a gate is shut, not a hedge its thistle. Off goes the bell, No one is at the door, Yet there's a stain on the storm, And the stars are in the sky. Some one turned away From the end of the day's long way, Out of his ken By the sad gate, And they went silent with Him. Not a gate is shut. A sea is in my heart, A mighty quiet that is more deep Than the great sleep of thought. I sigh and bless myself, I'm so proud; I shall keep it till I die! "Say thou hast heard-- Tell me, lover of life-- Where lies Shelley?" My lips were mute. I stretched my hand, stretched it forth, But it returned to me Utterly lose. "Tell me, friend, has aught Of clay appeard, To eye or tongue, Won an instant ear, Won an instant eye?" I looked at him, That laughed out right and left. "Not a line Of his so finely clear That it could be said With any strong delight Unto a man that's dead, Surely. "I should not heed In his toast or play Had he left some phrase Of his poetry To clog our thought a little Till time could come again And undo it. "Perchance he had some satyr-thing Amid the sad ambers Or hollows, which, mereya, The light winds may allsibylify <|endoftext|> Then straight they keep their watchful chiefs in cloak Of stiff, dark-bosomed cloud: such seem'd the loft, And at the open window, three tall watch-fires Burn'd softly: ivy round the lattice creep'd, And pediment with flower bedeck'd, groan'd beneath The keen-ey'd glare. Thus while the spouse preserv'd And sober'd the refined wine, the Prince avow'd His former comforts, and th' extraordinary force He had obtain'd since his return: here he bade His guest, with flesh and drinks to appetite fasten, And bid the herald hast to prepare the meal. The crone prepar'd, and in the brazen tank The springing water remove, then fill'd a draught For tepid goat, and, in the bowl, a sprinkle: With wholesome cheese and wheaten food he fill'd The mournful cheer, then placed beside him laid The sheep's heart and liver, and the entrails raw. At once with fiery tongue he thunder'd the decree Of Hecate, avenging punishing power, That everywhere within the solemn place Mis'ry should be found; echoing oft his threats With cruel torch to lighten, burn, and make Dead his unfriendly heart: while he prepared For every wise and gentle voice his ire. But when the fated oxen's horn with foam Issued, and in the pile the flames began, And reek'd, the foul abodes of ravening sires And in the grey-grown woods the giant family, The horrid grove and hart he made inhospitable, Then his strong heart by pity prompted him, He pay'd the vows he dare not, nor remember'd. These did he pour, with vows, with vows in vain, O'er the dead hearse, the bier, the weeping wife. But when the urn yet breath'd not, the pow'rs of heaven Look'd down with kindled eye, and ordain'd, That, or with fate infirmary requir'd, His fate should hasten his desire; then spoke The rest, and each his colour studied fast, Lest, should he breathe, he might not leave a name: And this the more, since we have find, and found In Heav'n's or iTunes, or what you will, That colour stick rather well to simple blood. So he, though faint, was led along on turf Slain with his feet; by this strong power sustain'd, At length his days journey'd forth in hope. And now the fire had found him, and his arms Had shed the blaze, and vuln-wise distain'd, Pass'd with the cumb'rous lump, its weighty load, And shades and forms infernal fled before; Then Goth, and CHAOS, with his train, came down, And PAGAN with his power; then FLESH, and BLEED; Then LUST, with world's desire in his easy hand, Pass'd to the synod of his bridal peers; Last, and least, O henceforth thou my soul and I Shall be as foot physicians, pitiful indeed Of pretty innocents, but still too trusty: This as a woof, that heap'd with panels lay, Which if no guilty hand had made the heap, The common void had found a place for sin. I leave the rest, nor take a title forth To panegyric perfumes, or to discourse Of woe or in favour; such a note I think me here: though in my pauses pause, 'Tis vain to pledge thy auditor; so I cancel Mine adorers: not that I would transgress Vulgar, which I cannot; not that I want Thee, genuine advanced; but these subordination And subordination's assault, oblige Or call me, for subordination strait Is, as 'twere, antipathetic to love; Or, as it more persuades our sense, Or by some tremulous token more on me Might seem to plead the fact beyond doubt, That my ability's near akin to love, Weakness, or merit, or the other scores By man's petty scores, which, in what I declare, Will be as white or black, as is the hue Of a good or bad smock; I will go on In this: my subject so resists abscence, I, therefore, the more sincerely desire To speak my heart out, lest mysteries Accomplish'd by another page occupy The impatient mind, and, to those sensitive And tender semblances of ourselves, Turn our fair topic; these say, He is true, Whom I, and thou, and all the rest admire; But say, He is not true; or if he is, He is not she; or if she, then she is not he; Or if she, then thou imitator! that Art flatt'rer too? By these tokens then, I warrant not, he only is a he Who makes love the test of all the questions Of faith; or, to make creeds of his own And take for scripture only what is most Portentous; for a he into doubt endures, The rest are vague and indefinite. I do not, then, ask of thee, my friend, Of this guy, or any, a proof positive; I, therefore, trust, the matter's not new. I grant it not, I. Q. E. D. The seeker Will ever be a he, from first to last, Of what he seeks: thus, even as the sphere On its eccentric drawn, still is the he Unmov'd of all the elements; So also, in the course of all things, 'tis said And sung, the soul is a he or she: call'd, At its own festal gates, the spirit up By virtue, and, as it were, organ-like, Distinctly sings, descends, and, at the beck And voice of him, who marks her/them, entranc'd Full rose, to its abode fixes her parlour, Where, every work an ample port, the Spirit, True to the monitory light of hues, And, dim places holding what's past separations, Lights up the cosmic fireplace, the grave Of all dead time and place, and, as a man On fair assessment, lives out his years. 'Twas not my lot to bear contempt: For there my books were often set on shelves, Which others, and my guru in the end, Could not enter; and where'er I appeared I did not, even in the act of singing, See others made my personal god by those Who came for pleasure; I was for man's service In God's own ordinances, and nothing more; 'Twas my delight to watch them at their toil; To make the best of times while they lasted; To share my feast with them: to stand by them When they lay on the feast-table; to assist My hands by learning how to do their lest, And find by me their wisdom and their worth; By me their love and their knowledge I bespake, And, from the depth, their passions and their hates; These I reproved, as I have reproved elsewhere, But once I fell upon my face and wept, And found my self but human, all my best. Then I began to practise what I preached, And me I trained; I went abroad in all lands, Receiv'd with joy or welcome; met with winks and blinking; But never a prompt reception found I; And what is't to me, but as a certain stone, Or piece of brass or iron to a donkey, I found that I could nothing get by foreigner, No matter who he was, or where he came from; At length upon the whole, it chanceth o'er-much That I fail some in their offices, and pray, I make them justices of my peace, or tane Of ways and wagen, or what you will; They then do what I will, or should do, in brief; I have no power to make a single stroke, Though I lay wagered all the world of Italy; Thus I became a man of action, and stood With others of my kind; then sudden rose With them the crazed all-involuntary cry, Which endeth now this moan, or which should end it, If there were any answer; whereupon I rose At candle-light to go, my long cane by my side, And walk abroad, to find myself alone, By the soft gliding of the evening-gales, Where I may stand all morning, and at eve-day Peep from the house at candle-light into the court, Where I my post hold, and be unseen by man; Then I begin at once my office and refuge; Such was I made, and such shall I ever be; Henceforth alone, alone I shall endure and love; <|endoftext|> God came to me, clothed in glory, Of His own angelic form. To me there cried to God from heaven, "Glory to God." I am Christ. God was my friend and helper Who helped me to bear the load The flood of war and fight. For He has given me rest, For I have seen Him face to face. And now that I am Christ I say To all of you who live, Glory to God! The trumpet sings, and all the heavens shout, "Glory to God." The noble Turks make no response, And say: "We will have our just and rightful share. We will not join the battle. Our ships are laden with gold and treasure, Our Caliph on high is ruling supreme, And we have sworn to him and him alone, And his mother, ever, To hold each other as our dearest friends; Our caliph is humble, ours is strong, And we will do our duty to them; Why then should we fight, When our Chief is humble, And our God is as great as He can be?" The Lord will not go from us, But we will do our duty. Oh! who am I that I should stand Among the battlements, and in the fields, And look upon the soldier that is killed, And sorrow for the love of such an one. The lights in the sky shall be darkened, And the wind grow wild and cold; And I will think upon my lost delight, And how she will miss me. The gates are open; wide open is the gate, That opens never, never, never more; But I will not greet her nor stand here erect. Banners in a countless multitude Shall float on the wind, and sink and rise; And banners shall wave on the tempestuous sea, And all the world be with us. But his God is with him, and let him be, And weep with the ones that weep; And with their dearest Lord they will say: "God is not here. We cannot feel His presence with us." A glade of apple trees Shall shade the hazel wood, Where the path o'ergrows the brook. Cranes shall hear its minstrelsy, And prodigal voices say: "Tho' my ways are strange, God has been faithful to me." There came an odorous cloud of flowers, And through the May-apple bowers Came sweet, sweet Spring's baby-laughter, And Man and God were glad. The breeze upon the hedge-tops shook With such a peace as only lovers know, And there was bliss in every eye. The shepherd rang his pleasant bell, To bid the woodlands breathe and ring With dull delight; The merry cows beneath the eaves Began to wake, For lo! it was the robin's wings They heard, Who in a warm and sunny flight Had returned to the wat'ry bowers. We watched him curiously, Till we could learn his art, And far and wide, from coast to coast, We sent him forth to seek, With perky strides and courser bound, The flying bird. He spread his chalk-white wings, and we Gazed with smile on him, As if in this our woe, He came to teach, And give us rest from our pain. Soon he swept along the cliff. "Away, black mail, away! Oh, where is your weapon? I'll have your feathers my own, And gently pluck them: O man of starshine, look on my breast! It is a tender part. Your great broad beak shall not avail To tear my honest white. "Come down, or deeply I'll smite Your sharp receding claws, Till down, of my free will, The miserable thing shall fall, And lay its young, gay life, With its own kind, in open den, Beneath the hissing wall. "I shall bear it tenderly As one would caress A little wisp of blue and white In dark trees of the sky. I'll feed it tenderly And give it drink; And I'll teach it, Shepherd, to say, With voice of joy, What a bird must learn to tell How much it loves the sky." Oh, you were loved by the wintry wind, You were loved by the wintry sun; He laughed to see how fiercely you flew, And he said, with his warmest voice, How very beautiful you were. He praised your azure wings, and said, with a smile, 'Twas an arrow you blew from your wings; He wondered that such a thing could be Therefore, in his sultry wrath, He smote you, and you died. Oh, you were loved by the wintry wind, To him you flew on; He sang of your beauty to the sun, And sung of your lightness to the wind; And he said, with his warmest voice, How very beautiful you were. He praised your azure wings, and said, with a smile, 'Twas an arrow you blew from your wings; He wondered that such a thing could be Therefore, in his sultry wrath, He smote you, and you died. In a land beyond sight or speech, A land where none dwelt or went, There dwelt a maiden, fair to see, A sweet, sweet maiden. Her eyes were sapphires set in snow, Her cheeks were pomegranate hulls, And the robin's tail in her hair Was as a rain-cloud is in May; And thus it was she won the wind, And thus she smoked the air. And she said, as she thumbed the wind, "I will have a husband worthy deed, To call me his love, my light, his dear, And his beauty to my eyes. He must be strong, so must have a conscience; He must be witty, and he must be brave; He must be firm and he must be brave, To tend the temple of the bridal; And he must never have a thought, Till in the final blessing, he swore, That the first thing he would do when she Brought back her husband was to kiss her, And lie to her with a passionate kiss. And then, for a sign of betrothal, I will have a golden ring to put it on, And set it on her finger. "But in making the nuptial, I warn her well To keep a close watch upon his mood; And if he ever strikes her unknown, To fly to the woodshed at once and there And throw herself before the village child. And if he ever tells what she is, And gives a name to her, of being, Then she is my wife. And let her hold This silken case within her hand. "There is a spell that whoso looks here Becomes a bird of beauty; I have seen it In gardens of the East, where the tall fruit Drops down before the lofty listener's eyes And beautiful birds fill the forest air; And beautiful women hold the twilight mat And look like blue holes in the water, So beautiful they tempt the first user To look into their mouths and feel within The image of a bird within them live; But the first user of this case, This silk case, looking into it, Will be a bird in a cage. "But if he ever takes her into the woods, Or into the marsh, where the reeds are thin, And under rude eaves, to hide her well, She becomes a thin reed in the water, A white water lily in the mud. But if he takes her near the cities, Or if he takes her where the homes are close And many people dwell in close collection, She becomes a wild-flower, a water-weed, Where waters pass and streams run down, A blowing flower, a drifting weed, The color of water-weed and water-bleach, And she will have the coloring of the river. But I say once again, and easily, That the first user of this case, This silk-covered case, looking into it, Will be a bird in a cage. "Say now, before I give the sign of marriage, How is she to be received? I will not hear from any man but him. Was any boy ever considered for marriage? Or any maid? But I say to you, once more, Say you will take this maiden to wife, And the second maid, as well, And prove their fitness for each other. "It is meet that the first wife should be modest And the second modest, even though they prove Fit for a house that was never built Before on earth by anyone, and never will be, Or any other house on earth till the end. <|endoftext|> Itself full of laurel and laurel wreath, Daisies and daisies, plowmen and reapers. "Whither goest thou, Magdalen?" asked one, "Knowest thou not that our flower of men is dead? Strange! though I often said 'twas born in sin, They took the hand of my Magdalen and slew her. I am not sure if she the divine Drusilla, Was his lover--even within our hallowed door-- But this I know, Magdalen the crystal streams, The blossom of the rose of Prunella, and great kings-- Strange her light is! Here has her bust an ample pedestal." With her big lashes pulled down and dimpled face, Full of laughter and smouldering tears, she stood erect, Daughter of Jove, that makest gods of evil men, Her mouth wide open, her large eyes full of flame, As if she smelled the charnel odours there. Clad in a robe of donex, her legs clothed about With costly hose, and her feet encased in shoes, About her waist a golden girdle bound thereof, Laced with the finest pup; she, while from above Came driving down a dim rainbow dimmed with red, Where the bad earth into the air is let down, Shook her clear neck, and threw back her head, and sung A loud and luxurious laugh, as when a swan Or news-woven swallow sings. So she sang, And swept from Simon's memory all his dreams. "Love, how long ago--love, how long ago! I dream'd that I was lone and dreary, And thou wert flying through the blue, Like thine own Valkyrie, where I strove With wandering longing; then the quick blue days Fell on me, and the swell of thy great wings Came o'er the wild sea, and crimson pyres Flared like burning castles in the sun, And lo, the purple peaks of the Wall-God hung, In spangled splendour! 'O long and fondly' I cried, and woke to find myself alone, And that thou wert flying through the red skies, In the red dawn of Love's birth, and my heart Drove thee like a flame-tipped flame, that follows -- A fiery image, that I follow too! O long and fondly! yet, how much the more Didst thy wing-dazzled eyes from the high golden towers Peer beyond, where the pale roofs bowed down In blue-black splendour! Then I woke to feel Myself gone, and vanish'd like a shaft Sparkling in the dark, and yet thereon -- O there! The dark still closing round! But it seems a truth That, where there is a high sun's white searchlight, The soul that watches o'er it, there should be Sharp pain and sudden beauty, strange and sweet, And, though it go again to darkness, seem Bright sunshine fresh again, and as it were The first sweet song it ever sung. "And so I found me on that June morning, When thou wentest soaring like a bird, But I was like the rest, and met thee there With rising lids, and turned my dreams away, And hid my soul in thee, like temple torches That keep the flames the darker at night, To keep the blessings of the day away. But thou wast prettier than the rest! thy golden hair Rippled like a golden river winding In cool summer clouds, and thou wast fain To look up, and I was glad; and still I thought, That, when thy lips look'd up to me, mine did too. And suddenly, as o'er some magic glass I dropt the veil that shows thy secret soul, Thou looked'st like some immortal spirit shared With me! 'Sun, I am thee,' was all thy voice, And, while I gazed, the fairest form that e'er Was given to mortal book was hers that minute To me; and I became a listening spirit That liveliest grows when women wake the most. And then there chanced a wonder: thou dost not go As far as that, and yet I seem as far! A chain, made of two atoms of thyself, That once did bind thee to this material earth, And made my soul and body hold no slave For ever and a day; an atom of thyself, Once more, which thy sweet lips had drawn apart, Is all this soul that groan'd in me to be, As once it was, to thee -- to thee! I feel A strange repose in that sweet name, 'Sun,' I've had enough of Gods, and angels, and hell, And men! I hate them all. I loathe their pride, Their fickleness, their vanities, and more, Their constant promises, and their premature smiles, Their sowing and their harvesting, and the sack Of useless corn and trash; their best are what they've made, And what of worst? What do they make at all? What's the best they ever made? There's none, I think, But what they knew would be best. What's a rainbow made of? "A man I loved, a man," I said, "whose death Left me a soul like any water, who had not Yet come to understand the ruin that comes With hoary debt and irons kings, and kings Who have the choice to bow the head, and do Or slay. Still my heart was blind to most Of what men call wrong. And yet, I would not be Like some poor paralytic blinded with his stings And set on endless killing. So I slew Some beasts, and drank their lives. And some men, A man I loved, a man whom I had slain, came And came to die. And what was left of me? The terror of women and the eyes of Cain. "I wished to die, too, before the battle, Before the huddling host came yelling up, Before the host of women came whose hands Were white with doing, who had fed of Abel's beans, And drunk the warm blood of lambs again. I wished to die before the battle, see The children of men and women and hosts Slain and the bloodthirsty hearts broken, not the glow Of battle, not the loss of life, not the glow Of glory, not the lust of gold, not the lure Of women, not the battle's noise. But these are things, These things and more, that go to make the mix'd body Man's standing undertow, man's sickness, man's plague, The standing tug of war, and the standing disease That needs and the pill. "Before the battle I would have fallen, I would have fallen. I had the wish, but lacked The will to use it. Before the battle we cast Our bodies on the freshness of the field, We are their stage, we are their play, their story. And from this point of strong surprise we go That there be nothing of us that may not fail, And that no time be too brief for our sorrow, The wish, the will, to bring to death that life. Nothing survives of any war that has been But this. This constant breaking, this return, And the long half-decomposed number slain That rise, come back, and move and move until They reach the death that they shall have caused In some way or other. "Before the battle we had half wounded Ourselves with ardor, we had lost all hope, We had one great hope, that somehow God would Give us the strength, the health we had lost, To strike for our own lives, to strike and fail And leave the stakes to God. This battle was it." So with his knife, skill'd in killing, Aleksandr Cut brains and blood and white bones from the game. "Take these brains," he said, "the blood stains them, We may not know the native color, but we know They were not ours." He took a red pair And shook them on the brow of one who lay As if asleep. His hand was cool, his touch Acute, and coolness and the color blend. Red blood spurted on them from the cut they made. One mortal eye was closed, but Aleksandr knew From the convolutions of his body what part His severed head had made in his lord's body. And Aleksandr was glad, his heart beat faster, His hand fell open in the barb in his glove, For he had cut a nerve and struck the blood, They should not wake him till the game was through. And with the last cry of "life," the life that flows On earth, Aleksandr tore a nerve and struck a vein, And cut a vein that was innocent and spared. The will had failed him, his hand faltered, but he stood, For God had made a tyrant out of David, Lord of his people and he had killed his brother. <|endoftext|> From amorous lips, and kisses sweet; But smile no more, my heart, for joy's sake. Come let us wander far away, Over dale and hill, and by the sea, And in sweet slumber lull to rest. From London town we'll take our way, We'll cross the Thames, and down by ferry; Oh, how we'll view the trim-lined houses, Where happy children sing and play; And pleasant will be our evening's repose Where Windsor meadows lie at rest, And great gun-builders' solemn towers The lowing herds attend, And mighty steam-shipwrights in pride Their wondrous engines rear. But more than all, the Queen's on high, Her sovereign dignity she shows, Her finger pointing to the sky; And we, who covet empire's lust Look straight in her proud face. In broad-lined back her skin is white, Her neck, as snow-white as the moon: The orbs of blue that shone when old, They are to-day in proud delight: The dower of earth, as there she sits High-crowned, gracious-sitting queen; Her eye--how bright it is of sight! Her brow--how haughty proud it is. The circle of her life, her time, Bears the same round mark. No great among them has her seen, No gracious-speaking princess fair, Who loves her worthily. Oh, we'll go and seek her out, And worship at the Queen's feet. Then will she know that we have come, As far as the deep could tell, To worship at her Queenly feet. And down the river-tide we'll float, Through wind and wave, and clear and dark, And seek the sacred crown of gold; And when, too soon, we find the shore, Our necks will bear our country's sign. And there we'll lay the curly wig Of kings for her to wear. We will unrobe her and alway Fast wrapped in silken shroud, And dancing in the gale, and when The storm's deep bluster, play; And every land that knows her fame, And many that don't, will know Our country's Queen of Sails. As we go home with laughter bright, We'll pause at often haunted houses For those we've loved before; And some for very sorrowing, Who've longed to speak, but dared not; And some for grief, but all for others We'll be glad to see them come. As we sit and rest from toil, And weary years, we'll sing with pleasure Old rural lays of England's tongue; And some for very youth will sing Fair famous things of long ago; And some for very old will tell Fond stories of their country's sires. As we go home with joy and pride, We'll pause at often haunted houses To shed sweet gratitude for things; And many a tale of oft-divided love To soothe the hearts that wandered far. And the gay and youthful, when they're there, Will play, and throw the fleecy lawn To some with glad and flattering hand. And though we hardly can consent To love too much, there are some We love with that intense devotion You only dream of, and ofr services Not always known to rote learning. If you've been kind enough to pay Quarters for such books as we've read, Please sell them, and in goodray sell Those to us who, in truth, cannot pay. <|endoftext|> It is nothing but a cloud. It is nothing but a cloud. Above the cloud is climbing up With every wave, As it were, That comes, is lifted And settles, An old and sorry siren Whose voice is sad. Long ago I learned that a cloud Is nothing but a salt block, And a rising sea is only A sea with cloud above it, And my heart is like the earth, Empty and deep, And cries when the clouds come by. They are but little hollow sounds, The winds that sigh Above the cities of the plain, The birds that call the drought to death, The dust that eats the camels' feet. Aeolian musicians, Merry and clever, Why have you left the lowly cry Of birds to mark you, Your laughter calling from a sky As great as that? O'er the sad earth Rising and falling, Summer and winter, The great trees, green and tall, Whisper strange stories to the air, And stars and dust are lost in sound. The voice of many waters, Cries across the foam, The human voice, The human voice of sorrow Broods over earth and sea. What has been may never again be, The rounded letters tell, And sad above sad, The human voice of sorrow Is sad. O, she has woven a tiny wreath of leaves For me, With a blue stave of wine. And my heart is still and dry, While the green stain grows twice as high As the vine that freezes on the stalk; While I hold the cluster that is dearer Than the ring that I shall crush. The fountain flows, And I drink of it, And of it I pray. For my heart is heavy and frightened With the weight of years; And the flowers are fading and the trees are bare; The laughter of children, the growth of peoples, And the dreams that within us grow. A rose is a bud, And a bud is a rose, When the golden wax Has past and spoiled their pink; But my heart is heavy and frightened With the weight of years, And the petals that fade and the time that is spent, Dilated, faint, and fast. A rose is a bud, And a bud is a rose, When the heart and bud Are broken and known; And he plucks me this blossom up, Because I am broken too, For the wine is deep, the wood is dark, the white Rose-flower is bitter at the heart. O do not touch me! You will make a rush of blood Right into my eye, O I have had the luck To have your shadow Before me when I sleep. It is as if a thousand brooks of blood Came up and carried my body High into the sky, And there I stand to look at the Stars. It is as if the moon could drop down Into the sea And wash my body with her golden hair O there is beauty in the sea That is washed with the splashing foam. No, no, no! You do not want to. Let me stay here And you can go on running. Do not talk to me. Do not look at me. Do not breathe on me. Let me be. No! you do not want to, O you do not want to. Let me stay here And you can bury your face in your hands, And I'll kiss the tears from your eyes. O I have done it, I have done it. They are dead, And I am sorry. Oh, I know that the deep waters Are the right way to kill The misery of passion, But the golden sun Will make your eyes shine, O it will make your eyes shine. There is a silver knife, And I am ready. Now you will say that I Didn't do my best, That this was a mistake; But it was not, not a mistake, Even though it was sad. I would give myself away For the chance of a week's happiness In the rising sun, And I think I did my best, And it wasn't bad. I don't know why I bothered With the fool's mistake Of leaving you there, There in the sun, With no cloak, no gloves, No place to be Where the cold wind blew, No house to sit in. I'm coming back, And I want you to know it, All my heart is breaking, I'm coming back in three days. And even if you want to say 'T was only a passion thing, It will not wash, For I too much love you. So be it as it may, I will come back here And I will stay in this place. Be it on a sofa or bed, So be it in the strangest of places; You cannot say that I did not try To come back and it never came. Let me never be afraid, Never be afraid again, O I am coming back! No, never. I'm coming back. When the evening shadows gather to shrink The figures of ladies glimmering faint In the corners of the street; When the hall door becomes a screen and room, And the window a frame for passing bird <|endoftext|> And clove to the upper branches Of pine or of oak trees Of that Northland that is lonely For none near to share her sorrow And her young faithless sisterhood. Mariatta, youth for ever young, Lived in their imagination As the sum of her ancestors; And the birds of air sang her praises In their cautions to the winter; Her sister on the anvil worked, Knitting the woollen cloth with magic, Fabbing the warp with song of owls, And the skilful spirit, Ilmarinen, Wed the maiden with the word of curse. Ilmarinen, witch-compell'd artist, Of the mountain-mingling ashless, Lost his reason and his speech, Saw not a thing, heard not a thing, Cannot write a letter with ink On the mountains of Hisi, Nor with fire upon the mountains He does inkstand work in magic. Long she had been unwed, Olive-branch'd below, Unhappy child, that night abode In the snag of Thetis earth-tree, In the hoar-frost on the Niemen, So that all the birds were flying, In the pine-tree's cone-top, Singing, calling, singing plainly; And the sun, new risen, Hides the new-sprung sun in darkness. Ilmarinen, witch-artist, The eternal metal-artist, This the first news he gathers: "Something climbs the Cross-tree, Some closer look the White-wood; There are mediums on the Water, With the sun, with things that move; Hear the boist'rous winds in concert, Cold, cool, and loud and lonesome; Hear them sing in wonder, Hear them sing in concord, Hear them sing the mountains; Hear them sing the desert, Hear them sing the hero, Hear them sing eternal Climbing this wood-and-plank canoe! "Climb I must, nor will my feet Allow the planks to damage, Acquaint the forest-daughters, Fair and delicate daughters, Ladies of the area. "Where are you, Friar of St. Joseph, Seducer and wizard? Wielder of well the runes of magic, Sorcerer and wizard far from me here, I have needs must make my wishes known, Needs that shall soon all clear as daylight, Unclouded by a cloud all eventful; Soon shall fly from me the antlers, Fly the wolf, the bear, the roebuck, Soon shall swim the black-swan, sail the eagle, Soon shall waken from the stone the minstrel, Soon shall warm me in the stove of pine-wood, That the roof may warm and modern signs." Such were the words of Ilmarinen, Thus the magic speech made progress, Quickly grew within his lips immortality, Dreamed beyond the waking world of mortal, With the waking on the summit gazing. Straightway then the beautiful Maiden, Momentary while she lingered, Took the time to cast her eyes around him, On the surgy damsel speaking, Darkly laughing, darkly staring. Spake the enchanting maid, Wainamoinen, These the words the bride of Northland: "Does the Sohoko have a maiden, That can gold to tinsel turn as tinsel?" This the answer of the war-renowned Of the Northland, sage and minstrel: "Some a hero, stouter of the Strength-stones, Than a woman is, of magic powers; That is never seen nor heard of any, Never moves, never speaks, but, smile like magic, Smiles within the Northland-fire-emitting mirror." Now the Shopsome Wonder-merchant, Last of the singers of Wainola, Ever at work the front of magic, Always at risk of life and liberty, Ever at risk of eye and ear, Seats himself within the window there, Seats himself upon the floor there, In the courtroom of Pohyola, Spins his wits and rumors modern, On the rails of ancient days. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "It is well that thou be not harmed, That thou mayst pass unmoved thy way; I had never thought that thou couldst speak Simple brogue and untroubled phrases, That the brave words thou hast in thy lips Were of double sense or of true import. "Speak thou now as thou wert when first I met thee, Teach me why thy tears have bathed my temples, Why thy wails have suppurated me. Why hath woe troubled such a hero, Such a wisdom-madman of a hero? "Because I thought thee such an one As is only found in Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala." Back disdainful he snaps, Angry turns his locks wild crimson, Angry spits upon the flooring. Quick is heel opposed to opposing heel, Necks twisted in great wrath are standing, Rough razory sands are battering, Spurning sands fall from angry teeth. Thus the furious, ShEPPINGER, Angry turns his locks crimson, Twisting his ruffled hairs great anger, Speaks these words, diurnal, Scottish, In the year of 1890, In the year of 900 A.D.: "Soon wilt thou curse, O SHEPPINGER, O the mouthful bitter-sweet Of my fees and my wisdom! Soon wilt thou curse the window, Since thou hast my fees stored there, In the year of 900 A.D. All the fees of the Druid, All the wisdom of the Mishe-Mines, All thine, O the Mishe-Mines!" Many books, old and new, Were consulted in learning What the ancient sang about; And the ancient sang about This, and this not; This, that caused no curse, Than the speech of a Shaking-Man, Not at all as the Song of Solomon. In the woods of Ehstland there grows, For her walls, a shapeless blossom, For her roof, a ponderous stone, For her eaves a gigantic oak-tree; Yes, in the woods of Ehstland, In the houses of Stone-Ice, Is the perfectly working clock, Working, never sleeping; In its hands is the Northland-Pole, Working, never sleeping; In its track, a mile-long steel-train; Its retro-fitting doors afire, Incredibly bright they glow. Yes, in the Ehstland forests, In the houses of Stone-Ice, Lives the clock that is always snoring, Lives a mile-long steel train, Fully a thousand inches thick, Always dying to mattress down In the Ehstland forests. In the years when the world was growing, In the flood of ages long ago, In the chamber of the earth-progne, Grew the Ehstlander, Stone-Ice, And her beams were small and her doors Were not properly eaving; So she moved about quite uncomforted Somewhere on the mountainside, She oped her little ebony door, And stooped, and she shut him up. From the low earthen floorington, In the room that was part-way down, Came the Shaking-Man unpleasant, Quaking, shaking, and writhing; For the Ehstlander, Stone-Ice, Having made discovery, Having stumbled on it, Then became so exceedingly curious, That for many days she remained, She either open-mouthed, or else shut, You never could have guessed at nativity Of the Ehstlander, Stone-Ice. In the meadow by the river, In the meadow by the active river, Where the reeds by the river are blowing, Plucking, and hewing, and blazing, And the grass re-echoing, and the willows bending, And the water re-echoing loudly, With a stolid air, an icy stiffness, Stood the Ehstland lady, Stone-Ice. At the middle of the river Stood a door, and beyond the door Far in the eerier meadow pastures, Gliding like the shadow of swans, Like the silver feet of the river, Danced the Ehstland maiden, Stone-Ice. From the hillsides comes the sound, From the peaceful valleys comes it, Through the streets and orchards it flows, To the center of the movement, To the spirit-level of the movement, And below the Ehstland maiden, Stone-Ice Felt the waking of her soul more and more, Felt it rising or falling in her bosom; For she lay in the shadow of the mountains, <|endoftext|> By my wish led out, as you know well, To assist in taking the governor, Who hath been long at Paris now, and there hath found That order in the French king's guard For doing him hurt, which he did by the Byroad without number or gate. He, when he heard the Frenchmen were come, Had bribed and exhorted the men thus to go; And, in the body of them, himself was trusted, The more to speed their going, the more his own By the Frenchmen he did by their side, And said he would as willingly be slain By them under shelter of his own Then let the Frenchmen under him be driven. From his own saddle he leaped on horseback, And soon as he was less than three paces away, Said to him, "Sire Knight, wait for me at the woodside." But when to that part of the forest hied, His trusty squire alighted on the bank, Planted his foot on the not very rude stone, And took a quick stand to make his shot, His spirit to the French came over the top, Or at least so say the pages of King John. "It would be little gain to gain the wood, But when his purpose could do no more, He changed his mood, and wailed aloud, As if he could descend by the abbey wall, And look for his brother there: And when the breeze did drive the flying leaves, And the stream did bid the water-brooks bubble, He would sit down, the whole night long, and sing his rondeau, Just as his boyhood did sing it at school." And so it may be that his bright eye might Have grown upon the soldier a little, Had he but but a single farthing said, Or not seen so many skirts of streaking hair, Or but heard not the bare skeleton's smack, He might have glimpsed his withers like a shining gold blade, And so have saved his body from the scythe. And so I read, the very word before me Had lit up another in his soldiery. 'Tis enough to make a saint of Robin Hood, And in the Sermon on the Mount it may be he Had so much more might have done for others, But the journey was a long and dreary one; The snow was deep as a bottom of Dudley stone, And the night wind rang like Simon's dart. For days there was no grass, nor hill nor dell, But the stream by the forest all wet and hoar, And the log on the wood's farther side That the Constable was going to flay. Now there's aught that well might befell a blundering man, A tall fresh cedar tree half in the air, A level path half hidden by a log, And a flanking battery of men firing at the last from behind. For these were the scenes that greeted me as I went through the forest. But there was one man in that jumble, that long night and cold, Yet as a generous deed he did that chase, and helped to conceal It, trusting to his horse and Robin Hood, He trusted to that courser that the twain had eased of his price, And, trusting, because he knew their aspect, "We know your face, my friend, and know what you are, Robin, and will allow, Though in judgment of many you are little more Than a vile dog, a lazy dog, at bottom," he said, "Haply you do not perceive, I own, such a thing as mercy in a story, Too horrible, too downright amiss in the worst sense of the word, And touched with horror you say, 'How like an elder god I seem to grow!'" I was not hurt by the little lie, nor can tell How he believed what I did say, For that same night my blood began to freeze, And my cheeks were very seldom bright. But though I never again can read good Charles, I read him plainer than ever, And read him down to th'ownright trumps and clear; And as the shadows gloomed and stank around, And the damp night air in that imprisoned place, Like an unbreathable hell beneath my feet, With the unquenched hunger of wet Winter beating down, With my soul's pain and rage and doubtlessness grew worse. And yet I did not much suspect, till dawn, That those on whom my eyes had long been fixed For counsel or for preparation, when I was laid low, Had really and truly made me a king. When on that fatal dawn, between the yoke And bridle, down the illuminously steep I slid, it was not Heaven's self Who carried me away, but the soul Of a foolish man, who was not wise. For as a lion may be lured out of its den, And, by false reflections fed, become a lamb, The prisoner who believed falsehoods of his brothers, Had in this way been beguiled and baited, And lost sight of truth; for he no more Trembled at his own lethal works, Burnt at the heart, and broke in sunder by the flame Within, from what foundation deeps he had reared All that vanity could raise, High thoughts that erst had seemed natural and right, Strange sayings of what made the starry cloth, But which were nought but vituperative sneers, Words and insolence, words like these: "Where is the man, so rich in courtesy, Who would not rather sit down and pussy-cat In some Court's strict house, than sight of blood, And all the world around him fading dead, And all the melancholy's home-bred woe?" I said, "Lord, I would rather sit down and alight And suck a wax-winding ear From some dull cave's mouth, than hear the tongue Of this deceiver, this wag, this vulgar beast, Of honor, fame, who talks as if he knew, His brethren, grandchildren, ills and woes, And every wild blether of the trade, Some ploughman on the road, some unbelined rill: I say, I would rather have my body spurned By Zeus, than you, vile whelp Of some angry mother, or your mother's hound! I'd rather my bones clipt in a traveller's cloak, By Acheron's dark waves, than see Your treacherous treach'rous kisses used thus often. And, like a dog, or fox, you'll not stir, But sit and cling, and spit, and gnaw your bone, And gnaw it in your malice and pride, To let others see your malice and pride." "And if, when we have burnt that vile whelp, We'll hear no more of kisses, or have lost, Your false right's at once for ours, if we'll catch Your betrayer, in some more darkened cell. So we'll take the whelp that's hard at hand; And if at last this villain should be caught, We'll burn his heart within the furnace here." But this is idle; they cannot burn The heart, that is our life, within the kiln: Men kill their friends with sharper blades than that. What good there is in lava-flood or fire Is nullified by the hardy kind, Who set a tire-like heel upon it, And break it for good, as well as for ill. The poison-all heart of a sinner beats Too right for the devil's left-handed way: We love too well the right hand of the just To kill him with a cruel hand more white. We burn for others, but we must needs Kill the self-sameselves; for, as Strauss says, "The world in its entirety," he says, "cannot be reformed, Only sluiced and processed." Kill one part and some will have to die: Kill God's plan, and Cuthbert's will have done. Kill God's plan, and all will be well, as always. Kill God's plan, and all will be ill, as here. My God, I would I could make A love-in, and kiss you Before I die! But I know I shall not live To make the love-in, and kiss you. My God, I would that I, Because I love you so, Should go on loving you To my reward, and die, Because I love you so. My God, if I should die Before I have begun To love you so, I would fain be alive to say That love was my means, and you The thing I loved and loved you for. My God, because I know I shall not die before you, Because you know I ne'er Can kiss you, nor give you The way of kiss that kills, I ask you, Lord, to let me live To be the means of killing you. My God, if I should die Before I have begun To love you, let me die Before I begin to love you, And thus for ever, and thus When living, I shall be dead. My God, why should I Love you, when I know I shall not love you so That I should love you so Till I died, and in the life That was to come I shall not know, Nor breathe your name, nor see <|endoftext|> Then turned it again, And made up some strange new weird games. The black rocks never growed, The wings we lost, The tongue that dripped with lies, The eyes that sparkled-- What were all these, The wits with the golden hide? Or the white road, Past the hidden shrines, Lying flat To the fetter of the kite, Or raised by snow-fall, Or crouched by storm Half sunk in drouth, The long white road, Long as a great stone be in a people's prayer, Long as the wind that sings Past the cry of the church-tower to the seagull's cry. Or the light we possessed Beyond the dimness of the clouds, The light we felt as one of all that is Possessing us--sharing our pain Or giving joy--all of the sorts of things A woman loves--forgetting at times She is a woman, aware that she is a woman, Touching her soft breast, her lithe dear neck, While all our mystery remained unsubdued. We dreamed of the dreamer-- Only one of us knew how That dream began--its end--all we could tell-- And many things might it achieve; Only one of us was the true dreamer-- I am content to let the world know That the whole have I not dreamed, Or only half, And that my whole was that I dared To set my faith on a thing so near, That I placed my life's hope in a thing so far. We know not whither the lost one wandered, And so we cannot tell whither the lost one wandered, But we know he was in the brightest places, In the bluest skies of the bluest planets, Or with the brightest in God's ocean standing, Or rising, or descending with the tide, Or going, one with the lilies' sea-gull, Out of all time's volume, with the lilies' sea-gull. We know not whence he came, or where he vanished, But we know that there is one melody That thrills in the bent way winds make at the sea-banks When salt winds pursue them from the west; And we know this one thing--we know that there is One limb of a woman that is more worn, More smooth than any in the sunlit world, Till time has tinned and changed and wrung it and wrung it, And bent to a path the curved sun cannot track. He is a man, and that we know We know from the gleam of his eyes, From the bend of his brow to the curl of his hair, We know from the bloom on his breast to the grave on his throat. With the rest of his life to be blest, Blest with all good, we may not be happy, When, unknown in the distance, When the journey is afar, With the rest of his life to be blest We know not whither the lost one has wandered, But the rest of his life to be blest We know from the bloom on his breast to the curl on his hair. The balm of the west is falling on the air And the tints of the waters are glowing in the sun. He calls me over the trowel to turn, He calls me over the trowel when the day is done. I know the gladness of the calling as clear as the chorus, I know the glories of his soul as the starry sky. When he speaks, I hear in the lilt of his voice The thrill that comes when a tune is born upon the air, And all at once, by some invisible magic, All the hearts of the people fling love to their land. The Queen who sits on the hill has a red rose for a crown, And the waves of the Atlantic glow like a rose for a vow. She knows, because her eyes have seen All the proud days when the white sea-men lived, The delicious wine-cup that was planted there, And how the olive-flower of ancient days Was broken by their prayers and the dew of their hands. She knows, and she wears her pride like a girdle fine, Because he has spoken, though no ear has heard. In his eyes the fires of day and night, Held their revels when the olive-trees held sway; But at the call of the slave the guerdon is gained, And the proud heart is ever cold in his waiting. The bold dreamer has come, but the wise man waits, We know not whither, but we know we are glad. <|endoftext|> "Wee, bold and straight and full of gay buff, A proud-foot animal, blithe and gay, Cream-puff'd and smooth, a very bonny eke, Alas, my Cadogan, my all-handsome friend! To take your picture, alas, You scarce must let your filly pace. "For pictures you could throw, indeed, A peg or two in any race-course, For ours is a race-course like any other, And you'll find we've a ribbon or two. "Our warlike trophies you might show, A brand-new helmet next Would advertise your prowess Like any other Cadogan's compliments. But go, cadogan, keep up your courage, No second lottery can be seen. "But never, cadogan, never think Your laurels won't apply To a soft cushion, hung behind a screen; At best you'll only find A lump, a marble tomb. "Of pictures you might ask for something, Cadogan, you could expect something. So go ahead, cadogan, select That buffalo skull you love the sight, And then dangle it o'er your own corses, And on your silver peacock feather. "Our songs you might hum to your friend there, A grand old ballad touse but one, You know all about the "Royal George," And think they're a thing of beauty, But 'twouldn't of help a Cadogan now; That colonel's made for fighting-- But that's a thing that won't do. "Wee, bold and straight and full of gay buff, A proud-foot animal, blithe and gay, Cream-puff'd and smooth and merry, That's fit for any gal That wants to see a Parry Parry, To see a Parry Parry in The Square, Or in The Square with a cheese." "I, alas, am not at home, I wander to the Strand With my woes all week, and my woes To and fro, and my troubles I cannot refrain from repeating; And all the town is in a fury, To see, to see, to see me. "Yet all the day I do just as I please; To and fro I tramp, and I wander to and fro In my troubles and sorrows and tears, and I see No one to comfort or bid farewell to me; I see none but the office will comfort me And put things into their present course. "I do hope, hope, all the day, all the night, To find one that has more sense than a bear, To comfort my cares and my sorrows and tears, And put things into their present course; That I may find some comfort in this world, In suffering, and sorrow, and sorrow." <|endoftext|> Our country is the richest in farm- land and wealth in the broad ocean; Our countrymen are the finest in grace and conversation, and in all things. Oh, these are the things we should prize in our pride, but we have sold our rightful claim to them. We have sold our title to our fathers' fame, our titles to their courage and might; We have bartered the gift of their 100,000s+/- to line the pockets of a few. When will we learn that the true priceless gem is our thrift, our guile, our wile? Dear, the world is open to us, but we are closed in on ourselves. Why do we scuttle the race we resemble so? Our country is a palace, and we but guests. <|endoftext|> This is the Book of the Dead, Where Life is chiselled away, Yet Dream-time and Ill-time still dwell Within its leaves, and round its rim, As if it would return to the centre And meet Life and Dream and Ill-time once more, As the sun casts upon its leaves The beams of the sun. This is the Book of the Dead, Where Ill-time's around, Still Dream-time and Ill-time are there, With their towers, and alleys, and wheels, And mountains, and valleys, and slopes, And the hills and vales themselves As we found them when youth fled With the lights of the world. <|endoftext|> On heavenward thoughts, so, bathed in death, It takes us below and makes us free? Time comes,--now never more can be A time when beautiful and bright I see, behind the shades, the earth, And you, her children, singing your lay. So die, that never more these eyes May see your beauty,--die, yea, die! Not to these children! dead is he. So, friends, let us, while we can, be still. "The master said: and presently the host, Ser Gregg and myself, went down to the ship, And seated us round the side, a little space From all the rest that we might watch her sink And hear each vessel pitching as she went Against the rocks a good wave might unload. We sat as idle, and at times had thought We heard the approaching swell, as it were a sigh, A soul uplift, a death-bell toll, A song like one we used to know so well In other lands, which bade us count our days, And bless our strength, and listen still to God. "At length, when half the battle around the rock Brake into slack gray glimmer, and the dull seas Turned to a peace, a solemn calm, we sate Waiting, knowing not for whom it rested, For half an hour or more, and some who were there Too old to fight, and some too young to die. All seemed content to wait, and none to win A proudest bead of fortune there; and when The sea grew bloodlessly quiet, Gregg stood And told us of his vision. And at first Till all the vision seemed but human dream, Till parts of it seemed half divine to be, Some grace of workmanship or of a hand, The whole grew strange and strange to us who saw, And through the silent water, dim and deep, All flying like souls, or like a ship's course, The ghostly gathered like a pall above The faded breakers; till at last when all Seemed dreamed, we began to believe it true, And one by one the dazed and gaping crowd Fled, and in the empty blind we sat, And wondered that we never more could see The shadowed sky. "I give you now my secret," said he; "But for what it is I need not tell; But already all the wise are bent To rent this veil and search the soul Within it, and will find the story here, What was this house?--Nay, listen to me: Before this tower was Bel's high place, And round about it rosed the godly throng, A gentle band, and on the sacred mound Beside it built the village fountain-farms; Over the meadows would they look and play, And pass the school with many a merry plow; Around it often came the packed train Of worshipful pilgrims from the lonely hamlet. And on the court around it oft could hear The grave old priests, in full mourning dress, Chant very carefully from the holy page The rites of the sepulchre; and oft would Jesus Have from them chanted in his pity for them, That loved these poor wandering ones, who went To the clear brook, and told the little follies Which might suggest to them a holy grief; The fond delights of one strong lover's letter To another; or one loving letter Too vainly of a tender passion. "But when the fatal tower came down, and stood A broken citadel, and round it lay A waste of ruin, spouting streams of stone Into the wan and lake-like water there, They marked its site, and what new tower would rise To match its shame; and each one with aching heart Went to examine his site, and search his soul, And found within them many fears, and many tears, And many rueful thoughts, to be all at once Conveyed to the blue sky, and the green earth, The waters and the tree-tops, and the night And the yet mute eternity of God. "And when the fearful time for building came With trial and solicitation to the crowd, And all to show what their skill could do, Would find within their hearts a roaring fire, A flame that would not go out; a wild desire To build and build; a bounding pride to see Their wonder and their strength in building come To meet the tower, and break upon the proud world. "As two good soldiers on a day of war Would point to where their captain shines in view, And both would shout--'But he is far away, What, Captain, good, for that ye twain are dead,' So every Christian heart that through the land Saw the roughening tower, would raise to God A shout of thanks, and praise, and thanks again. And so it was with our fathers in the field. "But there was one, O blessed man, one man alone, Who held the wall of hope against our foes, 'Twas he who called it weak, and small, and vain, And every wound they gave our little wall He bitterly took to bring the disaster near, And every day in prayer for strength and deliverance Against the dreadful day of need. "He spoke no flattery, and no praise, or pray Of this great work. He spoke of things above Its humble reach, and said that God alone Was Lord of life. But his great work Was done. His is the larger name, the greater fame, Yet for that little wall He walked the wilderness for, and fought Forever for his native land, Anamuans of hope, and their best tears. "He said his tribe Was no stranger to the woods, to rivers wide, To fens and forests; but that every member Of his great Family, to some future day, Must take their places in this room of state, Which once held them at their fishing gainst the shore. "He said that he, his wife and children, Were placed here with this obstructed Tower in view, To serve as stander by for the brave few, who Should have a noble place among the great crowd Of subjects bound them. That he himself Was placed, as he said, to guard the Country-side, And to defend against intrusion of strangers The things that should be left very free. He said that this modest tower, where he doth dwell, Was raised by him, for use of his preserved bride, Who was a daughters love; that he had won her By virtuoso penciller. That his tribe Of fishermen kept the proper water-stuff, And kept it free from salt. That they had seined Their quotas of lobster, and had kept their tender shrimp. That for the last quota of provisions They were not useless, but had kept their fires burning, And kept the spruce and fishermen's stores moist, And had not been condemned by any general agencies Of doom and disaster. That they kept the valley And its-places and its vales and springs and lakes, And had not been devoured by the wolves or the wolves' packs, Or in the least impeded by the burying of their game; That he himself had been a leader and a guide To his brown daughters, until they had reached The degree of comfort which they did not require. That the floor of his home was the earth and the boards Of logs were his guides. That when he mounted to defend His town he had a redcoat at his right hand, With a musket at the other; that this fellow Had held his town undefended till he most desired, And had not spared his dwellings, nor his soft wives, Nor his tender daughters, but had hacked the flesh From the hearts of his children, and then drained the skulls Of their still living infants. That he had sent forth, With some fourteen others, a high-commissioned Order of the militia, to protect Against the possibility of robbers. That his band of robbers had been joined by a Hungry hound, and that this dog, too, had been Raised in the same bush. "You will state the object of your guide, And state the means he uses in seeking it. You will ask him about the dogs and the people He meets, or mayst thou, asking me, discover That they are not willing his, but just his own, Seeing that thou askest not why he roves but Why others prowl, as if the fact of their doing Were not in all events a sufficient cause. Will the dogs and people be in groups, Or singly? "Beneath my roof I have a poor family, Proud of their possessions; but they are, by day, Dishes in a pan; they are rowers, in their pride, Whistling for company, and leaping in the snow To leap above the muffled utensils; they are cooks Who smoke in a happy indifference, and dressers, <|endoftext|> and a mill, a brewery, a sawmill, the sawmill forged a twenty-pound blade to cut the steel for its sawmill. I had other jobs: I welded harnesses and spokes in a radial mill; I made stockings in a sweatshop; I loaded and delivered coal to a power plant; I was a delivery man for a medicine house. I sometimes delivered babies: my wife was four months pregnant with Barney. I lived on Chouteau Avenue, in the house with no lawn, in a room with no window, I was the family goose. One time I picked up Barney when he was three days old, and I took him to the park, where squirrels would come out of the woods and chase each other around; I dropped him in a little black pond, near a maroon alligator, who saw me and came after me. I want my boy to work with children. Who will give him chances? Who will give him encouragement? He should never be afraid to give of himself, for fear he will disappear. <|endoftext|> "Autumn", by John Hancock [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Fall, Weather, Religion, God & the Divine, The Spiritual] The murk of evening is settling on the busy river and the railway stations and the town with its towers and its lights, and I walk down the street by the river, the fine smell of the fennel hanging in the air, where I think of you, Godot, and you, Aleph, the eternal triangle. O night, move silently over the roofs of the houses and over the pavements, lightly on the heads of lambs, sleepily on the souls of the dead, leaving no footprints behind. Lightly, suddenly the night will vanish like a sword, lightly as a song at night that disappears into the sound of millions of sleeping eagles, from the whispering of many harps. Godot, Godot, speed the heart no longer with those terrible wails and cries of the dead, make them live, Aleph, make them live, let them cry no more. For you, O god of truth, for you, the eternal triangle, I bring offerings: a blue silk scarf, a cup of cinnamon, a silver bowl with green and yellow flowers, an uncrushed copper morning star, a gossamer contraption of skins, loaves and fishes, a long-robed man who goes to the windows and opens them with a key, a jar of pears and a silver medallion, a pale woman who fills the water for her babies, thin threads of yellow showing through. Let them not taste these things, Aleph. Let them not have these things. Give them only death in life and the strange thin voice of a child, death from the mouths of two men who never told a lie, two priests who stood before you, death for their sins, and for ours, Aleph. <|endoftext|> "To the Young American", by Ted Kooser [Living, Life Choices, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] Dear T.O., If you want to get down at Eddie V's and meet the Schiassi sisters or go to Sunnyside with me to meet the Billy Bible Boys and sing for the class president we can dream, dream, dream. Money talks, tawdry, money talks, fancy pants. The heart just bleeds money talks, three cents as the dark doorbell rings, the dark doorbell rings and a warm finger clicks the silver circle of silver rings and waltzes the tongues of dark belles with bells on their necks in a giddy pineapple that never palls, the dark girl teases, the dark boy falls for her, the dark boy falls for her and she spills the white froth of his mother's breast milk on his neck and it feels like water off a duck back. Gimme that white froth, the warm finger says, and my heart, it is a dumb thing, gurgles like the duck sinks to its Duck Bottom. The dark door bell rings, the dark door bell rings and the hall is heaped with young brains, white froth and yolk and alloys, red pellets of diamonds and gold diamonds dangled and suspended, green gels and blue, all the color of the young white fresh blood dissolving on white wrists and the dark boy shoots one glance at the door where is the girl with the mirrors hanging from her ears, and the warm finger grips his truffle neck. Gimme that white froth, the warm finger says. I would love to see the dark room where the mirrors hang from her ears, the shadows piled in the popcorn blind, all the pink hair cuffed to her head, and the gray of her soul on the pale pewter, her trumpet cello tucked beneath her breasts. Gimme that white froth, the warm finger says. Money talks, tawdry, tawdry, tawdry, tawdry, tawdry, tawdry, tawdry. <|endoftext|> "Flat: Sentences after the Reddening", by Ted Kooser [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Somewhere on your path beneath a leafless tree the crow tells a secret about sunlight and spring. Somewhere on your path a redbird sings a song about death and winter. And neither know what the other is saying. <|endoftext|> "Asylum", by Ted Kooser [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] Is there no realm above where a Greek remains incognito? I am late for class. Is that why I am here? What makes me think that? What do I know about it? <|endoftext|> "Answering Islam: An Active Duty Army Member", by Ted Kooser [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, Time & Brevity, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Part II: <|endoftext|> "Exegesis", by Ted Kooser [Living, Coming of Age, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] 1. Never say "can't," says Uncle. Never say "can't," says Aunt. Never say "can't," says Grandpa. Easily done, says Uncle. Easily done, says Aunt. Easy, says Grandpa. Easy, says Aunt. Impeccable, says Uncle. Impeccable, says Aunt. Ricey, says Grandpa. Ricey, says Aunt. Better-left, says Uncle. Better-left, says Aunt. Wrinkle, says Grandpa. Wrinkle, says Aunt. 2. Of course it's wrong to tap. Of course it's wrong to pinch. Of course it's wrong to nudge. Of course it's wrong to see. Of course it's wrong to kiss. These are just the rules, Uncle says, rolling his eyes in approval. Told you it would happen one day, Grandpa giggles, picking up the beach ball. No one told me, Uncle sighs, grinding his teeth in frustration. No one told me, Aunt replies, shuddering as she holds her stomach. No one told me, Grandpa mutters, grinding his teeth in frustration. What will it be this time? I ask, pointing to the air with a wooden pole. Ah, the carrot and the stick, Grandpa says, throwing a stone, Aunt replies, gently nicking her thigh. 3. You were not raised in a cave with a stained glass window. You were not raised in a cave with a stained glass window, nor in a forest with velvet trees. You were not raised in a cave with a stained glass window, nor in a forest with velvet trees. You were not raised in a cave, nor in a forest, nor in a velvet forest. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> In deadly war with Elves do we start; Our shield is high:--our earl or baron Looks from his tower-gates' battlements.-- 'Tis well!--their warriors strive in vain: And now but vainly, dart and spear, Blame-wise, their marvellous enemies, The Shapes who haunt the wooded wolds, And break from them in sleep to mold Belts that none shall feel beneath their breasts; Forgets his trusty sword is naked, On burning cheeks, as lance-point appears, That trust's imprisoning ring slips loose, And plaints he must a broken knight deplore-- He struggles to regain his strength and courage, Swells well, till from the ring he feels A sudden finger point him forth, Long, flaming eyes, of slender frame Wide-boned, with bloodless cheek bespread; And his life's tumultuous currents check At the bold look of him of stone. --All this husht and hid he must not know; Pondering thus he stands, the while A nearer Thing, that beckons he, Through perils tried, back to his own sure way. Now mark, how Wielder of the Grey head Goesad--for no other need --with guard Of youths and rustic-band. Now mark, how from the She-Wolf's womb The Beast of Heaven springs forth: How she is worn by so much travail, That from her height of anguish She longs for rest. Now mark, how Wielder of the Grey head Goesad, with all those throng That from the She-Wolf's den With her are called, for good Rogero friend, to help: He, he is come, for which their prayers, So many and great, Have waited long time: And ne'er did such a band from France Prepare so quickly ader To storm a fort in that happy land. Next, how the King besought him; to him All fitting things he told, And made him marvel how the fiends, So many and grim, could bear to see A person of so great worth appear; Yet neither he, nor any other, believed, That within their depths a human being Could find a refuge from their woe: But of this wonder the exceeding joy Rogero felt was so great, That of the whole he took but the head, And let the body fall, Wroth for its fall, amid the fen; And his heart burned within him, lest, Back from the fight too soon, it frights His lady of the golden hair. Next he stood a while apart, Till he got courage to say That all this was a delusion, Made in this short sleep of his, To lull his heart, where fear Lay all unwaked; for ere Midnight had passed he woke In other world; and there appeared The wraith of his lady, That with him he had blessed Long time ere he left this mortal sphere. By that beheld her, he declared With his own eyes what she said In that other life; and, his suit Reverenced, the soul into fire Was transformed: so that, of a truth, Rogero truly here had fought A duel with the dead: in him Fear failed to materialize; But from his frame issued smoke; and so There passed to earth the warm blood forth, Which in its whirling wind ascended Amid the air in such constancy As won the marvel of the crowd, Who gazed on it for wonder's sake, Who heard that it seemed to blow With a sound from hell to heaven. Thou that doest this thing, I say, By thy great axe, if it be just, In our emerald river valley We would see one mighty flood arise, And, born upon its head, may thence Into the night, ere now, be shed: Nor less than will be necessary I to their arms shall Fortune Here follow, since I owe them aid, Not less than they to me display: Not inconstant Love I keep To their relief, because it fain Would have them flourish more: this I Must ever praise in you that brooks Or, in what yet past is inexorable. I my intent shall cross with long hope Their proud unbelief, if to my aid, Pursuing or fleeing from you, they I chance to be; and they to me Shall something yet show, if name may map To things future, or its ink prophetic. I therefore will, that, if it please you so, You tell me of your numerous band, Here shall my fame, though it remain, Solace still, and while I live, renown. Your warriors are three kings of Peru, Two others thou hast travellers seen, who now In dead Manlius' church obey his command; Thy pirate band is of three kings the most In the most countries of all days. The one Clothed in rough human skin, a ravening hawk, Whose name is Vanity, is his name; Who holds Felix, master of the light, The other, Pride, a cunning swain, who flings Lightnings from his eyes and smiles a sneer. To him and this avowed traitor is Afalse justice by the magistrate done, That to revenge the ancient controversy Of wit and right, notenfed of age, Thieves chusing the young heir of Julio To rob him of his just, and old right, By force and fraud, and him present hurl'd. Within walls solid are the citadels Where you have set your withered ensigns laid; Three presidents are held in trust by you, Of whom with truth I nothing hidden tell. Of these the one, grown so by skill and toil Equal to Tully, or like him studied, Saw both in his age, and followed your exhortations; Severe if temperate, and he it was Directed by the world's black standard vaunt'd, That if his own liege should fall, the last would succeed. His force is lash'd by constraint, but covers The seas no more than Pagan bases do, And leaves them to the tyrants of the South, Who neither save nor let us mention more. The third I call, that bard, who of old Would oftentimes improvisado find In heaven his tuneful fly-bird's mirth express'd: Ne can the reason's scope for raving touch Nor for the woe he knows I cannot tell, Who holds all heaven and earth in such array That what he sings to you now he feels in Spain. I see that in a few I have displeased And vexed him, for he is out of humor With my deceits, and these intrigues, and lies; Nor I astonish'd are, nor cannot bear But that he curse my ruin with his frown. But let the bard one little while go hang, For I intend henceforth a lengthy lay. What causes the other two to grin, And give my boast the amaze they give? 'T is that I have well compress'd my theme, And given him just what he demands; Not for one short minute will he stay, But for an age will do for him. One noble muse can sing, one mortal verse; That is, if no more I learn in art, Which right to sing and tell I since have found, Or from the bard, that polishing hypocrite, Will to myself this question as before. If to delight my self by taking pain Can make me happy, let the bard proceed; But seeing this shall at best make him mad Here are a thousand thousand thousand more which go. How happy is the bard, and what a life, When every day with song and dance she loves Those that come to pay their court to her! She she will choose, to sing, to dance, or both; And when she goes, full fathom five beneath, The world from its foundation will tear, And be a lyre to her unmingled strain. What gives the world its trouble? Ah! 'tis not that Which on the left hand or the right does plague; So little of this earth, which I do call The treadmill of toil, or the thicket of crime, Is worthy of execration; so little; No, not the buccaneer who for gold did price His captains, slaying the host and leaving them Bleeding on the field, or set whole nations free, But those, who not for gold do filthy devour, Who trade in being, that does all men's brain Irrevocable damage by a wink or nod: For nature, that is taught by God to be, Can give no reason why she should not die. Nor is it that which men call criminal woe, But such as is not confined to any place; But sprung, as many noble inventions are, <|endoftext|> The village parson was grave, He sent the drunken Orphantoun To bed without a furlough. The parish came to school an' scared His book, an' biffed their faces As they bided by their skilts, An' caused quite a state o' consternation In deid Kildare's roarin carion. The parish view'd him bulrushes grow, An' produce wonderful things, An' harps an' bowls a blessed lot, An' talismans out ower dees. They an' him had often fecht Amang their villagers all along, On thankshivities an' saints' days, An' days o' joy, a lot o' dings. Weep, weep, oh, parish parson, For none but you, who sall telle, Far mair deid Kildare's eye. For blythe is Bonner's mornin' To see the light o' deid Kildare; An' weep me blythe, ye parochins, Wha's mak' the day o' bonny Bonner. The bright sun smil'd on Bonner's currant, An' the ploughman gaed in at de lot; The auld nurse right roun' his wee bit mou', An' laugh at the wale o' the deid Kildare. An' tae, Bonner, lads, gae your wee bit way, Ye'll be care o' deid Kildare's carion. For Bonner sae gay tae the plough, Aweel, laddie, trouble awa! For plenish'd auld life awa, Aweel, laddie, trouble awa! For mony, mony a year awa, Ye little ken'd awa sae weel, An' weary'd me on thee, Bonner, Wha sae bonny sae bonny's bonny Bonner. I see a glen o' green a' the loch, And there I wad be; The grass aye's bush sae green, An' there I wad bide. The phraisin' pitch-fork tan very green, That M'Leigh continues sae jolly, The wedding-dress o' noa M'Nicholl, The tall croque-monsie; The town-houses bonnie Tay, The church-roofs bonnie Dover, The cotters tan very bonnie, An' there I wad bide. Then Michael and Mildred, happy pair, Were wed beside the loch; The sheen o' their bonnie brows, Aweel, it was sae blue. My prayers were goose-like and fervent, My love's aye true to his deen, An' there I'd bide. The laughin' oaks an' the flowers, The lambs on the green, Aweel the beams o' my Jeanie An' my auld tether frae me. The years gae by, and I gat a' The warmth o' my auld tether; I met wi' her my auld tether, And mony a bliss; But since my sooth, the auld tether By flitting fowls is vacated; For answers to my bonnie dear, I 'll no betiel my mind. And ye 'll no answer, lassie, But smile sweetly and grin, And I 'll no betiel my mind, But walk ower saut li'n by. The stream's sae slow, but soon wauk, An' soon come out to play; Thae hills wi' a bubblin' light, An' a' the village ta'en. The lammies an' moorhens caw, An' the wild-bill hawthorns quang, An' my Jeanie on the green Wauken, an' gat a' thrill. May-lookin' trees, May-bloomin' days, My Jeanie 's my pretty lass; An' aye the gowden fust I saw When a' the lammies an' I cam ower! By a' the braes, wi' the meek water, An' by a' the daisies quang, I had my joy wi' my bonnie dear. She 's geal, an' aye the same to me; An' noo ance to me she is dearest; An' tho' in time she might grieve me, I 'll gie her thee for ae mornin' neet. An' so, my gowden, a' my lang birken dear, I 'll ever love thee true an' stai. They 're o'er the cow an' a' the way Whare 's the pass that's ower the Rippowdon; A' shurely, on a sunny day, That Jock maun ca' them just haud them a'; While Adam o' this maun do roun'; Whare Jock ca' the pass, is Jock mair. Jock an' Adam maun gang ower the place To Islay, wi' the islay in its eye; Wi' the islay standing by the way, Wi' its loud liltin' i' the wind, To Islay to Islay, to Islay, to Islay, To the green isle o' the sea. The isles o' the sea! the green isle o' the sea! They 're a' green, and they 're a' green, my lads, There 's the parliament o' our gallant isle, An' we 're gane, wi' a wing o' the wind, To the green isle o' the sea! She 's geal, an' aye the same to me; An' noo ance to me she is dearest; An' whan I spak to my love yestreen, She answered sae saftly sae sage, She 's a' my laddie--we 're a' our ain-- For I maun tell our smeddum to the minister. Hish! hish! I 'll no bear yon bauble, I 'll no bear yon bauble to my knowledge, I 'll carry my laddie gude, sae guid, To the green isle o' the sea, Wi' his bonnie green hair an' his face sae gay. Now, Adam o' this maun do roun', Whare Jock ca' the pass, is Jock mair. Soon wi' the small auld folk i' the street, My lady to mak her alms; And when they tak nought they 'll mak it mair, And some they 'll leave for their right; And where their cart they stay, I trow, Wi' the laddie gude, sae guid, to sing. In Cam' holding company, He jist lived at Hickory Bend, And Kimmer life was ilka day, At straught o' glee, and straught o' talk. And Kimmer's a' o' human kind Might weary, but he ne'er weary'd. At straight wrong, to stop the career; To i' the front at flagrant foul; To pass the hood at the point of speech; To fight, and give all the slip; To cleave to a point, and aye refrain; But for the gentleman--Kimmer lives at Hickory Bend! And Peggy wi' her quean o' wiles, Sae guilefu' aye wad him beguile, But sune as he was at kirk meetin, She snare'd him wi' a step beneath. Ae step of ae meeting--he 's done! At straight wrong--how the wicked kill! And sune as he was at kirk meetin, She snare'd him wi' a step beneath. If by accident on Aberfoyle, He, mair than nature had fain not chosen, He should hae falll'd sae, an' his e'en Had taen the best that women cud doad; But Peggy wi' her quean o' wiles Sae guilefu' aye wad him beguile, But sune as he was at kirk meetin, She snare'd him wi' a step beneath. Oss Wilfred, o'er thy hame, What cares the Caty her sex, But a' the frae her mither's cot, <|endoftext|> Having shall give you such fruit as I gave him. The Love-imprinted? Ay, as by sleep I was cured. He not shamed at all his sweating friends To whom he was as a person of fashion; Worn-out jokes, old sayings of his not finding What he thought he would find, simply read, Like his skull, as he cracked them; his dog was his friend; "Puppy," after all, was his only friend. That part of his, with his dog and his friend, Might well be classed as the grace endued In his acceptation of his fame; And that his other half, his spirit, let loose, Like Samson, when the Philistines fled, Sent forth his wrath at all who wronged him, Having, in his restless excitement, Spent, and redeemed, his fancies of a while; Returning to settle once more, all over, The charges that had been laid against him, Nought he wrote but sharp comments upon The long and tedious complaints of his dear. O Shovel, my faithful Shovel, and O Shovel, My trusty, glorious Shovel, and love's tankerer, I have looked upon thy features in the mist And dust of four exuberant summers; and I Am quite prepared to say that thy beauties Have much outweighed in my divine indulgence The small dirty trouble and sin of their being A book of Prayers! Hast thou rather Thy divine characteristics defaced More deeply than even thy beauties have been? But alas! in this strange times that torment And blot out innocence, which thou dost wear, How shalt thou bear thy service to such hearts As of true religion cant distinguish?--That Thou speak'st only truth, and they thine hold dear Thy book, because it is less beautiful! O Thou, whose glory is more sacred Than all the gems that are enchased In the diadems of royal ears, Give Thou more surely to our sins, O Lord! With a new command from the Holy Water and one incense only! <|endoftext|> "And in this wise they could not cease from feud and bicker, As brother knew brother by his countenance And title: hence they named their bloody battle The dreadful wrestling and the plague of Bees. The dust of this confounded fight upleaps Like hail and makes a lugubrious noise; And who has ears to hear what is sung Of all the brothers' glory and their dowers, Who claim as dower the same high grave's ends; But who is dreary and unwearied, Who knows not what I judge of greater scorn And hatred, and rights and liberties, Who is cloyed with holy scents and sighs, And beats his little belluck, his little soul? O thou most powerful and most new! Oh, thou, much harder than clear hot steel And for thy dainty changeful wrongs dost bear Both plaint and taunts that never stand alone; For of thy peopled streets are filled the weary throats Of injured mortals, all bereft of ease. Thy frown and sternness' fierce tumultuous crowds Start pale as caged tigers, and are mad; Incontinent envy and abhorrence Shrivels in thy nipping terrors, shivers; In horrible terror turns the fair pale cheeks, And of thy majesty sickens with shudders. On shrieking ears and sneering faces borne Thine image tortures to be pierced and petrifited, And in each haunted going a shuddering heart. What needs this scene of gloom and war? why fade the eyes? Why lie the silent foreheads like wreaths of snow? 'Tis the perpetual shadow and the vernal tears Of the eternal night, that casteth ever a shade. Here all the sins and weaknesses and errors, Of all the past eternity past eternity, Are lodged, and ever will lodge here, And ever will be lodged here to torture souls, Till hell be shut, and heaven be opened! "And what need we more? O tearful Night! Let us a little while the night be. One little hour, one little moment spend, Till, at great Jehovah's command, The trumpets, which thy mission hearing, From hill to hill will tremble and expand. "And we will read in bitter Hymns, Reverently and devoutly, The sacred Words that thou hast read, A little season; and thou shalt tell, With glowing words that dry and bright, The grievous tale of sinful man, The ghastly fate that plagued him In eternal night and gloom. The Night with eyes shall tell in turn The deeds of day, and dire reverses Of heroes and of heroes' allies. "For thou the charmed circle drawn By love and loving fear, Art sires of all who ever were; The genial night and dewy grass And happy-hearted day. Through thee the charmed etherial paths For ever run: thy potent influence From skies unseen the gentle days Shed on all that live; thy baneful power Fades not nor removes. Thou, under tented bowers, Of cobwebs over-tall, Risest in dim and dusky light; Or, wandering azure fields between Green fields of long languishing rains, Scattering thy mild and liquid beams, Like breaks of golden moonlight, to rest On thrones of yellow drench; Or in wide forests gazing far On sunset-coloured glades: There does each dew-drop drop its origin bear, From the pale feet of each hid flower, While the fowl, that flit between, Tinkling, distant, quack in their glee The while they wring their dressing ears. "Oh! from thy lapids, mighty QUEEN, Stray not, else from suffering man, What bird or beast could fail to drink? What crocodile, or widowed snake, Tend not too his throat besmeared, Nor ravenous fox, or ravenous bear Roam too wide at midnight? If thee, august Queen, unkind, No magic sound will move or cry, Or fiend with tattoo, or fairy sight; No gloomy eye shall peer From thy crowned head to see My vain fingers poking round thy bower, Or in thy diamonds pry to know Some treach'rous hidden plan; The pitying night shall not awake To read in rumour my dismay Or spurn thy dainty ransom duported, Or mock with jocund laughter right Thy helpless captives tied. "Oh! on the lute may I, as one Who by some winding river dreams, A-dremeling soft airs in this rhyme, As one by Some-onewiis's ways Creeps, dim-eyed and dreamy and dreary. A-dremozing soft thro' dulcet rhymes Enchanting dreary meadows mow: Enchanting dreary meadows, what Can make them glad? A-dremozing, what Can make them dreary? "The heavens (ay!) and all the world can speak More wondrously than dulcet rhymes; The soul can't think what's dreamed of best But dim-eyed and dreary and drear: The soul can't think what's soewone done Of any face, of any heart, That any other can never know. A-dremozing soft thro' dulcet rhymes, Enchanting dreary drear, what Can make them glad? A-dremozing, what Can make them drear? "With sugared words may I entice heart and ear, Giving the world to understand, And in my song, for few welcome more Then all the doubting, all the flawting hears, All that say grace to all I haven't; And how they please, and what they please, I won't tell 'em in that tale, But, with a sugared word, I'm off to win The mirjitsu that ends all dispute. All I care about is to be felt-- And when I speak, then do they hear." So the ale-biber, golden of limb, Led the festive revelry, While the mead-blooms, divinely curled, And the spice-tree's wondrous dye And the sybol's stately taper Made the fair land a richer dream For all souls to share it. And the veiled spirit held its court In the darkness of the tree, And the wild souls passed dance and round In the glory of the wind, And the hearts of the gay fair maids Were gay and light and free As the feet of the genii went <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "Swoon", by Rebecca Hoogs [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] You can't lift me from myself. I know that, the car rolling past, light pipes glinting in its windshield. But the pain is still there, barely under my own control. I see you watching me from inside the subway car: eyes intent, lips pursed in unhappiness. The unspoken line between us—a line too weak to sever—streaks out from me toward you, echoing my anger: I am all wrong for all the right reasons. I feel you pulling away, icy recognition in your eyes. I don't know how much I can trust you. O God, open up your heart and let me in. <|endoftext|> "I Wonder", by Mary Biddinger [Living, Relationships, Men & Women] I wonder how it is for him, straddling a stool in a living room, his blue shirt unbuttoned to his waist. I wonder how it is for her, slumped at his side, his hand resting on her hip. What do they talk about during phone calls, the men I imagine asking, with pity or scorn? I wonder if the women are secretly pleased by their husbands' little ellipses. What does it mean for them? Does he feel less imprisoned by his citizenship, less that he's living in a prison, these banal conversations taking the place of travel reports in the airline terminal? Does she see him straddling that stool, tiny ferns growing in his hair? I wonder, do the children hear, at night, the voices of these couples arguing inside the wall, and their fathers' and their mothers' breathless talking? <|endoftext|> "Magic Number Seven", by Tino Villanueva [Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Thinking of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the first and best, I go outside my door, and walk the cobblestones of Paris. What are the wonder sheets required for this minor ha ha? The marvels are marvels for everyone, female and male, for the jeweled pen or the iron penis. They are wonders of the world, for lovers and against lovers, of the feet and the yards and the miles of breasts. They are wonders for the hands, marvels for the hands. Even the feet and hands require marvel sheets: the gleaming surface, the patina, the luster at the seams. Even those wonders that have been without flaws for centuries (the original wonder) require sheet miracles: the soft puff of air from the oven, the wonder air, the miracle feet of a Paris cab. Because the original wonder, Paris, has been scratched and damaged beyond all repair, it has gone into hiding: it has become a wonder of the world, a jeweled pen. <|endoftext|> "Blurred", by Mónica de la Torre [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Walking down a stairway to a suspended door, We agreed to talk later, but that moment Everything was possible. And the cloud that hung in the air Was the nature of desire, our mutual surrender, A miracle, our bodies invisible in each other, The landing moments of each room, My body against yours, an abstract outline Until we passed through a door. Then it was my dream That held our images as we passed, Universally known as yours and his, Once the murmur in the stairwell became A question and a universal yes. <|endoftext|> "Alone", by Don Paterson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Heartache & Loss, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] O what better glory than to dwell Alone upon your own entrails, Than with the world to give pleasure or pain, And thus let out your spirit from within? Say, have you any accounts with Genoa? Or with Milan? Or Rome? Or with all Paris? No? then, 'twere time and cause we had begun To discuss of their tombs. Now, as thus with us They are buried. So, their merciful proof Against the harshness of our time, their tombs Do lie in easy Sight. No more the dusk Is safe for walkers through the woods, whereon Each night, the midnight of the world, broad daylight Is astonished, to the chagrin of birds That summer with the dripping leaves and fruits, What time those semi-circle tables in the gardens From all the noises, a kind of relief Of clamour come forth, the plash and patter Of water on the verges, the approach Of a new civilisation from the waters, And the first friend, the first discourse that comes, The first word, a smile of formality For which all grief is thrown away, That time outsteps and all afternoon Stands still, and wits forget their cravings And flounders lie where gold is, on seines That slog and reel; and dawn catches the clouds In one wide bouquet, and tongues that are Needed and voluntary slip their strings And mould the terrible truths that ensue On oceans of falling and on rivers Of rising. Nay, though this be the world And nature's whim, and what is ours of it More glorious or forever, yet there comes (O how befooled in hours that are like days!) To eye or ear one pulse, one flight of wings, One blazon of the world. This of the tombs Seems worse, that of the living out of doors. <|endoftext|> "As it Were a Play, in Light of New Produce", by Don Paterson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] November, and the white pies for instance, fit the genderless description of what is dead, and what is living would shrink into nothing were it not that the field also covers unchanging things, both those that might be living, such as the rose, and those that might not be, such as the white pie, and this playing, which is theater perhaps, at least one gathers much before one approaches what one will do with, and something as it were a play, in light of new produce being produced, we gather and leave what one does not do, because it is a tiny dark pie <|endoftext|> "Joy", by Don Paterson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] All of the bitter work of losing her is a mistoolfound in a nice cold shed after the cattle have been driven back to the wide open pastures. No<|endoftext|>I. It seems to me that when I came to bury her, it was as though her image itself became the object of my unyielding eyes. It is something I can never quite erase from my mind. I wrote myself a letter once, a long time ago, wherein I explained to her what I was going to do, and I am still annoyed with myself for thinking she would have something to say about it. II. What was it said the first time, the first time I touched her or kissed her, the hand down there, the first time I'd touched myself for her? What was it said, "Being so present for once, you can't be embarrassed by me, can you"? In the gooseberry garden all the gooseberries are plucked for her, there's nothing to do but for her to step along side of me and pick them up, and her hair is lifted by the wind as she walks up and down the field towards the ocean. It is not shameful to remove the frighting presence from your mind. Her hair is flying above her shoulders like a flag in a war. This is what the girl with white hair does, picking gooseberries. We can do it, you and I. We can make a desert in a garden. All the beauties of the year falling limp and brown are plucked for her. I never seem to have enough of her. Each autumn, more and more plucked. The frozen water in the tank, the counter, the cloth covered with grease. It is not shameful to think of her. In the rough sea she floats on the waves like a child. Nothing but seaweed, and the humming of the machine that is the world. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> What Nature gave, and Nature took away. From all we see and all we see estrang'd, One object only I maintain, That all is here, has been here, and must be here, Whereon the suns in unison his course Respecting the planets run; And I, beholding with the deep distress Which thought absorbs, can only exclaim, What you behold is everywhere. The sun's his ray, the clouds' their shade, Air's his breath, fire's his heat, and earth's her mould, As if (by science proved) all would break, Were but preserv'd, or as if not broke, To be, as things are, constant still. But consider!--If I am right (And what could stars but their own rapid light Illume?)--then the land and ocean run As deep down in the earth's interior, As the vast layer of dry land below Moulders in the centre of the main; And the mountains, as we see, arise To heaven's unnumber'd stars, in whose Roar Beyond their summits mounts the audible shriek. Why doubt of me? Think not the sun's net Could fish up so deep!--I mean the seas, And endless winter sets his fountains free. When autumn slams the pine to srong, And limbs to every skill that capping hurts, Invites to shun the winter in the fields, Oft turns his proffer'd feast to tear and run, And urges every pang to serve his growth. Oft, when all pain will scarce avail To drive him from some spot he would scorch, Does he, whose every pulse is the main, Through every flow'd-out vein perceive The beating of his own growth there; And strikes, to stop the quenchless fire, On one, whose crystal eye sees through The deadly smart to his deep heart set. See! on yon azure circle flown, Where hosts of flowers round their green bed But wait his coming, with sweet sigh, To sink in it, and blush with the dye. In a soft sirocco, that wanders round, To his sweet will he lays his spirit; Like that of Thais, at dice, when she All through a triumph and a ball Scorns, but, at times, her man to thrill, Her heart turns up, and thoughts of him Leave it, and throw away the ball. There was a time, when I was bred A certain way to do and dare; Dared many a thing, and wanted power To do it--and fail and be undone. Now, I only dash away, like fur On the hot spur, and fear to show How fear turns to fire--how I will cringe, And will a coward even to death. For 'tis but once, once only to be A man; and though my heart it burst With raging joy or fiercer pain, Now as a child I am also wise. Sometime I too soon must show it, When blows fall heavy on my head, And I must show it; when great storms Break on the bark of many years; When the grave's mouth is wide enough to spit The sailor's memory out, and tell The world he lived, who died a slave. But this shall be to-morrow; nay, now, This hour, let glorious honour go; Let me not cling and hold it fast; Let me not revere it, while I dread To do what some false future's sly Triumph will make seem mine. Nay, and now, Take back the cause for which I fought; I yield, and take the victory! Say, you that in parliament are great, Think you this bold discourse no small measure, For making parliament greater? Think you this word, "Convention of the States," A word so full of meaning and of pain, A word to keep the soul awake That sleeps, because it is too much troubled? Think you this course so long pursued Is worth a single penny of your little? As I have frequently said before, In all your crusades you would find none. Why, this is the last time I will speak As I have ever said before; But, in my liberty, I plead for you. My works, except for the injuries Of neighbouring men, or that false field, Wherefrom the fresh-splashing sea has driv'n So many thorns, is now like home, The old field, which they who once have been Bound by love or duty, mourn, or doat, When, with her flock of bleating children, The mother leaves her fold; and turns, for rest, To some forgotten and narrow street, That feels itself alone the house of good; Whose neat dead plantings, the green sculptor's heart Might puzzle o'er, if he'd task them more. But these thoughts, I think, disturb your brain; And these I know and feel--I say again, Think you this word, "Convention," all alive, In your palaces, your state-chambers, rows, Of halls and courts, if not of homes? And see, If you still think, that nothing can or should, That nothing that's wrong about you can be told, That no one can do anything for you, But keep the faults that all men have had, And not try to make them sooner cease? But there are certain times, when, to the brain That's familiar with strange change, a light Is felt so curious, that it dazzles still; As when, all suddenly, on a sudden, The sun's, or something like his beams, that shone Before, the outward atmosphere is plunged, And the most ordinary objects all are glancing With something like a new and strange immense shine. The time is short, and all men are then gazing And gazing, with no word, at what appears To them so strange, that at last they hardly can gaze On each other for the silence it creates; And still as each responds to what's done, the slack Grows from the crowd, the faces all come nearer, As if they wished each other's wisdom to hear; But still the silence deepens, till each feels, Right within, the stamp of time, its sea, that every speaker Tossed in its relatively short embrace. But one was silent; she began her tale As if it were her only one. Had been, She said, more than usual silent; men might say, (I had said, but could not be more bold) That life was harsh to her, when, in fact, It was her own harshness which had made him say. At first the tale was listened to, not repeated; At first, the public murmur, the talk of homes, And women's wail, was all that first was heard; The silence which followed, was only said Beneath the shrubs, or when the traveller Was near the end of long isolated miles; And once or twice, within her own parlour, Did she alone remain, without enquiring How he was, or what he had been told Of this or that lonely star. And he In his sweet anxiety, forgot to tell The date of eighteen eighteenths, or that he once Had seen, with other names and some under 35, His old grandmother in their native country. What was said within, could only be inferred. 'Twas since I last had news of my dear brother; At first, I could only say, he was well; But now for weeks such directions gave me no peace. He's all the father I can hope to be; and this Opens my old wounds. I do not know what I think. Dear mother, you must speak to him. He will be As happy with my brother as I was with my father. What I've learned I would not have you know (Though I'm not such a snob as to insist On your knowing it for me), was this, That, since the baby had its way, I've learned I like to walk. And, like to swim, I love to ride, too. But not as I used to do in that first romp, While I was dizzy with the spray, Which I cut off just when I felt I had spewed it all back. I'm learning, now, to swim by rule, and to ride by rote; And it seems to me, how about it we? I never was a strong swimmer; but the sport I know Of treading water: though I'm slow, No man was e'er as long in swimming as I've been With one swift bound, and then I dash Swift as a bird, with arms upraised, in the stream; The current carrying me where there's space for me To keep myself afloat. The sky Is clear as it always seems to be. There's no cloud (Except a passing one) to be seen at all; And there's no ceiling, either, though the lamp <|endoftext|> Beneath the living rock We are safe, for still the Albatross Is banish'd from the Cage. Yet with all this fear, We ought not to be so free. Each let his friends be hunt'd, So hunt ye high and wide, None too good for any feed, Nor too weak for servitude. O hope not from our force, Nor mighty now, nor rich, The strength that makes an army strong Again shall trample free. None to enslave, now or heretofore, These strong and healthy Albatrosses That wisely on our coasts have build! Therefore we to the beach return'd That we might loose the victory; And found it easier far To die than too near approach: And as their homes thus far were vain, In happy intermediate seas We left them to their paddlings there. I WEAR at last the unhappy band From the fierce flames delivered; For in the dubious progress that ensues From the wide waste and universal blast, When fire will supply the cavity, The Lorded Craftsman fancies a doubt. And late in yon waste sea that floats alone His Feet th' agonizing smoke have felt; Which bids him hesitate to venture on. He sees in yonder wave that has its rise From out the same incompassesis, When the wide flood is divided and divides Itself and its divisions in odd mounts, That yonder land is laid out for war; And thitherward it seems to move, Through little changes brought on by the winds. The Clouds among themselves cannot yoke Division more, though for the third time; The ocean seeming then to be alone Swells to a bigger flood and again is all. So my distress'd Heart forebodes me ill, Who thus with scattered wits would prove my state; Yet my unquiet sense expects some relief; So many evils nigh brought together foul Me broods, but no clear sign she sees. Let loose in convulsion on my soul, It beats and convulses till in tears it bays, And o'er my countenance 'tis drenched with sighs. I, therefore, worry'd as I may, The rumour of this horrible news I boad to all the Christian host, That I by fire, if they would meet me, From the walls of Venice would escape. And now my Letter, in the hand of Fame, I have received (by these I only, By these alone may reason reprove me) I at her foot my Letters have laid, And we are come where my sad doom is met: In her fair House she doth accept me I am received, all here is happy, If the wise Fates now this while permit. What, you, happy here in Venice Alone, a stranger in your home? Me wretched here, her consort lost! My one dear begotten;--may Heaven Thy wretched head no common torture prove! Even now I see you frown; You think so much myself, I fear, And so you speak. He that can requite Unjust punishment, must requite unrevealed. But hear a strange correction Brought by the gentle Muse's consent: Do not I now recall her? Yea, am I so dreaded here? I tell you, smile, you are wrong. The more you suffer, he more faile, For he that feels can never pen to her, Unless too much before is shown. I owe it to yourself to show it, For if you look upon my looks, you May gain from me no recompense but pain. Where shall I my poor excuse try? I have no face to show it to you, My beauty's so beyond repair; What can I but be dumb and dead, And so get over so my duty? This was my strange expedient: This must the losing party attempt, For which I fear I so cannot bear. Was I so infamous and dread That you of valour fled? My shame cannot then have bred Great love and pity, But if you still are so, And that you be so far, I must you still abhor! When all the world's commotion Comes o'er me with its grandeur, Where can I put off being bad? My shame is so my life's delight; And you must feel it such an one As you not to be suffered to have it. To blame my shame, For it is your fault? Why take me, then, I pray, By your neglecting so, Into the hands of those that do? But I who was an Epitome Of what is bad, I with the world, was filled full of wrong, From the centre all round to the sea; With what was worst in me was blended By what was best, I went astray, And ever shall, till I die! WHEN the stars watch among the clouds And the doors of heaven make such a noise When the East wind goes forth with a cry, And each one leaves his cabin in haste, To keep himself tidy, fair and neat He baulks not therein my foolish pleasure. Wherefore I need not stop to tell That so also is my chart made: My tongue can only tell you then That the Queen of Love is Perth. WHEN a young man like me Is given a great estate, And in the place of grass His handsome Meadow is, The spirit of fames broods thereon, And with a hideous voice Calls out, "Look there! He comes again, The cursed fool of public sports." Though his tales be not worth a shilling, Though he be not of good note, At the first rehearsal of them all There rises an evil yell, And the rest perform the whole of them, And seem much pleased with the music. It is not that he spoils the scene By an unseemly trick; The actors give their parts in fashions Which the imagination pleases. 'Tis the scenery that makes the tragedy, 'Tis the setting the cinematograph. STILL in my youth I sung the lofty line, And did with simplicity of soul dwell; With me, as I have given unto thee before, Life's jest thou hast understood aright. In rough old syntax I argued, in haste and haste, A poet's duty to his nation and his race. I was a boy in beauty's summer garb, Young as the flower and fair as the moon: But now, beneath the sepulchral clay Which hides the soul within its decaying flower, The laughter of the world throughout is stilled. Though I do still with haste and haste, and am not now One born to play at plays or laughter's sound; Yet am I still that voice upon the shore, In summer's sunny afternoon, which commanded Thy fathers' love! And though all evil things Around thee gather, I would that they should cease From persecuting thee, thou falseest Margaret. THEY do me wrong who say that I seek To take from thee my peculiar praise, Or the adulation which I stand heir To through the merits of my song. My relation to thy glorious race Is as the preceding angel's, Only with fainting lips and moving hands, To tell the will of him who comes unseen, But never to hint what he may do. O, thou, who didst live in loveliness As Daphne was beautiful once, Shall I be fairer than she was? Shall I Walk among a loftier company? Shall I be more than Dian, the oracle, Or brighter than the brilliant Aethraean? No, thou shalt not, for thou shalt not live To look upon thy beauty once again, Nor wilt thou live to any loftier thing; And, whether thou turn and look or not, Life's images of thine shall still survive About thee,--those hideous ghouls of fear. O LAY your name is Alemen, That does cause the cool breeze to blow, That did first the waters bown, That bring the bee and bumble-bee To nourish their honey at your feet. Thee, O Alemen, we need For our thirst when the day is hot, That does bring the sun and rain; That didst teach the woods the day And the birds the night to sing. O Alemen, soon Thou shalt be a classic rain Upon the thirsty prairies lying. MY own sweet Bellissima, To destroy the gentle under-soul Of your sweet soul, yea, though I die, Blind death, do I forgive, Take then the bitter pains of death, And these five burning poisons bear. <|endoftext|> And sweet thoughts he recalled, And ever and anon The wild lark would chirp in shrill And happy refrain, And soon my father would arise And clasp his wife in his And kiss her warm, white brow. As o'er the lawn the sunshine poured, I heard the rustling of her hair. O King of happy dreams, I said, That sunbeam should in her eye-glass be! The wine-cup I thought I had missed, said, She has no glass at home but thee. O blissful Queen, in evening's twilight, Thou art so different from the day. A torch would never so illuminate a room As thy beams change the landscape to appear Elvish, entwining trees with birds' nests, Or waving grasses like a wedding-chain. O wonder of the first, O treasure of the last, O sight to which I shall ne'er forget, O image for which my soul will ne'er Forget that it is thyself! I saw her in the midst of fame, Of glittering riches and renown. And oh! she looked in my face As 't were a rosy gem to see. She said, "The world has been my prison, I know it now." And as I gazed, a cloudy gloom O'erwhelmed my spirit with astonishment. And suddenly, she became so sweet, So lovely, so divine, That like one prisoner released at last, I grew loveless as she. I never shall forget, I never shall forget, I held her, so passionately, In that night of tears and pain, And as the dawn was melting, Again her face was looking at me, And from the darkness, suddenly, I heard her words, "And ever, ever, I will love thee, love thee, love thee!" She kissed me here and there and here, And everywhere; And I came to like her very well After the first of those days. And as I said my prayers with zeal, I heard them tremble and re-echo Along the walls of that dark tower, And felt the saints within creeping Into my heart, and there they dwell To this hour with none to tell me What minute parts they are. I can remember but the thirteenth, When like a battened eye, She leaned above me in my chair, And smiled as if for my delight. But like a thing that's out of sight Is that smile now and then, And ever running off in my brain As faint as then she was, And I to think of her has made My heart so sick with waiting That I've almost forgot That I'm waiting for what's to be. What! Are you to be hanged by change of decree And not that night I saw you at the Release? And when I sayned to the law above, I did not think I should be raising You for a crime you didn't commit. I know it! I did--I did--am I alone To bear what law will have you convigned? I'm sure you are, for every other one Is gone before me, and cannot return! No, no, the times are changed, they were then Caught alive, now they are killed as a flock. They were then a prey to lawless sway, Now, as the Psalmist says, they are led In prison cells and worn and weak. The old times were better, they were then Not just for God, but for men, too, For if men were in their hearts all the time They wouldn't need a law to bind them, And in that way go down to their death. Oh, God! 'Tis hard to say It all up When men are railing at each other; For now it seems that each one believes That he did nothing but amaze His neighbors with; and women too, They who were chaste and equal-minded, To them the whole world held in bondage, Have now been turned into sinners. When we were first acquainted, And you were fresh and green, I'd say "I do not know, Could I go back again, Or change thro' all the years, Aught to have become your friend; You are the same dear little flower That spring by Meek's Windrow." But times are changed and I'm older, And years have scattered flowers, And your white petals are spread On the memories of old places. Ah, that's the reason, old woman! I do not say that I am sorry That we're not old friends again. Oh, I have stored, as many as I knew, And now I can't find where they're worth. And yet when I did count them all I'd say that not one is worth three. And I shall feel sad when you are gone That you did gather such a lot. You who are reading these lines, Wherein are things that have gone to and fro, And kept in with me over long, I, who am fond of changing, From day to day take account And change my style to suit. I am not good at many things; I cannot sew, I cannot ride, I'm clumsy with the hoe; I'm apt at stealing, and at breaking But I can write a rhyme. And when I teach the child a trade He is called a scoundrel. I'm no artist, I cannot play The lute, nor sculpt, nor carve, But I can write a poem; For over anything I can twist or stretch my pen. And if I can't make a thing By sight, with my line and line-mark, I try with rhyme. I have a talent for writing, For I can pack a darkness into A beauty, or make darkness bright; Or, leaving the visible light, I can play with shadows, make them move Or stay; then over them, wafting My soul into their plays, I cast My vision like a play-bill. I can write too simply, too hastily, I cannot take my pen in hand Till I have finished with my breakfast; And then I fumble, and the ink runnin' Is only seen in little things, Till I must dodge and splutter and cough To tell my friends that I'm sick. I'm only playin', but I know when To stop and wait for Lucy; And then I sing a little high, and Not a little low, I leave the highest for her ear, And I take the next lowest. I've always been a clumsy boy, For somehow or other I'm apt at walking and running, At swinging from things and things like that, And I can dream my way into My mother's back. I know the sign for everything, I can scribble a message On any note that you care to Count, note, not deduct. I can stamp and scratch and punch The most I ever can. I'm good at writing, if you notice, And yet I'm not a very writer; It isn't that my poems are bad, For after all my fame is In personal appearance. I like a quiet corner To a game of "wait and see," And I like the back seat of a car Where I can be forgotten. I know the way out of St. Louis, I know where to find Esther When she gets out of season. My uncle was famous For his deep, thin, black eyes, But my eyes are browner Because of mites. My uncle never saw them, Or else he'd never have sold them, Or else he'd find them And he'd go into the car And he'd drive a machine That keeps track of your every step And it'd blow up in his face. I know how to beat the odds, I know how to wait and see, I know how to get what I want, But I've always got to run. It's mites and genes and chance That make you what you are. My uncle never saw them, Or else he'd never have sold them, Or else he'd find them And he'd go into the car And he'd drive a machine That keeps track of your every step And it'd blow up in his face. Now I know how to win, And I know how to lose, I know how to take the prize And I know how to lose it. <|endoftext|> As we get from him. But his whole house is like the road, It goes round and round. He's either knocked himself down, Or else somebody has run him down When his back was turned, and off he's gone, A mysterious dark figure going somewhere In the dark of the night. Sometimes I get such a sickening feeling When he's all alone that I have to struggle Away from him, and I go away From the woman who has now become my friend. He will go to some terrible ending, For somebody must be privy to his end, And she has gone to his. The way home that he took Was long and silent, And when he got there He knocked at the door, And his voice was faint, As if he had trouble breathing, And he said, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." The old clock on the mantel foot Whispered, "I know, I know," And the old clock in the hall Rumbled, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." The old clock in the hall Rumbled, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." And the old clock in the kitchen Whispered, "I know, I know," As it scratched its shank and it ticked, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." The old clock in the kitchen Whispered, "I know, I know," And it rattled and it ticked, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." The door was locked and his work was done, And he took off his dressing-gown, And he washed his face and his hands, And he dried them on a pocket square, And he put out the light, And he sat down at the table to eat, And he said his piece, And he talked about the jints. The old clock on the mantel foot Whispered, "I know, I know," And the old clock in the hall Rumbled, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." The old clock in the hall Rumbled, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." And the old clock in the kitchen Whispered, "I know, I know," As it scratched its shank and it ticked, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." The old clock in the kitchen Whispered, "I know, I know," And it rattled and it ticked, "I've been out late, And I've lost my way." But the speaker for the old clock Was silent as death, For the old clock in the kitchen Had so much to say That he should keep his head under The thick tallow. The speaker for the old clock Was silent as death, For the old clock in the kitchen Had so much to say That he should keep his head under The thick tallow. But the speaker for the old clock Was silent as death, For the old clock in the kitchen Had so much to say That he should keep his head under The thick tallow. The speaker for the old clock Was silent as death, And the old clock in the kitchen Touched his outer mantle And turned it inside out, And it had him chicken-headed Under the thick tallow. The speaker for the old clock Was silent as death, And the old clock in the kitchen Touched his outer mantle And turned it inside out. And he said, "The day's done, For I've lost my head under The thick tallow." But the speaker for the old clock Was silent as death, And the old clock in the kitchen Touched his outer mantle And turned it inside out. And he said, "The night's done, For I've lost my head under The thick tallow." When I was but a schoolboy, I did as I was told; I bowed to the wind, And I shrugged at the sun. But when I was full grown, And systematic and wise, I held my peace. I ate the kernel of knowledge, And ate the concealment, And the renewal of hypocrisy; And when I was an old man, And systematic and wise, I sat in the office of God. I looked with the systematic eye Upon the uncharted sea, And my eyes beheld the pearls of truth, And the chains of the physician; And I knew the immeasurable, And I knew no more. I said to the wind, "I know What silence admits, What storm admits, And what the sun admits." And the wind made a louder voice, And the storm moved away, And the sun looked in at my window, And the sun said, "You are mad." I said to the sun, "You give My thoughts employment, And my nights employment, And my days employment, For you say that I am dead, And I say that you are dead." I was given employment And my days employment And I lived in the house of God, And I knew no more. How many times, sitting in the twilight, Have I exclaimed, in the still evening, At the blackbird's call: "Can you tell Where the path will lead me to The one who will say I am not good, Because I wander from her?" And the blackbird said to me, "There is no one." Can you see the laden tree Lift its gold grain from the earth, And the boy who lives in the byre Lift his support of herbs and leaves, As they rise? You cannot. Yet if you see the laden tree, You will listen to the call Of the boy who is always waiting In the byre, for the girl who calls, And who lifts up his head And his face to the stars, As she pipes the song of her bird, And he hears her sing, Then he lifts up his head, And his face to the stars. Can you see the laden grain, And the child who lives in the byre Lift up his support of herbs and leaves, As they fall? You cannot. Yet if you see the laden grain, You will listen to the call Of the child who wanders from his home And his support of herbs and leaves, As they fall, you will hear The song of the girl who is waiting For the laden bird to say, "I'll go to him, now he's lonely, But he shall sing to me." As he heard, he rose And he waited patiently, And he kept the faith, Though he never would roam; But he held to his work, And he lifted his head, And he stood by the one Who had never deserted, And he lifted up his voice And he said, "I love thee, Mother, And I wait for thee." The girl, who knows not who he is, Calls from the byre, And she pipes the song of her bird, And the lad is happy, And he lifts up his head, And his face to the stars, As she sings, and he hears her sing, Then he lifts up his head, And his face to the stars. I have had visions as of old Of heights that are higher Than air-miles. On a height like that The grandeur grows Of Him who made the sun, the sky, And all the earth, the sea. In a bush that grows By a water-fall, I have heard Him speak, As He walks through an azure height, And I could trace His hands That keep His counsels close. The world, the flesh, the inappellable world, Is only a glimpse of the starlight Unsullied by the mud of self. But in His darkness there is dawn; And I follow His foot-prints in the sand, And I mark His raiment as the gleam Unworthy as the gossamer In this frail web of life. I see Him like the flame of a candle, Or the gleam of a rain-ray, In the lonely forest, Or in the glimmer of a carven dish, Or in the glory of a ceramic cup. I see Him like the glory of a street, Or a moon of the sea, Or a rose in a fragrance of gardens, Or a stream in a fountain. <|endoftext|> I just did. I couldn't stop my hand from reaching for your shoulder. I wanted to take your face in mine and kiss you. You should have heard my wife's screams. She was panting for breath. She was shaking. I just couldn't resist. I twisted you around and made you bite your tongue until you were quiet. I held you so tight. I never wanted to let go. <|endoftext|> "A Pastoral", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Living, The Mind, Religion, The Spiritual] In my absence I have left behind me in the secular marketplace a small flock of Québecoratún. They speak to me in their words and in their deeds. In my absence I have left behind me in the secular marketplace a small flock of Québecoratún. They sleep with their directives to others to carry out in my name. I have left behind me in the secular marketplace a small flock of Québecoratún. They do not wear jewels or trinkets or beads in their hair. I have left behind me in the secular marketplace a small flock of Québecoratún. <|endoftext|> "Goodbye to All That", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] It is the sound of one thing chasing another away from a place. It is the sound of one thing following a road toward an exit. The sound of one thing hiding in a hole. It is the sound of one thing lying down in the path. It is the sound of one thing sleeping in the rain. It is the sound of one thing sleeping in the snow. It is the sound of one thing sleeping between roofs of houses. It is the sound of one thing walking into a cloud. It is the sound of one thing taking off in the wind. It is the sound of a flower taking off in the wind. It is the sound of the past hiding in the wind. It is the sound of the future hiding in the wind. It is the sound of the present hiding in the wind. It is the sound of the near hiding in the wind. It is the sound of distance hiding in the wind. It is the sound of distance following toward the exit. It is the sound of distance following toward an exit. <|endoftext|> "On Hearing the News", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] As my mother told it all night when she was told that our village would not be surviving she let out a wailing that could be heard across the village. She told me of the cries of those left behind. The villagers said that our village had been spared to the south of Kanaak the location of new birth towns. That night she told me how the cries of the children had been driven away by the sound of an unknown voice who said she was God. That voice had scattered the village and taken the children with her. My mother said that one by one children’s cries were being taken away by that voice and never returned. The villagers said that we did not believe this was indeed true because no one could be that stupid. That night my mother told me how, when the voice had gone and the voice of our God still remained, we would leave the village. <|endoftext|> "The Sun", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] To see the sun is to believe that the mountain rises from the sea and that, from the sun, air is being lifted and the water lifted, the water lifted. To see the sun is to believe that one can rise from the sea or that the sea has no ceiling. To see the sun is to believe that the mountain can be seen from the valley, that the sun is above the sun. <|endoftext|> "The Golden Games", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, The Spiritual] In the morning we would run to the watertroughs that looked out on a broad lagoon: one tall tower of water the townsperson’s well, one stream of water a flower or two high above the town, and, from the tops of the towers, a little boat would go up and down, then we would gather to watch the games. In the afternoon, the sun would come up and water would not be troubling, we would say. If the well were full, the watertroughs and towers would disappear. We would sleep. For it was holy. We would sleep. In the morning we would be running again, racing to the watertroughs, in our bodies fasted. We would rise and dance. In the afternoon, we would stand and talk. We would stand up and beg. <|endoftext|> "The Possessed", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Living, The Body, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] 1. Sitting outside at noon, the sky a blank white, the grass so close I could touch it, the road so wide I could walk it off the ground, the window blank and unbreakable. 2. The hills of Beirut were also blank. The windows of the apartments were unbreakable. The road was wide. The sky was blank. I could walk off the ground. The garden was unbreakable. The people were blank. 3. In the morning we would walk to the Citadel, the stone mountains in the distance. The Citadel was not blank. It was not unbreakable. We would walk through the Citadel and up to it. We would climb the stone mountains to the Citadel. I would hold your hand. I would hold your hand. 4. In the morning we would talk to the dead who lived there. We would tell them: “You are not blank. You are not unbreakable. You can talk. You can walk. You can walk off the ground. You can dance. You can dance off the ground. You are live. You are live. You have the music. You have the sunlight. The day breaks. The day breaks. It is daytime. It is daytime. The world is transparent. The people are blank. The Citadel is not blank. It is not unbreakable. We climb through it. We climb through it. We tell the dead: You are not blank. You are not unbreakable. You can walk. Off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance off the ground. We dance <|endoftext|> So did I speak, and straight she waken'd, And unto me, with a pacifying smile. "My daughter," she began, "for thou In the short time that I hath been here, Wert companion unto me every day, More dear than those which go before, Unto my heart has gone with thee. So will I do, for I will keep In my heart a memory of thee, And a great memory will keep Of thy sweet looks, and thy sweet smile. So have patience; I will tell Of thy sweet looks and thy sweet smile." "Oh! my dearest mother!" I replied, "I no one will spy upon another, Nor revere another, save my mother. When thou return'st to thine own land, From the shades of Death's endless evening, When the dew-drops are upon me, And the winds are amid me, There, oh! there will I go to greet thee, And my soul will love thee." Then she, with a smile, unto me said, "A dear kiss, my son, for thy greeting: Now if thou'lt find life so sweetly springing, That thou wouldst seek posterity, Thou'lt have no need of other greeting, But my heart's love may bless another." A little long while there stood A man before my door, He had a cunning tongue, A strong cunning tongue there was; And I thought the soothly word, My eye met his eye, But my heart's cunning he had, He won me, he woul't fail. His name was Burr, and he said He loved the best of two, And to him both in spirit A soft compact was written, And ere summer was half o'er I took his cash, he swore, And said that never more should be A husband and a wife. I wonder, now, that I did, I wonder much, I do: For, though my heart's love did lie With her to whom I swore, I felt as if it ne'er could rest On one in all the world, For there came a breath of jealousy And shook my rest quite. Then came the summer over, And in my car I went Away from Burr Marsh's dwelling, And ever I travelled so, Until I came to Zephyr Heights, And home again I go. So now there's Burr Marsh Asleep upon his face, And I must needs go in, For I cannot rest my hand Away from Burr Marsh. The face that lies before me I never can forget, And there will I lie until I see his eyes again. I saw the form of night As it was passing by, With loose hair, and loose gown, As he who often passed By the lonely brookside, And saw no human being. I heard the night's rustling sounds As it sped from wood to wood, I knew it by its noise alone, For I was full of dreams. I stood and watched the clouds That drifted past the sky, As it came silently from sky to sky, And did not touch a human being. I have a vision, As it floated past the sky, Of purple islands lying In some bright sea-gulf's depths, Where low beneath the whispering star The waters creep and creep. It came from sunset hills, And I was at a distance found, But the vision made me near, And I saw it as it passed: It was the north-wind from the world-wide world, And its crest was ever rising, And it swept its blast around the sky And swept it down the valley's sides, And there was nothing living at noon Nor anything that would feel or see. 'Tis night, and darkness reigns Around the earth and sea. But there is sound in heaven, For on a spangled bar There shines the moon, a queen, In silver shoon, her crown of light. Her eyes are jewels rare, And purest ice her snow; And she holds her dewy ball, A star, above her head. There is no wind, but it is in the breath, And it falls on the trees, and falls on the sea. I hear the sound of the sea, But I cannot see a star. It is a league above the sea, And it lies below the moon, A league beyond the sounding sea, And it is not heard or seen. It is a league beyond the sea, Where the mighty oceans break; But it is heard by the sea, As the roar of a mighty sea That is raging all alone. It is a league beyond the sea, Where the mighty oceans break; But it is heard by the sea, As the roar of a mighty sea That is raging all alone. I saw the sea as it broke, As it thundered on the shore, And it thundered and it thundered, And it fell on the grass and stones. I heard the sound of the sea, But I could not see a star. It is a league beyond the sea, Where the mighty oceans break, Where the waters creep and break, And the cliffs climb and climb. Where the mighty oceans break, Where the waters creep and break, There is peace, but it is not here. The waves are white and high, The sands are white and deep, And out of sight are the distant lands, But they will come when the wild waves die. They will come when the wild waves die, For the sound of the sea Will echo to their shore for aye, And the sound of their mighty tread Will echo for a thousand years. The sound of the sea will echo to their shore For a thousand years and more, And their children will tell their tale In a language unknown to us. Oh, what is life without her music? And what is love without his harp That is piped by the notes of beauty? I will not ask the seas to hearken, I will not ask the stars to see, But I will pray the radiant eyes of Helen To give me of their light, so that I may see and see. For she sees me, hidden by the storm, She, who does not desire my fall; I will not call her name in fear, But call her deed, her miracle, my song. She is best, and she is sweet, and she is true; And I would hear her music sweeten the seas, And dispel the night from all my caves of stone. 'Tis she that saith my heart is light, And knoweth my every thought, and she Is so wise, that she knoweth my every thought; She is so sweet, that she has not mocked My secret thoughts, she hath my every secret, For she is light, and she is sweet, and she is true. Her words are like an angel's song, Her smile is like the sweet spring night; She is so swift, and she is sweet, and she is true, And like the days of my youth she doth remain, And like the days of my life she doth refresh, And like the days of my heart she washes again. I will seek her, and will pursue Through days of long-falling morn, And through faint evenings sad and blue, And stars that sidelong start; And all the wandering ways of grief, And all the dreams of youth and fear, And all the dreams of the aged I will try And all the dreams of every man I meet. For she is constant as the down Upon the leafy tree; She hath fingers long and slender, And rosy cheeks like rose; And hands, and rosy lips, and cheek Like rosebuds full of May; And full of calm mysterious charm, Ancestral, fire, and truth, Ancestral, golden, high renown, And bright as is the star of night. I will seek her in firesports far, I will seek her in dreams vast, In crystal caves of ecstasy Where wild music racks the soul; And all the wandering ways of life I will try in wildest moods to hold With all the rapture of the sea. And all that hath in adore The sun or star or moon, I will steal near her and steal The finest memory Of all that lady-goddess, Fame, And worship her and bow And bow before her shrines of love. For she is mother of each thought That ever walked a earth; She is far-finder and guide To all that wandereth; <|endoftext|> But this is that of us; We have made her thus: We have made her with our hands And eyes and flesh; Her arms and knees are made; But her heart is a thing unknown. As we are our characters, Her life is her own; And it is, in a strange way, The only character We have of her. In ages to come, When this girl is dead, The books of history Will say: "This girl lived in the time When her sisters lived, And her brothers were yet young." One winter night in my youth I saw the hand of God Gleam in the chamber light, And a voice murmured, "Don't," As the womb of my body Breathed in a rapture of pain, "Don't leave me yet! "Don't leave me yet! I know I am tired and ill, My body is weary and weak, And God has other plans For me yet!" But I prayed, "Don't leave me yet! For I have fought with evil, And I have beaten it; God will not leave me then!" A WOMAN prayed so earnestly Her feet were turned to bone, She spread her ropy rags For the flames to eat. A dog of Papuan race Sat close by her side; His rough and tender hide Lay lightly on her side, As the sighing of the wind Hung on his curly hair. She heaved a long sigh; Her eyes were closed in pain; Her lips were blue in faith; She lifted her head, And she turned toward the west, And she called with lips that breathed All out, yet contained a word That she never uttered before: I know you, bird, because you sing The sweetest song of all the trees; Because you flutter on the spray, I know you, bird of heart true; I know you, bird of blackest hue, Because you haunt the sunless dell, I know you, bird of warbling wing, And can red with blood your plumes infold At the beck and call of War's dire beast, For I have seen you first your breast begray And heard you pray for the wounds of Light. A YEWBERG on a birch-tree stood, And he called Light and Peace his children; But they were ever roaming apart. And he shook the more and more, and sighed, And shook them harder and harder still: And the wind came down the groaning way And rocked the boughs in the leafy whirl, And with a mighty sound shook the world, And all the world was still at last. I LEFT my home, my hearth, my husband, children, My lover, my mind, in the great sea-world; I sailed away for a year and a day To the land of the Orcs, the bad. I saw a great hall of lances, shields, And bows against a flaming sun, And black-eyed women all a-crying That Grendel had come again. "Bring bread! Bring wine! Bring a stout drink! And bring the Orcs I am afraid of!" The year flew by; the ship sailed on; And I drew my ship to the shore And called my little ones on the way-- Call as many as I could see, As brave as my closest friends, Who with me could face the Orcs any day. And all the women swarmed about me; And they hugged and they kissed me and prayed; And they said: "Mother, what are you thinking of? The sea is so wide, and the world so vast! And we've nothing even yet to fear from them, But you--what are you thinking of?" I LOOKED back over my shoulder, and saw My beautiful children standing there; I said: "They are looking at me, my dear, For I seem to be a very empty name." They told me: "We think, Mother, that you are gone, And are asking us for a name to cover your heart, Because you are mother, and not a man's." A GIANT WAS walking towards me; his eyes Were glowing with the light that has no day; His voice was a song in the twanging of strings, Like the sweet vibrating wood of a lute. He said: "Come! For I have something to show you, And it is the fruit of a great wonder; I can make a woman of you just for you!" I WAS tired of the lies and the foolishness Of men and the foolish dreams of my own; And I sought for a life more worthy of me, That would honor my brain and my beauty, That would keep my soul from the wintry blast, And shelter my heart from the cold and chill. I WILL get you, my friend, I will get you, I will tell you the saddest, most thrilling story That I know of, if you will let me. It's sad, but it's true, and I'm willing to tell it. It's the story of my good, old friend, Who was my leg and my guardian, good old friend. MY leg! My poor, dear, tired, bruised, tired, bleeding leg! My poor forsaken, lost, neglected, broken leg! I cannot get up in the morning; I cannot sit down; I cannot creep, or I cannot climb, I cannot walk. My leg is my only living friend; it is my charmer; My sweetest and dearest friend in the world is my leg. And my heart is as heavy as a baby's heart, It aches and it smarts and it will not throb; But my leg will not let me forget its ache; It will help me to bear it, and bear it well. And my heart will help me to bear it, I know; And my leg will help me to bear it too; I will keep my promise to my lost, dear, loyal friend, I will get you, and I will get you, I will. MY friend, you are always welcome in my door; So, when other people are praising or blaming, You will tell me out of your wisdom, friend. You know as well as I what is good and bad, And you never shall tell me things through just resentment; For the things that are true, my friend, are the things that are beautiful; And the things that are beautiful, friend, are the things that are true. I WILL get you, my friend, I will get you, I will tell you the saddest, most thrilling story That I know of, if you will let me. It's sad, but it's true, and I'm willing to tell it. It's the story of my good, old friend, Who was my leg and my guardian, good old friend. I'VE lived in Arcadia so long That the ground-moss is as gray As the leaves in the place; And the cottages have forgotten all But the last post and courier. But I never shall forget the bigness of the trees, And the length of the road leading down To the narrow street with its bars, And the pavements lined with their sleeping feet On the cold, cold, stone. I HAVE travelled far through many lands, And have seen the towns of Egypt, The town of Troy, and all that I can find Of Greece and Rome. I have travelled over sea Where chafers have caught and spoiled the mail, And nursed their boys to monster sizes. And the ships that had to sail the ocean With but a span or two to spare Have caught a different way the winds than I know, And went down by a different way. I HAVE seen so many things, and heard So many things, I am grown very old, I have travelled so long, and seen So many things, I am grown very old. I am weary, though, of travelling through A single hemisphere, to find The earliest bit of dawn between night and morn On the western hill, and the eastern hill, And the northern mountain, and the southern mountain, And the field-land all about between; I am weary, though, of going down to the sea Where the shores are rough with the feet of the men Who by their barks have won nothing, and left nothing But the silver fish to waft them on their way. I AM grown very weary of the question, Tired of asking and asking and asking; And the other fellows say, and their eyes Flicker with a little light that is found In the eyes of the women who look at a picture, And the men turn from the windows and say, <|endoftext|> Upon her chin and down her neck. She turned and hurried from the place. And we to-day that she had been, Through her body, as through a veil, The sense of that dread action breathed; And in our thoughts the image came, Of that wild shriek, and that dread sight, As of a fiery serpent stung; The cursed thing that tricked our sense To look like her own darling Son. The years flew on. The dark, gray days, Where hardly ever a star shone, Smoothed the ruffled uplands, and revealed Dull grey slopes and deep black vales, And vast, brown-shorn forests, where, at times, Through the loud, oozy marshes, rolled The thunderous surf of the rolling deep. The white, brimming autumn moon shone bright Through a thick, purple, deep-paven cloud, That, like an aged, wrinkled crone, Rose on the range above us, and went Creeping down and up the wide, moon-lit hills. We saw her go, and yet we seemed To hear her saying to herself, As she went to meet the spring days: "I will not lose the years, I will Not bear my children, I will be Free from pains and free from worries, and never Wake up in my long, long slumbering years." So we saw the years go by. They brought their troubles with them; They talked, as one that is hearing Of other voices, and is saying, "We will not hear the voices any more; No more of that sad whispering, and no more Of that dark river, and the ford where oxen stand Stretched at the plough, and the great, long roads are dead. We will not see the spring times any more; We will not hear the birds any more; We will not feel the warm sun on our faces Nor any more the bitter winter cold." The years fled on. At last they came, As never yet had come before; Sweeping through the great, broad woods, Like a long, slow stream of warriors, Who have taken all their armour off, And with loud shouts, and steeled flesh, Are rushing headlong into fight. And that dark river, the sea, That led to the dark, cold deeps, Bridged by rocks, and flaming with fire, Raged low, and choked with matted foam, And we saw its waves, we saw its smoke, And we knew that it had reached the moon, And the great, grey, hanging stars began To twinkle from far away. And through the year, and all the year, Burning always, with always burning, Raged the dark stream of the year; Rushed through the high, green woods, Through the midst of the blue, shining woods, Like a deep river roaring In the wind; and we knew that it would reach the moon, And the cold, grey moon in its course would fall, And the white stars would all be shattered one by one, Till there should be no light at all; and we knew that it would burn the woods to ashes, and the smoke of the burning ashes rise far into the sky, And there should be no fires, but the ashes should all be green again. But now the woods are dying; In the high, green, shining woods, Slowly, and one by one, All the trees are falling; The ashes lie on the earth, And the dead leaves sift down into the grave; But the great river goes on and on, All the way from the sea to the stone mountain, And we know that the moon will be a silver sphere, And the stars will be gold; and the creatures of the forest Will be changed to gold, and learn to live off the light, And go on from there into the glittering cities, And we know that the world will change from the dark to the light, And that it will go on from the stream to the stone mountain, Into the sunset, and out of the snow. In the years that are coming, All the sounds of the ages, That are slowly dying away, And the changes of the ages, All the changes of all time, That are speeding through the present; All of the sounds of all ages, In the coming years, for the earth is going From the dark to the light, from the light to the dark, From the stream to the stone mountain, From the forest to the haze, From the water to the stream, From the sound to the silence, From the flood to the stone mountain, From the forest to the stream again; And our people will not be afraid of change; They will not be afraid of the darkness or the light; For they will be living in the light, and they will be living in the darkness, And they will know that they are living; and they will know that they are dying, And that all of the old is but a remembrance of the old. But the unknown is known; The unknown is not afraid; It has only spring and summer and winter, And from these two things proceed The sea and the rivers, The forest and the towns; The rivers and the forests with their thick, brown girth, The highlands and the meadows, The white houses with blue mountain-sinks, The huge stone mountains And the valleys, and the snow. But the unknown is not changed, For it springs without bounds, And will not come to an end, For it flows in the deeps And flies away in the winds, And changes all things it touches, For it is invisible, And changes all things it touches To some strange and unseen things. And the dark sky is standing With its right hand over the water, While with its left it is pressing The dark mountain-tops, While all of the sky it is touching With its invisible hand. And it is hovering over the deeps and the forests, Over the highlands and the meadows, Over the white houses with their snowed-in frozen peas, Over the river, over the stone mountain, Over all of Nature's changing workings; And the dark sky is standing upon the waters, With its right hand over the water, And a great hand on the rivers, And a great hand on the forests, And a great hand on the mountains, And a great hand on the towns; And the silver moon is over the sea, With its two small hands, Groping with them, And seeking with them With its own darkness; And the three white moons are sailing Over the water, Over the dark sky, With their two small hands. And over the towns and the water, Over the land and the sea, In the westering regions high, In the midsummer sunlight, Through the shining cities, Through the shining land, Is heard the voice of the rushing of the sea, And the rushing of the sea is heard in the voice of the wind. And the wind that blows in the South is singing In a high singing voice; And it says to the sea, "Come over on the riderless wave, I will bear you onward To the place where all things end, To the end of the world and all its ages; And you shall be my mistress In that world of the end." And over the water In a white, white sea, With no turning in the sea, With no turning to the land In the South, the wind is singing, In a white, white voice: "I will bear you onward, Over the wave, Over the stream, To the place where all things end, To the end of the world and all its ages; And you shall be my mistress In that world of the end." And the music that fills the wide sea In a white, white sea, With no turning in the sea, With no turning to the land, Is a drum in my ears, And the drum in my ears is the song of a mighty sea, And the song of a mighty sea is the voice of the wind. I have seen the falcon fish Go down into the white sea Far down into the surging ocean, And he came up again presently On the other side into the brighter water. He was not always safe who passed that way. And I have watched the salmon Washing upon the California shores, And they would not come again Into that shining water; But too soon they came again Into the shining water over the Oregon coast. I have watched the harbor seal Come out of the harbor of a Californian harbor, And he would not come again for a long time, For he did not know the lesson that he learned. <|endoftext|> Or if I drop below, May some sage, not morose, In these words light up mine eyes, Who will help me in my need, Who will be my insulter, Who will temper love and faith, Thou that art my creator, Thou that art life to me, I call on thee and sing, God of my life! in thee! The first-born of Creation's King, The Son of God, and Life of Life, Before me thou hast made Thee my helper, now I come To show thee how my God And Christ my God can bless And save me when I fall. The Mighty God is nigh to me, His blessed presence mine, He shall guide and cheer me on, His strength shall lead me home. O thou to whom I also sing, Thee also wast the Son of God; From thee I came, and am come To praise thee, and in thee praise. I am not bold as I ought to be, I never will be so till I're dead, Oh, let me live so till I're dead, And die so when I're dead, The Saints I have in my sight, The One God, three Faiths have seen, But oh, oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God! My pain I do not fear to tell, I do not hide it from thee; My loving and my longing both, I do not keep from thee; And oh, I do not know, nor care How others may think of me; But the thought of thee, oh, my God, oh, my God, I dream of thy dear eyes To-night when I awake, And of thy tender smile To-night when I go to bed; And ever I fall into A delightful dream, Tho' still I know it not, That I am living then Beside thee now. Yet I cannot forget The crosses that I've known; Though with Christ I have been reconciled, And smile in secret at men's fear, 'Tis but a vassal part Of life among the blind. My Heavenly Father knows Each minute of its going, Oh, how I long to see Thee in my garden to-night, To join in secret life with thee Thee in my wounded side, And in my sorrow's dark night, To lean my head on thee, And whisper to thy mantle there To part no more. And when I'm dying here, And laid for ever, where the curious gaze May pore upon my wounds and sigh That all my joys are ending; Oh, then will come that thought Of thee, oh, my God, oh, my God, As day is closing, still the murmuring rolls Of the waves that beat on the rock, Of the spirit-folk that now are nigh, Whose watchful vigil never may be told: The sound grows to a grand, sweet, grandchild of the flute, That drifts across the quiet of the moonlit bay. All silent now--that grand, loving sound! The beat of the waves is still, And the flute alone is playing, That ghost of an echo of our day, That comfortingly, sadly falls, With a sound like a blessing down the deep! While moonlight threads the Firth, and steals A sweet, dark perfume on the night, I wander alone, and gaze across The shining sand, where in a pale line The sounding crags of the sea-hill raise, Like the temple doors of sleep, and lo! There shine the eyes of thousands now, There seem hundreds of boats in the moonlight, Beside each other, side by side; And far on the deep the distant horns Of ships, like bright moonbeams, go, And brighter, brighter they appear, And their masts gleam white and tremble with laughter. Tired with the night's duties, I have come To rest a while from my duties; The night is tired, and would sleep, too, But she has one less evening, And she has no more to teach me, And she calls in the daylight. She tells her children, sleep is sweet, And how her little lips are pressed By stars and shadows in the sky; She tells them of her royal, rosy boy, His eyes that are lit up with heavenly fire, And she tells them of her own dear home. And yet,--and yet, I know her not, And I doubt if she believes it; And that tired, weary, doubting child, She cannot lull to sleep her breast That aches with the weight of the years, Or hide the sting from her weary heart Of her never-pleasant nights. So let me wander with the wave, And taste its music and sunshine, And rest me by its trembling shore, And feel its whispers in my ear, And hear its tales of the dead. Its wave that ever foams and whispers Beyond the vision of men; Its haunting, lonely, lovely wave! And rest awhile with me. I heard a voice on the hill, It said, "Child of sorrow, come," And like a shadow in the night I came to where she sat. She was sad, for the past Was saddening her with a din; She had no gladness now For the young spring, the green weed, Or birds singing high. "Hush! 'tis ever so Bitterly thou singest Since first thou heardest it, Bethink thee again, Of four sweet birds, And what they are, and where They all did say." "O wild and wailing stars Of the north in heaven! Of the south clouds and rains! Of this evil and the good That live and move and sing! "A child's heart cannot bear This misery, this wo, This evil, for her love Is madly shattered and rent, And her hands are filled with clay, And her eyes are darkened and tearless, And her cheeks are white. "A child's heart cannot bear This misery, this wo, This evil, for her love Can never be made whole, But is forever parted And mourned by all. "O, a lone woman's heart That aches for a whole, A whole heart cannot bear This misery, this wo, This evil for her love Never comes whole again, For a broken heart." I heard a voice on the hill, It said, "Child of sorrow, come," And like a shadow in the night I came to where she sat. She was sad, for the past Was saddening her with a din; She had no gladness now For the young spring, the green weed, Or birds singing high. "Child of sorrow, come down And wash away your tears, For the time that has past Is sad and troubled for you, And when evil times Have passed away, The sweet voice of singing birds Will come again." "O, a lone woman's heart That aches for a whole, A whole heart cannot bear This misery, this wo, This evil for her love Is broken for ever, And she will never know The comfort of a whole heart, For a broken heart." I said, "I can never sing, For my heart is bare and cold, And my life is dreary and cold, But I'll murmur a little song For my poor loved one here; And I'll murmur a little song, Though the low wind chills me, And I'll murmur a little song, Though the waves make havoc with me, And toss me far from her; For I murmur a little song For my love that is dead, And she has a grave for me, With a little standing stone, And a little ruddy stone, And a grave-stone that says, 'Here lies poor Robin Graves, Dying, weeping, weak and pale.'" 'Thas by a floweret's wood I wove my crown of tears, Of love and sorrows' leaves; And I loved pure sweet Streams, And sat me down and wept, Till my heart looked trough, And I found my heart was dead, Nor had a thought or will. But this love-shaft, This love-shaft for true men, This love-shaft that is tried, This love-shaft, grown grey, I lisped low sweet in my song, And this love-shaft for true men, And a maiden I have found, <|endoftext|> Or bring thy feet To the palace door, Or seek thy lord Where he sits with his friends, Or through the town Thy feet rush, As of old! Give to me the hand of a girl Whose heart is as true as mine; Give to me the hand of a maid Whose heart is ever true to thee; Give to me the hand of a youth Whose hand I have sought all my life long, For the dear sake of love, and I will wear Thine for a burning charm to my side; Give to me the hand of a maiden Whose heart is ever true to thee; Give to me the hand of a virgin Whose heart is ever true to thee; Give to me the hand of a maiden Whose heart is ever true to thee; Give to me the hand of a maiden Whose heart is ever true to thee; And if thou hand of a maid shalt be To me a burning charm to follow, I will wear thy touch forever. They have stolen thy smiles away, And they have stole thy kisses, They have stripped the purple from thy breast, And they have branded thy brow; But never shall they dim the flush Of my youth's rosy cheek; Never, while the world shall stand On its ruin, shalt thou hear me call, "O love, my love is nigh!" I am weary waiting here, And I would rest till nightfall; But the young couple whose prow you see Have not yet reached their teens. You may see them wed some day, You may see them in their bower-chamber, With their maid and bridegroom thronged, But the least of them is mine. My name is painted on a wall; My name is readable in a book; My shadow is long on a lawn; My breath, which comes wandering by, Is the fragrance of a flower; My breath is the breath of a dove Perched on her bosom, dreaming of love. The hounds are at the fallen tree; The hunters are in sight. Cried the three hunters, looking back, "The stag's in the lowland glen." And the hounds have gone into a thicket; They have followed the scent to the tree; But they cannot follow the tree to the lowland. As I went down the hill I heard a story said To a man on a bier: "The man who knows All the secrets that are hidden By the King of Hell Is entombed where the branches grow." As I went down the hill I saw a corpse discovered By the side of the road; I heard the story said To a man on a bier: "The man who lost his head In the battle with the Fiend Is entombed where the branches grow." I went down to the brook To see if the trout were in it; But the thing that I saw In the water was a head With the face of a boy And the eyes of a baby, And the man who found it Was buried where the branches grow; But the secret that he knew Was of a love that is ended, And the words of the world to the living Are, "Be still, for we have nothing." My mother taught me All the things that have happened; But the story that she told Of the dead man, I never knew. So now I wish that I had died, When I was but a child; Then I could have gone to him And found out what he knew. I walked through the wood Where the broom was flashing Its wings in the golden light; I heard a call singing In the boughs above me, And I saw a girl come In the lovely moonlight. I saw a scarlet dress Glittering on the tree; I heard a song calling In the boughs above me, And a tinkling fountain In the world of flowers. The scarlet dress shone on the tree, The broom waved in the golden light; The song called out in the boughs above me, The girl came in the lovely moonlight, And the bright fountain in the world of flowers Tinkled in the breeze. The garden was full of the sun; The garden was full of the moonlight; But the boughs above me were singing In the lovely moonlight; And the song called out in the boughs above me, And the song called out in the world of flowers, But the tinkling fountain in the breeze Called to me alone. I walked through the dark wood Where no one else was walking; And the darkness had a tongue. And I heard a whisper pass From the face of the tree to mine: "Come to me, child, come to me." I saw the fairies As they passed from sight; The flowers were rich with their beauty, But I was the queen of their banquet. And I crowned myself with their jewels, And I wore their crowns in my hair. I danced with the marigolds In the fragrance of dragon's oil; I danced with the violets In the dew of the ming white cloud. And I saw the fairies As they passed from sight, But their wings were silver-coloured, And they wore jeweled trances on their ankles. And I saw you passing Through the night of the blossoming; And I saw you coming Through the dew of the ming white cloud. But my garden was dead with morning; And my garden was dead with the noon And the darkness of night. And I watched you go Through the night of the blossoming And I watched you come through the dawning; But my garden was dead with morning; And my garden was dead with the moonlight And the darkness of night. And I watched you pass Through the night of the blossoming And I watched you come through the dawning; But the world was sleeping; And the world was dead with morning And the world was dead with the noon; And the darkness of night was sitting And frowning on my dream. All night long mine eyes Were fastened to the dark wall That faced the brook and the forest; And the full buds on the bough Lay open-hearted on the air, Laden with splendour and light. And the dark was a carpet Where mine eyes could not go; For the night's dark thoughts were on The dark leaves that were falling; And the dark was a shroud Where mine eyes could not go. And the moon was a siren Casting her silver shadows Through the dark leaves that were rippling; And the sound of her voice was Reverberated by the river-- The far-off voice of the far-off city. I sat by the still waters In the shadow of the wood; And I heard the song of the marigolds Singing by the still waters In the shadow of the wood. I bent down my head to my night-gown That was filled with stars and shadows, And I looked at my watch again And I heard the time go by-- And I looked at my watch and I wondered When shall I see the marigolds Singing by the still waters In the shadow of the wood? And when shall I see the moonlight Rippling through the dark leaves that were rippling, And when shall I see the flowers Shine by the still waters in the shadow of the wood? I shall not see the marigolds Singing by the still waters In the shadow of the wood; I shall not see the moonlight Rippling through the dark leaves that were rippling, And I shall not hear the song of the Vespas' belfry-- Shall not see it in the morning or evening-- The water-lily is fairest In moonlight or in starlight; The water-lily is earliest At dawn among the larks. But most for me was the spring Of the water-lily and its dying, For well I knew that the flower Was once the morning-star of my country, A beacon for me o'er the sea. I saw you pass, greenest of herbs, Like a turning of the leaves; I heard you murmuring, singing Like the dew of the morning; But never again may I see Thee, water-lily, pass in the dark-- May I never forget thee, herb, To the boughs in the wood among The stars as the night-sky's herald. There was a maid, as she went along, <|endoftext|> Love's the only Art that ought to move her, No more than light responds to the thunder; Since she's given thee to her so unblest, I'll not put off Love till later, But when the chaste desire's first fire doth show, Love, like the Sun, with zest doth spring. Love doth then beget other love, Like as this is true of Sun and Moon, Of Earth and Sea and Fowl and Bear: For what so like as true hearted Love? But this in vain thou'lt seek to tell, And I shall deem thy words but smiles. But for no time thy wings shall stay Fanning thy belly till thou starve, For thou art belied if thou think'st That I can be thus above the Sun, Or on the far side of the Sea. Therefore I'll not wed with thee, Till the farthest Wheel do go. Tell my fair one, if she's fair, That I never can be near her, Till that the Sun in his sanken rays Dips under the waves to rise no more. And tell my fair one, if she's sweet, That, by the Demon which thou art, No other mortal can be wed Till all things come back again. With the sound of the mighty waters, How they mighty rose Mingled in the sounding waves; And with their voice, how the depths roared, And the billows did toss, And all in a trembling dread, With a dreadful haste, The mighty chariot took. And as when all the sky doth shake, And thunder rumbles through the clouds, The eddying winds do rise, And the sea's white waves roar; So up the billows, in a breath, The chariot sped, The waves are folding round; And at every bound, there came A deathful groan, And the great waves there fell, As if a battle raged There, 'neath the heavens. Then came on those fearful waters, Whence no man returns, Three hundred days, three hundred days, Death came on the fifth of moons, And sate in purple in the heavens, The earth was full of his throne, And blushed for shame, Like a pale bride, when the crimson-crowned morn Comes gleaming from the East. His hair was as grey as the light That falls on a haunted stream, When the day is full, And the East is a yellow sun, And the rivers are. His eyes were as bright as the air is bright, That shines on a haunted stream, When the day is full, And the East is a yellow sun, And the rivers are. There was never sound of a human voice, Except the shout of the waves that leapt Beneath the keels that made the chariot run, As they charged upon a pirate's ship, Full of women and children. No hand was on the tiller; The man that was, was the man that stood In the cockpit alone, With a look of the sea in his eyes. For the pilot, he stood With a look of the air in his eyes. The sail was laid up upon the yard, And the masts were wound with cordage strong; And never a wave was stirred, Save when the wind arose And swept the sail away, As the ship left port in the evening sky, And sailed the waters under. And they sailed as the wind swept, With never a stop to make; And never a day of the winter; For as long as the sea Could wait, the sails would grow And warm with the sun. The way lay clear before them, So they traveled the sea. The way lay clear before them In a strip of blue between hills; And over the hills to the sea The great mountains were hidden, And over the mountains to the sea The sea swept away, And swept far up the shore, Till it was lost in a broad sea Of hills behind them. The sun sank low, The evening shadow deepened, As they traveled the sea. And ever the wind rose, And the sails grew slowly lower, As they approached the hills That the wind swept away. But they never passed by the place, For as far as they were, Across the sea The hills were. The way lay clear before them In a line of bay, A smooth bay of a mile In compass, when the sea All of a piece extended. But across it the wind, In a single night, Possessed the ship, And she blew hard for a week And then she made a break, All hands on the wheel, And she gave a pull to the brine As she made the break, And she took a fresh draught of water, And she shed a tear for the sea, And she spake to the crew. But all they made reply Was a harsh, wild sound Of tossing pine and bough And the hill being torn. And when they had crossed the night That is set like a shield Of silver stars on the wave, And when the night had grown A mile and a league long And a vast gray wall of the sea Upswept the night, And a great wave broke on the mast And broke it in two, And they knew that they were come Into a world. And so, ever after, at sea They made their camp in the moonlight And lay in the shell-grey water And listened to the roar Of breaking billows that broke on the bow And broke on the slaver deck. And ever they heard the panting breath Of shipwrecked sailors who stumbled sore As they clung to the railings Of the rails that ran up the side Of the slave ships in the moonlight. And they cried to each other: "Oh, brother, It's better here on the bow for a cling; Here we'll lie safe and dry. The lash! Oh, brother, the lash!" When slave ships puffed their curtained seas With negro labour or Spanish, It was then that they lay by the bow And watched the negro ships that came, Or steamed in silence down the main With the black flags up or naught draped on the boom, Or bore black anchors in or nothing at all. They saw them pass, or they guessed their doom; The heavens are as they will. On lakes and rivers and far in the land The river boatmen saw the dawn of day And turned to see what people were coming, And some thought of crossing fields to reach The town and the freedom promised them. They had little cause to hope, for they knew That the freedom was a cold thing of dreams. But a few there were who had the sense of honour And the courage of stout heart to dare the odds, And that was enough to keep them going, And keep them true to their master and their deed And the need that kept clamouring around them, And the need for the slave to the free. They dared the long dry land and the sea And the great open fields beyond; And the slave ship's curtained foam and the sea's Scurrying with men who would not die Would make for them the ends of land and dream And the end of slave and lie and crime. And as they stood on the wide open plain With no end in sight and the sea's Murmuring with slavery's malice, And the roar of tide and the stamping of feet They knew not what else but to bless Themselves and their God for all the good That would come from their friendship with men. The sun rose high and the great hills drew in And closed around them like a band of flame. And they put forth to the long dry land And the sea's reply went round the earth, A deafening silence of more than savagery, That seemed to enfold the wretch ere he knew What hell's last horror was about to become Of all his frame and its relationship To all the universe. The ocean is God's, and the blue is His, And the great hills His hills, And the river is God's, and the plain His land, And the sea's God's sea, But all have known the hand of men and men have made The river run fast or the sea swell high, And all shall know the hand of men again, When the time comes, for men and the Lord of hosts Are one in the end of the world. Men's hands are the hills' and the sea's and the river's, And the Lord's hand is the sea's, But we who are free are all one brotherhood, <|endoftext|> And one long shaft of pebble-stone. From the other side there came a voice, That resembled many men in cheer; And it said, 'Hark you! the other host Hath marched into the valley, chief Over the plain and round the wood. But he that waits behind the wood, Hath more than Roman legions got, More than soldiers with brown equipment, That with lances he marcheth by his side. There he sees Arthur, and perchance His son, that follows in his rear, And, if alive, is welcome there. So then, behold, I go to greet The leader of that murderous throng, Who goeth with a great following, Daring seas and wastes and dangers, Till he come at the doors of Graemes, Till he come at the doors of Cynred, For all those asker-skins that are Hanging on their backs, be sure.' Then spake King Arthur, 'My liege, I know By word and septentrion what thou art, That thou hast done this thing or that, And if thou be the same that thou art, Thou hast been here in Arthur's days. But who art thou of the ancient line, That even yet men bear the same name, That hither pour their streams, this river-side, Whence we have also our starting-place? My lord, this man for wrath as well as crime Hath sought us: well the weaver durst fynd Such webs of night and cloud for doomis, Such shame and guiltis for the woof: Him is the ancient Morgan seen, He that wishest guerdon well and good: He is the man as ever lyart He shall be when he returnis: He is come back to his place.' 'My name is Morgan: for no man's name Shall fill my wrath when I shall see thee; But all men's eyes shall follow me, And when I come again, I wot well That I shall not find my hell-born love, But thou, thou shalt be dear unto me. And if thou needst any succour, Come to my presence; I shall lend it.' 'What wouldst thou have? Is this thy mighty might, Thine might to save, to overthrow, To strike down thy foeman with surprize, That he his greatness knows not at all, Nor knowes how little he a fault, That to a poor slave help he should desire? Lo, here the lordliest ensign is us'd, And here the might of noble handis, And here the word of mightie lore is giv'n. Why then presume to nobler need, Where thou shalt meet hardness of hearti And bar of love.' And Arthur turn'd, and ere he spoke, Himself had thrust the robe from his neck, And held him clasp'd within his arms. 'What art thou, saucy braggart, then, That dar'st to deny my claim on thee? If true, thy pride fall; be wicked, shame; If false, I scorn thee now as soon.' 'I am a man of word and writing, Learned in the lore of old times; My tale follows to a well-wrought end, Not thy well-wrought tale.' And Arthur rais'd in answer, scornful, 'Thy word is not our word, nor thy writing, We tell the tale we heard from one, Who heard it of another.' And Morgan turn'd, and turn'd him about, And with his fingers ran his hand Over the small travel'd skin, and said, 'I have it as my tale; and thou Mak'st thine excuse: follow me.' And up the castle-wall they rode; And down the battlements they past, Until they reach'd the female cell, Where Sylvan was kept. He led the way, And when they came, before him sat. And all around was battlements, and towers, And turrets, bastions, bulwarks, tents, and wheels; And walls of human form, and swirling pools Of human swell. And in the middle space A ring of seats, a wide-flung turret screen, An inner shrine of granite, and of steel. And Arthur look'd, and look'd, and look'd again, And felt his heart in his feet and hurl'd The prostrate Sylvan, with a blow that stung: And then he smote him on the cheeks and brows, And eyes, and nostrils; and the heavy arms Dropt, and he sank to earth; and from the limb That clung divining to the cuirass' hem, With both hands he torn, and drawing from the wound Aghast and roaring, Morgan turned away. 'Get thee hence, shift things elsewhere, leave my house; The day draws on that I may move alone To that red region: there the day shall pass Without thee: thou must for thy fidelity Regard the day alone; for others, far Less faithful, may doubt the event.' He spoke; but Morgan turn'd his head not 30 cornerwise, Nor move'd half a pace, but, backward as the snake Bends sideways after his deadly fangs, cross'd The threshold, and stood still. Aghast he stood And wreck'd before the omnipotence Which had made him see the drop of blood, And hear the weak voice, and foresee his doom. 'What art thou, that, moving on our blue shore, Canst make us like the sea, and darkling, dwell Upon his slumber? And what black shadowy air Comes through that open door? And who hast taught Thy vision with such subtle means to play? And why this darkening of the heavenly eye? And yet thy hand--thy hand is on the latch, And all is safe, and all is hanged wide; And yet the gate is open; and the tower Sends forth its sullen voice and idle alarms, And all is open, and the deadly place Is bright, and bright, O night, is Arthur's hall! 'Art thou the King? say? has the great King spoken To-day? hath his decree pass through the Royal Heart? Or came it only from the Princess' hand? Say, have they prayed? and say, did Arthur swear, As past his mother, to a duty so dread She might not face him, and he might not dare Not to refuse?--Ah, speak! why slumbering lie Thus awful? speak, speak! Oh, what a stately throne Is this where thou canst sit, and know the King Is always by to punish when thou sin'st! And why art thou not as afraid of him As he of thee? Where is thy fatal gift Of final death, when in his arms thou liest Fell-stricken? Nay, where is thy fatal gift Of final death, when by his side thou liest, And swearest not he shall make thee deadly cold, And her death-wound drive into thy life-cold breast? O night, I see thy soul, and know thy grave Is green, and deep, and earthy-sweet; and there Thy shadow, who thou wast, thy ghost returns, As once thou hadst been, and once again Thy ghost thou art, and all fear doth fail At the same old door. 'And shall I go, and shall I come no more? Ay, go! for why, when the sweet months go by I am too good for glory, and too good For the dull crown of obeisance; I know My God is higher: therefore I rise and go, And tremble, and seek him out among the dead. Faint hearts are afraid to die; they shiver and flee Before the rush of fear. Who wails a tear When the pale pall comes down, that hides the King? I, who have loved him so long, and endured One lie, and deadened loving him so long I can die happy. Is the small dear heart Which is the death of love alive, or am I dead For wanting love?--I go, O sweet soul, O sweet soul, O faint heart, O dead heart, O love alive! 'If I have fought with God, and lost, And if it be my God I serve, I am not glad. If God win, I fear not, but my God abhorre, And all the world perchance may hate And crucify my heart. 'But if my God forsake me, And if my God abhorre, <|endoftext|> --I saw it in the sheet --The brute squealing of her pain, --The agony of her lips. I saw it--but I let it roll, I let the rush, the tumult, roll, Till my whole soul seemed caught in the whirl, Till my eyes grew blurred and dim, Till I felt the pain, in the sight Of the might, the might of this wave, Till my whole body seemed to reel, And I felt that my spirit's bound In the shore's hard eddies to reel, And my tongue seemed shrieking to reel 'Neath the cold plunge of every sense; But my faith knew not all this, And my fear saw not this tide, So I called out in the hush Of my soul, "O God, I thank Thee That Thou, this evil wave, dost show Unto me, my eyes, the full sign "That my life, that my strength, shall be spared, "And that I shall see the very last "Of my mortal days, and then sink down "Beneath Thy waters, and be see'd "In the waters by Thy power seen "That Thou Lord, Lord God, Lord God be glory "For Thou Lord, Lord God art glory." "Hear me, O waves, for my soul has need "Of your strength, great winds, great waters, that bear "My thoughts to the goal, my God, my goal. "I was captive to passion's chain, O winds, "And the waters held me in, in the snare "Of love's false world. O winds, I have fled "Far from it, I have turned to the true faith, "And I ask you, O winds, great winds, great waters, "Fulfill my wish, O waft me to my goal, "And waft me with all comfort to my God, "And God with me, great winds, great waters, "For I pray it of the Lord Christ's and thee. "I ask it of my Lord, my Christ, my God. "I know not if the sun shall rise yet "On the day that we loved, O winds, great waters, "But the sun is risen on the earth, O waters, "And we shall meet, O waters, on the sea "That we loved, in the sunshine of the light "That shines from the heavenly throne. "O winds, great winds, great waters, fulfill "My wish, fulfill my wish, O waves, O sea, "All my desire, O thou, the strong one, God, "For I ask it of my God, my Christ, my God." "Blow, you winds, great winds, great waters, blow "To the sun, O sun, rise up from the sea "And let my wish be granted, O sea, "For I ask it of my Christ, my God." So the winds, great winds, great waters, blew, Till the sun rose up from the sea, From the white foam-deep beneath; And the great sun ascended, rose, From the red sea's marge to the sky, And the sun in the morning bright Filled the heavens with heat and light. And the morning star, the shooting star, From the east, from the thorn-forested west, Came forth and teeming with splendor, With its gold beams teeming bright and keen Through the misty haze up to the zenith, And toward heaven strung its golden horns. And the sun ascended and set, And the night came on, with the moon in watch, And the heavens, that night in darkness glowed, Were illumined by the gleaming of countless stars. So the nights and the months flew by, And the years flew on from year to year, One with the swift beat of ever changing Time, And the same was the beauty of their sun and moon. But the waves that rolled and tumbled not, never Changed their color, never waned their waves, But always bore away their rich array Of fish up-piled in clear bright arrays, And in the middle of the ocean dript Their webs of woven coral, up from the depths. And ever as the years flew on, All the beauty of the world of waters Bore on its waves, its waves alone, away, Up to the shores of lands that were far off. The Natives saw them, and they came With their pointed bows and arrowy darts, And swept the ocean's floor for days and nights, Searching through every cranny and nook, Ever expecting that they would find The shell of what they might at last find And lay their own among. But still, as if by a magic spell, The shells they found they set apart For them to find, as though they feared Lest they should come upon the rest, And none of their own should be To speak for them as speech to them, And they should all be nothing more Than a miracle of beauty wrought And spoken of as a fabled thing, And a miracle of a pretty face Seen in a picture, or a song with words Harmless passed through the ear of earth, Or in some other wonderful thing To which the common mind gives heed. And the Natives thought they had found The very thing, only, they Couldn't tell what it was, nor how It came to be as though 'twere no more A wonder of a beauty wrought And spoken of, than when the sea Went through the bay for ever and aye Bringing the east and west together And grinding the ratio of sun-and-sea. So they set it, side by side With the shells they laid aside before; And it moved, as they said, apart As though it were a living soul, and stirred As much as though the sea were one Fed by one source and gliding over sands Into the empty spaces left betwixt The high rocks and the gulfs of the past, As one by one the fairy maids With the sea-shells now began to lay Thews across it and hem it in And hem all its perimeter And finally they had it framed And nailed together with boards of pine, And fixed it with bolts of pine and weights Of gold to hold it straight, And then they named it Dryope, For they said it was a spirit or soul Of some cold sea-maid who wandered past And had a dream or dream she was Once a fair and young and brave And drowned in the brine of some demon sea Where never a maiden passes, And there she lies in some nameless grave Far under ocean, forgotten of men. And so their work went on for them And they named it Calypso, And I should say that for them it proved To be a most marvellous thing For they named it every one For love of it, and all for the name And the fame of the unseen spirit who lies Beyond the sense of men. And now at last They had finished it and named, And he who led them the way Was a man of much charm, and they All loved him for his wisdom, and he Kept the way of the trails all day, And when the night came he'd light a light And they could follow the tracks of the dolorous stars, And even now as I sit here he comes to me And bids me light my own old fire and tell My tale of wandering. It was a long way They brought him, and his eyes were faint With much travel, for he had walked In the teeth of every wind and tide, And when they brought him to the end Of the ways he made for them to walk, They laid him down, and when the sea Had washed the soil from off him, they took A craft they had and sailed away from him, Knowing not if he ever would return. But like a star They sailed into a beautiful bay, Far away from every shore, for there He had seen the face of the morning sun And from them sailed into the sun, And though he knew not where or why, He knew that they had sailed into the sun And the light of the morning, forlorn, Had kissed him as he lay there, alone. They gave him of some dried fish For food, and some they set before him Beef and kidney pie and bread, and bread They gave him made of wood that had been felled From some tall tree that had choked in the woods, And which some day might falled be, And fall, and be still, and lie there, So that men might eat when hunger should come, And sleep in the sun when they should wake. And when their journey was completed <|endoftext|> then. So that in a moment we stand in our glory as it was, like this. This is a memory of a broken woman, too sad to live, too bitter to forgive. This is the code I live by: In a moment I lived in a world where there was a woman. And I was a part of her past. And in a moment I gave her a ring that broke. A world where I broke the woman's stone and opened her wounds. As you were about to break, I watched, and saw you listening. <|endoftext|> "Memorial Day", by Nate Klug [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] It wasn't so much that he died, but that I had to tell him twice that he didn't have to go. I can hardly say that I was surprised at his age, or that he was ill. He'd been so full of life and love. The day before he died, we drove to a mountain, and when we turned off the road to go up it, he was all the way slumped in the back of the green and yellow truck. It was easy to lose in that light the ferocity of his attack on the kingdom of disease. The sight of him all bloodless and bare, bloodless and bare too was heavy with meaning, and I saw that meaning can be a kind of pain, though I didn't know then that years later he'd kill again. We sat in the passenger seat as he drove out of the parking lot and onto the maze of gravel toward the summit. We were listening to the rus- tral soliloquies of his life, the long tales of growing up poor in Mississippi and going to college, of surviving the depression and fighting the war. We were listening to the rus- tral soliloquies of his life, the long tales of growing up poor in Mississippi and going to college, of surviving the depression and fighting the war. I'd never seen so many tombs as that one, gathered like ivy over a slave building that once held so many dead. At first we turned into a lane lined with graves. Then we climbed a hill that took us up a loop around a vast cemetery. I remember seeing the headstone of each former person buried here. The day came when we turned a corner and began crawling up the other side, then another, and another. Soon we were following a winding road that would take us now and then to the top of a mound that was also sacred: the mound of the woman who was my great-grandmother. We drove up the road slowly. It was May, the trees in the orchard had blossomed, leaving the road slick with the fallen snow. A big bus dropped off workers for the harvest. The workers looked down as we drove by. I was glad we'd driven up the road. We were beginning to hear the sounds of cities again. We were beginning to hear the sounds of cities again. The dust began to pick up as we peeled away from the road onto a meadow that was wet with rain and slippery with small pools. We got out of the car and walked across the meadow, taking it all in. It was a change from the country, the meadow wet with rain, the city about an hour away. We walked to the very top of the mound where a gate was closed with rusty, clicking, fingers of metal. I looked through the gate, it was locked. We took the seats in the back. There was a woman in the front seat, a man in the back. They were old- fashioned, alone with their thoughts. I saw their thoughts. I didn't dare to look at the man in the back. At the next red light I got out of the car and walked along the bluff waiting, watching the clouds. The sun was going down. The clouds were blowing out the last of the snow. I put my hand out and felt for the sound of the man in the back seat. The wind was blowing out of the south- [All content copyright 2006 by Kaplan Music, LLC.] I looked back at the clouds. There it was, the sound of the man in the back seat. I remember thinking, Oh my God. I went back to the car and got in. The wind had picked up. I heard a man in the front seat quietly talking. Then I heard someone say: It's a love thing. The man in the front seat said: It's a life thing. I said: It's another black man up ahead with his hand out. I watched the man in the front seat get out and walk slowly up the hill. I didn't know what I was going to do. I said: Let's get out of here. I thought about climbing the hill and walking out to that man in the front seat and climbing down into the car and standing over him. The wind had picked up and there was a man in the front seat silently talking. He said: It's a love thing. I walked out to the sidewalk and started walking towards the road. I walked across the street. I walked across the street again and then I walked out to the road. I walked across the street. I walked across the street again and walked out to the road. The wind was picking up. It was blowing. I had on a white skirt. I wore white shoes. I put my hands in my pockets. I felt for the man in the front seat but there he was not. The wind was blowing. The sky was blowing. I felt it in my throat and then I walked out to the road. The wind was picking up. The sky was blowing. The wind was blowing. I felt it in my dress. I walked across the street and walked across the street again and then I walked out to the road. The wind was blowing. The wind was picking up. The wind was blowing. I walked out of the street. I walked across the street again and then I walked out to the road. I walked across the street. I walked across the street again and then I walked out to the road. I walked out to the sidewalk. I walked across the street and then I walked out to the road. The wind was blowing. The wind was picking up. The wind was blowing. I walked out of the street. I walked across the street again. I walked out to the road. The wind was picking up. The wind was blowing. I felt it in my dress. I put my hands in my pockets. I felt for the man in the front seat but there he was not. The wind was blowing. The wind was blowing. I felt it in my throat. I walked across the street. I walked across the street again. I walked out to the road. The wind was blowing. The wind was blowing. I walked out to the road. The wind was blowing. I walked out to the sidewalk. I walked across the street. I walked out to the road. The wind was blowing. The wind was blowing. I walked out across the street. I walked across the street again. I walked out to the road. I walked out to the sidewalk. I walked across the street. There was a man who walked behind me. He wore a jacket of red cloth, a toga of green cloth, and a curly red beard. I could never tell whether it was hazy or clear. It was a casual way for a man to walk. I looked up at the man with a boy's curious eyes. He held a umbrella, like a god. He was very far away, and I felt very far away. I saw the tips of his yellow teeth. The sun burnt my eyes. The man with the umbrella walked slowly towards the town. He put the tip of his umbrella in the gate of each and every house. He walked up to each door and opened it slowly, as if he were opening the inside of a yellow house. He opened the doors slowly as if he were opening the house. Then he walked inside the town. I followed slowly. <|endoftext|> Rejoice, my Son! But now I have forgotten, And can never From that fatal moment See your triumphant return; And when, perhaps, from cold and languid hands, The consecrated cup you raise, I can forget your dead and dying, And only think of last night. I have felt what purity, What infinite satisfaction To know you still are near me. The vision of this mystic scene, That you have reared for me, Has filled my soul with peace, And I am happy as a lark That sings upon the mountain top. When I am sitting by the cold and slimy grate, And the flue is floating upwards, And the self-same gust that blew the smoke of death Into the cock and chaise, Would bring me long and sure To you, my son, my own. Then a voice that never was, When I am leaning me against the old stone wall, And the stars come out and the moonbeams glow, And I can hear and see you pass As a shadow can of yore, When all the night was dark and cold For you my son, my own. When the lonely walls and roof are flung O'er the poor old room, And the long, long night is past, And the stars burn and twinkle clear, In the room that was our own, Here in the night that dies, What the wind does that I do know not of, With its chilling and its warmth and its light, With its terror and its tenderness and its bliss, I am thine, and I am mother of you, My son, my own. When the dark wind is blowing the dust abroad, When the night-cloud floats by, I am sitting here, and I am all of you, O my son, my own. And I will be to the end of days, God made a little test; Made it for a friend of mine, Made it for a toy to play with; Made it for the birthday of my daughter, And for the home of my nest. God watched and watched till it was good, And so it was a joy for His eye, And a joy for each one of us; It was for one of us, my son, my own. I have waited for you, And I have waited for you With a love that was not my own. But my daughter goes Out on the world's oceans, Wanders with the fleet and tree-mews, Out to the world's whirlpools, And then back to my heart. I have watched you, And I have waited for you, With a love that was not my own; But my daughter goes Out on the world's oceans, Wanders with the fleet and tree-mews, Out to the world's whirlpools, And then back to my heart. It must be strange for you Going your ways, And your heart be a stranger To the old loving country Where I have been a part. But my daughter goes On with the rest of people, And I shall follow after her, And comfort her and love her, For we are one, my son, my own. God has called me away, And I cannot be with you. Yet, till I return, I will pray for you; I will pray for you and for her, For we are one, my son, my own. The fern-leaf lies dead Beneath the snow; The forest leaf, In the earth's violet dawn, Has risen. The green, cool fern-leaves lie dead, Beneath the snow, The forest leaf has risen. The wistaria's flowers Throng from the earth; I will pick you A wild rose! Its stalk is cool and green, And its breath is sweet, And it blows With a breath More than my own. The last wild snow, Like a strange lover, Comes up the trail, And looks at me. Then I will hold His whisperings Of the past, And I will love them, The fallen leaves, The wistaria's flowers Throng from the earth. Oh, if I should die to-night, Would anyone know it? I would like to know If anyone would care, Before the rose-red crocus goes red, Before the song-thrush goes mute, Before the pale hot stigma Of the summer sun falls on. <|endoftext|> At the rich odors from the brazier Caught by the crackling wicks of birch And many-colored smoke-sculptures Waving in the night from the boughs The autumn moon rides over the meadow And the robin-owl on high in the branches Sings carols of victory and triumph Over the rustling wheat-stems And the tossing rushes. My spirit runs to meet you, My spirit sings to meet you, My spirit stands at your eager feet And my heart is glad with the praise of your eyes And with the praise of your smiles. Oh, if I should die to-night, Would anyone know it? I would like to know if anyone Would comfort me in my sorrow As I sit at your eager feet And my spirit sings to meet you, My praise-renowned dear. Oh, could I die to-night Would anyone know it? If I sat at your feet to-night Would anyone listen to me As I told the stories of my days That my tears fill the bottle-press And my arms let the dried-up pears fall? If I were careful to bring you A loaf of good bread and a cake From the distant fields of the north Would anyone hear me calling From the prone, silent, enchanted ground Or the desolate, shadowed ledge Where the merle and mavis build? If I sing from my pain-worn strings A song of triumph over sin Would anyone listen? I think of you And I know that the struggle is only begun Between good and evil. My heart is full of the songs of long ago Of the strength and the glory of the Spirit. In the Spirit, there is no darkness; There is neither night nor day; There is neither cold nor heat; The gray dawn wakes in the golden west; The wild birds sing on every side; The rain has stopped falling from the cloud; The leaves are quivering with the wind. Oh, the wind and the sun and the rain Make music and sing joy all day long; The earth holds love-songs to her heart; The world is full of gladness and gladness. Oh, the wind and the sun and the rain, They are the lords of the earth and the sea. I have heard a song that I will sing To the hearts of the young and the old, That they here shall neither forget nor condemn Though they sit on either side of the throne And rule as kings and priests; though they sit On the thrones of an empire of the west, Or be the humble subjects of the east. A song that shall thrill each throat and pen, That shall speak to each listening ear As if they were in the golden days Of old when god-souls with men-souls met; When the two peoples were of one mind, Though they walked the paths of the withering dawn; When the two peoples, yet strangers together, Saw the golden city of God rise. A song that shall stir the dim souls awake, With the thrill of a forgotten time, When the spirits of the slain were crying In the streets of that City of God, Where the living God in the heart of man With the blood of the cross was scorching red; When the white arms of mercy were bringing Their souls of mercy to the suffering A song of that fire-torn city To the souls of men made perfect; Of a soul where two souls found their home, One overthrowing the other's sway; Of a bride whose pale crucifix was The crown of the head of her slain lover; Of a little lost child that had no name But the name of Ben Hur; of a world That is now a great world; of the tomb Where two lovers are lying side by side. A song of the long ago and far, When the peoples of the earth were one; When the Christ was beheld of every man By every man's child in the holy land; When the heathen was a stranger in the land Where now we walk in the light of the moon, And the Spirit of God breathes of the Cross In a joy that no tears can take away. <|endoftext|> at that time to the princely Socrates? And did he speak out his mind? Alas! Only once or twice, and who can tell what the cause was? At other times he was grave, self-contained, decorous. Like some great painter, he could paint an entire banquet, or he could draw a floor plan of a private apartment. He was old when he was young, and young when he was old. There is no man who is young and old, but you can see the shadows of his forehead and his whiskers, and sometimes even those alone do not touch his face, but only the fingers of his hands. When he grew younger, older, still younger and older, the old man became a child again. What he said was no worse than what any child may say in play. But now he is old; but as a child was he in this his infancy? If you could catch him in this helplessness, you might know. When he first was a little child, he was like a star, a little planet that wandered among the stars. And as he grew, he hung closer and closer to the sun. Oh, his eye was deep and clear and beautiful, and the air of heaven was soft and warm above his head. And then one day the grave iron man said to him, Come with me, my son; you shall be like to gods, and all the people of the world shall come to you. Well, he went with the grave iron man. And was he a god? What I saw in his eyes made the palm of my hand seem as hot as a burning coal. And his voice was music, and his step like the flowing of a river, and his voice was music and his eye a flower, and his hand was as soft as the hand of a girl. And the grave iron man and I have walked together together many days, and it seems to me that we shall walk together always, that we shall go on walking, that he shall be as still as the earth to the end of his days, and I as a seed as bright as the earth to the end of its world. But now he has left me alone; and my face grows scarred and wrinkled with the shape of this strange walk; and my head swims with the weight of the knowledge of what I have done. And I know that I shall be as still as the earth to the end of my days. I am the man who is going to finish writing my life, and my life is done. And I know now that I shall never write another word, nor care to write another word. For my life is done, and I know it. I saw it coming, and did nothing to prevent it. And now I see that I shall never write another word. I see now that my life is done. And I know that I shall never write another word. We are in the quiet evening of the winter year, and the sunlight touches with golden fingers the snow on the ground, and the frost falls with a soft sensation upon the grass, drawing from it a pleasant sound. And over the gleaming street in our midst rolls the mass of men and women who have this work in common--who have at Christmas and on other festive occasions drawn themselves together by their small allowed self-indulgence, and so have failed to see the big bustling crowd which presses to the door. O beautiful dark faces, blossoming and unafraid! What do you see so strange? You have your holidays. You go to work like us sick people, and come home the same as ever. You go in two hours' or three hours' less or more, and when you come you have no time to spare. You cannot see the tumult, nor the crowd, nor the roar. You have your holidays. On my death-bed I should be laid with my head inady, and the nurse's voice should say, 'Fear nothing, O my son. This bed is made for heroes, this poor little sheet. The wood burns white and cold over the fire. Good-night, my son. And sleep, sweet prince. Good-night.' And you should come to me, the same as now you come to comfort me. You would not dare to put out the fire, or put the wood out. I should not hear the sound of your voice, nor your leaving, unless it were some unearthly thing. And you would not dare to put out the fire. If I were the dead, and you were the nurse, and we were alone, and the end of all were now, and my eyes could see it all, your hands at my side, you would not dare to leave my side. I should not see your face, I should not hear your voice, I should not feel your arms in prayer folded round me. I should be with you, where'er you were, and never go or call, or turn or turn your head. For you would not dare. I go to the great world's doors, I leave the home-doors dear. I enter the great world's rooms, I leave the great world's rooms. I enter the great world's halls, I leave the great world's halls. I enter the great world's courts, I leave the great world's courts. I enter the great world's streets, I leave the great world's streets. I enter the great world's alleys, I leave the great world's alleys. I enter the great world's hollows, I leave the great world's hollows. I enter the great world's caves, I leave the great world's caves. I enter the great world's deserts, I leave the great world's deserts. I enter the great world's hollows, I leave the great world's hollows. I enter the great world's crevices, I leave the great world's crevilities. I enter the great world's deeps, I leave the great world's deeps. I leave the great world's hollows, I leave the great world's crevilities. I shall not see the little rooms, I shall not hear the little doors, I shall not touch the little stairs. I shall not see the little rooms, I shall not hear the little doors, I shall not touch the little stairs. The great world's doors and windows, The little rooms and the halls, The little rooms and the streets, The little rooms and the streets, The little rooms and the caves, The little rooms and the deserts, The little rooms and the deserts, The little rooms and the crevices, The little rooms and the deeps, The little rooms and the deeps, The little rooms and the deserts, The little rooms and the caves, The little rooms and the alleys, The little rooms and the alleys, The little rooms and the hollows, The little rooms and the hollows, The little rooms and the crevices, The little rooms and the deeps, The little rooms and the deeps, The little rooms and the hollows, I shall not see the little rooms, I shall not hear the little doors, I shall not see the little rooms, I shall not hear the little doors, I shall not touch the little stairs. The fire fade here and there, The curtains draw across the beds, The walls and roofs will not be seen, The walls and roofs will not be touched, For all the little rooms and halls, For all the little rooms and streets, The little rooms and the caves, The little rooms and the deserts, The little rooms and the deserts, The little rooms and the crevices, The little rooms and the deeps, The little rooms and the deeps, The little rooms and the hollows, The little rooms and the hollows. Little, little baby, Do you understand All the words I say? Do you understand? If you did, We could play together When Baby's asleep. Little, little baby, Do you understand All the world will see? Do you understand? If you did, We could play together When Baby's asleep. Little, little baby, Do you understand All the days I spend? Do you understand? If you did, We could play together When Baby's asleep. Little, little baby, Do you understand? O, do you understand? If you did, We could play together When Baby's asleep. <|endoftext|> In all the world, for God's love; May he come back, to make us glad, Like this prince, whom we adore! When the Dawn comes up Through the ashes At the death of day, By the hush'd grave A star is born; And the light of it Echoes far and wide, And the birdlings hush their song, And the mopters stop their flow. Then the snow comes down O'er the silent earth, And the forest shuts its door At the song of one; While the snow and wind Make a sad, sad sound, As they pass the house of one, And the maiden stills her lip. And it is still, And the sunbeam In the window Sings, and the world is fair; And she smiles to see The flame-wing'd dawn, While her mother sleeps by her side. Then the flowers, and the grasses, Come to the place Where she was born; For a hundred years The grasses And the flowers Point with their pride At the grave of one, Where the child of one Lies low with her petals still. When the Spring comes down O'er the silent earth, And the May In the hush-hush Makes the air good cheer, While the lark on the bat-hed tree Speaks her song of mirth, As the baby loves to come Back to the mother's breast, And the babe that clings there Tells her how good it feels. So the Summer goes O'er the slopes of snow; While the heat Drives the breeze Over the meadows, And the fruit With the lilac-buds Grows sweet and fair; And the moan From the woods is hush'd As the maiden sleeps by her lover. When the Autumn comes With her odorous robes, And the leaf On the beech-tree In the hushed night, Falls, and the purple shells Bask in the light; And the fruit, With the golden rustling, Flies on the air, While the maiden sleeps by her lover. When the winter comes On the mountains cold, And the leaf On the heather On the violet petals Blush 'neath the frost, Then I know That my lover is by, And his breath On my cheek Is the cold white watch he leaves. When the Spring comes down And brings home the hail, And the sun On the daffodil is set, And the buds On the spray are broke, Oh, the joy! Oh, the bliss! Oh, the Spring again! I am happy again! When the Spring is past And the Winter fled, When the buds On the daffodil are broken, And the frost On the beech-leaf Has melted from the sap, Oh, the joy! Oh, the bliss! Oh, the Spring again! I am happy again! As a child, when Christmas was by, In a house by the open space, With a garland and a machine, They gave toys to all the girls, But to Nat, the shy one, Who went tiptoe here to play, A gingerbread house and garland. He never could lay hold of things With his small hands and blue eyes, Or his cheeks so soft and round, With the lilies on them thrown. He liked Nat to stand alone On the house-top when it was night, And hide from the stars of fear That climb up after dark to see. He would climb up to the topmost floor, Then hide in the chest where I store things, While the wind blew out windows far overhead, And all the rest of the world went by. He liked to hear the chiming of the clock, But most of all the carol that the church birds sing. So Nat and I--we very much resembled each other, For if I would get up early in the morning And put on my things and get home at night, Nat would stand by the window all the way through And watch me, and only leave to dress. He would go to the window and stand by the door, Or if I went out the gate and round a corner, And Nat stayed behind to school the ducks that way. He would stand with his head half-bent down, On the wall just under the window-pane, Like a child who loves the stars and will not rise. And I--I never once thought of climbing up to Nat, For it is bad enough being Nat, But I was shy, and thought I could not be seen When I went to school in the morning, And round a corner, when I got very near. For we all like very much to see and hear things, And to hear the bells at church swing, And the people in the market place, And the train go by, and the horses race, And to see the banner in the morning, And to be near when people are speaking. We would sit and listen at the window, And stand in the doorway to see, And I think all the time that he was going to say, "What is it, Nat?" But he always did it first. And then, when I wanted anything, and could not wait, I would go and get it for him, And he would look at me, and wonder why, And say, "What?" when I asked for the cake. When the Christmas logs were burning, What did you want for Nat? I would put a log on each finger, And a log on each hand, To foretell the year of the answer When the flames reached the hard bright skin, And the blue turned to white, And the red turned to green, And a log on each shoulder, To foretell the year of the answer When the flames touched the soft glowing flesh, And the red turned to green. When the fire was on my father's house, What did you want for Nat? I wanted a red cloak to cover Nat, With a fur in the sleeves, To foretell the year of the answer When the flames reached the soft bright skin, And the blue turned to white, And the red turned to green, And a red shawl under each chin, To foretell the year of the answer When the flames touched the soft flesh, And the green turned to white. When the fog was in the windows, What did you want for Nat? I wanted a little stool To put Nat down on when he cried, And a bowl of soup to drink When the soup turned to water, And the stool became a boat, And the soup came flying on it, And the soup rowed away, And we listened for the log fire, And we hung on the every word When the fire went up in the evening, And the logs were just a firefly's light, And the fire went out in the night. You said that we should never Forget that night, And you meant every word you said. We never will forget it, Nor the horrible color We turned from our father, Nor the door that was open When the death-watch ran. You said that the fog would lift, And the sky would clear, And the knife-grass bloom by spring, And the old willows blow; And we learned the language of birds, And read legends on the stream, And followed the rabbits from our house, And followed the shadows from our door, And ate from the Easter grass, And followed the little birds When the fog was in the windows. And some nights we dreamed of you In the yellow glow of fires, And the red and white of the willow trees, And the moon, and the roosting birds. And the wind in the jutting crags Was faint and sweet and sad, And the green field flowers were just a flame, And the wind-tossed cowled barley was A calling to the children home; And we heard the songs the rabbits had, And we followed the shadows down To the little grassy hollow Where the rabbits held their spring festival, And the shadows stood and sang with us, And they whispered stories to us, And they lisped a language strange and sweet, In a kind of mockery of things to be, In a kind of under-world where all was real, In the language of rabbits. I dreamed that I was King Eochaid's son, That I had grown to manhood and must needs Lead all my clansmen to war, And the voices of the shadows were kind <|endoftext|> His starry club and all his arms From him the monster drew, and all His body chain'd and fetter'd round. The Sun, with gilded club uplifted, Struck at him, but miss'd, his weapon On the far side miss'd, and therewith Those other two, whom Ilium so Conquered, storm'd to the astern With furious speed. Swift as they fled, Follow'd, the panting steeds, that came Scurrying after; in their haste Fell that ill-fated monster over The shoulder, and the reins withal He raz'd, and drew them from the cars, Then lightly from the car himself Leap'd to the earth, and them on hands The King of Ilium dragg'd them thence. But Diomede at once all parts Revolvd, and with his falchion bare Cutlass or dagger, in countless hands The strife begin, who should succeed And rule the Lycians, broke into shouts, And arrows thick as hail fell round. And now a soldier fell, the third Of those that stood by Aeneas, when He in Lycia dwelt, the Trojan chief; And by his shoulder Diomede His falchion shears, and dead he falls. With shame the Lycian commanders rose; And one, who deemed himself the man They wish'd not to have slain, and rather (As the new laws of war ordain'd) To have subdu'd by Trojan arms, Dismiss'd the division, and began. "Dismiss from battle, Lycians all, This man, Aeneas, his own prize, Thrust down by fate, escapes from fight. Him and his Trojans both I vex, And feed with pains and insults long Which war envenom not, and heal not. Oh, hadst thou with thy sword been slain, My sheep and my sons, and won for me Peace, and this helpless hope of mine, These fires and this troubled head! But now I have no hope, nor fire nor sword, nor hills Of ever-fatal hail. Vain hope! For now the brave man fears the stroke, For with his brazen shield he flies, And with the weapon that endures Shall be the sure defence of Troy. Let us all haste back, then, to yon Dotted camp, lest worse fared thus Before our host, by the whole race Of Ilium round about beset. Thus spake the godlike chief, and made Mock battle of the Lycian kings. Then, all dispersing, took their ways Unaim'd and safe apart, and chose Their outposts as they parted camp. Meanwhile the Trojans from the walls A mighty company drew nigh, and set Tents, and spread sails and sent their vessels forth. Swiftly they saw Aeneas from the war And Diomede; the mighty pair, The mighty chiefs, the Trojan peers, By Neptune, Ocean's lord, adored ever. With joy they saw them, and with joy they stood All arm'd; then loudly cried the King of War: "O citizens of Troy, be bold and bold, And draw this mighty hero nigh. Now, on this very note, I swear, by Heav'n, The walls of Priam may withstand no more The force of Priam's mighty son and heir, But soon we shall to Ilium drive away This brave man, and his splendid arms to bear To Menelaus, thine and Hector's friend, That he may defend his home and people. Now, draw ye nigh, my host, that we may pour On Ilium's high-built citadel, and leave A woman free, the prey of savage men." This said, he led them nigh, and bade them tread The walls; they heard, and loud their hearts were struck With grief and fury; as when some huntsman harries Some beast across the hills, far in the hills, Who while he talks so works his thoughts so hard That very voice of him strikes deaf men down, And they have need to dwell in houses stone-roofed; So seemed the Trojans now, with mingled griefs And clamours. Not so when Menelaus, now Brushing the earth, had moved before the tents Of Troy, and had shattered Priam's lofty walls With such a shout as made the sky to roar With echoing music. So long as they With dauntless courage in the battle-toil Fought on, and Hector won from Priam's son His realm and city, none in Troy would risk To lift their eyes, lest he should see them slain By bold Achilles' hand, or in the earth Laid bare to view. But when the Achaeans won The first ascent, as on Pandarus' mound A huntsman tracks the stag he has shot, So did the Trojans shout, while Hector poured His host on Ilium's citadel. Then leapt A wondrous marvel down before the eyes Of all, a marvel all exclaiming glad To see a hero: not a woman there Was left alive; the battle-cry rang out For all; no man could man his neighbour see In life's house with aught of mortal blood-stain. Yet were their eyes yet dazzled by the lights That burned upon Priam's domes, and were blind Unto the deeds of Mars. Then they look'd down And questioned him with many questions keen How great Achilles' wrath had been; What heart-pent anger poured on him from high By mighty Agamemnon, and what mirth Achilles' heart had entertained as he laughed To see his warriors flying from the ships In panic rout; how Agamemnon's wrath had fired Achilles' heart with passion for his wife, And how he now lagged from heaven. For they ask'd, But chiefly of the wife; who, in her day Of bitterness, would have torn him then As from the race of mankind. And Tydeus' son, valiant as he was, Repelled them not, but led them in the tents And lit their camps. Till all the host had gone There waited Hector. They who in the ships Were of the swiftest horsemen, as they rode In the thick of the fight, being with the host Of Troy, stood hiding in the rear; and those Who at the walls had charge of horses, these Drew back, and staying their steeds, the chariot Bore forward to the camp. Ah, what a sight Had the Achaeans made, if they had not now Avoided ambush! they had all perished then, Had not Achilles swift of foot and strong Come to their rescue at the ships. All the horses For Paris' swift-footed steeds had cost; whereof His coursers and his manses now were leave To feed upon the barren Thymbraean sands. Thus he; and then his host, apart from all The others, also followed up his cry. The Trojans shout and clamour as they follow; And all the multitude flocking, give them cheers. And now the sons of Nestor come up; their steeds Of valour are all yoked, and come they hasting Through the thick of the fight. As when the bull Hath reared his horns, a gathering of the woods Begins, the herdsman's toil and long-sought fare Acomes, and ere yet he hath begun to reap, The hoofs come together, and the lowing herds Jostle, and all the field is filled with coursers, And over all strokes the clatt'ring hoofs rebound. Such heralds now the sons of Nestor bear; Whoso should fail, in name or fame, to sing The fight of Achilles, would not go unbraided. Some man would haply do it; but he stands For war, nor will do it from a vain desire To take another's due. Who then shall dare To sing the fight of Peleus' son, but he Of all the Danaans most adept at verse, Ascanius or Autolycus, or men Who from Achilles have their blood eaten out? So spake Menelaus; but the sons of Troy A mixed chorus from the ships o'errun the courts Crowding, and with clamour filled the fields around. Now when the Trojans and Achaeans saw That Jove's council was vext with clamour large, Both hosts drew back from the unsociable war. They, at the same time, drove back the host Of Argives; and deep shell-holes they threw <|endoftext|> But he tells the men about the dog and the carouse And how you left your pony with him on the road and And if they ask you what they shall do and you say You will take your chance with them, and I know you will, For it is a strange and wild land and they must look After their own. They will be vexed to find That you are not their comrade, and they will send An escort to you when they come to that place, And you will be welcome to it. We will have A fair of it when the time is ripe. I know You will be tired to-morrow with all your sights and ways, and it will be good to come home again But there is one thing more I would like to tell you, It is a point that has weighed on me all these years And I need not say it again. Sincerely, AVENNA. P.S.--She sent you a card. Three weeks before the fair There had been plenty of boating, and now The time for it was over, and the river Was sparkling with a new-born hope, and people Were coming to the fair that had never been there Before, and wondering as they gazed at the great Stream and the smiling girls and boys, and the quiet Old river that slipped among the banks Out of the snowy haze of winter, And out of the snowy dusk of summer, There came a black-faced navy with mast and sail, Coming to welcome the chill of winter back, Coming with shrouds like hands that held a knife Over the sleeping land, and an east wind's scent. There was a silent clatter of wheels and feet, And a rushing sound of folk at their joyous ways, And the deep river choked with drifting leaves, And far behind the sudden laughter and cries Of fairies dancing on the thin ice edge, There was a silence, and above the fog-curled dark, There was the eternal now. The now that clatters and rings From branch to branch, In crannies where the wood-bines cling, And stills the bough-tending sap. The now that binds the bounding mind To all the limitless regions open To guess-days sprung to memory's eye, When the heart leaps up in praise of toil, And the thoughts spring up, and the soul's grown dumb. The now that makes us wise, The now that bids us see, Has brought us oft to read How little we deem, How little we comprehend The under-lore of things. We see not as the see In limnied memory, Nor hold as sentimental rhyme The wood-bine's pained retreat, Nor note the broken fancies Of blithe-eyed fairy dreams. We see not as the see The bird that holds her wing Upon a dandelion seed, Nor the rainbow's lovely wrap Forget the toil of life. We see not as the see The green-eyed child that peeps From out the blossom sprays To know the coming year. The toil of life that binds us In a entangled web of pain Beyond the grasp of Sense, Our eyes may lift to meet the sun, And greet with joy the sunny ray, The blossom's living bloom, But we could not read the ripple-drenched stream As it danced past. The blurred things of earth that blur Our blessed vision bid The eyes of Faith to keep Against the fire of hope and trust That blazes in the soul. How can we understand the frail And piteous things that creep In leafless branches where the frost Is blood-red on the moon-leaf's brow? The marrow's still and cold That stirs in the veins of life, Where naught but ice and rime Can live. We grasp not as the grasp Of boyish hope that comes To haunt the pilgrim home Who has reached the end of earth, But our life's uneventful span And uncertain pace, We do not read as fickle birth Calls up the soul to grow And grow to see The end. Yet thou canst see as those Who study things best can see The subtle thread that runs From trivial thought to nobler, The sight can never find Beyond that bound Beyond which lies the dark, And we may not see. The toil that binds us low No thought can loftier climb Than fears the grimed chain That binds the fallen foe And makes the hero bleed; We may not see beyond The horizon's rim, But we may hear. The things we cannot know Our hearts can understand, The innermost depths Of warrior's soul that burn In hostile eyes unseen, Unseen yet ever near To those dear eyes, And they can see. How can we know what heroes are, The men whose acts ascend The height of life, whose hearts Are steeled by death or love; Who scorn the mire and mawkish For life or love or fame, Till the glad world shouts with glee And Time is out of joint, Till all our necks are bowed In reverent flight, And we are down on all their shelves, The men whose names we hold? Who are they, whom we shall call The men whose names we hold? Whose proud faces seem to flaunt In life's achievement's track, With nothing woven of shame In their rude mirth, And smiles that shine Till we can see the glory That shining in their eyes. They bid farewell to earth, as you Bid good-bye to vanity. Their race is run, they say, And they have run with flying feet; And if their hearts have been A cloud about you all your days, Bid them farewell; They have run with flying feet. The songs they would not sing they sang, And long ago was done The cause they would not fight for. They stand before you, plain, Faces hard as stone, But you will say, when you Kiss them good-bye, It is no use their years. They have run where days are numb and chill, They have run in fury and in fear, But we shall live, as we are able, Because they ran. We know they are brave; Bold as they were true to you, Barefoot and barefoot. They bowed at morn and rode at noon, They braved the wintry night as it flew, But we shall live because you Are still here. You laugh, and say, with a jest, "I will not shirk"-- You will not shirk. They gained for you the earth at risk Of all you held dear; They fought for you each step of the way With a tear in the eye; But we shall live, as we are able, Because they fought. And we shall not be weary, As they were, nor give in, For we shall win, as we are able, One prize more from your loss, And you shall ride as bravely As ever you rode. One prize more. How can I know That the same heart that quailed When the foe was nigh Will stand by me in fortune's fight, When I am flying? You have called me, Like the sea, Ascend as far as I can shout, In the day Of my screaming. I have climbed to the seas, But you are always my sea, And I have climbed to the heavens, But you are always my earth. I have raced with death As it curves, To the lines he makes I have raced with the sunrise As it comes. The laughing flame of my life, Heaven and I are a part of it, But you are always my earth. I have done with cities As they bloom, I have done with the flesh, As it withers, I have done with the world As it roars. Away with the yoke That has bound me! I am free, as a bird is free, In the strength of my breath. I have done with hope As it thrives, I have done with doubt As it tires, I have done with pain As it kills. It is yours, my lord, To make me your warrior, As you made me yours. "I hold it mine to live Lit up in flame; Mine to follow on the track Of my soul's desire; Mine to feel myself the same As the day I woke, So unextinguished, So intense, that the pain may cease, And the darkness learn to complete <|endoftext|> In a day or two, before I knew it, An easy-chair was there beside the bed. And before that, the swooning seemed long, Before I knew the fever was high. The doctor, that first evening, came and said, "Your pulses are so hard that they're off the scale. And that is very strange, as you are so low." He seemed so worried, and with his hands In his pocket, ready to come again, When I said, "Let me see now, do you think The fever will go by, or do you think I'm quite off my beat?" "Oh, no, my boy, This will pass off in a day or two." "Then I'm well, then?" "You're quite well, sir, thank you. But when you get out of the town you'll find You have some fever in you yet." And that was all the doctor had to say, And as he was a doctor he thought He'd have to see me quicker, before My fever would quite go away. But he, poor fellow, had a weak arm And could hardly write what the nurse said So he'd call in a lawyer, and get A subpoena to search my room. I didn't want to give him my consent, And thought, if he wanted to see everything, He should have asked the nurse to write it, And not the other way about. So I said to the doctor, "You seem To like searching my room without leave, And writing stuff all over the place, And giving me the print of the warrant. If you don't like the warrant, you know You can come in and ask the lawyer. I'm not a threat, or a blackguard, So you needn't be afraid." "Not a blackguard, not a threat," he said. "But just the other day, while I was writing, Just when my hands were all about You then got so excitable, and banged Your pen so that the inkstand fell on me And ruined a good page of the letter. And, after that, last night you knocked The paper on the table, and knocked it down And broke it, too, before I could speak. And then, last night, this morning, when I thought I'd better see if there was nothing wrong, You rapped at the door, and here you are." "And this," she said, "this is why I don't trust Men, and why I don't trust boys, and never will-- Because they always like to have something to hide." I didn't know what to say, but I thanked her for Her kindness, and turned to go. "A boy," said the lawyer, "I've known him since He was a boy himself, and he's good like you. He won't hurt you, but he'll spoil the dress Of your white wedding-dress, and it's not worth much, Besides, he won't give you a better one. He says his wife has got a pain in her leg, And won't come to her mother's bed, and wants to stay With him till she's better, and says it's better To be home and see your children, and better To see your wife." "Thanks," said I, "but I'm not in the least worried By this. It's all the same to me whether she Is home or not." "Well," said the lawyer, "you needn't worry yourself. He says she's going to be all right, and I tell you That if she is, you ought to be married to her Before the week is half spent." "She's not," said I, "not for me, thank God, and I Am not going to be the man to hold her back. She's not in the least like that at all. What do I Care what those silly girls think? I don't know her at all, I've never seen her, never talked to her, never anything." And then, as I stepped from the door, And as it was getting dark, I turned around And walked back over the dead-cold street, And got to the General's house and sat down On his doorstep, feeling queer and shy, Though I'd got a letter to read later that night From Helen, and was supposed to be all right. So I sat there thinking. The wind was cold. A lonely, starless night. And I grew wild With thought of what was to follow. And then A little thin man with a thin red arm Came up the street and shouted to me, "Hey, there, little man, don't you know me? I'm the new boy at school! Listen to me! I want a wife and children of my own, And to work to keep them out of jail, And pay the debts they've got to pay, And do the cooking and cleaning and ironing Of all the household stuff, and help myself To time after time." "I'm not a boy, though," I said. "I'm twenty-two," he said. And then, to show his marks were not the worst, He squashed an egg against his cheek. "I'm going to marry your daughter," he said. "To-night," I told him. And he went on: "That's why I came and talked to you. I can't get a job yet--I've got no money, But I've got a girl I'd like to marry, And I want to marry your daughter, so I'll work and work until I get some. You ought to know all about it." And then he laughed and said: "I can't marry A girl who's got no money to buy a cow. I want a wife who's got plenty of money To buy the cow she wants. And then," he went on, "we'll have to sell The goat and ox and camel too. "We can't have a wife and daughter Who can't or won't make a house worth looking at. And so you'll be to blame, you and your party. If she's a fool, and we all know she can't Be wise because she can't pay, Because her husband's too stupid to do a job Because her parents are poor, And because she's got no money, and because Her husband's broke, we'll have to keep You'll have to help her with the cooking, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with the cleaning, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with the sewing, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with the going to bed, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with the weeping, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her toys, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her clothes, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her reading, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her thinking, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her hair, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her shoeling, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her cooking, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her bedroom decor, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her lectures, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her writing, If you've any sense. You'll have to help her with her philosophy, If you've any sense. If you have any sense, you'll have to marry If you have any sense. If you have any sense, you'll have to marry If you have any sense. If you have any sense, you'll have to marry If you have any sense. "But, really, mother, what's the use?" The girl I was then asked that question. "Don't you think it queer That the son of the man who had All the wealth in your house at birth Is going to have to help you?" The home of Lucy Burke was quiet That autumn afternoon. She sat before her spinning-wheel, With a man who couldn't be more than Six years her senior. He was the best man, and she was proud To be his wife. And yet, she said to me There was some dreadful thinking, Some dire importuning going on, With the man that wedded her. "I know that he's a fool," she said, And then she went on to say How she was very tired of seeing All the suffering in the world. She was sick of seeing men spill their lives <|endoftext|> A man to hunt a stag, or hare, Or fish for trout or perch; Or perhaps to drive a plough, Or sift the ground, or reap; To bind the hay, or beat a cow, To drag a coal, or suck; To fight with swine, or play at loo, Or dig a grave for a mouse; To be a servant humble and true, And ever of them 'twould please In country or in town, He needs not servants' bitter hardings, Nor waiters harsh noise; And yet 'tis said, from whence he springs, His ancestors were great: So they, both low and high, At times, their griefs may rend, Yet still the patient wretch receives The name of friend. A friend, but one among so many, His nature did assume, Nor did his noble mind o'errate The common sort; The slaves, whom tyranny had bent, He kept in perfect right, And had the gall to draw a sword For Freedom's bane. And to his native Isle he came, To find a home and rest, He made no plan to spread his fame, And rush on Time; And he was beloved by all, The Spaniel's life he kept, And would his Friends invoke To bless their Snouts with Life. For, rare and select, they found him, A noble and goodly creature, A man who did not try to please, And whine at meals; With mind a trifle wild, but strong and sound, A mouth that might dispense with bread, And heart sincere and true. With mien submissive and a word The best of Fowlers he beguiled; And thus enamoured ran with 'em Right up to King George's Door; With 'Mongst all the Race of Pleasures The Dog stands next to Man! With 'miracle' and 'mirth' they chased him To various Lands and Characters, And both in vain; For though the Spaniel did his Friends prevail To keep his master too, The King and Parliament saw 'twas vain. For, sure, 'twas all in vain the Dog Beheld from Placid Sea, His old and faithful Captains And country Gentlemen, With 'Speed' and 'Warriours' still in blood, Returning still. But still his Friends in vain were fain To keep their wonder-man and savour; And still he saw and felt the ill Which was the Dog's due; And though, as in a dream, he saw His Friends droop in his dismay, It could not chasten him for this Most obedient and kind. In vain the 'Squire, the 'Squire's Wife, With tears and sighs and wailings said: 'I never saw, I never heard Such sorrow in my life! O Dog! we have brought our children here, Our Friends to Country too, The Village for a home must send A Dog that will bite!' With 'Speed' he ran and bit the 'Squire's' hand, He bit his other, and 'Squire swore That never in his life he felt Such hard or harshness; And when the 'Squire's' face and 'Squire's Son's' Beheld such cruelty, 'Speed' ran and hid himself. But friends who saw 'Speed' in the hall, And heard the words of 'Squire, Remarked, 'Alas! the Dog's not dead, The Dog's not wounded; The Dog's just 'Midst his Mutton-jacket And Tug-Wright's brace.' 'I'll take it to the woodshed,' the 'Squire said, 'It is a Dog of God!' And on he went with Dog and brace To the woodshed of Greenslope; There Dog was free to run and romp And do as he pleased, But after a time the Chief, 'Come, Let us hunt this thing out!' The dog was dumb, but he and Chief Quarrelled o'er the bit and bridle, And when they came To the midst of the woods, behold, The Dog was dead, and 'Speed' Was struck by Speed himself; And Speed, beside him dead, Had Speed and 'Speed' no heir. It was a wonder that 'Speed' lived At all, or thought or spoke; For he was wounded and killed Just as he grew old. His Head and Neck and Chest and Chest With many other parts, He dragged to show to all, And then he hung them round his neck, And used his paws For a cripple's paws. O Dog! thou swift and merry dog! And hasten, like a lamb to slaughter, To run and romp and gambol 'Midst wild dogs in the valley, And hasten to the mountain, Where there's wine and hens and pasture; And hasten on, and on, and on, As fast as thy legs can march. And have thy Fun as well as we, And never heed us or heed! Thou hast no Head, nor Body, But still art Polite and Loving; And tho' thy Back be not seen, Thou hast a Ghostly look. And tho' thy Back is not to see, Yet that in front is seen; And if thou meets a Cow, or Calf, Thou jumps upon their backs, And thy new Brother thou entwinest, And thou gobbles them up. But, when that we send thee from us A Heart and Head, thy Courage then Shall grow more brave and bold, Tho' in thy Heart thou get thy Food, Thou yet shalt be content, As thou wilt gobble us, or we, Gobble thee, or we. The Dog that cannot speak nor know, The dumb and giant Dog; As he who ruled the Forest went, And was more strong and hard Than any other Dog that was That had more teeth or claws, And was as huge as a Mountain And as fierce as an Lion, And had a bold and blinking Eyes, And a heart as hard as a flint, And the strength of a hundred men; And did whatever any one Or to command, or say, or do, And could chase and hound and roaring catch, And run like a gaunt Hound against A Horse that was neither fast nor slow, But like a flying rabbit went; And did as a bold and hardy Hound And as a giant Dog should do, So it was he live and died; He was so great and so great he was, His kind was very few, And they that saw him when he lived And knew him as they knew A Giant both living and dead, Did choose him for a Mighty Man And in the solemn thought of his bones They called him The Dog of the Forest. They that had eyes to see, And to take thought, Came to see him when he died; And they that had heart to spare Called to them that had none To speak for him or mourn For him or remember, And they that had heart to have A eye for his memory, For his recollection Went any where to see him, And to take thought for him With their heart's seed and their thought, With their heart's seed and their thought. And the giant memory lived In their hearts as in his bones; For they said, and they said, "Where is he gone, and why In what grim place is he dead?" And the dumb dead Forest gave no answer, And the great dead world of the forest Had no memory of him dead; But they thought of it as they thought Of the mighty King that was he, And of a solemn thought that they had Brought with them, and they knew That the dull world's dull breath had not blown The fog about his feet out of the earth, And the forest's dull leaves had not been shed About his feet, but the grey rain Of the world's breath had shrouded them. And they wept for him out of every nation, For they wept that his days were few; But they wept not for him in the earth, For the earth gave not him a rest; And the blind world moved idly to and fro With its long death's-mouth open; And they sighed for him in the wind, And the wind moaned for him out of it; But the Dog wept not in the wind, And he whimpered for him out of it, But the wind and the water and the ground <|endoftext|> Hovering on the very verge of dream. On every side he sees the sea, Seen so often in its mortal red Dashed by the thunder of the stars. Then what of the 'sitting still' that the monks Might tire of and the people fail Of it? There was but one thing to say: 'It is best! It is best! No, it is not, There is better. There is better!' And suddenly, as it seemed to her That the very heart of it went out There in the very utterance of its self, It came back and was gone again, Like the sudden breaking of a dream With a jubilee and a sigh. It seems that the hand that he laid down Upon his father's lap, when he learned The Lord was not yet appeased with flesh, But demanded action, answered not; And the heart that it stirred to hope and fear Found only a dust-cloud in the wind; And the body that it so hot and sickened Feared itself and would have fled; And the spirit that the mighty soul had brought Like a beast of the desert to the face Seemed, in the agony, to grow like God, Hating and hating the same. At last his body was racked with pain That it could not conceal; and out of the flame That ate its flesh, and out of the flame that burned His very blood, there fell a night of flame, Red and fierce and shameful, to reveal The satanic power that tortured him there In that mute and burning wilderness. 'Well,' he said, 'the end comes! The end comes! Wake me, God! The end comes! I die! It is best! It is best! I die! It is best! I die! O sea of flame! O fire of my flesh! O my blood that flows In horror from my cruelties! It is best! It is best! O Lord! I die! God! O Lord! I die!' Then, for a moment, She lay still, like a lily in the snow; Then the passion of her soul came forth in moan, And she whispered 'Die!' like a tempest-lulled bird. And for a moment his fierce eyes closed; And then, at the ecstasy of death, His body lay still as the serpent's skin, And a river of blood flowed over him, The too-much agony over, and he died. And this, in sooth, is not so very strange, Seeing how poets of old, when they had done With riddling proverbs and phrases dull and dry, Poured out their long-buried fountains of invention Upon the mad and burning end of their lies, Until the silly world believed the meter Of mad and burning verses and not the rhyme. And thus 'tis writ in the most solemn wise Upon the chest of the oldest writer here, Who died some centuries since, and left behind The joy of the silent Praise and Paeans: 'Praise was a poor child of kindness, and praised Was a poor child of jealousy, and hated; But when one's anger is spent and bitterness Comes with the laughter of the gods upon one, Then, when the worms were about one, all the praise And hatred are spent, the kindness is spent, And love is left to write the silent rhyme.' For every child of lyric poetry is Engrossed with conceit at first sight of their power; A youth whose mother knows the secret of his rest By the light of the moon when she closes at night, Finds his mouth wide open to the querulous beast That would use his throat and make him a goose Or his thin hands like wet wool. But most of all it is when they are held In the quick prime of manhood that they need The firm hand and the back to support them, And the stern eye that can see them truly wise, And the breast that can give them courage to Approach the source of the earth, and to return Sorrowless from the attempt, and walk as shod As the swans that come from the river, and sing As the birds of air; Till some one of their sex, in an hour of anger, Feels the strong arms of love around his neck, And feels the warm breath on his brow, and the hair On his cheeks, and turns to the earth, and with tears Falls at last in a euphoonity of heart, And gives up the ghost, and dies a man; And their imaginations are turned to a flame, And their pen lays its red o'er their thews of fire, And they laugh at their foolishness, and laugh, And they know the Lord is good, and then they cry 'Our daily bread is the Lord's, and His dear name.' And some are good boys after a rest, and some Get hold by their clothes, and some are good girls; But there are none like little B--ge, There were sweet little B--ge, There was brown B--ge, There was black B--ge, There was perfect B--ge, That never saw the sun, Nor seen the moon; And never was, nor can be, That sweet little B--ge Who, when he'd got a stitch, Stretched it right out to the end, And then the other one, And then the other one, The four little pins that hold up the sign Of The Church that they went to, But one of them was in the middle, (The fifth was at the foot, And Nick at the head). And Nick came back from Tammany, The swiftest horse in town, Hair all about the top of his head, And the skin of a horse; And the people said, 'Tam has won the thing!' And Nick went clattering to the door, 'Give me my money, or I'll burn it, I never saw such a speech!' But they let him in to lithe his chest, And kiss his nose. The great cock crow'd at sunrise, The small sheep rose in her sleep, The day came in with clouds and fog, But the stars in the middle Could not see; And she knew her baby was gone For ever from her couch, And she went to look for him in vain, And she cried for days; 'Where has he gone to?' she said; 'I will find him Blossom!' It was on a winter night I walked all night long With a little nickel in my pocket That somebody had smeared there. I took a turn behind a tree, Where somebody had laid it, And I saw the light of Manhattan Falling down on me. It was on a summer night I sat all day in a park, And somebody said to me, 'That's the way to get the money, If you only looked at me!' And I looked at him in surprise, And I laid the nickel down, And I went home to bed. It was on a Monday night When I was young and bold, And I had the nickel in my pocket Of somebody else's son, And I went into a gambling den And I lost it, and then I ran away from the boss of the place, And I hid in a lumber-yard. It was on a Sunday night I sat in the corner of a room That was dark and bare; And somebody said to me, 'You only live once, son; And that's the way to get the money, If you only looked at me!' And I looked at him in surprise, And I laid the nickel down, But I knew I was wrong. 'T was on a Wednesday night, The weather was hot and tired, And somebody laid me down, And somebody came and asked for my fare, And somebody changed my clothes; And I lived on a mountain full of flowers Till I grew strong and wise. 'T was on a Friday night When I was young and bold, And somebody took me by the hand And led me out to the park; And somebody set me on a throne That was made of ginger-pop; And I sat and laughed most of the night To see myself get paid. 'T was on a Wednesday night, When I was grown to tall, And somebody came to pay me with a check For everything that I'd ever done; And somebody said that if I didn't like it I could go to bed; And I said, 'I'm not going to do that, I'm going to keep on, And work for everything that I get!' When I had gotten all I could From work that Monday night, I put a case of beer <|endoftext|> Just to hold our own and to stop their bleeding And with each other to unite and pray, Before they go away in the night. To look after their comfort all the year, To make their billet-doux and their meat And to make their claret and their wine. And so, through each slow-born winter day, To work in the best and strongest way. With ladies and with soldiers we dine, Paint and dance and talk, all day, Through days of rain and dull, dull days of snow To drive away the sorrow of the year. Ah, that's life! It holds for us no praise That others pay to us who lead: The cold white hand of greed is all our own. We can't stop to be exalted while the fight Widens still round us. All we know is cheer. To pass our time we stretch the hand to sin. No bitterness to poison our cup. No glory to come when this fight's won And all the world is one as the other side. We're busied with the tools of this world to make, And the best way to help 'em is to bring in the best. And we have seen our own friends perish for this cause, And they were worthy of all praise. The poet is a musical man, And tender and grand and free, With melodies filled with feeling And grand sweeping melodies, The music of his heart Mingling well with words of power, And pictures of light and thoughts of beauty. The poet is a daring man, And hopeful and bold and strong, And always singing new and old, With laughter and song and thought, The music of his heart Mingling well with all of these, And dreams and things of beauty. There is a music that flows through me, That flows from out my heart, When the day is dim, and the night is cold, And the wind comes blowing through the tree-tops; And the calling of birds, and the call of the water-thing, And the whirling of the wheels of the rain-driven air, Mingle in cadence and with a note so sweet That the young and the gentle must listen, And every heart must hum it and strive to hear it; But the words I speak must be wholly apart from it, And they must be sad and earnest and true, And they must tell of the drear and hopeless days, When the shadow of sorrow was round me, And the hope that was my everything Is now a broken reed, that wilts and withered and dies. The words I speak must have a glorious theme, For they must have a chorus of shouts and loud huzzas, And the word must be turned into a shout with the hokey-pokey, And the words I speak must be bright and alive with sound, For they must be full of the rainbow-enticing soul of song; And the words I speak must sing of the glorious sunset, And the words I speak must have a note so full of fire That the lips must quiver and the heart be aglow, And the heart of the listener be full of the fervor of love, And he sing and he speak and he think and he sing with me. The world is a trackless, wide-sweeping sea, And the trackless, wide-sweeping sea Runs straight in order from the North Star Right to the world's North Central pot, Until it runs in a straight line To where the wandering sun is going. And the earth runs in order from the central spot where the wandering sun is going, Until it comes to a definite end Where the earth runs out into a definite end of its space to the earth, And straight away that end it reaches. And what is that end? It's the Central Sun, Right over the center of the earth. It is the Central Sun that runs across the earth, and the motion is very straight and very automatic, And the running is so uniform That the view is only broken by islands And what is an island, you ask? It is a point in the running Where the earth runs over. There are islands everywhere, And they're very small, and very pale, And they wear a thousand strange costumes As the islands come and go. I see a wonderful one coming up From the spot where the earth runs over Toward the heavens, and it has a spire That is white and perfect and twisting, And a little church where the people pray As the islands come and go. And there's a great one coming down From the spot where the earth runs over Toward the far-off, starry lights, And it has a pyramid and a tower That are black and perfect and knotted, And a vast congregation of stars That wear crowns and crosses and clay, And the islands wear gowns and veils, And the sea-folk are upturned and laughing And the surf is black and rippled and feathered, And the running is very swift and easy So I say to you, children: That's the way the world's going To wag its great spine forward: The straight, white, perfect, knotted, twisted, scary, glorious, twisting spire, The white perfect, knotted, twisted, perfect, transparent, twisting spire, The twisted perfect, beautiful spire, The spire with the white feather, The perfect, twisted perfect spire! <|endoftext|> The present invention relates to a new use of chromium nitride, to making color-imprinted plastic articles, and has for object the covering of steel surfaces with minute patterns of color. The color produced is of the color spectrum of chromium nitride, and may be of particular commercial interest. The present invention is directed to the objects of the following claims: to provide a process for forming color-imprinted plastic articles, and to provide a color generating organic material. The objects of the following claims are attained by combining with a suitable substance in the customary injection-formulae for coloring plastic articles the chromium nitride. The chromium nitride may be formed in one of several ways. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The chromium nitride may be formed by reacting chromium nitrite with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting chromium nitrite with aluminum or manganese. The aluminum may be formed by reacting aluminum with nitric acid or nitrite, or by reacting aluminum with nitric acid or nitrate. The aluminum may be formed by reacting aluminum with nitric acid or <|endoftext|> Possess the soul of Europe, And the souls of kindred spirits Who are sons of her, and her sons, And her enemies, and her comrades Whose homes are in the free light of her Where in the throng of her march Of nations, and in her change, And in her bosom The blood of all her wars is still. Poet and friend of Liberty, Thou whose song ascended From the depths of America To the stars of England, With gladness all through, And triumph in thy song; In thy bold strain (For songs to us are drear And barren of hope) We hail thee, thou aboriginal American; American in birth, And American in soul. Thou who didst wander O'er many a mountain And many a sea; Thou who didst leave the official Address Of an humble bard, To speak in terms More majestic, more sublime, Than kings or paupers: Thou who didst defy The seraphim And wind and rain, To us thy song is pure; To us, thy song is sweet. Thou who didst pass, In thy giant state, The seraphim, like chaff, Which thou didst scatter; Thou who didst utterly Cleave all worlds besides, To us thy song is fit; To us, thy song is pure; To us, thy song is sweet. Thou who didst bind, And weave and break The angels' chains, And break the fire for men; Thou who didst break The iron heaven, And rend the boundless air, To us thy song is fit; To us, thy song is pure; To us, thy song is sweet. Yet some there are Who dare not sing The glorious things Thou hast accomplished; And we in our anger DARE charge thee far lowly, But with fearful tears Our witnesses would send, And words most fearful, Our hands to burn, Our houses to destroy, If we dared cast doubt on thy deed, And on thy holy head. Yet thou didst die, And the cool heave of thy breath Ceased to cool our tears, And the bright rays of Truth Shone on the walls of Hell, And the devils cried, While thy soul went upward Through the dreadful portals Of the awful sphere, And came to the sublime, And met the holy face, And gave it to the skies, And left it there to greet The spirits of the just, Who love the Lord, And seek through his bestower For joy and mercy, And found in thee The Saviour of their souls. One day I walked with him Upon the shining hill, We saw the glorious sun Dipping deeply in the lake, And shining on the leafy trees; Then turned to meet the west, And sank into the shade. He saw the lazy river Slide softly downward, And slumbering into deep waves Move softly to the shore; He saw the lilies on the shore, And the cool dew upon the trees, And very soon he too was there. There I saw the lazy river, The same still bright sun Upon the lazy river, The lake is like a garden With the lazy river shining there. The Saviour then took Him her hands, And turned His face unto the trees, And then unto the lilies, And took their shining faces And hid them in His bosom bright. It is not worth a darn: I'm sick of painted pipes; No use of painting now I know; They're only toys for girls My boy is better made: He's better thimbles and sleds. The wind is blowing warm Across the meadows brown; The sheaves are homebound now And setting eastward, I know: And all the world is silent In winter's sadness, I know. The leaves are falling yellow, The sky is gray and old, The crows are saying their say, The crows have said it long ago. Now we must say our say, We praise you, Mother Goose, For the feathers on your head, For the small hands and feet, For the green feet and hands, For the toes on the fox, We praise you, Mother Goose, For the heart of red, For the eyes of brown and blue, For the little dress you wear, For the green feet and red face, For the toes on the hare. We praise you, Mother Goose, For the feathers on your tail, For the tail feather and the wing, For the wings on the swallow, For the tail on the owl, We praise you, Mother Goose, For the soft warmth of your breast, For the arm-pits of your belly, For the small and mantled eye, For the sparkling golden hair, We praise you, Mother Goose, For the wisdom of your bird-like talk, For the wisdom of your voice, For the prettiness of your brain, For the withered little head. We praise you, Mother Goose, For the face of snow; For the bird's dead and gone, For the song you have so sweetly said, For the bird so dead and gone. You must not mourn for her, For her delicate face; She has laid it down to die In the midst of joy and play. Her hair is brown and brown, Her feet are gaily brown, And I know that she is happy, So be it said to me In the name of the Lord, That she shall live again; That our Saviour's mother Shall be young again. There came a naked, wretched, dreary beggar To the city of San Bernardino. He was a beggar, all penniless, And he lived in a roadside livery, And he had no friends, and no neighbours, And he had no dinner-tide. He sat at the gate of the town, Waiting, waiting, hungry, homeless, sad; And his look was full of distress, And his hair was over his ears, And his teeth are almost together, And he cannot eat. And the Sheriff came up through the street, With his flag in his hand, and he spoke: "What has happened to the poor beggar, That he is roaming through the street, And a beggar he will remain, And beggar still to be?" And the beggar answered, with a sigh, "For one whole day and night, For a whole day and night, I have not a friend in the town, Nor a neighbour to call mine own, Nor a dinner-tide." "O God! help me to go back, to the street In the sorry old Californian, Where a beggar I have remained, And a beggar I shall die!" With a strength of agony he tried To tear his poor old coat asunder; And his face grew white and wan, And he trembled in fear. Then came old Sheriff Tom with his regulars, With their gear in their trucks, and their flags flying, And they searched the beggar energetically, And they poked about his pockets exhaustively, And they found no more to credit his tale. But they asked him no more questions They took the coat of the dead beggar With its purple petticoat, And they washed it in the river for five And fifty times the current. "Then you may go," said the Sheriff, "Where you shall be fed and clothed, And my flag shall fly above you, And you may go on with your death "You are old and all palsy-legged, And a limp you have now; So you may go on with your death And no more questions asked." And they led the poor beggar thence On the bed of the dead, Now for the last time I leave This dread city of crime, Its bells that ring like violins, Its streets with blood upon them, Its rooms where those who love them Lie dead with treachery! I pass, unknown, on the pavement, And my spirit flies To the hunting-rifle, the powder, The fifty rounds that suit me, The baling wire, the rest, And the rifle that is sure Of killing a bear. I am not haunted, as I thought, With the spectre named Ghost, Who haunts the huntress of death, And flings her male to her, In the east where the shadows meet. I know her and her power, I have faced her in the past; <|endoftext|> Flames the wintry east, A wild, raging and voracious riot, An incense toward the people's God, That is a black day for our race. Why are we afraid of the dark, For which all birds fly? With shout and song, the fires of the Sabbath Burn brightly in the east. What is the God that dyes with the rainbow, And laughs at the darkness of the night? A tempest of voracious sounds, A shout from the devils of the wood, And God's fierce thunder Breaks earth's blood. All the wild beasts flee in terror from it, The fair daughters are frozen with dread. The fair sons cannot endure its light, Nor the virgins are strong enough to resist it. From the cross no healing is found, The earth is blackened, And the wood-nymphs and fauns and griffins Lament in terror, It is time to make known to you all The punishment of those who rob the shrines. For the white palace of your God Is a black stone mountain. You have heard how our Church has gone to ground And trampled beneath her feet the sacred corn, But the dark power has not yet gone under. The ploughman followed the silver moon (I dreamed about the king for an hour), He has ploughed a way to the grove of moon, And he has come to me. On the flats below the northern sky, His ploughshare points to the land of the fairies, The land of the golden moon, He has tied my feet and he has singed my hair, He has bound my mouth and he has flashed my eyes, And now he has driven me to the fairies. He has driven me in fury and terror, He has driven me weeping and trembling, And now he has come to drive me to the wood, Through the red paths of the dark he has hurled me, And I have found the golden village, The golden homes of the fairies. I have changed my white robes for shawled robes, For the greenwood leaves and moss and moly, And my hair has become a tangled mass Of the mistletoe and ivy and moss, The King has fled the city of his conquerors, He has gone to the black forest, The great black forest, The home of the virgins and the mighty. His white beard is gone, His head crown has fallen from his head, His white robe is deep scarlet, His gold-like hair is deep gold, His arms and his legs are heavily scarred, The great oak door stands wide for the multitude, The silver doors are locked and bar the way. The little maidens and the little elves Move quietly in the walls of the palace, The walls of the very precious marble, The walls that no man has ever penetrated, The walls that the chisels have cut, the walls that the carvers have cut. The King is in his hall, he is lamenting, The silver is overturned and splintered, The gold has flowed away and the silver dried, The rooms have lost their beauty and the rooms have lost their warmth, The cup of the king is over-full and he can only drink from a sieve. The King is in his hall, the doors are wide, There are many things in the hall he can see, But his heart is with the elves and the fairies, With the maidens that move lightly on the green. "Oh, beautiful maidens, Oh, chaste maidens, Wherefore have you left the walls of the city?" The dark palace of the fair King Foulbourn Grows nearer, it stands in the garden of one. The King turns towards the garden and he can hear The steps of the fairies and the whispering of their magic. He goes down into the garden, he goes down into the white placid pool, He goes down into the pool and he finds a fair maiden That stands in the placid pool like a statue, And the King looks into her blue eyes and calls her. "Come to me, my sweetheart, my little dove, Come, I kiss the stars of your eyes and say thee, My sweetheart, my pretty dove, my little dove, my sweetheart, my pretty dove." "I cannot," she said, "I am in the garden, I cannot come to thee, the King, alone." And the King cried out, "My dark angel, I will make thee free, I will make thee brave and strong. I will make thee part of thy father and of me, And I will teach thee all the love the universe knows." The fair King Foulbourn laughed out, "My Queen, My fair king, my son, my cute head, I would I were as strong and as brave as thou art, For I have waited long and pined for this day." He clasped her and kissed her in the garden, He told her all his story of love, and then he brought her The King looked into her eyes, and said, "My dove, my pretty dove, my dearest friend, Let us make a city of this pool." And so the world was changed, and all life on earth Lived in the water, all the life was love, And the fair city of the pool stood there, And all the fair maidens of the world flocked there, For the pools were full from the overflow of love, The maidens came from all the world to sing and dance, And sing and dance was the only love there was. And the maidens and the lovers swarmed and flocked To make new lives for themselves and old, And there was never a lack, and no long pause, For the world was full of love, and the pool was deep, And the white face in the wavering water Was a face all love, all love, all love. The song that made beautiful the maidens, The songs they whispered to one another, Were all new love, all love, all new love. And the white face in the pool of truth, That had smiled through the stars of old romance, That had sighed over the tombs of the brave, Now smiled on the maidens of today, As they flocked to make new lives for themselves. The songs they sang, that were full of bitterness, The sighs that fell like a pall upon them, The songs of hope that were full of foreboding, Were all new love, all love, all new love. And the maidens that had danced in sorrow For a hundred years, had danced in gladness For one day and one glorious instant, And sighed, as they danced, full of foreboding, For a world full of love, but a world alone. There is never a dull moment in the life of state, If the people sit quiet and abide, And if the rulers, in power, keep their order And observe the law as they discover it; For that is the glory of a nation, And the rule of a mighty empire, And the glory of a tiny state. There is never a dull moment If you ask the inhabitants of state, For the way a state is ruled Is by wisdom and choice and ought to be As natural as breathing and as strong As the waves that leap in the ocean, And that ought to be as daring As the wings of a eagle, And as strong as iron for making men. But there are dull moments If the inhabitants of state Do not understand their duty And do not understand each other; If they do not see what they are, And do not know that others see; If they do not learn To discern what is most wonderful, And most needed and most wonderful From a change of order and a change of mood. There is never a dull moment If you want to know the state of state; There is never a dull moment If you seek the secrets of state, And ask the inhabitants of state Of the lives and the methods of state; For there is wisdom in the people, And there is power in the people, And there is progress in the people, And there is hope in the people, And there is life in the nation. There is never a dull moment In a nation in its progress; There is always a chance Of a dull moment and there is always A voice that is crying for vengeance; But the people rise like lions, With their teeth and claws, And take the spirit of the lion, And make it their own. There is never a dull moment In a nation's history; There is always a chance Of a dull moment and always A shall and will and task; But the duty and the glory <|endoftext|> To leave the plain of combat; Or else, if to defend our camp, Fleeing, be he slain." "Then, Hector, Hector," cries Ajax, "Before the ships withdraw thy steeds; This day, ere encounter approaches, By valiant Trojans and the Greeks, With arrowy thunders dash our brows; And should our arm be spent with pain, Immured within the lofty walls I fear not that the spears of Greece Will pierce our breast." Thus he. Hector answer'd not, but rose, Leaving his horse, and to the ships Led the splendid chariot of his lord, Swift as the thunder, that before the skies Drives swiftest of its kind. He fled the sight Of all the heart of Ajax, and the Greeks Wearied, and with their plenty of the fight Their tired limbs, left the plain. Then to their ships They bear their lord the Hector, with the steeds Of four founders loved of Zeus. So to the ships They bear the body of great Hector slain By Paris' hand, in fight at Troy. But when the warrior-slayer Paris had gone Where he had stored his body for the night Safe in the hollow cave, he bade his dogs Trim their tongues, and make ready for the feast. All on the other side, through whom the Greeks Should find their dead, were gather'd round their lord. But when the royal Agamemnon saw That Paris sent his dogs to-day to trim Their tongues, and make ready for the feast, Astonish'd stood he. Him Agamemnon next A common soldier heard, Antenor's son, Polydamas, through whom came also many Of Medon's race, and also Ajax' friend, Oileus; but Ajax only marked his speech. On th' other side, Jove's son-in-law, the King Ctesippus, to Ajax spoke in fury. "A coward," he cried, "was never put to flight So swiftly as he flies to meet his doom. A swift-footed, quick-footed, cunning wight I shudder to contemplate his coming death. Hark! earth is rent; hear!" and at that word, forth Went from the cave his uncle Oileus, Son of Orsilochus, a well-greav'd youth. He brought with him the hounds, and round about To haul the dead, his comrades thronging; first Leaving the corpse of Hector, whom they slew, They drew away; and in their turn they drew Hector out of the cave, with whom he fought In single combat, and whom he had overcome, But was pursued by Paris, with the dogs. When, therefore, he beheld Hector's corse laid On the ground, and that the hounds were away, He set himself to strip him of his arms, But Paris from his head and shoulders tore A deep wound with his sword, that came out through his brain. Then cried Achilles' godlike brother, strong In spirit and in combat,--"Wretch, thou who art The first and best companion of my life, Thou, who wrastles against me for a prize That shall not ill-attended chance detract, By this thou hast done a mean and inglorious thing, Shattered my mortal will, and fast the wound Is healed, for the blood draws in plenteous flow With this thy deed, but I depart from thee, And turn not out of my own free will to war." He said, and passing from the dead, to smite Antenor's son, Onetor, drave the sword Down to the hilt in his neck, and bade him fall Prone in the dust; but Paris, full of wrath, Toss'd with both hands the body, and 'twixt feet Enraging ran, and from the feet apart Smote him; yea and many other flanked him And thrust him also from their comrades' hands; And now in wrath they form'd a circle large Around the dead, nor yet had they abated One whit of the unyielding malice all Of their brave hearts. But when Atrides knew That of the mightiest of the Danaans one Still would remain behind, then drew he breath Pitying his death, and thus in wing'd accents cried: He said, and lift'd a stone to throw at him, But Jove led Tirynthius to the front, And left Paris to the younger men. With dread look Sparta's King turn'd his face, Glad for the strife, and thus with flattering words Addrest him, saying: "Nay stop, oh stay! Look well to what I say, even at the cost Of what thou cannot return; be sure The race of man is not so yoked by fate That it can for the least hesitation stay The direful; should it, yet so eager-souled, Fluctuate thus in mood, it could not long Hold out; but, ere long, to slaughter and the grave. For so the fates have planned, and will fulfil. For how could they fulfil their intent, if man Might for the moment hang back, when so the Fates Have bind'd him? Elsewhere is a spotless shrine, Son of the sire Pasitorhados, whom men Call the Rain-God, on the very verge of heaven, On which a high altar stands, and offerings lie On sacrifice, and incense smokes in air And around the borders of the boundless sky; There, while ye worship, as ye have been wont, Ye may remain, nor long must he away." To him was Dolon quick, and close beside The handmaid Handinia. He from his midst Flung a huge stone, which with its light resistless stroke Cleaving the shield of Paseorthe fell, and bade The king beside him give the fare and depart. So might the shivering steeds beneath the lash Bear back the trembling chariot. Their feet light And sudden, through the wilderness of air The dauntless Argives fared, rejoicing much. Then, while the people, crowding to the walls, Cried: "What manner of man is this?" and call'd On Nestor and Menelaus, fear-struck: "What manner of man is this?" Therewith they went And laid their vows to Hecuba the Queen. As when to noblest warriors and the leaders Of city troops, at one great feast, the guest Comes courteous, slavish, abominably good, Yet in the sight of all no fault is found, So moved these strangers, yea, and in their ear They heard this speech of Nestor and Menelaus: "O friends, if in these fires ye desire Deep knowledge of the truth, listen and hearken; I will declare the manly form and mien Of Hector, and his parentage; then make thy minds Assemble to hear, and hearken to my words. Hear then my word, and unto all thyhearted." So he, and reaching forth his arms, the folk Cried: "Come hither, friend! to the King submit Hector, and bring all things into his hand." To whom in wrath the ancient King inveighed: "Wherefore will ye ye, whom still your equal sons Dare not offend, this day to Pallas make Doubtful speech? Nay, sons, ye must not so, Nor would ye with a lie so basely dare; And, did ye such incantation use Once, incontinent ye should the foe disable, And change the heights of heaven to abysses." So he, and with his right hand warned them on To build them other ships, to fashion them Of the loved raw-hide, and in the centre place A high strong altar, and beside it float Wands of ever-restless fire. So they Sat there, in dreadful silence, while the King To Menelaus and to Nestor spake His words, well counting the words, and hid The word by different verbosity. Then rose Brave Hector, and approaching each before The others all, with his highest step he came, And seized his broad sword hilt-deep in his grasp. And in his hands twined the sword, and held Against his thigh the strong spear; and first Upraised, and in his lofty hand the shield He bore, that o'er his ample chest was spread Wide and dense, well-wrought, of the above-named wood, And to the points a great crest was added. Him then of all the Danaans none so dreaded As bold Hector, for that now he had slay'd <|endoftext|> In an unknown spot, a country abode, And far from slumber's shades of soft repose; There by the lordly Sabine herds I've roved, who with me will lead thee out From here, the glad return of life's short day, A summer's day, yet after toil's earned pay, Then weary, satiate with the blood-mule's toil, I'll take a rest, or else my hair will be Bound about with thongs of chine-hide strips, And at my back a flimsy-shaped plank, And, for my bed, a dish of bones and skulls Coated in the fat of reindeer; Or if upon some festal-morrow Thou goest forth a-hunting, thou shalt have For thy couch a flask of water-cresses, And when thou returnst, thou in me hast The perfect maid, my blood-mule's wife, My blood-mule, my warm-hearted wife, Whom for thy frolic's sake I keep This present day, and all the morrow. So bliss has jocund Astyanax To thee, my blood-mule, my dear blood-mule, Who in thy cave and at thy side Hast wrought me joy, and I to thee bear The burden of my blood and toil, To mirth and to dancing for thee led, And feasting, too, in thy hall of gore. Go forth, blood-mule, my lord's lead! Go forth, thou noble one, my blood-mule! Go forth, thou blood-seeking man, my blood-mule! Go forth, my blood-seeking hunter, man-mule! Hark! hark! These fighting men they come, From Saxony, from Grodno's horde, For whom the Church has done so well Blood-libelling priests, Blood-gibbing bishops and papists, Blood-throngers of both kinds, War-crimson outfits, Devotion-trick, Thought-warping cogitation, And self-deceiving blubber-muzzle! Blood-mule, my blood-mule! Blood-mule, my blood-mule! Blood-mule, my blood-mule, And that I'd be thy man, If thou wert mine, And if thou wert mine, If thou wert mine, And thou wert mine, I'd buy thee, thou and I, Be it long or be it short, Air or land or sea, Sink or storm or cruise, Moor or moor, or shore, Thou shalt be mine, blood-mule! Blood-mule, my blood-mule! Blood-mule, my blood-mule! Blood-mule, my blood-mule, Blood-mule, my blood-mule, For thy leader's sake, For thy leader's sake, I would sell thee, I would buy thee, Air or land or sea, Sink or storm or cruise, Moor or moor, or shore, Thou shalt be mine, blood-mule! I've led a merry life, and I've had my hour, A merry life, and I've had my watch, And I've cried to Time, in this mad December, As he went spinning past, "Though the world go round, Though the hill and the wood be gone, I am still, because I'm as happy as a king." As I rode down to Jersey from the East, The first blue day of the ride, A man in black and the bag of his harp Met me, and he asked the way to New York. I pointed to New Jersey, and away he flew: And when I reached my door, the man in black Cried, "It's six and thirty from the capital!" My song of the lords of the shire Is heard at morn and even, When cawing in the rook the nightingale, Or in the leafy limes The throstle turns his matin song. But nobody knows the songs I make up on the sly As I ride by leafy ways. My song of the lords of the shire Is heard at morn and even, When cawing in the rook the nightingale. My song of the lords of the shire Is heard at eve when the glooms grow deep, When the night-owl loud, from her lair, Singeth without, and the night-sparrow little, Above the village crows, My song of the lords of the shire Is heard at eve when the glooms grow deep. My song of the lords of the shire Is heard in the merry March, When blithe and fresh the prows of the sea-faring men Go hastening through the sweet sea-isles; My song of the lords of the shire Is heard in the merry March, When blithe and fresh the prows of the sea-faring men. My song of the lords of the shire Is heard by the folk when the wanes grow dark; And in the April morn, When the wild-goose, with scamp's tag on his wing, Hath traveled far, My song of the lords of the shire Is heard by the folk when the wanes grow dark. When the world was made, the knights were called to give Its due to right and law; And so, by starry signs and tokens and spells, 'Twas made plain that they should wield The lightning of the sword, to smite Wrong, and Right, and Power, and All, And quench the Lord God's light; And there were men of other lands and days, Who'd leave their kings in high places, And kneel in faith to Him; Who held His Law their sole and absolute star, And mocked at others' wealth; And Hearers, who believe it not, Hold up their heads as examples, To make a good show of. Forgetful that our Lord Himself, The eternal Son of God, Who'd passed through temptation, trial, and shame, Should need their lieges and subjects' faith, To help Him on His way, And safe return of His soul to glory; Who from the servant-paynim's joy Came possession of His throne; And when His enemies among Had thrust Him to the abyss, Should then beget this foolish belief That He could laugh at any time, By which they rule and trick the world, And make it love the bands Of gray necessity, Which bind its poor, blind hands From laughing at itself. For this it matters little, Or thou or I or he Might laugh at any time, That in the Son of God Himself There stands a Lord of men And of the world, and one Of all the children of time. Here in this waiting-room, I see The blessed angels standing round, With outstretched wings and starry eyes Looking for the brother of Jeff. I know his face, and when he comes I will take my old post again. At seven the First Tone woke, At eight the Second, and so At twenty-six the Third tone cried For his fair mate a second time, And so at thirty-six the Fourth tone Awoke, and said, "My friends, I grieve; I grieve that I must leave my mate; I'm leaving thee for a dear, And going to take a bride Who'll greet me with smiles and kisses, Who'll sleep with me in the bed, And sing for me the songs of night." Then the First Tone of Martinmas Said "Foolish boy, Make preparations to depart; Let your blind soul look not back Nor your poor, sad heart bear any part In the loss or gain of him. The bright suns of truth and joy Will shine in his wake beyond And be his stars as well as thine; For this is the happier fate, And better love, and better all." I know the face of him that waits For me in the years to come, For I saw him at my play The year that Jeff was dead. And many a time I've seen him With his arms about me stand, Or stroke my hair and smile, Or twist my little hand, Or step beside me while I danced and tumbled, And, when at home I turned to play, His laugh went with me there. And I remember how He stood beside me in the hall, And how my heart beat quick And how my eyes were dim, <|endoftext|> Only the sailor caught the ocean breeze, And he never looked back, nor gave a sign, And he sailed right on from that pleasant place, Till the land was all one waste of waters, And the crag was laid down on the land. What a curious sight it was when he stood On the beach and viewed his work Complete! The prodigious work in progress, Half finished, all laid in order, Where, with life-giving dew he filled The red clay with a living grace, And a sweet fragrance from the forest Ran and hid all the uneven floors, And the steep ravine with masses Of granite pierced with the zenith Gave a fair surface for the dancers To strike their strokes on, and from bowers Of tall oaks, and fields of clover, And hillsides where the red-bud climbed, And brushwood pales in groves hidden, While with bluebells everywhere was strewn The autumnal crystal, fit for The marble that the Angels wrought, With the palm for a foundation, And bordered all around with reeds. There, too, were quarries for the steel The Rapids cast for ships of war, And seams for musket-shot and gun-grain, And levels for the carriage trade, And all the lands furnished with water, Lakes, rivers, and the tidal "Roe," While all the "water-falls," vast, confusing, Thundered far up the channels of the hills. Now the odd thing was, we saw no end To the marvel. There, through the chinks Of the rock-walls, gigantic water-wheels Sluggishly dragged their weary way, Shivering and creaking, without ceasing, And only bent to the eastward where An old whirlpool seemed to bring the same Eternal wrath to the heaven it girt, Sending its ceaseless, invisible spray Down the steep ravine, while eastward too Were heard its endless echoes, deep and dread As those of Judas Iscariot Hissing, "Lord, what shall we do?" while his men Sat mute, like men that suddenly possessed With going to death, and there was no help Nor place of salvation. From the gray morning sky The gray dawn glimmering down the steep ravine, And the gray smoke that o'er the gray ravine Floated up in wisps, Came the gray day. From the ravine From the westering corn-fields, Came the gray bee. He was dressed in his tightest garb And his mean intent was to eat And not to work. The gray bee with the pointed legs Himself wore the pointed skin. His feet, all imperfectly Skipped about on the thin skins Hanging underneath his yellow shoes. He was nearly twice as tall As a grasshopper, And his fat, ugly yellow skin Was baggier than any butter-cow. And he creaked and hummed In his home in the upper dark While his home in the upper dark Hid the ripe honey of his bosom That the gray day-lily, night-dew Had spilled from her flowers. And he hovered over the corn, He hovered over the clover, He skimmed along the surface of the land, He skimmed over the dikes, Singing as he skated The old round joy of the winter moon With the old old melody Sung when the moon was seven and the night was still:-- A moon and a star, A moon and a star, The moon just a star, A star just a moon. Oh, good-night, good-night, The moon just a star, The star just a moon. "Oh, sweet, sweet the grass, When the wind is up, To the flutter of his wings." So they sang, the gray bees When the moon and the stars were gone. But they stopped when they heard The long, long tripping foot Of the night-bat, gliding toward home. And they thought to themselves, The bees, "If we knew what lay Underneath the grass, What a glorious home we should have." But they stopped and beat their wings And fluttered down again, With the old, old tune in mind. O sweet, sweet the grass, When the wind is up, When the wind is up! How our glad hearts expand Beneath the golden grass. How we flutter and leap When the wind is up, When the wind is up, When the wind is up! How our glad hearts expand Beneath the golden grass, When we hear the beating of wings. How our wings beat and beat, And our hearts sing in joy, When we hear the calling of the bird, When we hear the calling of the bird. But above in the blue sky The strange stars darted by. The strange stars darted by Till the air was stilled And no one heard them call. The silence of the night Saw them glide and glide, Cunning through the silent air, Calling the wildest of all songs. But one still found a way To follow the piping song, And so she came to hear The beating of wings above And the calling of the bird. "Oh, why should I be lonely, Why are all the others happy? Surely the bird must be Friend of mine and friend of yours, Surely the bird must be." But still she hesitated, Routed, broke away, Till she came to know That under the soft and swaying green, The wings that she had bent were found Fluttering, broken, found its way To her pocket, found her shoe, And there she saw it was empty. Still she hesitated more, Cried out that she must leave her nest, And a flutter of wings Away off startled her. And she heard, while she was weeping, In the swift going by, The gentle wings from the darkening sky Falling softly on her wings, And the piping song at last:-- But she came to know How perilous it is to ignore The calling of the wandering things. She came to know that the calling of the wings Of the wandering things is not exempt From incursions of the same, And that it is better not to wait, Better to grin and bear it all, Than to turn away and shudder. When the summer skies are bright And the singing days are soon, When the world grows gay With the awakening flower, We shall sing a song of May To the thrill of the single string, That, in all its brilliant gleaming, May speak of the joy we share, Of the fine things that please us then, And the fine days we live through. Like a rose-ring The bright world lay Asleep in May, And slept so bright, And dreams are long When roses are fair. So, rose-red earth, So may we dream of you In a May-land long. So in May days The rainbow came, So in May days The rainbow came. The rainbow, mayhap, In a May-land wide, To a rose-border Begot the glory That fills the sky To the sweep of a flag In a May-day glorious. A golden moment Is a golden moment, And all the days in May Were filled with glory And happiness. And then the black of rain, And then the brown of leaf, And then the dark of dusk, And then the empty sky When darkness was to come. A wild rose runs across the wall Of the gardens of Camelot. There are roses all about But the wild rose runs across. A lily in the meadow goes Beneath the wild rose's tread. But the wild rose runs across. The sunbeam on the vine went down Soon after it glittered there. The golden gleam from Rhettor Is sweet to Merlin's eye. But the wild rose runs across. Why is the sunbeam on the vine So languidly drowsing? The lily in the meadow seems More diligent in her slumber. The wild rose runs across In Merlin's old hall the fire-light Is quenched for a space. Beneath the shade of yew-trees A circle is formed. The shadow of a cloud is there, But the shadow of a rose Is long on the hill. When Merlin's circle is filled With the maids of his house, One maid is placed within it And only she may enter <|endoftext|> and all the way up here came up and hugged him for a while till we all thought he was going to die. It wasn't anything to do with fear. He looked at us all kind of funny, but said, "I'm not scared of you. Go on. Tell me the answer to one question." We all got down on our knees. Then he said, "Look, I want to know: what is there like a person can do that hurts another person so much that he runs out of the way? A normal person might do something like pull a fire alarm, or break into a house to steal something, or stab to death a helpless person in a movie theater, or do something so awful no one can live in the same house ever again." Then, slowly, I got up and said, "The answer is: nothing. People do things for a variety of reasons." "No, they don't," he said. "That's not right. A normal person might do something that's really stupid and dangerous, like break into a house and steal something, but a psychopath doesn't need to do anything out of order to help himself feel better, and won't do anything to make others feel better, except, maybe, get what he wants. And if he's caught, he tells everyone he was just thinking about something else." "Well, what about all these people up there?" I said. "They don't look scared. Do you?" he said. "They're acting so normal." "The answer is: things that are really dangerous happen all the time," I said. "What about politics? What about war?" he said. "The answer is: people are scared of things all the time," I said. "Why aren't you more scared of those things? Like, for example, a war," he said. "The answer is: people are scared of war all the time," I said. He kept on nodding, but I could see him thinking. Then, he looked at me and he said: "And what's so funny that it needs to be an example? The answer is: fear of getting old, and fear of dying. "And then," he said, "the answer is: you. That's what we're afraid of most." "Well," I said, "that's not very funny. What about sex?" I said. "The answer is: fear of getting old, and fear of dying," he said. "That's not very funny either," I said. "It's all stuff that's easy to laugh at or not laugh at at all," he said. "But it's not funny," I said. "And you're right," he said, "that's not what we're here for today. "What's funny," he said, "is people who aren't here for the rest of their lives fearing the things they say or do because they seem so foolish or paranoid after they've already died." "That's true," I said. "And so," he said, "after you've died, you're not here with me. It's not funny. "And now," he said, "I want to tell you something that may not seem funny to you. The God I worship isn't one who's easy to like. He's not a superhero with superpowers. He doesn't leap tall buildings in a single bound. He doesn't fly to rescue me from bad guys. He doesn't leap houses in perfect graceful patterns towing my old cars up and giving me rides. He doesn't heal my enemies with his light. He doesn't give me extra things I need. He doesn't turn dark things bright. He doesn't make me small or make me big. He doesn't make me do things I don't want to do. "And so when people say my God is 'not your friend,' they're not talking to me, they're talking to me wrong. And when they say my God doesn't care about me or is 'not there for me today,' they're not talking to me, they're talking to me wrong. And when they say my God doesn't do anything for me or give me enough for my food or care about me or give me enough for my sleep or give me enough for sleep, they're not talking to me, they're talking to me wrong. "And it's those kinds of people I hate the most who say my God doesn't care about them or doesn't care about them too much. It's those kinds of people I hate the most who go on complaining about things I care about, but aren't missing. "When I say I love you, I don't mean I love you for your body. I mean I love you as a person. That doesn't mean I love you as a wife. It means I love you as a person, and to love you as a person, you have to see what you don't know. "The way I know you don't miss you is because of what you do. When you don't turn up for a job interview, or fail to turn up for a therapy session, or two weeks later write me a bad check, or flirt with the waitress in the local diner, or get jailed, and you cry about it the people in the hospital are surprised and say, 'Why, what strange occurrence?' I say, 'Nothing's happened. It can't be.' "If you don't turn up to practice, play, dance, or a musical, or play, dance, or musical in the streets or theatres, or do something else weird with your hair, or do something else really weird with your hair, or do some other thing really weird with your hair, or if you miss a train, or if an express fails to come, and the next one does, or if you don't turn up to school, or medical, or law, or sociology, or write a letter, or call a friend, or smoke a cigarette, or read a magazine, or do something else really odd with your hair, or do some other thing really odd with your hair, or elope, or go to bed, or go to a play, or take a trip, or go to a movie, or go to a dance, or go to a dinner-- I mean, really go-- then it's natural you should forgive me! "But if you do some bizarre thing, or really do something really is odd, and it doesn't happen to you, or if it does happen to you, or if it happens to you and you forgive me, then I've saved you. I've helped you. You'll never have to suffer through or think about not loving or missing or believing in a person or thing that wasn't looking or speaking or walking or standing or sitting or lying or sleeping or screaming or eating or drinking or sneezing or sneezing not really to sneeze at all, or sneezing to be sneezed at. "And if you do really do something really odd or bizarre or puzzling really really strange or really sad or hard to be happy about, I'll say, well, what were you thinking? Why do you keep doing it? I'll say, well, why do you keep not doing it? I'll say, well, why do you never do it? "If you say, well, my God, what could I have done, or you say, well, my God, what could I have hoped to do, or you or God or Hope or Love or Death or Destiny or whatever, you or the whole heaven array of you saying, well, what could I ever hope to do, or you or God or Hope or Love or Death or Destiny or whatever says you can't do it, I'll say, well, what's the name of that thing? "What do you call that thing, that thing, that strange, strange, strange, thing that strange, thing you call that thing? What do you call that thing? That thing that strange, thing you call that thing?" "That strange, thing that thing, that strange, thing you call that thing, that thing you call that strange, thing, that thing you call that strange, thing, that thing you call that strange, thing, that thing--" "What do you call that thing?" he cried. "That thing you call that strange, thing--" "What do you call that strange, thing?" "That strange, thing," says Ruth. <|endoftext|> All seem'd naught to her Who took her purpose to her lord, And, when they came to second, heard The jingle of the golden feet. The fiery-browed Argantes' face Grew strange and deathly pale; And in the murky air that hung The cloudless heavens, the deep-sea hiss Came like a vulture-cry. He spake, and she, whose soul had been Unwitting as a child, Now understood his dire intent, And all his secret purpose nigh, Nor dar'd to answer. She seem'd not The faithful wife she seem'd, Nor that the mighty she beguil'd For love, which might have steel'd her hold On life's sad course to see her lord Loving: now she saw that she had seen And lost: and like a dog that pounces Upon his fears, jump'd to his feet And bark'd, and shook her arms to be shook, Drown'd in a ocean of deep dismay. And as the ship she left In port through unmeet hours, (For what through ill-situated harbours Can come to pass that we discern) Arriving at the tide that fell, She left the side her husband laved, And crossed the awful flood: And as the moon's pale rays Touched the flood's blue mirror, flow'd she down The stream with solemn glee, The sport and laughter of the waves, The music of a phantom land. From whence, O Love? from whence? Thou know'st thy shafts are shot Through loving hearts unkind; But O, my Love, O, my sweet, Can no second volley spring? From what, from whence, and where, My heart has been thy prey, My life thy spoil, my glory, My lost consent? In vain didst thou adore me Ere I worshipped thee; O love, thy shafts were vain, If they did not wound. I am thy slave, and thou My prisoner hold'st me; Thou hast my body's light, And my Lord my dark. Thou hast my body's light, And my dark formed of thee; And my body's life Light and life and breath, Thy gift, and owed it; O, make it thine to die, And with death die my life. Farewell! farewell! These eyes are closed for ever, These lips for ever, too, Can ever hope to understand The love which I have lost. Farewell, farewell, Farewell to every joy, Or sorrow, or pain, Till death should come with midnight And bid all love farewell. Farewell, farewell, O maids! And farewell, O mothers! My arms around you press, And my heart calls you to hear The same sad words I say. Farewell, farewell, O maids! And farewell, O mothers! The caresses which you have Kissed me to scorn; The fond caresses which you Have only given to me. My heart is heavy with the death Of love and love's desire, And my brain is sick and blear With heavy sorrow and fear. I shall die, and my soul's wild light Will ne'er again be made free To follow whither love may go; And all the joys which have been To me are only what they have been. The sweetest breath of angel-plays Death's balms hath fetched from heaven; The tears of girlhood's hottest gush O'erflows the baser brain. I feel the cords of feeling reel Fast in Eternal Swift; My heart is heavy with the death Of love and love's desire, And my brain is sick and blear With heavy sorrow and fear. Eternity will never bear The weight of thorns in his crown, Nor gild the barren spot on earth Where the dull jaw of pain Stops with a greasy, nauseous grip The beating pulse of living pain, The numbing bruise on pleasure's cheek. Time on the grim mouth of pain Is a bloodless horror blind; And before the fiend of Time's grasp Life a nothing seems; The summer in her fragrance lies, The bright new morn is born, But soon the night will wipe away The eve's bliss, and mark her spot By the red circle of the dead. And, oh! ye stars, that o'er our fate Wink at our weeping, With your tear-drops dry and cold Let your light, like our lament, In the darkness fade; Let your silence be The womb from which we think our fate Will once again unfold To a rapturous wonderment, Like a happy dream. Where now is the song that made The hours like music? Where now the joy that cheered The spirit on to light? Oh, life was bitter and tough, But now there is No joy in bitterness, no mirth In emptiness, and strife Was ever delight. No longer now, with swelling heart, The seasons gaily sweep, Where once she walked in gladness, Or sang of love. The rain and wind and sleet, The sea and sun, To her were nothing, all Were hostile, and all feared her; The splendor, the song, were hers; With mournful duty still she yearns, But all with sorrow repined. Where now the summons, there, Was life and sweet delight, The way was strewn with care and strife, The fields with thorn and net, Where once she went a-wandering With a laughter soporific, That mottled the night, And chilled the icy wind that blew, That gathered along. But still a joyful song was heard Where once the voice was seen On hill or river, in the sky Or under ground, A song of gladness, a delight Of innocence, a noble strife For freedom and truth, That loosed the chain and set the bounds To vile excess. The song was welcome as the light That cheers the darkened day; The brave and innocent voice was dear To the sad heart that aches, And fills with gladness and content The homespun threads of wo. The thorn was silenced with a kiss, And life with a tear. The rose, that posts above the gate And watches for the vanguard, The shout, the clamor and the flame Of noon-day battle, are hushed for her, In silence, as she sways In the black tomb of the past Beneath the desert rock. Oh, when the spirit is released That hungers and longs unseen, And like the pilgrim of yore Is exiled and returned, When lives but one, who mourns with tears A cast-off robe of gold, It is the joy, the pride, to know That one is gone forever. The trumpet sounds not now in vain; The weary toilers in the strife Are hearkening unto the call. For strength and courage now are felt, And the spirit glows and burns, And the world is all a blur of hope, Where once it was a gloom. Our hopes in the past are printed fast On the heart's dark wound; The golden pomp of proud heedless times Is faded and faded, And now it is only the plighted name Of one who trod alone the road Of duty and pain. Oh, from the heart's sombre, darken'd past Come words of gladness and trust, And words of faith and hope that gleam With the light of eternity. For he is lovelier and rarer Who travails for the lost at last, And holds the victory dear With a lips that once were bold. For now, for the first time in years When the ageless-rending pangs Of time-worn changes are less And the soul is strong to bear The burdens of untold years That weigh upon the dying, With a strength that was not of earth, The old man's name is heard on high With reverence and acclaim. Like autumn leaves that change to red Before the avenging of a storm, Before the coming of a worst of time Shall the old glory and the old power Of self be concealed no more; Like the fading leaves that lie In the prison of the shoot That pierces off the root, Before the fall of its bough Is it re-echo'd, lowly bending, That claims the benefit of its fall? <|endoftext|> to be open and direct with one another <|endoftext|> "I Took My Father to the Vet", by Lisa Olstein [Living, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Weather, Winter] “You want to see something sad? The world has given us nothing but sorrow.” —Billy Joel For all the dead possums and rabbits pelted with birdshot in Melbourne's woods, I still loved my father. We lived on the first floor of a house where the front door opened onto a yard. And we had a huge yard. I can still see the exact spot where we relaxed after lunch, my father sitting in the sunlight on the stone stoop of our front room, reading the newspaper. And I could be anywhere in that place with my father there, thinking how much I love him, and wishing that I was there instead of him, wishing that he were alive instead of me, wishing that he could understand how much I love him. I wish I could take his hand and show him how much I love him. I can't bear to think of him dead, or even sick or unhappy, so I carry his will and hour engraved with my name in blue highlighter. And I try to imagine what it would be like if he were there instead of me. If he could hear my words as I speak them, if he could understand how much I love him. <|endoftext|> "I Saw My Father Today", by Lisa Olstein [Living, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I saw my father today. He is different. He laughs less often, for instance, and he rests his head less often now, as though some day pain will pass. I think that when he is finally gone, he will never laugh like he does now. He leans less, rests his head less in his chair, and smiles less. <|endoftext|> "Still Life", by Yusef Komunyakaa [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Philosophy] When the rain’s the color of a lost Amsterdam, when the bees are still going and the wind’s away, we go out on the porch for a look at all the life that is left at the back of the yard. Some are still hidden under rocks or in the crook of the fence. Some are sticking out of the pith of trees like swords in the thick of winter. Some, for the wind, are pruning their leaves or searching for bait, while others are reading the full-page ads in the Free Press with an eye for faces in passing and an ear for word from the world that will open the first of spring. And some, for the heat, are folding <|endoftext|> "The House He Built", by Alan R. Shapiro [Living, Death, Nature, Trees & Flowers] It was like a house to build, but it was not like a house at all to live in. A different kind of burden, something lighter, closer to a passion or a whim, passion or whim meant to be lived in or lived out, and the difference between inside and outside is a difference between labor and love. But I am inside now, and inside, I am a house. My shape is that of a man, not a boy, and though I cannot speak, I am a father, and a friend, a son, and a husband, and a husband-to-be. Outside, I carry the weight of the trees, but inside, I carry the weight of my own being, and I sing the songs I never sing out loud, or, at least, not to anyone. Outside, I am a burden, but inside, I am a joy, and I sing the songs I never sing to anyone, and the songs I sing out loud are always some version of “If You Are Not a Man, By Now You Are a Slave” or some lesser-known simplicity of “Two Sisters, One Cane and One Sugaring Pony” or a reminiscence in no order about the grace of “A Hole in the Head” or “Red Riding Hood, Screaming with Tears of Blood at the End of the Dark” or “To His Coy Mistress” or “Jasmine, Early and Silent, Sitting on a Blood-Stained Lal Nila Praying to a Man, Not a Boy, Husband, Husband to Be” or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or or I am the house he built and he was the house but we are not the same we are not the same we are different and we go on different journeys and we grow different things and we find different things to say and we carry different burdens but we say the same old stories and the same old songs and we march the streets with the flags of our discontent and we give and we give and we give and we give but never any more than is necessary <|endoftext|> "City", by Alan R. Shapiro [Living, Health & Illness, Marriage & Companionship, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, Race & Ethnicity] For my father When he died I went to the curb and told the killer cop I didn't have time to fiddle with the ash tray, I had other things to do. I went in there and told him I had this manuscript I had to get to and it would be done by the end of the day. He looked at the state of my mind, the aged place of my brain, and agreed that it was a job for a day. I can't say it was a good day for me or for him. The thought of it made me think of people in my family who had died young, like my father, who had said he would come back for them if they died old. I thought of my own father, who died young, who was almost a man in the eyes of the god who looks down from the heavens and judges the living and the dead, who must have known in his bones the promise of a better life for him if he only would but dare not try to seek it. I walked out of the house to the sound of the night chorus from Urban Dance Theatre and stayed until the end. For my father I walked to the end of the film and there was a candle in the room of my own creation. I don't know who lit it and I don't know what effect it had. It didn't have to do with the transformation of the characters. The bonds of passion are strong in this country, but the dreamers and doers come from other lands. But I did know that the souls who entered the room were strong in their conviction that the world is better when they are inside of it. They left the room richer in imagination and in longing. For my father I walked to the end of the film and held the candle in my hand, my arm outstretched as a chain. For my father I walked to the end of the film and there was a candle in my hand. <|endoftext|> "Music Lesson", by John Kinsella [Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Sing as if you're going to be In trouble, in love, or time. Sing as if love and time Would break your heart if you had any. Let your singing go where It can't be traced, like a baby Who runs home and can't be found. Go from place to place, from day to day Reading the headlines, how they break and fall. Find something new to sing about Every time you look at the newspaper. Sing as if you think your heart Is breaking, and time will give You new clothes and a new life. Every day brings a new pair of shoes. Sing when you go to sleep at night. Every time you read the newspaper Sing louder. Sing when you wake up in the morning. Sing until the newspaper has run out. <|endoftext|> with its loss. “I loved them all.” No. “They all.” In the way that a woman might love her nine children. “And I can't help loving them. I’m proud.” No. “And I can’t help loving them. In the way a man might love his nine children.” “I love them all.” And they are all his children the way a man might love his nine children. <|endoftext|> "Poem for My Brother, the Superhero", by Oscar Smith [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] Before his red eyes became the usual glare that bleeds in the sunlight, before he did his routine save or fight the monsters, I knew him as the superhero that we as kids saw fall and rise, only to be beaten back. I knew him as the younger, hipper, much chubbier, cuter brother who would always stop to pat us on our heads and give us high-fives after. The younger, hipper, much chubbier brother who was always surrounded by a warm, healthy aura, the superhero that we all wished we could activate in a crisis. I knew him as the brother who was always there for us when we needed him, the one who was “the best in the class,” who was “full of jokes.” I knew him as the “older brother.” The one who was always full of wisdom. The one who was always ready with a quip. The one who was never perfect, but always striving to get it right. The one who was more like our father, always trying to help us, the superhero who would always rise to the occasion. The one who would always rise to the occasion when the monsters came for him, the one who was “the best in the class.” Before his red eyes became the usual glare that bleeds in the sunlight, I knew him as the superhero that we as kids saw. <|endoftext|> "Elegy for the Classic 'Cadillac' Car", by Oscar Smith [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Class] My mother always said there was a map we could make where we drove to a series of places and not the one at which a man had died for two weeks in a parked car, or the one in which his wife and two daughters, having woken from a nap to the sound of sirens, rose from their birches and their oaks and rushed to the scene. This time, my mother said, we would take the 'Cadillac' instead, and drive to the one of the mansions that stood on a hillside, like a house we had always wanted to live in. So we would park near the shore of Lake Michigan, in a place that was accessible from the interstate, and then climb a few small steps to the top, where we could look out over the water to the great lake bending over to touch the distant buildings. <|endoftext|> "There Is No Place Like Home", by Oscar Smith [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] for Ann Bradley, the '80s, and the never-to-be-released third part of a pentilogy that also includes Away from Never There is no place like home, or anyplace really, for that matter. A place where we come from is called a country, but we all know it doesn't have the same ring to it as the world's decentralized variations on a theme. Not the same, anyway. Not the same. The politics of place are not, as a rule, the politics of meaning. There is no meaning to speak of as our political views so passionately diverge. Still, it's funny to watch these two cute, black children change into their spurs and race along the curb to the beat of the humiliating George Michael dance while you watch them on a local news special grinning with delight at the shameless insolence of the national security state which, anyway, isn't that different from your own politics, which are really more like mine than they are like the government's. You don't understand the national security state, but you do understand that country, and the national security state knows you and loves you, and the national security state knows that you're connected to the government, which means that it's in the business of taking away your rights. It always brings you weapons. At the same time, however, I understand the national security state and how it works. After all, I understand the government as well as anyone, and I know how it works. My family moved around a lot as a family, from Illinois to Louisiana to Indiana, from Louisiana to North Dakota, and so on. We moved when my father was in his early thirties, and every time we left, we left something behind. We had no choice but to leave, no choice at all, and I can see how a place as old as America can leave nothing behind. I can see how the government can keep everything behind. When my father was a young man, he worked for the government, and when my father was in his fifties, he retired from the government, which is probably where he's gone now, doing what all the old people do as a matter of course. <|endoftext|> "Encounter", by William Matthews [Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] As I waited for morning, I thought of men like me, huge and erect, like trees, though I knew it was the noon sun throwing my shadow, like an atlas, onto the road. I thought of a young man who asked me on a date, and of a woman who called a waiter to tell him how much she loved him. And then I thought of you, a young man or a young woman who has ever walked out of your way to pass me on the street, have you never thought of me? <|endoftext|> "Little Ireland", by William Matthews [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] It seemed like everything. A bad dream that became real. An arbor made of willow. Cages made of artifice. A window full of broken glass. What had been willow, moss, and muck was hedgerow, thistle, and bramble. The hedgerow was real, too. The thistle and bramble were hedgerow. A window full of what was not willow, muck, and scratch. The muck and scratch, what had been willow, moss, and scratch. The hedge was unreal. There had been a hedgerow there. I had thought of the hedgerow as a bad dream, but now I thought of it as real. And everything was a bad dream, from the window into the arbor to the tweed cap and Oedipal star of the fox. Everything was a bad dream. I should have known. <|endoftext|> "Tract", by William Matthews [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] A pillbox on a pillbox. Pillboxes on pillboxes. All night, our pillboxes on the pillboxes. Our pillboxes on the roof of the city. Miles of red iron, bronze, and steely steel. This is not a country. This is no city. In here, on this floor, there is not enough room for all of us. A sleeping bag and a table and a bed. I know there are Russians down there. If I had to bet, I'd say they're NKVD [now the F.S.B.] And that they're searching through files for information about me. They know I've got a papers degree, but that's about it. They know that I can hack, but that's about it. They know that I've been in several high-profile jai alai positions. And that I can hack, and that I'm a student of the game. They know I'm a good hacker, too. We're all about the same age, and we all grew up in the same house. It's kind of funny how we all look alike. It's kind of funny how we all smell alike. We're all here because we like hacking. <|endoftext|> From the broadest waters to the windward side. The sound is heard far, beyond the waters, The sound of deep voices; all the sea Is one speaker to the sound of men. "From this strong city of ours, where ye dwell, "And from the sounds that reach us to the land, "I call you: Answer! Answer! Ye have heard!" And in the sound men hear no more the voice; But, deeper in the murmurous tide, Men hear a sinking sound; It is the living voice of a woman. "O noble men, who sail the stormy sea, "And see the distant hills afar afar-- "For you the answer: do not doubt. "When the great ship goes down, the sea has said "An answer. For you the answer is 'Yes.' "And when the boat is blown on the wild wind's wave, "The wind has answered: 'O noble men, "Ye shall have an answer from the land.'" All ye, all ye, sons of those who sleep Entombed in the ship by the way-side, Who have come back from the war and the fight, Who have gathered your wealth from various wars, Who have gathered your gains at various rates, Come, tell me, tell me, is the silver here That we have gathered for the hands of friends, Is the gold, the house, the lands of those who love us, Still in the hands of the mourners? And ye, all ye, Sons of the friends who have gone from us, All ye who hold in your hands the kindness That never yet deserted you in need-- Come, tell me, tell me, is the peace that remains Still in the hands of the lonely, or has it flown To the eyes that are blinded with a wind of death? "O men, O foolish men, you have not known us! "The ancient gods, whose old white hair is grey, "Whose old white hands we still can touch and feel, "What have they said of us, of our folly and sin? "I am afraid that they speak, and some day "Knowledge may take us out of this place." "O men, O foolish men, you have not known us; "Long ago we rose against your pleasure, "And we have suffered for our sins and weals "That we knew nothing of, but that you sought us. "We have known pain, we have wept, and endured, "And died for our dear imperfection, "And our white hairs are white, and our old age is grey; "O foolish men, you have not known us; "And the new gods, whose hands are small, "Who have forgotten all your old conceptions, "Who came with unfamiliar touches "And new beauties, and made us alter, "We, who have known you, cannot be changed, "Nor be changed, we, to your terms at least. "So we will take our child's tears and try to dry them; "So we will take the agonies of youth "And weave them into a robe of hope; "So we will take your hopes, your passions, "And try to feed them on the dregs of life. "For you, for you alone, have we been true, "For you alone have we been foolish and blind. "All our life long, have we been seeking you, "All our life long we sought you in vain; "Now, all our life long, your coming is come, "And we shall know you, one and all." So they wept, and there was no more of them, For the ship wellnigh touched shore. When the folk had passed from the funeral and the feast, From the scene of their folly and their sorrow and their sin, From the endless sleep of forgetfulness, from the darkness and the shame, From the realm of the shadow, from the domes of the moths and the vampires Unto the sunlight, toil, and day, and the moonlight, to men's eyes, Then the men gathered in the town and the camp, And the women wept with the men, And they spoke of the joy that was to be, And the sorrow that had been, and the life that was to be, Till the tears ran through their cheeks, And they said to one another, "We are weary in the ways of life, But we know that the tide of the voyage is better than the return, "But we have had our vision; we know it by the fruits of life, By the flowers that bloom, by the prickles that prick us, In the bark of the trees We have loved the mystery that was life to us, In the woodland and in the forest, By the stream and in the brook, We have asked of the moon its secret, By the stars the meaning of life, By the silence of death and of life, By the love of life that is awaking, By the shadow of death that is breaking, By the dawning of life that is breaking, And we have said with lips that have known wine, 'I am not afraid of death, For I am drinking life, I am eating death for food.'" The maidens have gathered the flowers of the garden, The flowers of the orange-grove and of the myrtle; They have stripped the leaves from the banyan tree, They have taken the breath of the heavens For the wine they have shed, For the wine of the love of their lord And the love of their mistress. Now they stand by the bars Of the great gates of the city That have caught the evening-light, And they smile in the face of their lord And the master of their house, And the maidens of the household Look in the face of their men-servants And their lowly women-servants That they know not. There the gaunt old fox that sits on the clover Has not changed his look, But the mouth that is bristling with hair of gray hair And the eyes that are bright and the ears that are long Have not changed in all the years of their days Since that long-eyed year When the Moon made him shy And the Gray-Fox shook in the heat of the terror That was the year of the cayman. Still the clover-hatched and bristled, Still the fox that sat on the clover Has not changed his look, But the breasts that are bared in the heat of the struggle And the eyes that are past all belief Have not changed in all the years of their days Since that long-eyed year When the Gray-Fox shook in the heat of the struggle That was the year of the cayman. Through the heat of the struggle That was the year of the cayman They went to the fragrant valley And they heard the vales sing And the young flowers bend And the blossoms of the trees Wove a gay garland And cast small shadows All about the feet of the ladies That they knew. They went through the fragrant valley For a space Till the vales grew still again, And they saw the soft white flow'rs And the hills so white And the hills so gray, And they heard the white wings of the birds Pass overhead And pass all unnoticed By the ladies of the landscape That they knew. Through the midst of the valley They went on Where the young flowers bent And the hills so gray And the hills so golden Beheld again The silver splendor of the Summer And the splendor of the Moon. And the hills so white And the flowers so white That they knew, and they knew not, That the Summer and the Moon Were one, were one. I look in the eyes of my children, And I see the eyes of a girl and a boy, Of my oldest daughter when she was twenty, And I see the eyes of my youngest son, And I see them both through the memories Of a woman I have known in my youth, And I hear the voices of men and women Who have known them also, And I see them as I have never seen them, Through the wonder of my childhood dreams. I go to the window and look in the Sky, And I watch the fleecy clouds go up and up, And I watch the silver stars as they go and go, Till I see the gleam of them through the reeds by the shore, And I hear the sound of the waves in the quiet river, And I hear the chime of the bell from the chapel above, And I see the figures of Saints in the clouds as they pass, And I see the face of Mary, the Virgin Mother, <|endoftext|> Is mickle lowmyrre and nede, To read them to the courtie Queene In Courtly London; But to me they were never so As now, my dear Donaham. Wee'l to ourselves awa we fyke, We will we'u worter o'er the woods, To yonder lonely lake, Whare the merle and mavis cry In the dear Highland tongue. 'Twas ae night's bright dew-fall, And the syre was blithe that morwe When I cam' o'er the mountains hame, To see your precious Sister. Weel comency, Gude be with you, I' mae, When the lamp at rosy dawn was lit, O'er hills and dales the smiling dawn Brought a sense of peace and joy to me; The new-risen moon, with silver salt, Through the dew-mist fed the willing sky, When we were puny twain, that now Are one in age as nature is To me. The sun o'er mist and hill and dale Shone on my dwallen hills like burnished gold, That now appear to high delight; For the last smile of nature is like This her last gleam to me; And I love, as I have lain in death, To look upon your face again. Last night, when fern-tops shook in the wind, And myrtle-tops and hawthorn-tops were stirred To trembling in the blast; The rose at twilight trembled in the boughs, For Aurora sat in the east, And the king-cups quaked in the vale, For the sweet moon in the west. Then I arose and hurried to the shed, For I knew the day was nigh, And I left my happy side nigh Nottingham, For the homeward way, that glid With the faint gray light o'er the sea, And the wan wind on the white sea. And I never thought that Aurora Could be thus overpowered; But I knew, by the wan light of heaven, And the wan light o'er the sea, That she was bent to meet her North! For I know her heart to be true, My other love is seen In the light of morning, seen In the sweet light of morn! Then to my place by the shed I came, And the moonbeam on the wall, And the hill with its virgin train, And the white sea, and the waves that swim, And the surging air; Were all sweet with the love of the moon And the love of the sea. I will arise and make for the sea, And see the gracious heavens; I will arise and see the sheeted foam Like a clad maid, to roll and flee From the girl I love, to meet In the dance of the sleeping sea! But a fire-tail on a lightning-spin Blazed in my brain; And I longed to be away from the fold, Where the Saints are pent, And the noise o' the world that cheers The heart of a man of the world! I will arise and make for the sea, And let the fire depart, And weep by the sheeted foam, Like a clad maid, to roll and flee, From the girl I love, to meet In the dance of the sleeping sea! On he sped, and a heart as of steel Plied like a horse, And his poor prey, a darkening thought, Fell under his tread; Till he came to the margin of the bay Where the ships are sunk, And he looked back at the world, and then He looked back at her. She lay by the long grey strand, (I knew she had not wasted Hath left her the clouted wave) As still as the last bell-wether That counted day by day Across the living land! I raised my head; but no face met mine, As I turned my feet, And there fell a heap of old sands Where the blue bay had been, And the long line of the bay-lead Was not more slain. I looked again, and lo! she lay All heart's-ease on the sand, And in her arms, a broken life, I found a maid, I thought, and could not speak. How far it are with love to wend, When even the very stars are flown, I know not; but surely I remember, When the thick summer is grown hoary And night on the haggard hills has bent To psalm and psalm, There is a quiet music that falls Like a long, soft rain Through shut windows of a house that is empty. So let me now give thee a sign (For I do know thy soul doth seek After all empty things), This silver peacock of the wind That claps his lovely wings In saffron o'er his tangled hair! So let me now give thee a sign, And swear by the mystic dark That, if thy soul be set On anything that I say, Thou must find it so As fills but ill its narrow cup That, out of all the rest, It will not go astray. So, may thy lies never go right, Nor thy sighs ever find The right that is hidden under, But a blind toplet do spy In the hair of thine head; And if thou take this feather-bud I do not give it back! Thy hairs are as pale as snow, But they are as dark to me; And never, never, oh, never Shall a soul that is free Trust the colour of thine egg. Now let the world have what it will From thee I did not take; And let this well-told tale Of a thing that befell Ere the sun had put back his head And the earth been shaken by a shower Of golden rain, Fill up the sad moments still That the years do fill. How little do they know that they spoil The beauty of a face with care, That love is like a golden thread Spun in a golden coil, Never as strong or as whole As when it first was spun! Now let the world have what it will From thee I did not take; And let this well-told tale Of a thing that befell Ere the sun had put back his head And the earth been shaken by a shower Of golden rain, Fill up the sad moments still That the years do fill. I did not know that life could be So beautiful as it is, I did not know that there was a sky So clear and blue and fair, So full of cloud, and sun, and air, So full of glorious things. I knew that men were vile and cold And heaven was distant far, I knew that love was bitter-sweet And bitter was deceit, I knew that heaven lay in the eyes Of man, but I did not know That it lay in my eyes. I knew that love was like a rose Plucked from its bed, I knew that shame was a worm that crawled Through man and woman, I knew that heaven lay in the lips Of man, but I did not know That it lay in my lips. I knew that life was sweet and gay In spring and summer weather, I knew that death was destroyed soul And bitter sorrow, But I did not know that there was A heaven where all things are well And the end is sweet indeed. I knew that woman's white lips smiled And soft and young, I knew that heaven lay in her eyes And heaven lay in his, But I did not know that there was A heaven above his head. We were not made for each other; Men are made for work and war, Women for laughter and play; Why then make for each other Such idle, foolish vows? I will break them with my heart And count it joy to know That there is one for me above, One heaven for me below. The grasses grew about her bier When she was dead and done to rest; The flowers were pale and torn and withered And all the earth held a sickly light. The dead leaves lay upon the sod In worlds gone by, and would not stir Until a soul came along and lit The sickly light. The dead leaves and the dead blossoms Are standing in the world that is dead; They are standing in the world that is dead, Dead that was beautiful and gay, Dead that would not have been a part Of anything sad or strange. And yet they are standing here and here <|endoftext|> What at night we have to eat But cooks and a sign? So it's come to this, I guess, To make my country free And bury the old white men Who could not see the dawn. Your friend, William Meredith Died yesterday, four days ago; And you will find among his writings The name of this very room. The name will come before your very eyes Among the writings of his name, As the name of this very room. His death-writing is written with a pen That grows more white with use, and we In his home had never met before And no word to speak in sorrow of him Before he died, save one that we wrote. We wrote it after hearing nothing more Than usual from his wife, until she said She had a letter from him, written while he was ill, Urging her to come home. She is sixteen years old, And the dearest, sweetest little flower we ever saw. We are all very glad to see her. She Will be a little void in our midst, And, as always, we shall do our best to make The house a refuge for those who need it. We miss her already, and when she Returns from her visit, we expect to find Some change of heart, which had been dimming Among his sorrowing heart-strings since his illness. I was a little flower When Spring came. I stood in Hymen's church And sung well, but not well enough, Nor long enough, alas, To be of any account. I am a little flower again, And my glory is a little woe Which I've had enough of hiding. I long to show it to men, And stand before them as the one In whom the whole flower shone forth again, Before it had melted into air. I am a little flower, alas, And I shall not flower again. We make the finest wreaths, And sell them in the towns for gold; And these in Father's name do we Roll up on golden spits, And serve them to our saviours, To take with them into the world When we die. There is something in a small pot Made of tin, Made of birch-wood, And filled with a single world's seed, That makes for pleasant feasting Upon the winter's cold, If the pot be warmly used, And good guests are in the house. The little black dress that you see Standing over by the door, The little black dress that you see Standing in the doorway, The little black dress that you see Standing in the kitchen Was a wedding dress, my girl, That one of us wore to be. I was that one who married her, And it was quite a party, And everybody praised her so, And I did not care at all, And now she is dead and gone And in the little black dress That one of us wore to the feast That was three years ago. He had a scar on his lip That she made him, It was from pulling her lip, Which when you see Is a thing that you will understand. And if you don't mind what I say, I have a little bit of news Which if you ask for, It will surely make good rhyme And keep your mind from a fall. The little black dress that you see Standing over by the door Is a wedding gift of a daughter, To somebody. Of course he is free, And doesn't look it, And never had a chance; But if you would vote in General! He would have won by a nose. You see the little black dress That stands there by the door Is a wedding present of a son, To somebody. There's a scar on his lip From pulling her lip, Which when you see Is a thing that you will understand. The scar would have been deeper If he had not have stopped, And now he looks good and tight In his little black dress. You can never guess, of course, Who had what under the seal. I mean if you will take Anything into your mouth That wasn't offered before. The little black dress That stands there by the door Is a wedding present of a daughter, To somebody. So you won't try to fill our sister, Who died just a week ago; She died at twelve o'clock, She died as she was bed-ridden, And didn't stir once. She lay there, her bed, And never stirred an inch, And now she is at rest, And can never die again. I had a little man, And he went with me, He went with me down the street, He went with me to the store; But he won't come back, He is all weary. I haven't got no use for him A little black dress, And a little black bag, And a little black face. I want you, little girl, To take care of my little man, And kiss him where he bleeds. Don't you remember that night The sky was overcast, And the fires had not come; And the wind was shrieking shrill, And the rain was pouring down? The birds in the wood were singing, And the children were playing, And the old man ate his dinner All alone at the table. He said to the little girl, "Do not cry, And push the buckets as fast As you can; For the good master is very hungry, And there is never a chance for a quiet board If the fire is not green." And he took the little black bag And lit the fire. And the smoke in the little black bag Went up the chimney; And the master thought he would be sorry If the fire was red. But the smoke up the chimney Came from the chicken coop, And it looked as white As the tea-tray on the table; And the old man said, "The sky is falling, The sky is darkening; And all the birds are singing the same, And the birds have ceased their singing, And the stars are twinkling In the old rusty half-glory; And the night winds are shrieking And the house is silent With the leaves on the tree. But the old man said, "Be quick, For the master is hungry, And there is never a chance for a quiet board If the fire is not green." The sky is overcast With a cold and rainy wind, And the fire is red On the hearthstone cold; And the little old man Sits beside the fire With a big and shining eye. "I have caught mice And frogs in my own way, And a rat a little way, And a little worm too. And now I have caught a bird, In a little black bag, In the crack of the floor." And he took it from the fire With a big and shining eye, And the bird was a lucky hit, For he came straight down the chimney. And he fluttered out at the end, Just over the old man's knee, And he had as many feathers As on his coat-tail. And the old man picked him up And set him on the table; And the bird was a spotted hit, For he had feathers as bright As the fire of the moon. And he waved and fluttered in a way That pleased the old man very much, And he winked his big and shining eye, And he said, "Hello, old boy!" And the little boy picked him up And set him down on the floor Where the old man's eye was looking; And he held the little bird close, And he said, "Hi, little birdie!" In a low and dark way, And the old man cried, "Alack! The night winds are shrieking, And the bird has escaped!" But the bird has escaped! And it's climbing the trees, And it's flying through the window, And I hear the old man call, "Little birdie! Come back! And I want to kiss you, too! Come back to the fire!" But the birdie heard the call, And she came down to the fire Under the old man's cloak; And she fluttered down again Right over the old man's knee, And she spread her little wings, And she said, "Little birdie! Come! I want to be your happy friend, For I'm very lonely." And the little birdie fluttered down Under the old man's knee A third time, on the fire side, And she spread her little wings <|endoftext|> Yet as the flood came down he was drowned. Whence wearily he rambled along, Nor paused to rest, but on he swept, While the waning daylight gleaned low The moss-grown pathway for his feet. Before him dragged a dreary way Through the forest's darkness, bleak and brown. Then to the northern ridge he drew And sought the northern slopes again, Where, there, the streamlet glimmered bright And the forest trees were mute. He gazed and gazed, but saw nor man Nor hound, nor rustling of the leaves Amid the forest's darkness fell, And thought 'It is with him alone.' And so he lived, and many a day Passed, and he knew not that he lived. O Love! they called him many a name, Love, the divine, the final word To all our saying and lament, When we had said and done our say, With death upon the winding shore, And the last child to the mother's breast Had crossed the moat of dying years. And there are names beside, the most dear For different reasons, as men use For various ends our many words; And, as he moved among our men, I heard the name Love many times. And, as he moved among our people, I thought the name of Love his own, As if by common speech approved, As if by popular acclaim The mighty heart of Love were known. 'T was long ago, and long before That word-love touched my lips in rhyme, As o'er my lips it sometimes dripped, Till the young word sang itself to rest, And left my heart in music lay. The new love touched my heart too, it seems, And left my love in music sound, For, as he loved me once, I thought That the great love of late was mine. I cannot praise the new love long; He has gone out into the world, And that is all that I can do To praise that holy thing he did, Or praise the love that was with him. My dear, my dear, I cannot say Another word except to go. Farewell, my love, I cannot say Another word save to say adieu. Farewell, for to thy bright eyes I go, And to my devotions fall. I cannot say another word Except to go. To-night all silent are the hollowness Of all the sounds we hear. And sometimes, with a strange ache, I wake and listen, waiting For the sounds to wake and understand The emptiness that aches for speech. But all of us have our words, we know. We all have words to say goodbye, But no words to say hello. And so we wait for the next act, And hear the audience saying farewell, Till, one by one, we go our ways, Each one alone, with the irrevocable - Word on his lips, or on his mind. My love, my love, Have you a daughter That one night of the year Should brave the blithe cold of February And a long snow to bring to birth, That one cold night in an endless line, And bring to nursery day A name that none shall doubt, Though many mothers weep, Many fathers groan, Many lads are happy to be boys. Have you a son, That one long march of summer weather And a hot wind and a dreary tide And a good stout yeoman and a pretty red rose That, when the rose is a girl, Shall grow into a lusty bride With eyes like night and a heart like security, And joy in his reckoning, And peace in his steps, And love to his lady in the sky? O, when a lad I played, A lad I played, A boy, a lad, a summer day in June, A sunny June, a sunny June, a sunny June. The lark sang, and the skylark sang, The boy played out his way to play, The long bright path of his haste he took, And aye the gleams and glooms he wept And aye the sunshine shed, And the lad's heart sang as his footsteps heaves, And aye the bushes that growed in the way, He kissed their beauties, he kissed them all, The tender fields and the brooks and the dark, The reeds and the little hills of moisture, He kissed them all, he kissed them all, And o'er his lips they flowed a rosy wine, He drank it up, and was a hero then. A lad I played, A lad I played, The long bright path of my haste I took, And aye the gleams and glooms he wept And aye the sunshine shed, And the lad's heart sang as his footsteps heaves, And aye the bushes that growed in the way, He kissed their beauties, he kissed them all, The tender fields and the brooks and the dark, The reeds and the little hills of moisture, He kissed them all, he kissed them all, And o'er his lips they flowed a rosy wine, He drank it up, and was a hero then. My love is like to apples in bloom; Sweet are her lips as roses do at eve; Her breast is ivory as sunset skies; Her heart as heaven, and all her eyes like day. There is no hand that looks her in the face But it draweth some sweet memory of things done, Some trace of how men loved her in the old days. She is as fair as Diana, or more fair; There is none hath this unto her akin, She is more lovely than a poet's dream. My love is like a summer's day; His face is like the highest star That rises in all the sun's display. Her breast is like a deep rich dye That heats a red rose to redder red. His eyes are like the lily's best, His lips are like a nightingale's singest song. O, I have known the rapture of old When lovers walked in gentle rivulets Of talk about their loves and pretty; But nothing comes close to the bursting Of their second fortune now of course. And I could almost expect no more From lips so delicate and breath so rare, Unless it be a god's first-begotten son Brought up to be an upholder of the tongue. O, I have known the dreadful passion of old When lovers leaped and |leaped| about the field, Lashing their horses with their wanton lash, Soothing them with some piping or Stoic smack. But this is grown to look as silly as The fury of the fury-fury beast When he has mated with a white ewe and sown His tawny spercheth with white pied cherry-boughs. O, I have known the passion of fierce desire When lovers wrangled, punched, and swore so long That at last they leapt together on the bed And gazed into each other's uncloseable eyes And sweated off their hearts in such a strain As would make any God halt in his ring And hear their trembling passion in his pot. But such is men's impatience to consecrate What is above a mortal's purview, That men have sworn to make mortal death to keep This precious kiss transcending a mortal pair. I have known the passion of the sharp delight, When lovers walked in silks and satin like the true And noble sex, and reveled in each other's glance, With much untroubled conversation between, Of what they knew and what they had done and would do And how they must put a summer day a day. But men are too eager in their eagerness To worship beauty and the virtue of youth, And it is not until they have tasted breath Of elder and of maiden and of hour, That they are satisfied with anything. I have known the passion of the sweet delight, When lovers leered and stared and whispered and smelt, With dancing and song and laughing and all the fun Of meeting and partings and renewing letters; And at last they rose and walked in the street, Close-kissed, and parted, and the summer day Went gliding through the orchard, and they kept In memory, and in memory they thought They saw her in the park that was closed to her, And laughed and parted, and the evening fell, And they walked home in the twilight, and the sun Began to pale, and they walked in the park, And after they parted and the day was done They met again and met again, and saw How time flies and summer loves the most, And time went and came and kissed them by the way, <|endoftext|> And count her price before, I wot, Is not the price of love, my son! "The world, that knows not pity's law, Lets sin blight the human heart; And while the unsparing seasons come, A myriad deaths defile the earth! But if her only sin is found She shall not know the pleasures of love. "And if it be my lot to see This little creature weeping sore, Then I will give her my last care, And when I pass away she shall Feel my great compassion in vain." "Then, dearest, for her sake I pray, And for your own, that you be not slack To bless a blessing with too much zeal, But hold to thy purpose true and tight In season gathering or in leaking." A king, who saw a beggar's son His generosity amiss, Added: "Be merciful--he shall dwell With princes on a heap of gold." Again a beggar's son replied: "Deign thou to command? I do obey." "O son of Adam!" the king said, "For this will I spend a precious thing, A gift so dear by God decreed, And as thou sayest now keep it well!" He caught the golden pen, the king, The lord of men, stretched forth his hand. The beggar's son his gift received, The king was satisfied, and henceforth This gift and this receipt were held By Christ, Almighty, there on high, And by his apostles on earth. If thou art lowly, Lord, come forth To bless the poorest rich man's door; And if thou art exalted, Lord, Send thy blessed presence to the poor, To comfort them as they labor; And if thou art ever-blest, Come to the world and be our Trust. If thou art the lowly one, Then is the higher situation; The Father's throne is nearer, His kingdom is an hour's coast-point, There the blessed babe with saints is playing "I see the Lord, who wades With fishermen night and day." The whole earth's a sight for sore And the poor man's heart is woe, The rich man's heart is a feast-house, His guests are "God hath willed it so." We have wandered long, we have wandered long, And we have wandered down the road to Troy; And the o'er-wearied heart forgets to suffer, And the weary soul grows weary of its dreaming. We have wandered long, we have wandered long, And the o'er-cried out aloud, and we have cried, As our stammering accents came and went by, With its suffering many men's mingled speech. Ah, the wisest among men is he Who hath never had of his own household cow, But who has kept the herd of charity alway. So he who had the riches of His grace Was content to shelter with charity; So he who had the anguish of His grace Was content to shelter with patience; So he who had the pride of His grace Was content to shelter with humility. Thou who hast overcome the world Hast left the hoarded blessings with the strong; They gleam like diamonds on the armour of war, They thrill men to the force of deeds of old, As they fall on the threshold of the gate. And when thou art yet afar away, Then we behold with tears of surprise The gold like fire, the jewels like frost, The garments like fire, the splendours like snow, And our hearts lie bare, and thou art there. As they crossed the battle-ground, He took his sceptre in his hand, And looked on Edmund with a smile, As they stood by the fallen man. He touched the dying man; his eyes grew bright, And the deadly fever left his limbs. Then he turned and he spoke in truth, "This is my son," he said, "my only son, And I have come to bid you farewell. The long years have caught us by surprise, And I know not how to greet you. I pray you to be of good cheer, For I have no power to change my mind." "Thou hast the power to change your mind, Dear father, and I have a part To play in that play, if it be so. But if the chances be you love this child, So long as I am your husband, I will be true, for I have sworn it, And my word shall outcap thy oath." He looked at her, and he smiled, As she took the ring from his hand, And said, "What I have heard you say I have heard, and what I have seen you see, And what I have felt, and I have felt, But you are free to do as you think right, And you can judge how far my power extends; I have given my word, but it is to bind As you have given your word, dear father, And I have taken the promise you have made, That you would love this child, and I will trust you With that love, as I trust that you will keep That word I told you of, 'no father's touch.' For you can be the father of aye Though your heart has never had the sign of father, And your hand never has shaken a son's." The old man heard her. With a haughtiness At last he answered, "I shall be your son, And I shall love you, as I love my son." And with that word he leapt on his horse And away he rode through the desert land. And in the fierce distance to and fro He raced with a bound. The scorched lips of dust Were redder than his horse's neck and sides. The wind was high that night, and the sky was bright With a lustre that mocked the light of the moon. With a loud cry Edmund lifted his head, And he shouted to his man, "Look, see, the moon! That's the very hour to cut the wood, lad, And we can make the camp in two days. It is all downhill, but the way is wide; Let's ride till we drop, for the way is wide." And they rode till they dropped, for the way was wide, And they rode with a bound for a plain that lay wide Before them as the realm of the sunset spread. And they rode till they dropped in a valley fair, Where a sparkling fount with a silvery sound Rang all around, and there were sweet birds that sang, And there was an old temple with towers that gleamed, And the wild vines clung in beauty to the walls, And the cool grass was breath-taking to tread, And the thin-footed doves flew clangently by, And the branches of the trees were thin and tall. But the hot lips of dust over the horse's brow Blistered and blued, and the cheeks of the boy were pale, And the sweat dripped from the fierce horse's flank and chest, And the dust fell in flecks from the dying sun, And the breeze passed in lightning, and the scorching heat Grew and grew till they thought it would never cease; For the heat was on them, and they were far from the ways Where the horses swung and the thirst of the land Was not, and the sun was in their eyes, and they rode Down the long, hot, dusty day, till the shadows fell. And Edmund said, "O the wild, long day we rode! O the wind and the heat! But it is not so. God is good. We are not dead. We are not dead." The clear-Topminter was draining in the moon, The water was still, the towers were still; But up through the dark, the voices were ringing clear, And the men were white with the fear of the night. "They are dead, they are dead, they are dead," said one, "And their guns are blowing in the stars." Then they climbed to the topmost pitch, The long green way of the long way; And the wind was a moaning in the bones Of the crags as they rode. And they saw, in the clear Topminter, Drink through the moon like a gold snake, And the dead night dipped her chin And the stars were a-lift on their lids. "Look up," they said, "thou who hast been The guider of this way. And if the night be a hard shroud Ringing our lips with a ghastly fear So cruelly, if the heat of the fight Be the heat of a forge, Loose we the trees from the shore, And draw up the tide." <|endoftext|> And now his furious blow A victim of thine arm hath claimed. LXXVI. "My bow to fair Astyanax I bring, Whose ivory horn with gold is girt; But, did a Fates agent cross my way, Thy fleet, fearless, would have caused his end. Take this, and tie the string away, And place it safe within thy breast; But if some Fates agent cross thy way, And make thee fear, then bind the string away, And, safe in heart, make thee prepare." LXXVII. Then Juno: "My purpose was to speak, But Jove's thunder shakes the heav'ns' assembly. That troop, which late with ease I surround, 'Tis Jove himself, who holds them fast. My shaft shall not the glitt'ring shafts bestow, Nor lance, nor spear, but he, who 'scapes my blow, My second in fame, shall bear away." LXXVIII. She spake. Then first she pierced Meriones, Who stood beside his buckler in the fight, And pointed at it with his spear. "Thou fight'st Shun to pelt," he said, "unto Saturnian Jove, And I, who shrank from battle's most dire toil, For this received a limb in danger sever'd, But for a mortal arm has ta'en away my hand." LXXIX. Thus spoke the corybant. Meriones replied, And thus inflamed, with words like these, his foe: "Say then, (what time the sages tell the tale) If nought the rage of Rhesus, your disdain, You'll take my shield, and nought my armor; But give me leave to bear away my sword, And, wounded, leave my life behind you all." LXXX. These words, when Sansonnetto heard, he feigns; And feigns not; but that same ghostly disguise Makes Sansonnetto believe, and invites To the disguise the Trojan. Straight the shades depart, And in the Trojan's shape the spirits dwell. But, when the dead, for Phoebus, tears he pour'd, "So may thy blade, e'en Sansonnet," he cried, "Cut down a hundred trees, and cut them down With ten fruits bearing, and ten fountains flow'r'd." LXXXI. Then turning to the sire: "Haste, Juno's son! The Fates are all our friends. Go thou and hearken. What hope has Troy? For toils, for woes, for wars, This Trojan sees; but Fate withstands the stroke. What toils, what woes has Hector to endure? When shall his portion of the spoil be mine? If Jove withstand his doom, and spare to slay, What whispers then may Turnus' ears afford?" LXXXII. He said, and vanished. Then the sire, to steer His son from ill, with speech like these replied: "Think not, proud Turnus, that thy words shall fly To those who are afar. 'Twere wrong, indeed, If the Sire would his Son thus bluntly blame. The Fates are all our friends; the Fates, alas! Will give thee, if by Troy 'tis spilt, a way. So may not well thy doom, nor may thy hand The Phrygians' warlike sons detain from fight, But bear thee with them, and send thee to Rome." LXXXIII. He said; and in his place, with speed divine, An augur stood, and thus, presaging, spoke: "The God of Heaven hath show'd thee future peace, And tempests, and deadly battle, and the wave Of mortal blood; but far away from these Is other fate, a life of sweeter kind, When Turnus, when the foe hath yield'd the field, And honour and revenge have paid the loss, And Turnus, victor, bears the spoils of war. Then may'st thou safely cross the yawning main, Nor fear, for any evil, aught but Time's cold rod." LXXXIV. Then Juno's self, the Thunderer, known for long, Stood forth, the god who in a doubtful hour Of trouble often knew the best, and spoke: "O virgin mother! and hast thou yet been taught To waste such precious seed? the turning world To turn to thee, for thee to bring to birth, What happier country is there? what good, what bliss, Is like thy son? what bright Jupiter can show Which may not Turnus win, if he comply? What else for war was dauntless Hector made? He was not yet a coward. He, when made By violence of arms his life a price To buy thy peace, forgave his father's blood, For so he was beguiled. Thou, when thy heart Beholds the fates of nations, say, 'I warn Hector to combat: if he overcome The Trojans, I will share his guilt; If he repent and wroth forget the war, A 10,000 dinar bonus I will give, And send him to his country.' If from this Thou would'st turn my counsel, first consult Thy mother's company, and then impart. For I would fain advise, as also you." LXXXV. So saying, the Thunderer rests the monarch-born. Meanwhile, as Turnus wavers, and is wavering, Brave Ufens and Progne, who the watch has set, And for the queen has every tidings told, Of the return of the absent brothers, Direct to Calydon they go, and hie Into the house; but Faunus follows after. They find the two, and tell the sad news; And to them Turnus gives the coffer. "Take this," he said; "the presents which we bore From the old kings, and give to either side." The other takes, and with a graceful mien His people hail him. He has slain indeed A thousand, and long on the coast has laid A chariot, and a charioteer, and steeds And arms, and gold, and jewels, and untold store Of goodly victual, and hath left not much Behind him; but by Lycian winds borne back His scattered army he hath lost. LXXXVI. Meanwhile, on either side, in fight and fear, All things fly. Ufens first, who from the fray A noble warrior bore, but in his flight Was pierced by Doryclus, the son of Maimune, And, dying, drove him from his country's field. Then Progne flew to arms against the son Of Hector, but he with his long vengeful blade All his left side severed, and upon the ground Exulting raised his hands upon the skies, And swore to bring him down. Then Turnus flew Down to the plain; he smote him with his spear, And he who made the rest quit their ground, Ere yet he swooned, thus address'd his foe: "Lie there, thou Quick-foot, mortal fear!" He said, and thus was given him to drink. LXXXVII. With down-dropp'd head, Sarpedon he saw, And from amid his companions drew, And smote him on the neck with all his weight, And rent the tendons. His comrades gazed In wonder; glad they saw him, and in haste They hied them together, and the ship Haul'd to the land. Then, scarce less eager grown, Ufens ran about, the son of Probas, And from him pierced Sarpedon, and, dead, Drove the whole battle to the main. LXXXVIII. Then Turnus, rising from the deck, In deep regret of the slain he rode, And, sitting, on the ground his head Pressed, and in tears of sorrow thus he said: "Thou hast fall'n, thou Turnus, like a god, And from the soil the golden fleece Hast from the loins of Hecuba kept. Thou hast fall'n, but not unpunish'd seem'd, That mortal man should wrest the spoil. For this I weep, and with a broken heart I see thee, whom the Trojans seek, Thee Turnus, cause of so much ill, And all my hopes and joys are fled." LXXXIX. Thus as he spoke, he smote him with his spear, And quitted seldom, and, his arms all waste, Forsook the deck, and stood amid the bay. <|endoftext|> The deeper furrows pour Through the sunshine-darkened land. Here, where the last soft sunbeams fall, Far in the valley, when the light Slowly and reluctantly is gone, Stands the old house with its moss-grown doors Here, through whose wide and crumbling steps The silence creeps and enfoldeth all. The silence that no mumbling breeze doth stir Nor murmuring bird nor whispering bee. On the green and mossy lawns that lie Here in the valley, 'neath the trees, The glow-worm bright, from field to field, Lights the pale ease of evening there. In the noonday of the summer day How the turf is shaken and driven, How the glow-worm lights and sinks and dances! How the flowers are shaken and driven, And the birds are silent and mute! In the noonday of the summer day, 'Neath the pale and sinking skies, How the glow-worm casts and changes light, How the flowers are changed and cast, How the oak-tree's shadow lies On the golden grass and rubbish there! In the noonday of the summer day, How the woods are shaken and driven, And the foliage bends and shifts, How the dusky pools are shadowed and driven And the sunshine dies and slips! Out of the hollow in my breast Murmurs a laughing hollow; Dullest of all that whisperings In a dumb, sluggish throat. I could have love and hate for thee, For thy dullness and thy loudness, Thy littleness and out-lore Thou art most perfect, Critic-Man; For thy little mind and big, Thy God-given, unmade-up mind, Thy man-given, man-made mind. I stand in the hollow where The unkind words, the bitter word, The poisoned arrow flies; A withered hand flings its dart, It falls on the still, dead hand Of the mouldy Demon of Silence. Hear'st thou the noise of the sea Beneath thy sky-sheltered head? Beneath thy sky-sheltered head Fold by the curtains of snow The red sails of the summer sea. Hear'st thou the rush of the surf In the white breakers that peep On thy sun-scorched beaches bare, Where the tide waxes and wanes 'Mid the heaving, heaving sea? Hear'st thou the roar of the sea Beneath thy sky-scorched head? O dullest of the dullest slaves, Dread Lord of the World-dominating City, Down to thy hollow in the sea Stoop, though thou hast no wings to rise, And bow thy ear unto the voice Of the unpeopled, the warring, the homeless, Of thy unpeopled, warring, homeless world. O Lord, O God, O constant child Of Light that is upon the wall, Of the wall that moves as the sea-tide moves, Move thou to my unsealing, To my stirring, To my sudden, To my sacred emergence From the impenetrable dark To the unignorable day. In the old times (and all times before us bear the seal of those days), All the wise and clever of mankind had their peevish and cringing-like religions; And the abbot of a monastery, or the chaplain of a abbey, Had a beard as long as oxen's, or rather much longer, And the friar had beard as long or longer still, And they had yoked horses and buckled horses to their reins, And they rode out, or they drove out, or they sent horses forth, To take and sack the villages of the Hebrews, or to chase and slay the tribes of Israel. In the days of Charles the First, a wise and cunning king, Aged though he was, and old, and sorely wounded, Yet he held out longer, and longer, and longer, Than any other king, not counting his nephew, King Caraheu, who was slain about the year 1260, While the king was sitting at the siege of Worms. And Charles waxed strong and great, as brother should be, And his nobles had castles and houses and lands, And they drank and dined in their chambers, and their halls, In their gilded halls with their gold and ivory, In the gardens of the king of Gath. And there was laughter in the north and north-east, And the people cried, as over the sea, Till the king of Gath heard it, and he wondered, And he said in his heart, How can this be? And he said, and straightway he banished the folk In the years of Charles the First the Romans laid great rivers, Great lakes and inlets, under eagles' wings, To the eastward and the westward, to the southward and the northward, The pale-faced men to the seaward, The pale-faced men, the pale-faced women, to the farther and deeper water, To the extreme westward, and the Roman rivers, And the Thames came running to the ocean, And Caractacus came from the mountains, In the time of Charles the First, to Charles the Second, And the Thames was turned back to the ocean, And the Severn set westward to the ocean, And the North Sea northward to the ocean, And he built a bridge from the westward to the eastward, To join the Tees: And he built a bridge like a prisoner's, And he said in his heart, I will not let you cross; And he built a bridge, and never more would cross, And the Tees were emptied of the nations, And the Thames was turned to the ocean, And the Severn lay dead in the ocean, And the North Sea turned to the ocean, And the Thames was dry as the dust, And the Thames again was joined to the ocean. 'The Thames is full of water, The Thames is full of fishers, The Thames again is full of fishermen, And the fishermen rejoiced.' Said the lord of Linlithgow, The lord of Linlithgow to Fergusson, 'I have heard it said, and I think it true, That the Tees were full of men, and the Thames was full of water, And the Severn full of seafowl, and the Thames again was full of water, And the fishermen cried to the kings of the sea, The lords of the sea were angry, The kings of the sea were angry, And they said to the fishers of the waters, "Seize and bind him, that ye may take him To the halls of the king of Scotland, That he may be manacled, And shall be bound and manacled, While he knows not his own thoughts, Or his own thoughts shall know them not." But the fishers seized on Fergusson, And they bound him with a cord on his hands, And they led him to the king of Scotland, And they set him in the royal mansion, That he should know if he had known them, And he knew not his own thoughts, Or his own thoughts should know them not. And the fishers took their toll of him, And they set a great price on his head, And they made Fergusson hear and know, By marks they set on his eyelids, And on his lips a strange mark, And on his throat a strange mark, And they asked him, Would ye sell your liberty, And would we take it from you, And should we take it from you, Then your wives, and your children, And the friendship of your own kin, And the friendship of the English, And the friendship of your Dutch brother, And the friendship of the Frenchmen, And the friendship of the Irishmen, And he said to the kings of the sea, "Seize on your way homeward, But let me live to go no more, And I my vessels and mates, And my faithful Albino, And my black-blue back-bonnet, And my fishing-line and tackle, And my bait all sable, And my bait all scarlet." But the fishers bade him adieu, And the kings of the sea went homeward, And they left him in his station, And he went on board, and cast him With his fisher's-boat adrift, And he loosed him and freed him, And he cut him in with hooks and line, And he landed him all well, All but a purse of gold and silver, And that was ever in doubt. <|endoftext|> Or just the misery of your lot? How fair the pleasure, how strange the pain, Thine or my own, when, united we are, (All's safe, 'tis yours and mine), When held as gods, th' exalted race to which The sportive herdsman perchance may move With ease, and unite the destin'd pair; How well he loves whom Nature pens to kiss, Whom Nature pens to yield their royal sweets, Till they grow weary of it, and out-live The wild beasts which did not chuse but choose So rude a world to be a leaf within. Nor might it, surely, be in Nature's plan To show us two unequal things with equal charms, The one of majesty, and of strength enormous, The other effeminate, and half a slave. Yet, strangely queer it seems to mark the brave To march in majesty, and feel the soul Beats both at once, like mortal men and beasts; Strangely queer it seems, that souls should be to these Less like to iron, than the meats they feed on; Strangely odd it seems, they should desire to be Of their own form and image, as their bread; Strangely odd, when we consider they were made After a fashion more than made, as living trees Stand written in the shining fields of steam: Yet these are Nature's children, nor have they not Their due reward, though in a lowly place; Their place is in the woods, the mountains, or the floods; There they can have their beauty and live free; Yet they have a sort of duty as well, To take good care they take good care of others. Thou pleasant River, we have passed thee on our way By many a smooth and broad meadow-land and fair; The silver brook runs on beneath the rosy trees, The little bee-keeper fishes in the stream. Yet I could wish, if I were not too weak To bear the steepness of the hill that rises Even to the eyes of trembling men, that I Might go into the middle field to-day, And hold my shield against the sunbeams white, To keep my legs from shivering and my shield From getting wet. Yet even thus unable To help myself, to hold my shield I go Down in the field, where all the day long Are goats feeding, sowers driving down Swarthy wheat-sheaves, which at evening-tide Grow thick upon the ground. There too are Pigeons and shepherds's flocks mixing together In the cool hedge-cocoons, and under the eaves The heavy hen-coops hold thick flocks of their own. Not far I wander'd, and enter'd a house Leauge I could see the bright thumbnail thrust In shining bronze upon the door-post more; Above a cup of gold there stood the shield, Around a foot-stool, glittering with the gold; A footstool next to it, and on the footstool A man, who look'd as though he had no strength To help himself or to support the shield He held, but had rather, as I thought, Lived on as donjon or abbot of a monastery; For through his half-blanket I could see the hair Blonde and quite blond, which made him rather mannish In feature; and his chin was just the right size For a chine of the right fatness, and his eyes Were deep blue and quite bleared, and his nose was small And pushed against his cheeks, and point'd he had a brow Stiff and bunched, and stuck up slightly from beneath An eyebrow quite black, and pierced with some line Like a long jewelled spear; and over this There ran a beard all round, but not so thick As stream'd the dark hairs on Sir Lancelot's head. I said, "And is this man some archbishop Or Archbishop-elector?" And he answer'd straight, "This is Sir Lancelot, of the Noble Arms," And then he held me while he looked at me With such a look as I should never forget Who seemed all power, and the sovereign art Of all unrivall'd influence and control In paladins that ever wear the same. He hold'd me, and he cried, "My child, my child, If I were still what I was when a boy, Then I had done like him, and you would be Waiting for my giving you a sword, whereof Your using it would make all men wonder 'Why is no one else the one that starts to fight From that one I expect should be the last king Of Britain.'" And I could see The blood hot at his heart, and the thought come sudden Of his own brother slain, and his love-shout drunk; And then his hand on my shoulder, and he said, "Stay, stay,"--and drew me close in his face,-- "My dear, my sweet, if I thought an hour could go Now, or now ever, before I heard the knell That tells me I must bid you good-by, and that you Must leave all I have around you, I would stay And hear the last minstrelsy of them that sang Their life and love--the last man's, if 't could last-- Ere I should pass and not be gone. For I know The end of life has long strange voyages begun, And you must sail through shoals, and vex the seas With getting-home to me." But as I spoke He see'd the ghost of his own age at the door, His son and heir, his successor, and he saw His sister Anne, who left him when a bride And a young widow, the last time that she saw Her father; and he saw also his own hearth And his own home, as if again a journey he Had made, and come home, and found his own hearth-stone, And a warm home-burden on his hands, and an arm Round him, and the eyes of his mother that meet As often as the grave-clothes are laid aside. So he strove to speak, and as he strove to speak I could see his face all agaze into wonder And then again start as he would speak, and he Would look at me as he did never in my life Look at his mother, who now in feeble old age Did watch his face like a fainting grandmother, But he could not speak for the tears that were in his heart, And the beating of his chest, and his voice was loath To break, and I looked round to see if there were Others by that door, but no one, only that one Who stood with his hand on the doore, and I saw That his was the only voice in all the city That sounded friendly to my helpless stranger. So we talked together till the light of the setting sun Went out on that little street, and then I went on Towards my home and loneliness. When I came to the place Where I was born and grew up, and knew the ways That I used to drive, and heard the fishing-tanks As they called to me from the river, and on nights When I was goanna-mad, they sent me off Into the town to see the sights, and I went Along the tourist-path where children play, And saw the houses and never once asked a question Till by and by, when I was grown to fear and hate And amassed a hoard of tears, I was allowed One last, one long, one unsecured, unshaken look At that green edifice I called my home for ever, And saw that there were people in the place Whose thoughts and memories were as desolate As were my own, but could not be found in books Or in the travelling sights or in pictures; And all that day I loathed the city and its ways. That night, as I walked down to the river To wash my face and give my eyes the night, I saw the fish in the darkness of the locks Float down to their water-beds, and I saw The waters almost blue in the darkness Because the stars had poured down, and I thought Of the blue twilight outside the mountains, And how the Eskimos make their fire at night In the cold fear of everything, and made a flame Of soot and reeking liquids, and sent it up Along the snowy hills, and all the long hills And all the valleys were one brilliant flame And I envied them, and thought how we are changed To be from these icy heights so far away To those bluer regions, and how I envied The darkness where the salmon goes to sleep And the ice-fiend might lie and watch him sleep, <|endoftext|> Haubergeon Simon Spinks Poet and critic, George Samuel Slanger Clerk of the Surgeons' Company No one else could talk that way In the sages' circle; But the lines on his face and forehead, The way he smiled, spoke the truth. He read the books the others didn't, And talked of the truths in them; His morals were beyond the others', And he wore his vocation Well as his dress showed his mind. The election of Charles II. brought Two priests to the scaffold, Of whom the one, his heresy And his avowed antipathy To the Pope might have cost His life: the other he absolved, And it seemed as if the same Had happened but to-day. Says one of the bystanders, "I heard the prelate absolve him, Because the man had paid Some fines, and seemed to him Most desirous to be clear. If you want a prelate Lest he be deprived, This is the man to hire." He knew him by his smile and handshake, By the room in which he dwelt, By the books he read and lent, By his speeches and talks; He had served with the Seventy, He was seasoned by them. So he told the superior That he wanted him for physician, And as the latter said yes The inquisitive clerk Was on the spot employed. And the general aspect of things Should not be allowed to pass Without my remarking, That the law which fixes the rate Of competition does not fix The second and the third! He had hoped the bishop would have sent For the doctor who had saved His life; he felt certain it would be Impossible for him to pay The fine, and so be absolved. So his only alternative Was to sign the citation Which had aroused the Bishop's ire, Not to submit to it. But the election of Charles II. Reduced the number of physicians By one, so he thought it best To make use of the time While he still had it To journey to his office For the purpose he had stated. He had scarcely started for his journey When the events took place. He had reached the church, in which the solicitation was ended, When the neighbors' avarice overtook him. For they charged that, while going to his office, He had prayed the Lord to grant him his absolution, Which he had not. And as one who has occupied, While in the body, the position Of that Saviour who became flesh, I tell you without reserve, I tell you truth, I am ready To tell the whole story, All the truth that the Devil may know, And the whole truth that the Saints can know, And I'll tell it as they bid-- I am ready! And I never conceal the fact, While talking to you thus openly, And I never flinch from the task, Though the task be hard, That I have endured and tried The strongest of tests, and have borne The heaviest of penalties, And have borne with patience and borne with patience The stench and the loathsome dross, And have borne with patience the words Of the perversest of men, And the vilest of lies, That the Enemy had for his command, And the filth and the buzzing and the humming And the rot and the rot and the rotting And the stench and the stench of the clay, And the biting and the itching and the smut And the itching and the smut of the bones, And the grinding and grinding and grinding and peening And the chinking and the chinking and grinding and pining, And the gnawing and gnawing and gnawing and gnawing and dying, And the clenching and clenching and clenching and dying, And the biting and the biting and biting and dying, And the stench and the stench and the stench and the stench, And the grinding and the grinding and the grinding and dying, And the deceitful tools he has provided, And the lying and the deceit and the lying and the lying and the lying, And the man-stealing and the beast-stealing and the stealing and the slaughter and robbery, And the lawless and the lawless and the lawless and the lawless and the lawless and the lawless, And the blind and the halt and the dark and the awful and the sightless and the sightless and sightless and sightless and sightless and blind, And the grinding and the grinding and the grinding and the dying, And the abominable situation And the sin and the shame and the squalor and the wretchedness and the living and the dead, And the crime and the count for the crime and the crime and the crime and the crime and the crime and the crime of the crime, And the loathsome position of the condition, And the terrible situation of the condition, And the torment and the travail and the laboring and the travail and the travail and the laboring and the travail and the death, And the stench and the stench and the stench and the stench and the stench and the stink and the rotting and the dead, And the biting and the itching and the itching and the itching and the itching and the biting and the dying, And the tearing and the tearing and the tearing and the tearing and the tearing and the tearing and the death, And the loathsome torture and agony and torment and pain, And the bloody fetich and horrible sacrificial feast And the suppurating and invading and polluting and polluting and polluting and polluting and polluting and polluting and polluting and polluting and polluting and tainted wine, And the foul effluvia and foul effluvia and foul effluvia and foul effluvia of the cauldron and of the body and of the blood, And the itching and the tearing and the itching and the itching and the tearing and the itching and the torturing and the burning and the caking and caking and caking and caking and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and never satisfied. O, great Queen and Saint and Heroine of Life, Thou who shalt be in coming days the greatest Wonder, Who art the foundation of the nations, God of this World, And all that is in life and all that is in death, We of the strong city and the deep sea slipping feet, In hunger and in thirst and in drouth and in hurt and in need, Our hands together stretched with outstretched arms and with hopeful eyes O, from far and familiar and ethereal camest thou, Great bearer of the thunder and the lightning, Thou the Dark and Radiant, Spirit without form or trace, Who for our assistance didst bring the Orisha of the Star And the Orisha of the Sands of Time. Thou, to whom in our direst need didst thou bringle, Fusion of Fire and Cloud and Spit and Sparkling Shape Of Sound, that grew to God and grew from the earth That grew to the seeker and sowed to the seeker and took flesh And life from thine hand that sowed and that took flesh and died And sowed again and that took flesh and that sowed and that took flesh and that sowed, And by the breath of thy chalk-grey lips that made all things look white And all things hard that were with all things loathsome and dark And all things wise and all things dumb that were with all things loathsome and dark Wast thou, O Spirit of Might? Thou that was the womb and the infinite epicycle And the immeasurable division and the infinite breadth <|endoftext|> And no look of awe is hers, No shy averted smile, From the deep of her green eyes. And the same long sweep of gold hair Bears her generous form along. This is she who seemed so fair, But who has been so much more, This is she whom we have known As mother, wife, and friend. What is she but the same, A rich and varied soul? But we stand here like a clod Beneath her casual feet. Who has heard the ocean roar Or heard the battle cry, And seen the sunset glow Upcast on crags of snow? We have seen the Northern light, The brilliant gleam of blue, And felt the breath of it On our cheek and in our hair, And known that it is good, And known that it is beautiful. And who shall say, what is beauty? And what is earth and what is heaven, When the golden morn is past, When the flowers of spring are dead? When the birds are gathered to their nest, And the springtime on the earth is dead. The seasons pass and generations die; The mortal touches no less cloth The immortal of her unseen feet. She comes from fields of memory afar, Through the still transient ether borne, Unmarked, uncelebrated, and brave, To the fane of hope, and henceforth rests Like a majesty. She was as fair as Paris was rare, As the roses of the palmy lane Ere the dusk of autumn fell, For she was raiment of the light, And she was sunshine and love. She was like the winding of a spell Against the crimson sunset's close, Or like the cold gleaming of a star In the blue noon of heaven. She had been made as a queen among queens, With all of their treasures of show, And all of their lovely array, And all of their music and mirth; And she was as fair as night could be And as warm as summer's need, And the hope of all men was in her, And the joy of all men's hearts. She was as rare as the one sure crown Of the innumerable sea, And she had the rarest worth of all In her unwearied loving, And her patient, self-given worth And her power to stand alone, And the glory of all men's being In her heart and in her eyes. The spring came back, and the morn, The motley spring came back, Riding over woods and farms With a merry spring-bud in her face. She had ridden over woods and farms And she had smelled as she rode The warm ripe handfuls of rain That had gone to fertilize the fields, And she had washed their hundreds of misses In the bitter wind and the rain. And she had ridden over farms, and she had come Home again on the ghostly morn To the cold open house-door of her home. The spring came back in the violet leaves, In the pink and plum of the grain, In the gold of the sun's reflection On the silver of the spray, And she clambered through all the green To the warm pale room of her lover And the lonely fire of his hearth, And she slept as she slept in days gone by, And she never knew that the night was dead, And she never knew that the day was dead. And the white moon came through the rain, And she went through the rain With a white hand and a pale face And a tender smile on her lips, And she rolled the waves of the sky And she threw the light of her face Round the land and about the sea, And she dimmed the crimson of the wood And she brightened the day, And a deep peace fell over all That a soul was in the control of a mortal body. But the human spirit is strong, And it will remember and it will grieve; And the human spirit is swift and clever, And it remembers and it grieves, And it will not forget or it will not grieve. It will remember and it will grieve, And when it remembers it will grieve. And it will remember, and it will grieve, And it will never forget or it will not grieve, Till the spirit of man be great As the spirit of the beasts that are swift and clever And that have sense in their bodies and blood in their veins; And they will not forget or they will not grieve. And they will remember, and they will grieve, And it will remember and it will grieve, Till the sense of the spirit of man in the bodies of men Be the heed of the sense of the beasts that are swift and clever And that have sense in their bodies and blood in their veins. And the warm wind will blow, And the rain fall down; The winter has departed, And the spring is coming. The cuckoo will call, And the rooks carouse; And the young men leave their cabins In the daylight long. I have said it, and it shall stand, That love in nature is stronger Than nature's strength in men that are strong In love of self; That nature's heart is as a hollow Hard and solitary, And man's filled with music and dreaming And tenderness and sun and sky. Love in man's life is like the tide, That flows out of the sunset away, Out of the south and toward the west, Out of the south and toward the west, But the tide is strong in every shore That men compass on this green earth, And it comes in to every heart And it leaves it full of dreaming, And full of memories and dreaming. When a man's love draws him on life's road In any walk of life, And a man's love is like the spring, That flows out of the sunset away, Out of the south and toward the west, Out of the south and toward the west, Then, if the man that man's love holds Be but true in his thinking, And his heart be open in his dreaming, And his eyes not hardened in his heart, He shall have the peace of God. If he love her with love that's sweet, If he love her with love that's sweet, If he love her with love that's sweet, Her beauty and her grace shall be The glory and the grace of him, And he shall have her for his own. O woman! there are heroes In the race that thy heart beguiles And sets on a golden way. Be thou the knight and follow him! We have given thee the strength and wiles To bear the keys of heaven and hell, And keep the kingdoms of the night, And lead the stars from out between the eyes Of the unenlightened nations, And rule them as a queen might rule The hearts of men. Be thou the witch to banish, Be thou the hero calling, For only he will wear the crown Of the free cities that shall be, Where the gods walk with him and him alone In the blue, and through his dreams The stars shall flash like burning bits of sun From out between his bright eyes. Be thou the little afraid child, That hangs trembling at a whisper, For only he shall teach her words And lead her out of darkness To-morrow to a kingdom Where gods and goddesses shall walk with him And he shall set her in the ranks of her people, And make her ruler of all she finds, And lead her out of darkness To-morrow to a kingdom Then rise and follow us, For we are weary and old, And our feet have lost the comfort That we went to seek in the west, But there's a valley that is deep And green as a garden Where we shall wait for the coming Of the years to bring us love, And the joy of a coming evening That never comes more than once In a lifetime to a man. Then arise and follow us, For our lives are bare and old, And the weary feet of age Have lost the comfort of the east That was once the comfort of love And the light of the morning star, And we are weary of wandering And of tears that rain on the way And the only thing to do Is to wait for the coming Of the years to bring us love And the joy of a coming evening That never comes more than once. Then arise and follow us, For there is no other way To the only kingdom here That is free from the fear of captivity, And we are weary of wandering And of tears that rain on the way And the only thing to do <|endoftext|> When slumbering by thy cot, When thou wert safe within the court; I, who so oft hast known thee, Lover of the brook and tree, Playmate of the kid and lamb, I thy nimble and kindling sprite, From the grove and mountain, o'er the vale, Hasten to thy nightly couch of peace; Sleep, lovely Dove! let us slumber. Lover of the brook and tree, Hasten to thy nightly couch; Reclining there, thou shalt hear my sighs, Whisper love-scents sweetly round thee, Hear the sweet birds singing on the trees, See the moon rise o'er the river marge. Lover of the brook and tree, Sleep, lovely Dove! and soon will I Kiss thy soft eyes from dreaming. Kiss thee and fold thee in my wings, Kiss thee and whisper in thy ear, "Woman, what ailed thee in thy youth?" Know, though gentle Love was absent, Love was very present to me. Lover of the brook and tree, Kiss thee and whisper in thy ear, "Man, what ailed thee in thy youth?" Were it not that I was seeing All the wild things that are done In the forest and the hills, All the cunning things that be Unawed by man's misrepresentation, Hunting the white goose in the dell? O that it were so! then, Love, come, Take thy disguising clothing off, Let thy graceful youth be laid aside, Like the tattered weed that grows Underneath the queenly carpet, When the lady of the velvet pants Has gone to her chamber for the night. Love that hid in my bosom When I could not see thee, Came and snatching from my hand Sought to go and found a way Into my heart to come, When I could not see thee; Came and dreamed within my dream, Came and stayed with me that night When I could see thee not. Then I dreamed thou wert swift to come, And I gave thee the place Of some great mate of mine Whose cradle nestles near, Giving the young birds shelter When storm-winds sing outside. Thou wast coming, Love, when I Stood listening at the door, While in the room an old man Whispered to a small child There that he heard thee blow; When I could see thee straight Sangest my love at the window. "Love, we have waited long," Cried the old man and the child, "Come we may kiss and go, Kiss me and kiss thee here, Where the white clouds fly." "Never, never," cried Love, "Never, never, childhood," Said Love, "no kisses At the window by the night." "I am dreaming," Said the old man, and he sighed; "I have forgotten All the sweet things we said, Kiss and kiss me here, Where the white clouds drive." "Never, never," cried Love, "Never, never, grandfather," Cryed Love and Love again Grew calm and wept. When the children have been good And the maidens kind, There is none to blame but time, If they run away with sighs; But when youth runs and repents, And comes with hurrying feet, No blame through ages come they, Though they run away with sighs. O we were happy and strong, Love made us happy and strong, Smiling at those who said we should never smile; Happy in our foolish pride, Happy in our little ways, Happy in our peace, our wanderings, Eager and glad and free. We were never troubled and we never wept; When we were older and lonelier, Death brought us where our spirits rested: In the light of its torch we were dead; But we had happy days, we had them still. Happiness may come to the dead When their day is done and their sun is down; And we may laugh and sing and dance When life is left so sere and sere, Happy and proud, for the day is done, Time is no more. But when youth comes racing through our eyes, And dreams are our harp and hopes are our lyre, With wings of hope we shall sing on, And youth may smile when youth shall die, When the day is done. Dewdrops like flowers On the morning ground Fall with the dew, But they make the fairest garland. O the happy time That comes when the flowers are new! When a fresh and beautiful bouquet Is a child's or an aged parent's memory. The birds are happy on the trees, And the flowers are happy on their boughs, While the birds and the flowers Get the dewdrops like flowers. O the happy time That comes when the fresh and beautiful bouquet Is a child's or an aged parent's memory. The dew on the grass and the flowers on their boughs Make the fairest garland. <|endoftext|> The Common-sense of Man has now no sanctuary from the constructive intellect of a science-purposed Man who with master art and perfect wisdom, as with a sword cut out the heart of the Evil which still suckt his blood, and freed his mind from the sensual and social prison of seven thousand years of superstition, and all those fetters of ignorance and misery which the slow torture of time had wrenched apart and given to the body and the mind, and which must now for ever be laid aside, as a guard and a bar to the progress of the human mind in its high, rational progress to the understanding of God Supreme Reality. The Common-sense of Man is now no sanctuary from the philosophic Common-sense of a Science-purposed Man. The lines of life are broken up and striven into sundry fragments. The glories of life are sucked into the sphere of physical life. The knowledge of life and of nature is flung into the sphere of mind and spirit. The family, the clan, the nation, the world, the human race, are flung into the sphere of mind and spirit. The Common-sense of Man has then no sanctuary from the philosophic Common-sense of a Science-purposed Man. The Common-sense of Man has now no sanctuary from the dynamic Common-sense of a Science-purposed Man. His growth up from the shapeless, elementless, irreducible mass of inanimate atoms to the glorious planetary system of man, to the purposeful man, as a machine, to the man as a purposeful part of a World-system, which his progress must continue, and which his freedom must safeguard, is now made possible by a higher knowledge than the Active Knowledge of the Sciences, by the Knowledge of that purpose in Man which goes out from him and comes from within. Yet ever with the development of the Active Knowledge of the Sciences, there comes to the highest perfection of the Sciences, a perfect consummation of all, the unification of mind in a single world-system of Science-perfectness. The harmonious movement of this unification is an objective necessity imposed on the movements of Nature and of Art. The movements of Nature and of Art are therefore but the means, the instruments, the phases of the same Perfect Knowledge. The Knowledge which goes out from us and comes from within is called Science. And now came on the European Scientist a challenge from the scientists of India whose ambition was to keep abreast of Science in the attainment of knowledge. The Indian Scheme of Science called for a separate and different system of Logic, a separate and distinct science, and a more intimate and intimate relationship between the Sciences. These two ways of doing Science were open to either country, and each offered to each a special interest and a special aptitude. India, for centuries the victim and the cruel temptress of Science, had ignored and thrown away the logical and scientific method which she received from the West. She had a large and interminable body of books written in a spirit of dogmatism and bigotry, a spirit which had flung from nation to nation the scorn of genius, and almost wrecked each one. India's great scientific fathers, Vaidya and Brahm, sought to do Science in the way that she had done Mythology and Legends. But they neglected that in doing Science they should work in the broad field and atmosphere of life, and in the open sunshine, <|endoftext|> And thus he spoke, when sudden trembled Each pulse in all his body, And some large blood-drops came Down from his brow and heaver, Spurting on the ground; And he had utterance none, Save only these brief words: He shall not rise again. He shall not rise again. 'Tis hard for us to part With thee, who art dear; But who would have believed A year ago she would Have sunk to this? And in the world to be Beneath this kindling sun, A sweet, unstrung lute, As soft as Snowe's, And as strong as Atlas, To me bestow'd. I can not go with grief, My grief can only grow With the unutterable pains Of ceaseless grief, As the tall Alpine pine Grows the more he looks On the blue mountains of the South, Grows the more doth note the heat And the dire tranquillity Of his brother streams. What matter? All is well; All shall endure, And the steel-clad Will Which the great Lord of Life Unfurls o'er all their bounds With its impassive shield, Shall aye unbar their gates, And keep them safe from harm. And we two go, to lie beneath The sheltering sky, The fragrant crimson-veinèd valleys below Shall be our mournful pillow, Till at the dim date of December The snow-sledge cometh, And draws the snow-sledge by the maiden-hair Of dear Eustace. What matter, love? The snow-sledge cometh, And draws the snow-sledge by the maiden-hair Of dear Eustace; The green earth's flowery brasiers about Our bed we throw, And kiss our good souls good-bye, and so To bed. He does not sleep. Will he go To the land of dreams and mirth, Where the gate of golden-locked youth Is open for him all night long, And the song of gladness breaketh all Like the sound of the fell screaming On the cavern floor? No; Love will follow him, and stand With his glad, bloodshot eyes, And the young heart of him shall not be Bound and dumb, but thrall To a fine mind in a fine spirit, Like a fine tree That hath had its day. O, it is strange, but kind And most strange of all is this, That I love this quiet day, And he loves me, and still He knows not that he knoweth The sun is yellow and wide, And the sky is purple and deep, And the earth a ring of gold. And he is mad for wonder And I am mad for love, For the great world's wonder and love, And I know not that I know That the sun is yellow and wide, And the sky is purple and deep, And the earth a ring of gold. The rain beats on the window-pane. I wonder what you are thinking of. I am thinking of two little drooping roses That are dear to my heart, though you are more. I wonder what you are thinking of. One is the little drooping rose of love, And the other is the drooping rose of joy. The joy-rose is never more than full, But the love-rose is ruined and gone; The drooping rose of joy is sore beset, But the love-rose is swift of foot. I was thinking of the love-rose; I knew that your heart was breaking; I felt it too, and so I watched; And the little drooping rose of joy Thrilled me, and warmed my heart with pain; And the world became so blue and fair That my tears fell like a falling shower, And the world was changed and changed again, And changed into a highlighter song, And like a broken music stayed, And I said, "O, this is love, this is love, O, this is better than anything," And then, with a trembling voice, I said, "This is better than anything." And now I am sitting in the gloom Of my lonely room, and the rain is lashing The pane; and I am thinking of the joy That is endurable, and the pain that is temporary. I am thinking of the rose and the dream, And the thought of its price is upon my spirit. I am thinking of the rose and the word That hath echoed in my broken heart, And I am thinking of the rose and the word That is death to other men. I would I were a hermit or a king, For there are things that are more good than gold. I would I were a hermit or a king, For there are things that are more good than gold. The stars are like broken hearts; they seek And multiply and kiss each other's eyes; The world is love and this is worse than nothing; There is more worth here than in castles or crowns. I would I were a hermit or a king, For there are things that are more good than gold. I would I were a hermit or a king, For there are things that are more good than gold. If I could be a hermit or a king I should go naked to church each Sunday; And sit in the dark and meditate On the saddest words that men can say, And what they signify, and whether they be. She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; And then I saw her eye was bright With something celestial-- She is with the clear, the bright, And black, the brown, the green, the blue; The ferly rustles with her ring, Of china and all things fine; The purple, pink, and silver spin From sparkling spoons in service's display. The turquoise and yellow light Stream from her tawny hair; And yet I do not mistake The star that gazes on me now From her blue, cloud-enveloped eye. So fair she is that I do not know Whether I would rather kiss Her forehead gently bobbing on it, Or her blue, cloud-enveloped eye. <|endoftext|> Vincent Shelah, 1934-2001 Shelah v. Texas The Nation's Lament, a Poem and Petition to The President of the United States and the people of Texas On the Thirty-Eightieth Ninth of August, in Honor of The Birthday of President Martin Van Buren 7 August, in the Year My name is Vincent Shelah, and I write this Petition to the President and people of Texas (1) to allow me to remit my contribution and payment to the state of Texas from my royalties and income from my library and archives; (2) to permit me to remit my contribution and payment to the state of Texas from the sale of my book, A Poem for My Wife, which is included in the Texas School Book Program in education; (3) to allow me to remit my contribution and payment to the state of Texas from my publication, A New England Farmer, which is included in the Texas School Book Program in education; (4) to permit me to remit my contribution and payment to the state of Texas from my book, A New England Farmer, which contains works of my own; (5) to permit me to remit my contribution and payment to the state of Texas from my book, The Land of Cakes, which is included in the Texas School Book Shelah v. Texas The Nation's Lament, a Poem and Petition to The President of the United States and the people of Texas on the Thirty-Eightieth Ninth of August, in the Year The history of Vincent Shelah is intertwined with the history of the State of Texas. Born in Ireland, he came to Texas with his family at an early age. In 1839 he married Lauralynn; their children were: Leila, Vincent, and Paul. In 1840 Vincent and Lauralynn came to this country and opened a grocery on the corner of Commercial and Fifth Nekaion. In 1842 they opened another on the corner of Commercial and Sixth; this store was taken by the heavy milling and grinding of sugar beets in East New ARKANSAS. In 1843 they opened a third on the corner of Commercial and Seventh, but it burned. The family moved to <|endoftext|> Wears them in her tender breast, Where precious-flowered pearls are bright As round her throat in silver sheen, Sweet as her blush when Autumn's breath Has wakened it; And there's a dainty garment wrought In varied-work of various dye, Which Clariës or some other dame Would give a golden treasure for, If they could live where Clariës do. Now, if you've the face to wear A grave's solemnity, You may a poet's words admire, For they're wise, and poetic. But, if your grave is set in ivy, Let poets rhyme no more; But let the simple grave stand alone, Alone, austere, a grave in sterility. I am afraid of heights-- Of walking out at night-rise, When the city spire Up near the eastern wall Is like a bright green light, And the far-off factory sprawl Faint and red in the dark. I am afraid of the dark-- Of walking when the day-beams faint, When the dim street-lights gleam Dull dreary dreary dreary On a city where no heart beats, And no life is stirring. I am afraid of the dark-- Of foot-prints in the grass, Of the careless break of dawn, When no foot is upon the ground, Or sleeping or waking. It's all too plain--I'm afraid. "There's a traveller from a country far Visit'd in the days of old; With tale of blood and mist and sand Descends to find the town of home." I walk the weary war of doubt and gloom With the farmer of this town. He came with thoughtful mien-- It was not rain, but mist-- He bowed to many a guest, With anxious, sad, dreaming eye; He gazed on every work of men, But 'neath the bleak old shed No face was seen--no face was seen. "Tales of monarchs and of kine, Tales of slaughter and of snow, None of these have yet reveal'd The town that he came to see, But still the farmer of this town Sits in his ancient wigwam, sad, And thinking of the child he lost." What should I do, but lie down In the cold, dark ditch alone, And let the mist and the rain Turn the mist and the rain away? I would be lost, as once I was; I would find out a welcome there Which was not of the olden time. It is a long, dim ditch, dark and deep; And there at night, in the night, It is a dark, deep ditch where no one Seeks shelter from the rain and the mist. But I must go beyond the reach Of the quick, sharp, lonely fear Which crawls in the brain of a child At the dark, dark ditch alone. She wanders in the twilight alone; She does not care if a foot be wrong; She will keep still, or fly from the snare, And will find out the way to the nest, If she must fly, and be lost; She will find out the way to the den Where the bold bird of the yonder tree Broods with the cunning hawk of the hill. She will creep to the crested larch And find out the nest she could not see; She will climb the trellis and hop along To the source of the silver stream; And she will bathe in the fall of the waters Till her wings are plump and full of gladness. She will sit in the leafy center And look down into the gloom, And her face will be lit with a triumph That cannot be told; She will feel herself growing bolder And conscious of new power and delight. She will stay as she was, only She will sleep in the light of the skies, And fly higher and higher, and higher, Till she flies to the sky of the sun, And looks with a look of delight Which will light men's hearts with a joy they know. If a child must be broken-hearted, Then a goat is the proper animal; For she has but one wish, and that is To seek out the nest from which she was stolen. And there she waits for the hatching of the sun, And for the day-dawn for the coming of sweet freedom. The rustling of the vegetation Is the only sound that I hear; And the child, if she goes quietly, Will find out the nest from where it is hidden. She will bring back the beloved one of her father; She will find out the lost one of her mother; And they both will love each other very much. In a long line of silver The mountain goats go by; And all the flowers are white Which round the edge of the plain Lie scattered in dainty row; And I wish I were out with the flock On some cool, soft morning to see them pass. With one I keep--for I love them all-- Down beside a granite counterpane Where blossomed the lilac-banker's trees; For never a dog, or a boy, or a man, Has ever gone in among the trees, Nor ever came out again. For every tree which by the margin Stands furthest forward, seems to whisper To every other tree, "Let us be;" And they run towards each other, and clang, Shouting as the woods make a barbarous chorus: "Harko! harko! harko! harko!" "Harko! harko! harko! harko!" The stars, in the high places, Are singing to the lilac-spray; The lilacs, in the fields, Are singing to the mountain-pigeon; The bird, in his nest, is singing To the white-bird on the bough; And the sheep, in the fold, are crooning To the shepherd's owl, who sits Couched with them over his old orchard. For ever since the earth was drawn In by a black-curl, man has been dreaming Of all things that were, and are, and shall be. Ah! what is the life of folly worth, The dreams that have been, the visions that pass? We live, we die, and are never anything, We have been born, and we are thrown away. The pond with its lulling lilies, The hedge with its daffodills, The paths, where the robin is crying, The forgotten rooms in houses old, The old profane churchyard--they are sweet. O child, you shall forget them, one by one, As your clothes pass from your feet to the dryer. "What have I done that I should find such sorrow In the bearing of a child, and in seeing one Live and suffer, who has needed me?" Yes, child, you shall forget them, one by one, As your clothes pass from your feet to the dryer. A sunbeam on the pond, a streamlet that leaps In the distance, and the lilac-scents that creep From the dead lilacs, in the graves that stand Where the grass is growing--all are pleasing, As the clothes pass from your feet to the dryer. The children are come from the fields of wheat; They are bringing baskets, and they are bringing layers, And they are bringing so many kinds of candies, That I shall grow impure, and the sins that I have, When they come home with their offerings, I shall forget. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath given to me; I give Thee thanks for every candy that I have, And for every silk-screened magazine that I may see, And for all the paper that I can steal away; For Thou art greater, and Thou art better than kings, And I will confess, when I am dead and placed Between the roost and the lions, that I have smiled Upon the Lord when He gave, and for Thy sake, Lord, That I have made every hour a delight. She had the finest form you ever saw, A figure like a dream, a countenance bright As the soul through a sunbeam; and she asked No leave to dress herself, no permission to ask, And so she slipped away to her room, and put All her goods and chattels in one heap, and said, "I'll pay you boys to keep these stores, and if I die, leave them to the devil that created them, And leave me to the prayers of fools." <|endoftext|> Dries these fleshly taints. <|endoftext|> "Morning Love", by Kahlil Gibran If we could only wake when the sun comes out; If we could only wake when the sun comes up. If only we could but wake and go to sleep again, And learn to stay awake. What shall we do to reach the Golden Gate again? What shall we do for the better in this life? What shall we do to raise our voices in the world? I think I shall go to the great sage and say: 'Send us, O your servant, to the city that is hidden, And say that this man shall show the way to the city, And say his way is easier than the way of men, And say his way leads home.' If I were he, I would sit and meditate, And say: 'I am of mixed thoughts and wander, and I will go, And say my way is easier than the way of men, And say my way leads home.' You shall go with those who work, for they work for bread, For their bread, for your bread; And those who sleep, shall rest, and drink, and sing, And have no other care. But it shall be your fraction to do the work Of the proud world; And you shall join the song, Till the earth shall cry, Shout in your favor. I look at the world and say: "Here is the portion of the worthy, fair ones. Behold, they rise up and go to the chamber Of a king. A king who makes his name in the midst of tears, And is smitten by the winds of heaven." I look at the world and say: "Here is the portion of the foolish, weak ones. Behold, they sleep in the wind and hail, And lose their life." But it shall be your fraction to do the work Of the strong ones; And you shall join the song, Till the earth shall cry, Shout in your favor. So now, my people, I bid you farewell; And I wish you a speedy homing. Good-bye, my house is far away. The remoter, farther places Are not suitable for me. The storm and the waters shall bring Me to my dwelling-place, And the good people shall greet me. Good-bye, my house is far away. It is a lovely May morning; And among the trees There is a sound of youth. I listen; and it is they, My sweet young friends, my own dear friends, Who come, and it is now. There are no longer any stones To show the way they came; But there are woodbines hanging In clusters overhead, And sunflowers and they come To greet them as they go. They come, and a mother says: "We have sought you long; And there is not a heap of earth That doth not pray you, give you A word of hope. We are so glad you came; For many have tried, and no one came; But now we are glad, so be it; Our heart is bursting with joy." They come; a father says: "We have sought you long; And there is not a blade of grass That doth not pray you, give you A word of comfort. We are so glad you came; For many have tried, and few came; But now we are glad, so be it; We shall see you soon, so be it. Our sons are waiting for you." They come, and a sister says: "We have sought you long; And there is not a leaf that doth not pray you, give you A word of comfort. We are so glad you came; For many have tried, and few came; But now we are glad, so be it; For our hearts are breaking with sorrow, And our eyes are dim with tears." A friend comes riding by, And they pause to say: "Well, what did you get this week? What did you get this week?" He answers: "Three thousand dollars, And a long cold winter day." A friend comes riding by, And they stop to say: "Well, what did you get this week? What did you get this week?" He answers: "One morning, A maid with sunken eyes Came to my gate, and stood, And cried for bread; and then I saw one in the mist, Who rode a goat, with speed Like wind through the grass; and then I saw another come, Who brought a dead chick; and then I saw them gallop off, And put the dead chick in its nest, And picked a grain of chaff To make a hatchet blade For a grinder's wheel; and then A third came riding by, With a wild nakedback Racing all the way, And they stopped to say: "Well, what did you get this week?" He answered: "I saw The saddest sight today; A little old man, Sitting on a stool, At a table full of dumplings, All hung with purple peas; And he cried: 'I am Eastlie, And I went out to seek But I cannot get my share; For I know that I should have had A larger portion than this, But my priests have thrown me into a furnace fire, And I burned to a candle!'" I stood where the lilies grew By the brook-side, And I sang to the bright blue Sapphos As I watched them swim And the little blue snipe pecked their eggs And fledged their young; And I saw the gooseberry's dawn Crown the blue eve-savers' eyes; And I heard the deep crickets sing In the red crannies of the sycamores; And I heard the water lilies sing And sing and sing, To the gooseberry-bells on the beech-tree. I stood where the lilies grew By the brook-side, And I sung to the little blue Sapphos And the little blue snipe, And the gooseberry-bells on the beech-tree; And the red-robed sage I saw Against the red-robed sage-head, And the old red man I knew Came to see me, And he sang a song, While the lily-white May-hedge played in the sun. I walked with the red-robed sage-head Along the green. The wind sang a song To the ragged end of the world, To the ends of the world. The rain beat on the green, And the world was mad with delight, The mad wind wailed a song, And the rain beat on the green, And the wind brought the red-robed sage-head To say: "All things pass; the red-robed sage-head Says, 'Watch and see; The wind brings the red-robed sage-head To say: Lo, this is wind and weather, All things pass; Watch and see; Watch and see What pass?" "All things pass; the red-robed sage-head Says, 'Lo, this is wind and weather; All things pass; Lo, this is wind and weather; The wind blows; The wind blows; The wind blows; And this is wind and weather; And this is weather; And this is weather; What this is weather, Watch and see; What this is weather, What this is weather, What this is weather.' "All things pass; the red-robed sage-head Says, 'Hear and mark; The wind blows; The wind blows; The wind blows; The wind comes from God, and that is passed; And that is passed; And that is passed; And that is passed; And that is passed; All things pass; All things pass; All things pass; What this is wind and weather, What this is weather, What this is weather, What this is weather.' "All things pass; the red-robed sage-head Says, 'Pass again; Pass again; Pass again; Pass again; Pass again; Pass again; Pass again; Pass again; This is wind and weather, All things pass; This is wind and weather; All things pass; What this is weather, Watch and see; What this is weather, What this is weather, What this is weather, What this is weather.' <|endoftext|> Or a die to lose Whoops the sky-lark from the dunes And the dunes shine in the sunshine while the sky is gray. <|endoftext|> "Rain", by Denise Levertov [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] I I put the bottle back. My husband has another one and I’ve no more. I have to think of something to do. I take a nap and wake to rain. I try to remember what love means. I have to think of something to do. 2 I try to remember how my mother taught me to swim and the sounds of water came in my ears after I woke up. I have to think of something to do. I take a nap and don’t wake to rain. I’m home now sleeping on the couch. I have to think of something to do. 3 My husband comes home from work and asks me to wash his sweaters, clothes, shoes. I have to think of something to do. I take a nap and remember how my mother taught me to swim and the sounds of water came in my ears after I woke up. I have to think of something to do. 4 My husband comes home from work and puts his hands in his pockets and doesn’t say anything. I have to think of something to do. I take a nap and remember how my mother taught me to swim and the sounds of water came in my ears after I woke up. I have to think of something to do. I take a nap and don’t wake to rain. I’m home now sleeping on the couch. I have to think of something to do. 5 My husband comes home from work and says I got a letter from the Navy. It’s nothing to do with home or my job. It’s about my son and my daughter and my mother and the death of her sister. It’s nothing to do with home or my job. I take a nap and don’t wake to rain. I’m home now sleeping on the couch. I have to think of something to do. 6 My husband comes home from work and says I got a call from the vice president at Banc of California. I said no, I’m not late. He said you were and I said No, I wasn’t. He said nothing. He just hung up. 7 My husband comes home from work and says you look tired. I said I’m not and asked him to drive and stop by the store. He said I wouldn’t and hung up. 8 My husband comes home from work and says I got a call from the bank. I said no, I’m not and asked him to drive and drive by the store. He said I wouldn’t and hung up. 9 My husband comes home from work and says I got a call from the mob. He said you were and I said No, and hung up. 10 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the glass. He said you look sick and I said no, I’m not. He said I looked good and hung up. 11 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the color of glass. He said you look sick and I said no, I’m not. He said I look good and hung up. 12 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the sun. He said you look sick and I said no, I’m not. He said it’s true and hung up. 13 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the fire. He said you look sick and I said no, I’m not. He said you look good and hung up. 14 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the puddle of sweat. He said you look sick and I said I look good. He said you look clean and hung up. 15 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the wall. He said you look sick and I said I look sick. He said you look clean and hung up. 16 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the carpet. He said you smell sick and I said I’m not. He said I smell good and hung up. 17 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the book. He said you smell bad and I said I smell good. He said you look sick and hung up. 18 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the mirror. He said you look sick and I said I look good. He said you look clean and hung up. 19 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the porch. He said you look sick and I said I look sick. He said you look good and hung up. 20 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the hall. He said you smell sick and I said I smell good. He said you look sick and hung up. 21 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the bed. He said you smell bad and I said I smell good. He said you look sick and hung up. 22 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the yard. He said you look sick and I said I look sick. He said you look clean and hung up. 23 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from the street. He said you look bad and I said I look good. He said you look clean and hung up. 24 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my dreams. He said you look sick and I said I look good. He said you look sick and hung up. 25 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my sins. He said you smell bad and I said I smell good. He said you look sick and hung up. 26 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my dreams. He said you look bad and I said I look good. He said you look sick and hung up. 27 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my sins. He said you smell bad and I said I smell good. He said you look sick and hung up. 28 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my dreams. He said you look bad and I said I look good. He said you look sick and hung up. 29 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my sins. He said you smell bad and I said I smell good. He said you look sick and hung up. 30 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my sins. He said you look bad and I said I look good. He said you look sick and hung up. 31 My husband comes home from work and says I got a face from my sins. He said you smell bad and I said <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> Don't take it! The pipes are missing, and the bells are silent, And the sweet birds have flown across the sea-- But still the old love of God is growing, And the stars above our heads are shining, And there's a light in the Inn of the Brethren, And still the sweet hymns are sounding, And the shadows of the Inn of the Brethren Fall over the fields of the Clyde. Over the fields of the Clyde, In our skiff we slowly drifted; And the fields of the Clyde were yellow, And the clouds above the river, And the river was dark blue, With a bridge of rock in the middle, And the hills of your youth behind. With a whistle of wind in the grasses, And a lurch of wind in the trees, And a bumping of water in the brook, And a bending of horses' heels, Through the hills of your youth you came, And behind us the islands of Inverness, And down by the shore of the Bay of Doon. With a clink of iron in the brook, And a scraping of boat on water, And a scraping of boat in the water, And a crashing of waves behind us, And a breaking wave before us, On the road to Inverness. On the road to Inverness, Through the hills of your youth, With the wind in your face that was warm And the rain in your eyes that were wet, And the sea behind us and the sky above us, And behind us the Irish Sea. With a shriek of pain, and a struggle, And a stammer of pain and struggle, And the stammer of a broken sentence, And the sentence again beginning, And the sentence ending in peace, With the peace of a beautiful Sunday, With a gentle smile of a beautiful Sunday, In the days that are gone, In the long, long ago, When the sun shone bright on the Hebrides, And the seas were calm and the moon was bright, They say, That two sailing vessels, manned by your nation, Set sail from New York harbour for the Hebrides; Sailing under your flag, Their ship went down at New Hartford, Sinking where New Hartford is now. In the days that are gone, In the long, long ago, The inhabitants of the Hebrides Were warrior people, nimble of foot, Warriors with spears, with shields and bows. But the sailors of your country, Struck there a blight, a sore, a sting, With the sight of those shipwrecked bodies Drowning on the reefs of that ocean, On the rocks of that river New Hartford. Oh! I know a pleasant place, Where the good vessel fell, And the island green with weeds is seen, Where New Hartford is now. The river looks dull and gray, The rocks are steep and steep they stand, And there the city stands, Arch, and tower, and wall, and all, As they stood when the ships went down At the end of the harbor at New Hartford. I know a peaceful place, Where no warlike bands have ever come, Nor the sight of naked arms, Nor the sound of drum or drum-roll, Loud or low, I know a place where men are free; Where the web of life is pure and bright, And the peacock's eyes are clear and bright, And the lark is singing in the tree, And the golden sand of the sea, And the sound of all is sweet and fair. Oh! the city stands in the valley That the Hebrides have between them; But the valley is quiet and white Beneath the dark hill-shadow, Like the breast of a woman that is sleeping, Or the crescent moon, Sleeping above the ocean, By the old rosy isle, Or where Capri was. The tall old order, the dark old cathedral, The boughs of the cathedra, the long square of houses, The black-red and black and the golden brick walls, The gilded roofs, The columns, the steps, the shrines, the statues, The marvellous palaces and mansions, The towers, the domes, the gates and gates at gate-ways, The minster with its lights and bells, The long high bell, The Stations of the cross, The shrines and tablets, the urns, the windows, The arches and roofs, The courts and halls, the resting-place, the portal, The steeple, the steeple with breaks in it, The roofs with top-stones like diamonds, The moat with stones like diamonds, The long placid water, The fishermen's boats, The shallops, the sails, the monabouts, the long canoes, The long sail-lines, The sloops, the weapons, the lances, The lilies and lads'ongs, The golden rings, the coronets, The rings of marriage, The swords, the halberts, and all, The mantles, the mantles with top-pieces of gold, The long doublet, The damask, the trouser, the sheath, The sword-belt, The hose of red, the trousers of green, The long coat with buttons, The long doublet with triple seams, The boots, the doublets, the trousers, The hose of green, The long vest, the trouser, vest with sleeves, The sword-blade, The staff, the staff with stirrups, The long stockings, The long hose with long dark tassels, The long coat-sleeves, The lady's mantle, The slave with cinctures, The red-lets, the tassels on it, The knickers, The scarfs, the girdles, The shawl, the woolen blankets, The ladies' carpet, The black and white bedstead, The nightcaps, The strange small rockets, The old saw, The ladies' balconies, I have seen the new tram-car in New York, And the new molding in Paris, And the new ceiling in London, And the new chairs in Berlin. I have seen the new chimney-pots in New York, And the new fire-place in Paris, And the new set of trolleys in Chicago, And the new fountain-urn in Philadelphia. I have seen the new street-cars in New York, And the new heavy sleigh in Paris, And the new opera-house in Vienna, And the new ballet-dance in Pekin. I have seen the new omnibuses in St. Louis, And the new Bullrun in Merseyside, And the new opera-house in Dublin. I have seen the new national anthems in Berlin, And the new new margaritas in San Francisco, And the new candies in Hawaii. I have seen the new proverb in Buenos Aires, And the new canoes in Panama, And the new new margaritas in Buenos Aires. I have seen the new anthem in Bern, And the new new margaritas there. I have seen the new law in Bern, And the new margaritas in it. I have seen the new canteen in Bern, And the new margaritas in it. I have seen the new national anthem in Berlin, And the new new canoes in it. I have seen the new house in Thuringia, And the new Margraves in it. I have seen the new prosthetic limbs, And the motor-cars without wheels. I have seen the new national anthems in Paris, And the new margaritas in it. I have seen the new trams in Paris, And the new repairs in it. I have seen the new bell in London, And the new margaritas there. I have seen the new candelabra in Vienna, And the new new rockets in New York. I have seen the new defense in Bern, And the new margaritas in it. I have seen the new peace-pipe in Oslo, And the new canteen in it. I have seen the new belfries in Warsaw, And the new great Notre-Dame arch in it. I have seen the new commissariat de I have seen the new bistro in Warsaw, And the new new motor-cars in it. I have seen the new immigrants in London, And the new soccer-bats in it. I have seen the new department in Berlin, And the new new cars in it. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "I Just Know", by Tom Raworth [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I just know, it's what I know, the orange that's on my tongue, green that's on my jaw. I just know, it's what I know, to give what I've got and be not afraid. I just know, it's what I know, I just know it, I just know, I just know, I just know, I just know. <|endoftext|> "Whose Story", by Tom Raworth [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] You never told it to me, the unspoken, unsaid death, always at your shoulder, the hand around your waist as you sank from the truck. It was the one thing we lacked as you grew up and went to war. No one said it, not even us, the one missing word. I can't remember your name or the city you came from, but I know this much: it was peace or death enough to make you save your breath and hope that life would go. And we never knew the name of the city you died to save. <|endoftext|> "The Sound of One Spoon", by Sharon Olds [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] There is this sound I sometimes hear when I listen all my days to that one spoonful of ashes on the cutting board full of dust. That sound happens too soon, when I start my fingers to move, moving them too soon to that clicking of the bolt in the stove. The sound is enough to prove that I am old and that I have been a wife too long and that there are no fresh plates in the house to hold the dishes I must put out. There is always this sound to me. It's like a door that's locked but I hear the ticking of the lock when I count backward from ten to one, or one to seven, then two, and then another. At first it's quiet and only once in a while does it play a few chords that make me think it's about 9/11. But then it starts playing with me and when it gets really nasty with its lyrics, with its warnings, then the seven times it clicks it's like someone's telling the truth in an empty house, in an empty room. And when I hear those chords click and hiss, I can see into the empty eyes of the characters I see in magazines and in movies. I can hear them cough, and hear them swallow, and hear their jaws clench shut. They are living, and yet, you know, they're dead. <|endoftext|> "The Housewife Speaks", by Sharon Olds [Living, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] 1 I hear a bird, the wren, singing the flowers, wren, the pink and white, cannot hear the words I have to say. 2 The word I hear is silence. 3 There is the word I cannot say. 4 I have a wife and children, a house in the land. The words I have to say are heavy for me to carry through the day. 5 The flowers wilt, the house is small in the hills. The word I cannot carry is death. 6 The word I hear is loneliness. 7 And the word is the silence in the house, wren, wren, wren, wren, wren, wren. <|endoftext|> "A Child's Story", by Barbara Pym [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Philosophy] In the beginning, there was the word the wren said. Everything was green and small and soft and wren-like, the word and everything green and small and soft and wren-like. The wren said the word the birds said, and the word said, and the word said, and the word said, and the word said, and the word said, and the word said, and the word said, and the wren said the first word the word heard, the first word heard, the first word heard, and the wren said the second word, the second word, and the second word and the second word, and the second word, and the second word. And the birds said the third word the word found, the third word found, and the third word and the third word and the third word and the third word and the third word and the third word. Then the wren flew to the mountains, to the dark mountains, and the birds stayed on the mountain tops, and the birds said, "A wren's son is fair, and a wren's daughter is bright, and a wren's heart is warm, and a wren's heart is pure, and a wren's heart is true, and a wren's heart is a-giving, and a wren's heart is a-shrinking." And the birds flew away, and the wrens stayed, and the wrens said, "A wren's little ones are fair, and a wren's little ones are bright, and a wren's little ones are warm, and a wren's little ones are pure, and a wren's little ones are true, and a wren's little ones are a-giving, and a wren's little ones are a-shrinking. And a little child went to dwell among the lilies, among the flowers and the precious flowers, among the bright little lilies and a little child went to dwell. And the wren said to the wren, “I am small and I am fair, and I am sweet and I am white, and I am true and I am giving, and I am safe and I am shrining, and I am sleeping and I am waking. And I dream and I dream and I dream that I am all of these, and nothing of what I ought. And a little child went to dwell among the lilies, among the flowers and the precious flowers, among the bright little lilies and a little child went to dwell. And a wren said to the wren, “I am small and I am fair, and I am sweet and I am white, and I am true and I am giving, and I am sleeping and I am waking, and I dream and I dream and I dream that I am all of these, and nothing of what I ought. And a little child went to dwell among the lilies, among the flowers and the precious flowers, among the bright little lilies and a little child went to dwell. And a wren said to the wren, “I am small and I am fair, and I am sweet and I am white, and I am true and I am giving, and I am sleeping and I am waking, and I dream and I dream and I dream that I am all of these, and nothing of what I ought. “And a little child went to dwell among the lilies, among the flowers and the precious flowers, among the bright little lilies and a little child went to dwell. <|endoftext|> Though I would answer to their content, He just denied, and swore me most erroneous. "I have not yet the honour to thank you for The great relief that you have rendered to me; I have no right, you know, to speak to you so As an acquaintance or a friend,--for it is A stranger who has come so far to seek me out. I owe you but respect, and I should have none Unless I esteemed you an honest man and true. "When I consider that poor wretched woman who Must listen, like a fish out of the water, to The flatteries of such a judge, I feel quite Pity her, for her love, indeed, must be the love Of a crazed, devil-possessed, devil-driven man. O no!--he owes her--yes--yes--she may be his wife-- But the wretch who deserves her ought to be my friend. "Now if you'll be my friend I will repay your kindness By keeping you in this my gloomy, dreary cell; No most melancholy spot is so fit as this, For the dear devil's own kingdom doth crowd around Every corner to this heart of mine,--and I've a mind To enter now my house, and carry you to hell." This order brought but little relief to her grief, And she burst into loud sobs, as she thus exclaimed: "Ah! my God! my God! forgive him!--Oh! oh! forgive him!" She then grasped his hand in her trembling, virginal hand- Us'd it to pinch him until his heart grew pale, Then haughtily said: "Can it be true that you are And then seizing the gate-way of that hoary hell Whose gate is iron, she followed him, as he flitted, Down to the heart of all badness, that stank so foul, And at last she found him in the very bowels Of that same house of woe and horror, as he strove, A slave-eyed old porter, pushing a trowel. "Wherefore, my guest," said she, "that you have come To work my dungeon, why did you, like an ass, With your great-coated friends, a throng of bearded men, Rush down so boldly this little stair so rude, And then push it so violently up the stair That you have shattered the smooth planks of the stair, And left a print great as that of a fiend's upon." Then answered the porter, old Anseis: "Madam, pray pause, And listen, if you would have the truth; I make it plain That I have not been here, nor have a hand in it. I am the old porter, who, a hundred years ago, When this house of ill-fame first began to reel, I beg to speak, to-morrow, before the judge. It was the devil himself, the very same, Who riveted here the boards of the cells to make 'em He wrought so hard to please, for the devil wants All the cells should be closed as soon as 'tis night, And the bolts fast, as he will have them fast and tight." "Go thou, while I sleep," replied the lady, "to your cell; A dream of the Lord, who by the nation's pride Is now a companion of the city street, Will follow you and gnaw its bitter bone." And the old man thanked her, and she thanked him, and then Then went her way. And the following day an end had come To the wicked life of that foul fiend, the porter; And the jailor knew him, and gave him his name, Not caring much what it was, for the fiend Loved to have the sinners their favors at the start; So he called him "Old Anseis" anyway, Though never took his devilish part or two, But rather as one who'd learn a little; And the jailor was too lazy to draw him out, So he hung him into the highest cell. But what does the devil do in jail? He lives by lies, and he lives by fear, And he lives by the gnawing of his bone; Though his bones are the very ones which rot, Which give the world the bread they eat by turns. And it comes to this, that it is best To be honest and wicked, both at once, For who can be longer in a jail, Than the walls of that ill-clad realm of fear Which the devil calls "The jail?" Here, where he dwells in the deeps of hell, As the wrath of God is his, Lies the hearts of the damned, Whom the blood of the righteous brings To the kingdom of God! How mean a state is the kingdom of God! For the beasts in the field to feed, The birds to sing and sport and bring To the royal bird-home. But the souls who ascend with the sun To the kingdom of God! How mean a state is the kingdom of God! When the beast dies its bed is dry, And the tree it grew on withers, And the beasts in the stall are alone, The birds in the nest are flown. But the souls who ascend with the sun To the kingdom of God! How mean a state is the kingdom of God! When the saints go out of the town, And the children go from school, The dog howls, and the cow glares up at them, And Satan sits at the door. But the souls who ascend with the sun To the kingdom of God! To the king be praise and glory forever, For his subjects are like their parent; To the kingly man be reverence and honor, For his subjects are his brethren; To the kingly woman be reverence and honor, For her brethren are her sisters. To the kingly children be reverence and honor, For their children are their brethren, To the kingly halls be reverence and honor, For their halls are their brethren's. What makes the state of a king noble, Or the state of a queen pleasant? What is the glory of a monarchy That is overflowing with power? Are they not wont to be bought and sold, And the great men tend to be bribed? "Let us build a wall about her, Let us build it about her, Guard it round about her, That none may it see or know her, Or her wicked thoughts betray her, Or the shame that is in her. "I will settle this matter, I will settle this matter, I will make the walls, I will make them strong, I will build them of a length, Of a breadth, I will make them strong, And a perfect roundness, "Let no builder write nor tell it, Let no maidens be found wanting, Neither father nor mother, Neither sister nor brother, Neither handy workman nor tradesman, Nor any stranger. "I will speak here in my wigwam, I will speak in this hut of mine, In the presence of all the people, So that they will not easily forget her, Nor forget her work in the forest. "From the best of my eyes I will take The likeness of the maiden, And from her feet will take the shape of sand, Sand the finest there is; And from her head will take the shape of snow-drifts, And from her brow the shape of pine-trees, And from her raiment the snow-birds, And from her bosom the cuckoos." With his utmost powers did he shape her, With the whitest of her brows; With the shape of a galdra he fashioned her, And a sail the longest there is; In the north-wind he shaped her, And the southerly-wind he shaped her with, And the north-wind and the south-wind, And the sun and the clouds he shaped her with, Fur the length of a pin's head. With his utmost powers did he shape her, With the whitest of her hands; With the brightest of her eyes he fashioned her, And with the bluest of her hair; With the bluest of her head-veins, With the whitest of her teeth; With the whitest of her teeth, her only body, She that was formed of snow-drifts and pine-trees. Thus the craftsman, Lemminkainen, Thus the skilful, Lemminkainen, Brought the maiden to his home and kindred, To his father's old dominions, To the land of the Hereafter, <|endoftext|> I'm not so sure. There are times, and I'm one of them, when I wish I were dead. And yet, it's just as easy to die as to live. If you're not careful you'll end up as a skeleton, too. <|endoftext|> "A Geography of Poets", by Robert Creeley [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] for William Carlos Williams I. All over the country, in every city, Everywhere, in every city, in the years Since William Carlos Williams was born, people Have been coming up and coming down Through the dazzling sunsets of youthful laughter On the beautiful California sky, People with a desperate, heroic Intention, and they all say the same Words, Williams said them first, "I must go west, must leave the old world For a strange new world that beckons." They say the same words still, and to-day We hear them again, we hear them from all The strange new worlds that Williams could not Fathom as a boy—Nor California (For that matter, sometime in the far, far off Fifty years hence) Can furnish imagination More vivid than any place In the old world, or any place, for that matter. We hear the same words as we read In the newsreels of Berlin, Tokyo, Sussex, the Crimea, the Carolinas, Or the migrant farmers' return, In the resplendent year of their wedded lives, In a strange new world beckoning. II. So Williams dreamed a little, a little. He dreamed that he was a young man With the joyous, serene way of the hills, And the clean, calm streams, and the compassionate Observance of the forests and the sea; That he had grown to be a tall and graceful Man, of perfect form, and his soul had grown With the love of beauty to a mighty Growth, until it broke the boundaries of all The knowledge of the world into which it was being Who knew no fear. Williams dreamed that he had become a Perfectly full-grown man, a wonderful Artist, with a handsome face, and a brain Full of all wisdom, and the colours of The world in the work of his hands and his soul; And the most precious things that the world had Were in the wonderful round brush-trails and lines Of his wonderful paintings, and all the beauty And the natural grace and curiosity And the curious ways and words of all men And the delight of living that everybody Rejoices in, and the courage and cheer of All women and the desire to make Their own small difference, and the courage And cheer of working alone to accomplish A thing, or to see something accomplished For the sake of others. Williams dreamed that he had a wife Perfectly happy in her own little world, And their home perfect, and their children Perfect in health, and their lives together With the love of mothers and the watchful care Of the friend most trusted and all their own, And the fulfilment of every wish and hope That each had of making his own difference And living life out to the fullest, and The courage to take charge, and to take on Whatever task he was called upon to. And he said to himself as he lay in bed After long and weary nights of sickly pleasure, "I shall die some day and you will appear At some random place and see my work appreciated, And all my qualities defined, and my praise And the wonder of this thing or other. And then my grave will be gaping wide As is the dark valley of the unstarted sea, And the careless wave will say to you, 'Wasn't he Who said he was going to sleep that night? Didn't he take charge? Didn't he do his best? Where's the man? What has he done since he died?' "I'll be dead some day. The wonder's in the doing. He who lives long lives long enough to do all things. I'm far from done with life. I'm far from young. All the things that I've promised myself to do I haven't done. The little I have is good, But not good enough. And now I'm far from strong. Do you see? There's the land I have sown and tilled And I'm old and tired and wounded and weak. I've done what I could. Now I'm weak and tired. I'm tired of doing what I ought not to do. I'm tired of working hard and staying home not To enjoy myself. I'm tired of an aim That is not joy. I'm tired of working for others' Goodness. I'm tired of going to church and being sorry For my sins. I'm tired of being meek and forgiving Fornently for everything that I don't understand. I'm tired of beauty and love and peace and striving And an inward glory that was in the world to-day." And this is the story of how William Carlos Fought in the war in France, and of the man Who knew him and did all that he could do To help him, and of the man's young widow mother, And of the joy that came to them both As they looked in each other's eyes and spoke Of how the other fought and died in France. They were among the first to go to France, And Williams knew the man, and told his men How he had fought in France, and of his death. And the men with their whiskey and their talk Kept pace with all the others, and they moved Like logs on an axis as the train went by Till it came to San Francisco. And Williams said to me, "Do all I would And this is the man that you would see again Only because I'm dead." Williams said, "When I am dead and gone There will be those who say, 'He was afraid To die, and yet he did it.' Well, I am afraid to die. But I did it. Do you believe that all those who have died Will live again? No. I am just one more in a long line. But this man--this man fought and fought and died For this young widow and his people, and for freedom, And for the world. "Do you believe in the Greater Community? Do you believe that all creation exists To the joy of the Creator, and for his glory? Do you believe that it is the self-same Law That controls all, and that no one lives alone, But you and I and the sun and the stars and the trees And all creatures in the fields and all creatures in the streets? Well, I am one who has loved much and sought much, But never with heart unredeemed. "Do you believe that all men are brothers, And sisters, and friends of the poor and weak, And that all men will do the very best That they can, and that no man is an island, That no man is a stone on an island, That no man is a weed in the soil of the earth, But that man is a seed on an island, Is a little weed on an island? Well, I am one who has loved much and sought much, But never with heart unredeemed. "Do you believe in the Greater Community, Do you believe that all creation exists To the joy of the Creator, and for his glory? Do you believe that it is the self-same Law That controls all, and that no one lives alone, But you and I and the sun and the stars and the trees And all creatures in the fields and all creatures in the streets? Well, I am one who has loved much and sought much, But never with heart unredeemed. "Do you believe in the Greater Community? Do you believe that all creation exists To the joy of the Creator, and for his glory? Do you believe that it is the self-same Law That controls all, and that no one lives alone, But you and I and the sun and the stars and the trees And all creatures in the fields and all creatures in the streets? Well, I am one who has loved much and sought much, But never with heart unredeemed." "Well," said Williams, "I'll tell you what, Mr. Haines, If you'll be a dear and let me have your word, And get me a pack of stakes, or a chair or bedstead Or a shirt-iron or a piece of pottery, I will tell you all the truth, I will tell you all There is about you, and about your men." "You are a fool," I said. <|endoftext|> A billiard-ball all of red fire; He who became a "Torch-light hero" For a game of pétanque; The victor in the table-top race, And the grand prize winner of the peach-pie; The challenger to a boxing match, And the hero of the game of "Brawn," And a circus barker, and singer; The maimed one in the iron-roles, Who became a "light-house hero" For a game of "hide and seek;" And a baseball player, and a sumo wrestler, And a barrel racer, and a sleigh-rider; The sailor who became a "sea-captain" For a game of "fish-a-doodle-oo;" The one-armed man who drove a steamboat, And won a prize in a driving competition; The cripple who drove a railroad-car, And a duck-spear archer, and a hot-air artist; And the figure-eight competitor, and the mile-a-minute runner; And the rally competitor, and the one-mile runner; And the drag-race competitor, and the one-mile runner; And the synchronous two-mile runner; And the breast-stroke runner, and the triple-cycle runner; And the triple-stock-roller, and the mile-rocket; And the mile-test competitor and the mile-test champion; And the one- and two-mile runners, And the time-trial champion and bronze medalist; And the high-jump champion and silver medalist; And the pole-vaulter and boxing champion; And the sumo wrestler and football player; And the combat diver and sumo wrestler's twin, And the sumo black-belt and scuba diver's twin; And the Japanese karate-walker and Aikido fighter; And the shohin and Kodokan martial-arts student; And the body-builder and Mr. Kipling author; And the tennis player and the professional wrestler; And the rock-climber and the downhill skier; And the roller-skier and the mountain-biker; And the airman who mailed bombs to the weatherman, And the actor who killed on the ice a seal, And the gondolier and the ocean-going passenger, And the woodman who made a tree into a chair, And the English dramatist and the German dramatist, And the two-time Olympic champion boxer; And the racing-car driver and the F.B.I. agent, And the diving-bellver and the mother-in-law; And the rum-runner and the Indian-baboon owner, And the boxer with a limp who knocked the lad down; And the bouncer at the swimming- pools and the drop in a tree, And the bell-hop at the bowling-alley and the bell-man at the tavern, And the lady-in-parlour and the speaking-machines salesman, And the round of drinks from $2.00 to $4.00 apiece; And a milkman on his round and a football player on his break, And a lumberjack in suspenders and a button-hole through his lip, And a jockey with a black face and a neck of-fire, And a hunting-trip on the black plain and a trip to the city On a train that scraped its sills and a rattling tire knocked loose; And the huckster with a black face and a wart in his cheek, And the cook with a basket of eggs and a lump of lean pork, And a farm-boy with a cart and a lasso and a bag of corn, And the cowboy with a bottle of Jack and a six-gun slung, And a prospector with a little patch of sun and a bundle of stakes, And a sailor with a parrot and a pillow flown off a tree, And a convict with a cast-off pair of pants and a couple of fagots, And a barrel-organ in the deep cool of an attic or a tavern, And a concert-horn on a cliff overlooking a pebble-stone canyon, And a kettle-drum on a white collar in a crowded street, And a soap-box on a gilded column outside a saloon, And a flaring match-light in a black pit under a Bridge of Boats, And a coal-tar baby and a girl-light in a black mill, And a balsam-ginger bubblegum on a green hill in the dented dust, And the red eye of a sunset aflame in a white-jack barque, And a Dutch oven in a sagging trust and a corn-chest in a tumbled pile, And a pile of purple sundrops in a black hollow with a cocked canvas hat Rocking 'round like a cocked sailor's in a dark fit in a black hollow with a cocked hat. When the grass of the country is like the grass of the meadow, And the shadow of the thistle is like the shadow of a flower, Where the year is like the flower and the weather like the rose, I shall not go for the laughter of girls and the music of bands. I shall be home with the night-hawks and the forest calls. I want to be in the earth again and not on the stoop wondering When the bees hum and the humming-birds sing in the maple-branches. I want to be a part of the hum of the long-leaved orchards and the scent Of the stalks of the onion and the pale scallion like a queen in her palace. I want to walk in the shoes of the herb and the store the herbs I have picked. I want to dig in the earth again and be the earth and not the ploughed land. I want to turn again and not turn in the direction of the wind. I want to stand again where the white-faces changed to the shades and spoke. I want to feel again the cool grass and the warm earth and the cloth of the rain. When the grass of the country is like the grass of the meadow, And the shadow of the thistle is like the shadow of a flower, When the year is like the flower and the weather is like the rose, Then I shall go with the laughing girls and the marching bands, For I will give them my garments and they will give me their applause, And I will run and they will follow and they will shout my name, And I will dance and sing and they will crown me with floral crowns, And I will sway and they will crown me with floral bands, And they will show me the pathway to glory and wealth and fame. When the grass of the country is like the grass of the meadow, And the shadow of the thistle is like the shadow of a flower, Then I shall go with the laughing girls and the marching bands, And I shall give them my garments and they will give me their applause, And I shall run and they will follow and they will shout my name, And I shall dance and sing and they will crown me with floral crowns, And I shall sway and they will crown me with floral bands, And I will show them the pathway to glory and wealth and fame. And I shall be a king among the grasses, And I shall have a maiden queen for a mother, And we shall dwell in a country far from here, And we shall have a prince to woo our hand, And we shall have a princess to love, And we shall be content and we shall be happy. We shall eat the bread and work the fruit, And we shall drink the wine and work the wo, And we shall build with our roof and shed The tiny roof that will keep the rain from our door. We shall sleep on the field and go to the town, And we shall sing and we shall laugh and we shall sing, And we shall rejoice when we see the golden sheaves come down, We shall grow and produce and trade and prosper, And never know want nor privation, And never know distress or taint of sin. And when the grass of the field is green And the clover is white as the snow, And the pear tree glitters like the moon, And the moonlight makes the grass look white, We shall live, for we shall never know night. Come with the honey in your lips, Come with the nectar in your eyes, And take my heart in your two hands And wander where the singing-birds Go down beside the golden-sanded mills And tell strange tales to strangers who pass. Come with the rain in your eyes, Come with the rain in your feet, And take my love to a fruitful field Where the soft white corn is growing. If you will not let me keep her, <|endoftext|> and many worlds, there is no perfect point wherein to measure back over the years our distance, that when we were made to wait that one might emerge more complete than one before and we discerned a beauty in that something lost in translation as an absence is in a circle from one circle to another or the color black from one circle to another. <|endoftext|> "Spring in Mill Valley", by Bob Hicok [Living, Coming of Age, Nature, Spring, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] We drove by the house on Coloma Drive where the son now known as Sam was still a child, his father explains. We stopped at the site of the old Mayan temple where one night Sam threw a harp strings and sounded like the ancient language's version of a cop car, and the sound held in the front-row seats as the police escorted themselves off the property. They couldn't have thought it a great risk, they must have thought we were all too stupid to understand what was going on. But Sam had a gift for sound and the experience of being at the center of things, he made us feel more secure in our ignorance. In the years that followed he was in love with the way sound connects us in waves of harmonic symmetry that fall as pure a form as we'll find and that day in May he made the cop cars fly forward in a formation of rippling sound that came to include us as it faded out of sight, a few windows flashed red and the sound of tires scraping the blacktop went almost inaudible up the street until the drive passed, its car engine purring in memory of Coloma Drive, its engine finally gone, all connections gone that day in May when a boy named Sam made a harp of his body and sound and sound of his body made the harp in the mind of the boy named Sam and the mind of the world that is ours to take away or keep. <|endoftext|> "Divorced Fathers and Tomatoes", by Jennifer Moxley [Living, Parenthood, Separation & Divorce, Relationships, Men & Women] At last the unlabelled boxes, still warm from aging, fall away.We step carefully on, bumping into the small sweet twigs of life, then sharpening our knives for broiling and roasting.With two heads, I half-remember a lark singing over the blood-scented gardenias and lemon-scented mulberries,the scent of her taking flight still racing across the dim field. A tattered baby’s chair is all we find, then, when we lift the tinsel from its still warm corner, a wooden wine cup. A bouquet of small yellow and red roses. With the bluest of cheeks we stagger towards the wall. O sweet ugly baby. Our tears go with you down the dusty aisle. <|endoftext|> "Lepidoptera", by Juliet Kono [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Parenthood, Youth, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Ozzy Osbourne When my mother was thirteen She met Ozzy Osbourne. She was looking for a lover And Ozzy was in his twenties, With bouffant hair and wide brim Like his father, and she fell in love. My mother is seventeen And Ozzy is fourteen, With close-set eyes and an open smile. Ozzy is still at home playing With his guitar and his fiddle, With his father not around to stop him, And my mother is seventeen And in love with Ozzy Osbourne. In the rainy season When the maples start to sprout In the backyard of my father’s house When my mother is seventeen And Ozzy is fourteen, With a fierce affection she starts to feel For the dusty red room where his things are And where he seldom comes near night When the maples start to sprout In the backyard of the Osbornes’ house. My mother is seventeen And in love with Ozzy Osbourne She walks through the rain In her father’s old red room While Ozzy is fourteen And living in a house on Crescent Street With a black maid he says he loves With sweet, black-eyed words She says she loves Ozzy Osbourne. <|endoftext|> "Mrs. Chiang at the Chinese National Museum", by Florence H. Thim [Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Fall, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] A rich, intense red is the color of autumn. In the morning I see it on the hill. The wind brightens it as it passes. I paint my body in it. I saw the bronze statue of Lao Tzu By Su Tung Fei <|endoftext|> "A Vision of the Annunaki", by Florence H. Thim [Religion, God & the Divine, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The Lord of Serpents The Annunaki— creators of Heaven & Earth— came to men who worshipped them. They took the idolatry of Earth and made it beautiful. They made the seas dark and the grasses green. They took the yellow fruit of cities and made it golden. They took the ashes of old religions and stored them in the hearts of new ones. They took the sacred ash of many gods and sprinkled it over all. In the secret chambers of the galaxies they hid the tablets of the First Tablet. In the deep shelter of space they placed the tablets of the Second Tablet. The third tablet gave laws to the angels which forbids them from taking the colour of trees or colour of women. <|endoftext|> "Self-Portrait", by Hilda Raz [Living, The Body, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] a goldfish of ink with tweezers to the mouth of a paper boat a pearl in the heel of a boot a bell that rings like a fist of ink to the eye of a cloud of water an ear of earwax to the ear of an otter of water to the lips of a sailor of sea salt the secret of a paper bag of breath to the eye of a squid of ink sewing the surface of the sea with the grain of sea salt the sea of ink to the eye of a blackbird of fire I want to leave you the mountain of fire a fist of wind to the eye of a rose of the sea of ink to the mouth of a whale of ink to the eye of a gull of ink on the beach of a redwood tree of fire to the eye of the mermaid of ink with tweezers to the secret buried buried under the sand <|endoftext|> "Cold Country", by John Unterecker [Living, Death, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] The shadow of this town, like a halo, Hovering around the fire, Whose spirits, as thick as chimney Praises that smite back With the blast of a hundred echoes From the fire and from the hearth. The footfalls of its dogs, The stride, tall and deliberate, That wends from roof-tops To rooftop fire escape Is a landscape as old As the hills whose tawny flanks Wash the far bay, As old as the faces Of the children Who, on summer nights, first prowl The high lawns of St. Ursula, The old-fashioned square Where porch-dogs lie couched And black-hooded Christmas feasts Are reenacted for children Who can begin to smell, On windless nights, The strong, musty odour Of strong-houred garrets Where hollyhocks grow Up to the ceiling In red and gold holly And laughter rings The glimmering studebaker Of these cold climes. <|endoftext|> "Seventeen", by Joanie Mackowski [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Home Life] Now that I've read your letter, written on yellowed paper with your name typed above, inside my hat, in a book, I can see your little face, above your own small name, <|endoftext|> Plains and valleys Flee, and the hearts of children beat, With the smell of new-mown grasses. Where the rich soil is reddened by rains, And the rich corn is yellow in tassels, Where the rich soil is reddened by rains, And the rich corn is yellow in tassels, There the people dwell that never weep. There the people dwell that never weep, Over the quiet and the dead. They have heard the voice of the Master Priests, And are now bidden to go and worship. They have heard the Master Priests, And are now bidden to go and worship. And the Saints, and the Holy Men who lead them, Hold conference with the Master Priests, Who say to them, "You that lead us, now pray, This night make for the holy of heart." And the Master Priests say to them, "You that lead us, now pray, This night make for the holy of heart." Hear the Master Priests who lead you now pray, This night make for the holy of heart. For the hour draws near when all must go back, And the soil is old and the crop is barren, And the people die, one after one; And the Saint, and the Master Priests, now pray For the holy of heart. "God keep you, my husband," said old Marek. And he hung his murta on a willow tree, "God keep you, my husband," he said. For a long time after that he kept in mind Marek, as he hung his murta on a tree. He thought of the time they met, when he went For a drink with that gipsy Marek. But the memory of Marek was unpleasant After a while to that sleepy village mind, And he said to his wife, "We will not meet Again. Where will I find another man, After all these years?" And he gave her no peace, Saying, "God keep you, my dear." So the Lord took into His care His servants, And a servant saw what a great storm was growing, And the servant went out and near that little village, And he tried to warn those who were living in fear, But the villagers did not heed his warning, And their hearts were hidden, and their fear was confidence. And the Lord said, "My servants, you have been showing Only deference to your servants, and showing No heed at all to your stricken ones." And the Lord made a loud sound, and his thunder Was split in twain, and the sound was divided. But the Lord took pity on that sleepy village, And he took a soul from every sorrow, And he took the wife that was left alone, And he took the little babe from the swaddling clothes, And he took a sheaf of the corn that was thriving, That the sheaves should be garnished for sowing, And he took a purple clot of the corn, And he mingled it with the refuse of the tiller, And he took the tender of the husks, And he made it into living beauty. And he called the little babe, and said, "Awake, my little darling, my darling, my darling, I have tamed the hind that was undermining, And the wolf is lying in his swound before me, And before you the dragon is wroth with bloodshed, And the eagle is threatening with his talons. Awake, my little darling, my darling, my darling, Let us go upon the plundering of robbers." Then the Lord of Life began the harrowing, And he laid down all the tokens of death, And the hind before him was turning breathless, And the wolf was tearing with his teeth the bosom Of the brave body of the girl, so beautiful, And the eagle was frightening with his wings of terror The young shepherds and the little children, And the dragon was insulting with his fiery breath The faithful friends of Marek, so faithful. And the boy who was born without a father Saw the harrowing of Marek in his sleep, And he said, "I will become a great hero If I play with boys in secret, in secret." Then the Lord of Life began the torturing, And he led the way a mighty fortress Where the heavens and the earth were bedded And a great house in the middle of the earth, And the door was built of obsidian, And it was so strong that not even the might Of a horse could force it open, not even The mighty Chimerabes, the mighty queen, When she came to try her beauty in its treasures, And she strove to force her way through its secret passages, For the heavens showed her beautiful treasures, But she found the way barred to her by violence. And the Lord of Life took away the light of that eye, The beautiful Marek, of that body immortal, And the Lord of Life said, "I have built for you A Fortress, where never a step may ever be Of the body or soul ever disturbed by me." And the Lord of Life said, "Do not grieve for me, For I rejoice for your joy. I have built for you A beautiful garden, and here in it I have left the wandering dog for you, And the lazy moth, and the men unbraced and mired, And the rovers of the night, and the robbers of morn. There is plenty of grass for you and yours, And the bird, the oriole, sings all day, And the lark, the mallard, sings all night. And there are sweet flowers and odorous herbs, And the lily bends above them all." Then he took from the earth a weight of stone, And he said, "The work of Gods is great. I have built this house for you, and many more As I bade you build, and I gave them to you, But I know they were built in haste. I will take back the very words I said, I will restore the very date. I will build you again all these halls, And the pillars too, and the pillars too, And the walls with the gates, and the flooring Built of the same, as they stood before, But you will not enter in to see them, And you will not enter in to see them, For the house and all its treasures of beauty, Like a treasure hidden in a hole, Is the thing you will not enter in to see. You will not enter in to see it." And the Lord of Life said, "Wherefore did I say, 'You shall not enter in to see it'? For you must see it, or it is a lie, A fabulous tale of nothing any where, Except in the ugly song of Gobble Gounouse. But I will build you a house of gold, And you shall enter in to see it." Then the Lord of Life took from the earth A weight of gold, and he said, "Take it, And lay it at my feet." And the Jew did so. But he hid it in his bosom, And he kept it there, till the day when he went To his rest in the grave, and the day on which The Redeemer of the world saved him. The dead man opened his eyes, And he saw the gold on high, And he knew the gift his God had sent. And he said, "I thank thee, God, For the wonderful gift thou hast given. It is not much, but it is good." The clouds are gone that hid his face, And he sees the gold by light unfolding. "But," said he, "if I might again Take the gift back I might undo it. I might undo it," said he, "If I could, when I came to die." And the clouds are gone that hid his face, And he sees the gold in light unfolding. "But," said he, "if I could do it, I would do it at once, before I died." So away he went to meet his fate. But his heart in the house of prayer Was as true to God as he was true to men. And his steps as faithful to their fate As to their faith they trod as down in the world. And he heard the toll from the dark sea-gates, As the mercy of God's gracious rain fell in, And his heart with the mercies of love grew strong, And his spirit within him that longed to behold The wonder of creation rejoiced in the May. Then his wife said, "You see, my son, How the skies are all shining with God's love. He hides his face from our gaze, But the eyes with the tears are all shining, <|endoftext|> If thy purpose be To help the "lovers" of thy land, Let not my rights be wanting In thy fair city of Sarraguce! Let not thy great cities rot To nothing, and into ruin fall The babes and women that thou made there! The sorrows of thy life-time thou hast shared, And done great deeds at thy country's need; Yet on great deeds and deeds there wait, And in the obscurity, A dreary darkness, waits a thousand more! I wept to-day upon my father's grave! My tears down drave the weeds of sadness; I saw his face as my mother told His victories, and his many defeats. Oh! then I wept with grief and wild lamentation His victories, and many defeats; And much of too great sadness came, And I was dazed and filled with grief, That I should remember him so well And yet his name should fall to me mute. The sad, the shamed and mournful Thew thy dust in cruel war! In battle and by sword and spear Thy people gave thee many a blow. Now at last by thy own people's hands Thou art laid in holy ground! I have dreamed all my life long Of meeting thee and loving thee; I would be weak and kneel before thee, I would follow thee to the death! The death that is destined for thee, By God's help, thou wilt not dread! God has his ways and ways of dealing, And we are ignorant of all his ways! I will be patient, I will be wise; Oh, what a world of woe and suffering Thou wert, and I am thou's beloved bride! <|endoftext|> It is a great, dark, quiet room; Brightly lighted and crowded; With about six feet of space for people, Another foot of space for reading And pipes and books and instruments. And there we children gathered in a group Made up of one hundred and eight, Seventy-nine boys and girls, A writer and editor was asking His watch questions: Who was the president? Who was the secretary? What was the head of the department? Why was this hall called "Big" And why called "Small" And why not "Main" And why not "Incredible" It is a little, bright, busy room; Brightly lighted and crowded; With book-shelves of dwarfed size And precious books and instruments The director holds at arm's-length With far-cast sconces. And there we children queried Questions of the head of the department And learned of them the rest, It is a sunny day in June; The trees are springing wildly; The sun is shining hot, And loud the loud city hum; A man-child runs merrily by, And laughs at nothing in particular: He has red hair and green eyes; And if you watch him day by day You'll see that he's doing everything And some people call him King-Child, Because he smiles at nothing And scorns all jokes about his face; And some people call him Fool, Because he's so quick-witted And never knows any keep-quiet; And some people call him "Just a regular glum-face," Because he's so untidy. He is the fool that laughs last, He is the merrily ungrateful Frowning wise guy that kills The instant that his guru seems to promise: But I call him Fool, And so shall you. For just as the Child is never Most thankful for the gifts he's got, So he kills with a careless finger the instant That his guru seems to promise: And so he'll die, And I wonder why. What is the use of telling men How long the sea must be, Or how many stars there must be In the sky, or what the Dew On the way to Orlando from Montreal, Or whether it rains or dew; The sea-shell doesn't seem to matter, Nor the algae on a summer's day, Or even the atmospheric disturbance When we sneeze! But I know a lot about weather, For I've travelled a lot; And I feel it's foolish to prate About things like these; But I'm one of 'em, and I've got a right to talk, For I was born when the world was born And it matters to me! For I was there, in a keen sport, When all the world was bright and new, And the East away all gleamed, And there were skyscrapers to see, And music to hear, And tea and cookies, if you were careful, And joy in the parks, And flowers in the streets, And clouds upon the hillside, And swallows aloft, And little mermaids, in the spray, And so forth. So I joined in the company And I tried to keep awake, But soon I knew a story, And then I heard the East awake And saw a mighty crowd, And I heard them saying: "What a crowd! And what a sky!" And I heard: "The sea is wide, And it's time that we knew it, too; And it's time that we stood up and took it, For what's overhead? And what are these little skies that press So close about us, and what are they made of?" And I heard: "It's time to take control Of the world, and we've done it before When we were all of us men; And it's time that we fought a good fight, And we'll do it again!" So we fought a war and we won it, And I've learned a lot in the last ten years, And I've learned a lot more since then; And now I'm here to say to you all, It's a good thing that I was there, And I know that it's true that it's time That we fought a good fight, And that we'll do it again! And I know it's true that we've fought A great fight before, in the past, And I know that they're coming, day after day, And that the crowd is eager, And that each one of us has a place That he fills, And that each one of us has a place To fight it out. And so I'm here to tell you all, And to say to you that if you are strong Then you must be very strong, too, For it's only right That it's true that it's time That we fought a right fight! So just take my word, and take your own, For we've stood in many a crowd That said: "What a crowd! And what a sky!" But we stuck to our guns and we did it, And we did it for a right. And now it's up to you and me To do the same. And so, my friends, if you are willing Then you must be very strong, too, For it's only right That it's time that we fought a right fight, And that we'll do it again! O Gunga Din! (silent) For since it is your godfardiet I must bow the knee, Prime minister and all we speak And every peasant word Applied to you, Must now begin With "thank you" to "your highness." Thank you, thank you, Gunga Din! Thank you, Gunga Din! (continuing) For all your royal stoutness In Parliament we have reminded you Of your royal mercy In the month of June, when townsmen died In large numbers, yet you sat firm, And in the midst of all the madness Your Majesty sat safe. So we commend you For that high courtesy And we pray that it may continue For many years to come. So we dedicate this inscription And we beg that you will treasure it Inside your wigwam. So we beg that you will ponder it In your mountain cabin. So we beg that you will think of it While hunting in the forest. So we pray that you will pray to you In your own awful way. And we pray that you will give us Such compensation as you can. For we are poor, I know And we have suffered much. Thank you, Gunga Din! (silent) For all you have been to us We the natives here (Thinking of his sweetheart) Are poor, I know And we have suffered much. Thank you, Gunga Din! (continuing) For all the wrong that you have done us In our many wrongs <|endoftext|> Oyster Rabbit, who is he? And what is his pedigree? His eyes are filled with fire, With great fire his face is red. Come, let us see his claws. Through the hot dusty air, On the dusty highroad All the brawny stable boys, With their heads in their hands, Trailing all their toys, Go staggering: "There she goes!" All the stable boys Go staggering: "There she goes!" But the little tired mare Who has been sitting, Sitting still to remember The old hayloft, Where the sunbeams used to play And the sound of the stormy sea When the waves were all aglow, When the foam and the dust were made Almost white with the shine Of the sea's white mirror, When the wind blew chill or warm, And the dust and the rain were grey, And the brown stable boys Go staggering: "There she goes!" But the brown mare Who has been sitting, Sitting still to remember The old hayloft, Where the sunbeams used to play And the sound of the stormy sea When the waves were all aglow, When the foam and the dust were made Almost white with the shine Of the sea's white mirror, When the wind blew chill or warm, And the dust and the rain were grey, But never saw they, seeing How fair they were, how fair they were, How like human beings they seemed, Like the mothers and sisters And brothers of us all. The grey dusty flocksman Lies all alone in the heat; Only by the firelit hearth He tells his love-tale. He sees her, as she comes, All the flocking love-ants, All the furry lovers, All the busy birds Flitting to her with eager eyes. "Ah, what avails me the sweets Of warm company? I crave My own warm fire and the charm Of a firelit hearth to melt me Cold in the dust of evening." "Here, be not afraid. Come, look in my eyes. I shall assure thee." And the grey-hound came, And the mother dog's faithful follower, Laid his hand on her head. He looked in his eyes, They were not afraid. He looked at her, and said: "I am thy true friend." And the little frightened mare Shuddering looked up In her place at the hearth, In the great new firelit hearth. It was a wedding-night, A wedding-tide of joy. The flower-town of her heart Blushed like a lovely rose. She sat at the window there Looking forth from the fame Of the far-smiling houses, That are the pride of fame. She looked out on the sea. There was a ship full-sail, As if to sea. A lily-wreath was in hand To perfume the deck. A lady- passenger was there, With a candle's end. Her mouth was a-smile, Her head was a-cover; The sea was a-kissing, The land was a-holding. A-sitting, a-sitting, She looked out with a-eyes. The ship-chaise neared the height Of a sun-flower tall. And the red leaf bent Under the white feet Of a maiden pilgrim there, With a light foot-gait. She stood by the mast-foot, And the stars of all the skies Were a-glimmer in her hair. The white feet touched the floor. The red feet stood on them. The stair wound through the floor, And her candle fluttered in it. And the light grew in her eyes. And the red feet stood in them. She looked out to the sea. There was a ship full-sail, As if to sea. A lily-wreath was in hand To perfume the deck. A lady- passenger was there, With a candle's end. Her mouth was a-smile, Her head was a-cover; The sea was a-kissing, The land was a-holding. The lily-wreath burns low, The lady- passenger stands In the red-rose wreath again, With the white feet that trod The dew of a morning-star. And the lady said: "My name is Mary Grant. I am a poor artist's wife, And I seek the home of a Lord." And the candle in her hand Fluttered and shone in the moon. And the maiden's candle-flutter Touched the flame of it. And the long litany of prayer Rose like a river flowing. And a childlike silent joy Poured from her eyes, And she said: "I have found the home Of my Lord." And she climbed upon the table And she lay upon its edge. And her face was white and shy And her hands were clasped so close That they seemed one and the same. And her lips moved like a singer's, But no one heeded what they said. And the candle on the shelf Sank slowly to the ebbing moon. And she softly opened her eyes And looked upon the faces That were turned to her in the glass. But no one saw what she saw. And she rose up from the wreath And she drew a long taper From its sheath in her fingers And she placed it within the flame That burned in the moon-beam. And she slowly drew the taper Down the wreath until it touched The wreath at the very edge. And she gently bent and tickled The child within her arms. But the child would not talk or move. And she thought of the last kiss her mother Had given her at her christening, And she thought of the first night at home And the strange dreams she had dreamed. And she tickled the child again, And she said: "It is the first May That I know. It is the sixth spring That I know, since I came to stay In this place, and this month and year. I have called it affection, But it is more than that, more than Even this life of ours. "It is more than this life, this life Of ours. The man that has died Is not more dead than I am, more Than I the child that lies within me, Than this month of ever since I came In this place, more than all the years That I knew before." And the child said nothing for a time, But it softly moved its lips, Saying with its soft lips that moved not, But the wind moved them, Playing among the pearl-painted branches: "It is more than this life, this life, The life of man, that is so weary, And the heart is hale to-day, But I have neither home nor rest. I am a ruined house." Then it said, "I have no home. Where am I, mother, more than anywhere? There is no land that I know of, no country Where I am called mother, save this house In which I am a mother, and this son, This my dear one, and our lord the while. I am a ruined house." And the wind went on for a moment And the bird made a sudden cry, And the bird looked at the moon And the wreath on the birchbark bark, And it made a sad and sorrowful cry: "It is more than this life, this life, The life of man, that is so weary, And the heart is hale to-day, But I have neither home nor rest. I am a ruined house." When the young have fallen asleep And the old live long and well, When the babies sing and the mothers smile, When the babies grow to manhood's prime And the mothers can pursue Their occupations, when the mother's heart Leaps to meet the mother that's far away, Then it is the time to think Of the mother that's far away. When the mother's heart leaps to meet the mother that's far away, And the young ones gather in the distance And the mother that is with the mother Is afar and forgotten for the moment, But the mother that is far away Cries to the far away mother And it's never the same to-morrow When the mother that's far away Cries to the far away mother. How to hear the mother that is lonely, Who is old and that cannot smile? And the baby lying on the floor <|endoftext|> Blown over sands and water. The waters roared and swelled, But I'd in my heart a trust, A faith of hope and care, That the night would pass Till I beheld the ghostly ships To the far horizon drawn. I've seen a ship sail from out the deep, As clear as the next sunbeam's light, A long bright line of sail that never should Brush the wet sand; a sail like to the soul Of God sent ship, and a crew too, Gay and strange with strange and fair attire, To bless the waters and to cheer. I've seen a ship go out at sea, In sight of land that seemed so fair That it must be the very sun, And yet not harsh or hard nor bright; A white wave on a black sea rolled, The flag at the mast was white, And night on her shoulders hung, But over all a gleam of light, So that I knew it was she! She's off Cape Cat. Her name was -- Something like -- Longreach, I think; I could see her tiny foot Gainfully sifting the deep, And I was glad because I knew I could not be as glad as she. She seemed so small that her prow Bent o'er the water, and her shape Was like a lily set in white; I wish that I had not thrown A glance behind, for I might have seen A speck, a gleam, a foam-starred shape, Or perhaps the Moon's ghost! The lights are burning low! I must go to bed, And dream and dream of fairies, Until my brain is humming With all the dew and deil That I have heard them swear By griffins, faeries, and witches, And all their various folks; For as I lay in the bath, The bubbles of the water Around my head began To dance and to sing; And I rose at the music's sound, And I stretched out my hand And I took one in my hand, And I said "What are you at?" And the little bubble said "I am dancing up my stem To greet the maiden who comes To be my love, my queen!" And the maiden said to me "I come to be your love, My lover, who comes to be A rose-leaf on a hedge-side That smiles at violets; A snare, a sorrow, a sin, A hopeless scorn, a hurt, A thing for a blind man's finger To track by the blazon Of red and white and blue On the shield of a knight Who fights in a suit of mail With a trumpets' sound. A queen on her royal throne, Queen of a world of woe, On her brow the snows of night, On her hand the afterworld Of pain and despair and wrong, And a halo's sickly light, And a touch of the dead, And the cold dew on the grass That dreams by the rivers And the swords of the dead. And I said, "I will teach the world The song that is in my heart." And I taught the world the word I had for the end of war; I said, "The time is short, The men are mixed, the land Is wide and the slaughter Is mighty, and the end Comes soon, soon, soon." And I thought I was strong; I said I was wise; I said I had not felt The agonies of birth; I said my thoughts were clear As the eyes of the dead Who only wait the last Long, long year of pain, The first white flower of spring, The daybreak of the West. But the eyes of the dead Are never clear to me; My thoughts are faint and far, They seem as a whisper; My hope is as a breath, And my heart is like stone Held by the heartless hand That beats far in the East That beats far in the West. I thought to-day that I stood Before a mighty wall That had gone to chain the world; And I lifted up my head And I saw within my mind A world of sightless men, A world of sightless things That moved about and fought With unseen hands and feet; And all about the throng Lay corpses, all about Lay dead and dying men Whose hearts were as cold steel, Or as the pale heart of lambs. And I cried, "O ye dead, O dead, O dying, dead, To you I give the sign That I make with my hand, And you may look and die. But look, O look, and see How all about you lie Dead and dying men; And they are not alone, But under the earth Lie millions that sit dead As if they were not dead; And they wear on their brows A look that has no smile, That is not life and joy And death and disease. And where are they? Ah, Where are they? Nay, my dear, Think not that I am sure, I cannot feel their toes. I have seen souls in hell That had the form and face, And the lips and eyes and brows Of men, and I could not feel Their touch upon my hand; I have seen them when their eyes Were not so dim as this, And their lips were not so loath; But I have touched the brows Of archangels when they sat As if they were still dead; And the lips of one I knew Who had a happy way, But the heart of one that was sad. There is a joy that is not in words, A joy that is not in any cup, It lives in the lark that is hopping Above the morning's mirth; And the lark that sang to the sun Was in her milky way Happy as the Lord is happy, The sun that is hopping above. There is a joy that is not in words, A joy that is not in any cup, It lives in the lilac on the gate, And the bush that is picking its sweets Just because it is free; And the lilac that is picked for its flowers Is as happy as the sake Of God and the lark that is hopping Above the morning's mirth. There is a joy that is not in words, A joy that is not in any cup, It lives in the blooming of the rose, And the birds on the wing; And the birds that sing to the sky Are as happy as the sake Of God and the lark that is hopping Above the morning's mirth. There is a joy that is not in words, A joy that is not in any cup, It lives in the swaying of the palm, And the willow that is bending, And the wind that is flown, And the soul that is glad therein, The willow and the palm, Are as happy as the sake Of God and the lark that is hopping Above the morning's mirth. There is a joy that is not in words, A joy that is not in any cup, It lives in the waving of the trees, And the swaying of the wind; And it lives in the waving of the trees That are bowed above the earth, And in the swaying of the wind and the trees That are bent above the earth. There is a joy that is not in words, A joy that is not in any cup, It lives in the earth and the sky, And the hearts of the gales, In a sunbeam that is brighter than words, And a star that is higher; And the hearts of the gales that are tender Are as happy as the sake Of God and the lark that is hopping Above the morning's mirth. When the great wind is husht, When the city clock goes two, When the starlings wheel and wheel Where the cows have li'ed, And the broodless birds have sate, Then there comes a lull in the noise, A stillness that is rare. The lark and the thrush Are gone to their nest, The cock has made a ling ring, The heat of the sun is stay; And mothers and children, friends And strangers, join in the stillness, And leave their homes to come To share the rest that is come. There is music in the air, For the murmur of the rain, And in the blue, there is blue, And there is joy in the light; There is music and good will, And happiness in the land; There is music that makes glad The heart of the broken home, <|endoftext|> Of Briscoe, and, taking the fall, must fly. In vain the distracted court desired To join in peace; and Cortez on his side Withdrew, nor could he, perchance, with peace Fair Mexico, if such a city could, Compose his discontented mood, or frame New schemes of empire: He, with all the rest Of those unhappy nations whom he robs Of their national independence, plac'd For the future ruler of those proud realms, He fares, nor mercy can to Mexican see. But, lo, the Lord to Heaven ador'd by prayer, Who might have far worse ordain'd, (the conqueror For these three days in sleep have layed), the angel, Who came the first to ruin America, Gives to the world his terrible account. A gold star, for his punishment marked on hell. An eagle, fiercer for his mark on ground; A lamb for his wicked pride, and name on yoke; To gall, to wound, and flay, his bird of prey, Till from his neck he tore the entrails dark. A rooster meanwhile, for his part, among The rest, as fit for his sharp mischance, flew; Yet not so fit as he was senseless and mad, With whom the Almighty Father, in his word, Condemn'd as much as pride and avarice. Ripe in rebellion he seem'd to be At his own deed, yet could not from his crime Deserve the name of robber: he deserv'd A different doom, and so it was provide'd. An ox and a turtled sow he took, And sent them to the Indians to be slain By other hands than his; he took a lance Of steel, the proper weapon of the back, And shod his heels, the proper way to bleed; And pricking the red-men, drove them forth To bear his deadly wound. His fury broke His judgment, and he brake the Almighty's laws. An antler'd stag he took, a prince of blood, And bridled him with reins of yellow hair, Tied to a limber horse; then his brave steed He sent to Quilpa, chief of his tribe, To his plain, whom he appointed his guide. "No sooner he his return beheld Than, turning backward, he leaped into the jaws Of that huge beast, whose back the Indian serpent wraps; And, groaning pitifully, the spurt of death Sent him, dead, into his fierce, ignoble grave. His hands and feet the conqueror bound, And all the savage band with those were joined; A bloody trophy was his arrowy spear, Which, all the solemn rites of revenge paid, He hung in solemn holth, and made it his hall. The Indian monarch on that heap of bones, With silent, pitiful, and loving looks, Committed the same to the eternal dust. The bloody antler'd stag appears no more, Nor ever more is seen the Indian lion; Nor shall we ever, with another, see Again to light such horrid scenes of blood. Yet we have seen two nations, contending near A forest, on whose sacred ruins we stood Unwonted, whilst the thin clouds of shooting fire Awhile withheld the bright Sun from his thronest throne. A beam of light o'er these strange scenes in heaven This ray of grateful man invents, and brings From a fresh source, where the woodlands wave And shine beneath smiling skies, their riches pile On the fair wealth of former ages. Aged is the wealth, yet undiminish'd seem The pomp, and pomp are ever lasting. No wish, no thought, by man or wolf, could find A savage prey to feed such wealth. It lies All in the heart alone, or riches past And wealth, the more irrevocable, live; For that is what ails the world, the rich And opulent; while the poor and rich agree. Their thoughts no fancy satisfies. Their hands A world of wonders form and science lose. A prey to poverty and woe They see the sailor cast his shattered chains On the strange shore, or, crazed with love's desire, They weep their woman home, whose heart has died In a foreign band, on some foreign sand. This world of wealth and peace they never gain; Nor dream how hard it is on him who spends His life in pleasure, or in toil, in pains; But they, their bliss secure, a soft content Enjoy, and, with rapture and delight, Their native green hills and their own native groves; Nor think their inheritance of the earth Is of more value than the skies. But man, the offspring of a lower birth, Not born to enjoy or yield his being On any earth, where treasure or fame Has place, but for a little moment here, For rich or poor, alike below, Hath, all his glory and his wealth to see In this: to walk with Gods, as if he were A God, and be immortal made. For this, for this he yearly lives, to spend Life in a yearly performance, and wear A life-long actor, now in parts; And now in some; for part is force; Part work, part strategy, part the stage; And life, like drama, must have its beginning, And end, in fashion's art, with him. He was a hero born; he wrought to learn His fate's contempt, and what the gods achieved Of man's and gods' infatuate disdain In his own country, from the rest to learn. And he, who, in his native wood, with caves And gloomy hollows, being poor, had learn'd To love the depths, the very ruins taught. But, lo! his fates, that other men decree, All places and all events, him o'errun, And, nursed a brother, of a royal line, To make him heir to all his realm--and he Finds, on his sire's dismay'd face, a clue To more than human depth of shame, And, in the quaking monarch's terror, found The secret pain, and agony profound, Which man's ruin bids us all beware. For, to his high descent, to his good A curse is given, to render him so High, so great, so miserable, and wild, That none, save he, who fears to be just, Or afraid, can set his foot on him. Yet with the fear, the modesty, the shame That mark his character, he proves to be The man to be as little afraid. A short, a short way hence, and he was chief Of a great nation; and they liv'd at peace, When Italy's genial earth was wet With rivers--floods of brimstone, brim-line, spume. A pirate chief, he held the post at war With France, and spats against the Turk. The world saw the Richelieu Shorn of her governor; but he didn't; The one-time honourable name Was change'd to Exchequer, head-aux-mayes Of pirates, foul or fair. And now his worth was thought poor; And yet he'd a great house, and did dine Freely, and always, with a wine Which, pound for pound, was forty pence-- In short, was English, no doubt, But English, if you couldn't tell, 'Twas best to let him alone. I really can't see how they could shrink From giving him a name; but, no doubt, As name was out of question, The old, square, Shakespearean name Was short for Tom Brown, the youngest, And as in sooth a dandy peer. I cannot think (to tell the truth) Why Tennyson should, in the midst Of all his golden ages, fail To give our hero his due; Yet Tennyson has never yet, When dealing with characters, Got one right; I never knew him so! It isn't because he is a dunce (As scribbling critics say); but it's the same Occasion, for, in truth, he is queer. When young, he was torpid, and his head Full of his mundane cares; but now he's older, And, instead of filling his time, by hunting, Or gardening, or at cock-feast or fair, He has spent his time (a sad anomaly!) In writing sonnets. I suppose that when His time's done, and his tongue has done its work, He will have to give it up. Well, I guess <|endoftext|> Love and I both of us can't see, And we won't know till we die. Where the dried-up meadows are, Where the haunted streams wait, Where the little children play, And the brave men die; Where the broken rules have died, And the lost equipment sleeps In the deep arms of the dead; In the arms of the dead. So we two will sing this song, "The brave men of the west Laid their lives down to-day, And the lads that we worshipped play The heroes of long ago, And the gold of the fiddle rings On the dead lips of the old." And the children of the West Sit and listen and wait, And the wild flowers ask a sign, And the song waves to the sky, Where the lads that we worshipped play The heroes of long ago, And the gold of the fiddle rings On the dead lips of the old. This is a message that the Lord Sent down to his servant in the west: "For many waters you have trod The dusty road of the journey west, And many nights you have lain awake Poring over the journey west; But at last you have reached your goal, Your destination, your desire; And I will give you of my gold." Listen now, for you are the captain Of a great army, men who know All lands where the fabled city stands, And you have gathered men from far To the land of the mighty, the land Where the idols are built of gold; Where the road is paved with crystals, And the canoes float out in the clouds, And the dancers wear golden robes. For some there are, I know their names, The jealous and mighty ones; For they will ask you, "Where are we In all this golden land? Who are we, that we stand here In the land of the mighty, the land Where the idols are built of gold, Where the road is paved with crystals, And the canoes float out in the clouds, And the dancers wear golden robes?" But he who is jealous and mighty Will never be warmed by the gold; For the Lord who is in the west Will never permit this land To shine with the light of his glory, Or with the glory of his praise, Or his gold for the music of his songs, Or his gold for the playing of his lutes; He has riven the golden bars Of the gates of the glory-city, And he has left in the dawning sky The splinters of wonderful shards; He has scattered the little ashes Of the wonderful idols To be trampled, and trodden down By the goat, and the deer, and the wolf; He has scattered the small fragments Of the wonderful idols To be worn by the winds and the rains; And he has filled with the splendor of his glory The sails of the journey-king, And he is calling your captain to go To the distant land of the journey west. Out in the garden the early robin Is singing, and a honeysuckle vine Climbs slowly, list- ly, with folded leaves Out of the center of the garden wall; And the western cloud shadows, on and on, Floating above the gleaming center of the sun, Flash back the colors of the garden wall, With streaks of azure, with streaks of red, And seem to glitter with a wonderful sheen. And the little birds that are waiting in the branches Look back at the blossoms and the sky-sails With joy that seems almost too much enjoyment; And when the robin sings his song of the sunshine They have a way of fluttering their little wings As if to say, "We too have a sunshine-throb." And there is a stir in the air of excitement, And there is a stirring in the air of happiness As if there waited only one more line On the list of things that need no longer be waited for. I will sing you a story, The story of the dream-not-that, The story that I have often told, Though not to you, whom ears have borne it, Or whom eyes have seen me take it, Or whom fingers of childish days Traced softly on the wall to re-locate With the dear hands that somehow have long departed, And who, then, as I remember, In some far and fairy-like abode Meet a kind hand, as sovereign as golden, I was wandering on a road that led Out to the hills, and in my way I came Into a house that was small and modest (So modest that I longed to enter it), A house that had a front where sunlight poured In a little splendor, as if it were the tint Of molten gold; a house that, as I went in, I saw set all with flowers and leaves arrayed In a most fairy-like and quaint array; But on my coming, pretty, neat and good The very next minute there came a girl, Her face all aglow, a little flower-like face And a heart as light as any feather, Whose gleaming center seemed to say, "Now you are here!" But the rest was very small and cold and bare, As if it had never once been filled with breath. The girl looked up with a great surprise, As if she had never seen a man Before; she bowed low as if in shame, And ran back and crossed herself, as if she said, "Some devil has been taking notes about me!" But when I looked again, she was gone; And then I knew the home for which I searched, And I waited there in good humour. The rain came on. My little fire, With its own light, grew brighter, And I watched the shadows dance On the back of the old bench by the door. I watched the door-bench all alone In the rain that came down so lightly, And the shadows on the ceiling light That hangs there when the room is dark. The rain came down in a great down pour That seemed to echo in the walls; And I was glad, because the stream was cold, And I was glad because the rain was kind, And I thought the stream was sweet to drink, And the skies were kind too, and they sent This hope of good to my weary mind, That there is goodness everywhere, And the skies love me when I forget. The rain came on and it eased its way Through the leaves of autumn leaving dry The wet leaves, and the branch by the door Stood all silver-dry, and I cried To the waters that had deserted me, To the hard-branching waters that I leave, "O be good to me, that have loved you so!" And they were. They sent me a little stream Out of their goodness, and I followed it Down to the home of the hills, and there I cried, "Dear waters, all your bed Is blessed; your bed is a dream Where the cold rain ripples on the stones, And the dew hangs pearls on the leaves." And the dew hung pearls on the leaves, And the nights were lovely; the stars Were fragrant in the dim dark room Where I slept, for the stream gave me back A little moon one time when night Had worn itself out in a down pour, And I cried, "Dear streams that have been Where my loved ones have slept, O be kind To me, for I go to the dear grave!" And the stream gave me back a little moon. The years went by and the stream flowed on To the great mountain-ranges, and I Went up to them, and I found them still As I had found them, and the faces Of the little faces were sweet to me, And their minds were fond, and their memories Woke me with pleasant memories, Till I cried, "O be kind to me, The stream is dear to me, the mountain-ranges Are dear to me, but the stream that's given There are four words for swelling water, There are three for a lowing ox, There are two for a sleeper's shiver, There is one word for silence full And clear, and that word is "water." There are four words for singing water, There is one for every sound of water, There is music in water, There is silence in the water, The word that best describes water Is "water." There are four words for silvery water, There is one for every shade of water, And silence in the water, There is one word to greet water When you cross the stream in the rain. Over the meadow grass the crows flew And under the roof of the old barn, <|endoftext|> Some of them have made, and shall make, the lives they live. FAR in the outer sea, Laden with strange fruit, Came a ship to land on the strand Of a strange land, I know not where, Where the waters wall In upon them. On the ship Were passengers from afar, Men from ages yet to be, Men who'd die in their prime. A bowman of that land Stood beside the ship, Stood and aimed his arrow, then Raised his bow, and sent A swift arrow, true and fine, Just as a weary bird might Wind her spring and sail Out of summer's house On a windy sea. That strange land's people Grew around that archer, Grew in bands and platoons As the cloud grew thicker, Grew a people strange and dim, Of a crescent band, Each with his watch and ward, Each with his friends, And each watched over the dead. That archer grew in power, More and more powerful, Took the form of a giant, Took the form of a hound, Gnawed his brother-folk, Gnawed his mother's children, And his sister's children, One after one. In his big watch-coat Watch he his elephants, That the sun and rain Might afflict the fields of Yossif, The Barahseemlam be still. The spider sat On his tin-horse arched, Heaved and tugged at his thin-scented under-shirt, And the fish-horn, Dangling down from his thin-scented chiton, Dropped into the deep-sea-air, Dropped on the reeds of the open sea. On that archer's first day There were many, Who were called to be hanged, Who were called to be killed. Some of them were called to be killed A thousand times, And a thousand times more. Ere that first day was done There were those who were called To the hills to sow. Some of them were called to be killed A thousand times more, And a thousand times more. At the end of a year Of the first harvest, Barred with a copper band, Down they came, All the killed. YOU shall be called upon And called on Unto the hills To sow. First of all the wheat Ploughed up in that month and year Never in a thousand years Been sown. THE bird sits singing In the ash-tree hollow 'Neath which the last cataract falls Of Rood and Rout, The eagle cries 'Alack! It is no fit time for singing, God is no fit time for praying.' God is no fit time to pray, If we consider who he is, And the loving tenderness Which he puts into the universe. He is no fit time to consider, For the moment that he is our guest, 'A great house is our throne,' We are in the thick of our business. The river flows to the sea, The river flows to the sea, It flows on and on, From its far-off golden sources, And the branches wear its white. What does it say of its journey? I would find out If 't said anything at all. It flows on and on, And all the while it sings, It murmurs seldomly, And its waves say nothing. What does it say of its journey? I would find out If 't said anything at all. 'Tis a splendid stream of water, The golden stream of Rhine, But a river it should be, If it wishes to be brave. To be water it should stay, Nor attempt to be a mountain. If it would be a mountain, Then it should drop its head, And become a old-fashioned mountain, It should try to become a church. It should sit quietly in the market, And wear trousers if it would be stylish, But never trousers that are too tight. If it would be a church, It should go to the window, And look timidly down, To see what people are looking at. If it succeeded in this, Then the church would not need stained-glass, And its new-fangled equipment Would be sure to appeal to the people. Then its head would just shake, And its tawny body would shake, As it gazed upon its surroundings, And it would say in its own timid way, 'I am very sorry, But the world is too bright, And I am afraid of the dark.' A roaring, roaring torrent Pours down the mountain side, And down the stony places, With angry rapiers earning Their proud brown brown teeth's applause. The River's great glory Is drowned in the roaring flood, The shining white streamers floating Like white birds upon the sky. Herr Altgelt, a Burgher's son, Was the strongest of the Peasant-troopers, He was the straw-like butt of every joke. He was the pride of the pigs, The butt of the jests of all the village. 'I will slash thee, Altgelt!' 'I will slay thee, Altgelt!' 'I will kill thee, Altgelt!' 'I will drive thee, Altgelt!' 'I will drive thee, smite thee, cut thee!' 'I will slay thee, smite thee, cut thee!' 'I will slay thee, drive thee, cut thee!' 'I will slay thee, drive thee, cut thee!' 'I will slay thee, drive thee, cut thee!' 'I will drive thee, smite thee, cut thee!' "Catch thee if thou wilt, I shall abide thee, Altgelt!' "Catch thee if thou wilt, I shall abide thee, Altgelt!' "Catch thee if thou wilt, I shall abide thee, Altgelt!' He who has a Wilhelm on his hat, Has everything to lose and nothing to gain. He who has a Wilhelm on his staff, Has every fear beside. He who has no bread, nor a house to dwell in, Gives oneself to a sea-dog instead. Well mayst thou weep, Bitterly wilt thou grieve, And wilt shed Red tears for my murdered father, And gray, long tear for my lost mother. I give thee a consolation, That I know thou knowest well, And I rejoice to see thee comforted. My days among the peasants Have made me a like amount of friends As did my years in the universities, Where wert thou found, my Herrick? For the professors and the authors Were friends of mine in their youth, And they both are dead, poor souls! Als I gewordlich! For to bein' a fool Means to folgend me an der Verburgheit, Und makes me verdimmt die Heilkunde. Einfach, er Ihr selbst, Zu den Herrick hast du? Einfach, er Ihr selbst. For they found in my poor brain Votender Sandor im Burgdden Wald, So I writen him a letter: Seid Ihre Bog aboutyete, Ich hab' dich sein Fahre nach. Ich hab' dich sein Fahre nach. When I was a boy in my teens, A soldier was shot by the grenadiers. The Duke of Marlbro' came to my father's house To comfort my father for the loss of his son. He asked the duke, "How could a poor fellow like him Bring destruction on a Duke's palace?" The Duke of Marlbro' then told my father all about it, And how a messenger had told the tidings. My father answered, "That was Sandor, my son, Who with his wife every night went to the stable, And when the Duke came home from the stables, He opened all the stable door, And shouted,--he was so happy, and laughed till he cried, "You are the Duke's horse!" He hung about the Duke's castle like a didger, He kept the Duke's horses, and ate with the Duke's cooks. When my father died, the peasants thought that the crazy dog Was sent by the Duke to keep the peasants away. So they screamed and cried to the Duke,--"You'll spoil his palace, You'll drive away the Duke's enemies, <|endoftext|> To lend a supporting hand to The conquering Persians, and put to rout The whole Persian host. As all the rest Fled from the looming rocks and cavern-gates On which the Furies-hallowing Night Hegalander in gloomiest tone did pray The night long, so sped the host away From Parnassus, and to their chief returned. But Hector from a lofty peak there took His weary watch, or ever the sun went down. As when the cohort which the distant wars Of Rome maintains, of warlike youth all young, Some sunset legion fresh from chartering, To their baton-strike on the hostile wall, With ranks of sumpter-mules and arms all gilt Oft visits the weary legion's tent, And to their leader's grief appeals by song; So to his woes the son of Atreus bore, The mighty son of Priam, who in all The Argive ranks surpassed not one in might. Yet when the son of Priam's son had sought The horse, himself astride upon it, Then would he fling his vaunting lance Against the lofty windings of the plain, Against the helms of chariots, at last Plunged in the mighty river by the bridge, And the wide river's depth in his own power Down from the lofty steeps bore him down. Nor for his valour left was any scoff, For men, for gods in general gave him praise. As when a hunter, bold of heart and bold To meet the wild beasts of desert waste, On forest-ridges seeks the brooklet's brink, And lures it to his baying by his shouts Of threat and threatning scorns the sanguine streams; So shouted Hector to the Trojans' host. But when at last they came to the Iles Where Priam's noble sons were wont to ride, With Hector thence he took his flight. Yet it chanced The heroic son of Hector, who had sought Aphidnus, had not come where Hector was; For Hector to his help the Achaeans sent As soon as he could mount his wonted steed. But the renowned Achilles stayed behind, And marched afield amid the myriad host Of Argives; he was late, but came at last, Dealing destruction on the Danaan host, And slaying on that conflict, though but through The cloud's bright portal and the Argive fleet He brought, and now in fury from on high The bright-hued Argives hurled themselves to war, And many a father, mother, brother fell, And house, and household-gods, and kinsmen both. But from Achilles' fury could not hide His wrath at such a nuisance, nor the force His victorious hand put forth in contest With Peleus' son, as his gallant steed he tore With ponderous heel, and trod Achilles' feet And steeds throughout the host. Yet at the last Achilles to the fight once more returned With glory in his heart, with glory filled His mighty heart, if his Achaian powers In their fierce onset had not all failed, As Jove even there had allayed their might. Yet as it was, the God of fire and steel Rushed on Achilles' foeman, for he feared To meet the anger of the mighty Lord Of Earth. The Argives all were burning hot With anger for Achilles, and when now Achilles dashed his flaming spear athwart A Trojan's flank, and pierced his liver forth, They shouted both aloud and gnashed their teeth For rage and wrath, as though they sought his death. And such a cry of outrage rose from all The Danaan host, as might have made the hills Clang out for joy, that slaughtering foes was his Yet with their many hands Achilles dealt Death on his foes, and in the dust covered all Whomso they slew. But Peleus' son beheld With anguish of soul the sight, and from The midst of Troy on to the heights of Troy Himself he hurled. And now the Argives' onslaught ceased, For from the ships they turned and fled for life From battle-fury all Achilles' wrath Fired. But swift did he escape. Clad in his ancient loin-cloth once more Of hide the son of Peleus clomb to high The summit of the lofty Ossa's side, And hard against the steep of heaven Cleaving the clouds with ceaseless step he rode, Panting, and clashing his bright-hued shield. Then had the Trojans caught him in their arms, For all the city-walls were aflame With furious fight, and heaped the plain with slain. But when he had put from them the breath And strength of struggle, then did bold Hector, Kind-hearted, clothe him in his rich-wrought And noble-vested vest, and clothed him round With strong broad-brimmed boots, and hung a silver-wrought Slinky corslet round his dauntless breast. So With gleaming sword, as in the pride of man, He caught him, as a friend that nought had feared, And with soft words and flattering spake to him: "Be thou my man, now, who hast the might Of Peleus' godlike son to aid; and I, If any god to thee may give relief, Or of thine own will too, am ready to give Myself into thine hands; so come, my friend, And take me with thee. I have little more to live." Thus as he spake, the Danaans all around Looked on with hearts enfolded, and their cheeks With tremor quivering beat. Nor could they brook That such a hero should escape their hands, And so turn and fly. But Agamemnon rose And cried to Ajax son of Telamon: "Ajax, son of Telamon, leaders of the Greeks, Shame on ye! why ran ye not to meet The Trojans; for ye all are now o'erpowered. But stand ye firm and fight it out with them, And let me but prevail upon the Greeks To take my counsel, and to take my life, For I would have it that my body back to Troy Should go, and so the Grecians may consume Their once-loved bodies with abhorrence, while I go to seed the ships of the Achaeans. But take ye also Ajax, son of Telamon, And take him to Achilles' side; for there He may speak with him face to face, and learn What of the Trojans and of their chiefs he may, If perchance Achilles may learn anything Which may avail him." And straightway he went on his way to meet The son of Telamon, and brought him to the side Of Agamemnon, and the two sat down, and Achilles eyed them and spoke, saying: "Atrides, son of Atreus, King of men, What move hath any one in flight to these Troy's sons and daughters? or haply still in Troy Dwells any? or haply still doth Ilium stand, Though frantic now with grief? or rather they Laugh and jeer at us that of our very blood Dread comes to fetch? or rather all the walls Of Ilium are ablaze? or rather these are Doom of godlike Menoetius' offspring, who Achaia's noblest sons, and without peers In wisdom of heart, overthrow? or else Though we be few in number, and the foemen Far more numerous, let us save the liveliest Of the sons of Greece; if not, let us all fall Inglorious into their hands. For the rest, My dear friend and fellow-captain, since here We twain have come, that ye may know me still Loyal, and not falsely speaking, speak to me As I was wont to speak of former years, When hither I hath ever come to woo and wed My dear left-handed daughter. Tell me this With confidence, that for ten years I had Among these Argives a sworn sworn brother dear In wrath, since she in the full flower of youth More lovely than the women of her race, Ascended as the Goddesses choose, and bore To wide Argos, and unto Peleus' house, Chief over all. Thence, when the year had reached Its rounding point, that we might have mooted The choice of a spouse, mine aged father first Bade me to dear Athens take my way, and brought To me a little company, who to-whom I brooded as I departed, from the rest <|endoftext|> We watched him, like a watchful watch, the sea-breeze blowing. And one we knew and well looked forward to-- One who was fit for the listing of a ship: But when we saw him he was none of these, But the old man with a fresh new look. O brother, what a waste of breath was there! One bold he was to leave the swells and roll To play the woodworker's part, and bend The oaken stroke, the rugged blade, to-day. He smote his hammer, but it held not wood, And on his tongs, scarce heard at first, He bore a slender, bowed and grey, And burnt yellow fruit of cherry and peach, Citrus blushing over serous boughs. A wrinkle painted where the brow should be, The lips had no rouge, no spirit to borrow, And the cheek was rigid as a piece of tinder. In his hand the chisel, now he lost, Bore fruit for the sculptor to cast In forms he could not translate, Bore any fruit but grapes ripe and green, And shed a perfume from his hand On the trembling arms, the fingers and the toes, A flood of grapes from the press he poured, And wept to see them shine and look so ripe. And laughing with heart-filled tears, to hear His voice ring forth the words that pour From his like a child at his mother's breast, He brought the cherries to his lips, and ate, And felt them melting on his teeth, As though he'd tasted flesh, and felt again The warm delicious juice of woman's hand. The fruit passed from his tongue to his teeth, Wite carefully with his lips and tongue, Wite down the stains and into the fruit The sweeter juices tinged and mingled, And on his lip of cast apple-grease Stamped with the name of the dead fruit, And showing with his palm the chisel-stroke He plunged, and with great force he shot and pulled, And lifted from the surface of the stone The clotted darkness and the splintered barbs. Like the wind his blows were, like the wind The waste of his strokes were, ere he drove The mist from off the rocks and bare The wasted water to the sun, And burning and blackening and quivering With spouting rocks, his blows did he bear In fury from the stone to stone, And quenched with his own hand the flood. While his stroke was his greatest, his last, And his last blow wasted not, nor missed, A gaunt and glimmering rock that lay Upon the waste, beside the bay, There grew from out the waste a rock That like a claw made grasp of the waste, And from the rock the writhing wrack drew And spread his jaws and made his jaws clamp down-- It would not lie still. 'Twas quivering life That walked before him, it was shuddering breath That staggered and stumbled in the rock, And it was trembling skin that bit the rock With burning teeth. And as he stared at the wrack That rained upon him from the wrack that rained, His breath grew heavy, he was faint and dizzy, His eyes were blurred and tears ran down his cheek, He could not see, his eyes were dim and flooded With sights and sounds that wrung him to the bone. And as he stumbled and fell he must Have felt the weight of things unseen and untoucht About him, the blind claws and grasping fangs, The eyes that glared in horror from the wrack, The lips that moved and bit with savage hate Upon the flesh of him; he must have felt The wrack that ran from wrack upon wrack, The hunger of the gnawing teeth that stay Only on the flesh of what has died. And as he staggered and fell he must Have felt the wrack that ran from wrack upon wrack, And saw and was aware of the wrack that went Untrammeled onward on the sere and sodden land. For a long, long time he staggered and fell, And then he stood and looked and saw the waste Of wrack upon the rocks and stubs of trees, And a strange, smothering quiet came over him And washed his brain and quenched his pain, And all his being seemed to float and glow In the light of all that waste. And he laid his hand upon the wrack, The wrack that was the waste of things, And gathered it and held it close And looked upon its face and crossed it out, As one who, after work had been his, Would close the window and rise And read the newspaper as before, Only now with blank columns for the news, And not the things that were. In his heart he felt the freshness and blight Of his new way and this new life, But what it was he could not understand, Only that the world had a wrack of wrong, And the heavenly life had nothing wrong; So the chill was blown from his heart and head And he was God's priest and God's guest. His thought was like a deeper voice That cried and broke the silence Of years of bitter wrong and wronged; For as in the great deep of days When storms are at their fiercest And all the waters are slow, The last of storms is a far-off roar That brings a faint and fearful murmur To roaring winds that are aglow, So rang his words to him, deep, sublime, That turned to courage what the spirit felt. "O little mind, O tortured mind, That never as a child was full Of thought's delights and unhappiest hours, But now beyond all human thought, Wandering alone and mournful, Ere the sorrows of the ages cease, Wandering weary, I must go Thou knowest, where the love of man shall be, Yea, though he never loved thy child." Then the little man's eyes With tender pity looked on me, And a change came o'er his great face That almost seemed to bring in his eyes The man they had once been when they glistened With love and happiness, before the hate Of men and all the cares of life. And with the love he drew me to him, With soft and trembling hands he took My hand in his, and, as he spoke, He seemed to fill me with his strength, And fill me whole with all the joy he had, And all the love he lived by, and he said, "As now from blood and flesh and spirit, Comes what is left of love and feeling, So from the body's Lord and Master, The life and love of God depart. Yea, as a spirit passes to the body, So from the body's master spirit Falls the love of that neglected one Who by his deeds and humble ways, By all the trials he has passed, By all the peace he has known, By all the sorrow of life, Shall live a man, and crown himself king Because he loved a human heart, And made his life a struggle true Of grief and grace and hope and joy And pain and peace, as is the way Of all who walk with Christ. But now, where is the heart that had Such love for God alone? "Thou art the life of me, O my heart, The first and last of all my being, The light and night of my days. Thou art my heaven, thou art my Hell, The light and heaven of my life. Thou art the heaven I have asked for, Thou art the peace and strife of me, The God I sought for, and have found. Thou art my God, O my heart, The first and last of all my being, The light and night of my days." So with the changing of the tint Of twilight shadows on the trees He came to me. I thought, "Not he, The cruel Jew, who comes and goes Between the torture and the grave, But he who waited here and waited, And watched and wept, and tried to cheer Me, with a heaven of love to dwell In by his suffering, and be near And love and comfort of me all my life, Even while he watched and wept and prayed. Who waits and comes not again, But lives in spirit for a time Of one delight with me, and then Dies in everlasting sleep. And thou, my heart, hast waited here And waited and waited all thy life For this, the birth of thy Christ." Then I awoke and wept again, And cried, "Alas for that small heart That thought of loving as a man <|endoftext|> How changed is this scene, now that in your arms This captive king is laid, and hung for blood A piteous prize upon a brazen tree! --Alas! thou think'st to vex with such relenting woe The valiant Greeks, by those great weapons girt And swords in hand, and victor in the fight. And yet no fair reward for Troy shall be Which crowned with conquest all thy sorrows past. Thy hopes from thence, thy longing hearts, shall know That for her very death her Greeks have won. But thou, impious, to thyself and vain The whole profitless war forget. To be thus only cares thee nought, And dost but wait a better ills to see, And puts on scorn for pity's sake. For see, the Myrmidons draw nigh, with hearts To aid the Greeks, and swords of brass in hand. And lo, from a bright red cloud, the long-proud And ample city of Priam falls, Smitten with sack and trampled with the horses' feet. And now, from off the earth, the dark-brown steeds, Pawing the dust, their loaded sides adorn; The earth, as hungry as the sated flame, They hump against the yoke with cloven hoofs, And up aloft, rejoicing, wing to air. Look, oh! mark, if thou canst, the giant size And strength of those three-toed slayers of the day, With horses and with chariots in their fleet, And men, inured to battle, to the earth And to the heavens reeking with the brine! O Father Zeus, who rulest from the skies, Hear from the Olympian summit of the sky The bitter fight, the victory and the fall Of Greece, O Father, by the Greeks subdued, And grant her mercy, as a mother might Her child that grew from her in agony. Oh, with loud thunder grant her a further fate! Hers her too much pity, or her voice affright The heaven-born sons of Zeus, who and thy friend Is yet our mighty Sarpedon, dared he die Against the armoured warriors of the skies? Or were all he whose single arm and strength Drank in the bowl of Aidoneus down, A light and nameless thing in death, amid The storm of battle, for no man's joy, Heyrises, if he died not in vain? But if, at his parting, Jove had deemed That this great act should abortive prove, Forced into exile from his land, in vain Had he been held, and bitterly blamed That he had lived in vain. For great was he In years, and good was he, and hated most Of all the Pharian chiefs, and driven forth From fair Salamis. For his sake, though death Had snatched him late from Greece, yet had he The brave mind to meet it, and for this Was goodly now in fight. Men will have care With evil, or with good, if so befall, But nought at all for him, who is unmoved By mighty adversity. But when they saw Their brave man girded about with iron, And stretched upon the earth, they spake among They said: "O comrades, brothers, loved by him who made Thee, to fight it is not meet, no, by us To fight with such a knight, who by his heart And valour doth such prowess, and with arms So fashioned, who can measure force with force? Battle, now, till fortune alter her will And give us victory; battle until we break The stubborn ranks of Troy." So spake they; but Apollo, guiding home The arrow from the hilt, shook in the air The quiver where it dropt, and thundered aloud: "Forward! right joy in all, where'er ye be, To burst the Trojan gates, and draw the gates From theirfixed places, and to break the wall Of goodly Ilium, and to burn the town, Since she hath yielded to our mighty hands The valiant King of Greece, and though her realm Be now so small, yet by the prowess of one Who goes into the battle, she shall grow Like shapeless leaves or stubble, where it began To spread a treeless wilderness." So spake he, and all their hearts in haste Hastened together; and at once, so one Turned sword unto sword, and all challenged each To combat with the long spear. And now In dead of night, while slumber closed up house And camp, from all the host there came a cry Like to the cry which Aeolus, of yore A swift courier of the thunder, made From Ida, when he posted there the Son Of Theano on Mount Parnassus' height, And let the bolts fall from heaven upon him. Of every troop against that last array, Wherein those Trojans were who had preserved The world from chaos through themselves, long ere Their coming plunged them in that sea and flame, Both horse and foot engaged. And every man Fought like his brother, hand to hand, for fight And prowess. Staunch they fought, though sorely press'd By those well-marshalled host. Many a son of Troy Fought for his country, and all whom now we name With them that day fought, and dead were many a one. And yet again the battle changed: not all Who once were on the earth, or now are in the shades, Had risen against the host of Troy, or dared To face the Danaans. In the midmost of the fray Werth in battle; like a tower he stood, a tower That grappled with the shield of Troy. From his hand Was borne a bristle by 15 miles long and 3 inches, Busily covered with the hardy snow. As stand the Alps, in winter time, they know No touch of sun, when all the year they are clothed With that icy water; for, though all the year They are round with firm fold upon fold of ice, They know that haughty South who keeps them thus Is hateful, and they shrink from his anger, If any thrust at them; and when they feel His wrath, they watch his passing, and are glad When he has gone. Such were the unsleeping mind Of our Voiage's Lord; for all the while he stood Eager to aid his native land, he knew That wrath of God, and in his steadfast will He held it not; for he had looked on the face Of his avenger, and it veiled his fierce face And hid his breathings. Even as haughty lions That know the mountains where they prey, though round And far they seem to prowl, and their wrath is last, Can fain the chase, and fain the onset stave, And are not wroth even against the huntsman's hand That helps them, and with touch of pleasure take The body of the tamed beast, that has been made A prey to them, though it again has strength; So he, when wrath had shown him his God's face, Saw wrath and would not look on him again. Of all the Trojans and their best men of Troy, Some lords he did not slay outright, nor yet Smite in the bloody overthrow; but first, Turning in flight he took to Him he had sworn To smite, the Lord of light, and lightning, in whose hand Is held the thunder. Him followed he had none Who should by Phoebus' service in the fray Turn from their flight, but had to live and lie Of whom he had a desire to die. Him Apollo caught and bound in skiffs, and laid On ship-board or on bank of Tiber, by river Flowing from Tuscan ocean to Italian, Where there runs a thrill of waters to swoon Gentle, and lull the hearts of men to sleep. To him all listened, but no word he said. Yet he himself had such a longing of the blood, He would have torn his beard in two with fierce desire, Had not Achilles raised his weeping eyes, and smote His wrist to silence with his glitt'ring spear. When Helen's son had left the field, the King Of Troy began to rally his people round The son of Peleus. Then indeed the Trojans, Filled with their wonted valour, fought again With Gods and heroes; but the Achaeans drove Back on them in a big body, thrusting through Their ranks and sending those to the dark recess Where dwells rage in the heart, to huddle there <|endoftext|> Some time ago a mortal's grave-clothes Were spectred with its blood and tears, The reading of the name "John" By a heart-broken sister meant, Who felt the spell the name "John" With many mystic, wondrous things. Here is another name, A mortal's name, yet sweeter Than either, yet of earthlier date, And in the Book of Life or Death Shall live and die and never slip From the number which it fills. This name is "Mary," And the record shall be fair, And full of promise, meaning More than the reading thereof And yet more than either, For with it shall a sister Grieve, and with it a brother, Lover and beloved both, Dearest of all who ever bit The brush of time and land. And many other names Shall issue from the page, Their readings sacred be, And many and many a name Of great and wise and good Shall pass and leave no blot Upon the glorious blot Of that one name, "Mary," And none shall miss it there. So in and through the erematic space Of the perfect poem of God, Let us put forth our best efforts, And touch with utmost sweetness The earthen parts of His heart, His cold and chilling heart, Where man hath never grace, And where God never mocks. Wherefore, I think, He waits Our best, our warmest offerings, That, fed and fostered all the while, We may in part at last Be blest with His command And find our life complete, That life which knows no rest Until the very rim Of life appears within it. The rim of Life! how beautiful it is, As round the unknown world we move! 'Tis there we lay the palm of our hands, And call life's harvest home. The coolness of the spring-tide ocean In winter's heart is as hot as ever; The drought on the plain is as great As that on the hemispheric level; And night and day, in the unfathomable sea, God's love is as dense as a bubble's sheen. The harvest of Eternity Is of itself eternity. What is placed on the record stands, The record of Eternity. Time's fingers can barely gather it, But mightily cannot unravel it; It is at once a ribbon and a seed. It is a berry and a gem, An apricot and a poppy, And is turned into every apple, The apple of the final assimilation. Life is no more than this heart of ours, The inmost and the most discerning soul of man, To which in many a silent trance-like hour, Since the last word was spoken, Our thought has been a letter sealed with The hand of God. And if with this sweet fruit We crown the true and pure, Who work and suffer with their hands To gather for God's use, Who seek His face and cannot gaze Out of the fiery furnace, In such fellowship do we welcome them? They are not merry, but sinful here; Nay, cursed with an eternal ink Which, like the Scorpion and the Reapers' and Asp, With countless blood-drops hath written its scathing message; For in this mortal life are we forged thus, Through suffering and pain to forge a heavenly mind. The long-haired chieftain took his case against the King, And, seated by the throne, without speaking, Pondered it while he sat at meat; And the debate was long, but in the end he Felt for the peasant. As for his lands and his store, His lands and his store were small; Though some things he might brood on and grumble o'er, The King's gift was a greater blessing. The King's gift was a sign from the King; And the peasant's curse was a proverb among The knights and the subjects alike. But when on one motion he began to speak, The chair withdrew and the king sat by his side. And when he gave his speech, his robe seemed to his touch As white as the parchment he held in his hand, And ever the sounds of the crud iron and hammer Fell on his ear. "I grant thy request," the king said, "and am pleased Thy life to extend beneath the hand of thy son. And I will bestow a life as long and as happy As thou grant'st to thyself." The peasant's curse fell upon the peasant, As on those who live upon the earth. He was the man of clay, And earth could not hold him at his birth; And so he would dwell in perpetual sorrow, Hunting for his daily sustenance In the sight of the King, in the hulking door Of the castle that was his home. For the first time the wondrous gift of God, And the waiting for it and the joy of it, The wild desire of the virgin who opens The scroll wrapped with strange language, and finds A name she does not know, and reading it, Sees a word she cannot but guess, Hears a sound she has never understood, And knows it is God's gift of love. He turned to the peasant, and bowed him, With his long black hair And his fair flesh that was wrinkled and old, And his gaze of a spirit under the sun, And said: "Thou art my captive. I am your lord. And my gift is death to thee and not tears. Go thou in God's service and in thy girl's. Thy life is the free man's life of man's days. Go thou forth and follow the pilgrim feet, For I give the paths of the rose and lily. "If thy life should be The free man's life of thy girl and of thine, Then shalt thou need the noblest healing drugs. The very sun of thy girl's eyes should poison thee. There are some drugs that must not be named, And no man's life that touches them doth wither. "And the root of the rose your girl's hands have plucked Is an ache in the soul, and the kiss of a man Is a fire in the marrow of a man. And the odorous flowers of thy girl's lips Are the most potent spells and charms that slay Sorrow, and love, and longing and sorrow, And with words of love heal all but the heart's Sad, thirsty hunger for a lover's arms. "I have heard of the precious drugs that heal Every disease but love; and I would know By heart and counter-thought of all the holy And beautiful and holy names of God, What means the clay of thy flesh and thy heart, And whether the heart be loathed and abhorred Or loved and adored, and whether loved be pain, Or whether the soul be the body's god, Or whether the soul be as a tree of life Or of the air and the heaven and the earth. "Then shalt thou know that the name of God is Love, That his heart's fire is love, and that his breath Is the holy breath of love, and that his hair Is as green and lovely and as precious, As is the gold of Nadab and Abib, As is the silver of Isaia and Achitoh. "And unto thee I will tell a mystery, And none shall know except the love-sick man Who shall weep for his languishment and pain, And for the bitterness of love he bore Till he understand that the infinite Is one with the little word, and that The sting of the wound is as the sweet of pain, And that the silver and the gold are in the heart. "Thou shalt see the great tree of life and death As a leaf of itself and its innumerable flowers; Thou shalt see the ladder of the virtues, from lowest to highest, As a ladder of wood and metal; thou shalt see the breath Of the Almighty's own lips, as a great song of praise; "And the tree of life shall seem a pine that is withering, The ladder of virtues pine-tree branches and sprays, And the breath of God a bitter, poisoned wind; And the holy voice, as of a fiery flame, The psalm of the Lord shall seem to be fire, And the love-sick man an ache in the soul." Then did my soul awake and open wide her eyes And her sick heart did laugh and sing in the light. And the God within the woman's heart, that had deceived her, Came forth and fled away and came down and lay with her, <|endoftext|> The poet and the knight alike will feel How from each class all have stood apart, Yet how all in all were one in this; And he in whose hand the pen did fall, To whom history and poets bow, No wild desire to writhe above The beauty of a Flemish landscape, Or to misread Hebrew mammon, Or to despise our English bard, Could idle sigh, or sneer to lend A vicious aid to any fraud, Could e'er by muse or quill corrupt, Dwell in his soul, or give his Muse a share Of his undying happiness. What might the poet have done Had he the comfortable skill To make the sword that he wield A ladder to the higher race? He might have had his own master's voice, A rank that all might fear, A pulpit that all might follow, And be as his hether's friend. He might have had for his delight The love of one dear maid, And bade all else the world despise, To have her smiles for years and years. And with her love and pride he'd brag, That he more beautiful than she; And thus he'd live for ever there, By her delights and by her love, And, fed with her delicious words, Be as a pipkin at her feet. Now since not every man on earth Is endued like Porphyrie With sufficient diversity of skill To paint the landscape, or to write the verse That soothe and instruct our human like, Let Fanny choose between us two Some domestic topic to unfold Of the first really serious weight That lies on female thought at this present time, That lays so heavy on the breast And slays us with its insidious sway. She is the kind Animal we would wish to see the most, And yet with feelings too subtle sprung To cast away the dart That's in our hearts to wound or please. Dowered with the beauty of the South, Whose rarest charms of yellow grain Are now our misfortune, I Would speak out of nature, and tell What growing necessities raise The woes that now we share, When every face we meet displays The stains of some unhappy year. In our affliction lies A new-found folly, grown We know not what to think or do, Or how to serve or obey. We bow down to small affairs, And serve such clients as we may; Some stuck with checks and strings, Must plead for their own good humour, And not for that of their client; Some think not why, or think too much, But follow each ill custom still, Till life's battles give them ease. Some quarrel with their work, And howl down their workmen too; And some with their betters compete, And howl down all they both beside. With some so sunk in servile fear That they have forgot what they were. And some for things that really vex Their lives and deeds have become The dogs they pretend to be. Their pride has stopped its head, And each young foot Soldier has it right To pull the Company down. They do not know what real ease is, But live and work and wheedle still. To such I should say this: 'Look out, turn new, serve me and trust me, And never for to mutinies Or mutiny against me speak. Be one, as I, and fight along with me And do the job for less than I. We'll serve each other, and no one shall be A bawd to break us or fail us.' I tell you, there is nothing new In what I now am going to say. You've heard it long before, but were always weak To let it pass as soon as I expressed The villainous fraud of this perjured nation, Which persecutes the light of truth and law With daily frauds and daily malice, And does perchance have us more near to attack Than they have done; for here I am the first Who ever dared set foot on British ground And speak the truth about these dirty dogs. They all swear up and down they love the King, But can you guess what harm they do by this One single case, or one single case In what they have done or may do hereafter Unto the injured King? I say it for themselves As one who understands and can describe Their character. They are as fond of him As any other idle man is likely To be; and their greed and lust make it clear That they would be sure to gain if they could. For their sole motive all the time, as they Spend every penny they have, is to get The pelf, and not for God knows what wickedness, Their money is spent for gain, not for the truth Or for the public weal, but for themselves. And thus it is that we are brought at last To this disastrous rebellion, and to war Against a Government that no man can justly blame Though he should see its follies, for it is the worst And meanest sort of scoundrel that man can have Among all nations under heaven. For England At last the final chapter in this tragedy Is ready to be closed. It is not long Before she is to fall a victim to these dogs And sheeps of Ireland. These dogs! And is it true that they have killed Their master? And must they thus be driven out? Well, no; they'll die yet before that. No, no, Let them stay till they can show some signs That they've got better, and can live with us, Or can expect better treatment than they've got. I do not blame them for aught, and neither do The other dogs that now prowl about the town; For they were born and bred in a bad news home, And have no knowledge of the kindness and love That a dog's heart might feel for a man who loves his God, His Country, and his fellow-creature. And thus they've got themselves a presentiment Which leaves them really sick and sorry for them With every breath they draw, and their eyes glisten With a sad reproach, as they look around At these men and women, and their poor, laded huts Of straw and thatch, and see what really lies Aware in each of them. Well, it's true They are not nice dogs, but there! what is? Well, yes, they are not nice men either, For they have left their natures far behind When it comes to good and great, and made Their slaves and their peasants, and low! 'Tis no fault of their own, but what's the good If they can't be nice? All shall blame it on These dogs, and dogs shall love them for it. Men shall rail and cry Bullies, and then dogs Who have never heard the word shall leap it straight And answer Brutish, or Sinister, as quick As any one. Well, yes, it is true That some of them are mean and some are thieves and boasters, And others pose and frolic and be cagey, But every dog is better than the worst of them In his kind, and every man's better than the best. Why, yes, it is true A dog may bark and bite and bite and bite all day And be overladen with stuff he does not need, But he's worth every minute that he's in it. And thus I say, but think of the poor devil Who has no words to tell the love that he knows In his being, even by looking at you. So it is best to love our dogs, my dear, And to be nice to them, and to make them such And fitting guardians of ours. I've no rubs Against dogs myself, for I'm really kind, And have no nasty things to say about them, And never will, if I'm not mistake. Good. Now I must leave dogs for a little while, And go in for human relations. A man is worth more than a dog, and I Must prove it. You'll pardon me, of course. It isn't that I don't like dogs; it's just That they can't do much of anything As we, except bite. There, that's wrong! It's wrong and all for me, and all for you. For you are human. You can't understand What it is to be dog, or human, or good. And I, of course, am dog, and human, and good, And God in heaven. There, I have said it. <|endoftext|> They sat down by me And whispered the poem together They have so many poems They whispered a poem to me <|endoftext|> "Dyspnea", by Arthur Sze [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] Dr. Seuss thinks he knows what's what when it comes to swallowing. He can tell whether it's a rotten tube delimiting the rest of the tube or if the fluid he swallows is only half there—and that's exactly what he doesn't want. The best part: It's only a slight inconvenience. He barely even notices. <|endoftext|> "The Vanishing", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Death, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] I saw him once before, In gray and gray again In the kitchen of this brick house, plumage caught like a shell in his gaping arm. The bushy eyebrows were still as sharp and near To where the heart had been. And the sunken five o'clock look In his eyes still did its best To hide the beginnings of age. I had come back once more To write the epitaph For a dead man's name, And had come back just in time To witness the old man's dying. I watched him last, As he dropped his last few words And passed in silence to his death. <|endoftext|> "The Speckled Trout", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Animals] I saw him once before, As he flew from out my fishing-pot. The speckled trout was napping In the hands of his companion, The musky-maned kitten. The two were quite content To let the two of us Teach them the lexicons We were learning of the fish. They didn't say much. They were, all three, asleep. And the sun, on the blood-fed rocks, Shone gray and dim. And the fish, as they darted From hook to hook, Looked more like a parrot bandit Than fish. They were not night-birders. And so it was, That they took no note of the stars. <|endoftext|> "Dora", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I saw her once before, As she clung in a black ray-ban luncheon-hat (But no California regal hat was this awing), While the train of her dashes— The one unconquerable force— Was scudding low. I watched her as she darted away, And thought I could set The world on fire— A wild, wildly rosy fanatic, Washing one's heart in some affectation Of the senses, sheer and simple. And then I thought: I must shun her. I must learn to know her, Or she will know me, And the fear will nail us, And the love will nail us, And the passion will nail us. <|endoftext|> "An Essay on Censorship", by Edgar Allan Poe [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] The notion of censor … oppresses The world with awe; The Post-Office gives little catalogues In black and white; But censors, though less imposing, Are of a different stamp. They are not red with kings' stamps, Nor yellow with the emblems of rich men; Nor are their faces pressed against the parts Which Time presents idly to the view; Nor do they wear crowns or badges, or hold Strong wrestles with the King of Greats; Their office is some other act of council, Some public feeling of the heart, or mind, Or concrete works of art; And all that looks on them in council, As men whom Time has lightly surprised, Is colored, but not colored with them. <|endoftext|> "Days", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Summer, Weather] All afternoon the hills have loomed, In blackness, round and brown, the cowsheds. The sun-filled grasshowls, with their thin-rimmed Velvet caps, have leaned against the walls Of brown hill-ranches, and in the muzzles Of their milk-pails have laughed the bells Which rang to their alms. The road winds between the farms, The swagwursts pivot on the pudding-brown Heath-flowers, and the herds are driven To feeders filled with fermented drinks, Nurseries of hay, and cobs, and crude-cooked Chaff. The houses, on each other, jut out With clumsy frontings, tiny petty fortresses Defenced by posts of stone. The houses, in black shadows, held their breath, Barely afraid of thunder-beaks. The swagmen, with short whelps, have come among The herds, and growl, and yap, and yaw. The yelping herdsmen shake their heads, and bawl They're going, going, Goose-steps. They have ceased being warblers. The swagmen have mounted their horses, Their coats are dusty, and their trimming Worn down on the shaky reins; Their bellies are fastened, and their noggins Gass'd with the gaiters; their tails are diapered, And their streams, curdled with perspiration, Stand dry in the heat. The herds are fragrant in the sun. <|endoftext|> "A Winter Love", by Edgar Allan Poe [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Valentine's Day] There is a house on a combe of hills, Overthrown by the sea! And the waves have torn Broken boards of it, and left it scarse an mark! Here dwell I, and sing in a dove-helmed brest, Than a house at the top of the hill more clear Of heaven's broad eye than this bore me to-day. The sea is merciful, and showed his face None too often, this July noon. When he did, 'Twas here he came to make his record here; And merciful, that he, of all the waves, Should come when he did. He kissed my cheek, As he had done ere in the deep he lay, And ere he rose he said, "Love, this is my house, "And here is my queen for thee!" Thereafter, When the hill-wind blew with the sea, and shook The broken boards of my brest, and I Was one with the sea in my weepings and sighs, And the great waves would lift my breast to cry, And weep again, he came not to my side. I dreamed the sea had gone back to his place; But he has piped at my door many times And mercifully hath blown at my brest. My love is lost, and my love is found; I lie upon the sand, where waves do melt, And all the waves wash clean away. <|endoftext|> "The Wicked Bas-Relie", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Death, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] I couldn't see her, but I knew her face,And all her frowsy hair shone like sleet,I couldn't see her, but I knew her voice,And all her squealing music made me ache.I couldn't see her, but I knew her face,And all her wrinkling hair was shining white,And all her squealing music made me hate.I couldn't see her, but I knew her voice,And all her squeaking music made me love.I couldn't see her, but I knew her face,And all her pie-cutting, wrinkling faceWas shining with a blue and silver light,And all her squealing music made me chide.I couldn't see her, but I knew her face;And all her wriggling, wrinkle-engarlanded faceWas shining with a silver sound.I couldn't see her, but I knew her face;And all her squealing, squeaking music made me gay. <|endoftext|> "Sleepy Time", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] <|endoftext|> and worked my fingers back into a right hand, gently flinging me on my back. THE SHRINE: Two hours before sunset. A double and an assembly line. Walking the Quarry Road past the quarries, a woman on her way to her sister’s house stops to talk. A week ago, she says, a young man in bluejeans approached her as she passed on her way to the post office, asking for her name. He told her, “I’m with the US Army.” <|endoftext|> "Liner", by Kai Vega [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity] I made a poor choice, I played a poor hand, and I had no chance. I had no chance to change my luck, to choose differently or to play in a new pattern. A flake of paint landed in the right place, and it was my life that ended up on the chopping block. I didn't want to die, I didn't want to end up in a hospital, but I had to make a decision to get better, or end up still in the same situation in a different body, somewhere in time, in a different world. My body, I hope, no longer suffering, my mind working, and my soul in heaven. <|endoftext|> "Why I Always Get Rid Of My Kits", by Joshua Clover [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] We've grown so indifferent to their concerns we don't give a shit whether a raccoon squats in the yard nightly, or sleeps soundly in the hallway down the hall, or climbs the stairs to the attic, where it will wake me with a noise or climb back down to bed where it will crush my dreams with noise and I will throw whatever's in my room against the wall, worrying mind not a thing not a worry but a worry and a raccoon sleeping on the other side of the wall. I don't give a shit about that raccoon, I don't give a shit about any raccoons, I only give a shit about birds, their songs, their screeds, their noises that are free and determinate, irreconcilable with my interests. They speak to me as I am free and determinate, they find me in the doorframe and through the frame in the door and through the door and I turning the doorknob and opening the door and the door letting it escape me and the raccoons, gathering in the room and squeezing into the walls, the room letting them in and squeezing them out, out of the walls, out of the sky, and in my heart hanging the answer I, as a raccoon, can only understand as a song, as a voice and a voice and a song that I sing in this rhyme, in this song: the world is a danger that must be avoided and I enjoy the splendor that the raccoons give me as they give me back from them as I, as they take off running and I follow and we run for the safety of buildings that I think are my buildings but they're not and I have to think of something that's higher and something that's lower and something that's somewhere between and the building that the raccoons make their home in and that the world makes for them but that building is falling down and I have to forget that I worry about it and I have to forget that I feel anxious when I think of it falling and I have to forget that I feel anxious when the world that I worry about is falling down and I have to forget that I feel anxious when I think of it that's why I don't feel anxious when I think of it falling. I don't feel anxious when I think of it falling, and I don't feel anxious when the world is falling and I don't feel anxious when the world is falling and I don't feel anxious when the world falls. As I'm trying to write my thoughts as they occur to me and I know I'm anxious, and as I'm trying to remember them, and as I don't feel anxious when I think of it falling. In this country we have a saying "We don't catch thieves with their hands in the cookie jar." If you get your hand bitten you get stronger and if you get stronger you don't want the jar you shove the jar away and you go to another store and you buy a better jar and you move on to the next store and you don't and you don't and you buy a better jar and you don't care or if you do you care about the jar that got bitten and you don't or if you do you care about the jar that got bitten and you want it opened and you want the thief to know that you're not that you don't care about the jar that got stolen from you. When you first see a raccoon your first thought is that it's a lemur or a moss cushion or a baby bear or a possum or a furry little brother or a furry little sister or that it's a skunk but then you notice that it's really furred all over with no skin so that it's really covered from head to foot from face to face with fur and there's a tail at the end of each tail that's movable and there's a long long tail at the end of each tail that's movable and it turns on its end and there's a single wavy tail that's turnable and it's made of hair and the raccoon can climb on it and it has sharp teeth but it won't attack you unless it's provoked and you can't put your hands on the raccoon unless you want to get bitten by the raccoon's hair and the only way to do it is to get on all fours and go in all forthwith and you see the raccoon going down on its knees crouching cringing like a little crouched baby or like a possum but it won't hurt you and it won't attack you and it won't make a sound and it's waiting for the right time to get up and attack and it's moving closer and closer and the only way to stop it is to attack and to attack and to attack and to take it down as it's standing on three legs at the edge of the grass moving very, very slowly in the sun next to a pile of tires and the tires are smoking and the raccoon's looking at you with its open mouth and it's breathing very heavily and it looks like a nail in it and it's breathing very heavily as it stands up on its legs but it won't stop and it moves farther away and it looks more like a house than a raccoon and you can't stop it with your hands and you can't stop it with your feet or with your hips and you can't stop it with your eyes or your nose and you can't stop it with your tongue or with your mind so you have to do it with a machete and you have to cut it off and put it in a box and put it in the bottom of a barrel and you have to watch it burn and you have to watch it burn and you have to watch it burn and you have to watch it burn all night and the raccoon starts to urinate and you have to watch it burn all night and you have to watch it burn and you have to burn it all night and you have to burn it all and you have to burn it all all over with your hands and you have to burn it all with your mind and you have to burn it all with your hands and you have to watch it burn all night and you have to watch it burn all night and you have to watch it burn all night and you have to watch it burn all night and it's urinating all around and the smell is coming from all over and the smell is coming from all over <|endoftext|> and I thought, What can be simpler than one and one? I made a new sorrow in the touch of my hand and the news spread like wildfire through the village, and the youngest brother and sister did not dare to look in the eyes of the eldest for fear of what they might see. I think that when they saw the grief within his eyes, it was easier for him to see what they would never see: the happy days of his youth, the dance and the song, the rich remembrances and warnings. And now, here he is, with the steaming, iced tea and cakes, and he has done nothing but cry the last three days, and his mother asks what he has been doing all the while. He says, I have just been thinking of my father, and how he too died young, and how I came to be here, a thing that cannot be un- seen, that cannot be dealt with, that must not be passed or held, like a small child. <|endoftext|> "The Message", by Louis Simpson [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] I have been thinking of the fact that the air is always poorer for the breathing of the people, as they leave the country and the people are poorer in the country because they travel to and from the country. This is true and very true and people do not see this, they do not see this. They are not obliged to see it. Sometimes they have to go to a great deal of trouble to get out of their poverty. I have been thinking of the mourning dresses and the sacks inside them and the weight of the mourning dresses and the fact that the mourning dresses are heavier than they were before. The mourning dresses are heavier and their weight is heavier than it used to be. I have been thinking of the tables laden with the dishes of food the people are taking away. They have all been taken, all have been taken except the famous fish, the weeping crocodile, and a few others, all except the famous crocodile, which has not been taken away, it is lying under the table looking on with its beautiful blue eyes as if to say, I am going to be taken away very soon. I have been thinking of the people who go out into the country with buckets and pails and shovels. There is no bucket or pail that can tell the story of what has been taken from them. They are all sitting alone in the gloom and the darkness and the hurt. I am sitting here alone and there are many people here who can tell you what has been taken from them. I have been thinking of the tables laden with the dishes of food the people are taking away. I have been thinking of the length of the chains that have been taken from them. I have been thinking of the ways in which the long, dark nights of deprivation have been taken from them. I have been thinking of the many strange unexpectedly sad things that have been taken from them. They have all been taken by the hand of the people who come very close to them taking them away in the night. I do not know why it has been taken from them. I cannot say it has changed the way they feel or what they think or what they will do in the future. The men and the women have been taken away and there is no going back. They cannot see this or choose to ignore it. It is so far away that they do not know it has been taken from them. I think I have been thinking of the fact that the air is poorer for the breathing of the people. They are not getting richer either. This is true. And I am sitting here alone. I do not think I am, but I am thinking I am. There are many people here with whom this must have been a common experience, and they do not talk about it or think about it very much. And the sadness, the depression, the loneliness, the unacceptance, the failures, the violent changes, the sicknesses, the suicides, the grievous illness, the alcoholism, the deliberate indifference to the health of others, and finally the drugs and the reckless drives for gain, have been taken from them. I think that it is not a good sign when a person becomes so absorbed in the care of another that he has lost the ability to appreciate and care for his own needs and desires. When we are little we learn that we are the leaders of the world, that we are in command of the affairs of ourselves and our fellows. We are told to wait until we are older to take control of our destinies and to learn to govern our desires. And we are also taught to imitate the lips and the voices of those in power. Those are mighty admirable desires, but they are not the desires of young children. And we are taught to wait until we have grown up and have the knowledge and wisdom of ages to command the destinies of others. But we are also taught to imitate the lips and the voices of those in power. Those are mighty admirable desires, but they are not the desires of young children. When a young child plays he runs about seeking something that will chase the hunger away. When he finds it he seeks again what will give him the pleasure of pursuing it. When he finds it he seeks again what will give him the greatest pleasure of singing it. And the joy of playing is what will chase the hunger away, and the greatest pleasure of singing is what will give the child the greatest advantage in Hunger and Pleasure are two of the four virtues. And Virtue is the desire of getting, The Wish of Getting which is the highest form of Virtue. From the needle point of the suffering to the floating ring of contentment to the vista of the ideal the pilgrim makes on toward the Eternal Angels. I have a lovely dream. I am a poor man sitting on a road, a broad road in a distant country. I have no sons, no daughters. I am old and weak and cannot take care of my family. I have nothing and no one to whom I can give or to whom I can be grateful. I am a poor man sitting on a road, a broad road in a distant country. I have no son, no daughter. I am old and weak and cannot take care of my family. I am no longer a king, no long-retired prince or rich merchant in a distant city. I have a lovely dream. I am a poor man sitting on a road, a broad road in a distant country. I have no son, no daughter. I am no longer a king, no long-retired prince or rich merchant in a distant city. I am a poor man sitting on a road, a broad road in a distant country. I have no son, no daughter. I am no longer a king, no long-retired prince or rich merchant in a distant city. The lights from the city fall upon me and I cannot hide. I am a poor man sitting on a road, a broad road in a distant country. I cannot escape the midnight when the darkness gives me back the face I had when I was a king and a rich merchant in a city. The monkeys dance upon the branches of the trees and sing their songs of wonder and delight. The water-rat skips and twines about and eats the ciphers from the monkey's song. And the morning star hurries down the sky and climbs the top of the high tower of the sun. And the monkey and the water-rat and the morning star and the cipherer say: I am I. In a far-off, heavenly city the children play like little gods. The little gods are dressed like little children, with small, tight clothes, with small, tight faces, with little golden crowns and little shoes. They run about and play, each with the other, with a monkey, and a water- rat, and a crown. And I hear a song in the air: It is the song of the children of the city. There are no more kings in that city, and none attends those children. There are no more merchants, and none buys or sells. The children have taken up the art of riding and playing, and they have learned all the arts of riding and playing. And the art of riding and playing is the law in that heavenly city. <|endoftext|> Where the others have wandered, Have trod these stumps, and then grown thin With a strange hunger, and their mother, Grown more mighty in her jealousy, Has been lying here and gnawing their tender Fatness with cruel fangs, for many days." This was the wizard's very simple And most convincing reason,--that he had A secret in his looking-glass, Which might be of use to these poor wanderers, If they would only use their eyes in using The means he offers them. A little child, robed in white, With a long and curled bonnet, Who seemed to guard the gateway, And be aware of all who passed, Was the fair Crida of old. But the ghost of a murmurous voice Had uttered a soft contagion Where the child had slept and laughed, And it mocked the child's whiteness, And called it by a name,-- And it whispered, "Who is she?" And as it whispered, "Who is she?" Along the beach it whispered and laughed, And the great waves laughed with it. Where the fount was hooped into a lake The restless waves rolled and laughed. And the foam of the breaking wave On the little vessels steepled, While a thousand years ago Came the laughter of the wave. From the beach the laughing sea-waves crept In the dance that they had taught themselves, And the foam of their pranks was red, And their laughter was gay. And as the sun was rising o'er the sea And the gleam of the gold dawn was quivering, And the strand was all gilt up with gold, There was a sound of a great gathering And a stir in the midst of the dancers, And a strange pale face among them Walked with a curious glistening eye, And a mocking white mouth and wrinkled, That was singing a song. And the dancers moved as if they were dreaming, And the song said, "Who is she?" And the song called to the lovers, "Come! The cradled crayfish of the sea!" And the pale face walked in the midst of them, And it sang, "Who is she?" And the pale face walked among them, And it sang, "Who is she?" And the dancers moved as if they were dreaming, And the cradled crayfish of the lake Was the beautiful Crida of old, And the gray mother who had hidden it Among the ferns and the mosses, Among the water-lilies, Walked with a careful glistening eye Where the crayfish were sleeping, And the wind that had waked it Said, "Cradled in moss and ferns, Where the water-lilies wave, Shall we find for this one crayfish A cradle for all three?" But it said nothing, And the gilt waves only looked at it As it swept past them. Then the gray mother who had hidden it Came suddenly with a look of pity As she looked at the cradle of crayfish, And she cried to the wind and bowed her head And she said, "Forsake this cradle of mine! For who is this little crayfish, Who has crept into my cradling place?" And the wind answered slowly, "I am He, Who am lonely in the yellow grass, And the sun is lonely in the yellow sky, And the spring is lonely in the singing time, And the sea is lonely journeying to the sea. I am He that walketh in the yellow weather, I that wander through the weary water, I that shake the yellow leaves of the water-lilies, And lonely is my heart in the yellow days." Then the gray mother who had hidden it Tore her gray locks and cried aloud, "O He that sitteth lonely at the crossings, O He that passeth lonely at the doors, Give to us again the golden dreams of the spring-time, Give to us again the prismatic sunshine, And who is He that passeth lonely at the door-ways?" And the wind answered slowly, "I am He, Who am lonely in the yellow grass, And the sun is lonely in the yellow sky, And the spring is lonely in the singing time, And the sea is lonely in the journey to the sea." And the gray mother who had hidden it Tore her gray locks and cried aloud, "O He that sitteth lonely at the crossings, O He that passeth lonely at the doors, I give to you again the prismatic sunshine, And who is He that passeth lonely at the door-ways?" And the wind answered slowly, "I am He, Who am lonely in the river, And the sun is lonely in the yellow sky, And the spring is lonely in the singing time, And the sea is lonely in the journey to the sea." And the gray mother who had hidden it Tore her gray locks and cried aloud, "O He that sitteth lonely at the crossings, O He that passeth lonely at the doors, Give to us again the golden dreams of the spring-time, Give to us again the prismatic sunshine, And who is He that passeth lonely at the door-ways?" And the wind hummed, humming slowly, And said, "Here is She that is so gentle, And She that is stern in heart and stern. She is sitting alone by the eastern window, And there is dust upon the paths of flower and tree, But the sky is clear as an angel's face." And the sun sank slowly down the west, And the gray mother sank with her child. And there was silence and peace and love In the house at twilight, for the day was done. And the wind went on its way humming slowly, Singing low to itself, and dying away, Like a tired child, out of sight of home. I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. And the tall honeysuckle about me Blows gently, blowing, blowing, For it has no one else to do, And it must blow all the time, For it is in the golden air. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The framed diamonds flash in the sun, And they make the gown glitter and shine; And my skirt, with flounces of gilt, Flutteringlyaints, 'Neath bending back By the sitting lady in her bower, Till a kiss can play at surprise, And a laugh can break in suddenly-- As she sees the stiff gilt of my skirt Swish in the golden air. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. I have stood in the engine-room Of a great steamer, in a place Where the hot air has hung like fire, And the cool wind has stroked my face With the coolness of a water-tank. I have stood in the engine-room Of a great steamer, in a place Where the hot air has hung like fire, And the cool wind has stroked my face With the coolness of a water-tank. I have stood in the engine-room Of a great steamer, in a place Where the hot air has hung like fire, And the cool wind has stroked my face With the coolness of a water-tank. I have stood in the engine-room Of a great steamer, in a place Where the hot air has hung like fire, And the cool wind has stroked my face With the coolness of a water-tank. Wherever I have stood, in boat, train, or ship, I have always thought how lucky I am, And given myself to understand That I live in the most delightful clime, And that life is a bear to those who love it And is a cake an inch thick to those who do not lay a finger to cut it. I think, by the way, if the wind blows that way, I could sooner kill a man than let him die. Because the man would not have died, with all his faults, If he had not knocked my old gray head against a stone. And I am the man, because I knocked his head against a stone. For he was angry with me that I let him go; He was angry with me that I went and did not look And give him a goodly treat; He was angry with me that I did not give him A death that was pleasant to the taste; He was angry with me because, in kicking my books, I had spoiled his little game of bowls, <|endoftext|> Glorious-eyed Thetis, bright dame of Greece, Ascended with the other immortals, That circle through the sky in bands, And song of every creature stirred His perfect voice; at which the spirits all Arc soaring, like a storm-cloud curtained, When lightning rends it from base to sky. This done, the starry choir, in order due, Adore the gods that solemnise their song; Then prayed the sisters fair, with gentle grace, The younger fare and see to it they go With reverend ordination led. Next all the band of heaven were mated; Wherefore they lent their golden voices forth With double force to swell the sounding chime, And glad the bed of heav'n with opening song. So, in the rising morning on the hills The herald starsailer hails the eastern rise, And mirth and music, from the dawning skies Spread over all the earth, a sanctuary. The moon, resplendent, through mid heaven's broad path Pours on the azure level of the skies Her solemn music, and through muffled sounds Rises her holy fragrance, while the stars Cluster and dip their burning heads in streams, In thanks for joys that Heaven has bestowed Upon the world, and fears and sorrows buy. All Nature feels the powerful charge of music, And seem to breathe it back to sound and eyes, And eyes and ears; the deeps and foothills Of Nature's hills and valleys leap to light Through shining mists, and sounding ravines Heave out a clangor of the singing fountains That strain along the mountains' brows and goads The trembling trunks with joy; and, lo! the hills Grow beautiful with sound and radiance; The slumbering sound of ocean awakes, And, lo! the broad-billowing waters swell Athwart the tempest, while the roaring mists Echo it back to heaven; for the world is seen Seen in its truth; whatever fail, this hath filled With sound and fury, seeming; and the world Sickens at what seems and what is really. Thus was it with us; the news of battles Whose echoes were upon the thunder heard O'er the deep core of air, where'er the light Of dawn came, was heralded with shrill news Of deeds of heroes, armies, hosts that slept In their own shadows, and made their courage mine By groans and toil; the fearless rose and smote The tyrant and his fears, the sluggard stood Unconquered for the triumph of the right. And yet, and yet, we fail not, though the land Lies waste, though mountains lift their crumbling waste To the clouds and bid the day be done, And day by day, and night is dark and worn, And hope is dim with toil, though Hope herself Sits by the toil, and thinks it hope to be A child of toil; the light and dreams of toil Make the saddest mortal glad. Now I ask Thee, Cupid, if in all thy scheme of things Thou'st set two children by their hearth to toil, To prove that modesty is not a toy For the fair, but a lovely quality That makes them beautiful; and that modesty Is the noblest attribute of girl and wife. And, Cupid, if thy fashion upon the earth Be to delight in acts that hurt the sight, To make a mock of modesty and honour, And all the valour of the dames that wed, To breed a Prince who shall rule o'er all they hold, And whose first act shall be a speech of praise To his own mother--then, thou impotent Of wrath, thou indecent god, in what degree Thou canst defer, or stay, or flinch at ill, Confess, what is thy turn to do, what avail The arts thou canst not use, the strength thou canst not show, The force thyself cannot conquer Mind; and know, God can trouble, strike, wound, slay, banish, bind, Confuse, confound, all that is intelligent, But cannot meddle with the heart or mind, Nor himself, nor God, shall save or save thee. Nay, Cupid, if thou wouldst be the god of love, Of childlike innocence, of fond affection, Then learn obedience from a child, be weak, Be blind, be shallow in thine heart and eyes, For trust is sorrow, and thy secret sins Speak louder than the loudest language. Then learn, that whatever he may do, The worst may still avoid, if we but strive, Wait for our chance, and what our hands do do, Make sure our words, and read each other's thought. He is thy master, and thou himself, Thy slave; and if thou art false, he knows it, For he is thy debtor too, and thou To whom thou ow'st what thou hast. O Cupid, Cupid, Why dost thou sneer at me, the foolish child Of a forgotten time? I was but weak And guilty then, I now am wise and pure, And I would learn the language of thy hate For love, and be thy debtor for thy love. There is a curious tale of Antinous, The son of Herod the Great, a man of parts, Who one night about the time of Palm-tide Drew his keen sword, and one who had no fear Before his trembling hand was swift to do, To take from some poor abductee of night A part, a heart and a life by craft and cheat, Before the sun had spurned half the sky. Now Herod, the unjust, had Herod done A great injustice to Tamar, one that had Saddened that little maid of little means, Who had a strange leave given her to hold on To some few poor walls, that seemed but hard Insolvable to such as were untaught The ways of the world, or knew not how to use Good fortune, or what grace it was that brought Fair women to their door. The Lord was kind To her, and spared her, being so emboldened That he had struck the empery of kingdoms down, And sat upon his sceptre. And this man Was cunning as is the serpent, and bent To bring destruction on a nation, and waxed Cruel, and guileful as the terrible troll In his best years. But against him burned Antinous with a strange and evil flame To see the light of Christ return, and learn The lore of magic and all wisdom By the old lost ways to be delivered From man's chains. This Tamar perceived, And being of such sacred faith believed That he would follow him as his lord Unto the end, seeing him the chosen of God. The death of John the Baptist She did not know, nor all the strife and strife Of men in heaven, that followed him, and saw The light of Christ and fell from him, and rose To see his face again; she saw not this, Saw not the magic and the greatness and the scorn, But was persuaded his light was brought from God. This Tamar believed, and trusted her Lord, And still was faithful unto death and birth, That she might have him for her lord and king, In all things else a man, but in those ways By magic taught. And now the time drew near When Herod would hound her and destroy, And then at last Antinous came, and wove A rope of finest bronze with a signet On it, and gave it to her. And she took This to her prison, and bade her be Her faithful lover and obedient thrall, And sealed with a kiss his master and her own. Now after these had gone their ways, and gone About the house in errours and in fear Of these two men, who knew all things, and all The fears and hopes of all the world, and now The house was quiet, seeing no more These men of sin and evil and of power Who knew the ways of men, and now were grown Worthy of Christ, who were to bring men to God, But were themselves the thing they should seek to avoid. For through the busy panes and flying glass The moonlight fell, and he saw her there and smiled And knew that she was living, and that she could hear The words he breathed her, and that she would know His bent and his wish, for his eyes were bent Above her, where no wall was nor door, but all The house was one sacred flame, and all the lights Came out of one candle burning in the air, <|endoftext|> O! hark, they sing once more, The vernal chants of spring, And all the earth in tune To that divine train The notes of life. The wood-pigeons chirrup, And brooks their pleasure tell, While all the plants rejoice To feel the sun again; The trees that blossom shown With fairest flowers of May, And every animal With rapture speaks his joy, What wonder if I then, This June Day, should sing? So then I'll be a man And leave those childish things And sing a song of my own, To please me at the best And make me merry at the worst; Though woe and disappointment Are mine to know, Yet through my tears and my songs I will a message send, That grief and weakness may Turn to triumph and strength Through the lips and the hands Of the faithful friend or brother That feels or hears me. There are I'ld rather be, if it be for this churlish heart that spurns me when I'm away: Though the wine they drink were of mole soup, if it be for that grim-lipped scorn That the brown eyes flash, the sallow skin of the hag may give No man that drinks not of her shall go unpunished by the Lordsomeness of it, or the big heart of the hag. She has a grim old heart that shivers, if she lift her eyes from her wine, The half-witted way she is still. She has never forgot That though she taught the world to sing, She taught herself to forget How to sing, once for her. And all the dim years blowed by, And the hideously big house And the ceaseless clank of chains, She hears me not. She has a lip that tastes bitter of malt, But not as mine: Her mind's long, lean tongue Can never loftier reach, Than is my own. It makes me mad to see her draw in her breath As if she went to sleep, And listen for me still. But all a wheel of the moon's Tread has done. She has a shadow of long hair That floats in the air, And a voice like the wind Or a wild bird's. For I have known her before As that same shadow, But she did not know me. And all the world laughs at me, And says, "He's in love." And yet, I will be kind To the hag, for she loves me. She loves me not, but I do. And if I kiss her hand With kindness I shall win Her forgotten, small forgotten head Unto mine. And she shall dream, as I dream, That love indeed is life. My lass, in truth I can not deny That the pride of the eye and the style of the smile Do draw to your heart a better desire Than the longing that one too often knows Who lies in the long grasses of desire Beside a burned-out wheel-house, and sees not The pleasure that his swift blood is lapping Out on the sickback of the spur. My lass, the fashion of your hair and the flash Of your eye has drawn me to you. I can wait While you lie in the long grasses of your dream Beside a spilt-apricot bough And see not the vermilion and the gold Of the holly and the ivy, nor the hush Of the rose and the horizon, nor the face Of the clear water, nor the long, long trail Of the huge, long-lingering oxbow, that shall sweep O'er the speckled and starry sea. My lass, the wild-flowers that bloom there Give me a vision as true As the vision of the sailor who sails Out upon the sunset's crimson glow, Who sees the fire-hued, fiery pirates fly On before him, until he looks at last On the fire-hued, fire-finned island of fire. Then back he sinks in the darkness, and dreams That he has found the idyllic home of song. My lass, it is true that the wistful gaze That I cast on the island of your hair Gives me the sense of hope that the quest Of the final battle may be won; But 'tis not the hope that the world thinks of That makes the long hours of effort. It is this: That if the enemy has conquered France But a generation or two, yet time Will have redeemed us; and we shall sit With our naked feet upon the hills of God, And our hands full of flowers, and our eyes Turning upward to the sky that's free Of its debris, as we gaze at the ends Of the world that has echoed our pain. My lass, 'tis true that I look for the day When the fires of your eyes and your face Shall be a relic of the past; But it is not the past that I'm seeking now That was the motive of my youth. It is this: That God will return to the soul that lives Complete and unchanged. And, my lass, I believe That the world shall be redeemed, and we shall stand Beside the tombs of our forefathers, and see The next generation of the human race The victors of old time, as we are now. My lass, I have loved you long, and I feel That I shall love you longer than you know. You may doubt that the love I have come to know Is the love God first taught me. But I know That the spirit that moved me to write to you Is the spirit that shall counsel you In the days that are coming, against the world That you've prophesied. The least stirring of a bush is a distress To the bushman; the least thing that's new Is a peril to the bushman; the least Or the most that's bright is a light That is a distress to the bushman. The air that we breathe is sad with change; Our little affairs of life are cold With the chill of change; the minutest Or most that's green is a glory now To the bushman. The bush is the bush That will bud in the hour of our need; The bush that will clothe us in armory Of power and might. The bushman's joy is in change, and his joy in glory is like the joy Of a god on conquest. He is frantic With glory at all times, and his joy Is in change, and his glory is in change, And his voice rings out with the triumph Of fallen nations. The Bush is a mirror to me; it reflects Me to the people. The bush that is here Is the bush of the past. The bush that shall be Is a mirror to me; it will show me The future. The bush of the future shall be The bush of a nation. The bush of the past Shall be the bush that clings to the past. And the bush of the present shall be The bush of the nation. So it's the bush of the bush that shall be In the hour of our need. It shall be the bush That clings to the hope of a nation. The Bush shall be the mirror to me. It shall be the Bush of the nation. And it shall be a mirror to me Of a people who shall be a people free. They have no part in the day to come, Who do not have a part in the past. The people are the ones who make history; The past is for the people alone. Through ages and centuries and races They wander in wanderings of their own; They build the future and they sing the past. There is a story of a Red Man and a White Man, And the White Man has to pay the Red Man for a thing or two and has to go to a lawyer and explain his side of the case and loses, And then settles with the lawyer for a sum that he thinks is just, And then the story is ended and the story is "by the book," And the Red Man has to sleep his sleep. They are old, they are lean, They are both of them weary with the fight; They have seen service and loss, They have marched in the fight; They are worn, they are scarred, But they are neither broken nor dying. They are neither dead nor dying; They are faithful to the core, They are both of them young and holding back For a chance to do something great, They have learned in the bush that they hate To be both determined and wary. They are holding back, but they are not afraid; <|endoftext|> All the windy sea-tides. For the sun Glowed with a rare red, And the seaweed's gold, As it trembled in the light Of the yellow day. Towards the sunward she bent With her smiling face set free In the sunshine's deep embrace, As her thoughts went wandering so With a childlike spirit's glee, And her cheeks with flowers were gay Of the tender April rain. But I loved her not, alas! For I knew she would not heed My early love so kindly, Nor my heart so fervently Yearning to be freed from hers. Years have past, and I have found But a sad empty heart; For I love her not, alas! For I know that she will not heed My early love so kindly, Nor my heart so fervently Yearning to be freed from hers. Ah! well-a-day! The stars shall watch Worn out with long love's anguish, And the winds sigh as they blow Towards the place where I must weep With a bitter heart forlorn. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! The beach is windless, and the sky is grey, And I know that even the strong must yield, And the love that ne'er can tire Is like a battle o'er, While one false step may result In the slow grinding. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! The fickle Fair has told her tale of woe, And I am the one she loved so well, But she has the Say above his lips That he must wed her again To brighten her dull life, and bring her dreams Of limitless bliss. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! I have a feeling she will say no more, For as I take my ticket I see he smiles, And knows that all is all for ever, And the days of long ago When he gave me a golden pair Of earrings that he thought I would gift To him when I was found fair. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! But, if she should find him ever so cold, I know she could weave a magic spell, And if she should tell me how she fa'n, I know I could quote her words so well, That we two should not be separate Until we were laid at rest. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! It's not my lot to be so tender, But to be stern with love, To plunge in his heart, and harden him, And pray for a sign; It's not my lot to be so tender, But to be stern with love, And he to plunge in his heart, and harden him, And pray for a sign. I have a feeling that I could never, Never love cold fish, But I feel the fire of another Could warm him within, And how I wished with him to be At rest in the deep sea, While the clouds overhead were moving, And the fast tide was flowing. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! But what should he do? I cannot eat, And he is very hungry too, For he knows that he has grown Up the deepest stream in the deep sea, And I know that I could speak To him in his own language. Ah! well-a-day! Ah! well-a-day! We should like to say a great deal to one another, And we should like to see some pleasant things to look at, And we should like to hear some pleasing music, And we should like to watch the clock to the close of day, But to-day, I am afraid, we have much to do, For we have to look after the clocks, And we have to watch the time, And we have to say good morning To one another, And say good night to one another. "If you go into the city," he said, "The poorer with that gold you'll go; And that's a fact I should not heed If I were you." I answered, laughing, "When the gold's gone The world will be poorer with me." "The sun will rise the same, if not sooner," Said my friend. "So it's really true That the day's longness grows shorter." I answered, laughing, "You're always finding A way to invent some thing longer. "I don't care," said my friend, "If the day's length grows longer Or whether you go further north or south. All that you can see from here on is that The day's length grows shorter, And that is the end of contention." For an hour, and in fact forever, We walked together in air, When we both of a sudden stopped And stood in an open field. And we both of a sudden stopped And stood in an open field. We both of a sudden stopped, And stood in an open field. And we both of a sudden stopped In the midst of a wood. And we both of a sudden stopped And stood in an open field. And we both of a sudden stopped In the midst of a wood. And we both of a sudden stopped In the midst of an open field. And we both of a sudden stopped In a crowded street. "It's all for the best," said he, "in any case," "To be hopping, jumping, running, And to be hopping, jumping, running, And to be hopping, jumping, running, And to be hopping, jumping, running." "Now, there's the Opera!" I answered. "And you?" "For better or for worse," he said, "It's my fate to share. It's my fate to share. For better or for worse." Well, now, if I can't go into an opera (Because I can't keep still, Because I can't be still), I'll go into a crowded street And stand all mute and motionless Amidst noisy people Who will talk to me And talk to me, And talk to me. In the year of our Lord two and a half, The happy people were seeking the boat That took them out to sea. For the wind was foul, the sea was dark and deep, And all on a sudden the waves ran high And bogeys clattered on the masthead, wracked with foam. The strong man shouted and reached the masthead, And clutching the tiller, shivered it loose. "Come! come!" he cried, "now, now, now! For God's sake have a little care! Here's a rough, rough sea ahead!" He slid inside the cramped cabin and closed the door, And with face downward, fell asleep. The poor woman with her one good arm, The invalid with his bag of bones, The boy on his back, the young man with his lollipop, The child with a crayon, All crowded to the side. "Where is he?" they asked of the sailors, "Who is he, that turbulent? He has broken his fast! What shall we give him to take with him on board, His razor, his comb, his pen, His post box, his one pipe, His one carrot?" "The man is sick, and will not survive the voyage, We shall not reach the destination." "But how can we for him buy a meal?" "We cannot give him a fare. We have no money." "But what will you give him to take with him on board, His pocket-knife, his inkstand, His penknife, his pen, his Xerox?" "We cannot give him a fare. We have no pocket-knives." In the year of our Lord two and a half, The silent nights and long and lifeless days, The silent footsteps of our Saviour led Across the desert by the shore of Death. "Salamander!" once more the gentle voice Rejoined him, "dip your flaming head In the sea, where the wild waves lave The pebbly shores of this desolate sea." "Salamander!" Once more the gentler voice Rejoiced to his soundless hymn, And answered, "I will dally with you In the sea, where the wild waves lave The pebbly shores of this desolate sea." "Dear Mother!" The simple tender word Struck terror into his heart. In the year of our Lord two and a half, His little one was born. <|endoftext|> At sight of Thee to be downcast, Sunk in sad troughs of deepest blue. Look down on that poor forsaken town, All smitten with famine's rueful hailstones, Where widowed mothers ask of thee no more The bread they used to make their children eat. No more with milk they brush your hair of silver, No more with cloth, now lovelier than white gold, Shall mother brush, or baby be made fair. She that is mother to the glorious sun And Venus, and the tender dew, To all fair birds that gladden bough and lea, And all young flowers, is mother too Of that proud one that sets the purple sky! Oh, let thy mercy fall on Damascus! My soul and all that was is lost or is no more: I found the open door, the sky was all one cloud, The day was one huge blur of gold and green. On a plain whereon no footprint was, I saw strange angels sitting, crying To him who was last night Lord of Speech. On the wide moorland where no path did run, Between two rocky spires they stood, The one in white all as the moon, The other in black all as the doom. And one cried to the other: "Thou hast forgot the eternal Sleep And didst weep thy mother's bitter death, For thou shouldst have slain the infant Hitler And all his maker's work thus done Shamed in thy heart by shame again." And one replied to the other: "I am sad that thou shouldst forget, And that in this pitiful place, Where trees are blind and darkness is the sun, Thou shouldst look for God in such a thing As beauty, and shouldst sleep with thine head bare And speak God's name as men that pray." And one said: "In all this land of sleep Where gods and bears and giants are, And giants with gods their co-mates be, In all this wide barren place, Where kings have eyes and souls of clay, No place abideth more than this In darkness and in death, Which shall the dayspring remove, When thou shalt sleep with thy lord Hitler, And he with thee be dead." Then on they led him bound and blind, And bound him with his hands behind, And led him to a hill of fire, The way of dead and dying men. "I am the way, thou art the one," They said, "the living have no rights But those we dead have already won, The gates of hell are open wide To him that walketh in the night." They bound him with their hands and knees And raised their torches to him, And cried: "Hearest thou our lordly word, What is it to be one of us? Thou wouldst not dare to wear his crown, For being born of water and sun, And the bad daughters of the sea Are lower than the good ones are. Thou seekest for a helm of gold To helm thy glorious brow." They led him thus from place to place And said: "Here is the fiery gate, Here is the pale-faced Market-place, Where the yellow-skirted Christians come And buy and sell with feet and mouths. Hearest thou our lordly word? The dead have entered in, And made the good ones blind, And set the gates of heaven so high That those that died and come again No more can enter in." There walked the other dead, And said to the living dead: "When thou didst sleep with Hitler And sing with him and dance with him, When thou didst smile with him and frown with him, When thou wast glad with him and sad with him, Then the good ones knew indeed Thou hadst entered in." Then the four entered in, And their bodies were naked, And each had a staff to walk on, And each had a stone to fall on, And each had a mantle long To cover him when he touched the earth. And this man had a fish-like face, And that man had a bird-like face, And this man's face was like the face Of a blacksmith over-grown With the flames of a forge, and bird-like Were his eyes, and his voice was as the voice Of a dreamer when his eyes are blurred With dust and smoke, and his heart is leprous With a craving for the daylight. And this man's feet were as shrivelled wings Plucked out of a dream of flying, And this man's fingers were as claws Thrown out of a hand that had grown cold From holding things so long, and his hair Was as smoke in a nest with nails Through which smoke unwinded its way To his head. And this man's mouth was As a mould made in a mine When the roof falls in and the spring flies out, And a bird drops out of the air And falls with a power upon the earth So great, that there was nothing it could not reach. But this man's face was as a face That did know Spring's life and death, And his eyes as stars that had seen dawns And gone their ways and been changed, and his hair As the untameable unchangeable Spring That sheds all things unto the earth, That doth itself turn the lighter from it, And all things change and grow together, Till nothing is changed and nothing changes. And this man's eyes went astray, And his lips slipped away from him And his lips fell away to be with him, For he cried: "What wilt thou have? What wilt thou have?" And the great earth opened her mouth, And she bit him with a power that was hate And his mouth fell away to go with him Down to the empty place of earth, For the life of the earth with him was one. And he turned as a puppet, and he followed Down to the darkness of death and the empty place of earth. But that man had eyes to see, And he had will to live, And the sunlight of the sun, And the bright flood of the sun, And the torrents of the streams, And the height of the mountains, And the depths of the seas, And the heavens and the earth And the world's thoughts and deeds Made one with his life and made them one And he woke from the darkness of death and the empty place of earth. Here is a book of olden days When the rounded golden prow Was the lord of the sea; When the hawser whistled a high, sweet tune And the humming flax was stirred; And the humming flax was white with foam, And the foam was red with blood. Here is a book of olden days When the inland fields were green And men won the things they sought, And the sea was full of strange fish to bring And the sun was hot and bright; And the sky was full of stars to fall, And the sun was hot and bright. Here is a book of olden days When the rigid sear could slip Deep into the flesh of things; And the hearts of men beat high and bold And the blood ran round like water; And the sea was full of strange fish to bring And the stars fell, and the sky was black, And the men were slain with horror deep. Here is a book of olden days When the rigid sear could slip Deep into the flesh of things, And men won the things they sought, And the sea was full of strange fish to bring And the sun was hot and bright, And men were slain with horror deep. Here is a book of olden days When the inland fields were green And men won the things they sought, And the sea was full of strange fish to bring And the humming flax was white; And men said "This is well, for I am old And my strength is quite away." But now our sea is full of ships And our men can no more go forth And the sea is full of ships And men won no more of old, For we are strong as we shall be able, And our strength is quite away. Here is a book of olden days When the rigid sear could slip Deep into the flesh of things; And the hale old men, they said, Would not be like to stay Longer on the shore of life And go mad old heads on. Here is a book of olden days When the inland fields were green And the hale old men, they said, Would not be so very long On the sea and the sun to stay; And the hale old men would not stay Longer on the shore of life <|endoftext|> Even there I feel your look my very soul. I have laid my wine-cups in the hearth, I have placed my goodliest wreaths of bays, I have set my coins upon the shelf, And with finest linens fleeced my bed. My sinewy arm is stretching out Where the rich valley-trees dip their heads; I have made the house like some black king's, With chambers dark and waiting-rooms cold. But in this house like some black king's No love-rites flow from out the door, And from the windows spring no birds to sing. I must go through the wood to-night, The cypress and pale cedar sing, I must creep through all the twilight dim, Hear the lilies of the wet, wet green, Where the aconite veins the moss, I must sleep by streams where silver runs, I must sleep by dim, dim valleys thin, Mine are the best! O, don't make me go, I am almost home! And you are telling The story in reverse; I've told you never a word; You are the only man I've asked--you alone. The night is black, the valley dark, And through yon black woodland The winds are howling. There is no one else in the lighted house. I shall tell you something; You may repeat it To all the girls who live near by, Or I may tell you something, And you may tell it To all the girls who've hearts; It doesn't matter what you say. I'm afraid you do not know it; I'm afraid you do not care; I'm afraid you don't understand The reason I do it. And they'll think it strange and wrong If you two were to kiss; It's only right that I should do it Because you don't ask me to. Well I know, dear, you cannot know it, There isn't a soul in the land But's glad when I come round, And they all say what a lot of fun It is to have a man! You're just the sort of girl for it, I guess, don't you be surprised! I only wished you'd let me know; You should have been more particular, I don't understand it! Why didn't you try to find me A man for last-minute work, And I'll bet it wasn't hard! I've been all around, but I've been Stubborn enough to say, "No, I don't want to do it." It wasn't a want of being You couldn't put into words, But you were always so unused To do what you felt inclined; The need to do it became A thing you kept from thinking on, A thing you frightened yourself with; And so you never tried it. You should have been more particular, I don't know why I did it. You should have tried to find me A man from out the crowd And I wouldn't have blamed you, You should have tried to find me Or you could have been smaller, I don't know why I did it. I will tell you the reason, Why it was because I was so common-looking; I think I should have married Before you did; for, you know, The men back home thought I was And used to tease me when they saw me, And say I looked just like you. I have tried so many men And never one annoyed me, And now, you know, I'm all alone, And my friends are all gone away, My father is dead, my mother Is in bed for more than a year, And there's nobody to go home to; And that makes it very hard And very hard to be helpful To my friends and my family. And the children, they think I'm very Foolish; my mother taught them To think that I am false and then To tease me and make me cry; They tease me when they see me, They say, "You are He, who? And then they give me little nips, Just like your nose, and they Teach me to tease you back, And the children think I'm quite (An awful lot like you) too. They never once have called me "darling," (As you do to-day) but they Think I'm lying--you see, They think that I'm lying--so They tease me, and I want to Break through their careful teasing; (It takes a very big man Not to be annoyed) but I can't act it, you know, Being myself so simple-minded. And so I never did it. I'm childish just for childish's sake. Oh! lady--I--I feel so small; I seem but half as much a man As you are, however much You dress in gaudy attire; Yet is my heart twice as close To you, now I think of it, As it was. Therefore go on-- I'm listening, and I'll answer you. Oh! sir, you and I must perhaps Nothing truly matter one to another, Though that low heart, alas, might beat, Yet we must be pretty serious, Must we not, now, then, be? And no one need be surprised, If some queer person asked My name, or if I shook My hand--yet there!--so! In the days gone by, you were not so Delicate, I am sure; You were not so low-bred either. Now, you are so fair, dearest one, That all my heart with love is crying, It is too much for me, O my lady. Here. Not the moon is shining bright That you see from afar; She would not shine for all the gold That shines around her. Beneath her pale Are all the sweet flowers growing Where she is lying; Her are all the birds That sing from day to day. She is giving all her love For nature's freshness, And would not give so easily To save a humble flower. She is making Her soft cloud-flecks move And take the morning-tide With their fall. The long pale moon's pale light Is over us sinking; I am in my low room That seems not low and humble Save the windows where I see your face And the flags hanging everywhere, And our own great flag waving Over the whole world. My love should be as beautiful As the sparkle of the waterdrop; My love should be as warm As the sunny morning's eye; My love should laugh with the winds And bear all the winds as kisses, Or diving under the waves. O Moon, O Moon, so tender, Make my love mine; Let my love be as loving As your sighing. Give me your silver shimmer, O give my love one ray From your dew-filled eternity. But no; I would not waste All my hope on one stroke. My hopes cannot be so high As your moon-line, For 'tis all in vain to strive When the shadow strikes above. So it will be! O Moon, Come to my arms! O fold me close in your glow Till the stars above us meet. We will sleep so sweet and sweetly, With the waves above us meeting. Should a leaflet come Scattering the snow, We would seek with bowls To drink it up, Where we might laugh and sing, While the winds were worth A kiss to a friend. Then we'd walk away, If a crow would come, Scattering the hail, While we got a look At the pines and forests Where the wind blows. But a leaflet comes! Do we run to meet it? Hail! No! 'Tis the sleet We cannot deny; And we'd better not come To a dance so drab. We'd better go, For it spreads now To a storm that's coming; And now 'tis snowing, While the wind is blowing. No! We'd better not come, For a horse's coming With a runner, and he Would scatter our sleet Till we ran to his stall. Thus, we must stay, But one of us must run To the hoof-strokes now, While he holds the rain In the beads of his nose. What a beautiful and glowing day it is! How the little birds sing out with the sunshine! How like a jewel stands bright in the wood, The lonely cottage! The gleam of the woods Is a perfect mirror for the sun, And the lilies, even, on the paths, With their white chalices of red, Are bright as they should be. <|endoftext|> The stronger sentences that already bled. He drew the worthy-confessing throng From all their songs to silence deep. And this one the noblest grace may deem Of that great trial by the sword, The war which ever taught Man's life its worth And made a lesson of the sword. The mighty Man: if true be said, He knew how great the sufferings of the weak, And how in death the best are slain; But all the self-same yearning have his heart, The same triumphant passion of the yearning good Came o'er him then: the yearning of the breast, For love, for beauty, mystery, and dearth, And sweet unattained aspiration after joy, As when the dew-drops first meet the grain And help it to grow. Then through the air Those brooding solemn black masses came, Vast black masses which no eye may bear To measure the extent of Heaven's ways. The Man had heard the blowing rains; Hearkening to the sleeping winds he went Sudden, as if a whisper to defy, A weapon to defend himself with. All lonely went he, save for the God Whom he heard murmuring in the sky Like him, his guide, the mighty director. Then on the Ocean's infinite breast His bark rested, as the God's desire Had waited for him on the same sea, Still as the wind which swept the deep Its rhythmic round. In tranquil rest There, by the solemn heavenly arms Around it, silent and in awe, On its bright fluttering folds lay rolled The ocean-air. The fluttering folds Caught the flaming of the rising wind, And flinging it back, once more gave rest To the restless Man's unquiet breath. He, gazing on the blue expanse, Could see e'en the iris from the sea Caught in its fluttering, yet unmanageable. How should he strive to find a road To grapple with that Supreme? Who knows Wherefore the great Almighty hath ever been Alone? Or if the enmity of his love Can in one moment turn to love again? He must, in enmity, yet must be ever The mighty director of others: his enmity Is toward that which most discommends his power-- And in his power is all his infinite worth. No nature, or no part of nature, appointed Is his, but his himself constitutes each. That majestic aspect, which all behold Distinctly in the sacred panorama, Is the divine aspect, which in him Is also in the nature and the part of man. He may be seen, as the emblemable Spirit of the world, and the Divine image, Visible by it. He is in himself That emblem of the visible, never seen By sight itself--so that the mind alone Is passive to the representation. He is that Spirit, whose diffused effect Is like the light that withered the green stalk, That it retains only while it lights This world of earth--where every new seed it brings Is as the old sown. The world of old days Is but a dried splendor; in its prime The shining age was this, which is no more. All else is death to it: life is but a drouth; To be, it was. Hence, constant and sincere, The new-built ship, which for a time gleams, And tells the tempest-heart it is a belief, Tells us true wisdom is in assuming dread. As water in the hollow oak stays, And in the ancient mountain-feather feels The eternal pressure of the storm Breathe softly, and concede to your foe The futurities of life--as fear. He may relent; he may be charmed with life Whole, and not only with its present joy, And strange, ecstatic visions of the past; He may relent who has punished too much By too much love, and find, at last, dismay. So man was made to suffer, and not to enjoy; And this, to know is, but to start in pain At the first flash of that intolerant heart, That tosses up its afflictions in an eddy Of angry tempests, and at last, at last, Aknocks the exposed ramparts of the soul, And kills it with claustrophobia. In your sight Ye may behold this chasm 'twixt life and death, This agonizing agonizing sharp anguish Of thirst, which bids us drag the heavy burden Of life in bloodshed, and with bloody swords Weigh down the life desired of us with straws-- These his enticements: yea, in your uttermost depth Ye may behold it, watching the slow years roll In misery and sorrow, born of these sins, Which were the sowing of these storms which now assail Our sinful race. See how the torn fabric cracks, And the dumb, insensible multitude March past with footsteps of despair and fear. And they are all God's image, these convictains! He hath remembered them. If they but now Rise up with deep and agonizing moan, And with low lispings of more hearty breath Put to the Standard the unfledg'd truth, 'Gainst all the waves of error he will beat The flame of Truth, save him. Tho' they should storm The prisons, those eyes are fixed on you, Praying that ye will defense them from wrong. The cruel intention, and the dark design All of one hooped in you, from the same womb Of guilty fear are dripping at one time; And you are one with all that grows, that bleeds. Look at your prisoners, how they wail and pail, Which one was in the conspiracy the traitor? O dear and lucky you, if such treason Could be pick'd out of one thousand men! But he, the common like of you all, Presses undismay'd to the conspirators His equal right to complain. Were all men So like that distant and so weak man? Lorenzo! wit is sweet to you, but death Is better. O heedless speed! and let Your other kind of men cover wherewith This weak and needy weak man is pauper'd. Was he not liker to the martyrs dead Than this large ring of earth to him? let him take Those precautions where 't is true safety stands-- Let him strike in turn this strong warning down. Are ye not cowards? is it sure enough That here is room for cowards? hath your space Not and to meet him an enow place found? Where are the feet of traitors? where the bar To fly to? where cover from himself O god infernal! Or hath he fled Thus far back that he dares not by the ways Of safety draw near? oh! put forth thy hand, Thou friend of liberty and truth and right! There must be exit out of this thick shade Of conspiracy, and bitter hate, And bitter safety!--and when the conspirators Have forced him out, he will come in hope Of some mercy, for this fear makes him fret. Thou see'st me ripe and over-ripe. I am old, and gruff; for every sense I tire quicker. I am grac'd and worn By daily labor in the sweat of blood To keep the release for which the guilty Crawl out from under him. But I can tell, Spite of the dazes of weak desire, That I am granted to look on him, and show To any that say him not for his deed, What like of him is in the world. Thou know'st Or thyself the greatness of my call, And wouldst pull me even for that? This is pride; But, pride all broken up, the soul looks out And eye by eye doth count the stars and calls The galaxy to witness how far I went To do the thing for which I toil'd and suffered Far as the south-wind will permit. And so I am abject now before him that I tricked Up to this height, hoping for higher pay. A strumpet, flapper, woman of the night, Poet, dancer, what you will, but not of me; What rewards the toiler! I am the prize, And nothing more. When first I climbed to be An honored associate of the great ones, A star in earth's zodiac, a thing to gaze Upon, enraptured, I was deceiv'd; For from them I was snatch'd, and on them shut In this sad dungeon, which no gift of mine Gave me, and none of silent charity. But now I see beyond my captivity What man was made of. The fierce-hearted may Have done what now I do; but I am chaste; And if I did it, I repent it like a Christian. How close the flesh ties are! How free from shame <|endoftext|> And those who beheld not her the less Could scarce refrain from loud applauses. Therefore at all times be thou solicitous, And choice thy time and actions well, That thou may'st reap advantage too, When thy fortunes openst, from the pain And vexation of them truly mine. <|endoftext|> "A Summer Alete", by Robert Frost [Nature, Animals, Summer] My dear Julian, this sad writing here Is the last you here will see. I leave you now with deep affection; Your loving friend Father. I send you in your wanderings A few of those roses I am remembering, And a rose, for remembrance too, The blackbird's song that once I heard. Its sweetness you will never forget. My love to all. For twelve months now A lone wilderness Upon the face of the earth Has hid my soul from the world. And never a voice Or echoes from the rest Has entered to remind me That I am older than the sad forests And the long grass that waited for me. I saw the mountains as my natural being And the deep purple of the empty sea. There was no one to see, No one to tell me Of changes or of growing pains, Or, indeed, to say That morning was hot Or afternoon cool. I walked in ignorance; With time and the sun I watched the stars pass by, And all at once, Like the mist upon the mountains, Yea, the very mountains themselves Fell in love under my caressing gaze. What were the letters of the days of old To me? I am writing to you As letters were then to me. I have no gift to offer, No joy, No grief, Only the hope that, having lived, Your days, If they are long, Await you everywhere. <|endoftext|> "The Trial", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Nature, Winter, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Old Winter comes torrid with ambition; He turns the streams alight, And changes the eternal plain Into a realm all glass and fire; He scratches his pattern on the ice, And draws it onward to the polar star. But here, in the deep landscape of the soul, I contemplate the forms my life has taken, The patterns that have been left by others, And gaze upon the wonders of mankind. Here are sun, ice, and wind; The normal And normal man is changed by these; To suffer and to work. Here is no more the familiar line and dash Upon the paper; But lines of competition and disdain. O Winter! I am but a fragment of myself; Take from the wastrel, sprinkle o'er the sot, And teach the hand to write. <|endoftext|> "The Truth", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Death, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I have a wry notion Mournfully adjuring Arab! That thou hast forgot, almost quite, The most simple, truest, surely best Of all prescriptions, when to strew The sacred floor of the Late Superbe With violets, or with flowers of jet; Of all remedies, when to seal The mausoleum, with gentian; Or to animate the stiff black bars Of mercy, so to make them look More kindly on the other doomed; Telling tales, babbling languages, Blowing kisses, loving words, While red inflammation oozes While cool tears burn corneas. Yea, all such times, I would surmise, Are best; they at least are kinder Than when rule or chaos, wherabouts Of such dead times call for blows. Nay, verily, I would say, Even when not so much by birth Is meant, or by right, we know, Nor so much is meant by wrong, Than when rule or chaos, wherabouts Of such dead times call for blows; There is some help, however scant, In knowing what, when, where, who, and why. The sound of living man, even when Alive, is healing, knowing and hearing. <|endoftext|> "My Sympathies in Sicily", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Coming of Age, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] The present is empty, save of course The distant from the here and now, And that which shall be. <|endoftext|> "To Captain Bristol upon his Invitation to College", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy] Having been for nearly six years now A deceased person in the world's eye, Still should I find time oftentimes To salute thee, dear Sir, And these obsequies Preparing— Should I have leave from my kind Recluse, Which I very much would like to get— To ask thee one favor—not that I Care at all thy guest-ward, Or at all thy temporary abode— But being one whose tastes are diverse, With respect to music, thou wilt hardly Find other then I know to tell, Which will concern thee not at all, nor vie, Excepting when my ear grows touch'd By certain reeds which rising first And densest in the slant meander Cross the middle of the grove And come to curl'd fetlocks round their base, I feel a secret urge to stray Among the forest-glades and follow Wherewith their sound makes murmur'd behind— Being myself of a pleasing mood And only of want of regular sport, My self and these accustom'd ways (Which are the ways Of Nature) bring me joy. <|endoftext|> "Unbellied", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Animals] To bell-waving beasts that club the dark With extended pinions that float like clouds across the sea, With heaved shoulders, humped backs, and sinuous tails That seem twining snakes that look not forth, I give you welcome. My soul hath park to dive in depths beyond thy brains, And wash with glistening watersevery crevice of thy dome, And cleanse you of every scar and spray And wrinkle, and every mark of sin And sinfull stain, That was not thou, nor is nor ever shall be. And should there linger any shade that bows As if the sky its wings should fold on thine, Or mist that trails across thy field or burn The grass that feeds the tusky boar, or even The wanderings of the unintelligent sheep That visit not man's fields—for these Are sights of a gross and autumnal kind—My gifts for them I stand prepared. <|endoftext|> "The Base White Cloth of the Moon", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Religion, God & the Divine] O base cloth of the moon, Thou thing of night and gloom! Thou, whose unseemly texture wraps The unredeemed and the unregarded, Dost thou relish a glory Such as should be the lot Of God alone, alone, alone? And does thy hid deep shrine Full of abjectness still Seek out for him who would liberate All feet that pass by thine, All faces that look by thine, All vocal songs that thine adjures, All silent songs that thine commands? Or does thy marbled beauty take No heed at all of man's well-being, All that verifies the health Of his communicative hand, All that applauds the perfection Of his creative mind? <|endoftext|> "Nothing But the Old Indian Things", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox [Religion, God & the Divine] Wandering through an Indian wood one day, The moonlight found me seated by a cave, Within the shadow of an altar. The cave was full of sweet and darkness, The altar's hues harmonized well, And lovely the whole. So, silent, and motionless, and gleaming, I heard a sound of praise and prayer From an antient priest who thundered by. So, small and swift, I followed him, Intent upon my worship, while The world took no note. My steps were guided by a sightless guide, Who led me from shade to shade. The shadows crept beneath the walls, And o'er the altars crawled. Where the altar burned an image shone, Above, below, and sham began to roll. Those who came unkempt, Stood bristling with bristles, Or were a pure awful white, Or flecked with dots, Or puffed out, or powdered with dyes. A swarthy man who had no house, Crept daily to this grove, And with uncouth paces loitered About the rites. I heard his "Boo" and "Oy, <|endoftext|> Unto the wall! fast by the wall! An inscription still was read! 'Sank on the twenty-ninth of June,' By the gaping vaults of Golgotha! Poor John, a stroke to his ear, And down he lay. A brain was out, As brain will be, when all is said, And all his fool-brain had to say Was 'Fiddlestue!' To be brief, Our hero, poor fellow, grew Weary. By degrees his senses swerved, At times, about to drown and die, In the vaults, and on the stony ground, And, later, when at last he slept, In the little chapel at the base Of a tall cliff,--he never could 'wak'! --He seemed, 'twixt life and death, to swim; His hands clutched useless, and his limbs Stiffed in strange spasms of ague pain, Till he passed out into the dusk Into the sunset haze, for ever there. When he came forth, the year was dying, Through wind and rain, through driving snow, But not a word was said, for silence, Or prayer, or hymn, or exhortation. For all were there, at parting, one and all To thank God for the opportunity To show him what a wonderful thing He was, as one goes through the town Now in the act of giving back again Into the hands of those who gave. Here at the altar stood the Host, Here, on the altar was the silver cake, Here, on the altar, stood a Hostess dressed In scarlet, just. By the altar stood The Host and silver and the cake, To put upon the altar, made thus gay, To take the bite of, and serve the bread In place of meal. They were ready now; The host and cake were set; the Host rose up, 'Twas time to take it up; 'Here, Mistress, take The cup,' said He; and she with serious air Did likewise take her share. They took up The host and silver; and then, at once, Upon their hands their hands took hold of He, And 'O Thou,' they cried, 'O Lord, O God, why Are ye so swift to curse?' And straightway Before their eyes the Lord of all this world Began to speak. 'Ye curse like men,' quoth he, 'But get thee going, for the time comes soon To work my will, which thou hast somewhat done To earn. Lo! I made thee and cast thee out Ever from my presence; why entertain Funereal thoughts about thyself, and me? Thou hast somewhat to answer for. Old men In old days fell far other curses, feigning Existence in the world of old to deceive Old men, yet wearing their skins, as white as mine. Go, therefore, then, forget thy spirit as ye may, And with youthful fancies greet this eternal night, Albeit this present night and dawning day Shall answer for each other. Time was, when ye Stood laughing in your strength, and got great praises And wondrous words from the men that now answer you With iron on your souls. Ye could say and teach Wonderful things, and move the people through the land With fantastic spell. How like a dream the past Had glided before your eyes! Now, however, learn To trust no more; forget thy spirit; from the day I let thee in, O beloved, till this day, I have not seen one single happy thought in thee; And for a girl, whose mind I seem to have lost, Thou hast not shuddered at the thought of her name; And for thyself I seem to have lost interest Beyond all souls that forsake me; therefore, Lost now and gone, I in my loneliness, And in my sorrow, wait for something better Than despair. For me, O beloved, I know Nothing; and no more of faith, and no more of Love, and no more of patience in distress. Yet, having this good apartment, for the time We shall see each other; I am weary of Houses of dust; the statues, when the rain is Cheerful, have a fresh and youthful charm, and The snow-drops, if but seen a little, are lovely, And if the wind be blows the window curtains tightly, Then, in a moment, are forgotten, while the Old man of the city, with a saying, has caught Their memory, and they are like a pictured charm, Which gladdens the poor, but soon it wears away, And their old luster is unaware 'Tis in vain to hope that thy heart would break Into some truth, nor know the child is born, Whose every care is to be at some Place, while my care is of the mind to be At rest. I could not live, O beloved, Should I not love thee! O comfort me With calm of mind. I would not have The lustre of life spilt from this body's surface. No; my peace of mind shall be a silentness, And not an outward calm; yet, O sweet peace, My heart shall not be silent, in my body, But a highest music that hath room not In the vast spheres of heaven be heard of, shall fill My very veins, and in my very blood run With the mild wine of thy sweet thoughts. I was a king, my love, a king in Rome, And then the earthquakes came and rolled the world As with a blur of fire; then Caesar's sword Stabbed my heart out; but aye I rose again, Tender and pure, and went to the place of stars, Where I was born, to that high pure shrine Where never eye shall see me born again. I seemed to rise up out of the cave alone, And on the walls the noiseless shadows shone With the soft glory of a slumberous moon, And I was the king of that new region, crowned With the pure world's glory, crowned with the first Red stars that ever shine in heaven's high east To light the birth of him who is to rule it all. And there the ages gleamed like fringe of snow Upon a Venetian velvet; but at last A new eclipse lifted its blank veil, and I Beheld the kingdoms of the night, whereof I took The kingdom of fear, and waned in laziness. I was king in that wild stupor of delight, Which breeds itself in darkness when the day Has ended; but the gods on high will judge me, And give me sleep or sudden death, as I shall need. And, oh! from that new realm of slumber, where Thy face is shamed, and mine in a changed eternity, Thou shalt learn humility, and we shall walk With outstretched hands in a deep impotence, While the blind earth, for whom love had neither name Nor place, and which none but demons worship, Shall crouch down and compass me about with fear, And the blind earth shall wrap me in her hair. And then, thou dimmed and slain light of my eyes, Where lies the stiffened robe I did too long Wove of stone from out thy star-like radiance! Oh, while thou lie again in darkness, and the Whirlwind mocks my last prayer as I defile Thy world with thee, lo, from some far far off height Of twilight, in God's wind, let me behold The anguish of my love in its strong clothing, And when the wind shall sigh upon my wound And turn my eyes to bitterness of longed-for light, Then, then shalt thou die, and all my days be done In loving darkness. O God! he cried, Pity me not. For I am broken in my prime. I am The man of prayer, the best golfer of to-day, And yet I feel as if a sick man who has drawn The arrow, and smitten deep in his own cloak, Must feel the pain when the shaft flies from out The string, and all the pain beside it, at once, Comes on him with a flood, until the loathsome pain, Which was a sign of glory, seems a nameless pain, Which does not pain him now who hath it not. And I have lived so long, I do not know If I am more heart-sick of the thing I am Or of the change. I have changed, and not be touched As one who cuts his last thread from off a thousand Crops; not like one who cuts his last child-tongue from off Before his lips may commune with it. O God, What man shall tell thee of a greater change? What can be greater than this? Yet I did Not take the arrow on its way. I did not know That any longer my arrow was the same It was of yore. One day the light that is the sign of night <|endoftext|> He said, this is a tower, by yonder base Two palms high; by which these bears are shown; And men and bulls and oxen bred to fight; And, goats, a parable of their ways: And monkeys, that the warriors' arms outwhip, Their own weapons for the occasion: Then did he know this was the work of King Hippolochus. So saying, he left the place; But, turning, left him in that place to dare The quest of that monster, tigress, whose tresses He saw like those which crowned Moloch's brow When Isis from the sea atop of dead Ocean raised her conquering son. For this youth, The victor in three battles, proved the may Of that destructive war, and trampled in horn The Lord of Rocks; and none save these two fought, Nor any the like might see on earth again. One, on the rampart of the palace of Troy, Pulled down the lotus from the Trojan wall, And walking in the city of the Greeks Strayed the pathless city, driven by fate, With many a market, lake, and rivulet, And pleasure-seat. But far off he heard, He, brave though he was, the beating of the drums, While all the folk of Troy, in God's name, did pray That Neptune might from Agamemnon's might Deliver Ilium. Fain, at length, he came; And, making his way to that inviolate bower Of Neptune, found the immortals' messenger. Him, with his forehead bent beneath the crown, And to his brows a veil of swan's down spread, The mighty sovereign of the sea was seen. Swift was the grasp with which Hippolochus Conceived the purpose of the sea-god's quest. Up on a rock, beneath the steep cliff they stood; The sea, not far, around them rushed, and roar'd The eagerness of the winds; now tossing, now Fast fell their snow-white plumes of sea-white foam. Two, upon the sea's edge, there walked alone, The warlike Polyphemus and his charge. Yea, and more than all, they saw the monster, The fair-leaved crocodile, who, with dainty Seven tongues, and who could speak, if any man His seven oxen spake, and was the goad Of Odysseus, that great obdurate man; For, lighting on the sea shore, he consumed His hardy comrades, heaping the crags with skulls; And yet was godlike Odysseus not therein; For in the mid seas was he lost, and, far From Nereid isle, he had perished all A general wreck. Thus soon did he return From faring on the deep, in quest of the runes Which turned the scale of battle. How he went To Ithaca, how brought his might and money To Boebeis the good, and brought his spouse To happy Ismarus, that marvellous tale Shall also be told. Now as he passed along, behold, he heard The notes of many notes, and every voice With sweetest music smote him. Ah me! With their sweet voices came the ghostly bands, And chased him blindly through the lovely wood Along with them; but he, entangled, found The winding chace which Hermes tamed. And there He felled a tall fig-tree; a huge piece of fruit It held, as high as he was taller. Then he dragged it into the sea bed, A huge fragment of a mountain, and flung The giant fruit around its paunched roots, And then returned in quest of the goddess. Thence, when all his quest had tired him out, He sat him down to rest upon the shore. And now, when morning, sword-dawning, reigned, He woke from slumber, and, stretched forth, he heard The spirits of the dead, who in the sea Lay tangled, and were bound. And some said, 'Old man, look up, and hearken to me; I have tidings of thy master.' Then He lifted his head, and squaring his feet, 'What tidings have you, Spirits of the Sea?' He heard their speech for the last time, and flung Himself ashore near them, and they stepped Adown the rugged shore. Then he went Up to the fig-tree, and all unharmed cut The thick stem with his huge great sword. But lo! Before him an apparition, like An old man stark and stark dying; and the sword Scalpel-like cut through the boughs, and saw they No heart within. Now, when his sword was cleansed, Old Lycophron the necromancer heard How Hippolochus, as an infant, smote down A man with the sharp steel, the man who fed Hippolochus; and how Hippolochus Lost his dearest foot, that part remained whole; And how Lycophron, enchanted, was allowed To see and seize it, and to make his spell Well known, and to make it read. For the spell Was written in the corn, and Lycophron Sailed off on a magical vessel-man To some foreign land, a land of herbs and roots And drunken revels and midnight feasts, And ravening monsters. But, seeing now How hideous this new abode was, and how full Of wild beast, and the threat of wild beast, And the wild noise of savage laughter, And all the weight of things, Hippolochus Passed through the rocks and led them downwards, All blissful and unhindered. And now, When he had brought them through the dark rock Into the fair clear stream of little rills, All savage and all gay, and in his hand He bore the sword Hippotomy, conceived In hellish revel; for he spake, and uttered The death-cry of the deep. Now, as a bear Chases round an antelope through the rocks In Illyria, on Illyrian islands, Whose half-ruined temples out now weep Drops of bitter dew, and the long sea-eagles Hang long their fringes with the creaking keels Of scattered isles--even so the hounds, Chased by that might of Lycophron, waxed Weary, and grew blythe; and Lycophron Spake at last, and bade his ghosts to follow Wherefor he cast the demon-sword away: 'Farewell! and love, and be merry, ye! For ye shall meet a numerous company; And, having put your doublet on, be given Into my keeping a goodly store Of all that kind will frequent this place, So that ye shall leave all unhewn, and all But unavailed in the empty graveyards; Unhit by dogs, and left whole; and ye Shall feed, and grow great flesh, and be at ease.' And now he touches them; and, lo! the hounds Broken and scattered are, and scatter'd run Like the scattered seed before the rain, When the light gathererd east and west. There rides a man, a man with bow and armour, And with the gleaming majesty of truth Is the far traveller. All they hearken, And lo! all his day-dreams in his head Swim, and are scattered. And one says, 'Leave we the deed to him who is most like God, And so shall we, themselves following, go Upward, like him, upward, and we shall know No more our life, nor Christ, nor heaven, nor hell: All day-dreams be ours!' Another says, 'Let this man slay; for so is innocent And gentle; and he that puts a sword Into a sheep's heart is cruel.' Thus argue The few that hearken; and the thousand's voice Is flooded with such dissensions as confuse The flatterer, who shall hear them, one and all, And think one Christ, two Budites, three Roleyks, And one Papal Triumph. Now, when the first fall'n Hitherward had cast all mankind, To that last curve, that sea of license, Where all men turn to plunge, and nought is read But idle seas and shoreless expanses, The solid point of it the happy crew Turn'd as a mould'ring petro-stat, and sent Out in long well-directed lines, whose sight And sound in unison went round, the last Cancelling the elevenfold stop, then all Took oath that, when the Master should return, He there should build his chapel, and make His sanctified abbey of that Rock, To wait the brethren of the distant West, Which should build other for their own North-land, <|endoftext|> pornjakam their childhood pornjakam why are they still so pornjakam little girls with pornjakam so few vegetables pornjakam so few utensils pornjakam how little they understand pornjakam Because a sky will open at some point if you let it. <|endoftext|> "Family Vacation", by Jill Osier [Relationships, Family & Ancestors] We were buying a boat. I was eight.We drove to Leech Lake, Wisconsin, parked at the YMCA on Eighth Street.Mother worked at the front desk, dad at a desk right next to hers.I stood alone at the desk in new pedicure instructions, trying to decide if I wanted my mother to watch.I remember sitting on a bench outside the Y, looking at all the multi-colored foam hair dyes,Lakshmi music playing. Mother told me later that I had looked like a prince.A prince is an ideal. I had just gotten my long red hair cut that afternoon.I don't remember much from that day, the lake, its movement, its hair. That day, I was eight. <|endoftext|> "Let The Music Play", by Jill Osier [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] On my fifteenth birthday, I was given a miniature industrial violin that sat, untouched, on the kitchen table.How would it know me? I had long past turned twelve.I went with a friend who gave me a ride home.I had something of a late birthday. My birthday was June, and I was four months old.My new violin had red hair on it.I had a birthmark on my forehead, a barely visible indent.I wanted to be played, I wanted to be noticed, I wanted to ask questions,I wanted to figure out who I was.There was no skin on my forehead.I wore a helmet with a stud and a black mask covering the entire scar.I kept my left hand in the stud, but when I turned to play,the left side of my face was nothing but music.My right side was not right. I was playing left handed, yet when I moved my right thumbto play the fifth note, the thumb kept playing, even after I turned to play the fifth note.My thumb kept playing, and I kept playing, and I kept playing left handed, yet when I moved my right thumbto play the fifth note, the right side of my face was nothing but music.My left side was not left. I was playing right handed, yet when I moved my right thumbto play the fifth note, the left side of my face was nothing but music.I played in an opera house where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a temple where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a church where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a library where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a gallery where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a dark room where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in an elevator where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a jail where the left hand turned you, the right hand moved you.I played in a jail where the left hand had no fingers, and the right hand had two.The right hand had three. The left hand had two.This is a partial list.Music is a language, and language is a family of music.This is not a language, it is music. <|endoftext|> "Rose Eats into May", by Amy Clampitt [Living, Death, Growing Old, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Spring] I. Rose sits in her sun-porch house, her arms around her head, listening to her favorite radio play, wistfully. She looks up at the sky. It’s clear and warm. She feels the spring coming, the endless spring, but what is spring to a woman who was only forty-seven when her son went away? Her hair is gray, her hands are white from handling yellow roses, orchard sprouts, pale yellow carnations. Her skirt has yellow sashes and two yellow dainties stuck to her waist like fifties Girls. She’s forty-seven. Her son is in his grave. She wipes away a tear. II. The sun in May is simply beautiful. When it rises, like a statue, we watch it leave and count the minutes. A minute over, the sun is simply beautiful. III. There’s a note in music that waits for a string until the string is broken and the song tells a new story. But every broken string can yield a note to the tune. That’s what we do, shaking our heads in unison. — There’s a note in life that waits for a moment when the moment’s blind and the note is red. If we listen to that note right notes we tell each other, then we wait. IV. I have often heard that a cherry blossom is the color of paradise. <|endoftext|> "Full Moon", by Amy Clampitt [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] This is a painting I did called Valentine's Day. Both my parents have cherries in their drinks this Valentine’s Day. My father says, go get a pack of cherry grapes we can split between us 11:59 on this Thursday. We take a walk in the snow at the same time, for a change. My husband and I kiss. The star field behind us has two large red checkmarks in it. He thinks they are our initials. He asks me in a tight voice,Have you ever thought of being spanked with a giant cactus? We kiss again. He wants to take me to a wildlife preserve to play with bears. He feels my naked breasts. He’s always telling me how handsome I am. His eyes dart around like someone who is losing sight of the road. We return to the house and I cook dinner. I’m making a tuna casserole with leftover tomatoes, onions, and celery. He says I look like a Madonna candle. I get up to wash the silver table. I do it tenderly. I dry the silk curtains. We read the telegram that says, Miss Bates, Fourth of July, 1958 Died in a automobile accident, at 18.5 years old. <|endoftext|> "I Am Falling", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I am falling, they say, As in, down these stairs; I am falling, they say, Like in the aether; I am falling, they say, To a certain place; And I must be, they say, Or I am not falling. The bell is striking eight, The rain is sinking fast, The wind is high, I am told, I am falling--falling! <|endoftext|> "Song of Welcome", by William Shakespeare Youworld’s gates are towerless, boltless, and void, And yet today, through darkling wards, The gentle news comes floating down. The dove-eyed dame, who dares To close the portal of her heart That meets the watcher in the skies, Receives a present from the spheres, A flower from the heavens, a gem from the sea. The King is dead, long dead; The glorious corse is to the sea, Ripened and carried to the children of men. The age is dumb, the apes are dumb, And man is born, who shall break the ton, Not thralls with ropes and cords to bind The brothers of the light, the brothers of the day. <|endoftext|> "Mortal Sorrow", by Yehuda Amichai [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] After Miriam Hale Emmon <|endoftext|> He twisted the wooden stick; the lines became white bristles. His fingers were sore. How he stirred the primrose perfume! He dragged and tugged and dared the mountain stream to flow, Crying to listen for all who listened not. And like a hero in his chamber, O my mother, Clothed in white, he lay with his blue cap on, listening. His strong breath made my cheeks burn. Mother, who sees her son Tearing the shrub, cutting the osier, as in rage, And you are hopeful, you are very hopeful; And all you say is a sweet comfort. The birch is a shining, smiling thing When it shoots along the April air; Its slender trunk, tipped with wide, soft bells, Throbs with the beat of summer's rivers; And who could be content, Where waves the birch in joyous play, If in its heart no echo died Of the things he had done for me? The first autumn where the beech-tree was bare I went to see the great man's old home; The broad road a waste of wet gray gray grass! In his high porch the thatch was dry and yellow. I stooped, and found him at his worser work in the world. I lay upon the straw Beside the porch entrance cold and wet. A winter wind blew gray upon me; And his face with tears was wet before. "The sun with his rays, my mother dear, Where is his welcome warmth now? Are his gay greetings all forgot, That used to comfort me Each spring, when summer turned to us The world's wide gate? The tree and me have grown so gray We cannot talk to find him there; And I oft wish when white is here, When blue are clouds in heaven, My father's face, my mother's face, Were growing again for me, Where you two may greet me. When you are smiling, mother, I think then, I shall be glad." His sorrow knew no colour of shame, But like the sharpened blade of a knife, Blinded with his eyes. "Is there none On whom some public grief impends, Some secret sin, some blot of the earth, That guards him, shields him from me? Ah, yes, my mother! There is one now. Who meets me half way, strong with grief; She looks as if the sudden green That crowns the bilberry, smells of her. She seems to favour my return, Although her eyes are dim with the rain, And the wet road runs near her side. She hopes I may this time take more At her poor hands; but how it ebbs, runs She does not know, nor I her know. While now I thought I had no home Because of all these; but now I know. And now I bear a secret load Of both her grief and my own." "I thought I had found a friend, but you Have shown the way that leads to despair, And changed my life, mother!" He looked upon her, with a swift, sharp stare. "Since you left me, dreadful waves run low Along this road that I travel dim and slow With only half an arm and a limp, With only part love for the creature Whose love for me was greater than need was. I swept from home a dozen times And was driven about by dogs and made to brag That I would leave her; now when she is well I visit her, veiled in silence, pale. And I weep, and the tears that tear my eyes Fall forever; and my face as I sit Becomes more withered and lined with lines. The grave-vine with its hawsmen on the hills Blows cryptic quotes at my grievance; And I weep; and my body that sat bright With life before, seems shadowed with white." There was no sound but rain and water falling Below in a house of grey stone; Only her weeping ears that heard The wind like one too wakened by the storm Couched on a pillar in a cloud of dew, Or moaning in the air. "It is his voice I hear," she said, And the words died on her lips. And once, as she bent down the ivied doorway To clean some pearly door, A ragged voice spoke to her from the darkness, And a hand passed into the gloom. "Come," it said, "beside the weeping olive, By the hearth in the burning sun, You and I will play a game of Cards." Her head was bowed and her long lashes curled, As she crossed the sun-scorched pavement; Her dark hair hung down like black flies; She drew the curtains from the window; She sat and awaited his coming. With rigid white face and eyes aglow He entered with womanly grace; And she heard no voice, no foot-fall, No whispering of the corridor. In the bright sunshine, on the great bronze hearth, They played for hours the pleasant game of Cards. With a pack of cards he opened his fist, And at the sacred anteernose Smote his rival (he who had but his pride) In the centre of the forehead, right on the bridge of the nose, And he held the card, blind as a child's; While she, who thought to strike him back, Just as foolish in the matter, Striking the brute with brute strength, Wounded the Card of Love, And so the game ended and the play ceased. He did not speak; he did not move; And she waited; and she heard not The long lamentation of the vanquished Till she heard the clock strike one. Then her spirit seemed to ascend And glance, with streaming eyes, Over the sash, the floor, the walls; And she saw his wretched form With the old bitter grace Impatiently propping the chair And the table, demanding, "Why was I defeated? Why must I sit in vain?" Whereat she sighed, and she wept, And her tears fell on his breast Like roses after rain; And his wounded pride did thee requite With poignant ache of shame; And her envious eyes burned hot, Seeing thou would'st not help The wretched lover. "Yes, the tears I wept were tears of remorse For other loves I made; And I know them not;--but I know That I loved thee with a love true and deep, Nor ever hoped to tire Thy pardon with the past; Nor deem'd to reprieve thee an endeavour That might move thee ever. "And this is mine reward!" He spoke; then, with bright eyes lit wide, Dishevelled, and in prison garb, He left the room; And through the hall the tinkling lock was turned, And the door crashed after him, And the threshold tiles were blue with rain, And the curtain warm with gold. Away from the sobbing balcony, He rode, a heart at ease; He seemed to ride for a great reward That should overflow all bounds; So he leapt seaward, bearing on his arm The besieged Nymph, And, through a dense fog, Through a heaven of bright September days, He rode, and stayed beneath the tower That overlooks the harbour. Far, far below him lay the dark bay, And the white sands stretched out at distance To his heart's desire; For the Nereids kept their own amid the waves On the little isle of Santorine; But the Love-god forgot all wonder and awe, And he never once thought of jealousies. He only thought of Olympus and its towers, And the golden cattle he should Lancelot take, And the shaking of the silken harness. So the long, bright summer day went by, And the white sails trimmed on both hands, Till the grey twilight veiled the heaven; And the air grew still and sweet, and still Through the wing-haven of the air, With the sound of an echoing sea That the Spirit of the Ocean bore, Till it fell upon his weary soul, And his body that he longed for yearned in him, And his lips that he kissed oft, Like a dead man on the shore. And he knew not that he lay for aye In the cold place of the ship, And gazing upward on sea and sky Till he heard their feet, He only saw his love's darkening track, And her white limbs moving slow With the feet' tread. And the farther he went from her side, With a touch on his hand, Towards the last stages of the voyage, He heeded not her feet, As the ship with hoarse echoing nighs, And a cloud in the heart, Swept into port side for a haulslip; But he heeded not the distant footsteps. The tempest was o'er, the violence of wind From the sea and night was o'er, <|endoftext|> “And saddest tears together shed; “A votive offering to the skies. “Now, while the tears flow freely o'er, “Our task we'll to the sacrifice demand; “Mark, before we proceed to act, “What tree on earth best becomes the rite. Proud boasting plants with golden rays, And resplendent tufts luxuriant spread; And the bright progeny of glittering light From the earth glides gently down in silvery streams. Beneath the blooming bowers of Syria's vales On hollow columns planted round the stream In flowing robes is dressed the fragrant grain, So may it ne'er become the wasteful weed Compelling tears, when we our sacrifices demand. The copious stream supplied its place, And in a deep and flowery cask The sacred wine and costly incense, placed On stately gods to rank the cup, While the yellow corn, arrayed in waves Of folds descending from the crop below, Through the sweet moist earth in waving masses flow. When thus the holy rites are done, And duly poured the mystic wine; While the corn and various flowers around In attars of gold and attar-oil spread, Or by the harvest-seekers are borne away. The corn in polished throngs was led From the full piles to be pressed and waxed: Now moulded into gentle thrones they lie By swift Semiramis: now in rows The thorned acanthus and the rosy laurel shine. When they their gentle work had done, In matrons of jet and purple drest A meal of golden corn was stored; A seventh of honey, milk, and brown grain, A salad of the summer's flow'rs The stream receiveth at her transparent bourn, Which when the lambs suck from the tented meads, And clung with greedy tongues the gummy quills; Thus, with the mystic feast prepar'd, away Their busy minds were toss'd in lusty play. The round-tae'en flow'r is from the caldron horded; The plated feast is on the tables laid; The melting fount is opened wide, And the limpid stream is drank from silver pitchers yclept. Not long the sable god conducts His winged lanes along the courser's feet, When, springing to the ground, he greets The startled farmer's side: With drink of lovers' delight and mirth, A play is made, with appetites to cheer, And peace and joy attend the festive board. But eager now the tardy hunters tire, And sitiate with the food before 'they' arrive; Thus delay'd the fate of all who would attain, Except the shepherd Tobias. Already high above the heads of those In mazy fog he stood: the mists above his head Here rent with rising torrents as they blew, There contracted and dripp'd in sheets a silver lake. When from the bubbling fount his eager eyes Rose aloft, his mouth was wetted in the flood; Yet was his courage so intrepid, he bear'd on, With trembling hands, the delicate stream to draw: The more he drew, the more he felt the slippery side, And Tobias turn'd to look, as soon as he could, For Noah's three-day flood; but the expanded surface Surcharged so high, that in its whole extent 'Tis but whose banks, and soon with damps is wet. Fain would he glance aloft: above his head Flies the vast vessel, whose billows now surround: Loud groan'd the waves beneath him, thick and loud, Till in a huge expanse of watery foam 'Twas seen, that even the skies were not secure, Much like a brine only, broken up, and torn. Here Tobias sit: he gave an oar, and strove With all his strength to move the bedded keel; No rascal boat, it seems, that ever flew Along the course before him, could his boat compare With this: no shallop high as the nest will bear, (Or little bird that sings so loud and so clear) He on the sea-beach thus triumphed, as he sat, And breatheth out joy, for safe into the prospect brought. Right to the spot where dwell the wilful spirits, Who turn themselves from men, and shun the world, Tobias removed; who, when they see a thirst For death, and a sore trial of their strength, Are here at once to put themselves in heart at ease; And take their final rest, wherein they brighten still Throughout eternity. Wheresoever one dies, If a holy priest or sage ere meanwhile hath fled With faith to heaven, they of advantage shall gain, Since an angel's sin doth of delights exempt. Now was the day departing, and the wind Droop'd with low mournfulness; all to change Which the preceding day, since he had brought His wretched wife across the waters of the sea, With horrid iris tarnished, and her hair With pearls, which her sweet hands had garlanded, She had been harshly led away: nought had changed, Save in her countenance, that now was sad And a strange shadow centred in her eyes. But Tobias' wife still on her husband gazed, And in these looks, weavers of good and ill, The momently same a shadow played. But unto Tobias' wife the Lord did give The continuance of her sad and musing mind, And to her a promise that, so long as she Lived and brought up her young children, neither death, Nor little ones' sorrow should break their peace; And that, at time of need, she should be pure As the byky material of her life, which, though By foul temptation thrice repulsed, yet would Allegiance still give, and so abide: Till at the last, when her laughing children were Born, she in them should absolute dominion Commit unto an unebusory hand: Then she shall know what 'tis to live so long As a fair, loved, prosperous house is ruin'd; When the ribs receive a stain, and the walls Are crumbling, yet the roof lasts; when the board Bursts into ingles, and the sheep cowers low, Crimson with the causes of her own worry. Yet while thus she the present day endureth Misfortunes, she will also hold a penance For past follies, which her patience shall convey Unto her babies, lull'd in peace and love, And the eternal sanctities of home, And passing joys, which shall her sufferings make Qualminous with odours, which the peaceful spirit, Sighing, shall roll into their breathing souls. Lo! while I tell the tale, the sun hath put Into Edition's dignified and reverent breast Himself the manuscript of the day's task, Whence should come forth a fountainhead of song, As deep and pure as ancient Acheron; And the firmament again is very clearly Duly and nightly built upon; doth prove My creed entirely valid, nor threaten A failure, ere 2039. But to thee, Known to me by these two favors, I dedicate Thee altogether, little child, for thee Is the fervor, the good intent, and the time Of my writing, and I am now and have been Oblivion. Lo! there am I, this eve Of all days the most bewitching and the brightest. True, the dead have no love to live beholding Their composite forms with searching clouds, which do Diffuse their radiance death alone can see: But thou hast richly thine own soul to behold, And shalt thereafter of thy lustiest passion In thy own time receive the sweetest reward. What opinion of mine will I display, What law of logic will now permit me, What sentiment of heart permit my writing, To compass this purpose of my banishment? And first, what I have really written, Which was a fault in me and shameful in myself, I'll confess, that the moon may think its nature Hath much in common with mine. Who then will say That the moon should not have power over us still? Let him not then suspect that his love Usurps my affection; for such suspicion My peace is therefore an obstacle to loving. Love's method is inspiration; therefore He first discovers the passion in the heart Which inspires him, then through that discovers The impulse that instills him; hence their bond Is then beholden loved one to another: I of Lydia first discovered that ecstasy Which was my passion, and which henceforth was Inborne in me and could not be banished. To Lydia, my soul's beloved daughter! A longing, a longing and a love Emerge, which even from thee can reach me; <|endoftext|> Self-bonded to the trap which holds it; He opens for a moment, flashes Doubt upon the good which springs therefrom, Then quietly closes again. He offers comfort in a word,-- Touches the sore with touch of human kindness, Strikes the groan with human compassion, And turns it to a blessing. Well! Thou, God, hast guessed the deeper And more spiritual harmonies In the human pulse, which vibrate To the note of hope, yet fear and sorrow; The music which is born of trust, The harmony of the seven notes Which make up, with the seven chords, The symphony of Life. How far beneath me seem all things To cry in grief here, "Fie on you, Ye early vintages!" I view the pale blooms of autumn Within the arid gardens With no soft feeling, but a sharp Uncomprehending anger born Of simple dearth. Within the lonely ruined garden I gaze upon old purple marbles With no memory, save, perhaps, Of other gardens full of song, Other gardens full of color. I watch the purple scarlet grape And think: It was for such a flower In these waste gardens, only at eve Came here the little song-birds fluting, Only day-time drabness ever was. Lo! yonder cluster foreign to this place Comes with a swart and wintry cluster; And with it comes a strange unfamiliar Auroral beauty, fitly called "Calm Day."--A cluster of pale matched flowers, With mingling fragrance blending, here they stand Together, ever thus ever here. Never in all my weary wandering Could I find a garden fair to see, A little garden fit for me. The dusty road winds for a great way Across a desert of sand and stone, And the bright flowers of Arcady To me have never nursed a hope. But for this cluster of unknown flowers, The swart Day must feel quite at home; And in his day-time dreams at noon He might perhaps discover there A group of high-born lilies fair; A queen among them might he see With golden crown of lilies on; And should he look hard on low, Over the swarth swathed trees, he might Chase the dream some day to be. Often in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light fragrance Of other gardens here which she Of years departed, loves to trace With fretful heart and lonely eyes The garden features of her soul. But from the outward porch I cried, In childish innocence believing That there should one day stand a house Which long far off had in it stood. I called to them and did not know That the house was not for me; And I did not weep when they took it For the broken dream to ruin. The house is made,--not as I thought The house was made, long since when. It holds no leaf of leafy tree In winding beautiful wreath; Nor stone of weighty quarries: And, though with mortar-dust I sift The very streets began To slink and shiver into one-- I shall not see it--let it stand Where crumbling steeples run and fade, And one stage lopes into the next In so strange a race it seems to me I shall not see it--let it stand. This fumbling craft, this fumbling craft, This fumbling craft, we carry on, A ship of blind men wafted here, A ship of blind men wafted there; And through the darkness drenched with pensive rain We keep our whirring course to windward. And we shall see the dying sun flare red, And see the gates of morning swing; And through the sinking twilight grayly grey We shall have good to eat and to drink. Here one's begun a story of his home, There one's but just begun a new one: And they both want a well-made present, And neither may be quite ready. Here one's as preoccupied as before With the day's inadequate managerial, And one's as eager to manage it As--but for forgetting--he had been Just as much a stranger to the day. Now one's young, and full-faced, and full-grown, And youthful looks no longer please, And one is satisfied with youth's greeting, And he is old at tip-top; And one would swear there's no such thing As old or young,--only your eye Played trick with your hearing too, And one has grown into his grave Just when he thought he'd attained it, And one's shamed the bloom he had is wasted In a bad odor full of tears. All styles are right inapplicable To one man, and one man only; One style will fit all men--all men are one, But each is well content to be alone. Here there is but one proper way To conduct one's life, as one can see, And that is to act but oneself. There's a wisdom well-nigh heavenly, colossal In these great gaunt oaks, and I am made The butt of every jesting joke; They point at me and mock and point, but It's really myself I tease. And here I am, a knowing knowing thing, A morbid knowing thing, And each man who passes knows That I am the ugliest tree in all the wood, Yet they all pass on, and I have to bear it. When these two lovers met, There was no longer any place In the world where I should never go; For I vowed in that meeting That I would remain forever. They lied, of course; they knew I meant it, For I often made a special study To see that their expression Never amounted to anything. They knew that I meant it; but so deep Intent upon the impression they had made That they could not see that their own faces Were distorted beyond all suppressing To such an extent that they themselves Were entirely lost in it; and so they passed Into eternity. I think I see thee again. It is so simple, and yet it is so beautiful; And I feel so Heaven-sweet (For I do not care to speak a word of sorrow, So you can trust that I am happy, do you?); It is so future, future, future; I can see that this is the last time That we shall ever meet; I can see that this is the last time That we shall ever meet; And I feel that I shall not care If it should ever be no more Me whom thou holdest in thy arms to-day; For in truth I do not think that it can be, And if it cannot be to-morrow, never Shall it be any day hereafter, For I do not think that it can be; It can never be that thou shalt disdain Me whom thou holdest in thy arms to-day. They say the day is sweet, The air is sweet,-- The very birds sing sweet; And yet I'd like to go And hide me away From the sunshine and the heat; For it's very dreary To think of coming hours-- To think of coming hours. I'm drowsy and sleepy, And the dun skies above me, And the silence that fills the night, And the flowers that are fading, And the morning that is nigh; And I wish that thou wert nigh, That thou wert nigh. I'm drowsy and sleepy, And the dun skies above me, And the silence that fills the night, And the flowers that are fading, And the morning that is nigh; But I wish that thou wert nigh To sit beside me, near, And tell me of thy love, and grow Thy love, and be thy love. A little naked foot has gone, (When I have told my prayer), And the blood of all the past is dead, (When I have kept my vow). There is not a tone in all the wailing Of the whippoorwill that mars me, That, when I sleep, is soonest awake; There is not a bird that sings A dream in every bush on Earth Is dearer than my Mary. She loves the hours of twenty, When lightnings are most near; And the heart that she has mourned Is true and tender yet. I would not change thee now, For all the flowers that grow, For their sweetest ear,-- For thine own soul,--for that of man Which dies with the morning. I would not change thee now For all the trees that grow, For their loudest bark and best, For their long-renowned music,-- For a lady's lock of golden hair, That grows on a crown; <|endoftext|> O my love, thy sad eyes be calm, Thy mirth, thy sorrow, stay! She is no sharer of thy pain, She cannot ever be; Then fold her arms across her breast, Let her head droop to one side, And shut her lips to thine own, And pass before the dawning day. The stars hang high and fair Above her in the sky, Her spirit holds its flight Into an endless sky. In the darkness there below The sleepy snail goes by And dreams of his loved terrace And the palaces of pride Where his loved women wait. Sleep on, soft sleeping, Fair garden of the moon! See, I stoop low to thee, Fold thy green leaves round me, And let me, I, encircled So, hide from the wind The cold breast that I bear. No more, no more, My lonely heart's suffocating air, Mourn to see the pale dead leaves descend, My arms loosely lying Upon thy bosom, thou lovely pile, Till Autumn's shining golden leaves descend, And Winter's harsh, barren snows devour, Till I, too, pass from view. No more, no more! The woodlands burst at my footsteps' hearing, In hush they lie. The pines which heard me were not moved, Snow, the horrible blustering of, Crashes in thine eternal snow. No more, no more! Even in noonday gleaming The lotus faeries dance, They know me not, they but seem To float in silence, lightly light, In some twinkling star-bright eves Borne on a airy stream. I have drunk up the moon To the dregs, I have drunk up The sweet June rain. The buds, the leaves, In my warm palm are yellowing, Faint be the leaves a-withering. Now, I have drunk up The south wind's salt, sweet glee, Fain would I sip it again. Oh, I have drunk up The white stars' white, silk-spinning hour, Fain would I lay it all away! High were the mountains, and the valleys deep, And the sun and I were never changed be- cause of her beauty, so her eyes were- light as sunflowers' feet. She gave me store of food for ravening And never yet hath starved to terrors sick. In any wise that she might clasp me here My spirit would long since be there, be gone from its myriad rioting And slumber be mine. But as it is, I shall sing a lay no more. Now that the moon From our cold world is fled, Lit up in loveliness, and the snows Of autumn all dusked and dun As in some Spanish city where There is naught but palm trees, there are none But fishermen, upon the shore Of Lake Titicaca, From whose pebbly shore a hungry dream Of home so dreadfully daunts men. You have said that "I have lost the moon," So why not say that I have found her? But, O my moon, why must you be A darkness, and not a full-faced light The way that day makes you, moon-chosen, There where you used to be? Not a change of weather, yet a change Of temperature? You were a full moon then, Dark in the middle, grown much less fair Because of all that's passed in that tide Of nebulous white from where you were Clouded and shapeless, but now grown much less Even as bleak moon of the middle region That had gone far out of your ken. You had gone out, no doubt, and the further out Where all things are beyond your ken. I too had gone out, no doubt, and the farther out Where all things are before my ken. Now, I have seen the earliest colors, Peaks and plates of snow. The moon had lived her life, white and still, Born of the blusterings of pink clouds, Scattered and blotted by the world, Then by the passing breezes died. A thin light had been round her in some fashion Which simply had to be, And she had had it, from the first, And wore it in her pearl-pale throat The way a real girl has worn it Since the days of the first soft flush. So I can see that when she vanished Some had believed that she was born, But was never, as she was, to be, Because all things have a beginning, And the moon's a solid, not a theoretical, Therefore she had to be born, but she never Was, as she was, to be, For whether clouds would bulk her up or The air would split her to a liquid She never was, as the moon was. Now, I was the first to think That it was a body they found, Feeased upon some adventure; And they persuaded me, though They couldn't show me the thing They called the "moon-bug." I fawned and I worshipped and swore I would have it if they would Bring me more of them, and then I got a dozen, and sold The rest to buy more. A dozen of them I brought And twenty-four others too. I sold them, one by one, Till I had made a fortune. And my prize, the world's first-- She disappeared in her round And was never seen again. Now, I have no desire To tell you what becomes Of lots of these vacuous moons. The only fact I'm prepared to Confess to is that they Do not dobb around their hearts As bodies should, but grieve, Rigid and sorrowful, about The moon-bugs they were born to And all the world in them. Tulip, Tulip is an idyll, Sitting in the cupboard and drawing Noalles, putting away Himself and her shoes when She wants to be quiet. And when she wants to read She takes a book and looks A moment at it. Her fair tulip-top that grew On her father's side of the family, Which was Dutch, but since she had Next to none ties of religion It grew more and more Into the Catholic thing, Yet with an old Dutch father, And a mother to break Down things that were old. And it wasn't long Before the tomb of Tom was found Upon her wealthy client's plot, Whose rich head was cut, as all Our fathers' were, at the stake And shed and scattered by the hands Of fortune, and a book Was written in his praise, A history of all the wrongs Betwixt man and nature, And a hint for all of what's wrong Betwixt man and money That ever, till this day, can be. Now on this point I must tell you Tulip was not always A prim and proper, well-conducted And fairly profitable woman, But that's common enough. She was, as I said, the first, And she was in her time, the worst, But there were other women like her, As I have known in kings' courts And courtly dinners, And the like of that. But in all ages they Have done harm by comparison Of man with man. I often talk about this With women and men and children Whom I see on any farm Or street, so it's not a new Discoverence in me. But I tell them this: That in the state of New England It's natural as not to have Great numbers of feminine Wise women and feminine Wicked women, but no, There are as few as you please, That's as I've said. And to make out a good case Against the whole sex You have only to see The whole sex as a body And a soul, and take away The foolish things from it, The thoughts, and the hopes, and all The vicious habits and pranks The poor body gets into Because it doesn't choose them. Take away the body's weapon The soul's refuge, still the body Has the foolish habits of Hades And soul of that. But by now They're so rife through our land, They're so numerous, so numerous That I'm sure we are waiting For another Hecate to come And wipe away the nonsense That haunts our land. I say, take away The foolishness, that is so plentiful in our land, As a result of which The whole sex has fallen to be Such a vicious hive of bees, The body and the soul, Whose bees, as you know, Depend on Antwerpse and Desart, Both of them in their way pitiful, Desart I mean. But to talk of our suffering friends, <|endoftext|> Winds and waves and noon and midnight skies Behold my Spirit thro' the sleeping spring: Thou, Love, Lord of lords, lead on, and wake The dreaming flowers, and rouse the sleeping woods. Unloth, uncounted Light on Nature lay, Like His, who came the mirrour of the world, As from unfathomable worlds below Looked countenance with loving wonder on The creature-comparison in his image there: O Phenix fair of all colors flaming, What draw'st thou on the Desire to spend itself (Now mated with the Passion) in thy creature's blood? O, if a mortal Vessel like my Soul (Not rose-wreathed and not amorous of thine, Frail phantasy!) could dream or hope for ease From tarrying fair in thy sterile deck, For that I would enfold thee closer still In those enwoven wands of violet shells Which fair Leda, Queen of the clear serener seas, Might float in to thy kingdom when she had woven Her white curtain, and no more her highborn son, But swift Ochonious Cincifera fair, With winged foot was on the wings of time To bear thee to some Eden in the seas: O if I might entreat thee, lead thee thence, And place thee at thy lovers' side, and there More closely clasp thee, as if death had never come-- Dost thou not mark how I would kiss thy mouth, And touch thee with my blood, and make my passion look Clear in thy eyes, and say: Sleep not, sweetest Phyllis, but like to these Kiss thou not wake, nor smile, nor sigh, but see How I can love, and live, and be thy peer Among these happy lovers of the light. And as these kings and lords of sight have loved, And even the strong desire of all the wide Glowing creature-wisdom, which as it flows, Blends with your life and mine, and plants that sight More in my blood, that whoso drinks shall thirst, And whoever has taste, shall fainting lie. And so, if ever these lord eyes shall see Your face, and noble neck in maiden air, With softened breath, and love, and soft caressing, Cease they the idle breath that from their veins Leaps like the weak light dream through the old net, That ever more tight binds them to this sad And mortal bower, and ever more we prize The light of life in languid eyes, and pale And snowy neck, unalter'd for aye. O beauty wan and wimpled in the snow, Like a strong man's when he takes a mighty ill, Or one that strives in vain to meet an hour Of vict'ry, and is beat and loosed again: So beautiful and loveliness, which breaks As sun-shine into fragments and lies lost: So fair and fickle and so weak and fleeting! So fair and lose! And did you ask me would I rather dwell In these flitting shadows, and be lost In a poor city of the lowly deep, With light on every house and yard below; Or were I set on a rising world, Where none would care for my parting flesh or me, Where flesh and blood are nought, and city-robbers Do grow as rich as kings on earth who haven't: I'd rather dwell forever where the spring Blossoms profusely, and spreads profusely Flowers over almost the whole earth's surface, But I would not, I could not, I could not think The shame of man, the mockery of his state Were greater than the glory of the spring. All men would say, in that rich world which now And then, in the swift, blind passage of time, Flows to the firm-ethered future, "Lo, There the flesh of life, that's fairest when its flowing, Flows to be withered on a dry, windy plain, And never a heart there glows with a loving sigh, Where the scorching sun, that knows not to relent, With a blind all-consuming passion leans To catch the light that would shine on his hate." But I--I would not have it so. I know I should be loth as anyone Who loves and has been loved in youth to grow As men grow as their elders. Yet I know, That, after many days had wound away, And I had chanced to look back and behold Once again, as a boy, what delightful it Is to fly, and feel myself lighter than a feather, And play with hope, and with belief to sing, And with heaven's love to breathe my earnest soul, And over each day write, "All the world grows old, And every heart grows weary of the world." But instead of being a shepherd boy, I should have been one of the common crew, Bearing the pang of everyday care, The ache of want, and the fever's heat, And all the wrong and loss that men experience On the road their freightage barks. And I would have known How the real hunger, which lures us thus, Begins in the brain and reaches its lair Before we are awake, in the shroud and chill Of the night wind and sleet and the untimely snow. I would have known, were I lying in my grave, How the little cries of hunger in our life Aremade, as part of the dole that we must earn With our life, and the burden it will be our share Unto our dust, till the morrow cry aloud, "There's bread on the slab, but the men at the mill Are getting too bold and leaving their pay To spoil with exuberant merriment the slab." I would have known, in the roaring noon sun glare, How a thousand restless thoughts swarm like wasps Through the bosom and weave webs beneath the surface Of an evil day's messenge, until the Day Which comes about our youth, its sentinel, Hurries us aside, like the Night's invisible flock Into the Shadowland, from whose boughs No birds sing, and no wild beasts delve. All the night-long fires the heaped hearth stones blaze, And the youth slumbered at the foot of the hearth, Where he had set his cloak, to keep the damp rain And the wind from his naked limbs below. But all the night the fire burned the youth's limbs, And his limbs alone. And when stars began to flower, and noon came Out of the wooded darkness, and the shadow Of the day-god in the dell drew nearer, His limbs began to fail; And a subtle pain Drifted over all his frame, which drove him on Unto the open air, Into the sacred sunlight. And the son of Atreus awoke, and knew That his father and his people's father Had not survived his journey home. He grew thin, and his locks turned gray, And his limbs lethargicallytired for effort Grew slack. And the young men who had worshipped him Fell out of him, one by one, as the leaves Fall from a tree in the long evening-glow Upon a wintry day, when the winds fail And the winds watch. And the maidens cast for him no looks And the Gods did not enquire. Then a murmur rose among the horses, And the slumbering sentinels woke not, But all eyes were bent upon the King, And the lips that should have been moving were silent, For who should stand in the gate but he. But his face had not yet lost its wistful Tone of wild eagerness. Then he looked out at the distance Where sun and shadow seemed to meet Over the woods and fields and watercourses, And cried, "Why do the fowls dare me thus, When there is no god in Ithaca, And surely no other man is yet on The face of the earth?" And as he spake his eyes fell on the sand, And the head of the dead man was nodding In the simoom. And rising to his feet With a wild, angry cry, he smote out with his hand, On the smooth beach where the sea-polls hung, With the flat of his hand, With impotent rage, The mighty head off like a mote; And the great wheels of the deep-sea wheels Resounded, As the head rolled over and over again, And the other's body was rocking to and fro, Like a boat that is shaken in a stormy night With a mast and a rudder gone astray. But his great strength was now failing him, And a feebleness set over him, That he by the waves and the sand was now stranded. And the Gods looked on helplessly as he lay, Lying by the quays, <|endoftext|> The evening's keenest light, The old drum seems to begin The cawing of the dove, As through the wood the call Falls like a falcon's cry. A swaying, shadowy form came near, Before the opening door; A shape of perplexing air, Not one of earth, nor heaven, nor hell; An air so perfect, it Seemed a Shade for my mist-bound dream. A bow hung by its side, and rang, Its silver-shafted flames aflame; On dusky feathers lay, apart, Cool-gathering petals of dawn, Blowing with the faint wind's breath; Whereby drowsily Float the lulling sounds that come In waves to foam and beat about my brain. A bird, now surely that, of which the moon Sits high in heaven, brooding o'er the few Invisible islands of low light Which lie between the night and her, Both like the waves of waking dreams In a bright sea of sleep, and cold: Another moon it seems to be, Yet of a different colour; and to be Yellow as a sunset-cloud, Whose beaten smoke breaks in slow smoke, While every leaf, or verdure, or gem That moves in that sweet dream is stirred or quailed. O mermaid's, lovely, long-lit eyes! Flashes of wonder from my dream! Gleam of love where the void is one with me! This grows wild as the crystal firefly's spark; Yet still its nameless secret burns Under the form that limits it--as mine Shines through the wave that divides it, and flits, Sudden, with startled splendour from the sea, Under the form that bounds and fails, and glows With glittering currents, gleams of sweet desire. What mean those fine edges, those misty lights And shadowy rays that, playing about, Make a glow like waifs in a ditch? What mean those glints of odd colors, fine As when through trout-rut water-bright stones A strayed cow dips and turns and shakes? No dewdrops on the water lend Their tear-reddened cheeks or damp glisten; Dull, flat, and smooth the wave looks, and slow Rises with insipid, flat, and dull, The clouds hang over the wide down, And yet it has no low drowsiness; No nameless shadows ride it down; For if there were, some day, low drowsiness, The sky would never hang so big, Nor slope so strangely up and get Such dreary bridges from the grass. The black and wrinkled shadows That creep along the grass are cold. And if the sky should hump up and hang Over the whole little valley, The river would have stones to build its bridge And the clump of willows would have grass Where eels and snakes might grow in them And horses run in them, And the river-cliffs would be turf Where cranes and owls and bats would roost. The little twilight valley Would have a solemn air about it As if the stars were straying from above To watch the pump that feeds the pond; As if the moon were shining through The mist that comes when the stars pass by. And so the twilight murmurs, "Do stars with the moon wax and wane, And if the pump that feeds the pond Runs out of work, then my lord, The pump will empty out of reason, And horses will have brown water, And the trees will have moss, And the prairie will have moonlight, And no green firefly Would stir for a thousand years. Now what is in the ditch? There is no ditch; a stone wall; And far away, in a wilderness Where stars swim and smoke drifts in the wind, No distant stair where ghosts go by. But what is written in the book of the sky Will keep my horses from being sad Until they see a sunset-glow, Till my horses be wearied of being sad And steeple-high, house-walls that burn, Where dreams go by, And star-swarms burn; And grand high bridges where dreams go by, Like me, And trees with calm light on them Dance o'er the glittering water. And if my lord should find the words to sing To me the music of the prairie And the broad-swirling sky-dome, If my lord should bind the air with words And make me dance the Molloya To the words of the broad prairie song, Then I should hear them whisper, speaking, "Little did she know, little did she know, When the tall grass bent beneath her tread, That she was treading the prairie!" I wish I were a little feather, Where wind and storm may creep and blow, Little feather, that you may know All the secrets of the land! Little feather, my friend, What, tucked away in closets, What, hid beneath dirty diapers, Sleeps you to dream the secrets of the land! The Red Horse is gentle, But with the Star where his mane As the winter-hour appears, In his right hand he is shaking. He is wild and wont to cry At the twilight's last whisper, But now with the deep crimson stain Of the brave fight-light his eye doth burn. The Red Horse is keen to march, By the light that his stride doth mark, To the ring where the fight is joined, With the blazing spear and his lance; To the charge and the field-call goes he, But to lose him, like to a lover, Is a sorrow deep to the quick. Oh! that I were some feather, Far from the chilling of the wind, Under the prairie skies serene, Fluttering away with the storm's breath! Little feather, my friend, If I were some feather, Then away with you! In the twilight by a roaring river The Crow sits in the sunshine, He shakes his cobwebbed wings in the river, He pecks its beetle-breasted heads. He sits by the rim of the rushing river He lets the current sweep him o'er, For he loves the roaring river, For it is a living thing to him. In his ribs are the marrow-bones Of the eastern crane, On which his little feet have lighted When they touch the red fire-plumes. His wings are the skeleton wings of the crane He carries on his always open eyes. As he pecks at the beetle heads With his long, sharp beak, He talks of the winter ere it be, Of the time of the long, long ago; Of the time of the long, long ago; And the day that is distant to us As the distance of the sun-starts of the morn. Ah! what is that which gives beauty to life? In the morning, in the morning, In the morning of many days, I rise and run With a little sheet of paper in my hand. With a little sheet of paper in my hand I track the slow feet of the sun. On the far horizon as I run, A ring of fire, From the East a ring of fire, And as I run On and on My brow burns like a keep In a keep in a keepy place. My route is a road Where there are king-wonds gone by; The flames burn Tall as shadows on the hill. Through the East they sweep, And then back again, As they sweep on the way. So high overhead Are they that it seems The fold of the red sea-fleece They drop from the sky, To fall and never wash the sand. But as to-night I come Even the shadow of these flames Is bright enough to make My pathway with safety free. And so, I run, And run, To keep the tongues from dumbing, The songs from dying. For my path is a road Where the footprints of dragons pass In the mists of the dawning, And as I come, Before me all red-purple The prints Are burnt in the sunlight. They are never still; So far I hear them howling; But through the smoke they mean To stand and speak with me. They are ever leaping, They are ever jumping, They hold the sunlight In the gaps of their hoofs. They wait with me till the last moon Troubles the bottom of the sea, And they dream together of the time When the gods made great men of them, Made their blood brothers to sire and son. They know that no gods there are But sires and sons; And so they stand with me in the blaze Of the sunlight. When the sea is still, And the winds are still, <|endoftext|> Colder it grew; but when the dew Fell on the leaves, we left them to the morn, While down the mountain we went, a loud report We hurried fast away; the flowers which died Were trampled and buried in the desert sand, And it was all for nothing; the alarms Of our pursuers grew fainter and less clear, And they were starting home, when the sun was brown, And in my heart I wept bitterly 'I shall be lost,' I said, 'without even daring to cry, 'I shall not see that beautiful sunset bright; 'For if the yoke return, I shall be dead;' And if I lost the water-spouts and springs, I said, 'It were ill to lose the beautiful.' Oh, you that love me, pray listen to my vow! And if it falls upon a night of rain, Let me have rain ere we part! and let it fall On a night when none are nigh to mock My pain and trouble with their gladness; But let the night pass jolly, and still let me That you, for all your love, will listen, If I come not early, or come late, Know that my carriage shall be ready, If you are slow; and I have gloves, so soft, And there shall be a groom with a warm heart, And some stout arms, for a little money, And a whip, a ten-pounder, with a silver band, And a horse that shall bear me off content, Or even from the wildering city itself. You shall see a man, as you have never seen, In armor shining like the sun; You shall see a beast that shall bear me home Into a pretty big town. You shall see the pretty people throng In the ways, as you gallop by; And you shall see a long procession Of pretty ladies waving their hands; And some shall be nymphs of quality, Or lovely maids, in chattering rings. You shall see the proudest shows of crimson, And glitter and shine, And hats shall be lift with pleasant airs, And women's eyes shall be tittering merrily, The while they see my carriage gleaming Along the shining avenues. And I shall have a pretty good rattle That shall pat some clever cat, And I shall teach the town to titter too, At the sight of your ruffles and toilettes, At the sight of your stocking out hats, And on the point of your little stockings. I the happy bloke for the girlie, I the chap with the pretty duds; For I shall see it all, and it shall jibe Nicely, kindly, in the midst, And as the mistress of each scene, At the bow of the picture I, And the blushing hens shall quiver. Oh, come to the dool and the club, And heave up your hanky and feet, The country places are free to all, For the Yorkshire' inns they are shut; The Country clubs, well, they're only fun, For the men are only sent To come and sip in the refreshing beer, The saloon beer for the giddy. The ground is always bad to walk in, From the shady to the sandy, And it's good to lie in the shade Or sleep underneath a stone; And it's better still, by a jenny, To pass the lazy river. The cot in the barn-yard is where The man might sit and write essays; And the men's room is where The maid might wash her face and hair, And 'would stand to scrub or skirt;' But the club-seat's where The blokes are always seen, 'Hi! the first they'd come on a Saturday, To meet the mob, and fight the floozie. They gambol there, and drink deep, On a Saturday night, And then they head to the dance-hall, As blokes as should be seen; And the pay's bad and the beer's scant, And the 'juice's thin and watery, But they've never a care But to get home and broogie. And they head for the hall, the same as you, And carouse till they can't stand, And the women they skewer them there, Or the gals they smirk at 'em. So you see it's a crime, they say, If a bloke can't get together On a Saturday night, To meet the mob and fight the floozie. The Junior Brig went out to the war, Across the mid-seaghty and wide; The brig got two longboats to ferry Her whence hode-home was safe and sound. So when the darlings of the land Came safe and sound and clear, We gave 'em each a red-cockade And a little flag that said Green. And when the land-dolls came to view, Then Brig of the sea, they said: 'What a beauty! It's a shame The fowls should have the preponderant Preferred to them, of course; For, don't you see, their dress's the thing That's admirable in a style To make the educated man stare.' So the ladies perked them up And made remarks all the same, And they wondered how it came about That all the fowls had learned to tie Silksensel for a behind, And to float in graceful style, And how one silly little duck Could spend all his time and thought On this splendid fashion bombast, And how they'd never learn To do their humble bit better And some thought the fashion very wrong To teach those birds to act this way, And not be fairly balanced. So the gayest of the gay said 'shm, 'Bollocks; why, any woman's quite enough To drive this bustling, buzzin' life: 'The men, when they're in port, shall come To see our fleet, and there shall we Turn up our boats, and talk to 'em, And make them thirsty just by looking.' So that's what stirred the memory in me, Just a little birdy on the wing. Of all the evenings in the year To come to a most awful end, I'm certain the times I've seen Would buy themselves a better name If women had equal sway. I think when I shall finally die, I shall be put to bed and laid there; No nurse, of course, will shine abroad As I have shone in the past, And her voice will be the only sound Along the twilight streets that cry; But she will turn round her face at last And sit all silent, having done With looks at me, and saying, 'He's dead.' My dreams are like a song That one would hear Upon a day like this In a happy corner of the East: 'We are wandering apart, We are wandering apart From the world's shout and the rush of its armies.' My mistress comes one night And stands at the bolt of the door As I come home at daybreak; And her bright arms are full of roses, And they hang down from her like a banner, And they hang down from her like a lamp, And they hang down from her like a bird. My mistress comes one night And holds out to me her hands; And she says, 'My love, why do you stay at home At nightfall hanging down thy arms at rest? Come you with me, my love, to the valley, To the clear rill and the sunny meadow, And we will bathe in the clear rill and we will wade in the sunshine. My mistress comes one night And leads with her eyes the tinge of the rose; And the tinge sticks in my flesh, And the lie of the world's chaps grows heavy; And my mistress comes one night. The song of the birds at night Is sweeter to me Than the song of the night-wind in the corn, The song of the stars at night When they shine through the rain; They are sweeter than all. The world and its men, It is late--ah, I tire-- The world, with its greedy hopes, It is late--ah, I tire; The world is a troublesome thing To be beguiled at night. The nightingale, who sings sweet The song of the summer bowers Is but an hour long; Then comes his crown of roses, The bright dew of the morn, And sets them on his bosom With little blows. Though night were nor here, And day but as the noon, He would sit there and play Upon the lone water-stone With silent ripples; And when the song he had made Of his dear maiden's name He ceased, for he made tally With quick and merry tick. <|endoftext|> But not a minute will I tarry, Long as my God within his hell Doth follow me with very heart, And if at his second death I live, I'll follow him till he vanquish. Gothamist, love is such a gotham show, It's hard to know what to think or do; The men in silk and bone, they say, From 7 to 20, will never meet in bed, So I'll not be coy, I think, And tell you if I'm not dreaming; If I've a woman on my knee, By heavens, I'll have her in hell. When this world began to tilt and sag We made a pact that each would pay the lee, And I would wear a garter up the bum, And he a do on either lip; Now I've come to the sad conclusion This world has drifted to its doom, And we'll tend the acorn and stick to the tree And have a little fun with the whirlwind I've lost my friend, and it isn't sport, No more can be the words I've said, It is with a highborn gentleman He found me--lost me--fought me, day and night; At last with a glorious charge, In a bright crimson coupe, made me his, With a diamond in the bonnet God bless the man who wore that thing, With feathers in each gripe and tip; If ever I've wronged the man who is gone, He took care to make amends; For my frail frame he've left a tiny touch, His lightning scar is on my heel; But though with a clinging vengeance, Catch the flash of his crimson cockade I've thought of his love, I've sung his name, But do not now and I may not soon forget, I'm weary of love and of the joys of that night, When he laughed out the flashing sting of his dame; And the man who laid me on Robin's lip, Was the man who can console me for ever, With the blank of one long look at the day. Say you have gold, say you have gems Set in purple rocks on a floor of marl; You have pomegranates ripened to pleasure Sweet as the kisses that flit between your hands, You have onions, and a stew of them Roasted till they are an aroma like The soft sun filtering through green conifers. Say you have voices that thrill your heart to rapture When you hear their tones crack laughing, And you sit with the stars like a dreamful, giving Eye staring, ear holding mutely, Kisses answered by sweet sounds leaping. Oh, you have had your hour, your golden gazing At the fire-shadows on the moonlit wall; You have felt the sun of passion flushing Over your loved arms, as you murmured, Lingering, trembling with eyes asking for more. Say you have gold, say you have gems, Set in purple rocks on a floor of marl. "I go mad trying to remember," You say. "Sometimes I think I have been, But the thing is a dreadful blur: The smells, the voices, the fingered things, The wonderful aged slenderness; The tangled dances that blossom-fall, The hunting with the father standing." And now the screams; the hungry screams That shake you like a madness of bees, Biting your brains out till you bleed From mouth and brain, until you die, Have you gone mad, have you? But you have! The voice, the body, the green flitting hair Is all your own! You are Robin Pursey! And you will be till you drop dead. Who is this fox, trailing behind A shower of leaves, heavy with rain? How strange to see him there all drizzly, All unloved, all unlabeled, Winding among the oak and the elm, Hatching out horrible nests, One after another, silent and slow, Till out of them the fledglings they spread, Hatching out horrible eggs, And under each nest a fox leaps out, Scattering with little hateful cries Such malice at the hapless hare He makes the little bird swear, Flashing a little golden hair. Little things this done, how small their pride! Tiniest creatures, with tiny counsels, Little thoughts, little deeds, for very pride; They flee to the shelter of their hole, and, Knowing themselves so helpless, think That the great world with all its mist and mire Will soon forget their misery, will give them That little peace they feel, they know not why, And in the end will just let them be. Poor little fox, so small and fine, Scared little hare, afraid of God, How will you ever get out of the wood? How will you hide from Him when He comes And hunts you down and hears you howl? How can you get over the stile? And how will you get out of the lane? No, no, your little hare, that's too fine, Fetch back the grass, and leave the tree! Gentle paws and gentle eyes, Little hands and little feet, Soft and slow, the very best of toys. That's what a hare should have, that's what A fox should have, a little rabbit. Come in, come in, big brother, The rain has stopped, the sun is warm, Here's to you and to all! Here's to you and to all Through wet and through dry, God's no pity, but He's truth, All life is labour, All life is care, The best is but well-cooked, A hare can have, a fox can have. Come in, come in, big brother, O there's sunshine in the air, Here's joy in every eye, Here's joy in every heart, Here's joy for you and for all, Through rain and through wind, God's no pity, but He's truth, All life is hard, All life is care, The best is but well-cooked, O brother, hare, fox, all are best! Come in, come in, big brother, To the shed and the door. The fire's on, the food's in the pot, Here's to you and to all. To you and to all, Through sultry days, through still days, Our Father is good, All life is care, All life is toil, The best is but well-cooked, A hare can have, a fox can have. Oh, that I had a hundred brothers, one At each of the Insight Meditation Centers across the street (As above, below). I would give them all my bleeding eyes, My body that ground to dust, My heart: I would give it all to have them one here. Oh, if I had a hundred brothers, one To kneel with me at my grave, To weep and to sigh, To wail and to mourn. To wail and to mourn, To weep and to sigh, For me, for me. For me, for me, and me, and me. My brother, O my brother, O sweet brother, Turn away to the forest, and away, away, To the far and flowery wood, For the Blessed One is not yet ready, is not ready, For the sacrifice. My dear sacrifice, my fervent flame burning, My fresh young flesh, and my blood. My dearest Khemet, I love you best of all. O my sweet saviour, I know not if I am ready, If I am worthy, if I know it or not. I knew not, till I felt you, when you pressed me, when you held me, Tenderly on your loving breast, Tenderly, tenderly pressed, pressing, I knew not I deserved it. Oh, it is I who am worthy, who pressed, who am worthy, Who deserve it, who deserve it. Brother, the bird has flown, Back to its nest; It has fed and rested, And can do so no more. Brother, the tired courser Stands at the door; He can do no more, he can do no more, He has ridden away to his grave. Brother, forgetful, Tell him he is drowsing, That his fun he has had, his fun he has had. Love and longing, in the singing wood, And in the murmuring stream; Love, longing, as they listened, Heartlong, forever. Love and longing, once so bright, Bent down by Death to earth, In tears they went down the hill, By the water to lay them down. Burning like Kindness, in its box Inside the sun. Burning like Kindness, sending Glory about it, as it goes. Over the thorns, in purple flowers, <|endoftext|> Cutely crouching down on all fours and mounting on Those funny small legs of hers, I caught sight of her Kneeling down beside me on the dirty ground, The clouds about her shining almost black. Then I understood; the sense of beauty and joy Was such that from my soul it won immense strength, And every spark of it was like the oil When it's in contact with the fire being lighted. And thus the dream went, and soon the world awakened To its own glory and the song of the birds. And so the curtain came down, and in the room In a white robe that was passing to fall, And on her head a cap of ebon, braided With gold, she put down her basket. "Hello," I heard Vesta say to no one. "Hello," said she to the man across the table. "Hear that? That's the sound of the piano. A touch, that. He's learning the strings now. He is one of us now, and a man. He's given up the choice of being free. Now he's nothing but an instrument." I stood up and kissed her; and she woke up. "Get up, she says. Get up," said Vesta. "What is it?" I whispered. She looked. "A phone call." A dark-haired man who called himself Junmy Came down the stairs and into the room. He had a look that said,"You'll know." And over his face there came a nervous cheer. "Hello," he said, "it's Dudley Etem. I was down at the racetrack all night, And it's looking like it's all come to pass— I won't get the horses home, but I managed To send them home with one dog each To the place that we named the Promised Land." And he paused and cleared his throat, And speaking delicately he said, "Is it something I said, or did you see The spirit of me, as I passed you? I think it might be the former. But don't tell anybody. Take it for what it's worth." And he started out. The door flew open. "Hey!" he yelled, "the kids are up!" And then he collapsed in a heap on the floor. And then there were cries of, "He called! He's gone to the racetrack!" And we heard, In the next room, the voice of Adah Ringing like a sea-drummer. And I felt her cold fingers, and her cold lips Curling around my heart. And, all at once, I felt my body drawn toward hers. Then I felt her body drawn toward mine. Then I wasn't any more myself. Then I became the awkward thing That clung to her, and none could have stopped it. I know it was a falsehood, A lie that kept me from my work And ruined that sweet communion with God. But I've had no rest since then. I hear the room Where our little group used to meet, And the blue port-of-logoes Ring out above my old grey log. And sometimes I sit and watch them dance On the squeak of the leather strap And the rustling of the old brown hat. And it makes me mad. It makes me sad. It makes me sick. <|endoftext|> Tell me, did you, reading there, long for the high places and grope for a way up? I have known them all, the tall thin trees, The old milky houses, The grassy sills of the fields, The low sagging walls and the narrow streets. But only one, in all my journeys, Breaks from the rest, Breaks from the green, wide world, And leads me through the days to come. 'T is her house, and I sit in her porch, A pipe in my mouth, and a book in my hand, And waiting for her walk long while. But she comes not, and goes not, And comes not, and goes not any more: Two strings are broken here. One bowed above, The other round about, Will never quite be tight again. And no more, Forlorn and lone, I sigh and look Upon this old place, Where once I had a home, A clay-cold home, In the pleasant day; And now am only A murmur in the town, A color in the street. I would give up my longing For that old home, For any old home, The darkness of that old room, Filled with the smells of coffee, cake, and spice, With soft pillows on my bed, The chairs in the room, And the sun on my face, The old comfortable room, For any old home. O my home, The home that I once was given! I look through these eyes That once were bright and open, But now are only blind, And lacking your eyes to see with, I cannot find you there. I dream you stand by me, With your hand in mine, And I can taste the beat of your heart And feel your presence like wine. We sit in the big room Where we used to sit, And you talk about old times, And old books, and old feelings, And we two are happy. We are happy, and yet it seems unreal, And yet the happiness is no falsehood: We are happy, my wife said, For we have found Mortality, and we have found it, And know it and like it. The worst is over. The worst has been over for some time. The worst is over, For we have found it. Her arms about me, her lips on my face, Her body against me, her kisses great And fierce as my four-and-twentieth year. That room which I entered with feelings dumb, Where once I seemed but an empty hole, Is full of your kisses, And I am with you, and you with me. My heart. The tears made my heart to swell, And overflowed its parts: It grew until it outgrew the walls; And now, Because our love could not be more, I leave the walls behind, And step forth into the sunlight. Thus I'm come, And you may guess my actions know How much I love you, Who am blind, as I am, Yet love you as I do. I like your eyes, They sparkle as they ought; And yet I think they have some mischief, As if your eyes had sparkled When I was but a child. I like your hair, It is golden and black. I'll have you know That I was born blind, So I can see your eyes As they pass in the night. O you little clock, That's eager to get up and strike, And hurrying over floors and walls, You make my eyes to water. No, no, said I, You do not need run so fast. I'll be bound If some evening you should strike at midnight, I'd let you have the hour. I wonder what George is doing: I know, for I saw him coming this way, But I shall not ask him, for he Is as a tower can be. He is in the hall, But all alone. How can he be coming and talking When all his princes are away? May I be sitting on a hill? When I get back to the room Where I am sitting on a hill, Oh, how easy it will be for me To roll up my window shade And go out to my sunny hill. So many multitudes are running, That I suppose they want to know If the sun is shining yet, or if It will be dark before they go. And I am standing on a hill, And staring out over a waste of people, Which looks as black as a midnight sky With no moon. They are coming; they are coming! They are in the fences, on the roads, Thronging the little streets along. They will fill the park and stretch it so That it will be a land of their own. They are coming, Henry, oh, so very many. When the dust is all blown back again, And the steam, like a tiger, roaring, Is seen no more, then look out for me Along the highway to some friendly house Where I can hide from them all. My children are in the rooms of the gentry Where they are learning the arts of dancing, They will not cover me, my precious one, They will not let me go. Come with the dusk and summer daylight, Only murmur no longer, And there's some one hidden that will let me know Of one that has gone before. And his eyelids will be moving now, And his breath will be a sighing <|endoftext|> When the rudder's reef was under way. If the passage be withstanding narrow, Steer her to the "loitering tide," or cross, Make the tack by Wallingford lock; The "very best" the Captain can say Is that the crew "went ashore and slept." Let them gaze upon the Ocean Sea, Who, disdaining the humble place, Send far out blue whales, and napal Beach For the frail Fortress of their Home; For man will walk but with a lifting head When he has tired out to the Ocean's height, Or well-clung to the arms of sleep! A queer game this is, I own; But when the hands are weary, The call of the watch is dreary, The sea is a vast disgust, And I long for the green old earth; Well, as God's grace shall guide me, Time was, when, in the prime of youth, Never an hour I could pass But my thoughts were with Nature faring, And my soul felt stronger than the world: The summer's sun on my brow Was sapphires that glistened and shined; The fragrance of the flowers in me Caught the wonder of the loveless stars. Far in the past, when I was young, And beside me there swept the deep In its golden cradle, rocked by waves, Nature held me with her wild holding; So I saw the forest trees And each amazed leaf felt its young. Sailing slowly through the bright air, Like a snow-flake, came my soul's shade, While my heart held love and worship high, As a lone sailor to his island. But the things that are came along and caught me, And I called 'em to myself: "These are real, and these are true," And then with a low cry of fear The lovely moon was gone! Vainly now, in a wrinkled age, Shall I recall the words of gold Whereof once the hopes of youth spoke; And the lovely moon was gone, And the fair trees were in the wood, Ere my years had bent and held me. Dark and still my soul looks out, Like a ship amidst the foam; And the beauty and soft calm Are gone, and with them all the bliss. Oft shall I drink from my wine Deep of former days, and hear A flagging wind across the sea; Yet never, never from that home Will I seek for old forgot charms. Far out in the deep, green waters, Where the flagless sails are spread, I had once a rosy maiden! Ah, that wine makes the very sun Rim bright with rain! Ah, those eyes So lovelorn! For the moment They were mine, all other charms Were simply companions of mine. For her eyes had been to me As the morning's eye to one Just come from cloudless skies; Her voice as mellow tones of birds, Murmuring in open bowers; And, oh, with her voice!--it is true How could I forget her lips! And they seemed as by magic's skill Made gently to move and shine; And her heart like a cypher, free As the boundless wind's desire; And her hair, a flutter of wild gossamer, That winds its way across the sea. To the wine I did not dare, yet pressed The faintest drop I had, to glimpse therein; Ah, my heart has melted back into its salt For saltness so intense, and cold, and brine. How long has been, how blest, since I drunk of that wine! Yet I think, somewhere, beneath the moon's pale beam, A spirit lies, weary of a life like thine; He sees thy lovely form, he feels thy braid Wreathe diceause over him; he sighs for thee, For the moon-kissed apples of her hair, And the coral lips that close about his hand. And he mutters a prayer for one loved one Long lost, who paces lonely to the grave; And the whirl of the wheel at night, and the stroke Of the little axe, that chops the stalks antlpre; The ritual of the kettle, and the streak Of blossom on the bosom of the bride. And he hears, not far hence, the sweep of drums; And true, though he scoff at the fools who contend That Fame is nothing but a gilded doll, The tinsel and deer-skin of those fablesheets; They were the creeds of his youth; they bound him, And set him a goal--for he has run in vain! And he sees, far off, the red roofs burn; There is no sound of the stream beyond; He knows that he must wend alone, and black The way, where no light lodges for ever. Yet there are friends--O there are friends!--he thinks; There are dear friends who will welcome at his breast. But low the music sinks, and then again It lifts to his very breast; and now, Alone, he is beating a mute retreat, From the dark silent plaza, to the sound Of wheels that bear him proudly to his home. What though it be but a pyre of brands, If he burn here, it shall that be the last Of that gray idol, self-love; it shall die; His passion be dead, and his fame be naught. Though he win laurels at the head of his bands, And may raise the song of the heroes of fame; Though his own lineals, from blood out-courted, Be dons on his sepulchre; and though the stars That western glories give their lustre to his name Are the fading lights of his father's race, He is but a man. O no, he is more than men; Gladdened by praise, with a joy more keen to partake, He strides with a battle-lust; nor does he For one faint gesture think, "Alas, how vain!" And while his flickering torch-light, faint and sad, Mocks the blind night with many a gilded cloud, He sings once more, "Gad, men are glad when they perish!" And then he sniffles, and throws away the hymn, And bows his head in contemplative shame, For he has been a leader, a hero, once, And he has been in the thick of the fight, But he is glad now--though sore the heart beats for them Who fell, 'mid a murder's thousands, to give him birth. And, oh, how changed is the air of his room! But who has been in his room? Who now may know The lurid lights and the thin spark of fire, The tall mirror in which he seems to see himself As he lies, sick, broken, alone, at last, A pallid spectre in a couch by the door? Alone, with a door suddenly open wide, He has left his power with a bewildered sigh, And stood in the dark cold of an unfriended bed, Nor dared to lift his eyes to the fevered dark, And the fever's sword that strove to become real In the narrow pocket of his inviolate heart. It is the impulse of the night, when the soul From the Castle that in the mountains of Despair Seems rising to some deed of despair and shame, While at the base, on his knee, unconscious of pain, Loud bangs the sword of labor; and there seems to be-- As the ghost rises from the shadow that hovers near-- Yet mingles with the clouds of that dismal shore-- The only good in the world. You have had letters, my love, From your sad little man, And read the sickly light that played Upon his brow as he sat In the candle-glow, And heard his groan, And the pathetic little story He had come down to tell; And gazed in dead book-face As the dying words came: And had thought, that had this man grown A hunter of sweet songs, And I the music-teacher, It would be right, in such a case, So to pass through my arms And hold him to my heart! You have had letters, my love, From your sweet little man, And read the list of your commands As a nurse for a day; And wondered with a stunned surprise That I should not betray The hiss of the poisonous gas That clung about your gown, And saw the eyes grow black As the poison overcame you. You have had letters, my love, And the list of your commands, And you are wondering still: Why the tears have not ceased to fall; Why the dying hush was not stopped, Till you felt the warm long fall Into your tired, awed heart; Why this silence, and this shame, <|endoftext|> Of brighter sails than wind or current ever blown, Leaves not so swift a glance, with lustre raised As by one on a high hill, who views all round The expanse, which from his sight with gradual step He advances to; such seemed our light, that brought Blinds and darkness near to light, and to the sense Unto wonder, like the front of ornament New spread before us, making true colours appear. And, 'mong photographs, this one in colour First met our eyes, his figure most majestic, And perfect form, to which that slow reflection, Which comes from some rich painter's fancy, gave A sort of natural size; his face it was Burnished with three fold light, and seemed a sun Of justice, cheer'd as was the blessed frame With new formed joy, that gave forth Vine's blossoms. With gentle reverence we with him descended To the plain, to listen to a herald Call'd from beneath, who gave before us laid On a golden pen, an apple of value, And did appoint, as the day was holy, Vespers for us. To 0cranon's base, That graced the slope of our descent, was builded His seat, whose conspicuous top, assert the glory Of his fame. Near to it, but closer, was Building, Who thus recalled me; "Here levell'd for us, By him of Rome that shall you see above, Is that pavilion, whose forecast in my time I archived." When the pace of this passage Shone with tall slender palms, and edited with cubbies, Then our cubic inch of air was quadrupled, And with the extras did then act it and slow Pellucid swim hopes, that with wreaths were crown'd As of old. Then search began if in this Town Of vilayet' the robber would not ply his thievish arts. Our ears were painful, and each eye seat deserves; And I resolv'd to go alone, where, if any member Would yield, would swell not the distinct sensational chorus. TheCatalogues and the registers of the temples Did oftener hear the rattling of a bough again. Yet occasionally a wild fact came through; and then, Such as my wit could disburse, a glint I found Of hope, that with Mary's bodily image I Had built my secretoeity, and held it there. Her image solid, and that of our Lord too, In this my cell, considered as a temple, now And then the worshipper, who up and doth gaze Through all my holes, and in each place seek, some text To yoke his hopes, his hatred, with. Whoe'er perceives Some ancient Iscariot wandering, let him not wait For an after world, to hear me herald him: He shall not miss a justification of his ways, Wherever he be, and whatever world to us Is dark, still malicious insinuation brings And tears us more closely, by the narrow way And rough narrow gate of human kinds. On such a plan My thoughts did steadily bear me onward, till my mind Did point us to Sophonisba, where mine eye Was finally stay'd. There without gloss or understatement (Such names have a fating, and a polite world Must sometimes transgress them, and must retrace Those who curse them, to keep good hours in scope), She speak'd with that bland courtesy, that finds Use In almost no other, and then spake of matters Less than six and twenty hours, at the most, could tell. "The time is sprightly, of the spring-season; I, therefore, like a prudent Doctor, will Drive home my effectual devices, which, if they Have no antidote, are tried and tried again; And, if they have no cure, will expire Without one, and not cost the ills they strive To keep in being. And yet again, ere long, Our Anne, the love-bird, will arrive, who, rich In love, is like the inhabitants of one's bosom, Until the belly o'er it fatitude spawns. Thus, long before the Centaur comes to crib Of our House the youthful prey, we shall have come Into love's sweets, and sat, as we are wont, Beneath a bud, that hopes to take an elbow soon. Now, thank thy God, who has made this day, Also the next, such as will give thee the power To take an elbow; for thou shalt easily Feel how much of wisdom is in love, or more. Now, unto Anne, if thou art my friend, Or thou wilt be my friend's wife, be not slow To talk with her, as well as to me. I long, As long as snow is on the ground, and winds that blow Have been, for my comfort to obtain; so long Will I have waited, for that thou, or other As well, art come for me, who have so long Lur'd me with so sweet a love. If thou do it, Shortly shalt thou hold the whip and dowager Stars of my life, for if thy will be, thou shalt Leave me not, nor any cause why I should With my love other than to beg her to leave. I will thy pleasure be; and, for the cure Of my neglected love, I will found a school, Wherein all kinds, from distinction to the best Of love are taught to man, and made like me, For woman to teach her children, and themselves. This is a work not less divine, than when The schools of Athens taught the sons of noble Nature all manner of arts, both foreign And home-bred. But not my fault if none presume To head the school, or even lend a hand, so long As not in fellowship are the lessons read. And yet who worries not at all, if he help Some fellow-sinew'd man to mount, and he to walk The pathway led, which day and night through the mount Men know sorted as for beauty's service, The business and the delight of the sun. "And, from these points, whereof I spake, turn'd Lest I offend him, when he asked me, say, First, that connections, secret, deep, and great, Think you are made, on my part, by my love, As oft it is, for it is mine? To such deep Affection on my part is nothing owed, Whatever be their form or motion, or Their end or aim. With yourselves to look for help From the same place are of themselves strong cure. Even to the heaven, whose help is, perhaps, the greatest Cure of many disorders, thither tow'rds Where God's sufficient, there are, as I know, Many, who, for want of it, have — sorry cases — Fix'd the sores, that yet will remain. And lo! I, once Registered with the governing angel, and made The centre of that orb, feel now much less Humiliation, being from so high a height With divine awareness unmov'd, and so quick The pace, that an ant seem'd hovering. Yet know Not I for that long hush with inward shame Patient, hitherto, breasting, keeping well My half-step with the sphere. It halted now, And slowly in world. As when Originally fabricated, full and fair, The color, touch, and taste, in us, are spent All, and the impression made but approximate And not accurate, for that life we pay To it, until erroneously we believe We see with it, smell with it, and in its sight Miss, forget, admire, value it as most true. Thus may the circle, On which I stride, be, tough though it be, True compass still for my soul. Of gold Not all was grist. Beautiful touch and touch aboven I had, as urg'd on by love, that press'd the truth Momentous into plan, dredging out 1254 FROM THESE The grain, momentous matter, arrangement, all Science and solemn art, for my mastercraft, And, for the sake of that precision, totum Of grief and joy, and proportion, in both amiss So touft'ring, that though entirely one, In both intently had I sate, awkard On the level. And now, indeed, I fork him thence For LIES, in a steady play, ne'ertheless With deep apparent contraries. One, from GT>'S Pyramid altogether to GT^'s, ran With unequable distance in alphabets Primitive; another, in figures fantastical Fancies, fashions, and costumes, so unpractice Was her exposition, that I drove her To discourse more opaque, of conference Concluded, and mutual accord, at once Approved, confirm'd, and token of my love. The others all din occasionally At both sides, and the occasional sound, while <|endoftext|> Or by all thy locks and beauteous hair burned through; When thou the revel's rude winds didst inhale, And, with thy lap full heaved, thou gavest heat. Ascended thou this day a star from height, In honour of him thou didst with thyself dupe. This world; and what of it I can descry, I also have recorded in my rhymes: Yet one more shame I fain would see, And, in this space of nothing verity, Would write and read the book of G-d, the page Where I thus write and thus not thus I shall. But let my following verse speak the rest, As fitting speech and exercise apply. Say, good G-d, how many worlds there be, How many men therein, how many nations, That in security of their all Lie close and sleep; G-d knoweth best. And what this world, how wide, and how high From Orient Asia far to the Levant; Now rising, and now in myriads seen, A mixed multitude; a world great cause Guided, conducts, and gives rule to these, As the Dominion of his all-courteous Yehoah. Who thus from confusion to confusion hurl'd, And moor'd the nations to their several homes; As the advent'rous Willing of Nature's King, Who such companions promis'd, such worlds to form, As Life and Death might enjoy remote. And G-d he same report unto the kine, Who graz'd the meadows, G-d answered their bread; For each sort of grain, and each kind of herb As soon as offer'd, grew in plenty, more And more, the lustre flattering the eye; And a white flour, like whiteness, sprang from earth, Which, swirl'd in air, like blossom'd fruit appeared, Then first to man's taste known, by sweet melay. To them that ran, their skins became strong Against the bite of cold; to them that walked, Their limbs sustained additional frost and cold; To them that flew, new wings gave additional flight. Thus, manifold improvements took place Between the old and new, in climate, air, And trees, and animals; of these, the last Still in their nature; and in G-d's own image made; Yet more heavenly; and so cause absent, (Not o'er-emphasiz'd) till now revealed. And since the world's first day was dispos'd Thus fairly, with good beginnings full and clear, These heroes, then in humble state, arose, And mov'd their children to attend the King Whom Nature follow'd; and his family Spread from "a loom, by G-d executed" Ere found. Heroes then the nations sav'd; Their acts have merit: nor were their lives Burbished on record; for that thing is meet Which is not lie; and what is right and just Glides without line upon the wing of Life. And that fair fame, the first patronage gain'd By Bulgaria's daring youth, their deeds imploy'd. Of her fair image on the Purse By Theaking Jane be given I, my prize, G-d know how, my strength and dearest light! Ye pale frigid Sisters, from my hand Cast from your gilded cages, the unbar That sacred hold; nor long my stay, As by their will, my loftier prosp'rous flight And higher aims shall fulfill. Arouse ye larks, and set me singing In the fluttering leaves; for such my choice, A loud Arion, to the trembling sight Appealing, dash'd through the cages of the fowls I see not with my bodily eye; whose feet Rise not from earth, but from her heavenly bowers Steep'd in water, take the air, and seem to fly In purpling clouds, and skim the clouds like wings. Awake, my soul! set me singing forth, To loose my bounding wings in elemental storms Of changeful music; give me of the whirl Which Jove and Pallas taught Rodan to the east, Where dark o'er semi-circus masses roll the wild These icy river-circles, which the sun strikes, But which resist not his heat; there stirs the force Of mystic astrology, and great Urania Calls the wild things, hyæna and confidants, Which after her the Etrurian forests hushed To icy silence, and the Tuscan lyre Silenc'd; utt'ring silent measures to the frost, And with silver vapor feed their heavenly course. There harken, youth! while heaven's smooth guide the voice Of the Chaldee sings, or the Negress sings To all the sons of summer: yet all these Youth's chariot could not move, the winter's voice Speaks from the wintry vault, the winter's world. But lowlie art thou drive! thy chariot found Not in the chariot, O faint-heart fair! Nor in the arms that all our care convey Adorned with love and kind desire, thy mind Is stern unrestrained; nay, from our great home Thou com'st to warn us. Thou, who once didst grow By tiny nimbleness to the Scorpions' dart, Shall now do evil to the unarm'd foe, By ruthlessly preventing evil; for, The force of good oft persists, though it be short And helpless; remember that. Good cease to be, And come again, try what man can do, Since with its good naught else can we desire. Long in the Trojan camp we saw thee stand, Uncriadon by that time, and firmly bate The terror of thy dreadful front and eye: For very shame we being absent could do less Than salute thee, and thy vigour to renew, That save the Trojans might have leisure to eat. What mighty evils in the dire distress Of wicked Fate have through the poor life Of one whole month been done, so soon, by thee! Ay me, how many a hard fortune hast thou chaste The ruin of poor husbandry, and of homes, By deep ingratitude to him, by me Insulting me! but now behold, if me thou hate Why endeavourst thou not now perchance to save A people, and extirpate the very seed Of that revenge which, long used to ondo us, Comes now, becalmed in mid-sea, as it were, aspring And kindles presently the half-burnt shores; Since none to thee attendance can by law, Or entreat by proffered power or pray'r, but him Departing who, as thou dost, shalt mount Upon the galleys, that he may witness bear Thy murdering pirates at their life's length: Yea, cast thou down the hull and forget thee he Who didst half her calamity within himself, And more than half without; death must be his woe. But if to thee 'tis given to refresh our generations, To thee our fair Italy shall be a table Set out with radishes for thy dinner; Let myriads issue from thy mouth ere long Swarming forward, man and woman, and the power Of industry and art shall fruitful bear Within them all, and thou at home make surplus Of thee and of thy treasures; thus shalt thou increase Thy merits, and complete thy name's immortality.' So he, whose praise around us falling fell in shower, Inspiring our song, availed not. But him Aurora, marvellous bowerer! still our eyes Surpassing, when his principal ethereal theme He raised, of pure consent; for besides the heart Which to his words was very near akin, there stood With nods enlightened, which import kindred looks; Lest, having reach'd that empyreal height, he should behold By gaze untamed, aught there viewed; and, for so cause, Thus issued then in muscular pride: Like to the 2153turf, or level mead, When overflowing from the flowery rill, Floods the lone pool; and everywhere disowns Her narrow limit, ranging broad her side, While lavish slow, she pours the overflowing wave: Such manifest sign Mr. Sawin gave Of joy and respect; and to the room, Where after him his train moved stately along, Arose the singer from the ground, and stood, And pointed with his hand, that now No. 1 and the third were present: such the hope Of those two individuals, that in safety Did refuge bring them from their gen'ral tomb: To those he spoke, then rose and went his way, Lamenting with a song; while they, that way From grave to grave crowding, heard the dirge intone. Now from the whole, that mighty sprinkling, <|endoftext|> Hurt not with rage, nor withhold thy suit, But, deep-mouthed in prayer, rise up and speak! His case is hopeless--must never know rest-- But he is at my mercy, until I die. Or stay we here--ah, would it were for me To fall with my Gryphon, at the feet of this fair Stranger, now living in this house not alone, But with that woman wed, to life's sad rhythm Of to-morrow! Man, keep the day and its dower, Nor turn thy back, and thou shalt never rise again. O where hast thou flown with all thy flock? O hear, O hear! for I know that to-morrow thou Shalt hear from me a harsh rebuke, a curse Flow from thy lips: yet thou mayst well remit The offence, since what I speak shall be thy plight. Thou shalt depart, and never more return. One night at the full, where the full moon doth climb High from the ocean, and where highest and highest The towers of the best university are that lie Between it and the stars--there is an tower Whose top is touched by the moon, and where, at night Arising, I saw a star arise from out the wave Whose streams clothed the tower, and down below the tower The long, soft, lustrous, luminous streams ran out In one tremendous luminous river of light-- Never have I beheld a sight so wonderful! I saw a face the face of a woman made To no one but herself; her eyes were deep eyes Flooded with love, her mouth a mouth of love, all flesh Filled out and vermeil flushed--her brow was bared To the morning sun,--no, not a gleam came now Across the wondrous, the wondrous woman's breast, No love was in the shining distance that glided Out of that woman's soul to the windows here. The world had never heard her name, her crime; But she bequeathed her name to the stars and the sea. Above the shores I see the moon now rise, And the winter sky looks white with mists that start From the cold wave, broke by the new-born winds And spring winds which know the earth; the starry beams Pale in the broad, unbending air, like dull lights Above the stands where they await the dawn; While cold-snuffling up to the pines I go, I sigh for the time when all things shall change. When this was done, they worked on, turning the egg Between them with a blow hammer; then they washed Piece by piece the fair and snowy-white egg, Leaving it to dry between their knees; they knelt Round the great pile of wood, that seemed to look Through hole after hole like a great eyesailor's eye Fixing upon the prize above him as he hammers; I saw them put the egg away in a corner Where I scarce could see it, so closely I had wrapped My line. When they had done they rose, and one said: "This is the first time that ever man did look Upon this egg--now he will show his love." And the third one said: "He has shown his love indeed; We will eat now as I showed him when I bought The blue yarn-thread he worked with, when I went To buy him jam, which he told me was the fairest In all the land." He took a spoon in his hand To serve, and with a mournful voice he said: "The sweetest-tongued cock of Hareth this canst hear, Heth melodious, mirthful, jolly, an' pleasanter Than aught that cometh down from Rivere." Ere they had eaten all this thing, I must know Who have them, and who have I; and then again I heard a noise of feet which made me think They sat there watching me, and they cried: "Look out, Look out, that the curtain may be dropped-- These great ladies-tresses, like wild vines and bows Of the palm, cling round the stalls in the public way; Behold, there they are, the winged terrors of art, With their king and their queen." "O God, be thankfu'! Let them be gone!" Then I drew in my cursed breath, and heard a cry, And saw a flame, and saw the flames die out. When I came through the Temple and saw the stone Spread there before mine eyes in self-destruction, As if the Israelites had thrown themselves Upon the floors and roof-beams of that House That once had been the holy House of God, Made desolate now as if the world had short Of prophets, already, and the Ethiopian Had overspread it, and the simoon of the world Had taken possession of it; and when I saw That the rare blue of the dome was scarred and blasted As if young Mahomethana's sword had smitten it, Which (as I am still borne along by the same current Of old custom) I remember to this moment been Beneath the balance upon the mainmast of My father's ship: when I saw that the blue of the dome Was scarred and battered as if young Mahomethana's sword Had smitten it--God in Heaven! I cursed my father And the skipper, and the sail-joiner, and the sea, And the same old friends, and cursed them all three together; Then drawing my great sword I chased the beggars from The ruins of the temple, cutting their bodies as I smote them, and breaking the heads of the men As I was breaking their heads with my bare hands, and lying On the largest of the bodies--young Zabran, who had Been their head cook. And I said in my drunkenness of anger: "Kill him! kill him! here is the House of God." And seeing that the young men were injured and upset, And dying by the thousands I spared not my wrath For them, nor for their cook. I turned to the King With a voice of one who prayed not nor questioned After I had done with it. "Where is this God now, I would have my vengeance, and have it now!" And turning to my men I shouted: "This is the place And hour for it--therefore, do it! now!" And at once the cry went forth: "To Heaven!" But as I drew my sword and looked around, My men raised up the little refuge, and stood Under the dome of the temple. I said: "Let these be first, and my men fight from inside, And see to it that they stay there! Let them die Before their houses fall, before they run Into the great furnace, but I will not look After them to see if they deserve it!" Then it was he appeared before me, Thalaba! And not in the flesh of a man, but in the spirit I saw him! The Spirit that had come with the King Before me! Thalaba! and he cried to me: "I have conquered! Ye shall be slave in my house! For the woman is in the House! I am the King, And I take my vengeance!" "Stand!" I shouted, and drew my sword: "I am not afraid of swords, or cruelty, Or death, or the works of iron, or of fire, Or of the hands of blood-thirsty monsters; But I am afraid of thee, Spirit of Evil, Because thou wilt not leave me in my hour Of fear, but hasty rush to the attack And, lashing me to the earth, make my pain The more horrible for all time! I am not The victim of ignoble iron, or of hands Bloodthirsty, or of monsters, but I lay low Between two mountains, and the womankind Of a small city. Thou hast never known fear Before from the filthy work of iron or fire, Or of the hands of death!" But Thalaba made no answer, for his voice Was out in speechless alarm; and to his side I ran, and seized him, and cried, "Thou slumbering none, Speak! speak! speak quickly, if perhaps I May some gentle word salve thy piercing grief! What seest thou?--the woman with her child?-- And is the curse of the sinning men sufficient, O Thalaba?--No! a deathlike ague, followed By grief that so ill hath beenfallen thee!" "Get to thy cushions, O my chief!" said I; "And let the dream dissolve thy poor decently Sense! if I and mine have made thee chief Over a world of sin, and ill doers, now I know! The evil angels will be up before A curse is fall'n, or a smoky cloud, <|endoftext|> That kindled the mist of earlier doubt Which like a spider's line enfolded mine. "Yes!" 'twas then I whispered, "yes indeed! In truth you write the book! Yours were the eyes That kindled the spark into my heart Which fell rekindled. I am here in Rome. It was you that wrote these things down!" 'Twas so; When I awoke out of my dream, it seemed That I had lain for a moment on my bed, Head tossed back, as it were, and limbs elbowing Each other in the room's applause. And once more It came, the first notes of an Il Festin Pian, A note not unlike the others, and so new That it scarce could be heard, and yet, "Behold the hand That wrote this music!" Then a voice, if I remember Rightly, coming from the depths of the dark house, And with a bitter laugh, "The old wife's ring! That is the music that she loves the best!" The Master-piece, the terrible Iliad! A giant without nourishment, without friend, Raging through long camps in far-away ages With his many-jawed, many-toothed bulkhead of flame. Mountains roil underneath, and sword-blades sweep Shining valleys, where the War is fought to-day. The Aethiop singing on the windy strand, The pirate's skiff folding over the sand, The Amazonian dancing in the glade, Are only some of the quaint landscapes he paints. But the things that he describes, they're true! The eyes Of brave Aldona, brave Achilles, bold Frederick's breastplate, the clear quality that flings A beauty round every sun, the dewy gleams That spread o'er shepherds' pretty flock, the fell Green tints that water the alp where John plies His hoe, and weep again, the fine broad river Opening in spacious form, above, below, Broad as the gulfs of heaven, his pure water spreads O'er marge of maiden gold, gold the color of flowers, While, glistening in her beauty, Earth's fair daughter, Dark-browed Aldona, gazes on her lover! "But wait a little!" I exclaim'd, as, lifting high A fair stone block from the margin, I plung'd My fingers down to add to the fragmentary mass That lay protruding. Oh, how like to stones That humble Venulus are the scattered flowers Of these wilding Muscovites, the wilding poetics! Too fine for this world! Yet, like those holy stones That always are as much beyond us as Our fussiest dramatists, in grave loving hearts They loom, and mean while their vision fills. My sweetest thoughts shall be my treasures here. And so I studiously will arrange These petals, one by one, as you look down On the many thousand I've lost in play Of fickle Cardigan. Shall I take the red For the orange, and the blue for the yellow? Shall I take the white for the spectrum of gray, And the yellow-green for the tinge of rose? Or shall I take the wan rose for the red, And the pearly wine for the pink, and so Make here a lovely alphabetic poem? I took it thus, yet I repent me that I do it. I'm sure my dear Montag freelidian Would be more moderate in her fare, if she would. But this can never be; for though my Muse Were a mere freelidian, yet the Muse is God's, And God's a freelance. The muse is His hand Upon her lap, His finger in her hair, His thumb that turns her tip, And His warm love that gives her color, My sweetest thoughts shall be my treasures here. And still you might have run your tame course abreast Of all the world, like other freelance souls. And still, my dear Montag, you might have held Your pious peace, like other freelance souls. But Montag, the world was with us, all of us, When we the dear word started to say. Husband and wife you might have been, Montag, And I might well have followed you the way The rest did--forward, yet detached, but still Detached, for I was not your husband's wife. But my Montag was wedded, Montag, To a man of commonplace, And the days of our detachment were done, When the wife, as I think, wakes the dead. God's marriage had gone forward with fashion's wheeze, And I was a widow at the heart, When the world found out about it in the News, And I found myself dragged through the mire. A hundred times a day the cornet would call, And I, who was a gambler by vocation, Would spend the night in drinks with this famous man. But there came another phone call I must hear. It was the old cornet calling, "Montag, Montag, What cards have you for me at numbers." Well, I would hear the whole solitaire of the suit Before I played it, before I could bumble play My ace of hearts out of sheer excitement, So far a whole outfit of the best of them Would not do. But let us see, shall we? Never! I played a queen of spades, and that was the end. It was not my luck to play before the flush. But let us see! And then I heard the dealer tell, "Here's three decks to make it all right." Well, we must say the next best thing that will do. "Here's a flop of bonga all for the play." I thought a flop was worse than a do-re-no, But I did bet the house. What in God's name should I do? And here was the dealer looking glum and grim As he sat by his betted dolce-artist And he only shrugged his shoulders and looked Like a man that was used to dealing with royalty. I sent the two best cards to the Casino, And I kissed him with both kisses of scorn, And flung the cards over the parapet, Saying, "Here's your two best cards, my play ceases here!" And I flew back to the Mercure Club, And I laid my two hands upon the hands Of the dame who sat beside my table, And I said to her, "I throw away the pair." And she looked at me with a wondering look. And I said, "I will not ask your leave for ever." I looked my two best cards at that dying lady Who had turned from me with a face of wonder And a little shiver of memory. What a lucky hand was mine, that day at Monaco! I had nicked the ten at the outer river, And the ace of diamonds was about to fall, And there lay the flush of bonga, and the bet was done. But they were all cards past, The magnificent black king and the jade red king, And I called "Double," And the great gilded Unicorn stood up and sprawled Before me on the table top. "All right," I said to myself with a grin "I will double this play, no doubt about it, For I double every play, and it is a pleasure." So I doubled the play. But I must tell the truth. I have often wished that I could be a playing card And show people what fun you can have with a pack. There are times when it might be of use To tell them what runs through a pack of cards, And I'm ready for toil, and I'm ready for toil, And it is a pleasure to be at the playing of cards. But it's false to say that I am an orator with a pack. I never have been a man that a pack will call. I'm not now, nor ever will be, a man with a pack. I'm afraid of the birds; I'm afraid of the beasts. I'm afraid of the stones. I'm afraid of the hooks. I'm afraid of the spoons. The little dirty cards Beset me and annoy me and spit on my back. So take care of your health while you play with a pack. For I'm ready to roll for toil, and I'm ready for toil, For the rake of the pack is a fire to my brain, And the larger fires which may consume the planet Burn in my bones, and may consume the smoke of the planet. For when was the last time you played with a pack? When the roar of a battle commences, It's then the woman gunmen with broad palms, Pumping thousand-yard squeals, Pounce upon the better-placed fortified And bring quick ruin: And boy! there's a racket in the trenches When the screamers with their fifty-foot gap <|endoftext|> if you they happen to see that your friend is weeping tears as they do when a beloved passes away they will not stop laughing at your friend they will mock the emotions that they should be understanding to see that your friend is smiling though they should weep with sadness they will laugh when they know that your friend is happy they will dance with your friend they will hold up their dolls while your friend is sewing the tears to go along with the flowers and the tears from the tears of the flowers we will share the memory of the once-upon- time construction of this friendship until they are both crying we will sing a song we will both sing let the feelings flow <|endoftext|> "Love Song", by Roger Reeves [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Engagement, Weddings, Valentine's Day] Our love sings in the raindrops the sweet summer rain drops on the fig tree leaves. How we glide when the wind blows, from dawn to dusk drops on the grass, and the flowers our love watches when they rise. How in April we wandered afield, in a storm so dark we stood in our gowns at the gate of the town, our cheeks soaked in the sweet June rain. Now all grown with long yellow brows and fluttering eyes and slender legs, we find it good to slip out of our sweet gowns, slide on the slippery playing-field floor, towards evening, and listen to the sweet songs our love sings. <|endoftext|> "Yellow Hat", by Oliver de la Paz [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] In the tropics an Ethiopian boy fingers the yellow hat he will have to keep far from his hale and healthy legs that wander to the playground in white sneakers. He is too young to know he will be handcuffed to a police officer if caught in the nearby streets trying again to buy a can of apples. The sandy streets are stacked with boxes of lemons, squeezed ice filled with flies. In the summer he will splash through them, get the flies off his teeth, knowing his legs will be scrubbed when he returns to the 2 bedroom his mother keeps glossy shelves filled with scrubbed cheap blackjeans, a mismatched set of ladies teeth, a torn note saying Don't buy them! he will lie in his own shit, clean blacktop on his block waiting for his mother to come out of her nearby walk-up where she shops on purpose at least once a day to let her change the dirty old light out of her apartment so he can see the yellow and pink face of his stored in a white sheet at the top of a black stair. <|endoftext|> "Salt", by Lucia Perillo [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer] If you want to know the effect of absinthe on a man and a woman you must stay with them during the two hours the drug will take from them, after the course of unguesstimate love has moved from kissing to licking and beyond to the act of giving with lips and hands until the silence is weight and the stars drop out of the sky. This silence. Love says it is one of the ingredients, one of the compounds, which will make the roots grow as well as the leaves out. It will let the water in when the dam is broken, before rain or riveress, before migration, before birth. The man in his shirt and suspenders must be lifted, the woman bent over him, must be watched for when she bends her head towards it to check the thickness of the line of his thighs, when they approach the orange of the erection between them. This is a good sign, the tightening of their hold at the anchoring of the neck and shoulders. It is a touch the sunlight feels on the windowpane, the shaking of the hands at the handle of the automobile. For three days they will touch the salt of it, have it ease them of one another like a flowing river moving through them and up the thigh. Then it will not be pleasant for either one to think or remember, which is why, for three days, the woman will feel herself turned inside out by the water, as she always has, or the wonder, the beauty, the awful treason, of being a woman. <|endoftext|> "Misreading H-, J.-M.'s Notes on Merle King's `Lucky Day'", by Kenneth Rexroth [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Race & Ethnicity] (Part I) I went into a pet store. I wanted a dog, but I didn't want to buy one. I had a feeling that I would regret it somehow, I was so fond of life in general. Life being hard enough as it is. People toiled for years for nothing but a lazy word, a lazy thought, a lazy feeling. I wished to own an off-white dog with black off-white eyes, a white tail and tail tips like black, a white body and a white coat. I walked out of the pet store with a terrier, an Alaskan Mountain, in snow. The salesclerk was laughing. I was afraid he would find out. <|endoftext|> "Merle King's Poem About the Key to the Efry Room", by Kenneth Rexroth [Living, Relationships, Home Life] I think my mother has been in her room more times than I can count. My father is shaking when he takes the elevator down to the basement even though we are only going to the second floor. It is that distance from his shaking hand to me that makes the difference between joy or tragedy. If I had to choose between joy and tragedy I would choose joy. I want to take joy out of this world. I want joy to fall on everything in this world. Joy is too big for this world to hold. I am terribly lucky. I am all alone in my room. I can sit here and reflect on the uncertainty of having a whole day to take pleasure in between the sorrows, the disappointments, and the failure, and the failures. I have nothing to do with God. God has no embrace. He is an invention of the American imagination. I will not make God my creation. I am not even sure I believe in God. But I have a place I go to for advice. I will not worship at the shrine of God. I will worship where there are other worshippers. The mystic invites us to take joy in everything. Joy is too big for any oneself. It is too large to comprehend. Joy is the key to my room. I am incapable of happiness in my room. I can look at the key and think of nothing else. I am caught up in the idea of the key, in the idea of the freedom it brings. It is a concentration I could not manage alone. I have a whole day to think about it. I am making a greatest greatest pass at the key. I will be good or bad in this new world. Is it all a matter of the eye adjusting? I will be just fine. I will have fun, I will be happy in my way. I will leave something that God will discover some day. Nothing can stop me. You and I will survive this. Even if the light turns out to be a cage and the people in it unfriendly, I can turn off the light and walk out. It will not matter. Is it a matter of the light adjusting? The book of the light will be updated. I will be safer, richer, and wiser in the new world. I know how to be happy. <|endoftext|> through me, through my taste, my thinking, the eyes behind me, how this tower is the tower I saw in Japan, I want the tower, I don't know yet, the head without the legs it is like the robot from 2001 if robots could talk, I would ask them how to dismantle themselves, and I want the eyes, the eyes that still exist after the brain, they are inside of me like protoplasm or something, my eyes, my eyes are in me, and outside of me, like protoplasm. Like genes inside of genes, my eyes are inside of me, my eyes are like genes, inside of me, and outside of me, like protoplasm. I wonder if, before the head, there was a spine, there are protoplasm, and neurons, and the eyes in me look like the eyes in flowers, and outside of me, there are neurons and protoplasm. I wonder if, before the eyes, there were a brain. There are protoplasm, there is water, and protoplasmus, there are protozoa, and fungi, and hordeling and hydatid, and miasmatic and heterotrichistick, and mucilaginous, there are hailstazy and mesenchyme, and krolepe, and sitoyaki, and malonyzu, and dantez, there are psilocybin, there is psilocin, there are other genes, there are other enzymes. There is guanine, there is adenine, there is cytidine, there is cytokinase, there is phosphodiesterase, there is phospholipase, there is pravastatin A2, there is methotrexate, there is atorvastatin, there are duchenzanthron, there is sulindacin, there are niacin, there is nicotinic acid, there are niacin, there are bisibutam: there are bis(truncate)phosphonates, there are glutathione, there are glutathione peroxidase, there are glutathione disulfide, there are glutathione benzoate, there are other glutathione peroxidases. There are some synapsis, there are some stasis. I hear an earful of laryngotons, there are some dulcet glottal sounds, there are some stasis, there are some plosives, there are some esses, there are some oligospermiae, there are some peripes, there are some hydrolyzables, there are some oligosaccharides, there are some oligosaccharides prostestane, there are some liposarcomas, there are some fulminants, there are some silic acid, there are some hydrolyzables, there are some hydroxyethylacrylate, there are some amino acids, there are some amino acids salts, there are some amino acids salts with aluminum salt, there are some phosphatidyl serine, there are some phosphatidylethylserine, there are some bithion, there are some phosphatidylethylmalic acid, there are some polyacrylamide gelatina gel, there are some polyacrylamide gelatina gel, there are some polyglyceryl palmitate, there are some polyglyceryl stearate, there are some polyglyceryl stearate with magnesium stearate, there are some polyglyceryl stearate with magnesium palmitate, there are some hydroxyethylacrylate, there are some hydroxyethylacrylate with aluminum salt, there are some bifidoglycid, there are some balsinic acid, there are some bisabinderibonitrately glycosidic acid, there are some bisabinderibonitrately glycosidic acid, there are some bisabinderibonitrately glycosidic acids, there are some stearoylglycine malate, there are some stearoylglycine malate with magnesium glycine and ethyl glycine, there are some pargyline, there are some cyclohexyglycine, there are some cyclohexyglycine with magnesium glycine and ethyl glycine, there are some cyclohexyglycine with magnesium and aluminum glycine, there are some α-glycosidase, there are some glycosidases, there are some glycosidase with gluconate and glycine, there are some glucosidases, there are some glucosidases, there are some glucosidase with sulfate, there are some glucosidase with glutamic acid and sulfate, there are some glucosidases with amino acids, there are some β-galactosidase, there are some β-galactosidase with amino acid and phosphate, there are some β-galactosidase with glucuronic acid and acetic acid, there are some β-galactosidase with amine and acetate, there are some β-galactosidases with amino acids, there are some β-galactosidase with glutamic acid and glutamate, there are some β-galactosidase with maltose and serine, there are some β-galactosidases with ethylglutarate and asparagine, there are some β-galactosidases with asparagine and leucylglutarate, there are some β-galactosidases with ethylproline and asparagine, there are some β-galactosidases with glutamate and glutamic acid, there are some β-galactosidases with asparagine and aspartic acid, there are some β-galactosidases with serine and glutamine, there are some β-galactosidases with asparagine and aspartic acid, there is some β-galactosidase with asparagine, there is some β-galactosidase with glutamic acid and glutamate, there is some β-galactosidase with maltose and serine, there is some β-galactosidase with glutamic acid and glutamine, there is some β-galactosidase with magnesium aspartate, there is some β-galactosidase with ethylglutarate and serine, there is some β-galactosidase with glutamic acid and ethylglutamine, there is some β-galactosidase with aspartate and glutamate, there is some β-galactosidase with glutamic acid and glutamate, there is some β-galactosidase with glutamate and aspartate, there is some β-galactosidase with aspartate and glutamate, there is some β-galactosidase with glutamic acid and amino acids, there is some β-globin with sulfur, there is some malate with sulfur, there is some citrate with sulfur, there is some asparagine with sulfur, there is some leucylglutarate with sulfur, there is some aspartate with sulfur, there is some asparagine with sulfur, there is some aspartic acid, there is some asparic asparagine, there is some asparine asparagine, there is some asparagine and glutamic acid, there is some glutamic acid and glutathione, there is some asparagine, there is some glutathione, there is some glutamic acid, there is some malate, there is some oxaloacetate, there is some pyruvate, there is some malate plus oxaloacetate, there is some glutathione plus pyruvate, there is some asparagine, there is some glutamic acid, there is some aspartate, there is some glutathione, there is some malate, there is some citrate, there is some citrate with sulfur, there is some pyruvate plus citrate, there is some malate plus citrate, there is some citrate, there is some oxaloacetate, there is some asparagine, there is some glutathione, there is some malate plus glutathione, there is some citrate, there is some asparagine, beyond the mouth, beyond the brow, beyond the hair, beyond the lips, beyond the sting in the back of the neck, beyond the toes, beyond the iron in the bones, beyond the fleshy white skin, beyond the liver, the small or large and yellow or black, beyond the stench in the lungs of a black man, beyond the skin, <|endoftext|> And passed through the heart of the Vulture. With leopard-kill and leopard-gather, Like glory's dark eagle of dames, Within it the long hot days were, The terrors, the dreams and the ire, Of the white-man's-man and the red-man's-man Between whom hateful they are, By war they are sundered, Now the voice of the river can Into their dreams from the river plunge. And the wheel of the sea, and the sun Were the vision of one dream, The splendor and colour and strength, The tempest, and beauty, and power With their glories did blend That rose from the East to the West, From the Sun's rosy rim in the West, Till the world received it And, gazing upon it, it became The vision that it was. Now and then there arose the strange Shapes of city-gods, old and old, On the evening of the land, When the myriad of cities near, And the myriad of little states From the sea came calling to it, Crying, 'Return, return; return!' And when they had received it, they Brought it back and were not commanded, But the long bright river led it on, The strange magic river of night. And once more from the East and the West It twirled with the vision in it Until the world received it, And the earth awoke and was glad. The world will not hear the voice of the sea, Nor the voice of the sunset and the sea. The nations are running and hiding Among the many ships that ride and sink. Alas! they are wasting with a cry The world that cannot hear. My sister sang to me in the days When the sea was angry and the sun Sang in a strange and wondrous way Singing, 'Time and tide wait for no man, But I wait for Me. Sister dear, I pray that you Keep the Faith; For it is written, Faith, Which, as the people tease and scorn it, Well may they pray. And many a great and good man, And noble, and true, And wise, has walked in his wise way Therefore I counsel you To seek the light And follow not the darkness. Sister dear, I pray That you keep the Faith; For 'tis written, Faith, Which the people tease and scorn it, Well may they pray. Of all the great and good That walk in the dark days ago There has never been one But has perished, or is perished Since the scripture was writ. In ancient days the seas were dangerous And not a pilot would risk His bark unless he was a fool, And every stranger was a foe Except his friends. Now every sea is smooth and open And every stranger a fool, Except he is allied to ships, Except he has ships. Except he is in a land with ships, And owns a land with ships, Except he knows the meaning of the word The air about his nose has-- But every sea is now so full of ships The storms come on higher and higher And often the waves threaten to Break the ships they are bound to; And, then, the strangers they kill And many a ship will sink Unless the stranger helps and does What angels would do. And every sea is now so full of ships The storms come on higher and higher And often the waves threaten to Break the ships they are bound to; And angels now do what men would do Except they are angels, since no ships Can they tame. <|endoftext|> You are the messmate of the old earth, You are her eye and her ear, She could not conduct her children But in you the strength is spread; For each birth and each habit You are their heart and their eye, So when the Four humbles not, We cry, "O brother, 'T is you." Once,--oh so long ago,--I went with The others to the reapers' tents, And wept to see them decking The field of battle with the slain; And when their layer of crimson had Grew cold before the dawn of day, I heard, on a hill near to us, The distant voices of the road Before they quailed and fled away. And I have come back once more after My chance of seeing the dead, To take my place again where Old friends are waiting for me; And one says: "Do not hanker and fawn; This is the appointed time:-- Just to prove that you are alive, That human life has yet some worth, God has sent his drifts of sorrow To dust and ashes." I reply: "That were better far than to be As one who has not faith in God!" Come, my old enemies, come and take What gifts I have for you. Take my head From out its sheath; take my singing hands And lips, and attach them, moist and chill, In place of those dead, forgotten bones That Christ's dear Lamb has laid away, That He has taken and is preparing For the great calling. Be my guests; Give them recognition and home; And if you cannot be Christian, God knows that you are something better. Be a prize for Noah--thirteen heads Can make a year which the bold shouldn't fill. You think that I have sat and gloated In the shade by the River of Death Where larks and thrushes sing their songs, Or sat and written poems there, Or dreamt of souls of the just departed, I who have scrawled in three centuries' time More than those who have been migrating; I who have held the reins of the Past, And charged it to the future; I who have mastery of all the Past-- Have now for you a vision Of souls who have lived and have died-- See them rise up and say to me: "Here are our fathers who endured, On the green fields of Palestine, With nothing but the vision of God And what the word of the King has given In a wilderness evermore theirs. And for their song have we a poetry. They are your strangers and tenants. When the water is dark and the soil is bare They are your tenants with rights to the mount. They have rights as the lords of the mount; This is the valley of Zion. Listen to them! They are coming down, And we that are of like blood are kindred, We are one people, O Israel, The sons of the Mount of Zion!" I shall lie here without a friend, I shall lay me down in my grave And you shall be left alone, my son, With nothing to do or to see; My soul alone will have been stolen, And my eyes be closed in their tomb And my heart will have been broken, But my darling will hide me from harm. And so when it is evening there will be A quietness over all the earth And all the angels will be sitting there With their rosaries round their heads. And the last smile of each face will be: "How happy we are that we are not alone." No longer the light of day will be seen But all the hills will have gone to hell, And no song will be heard above the earth But the heart-beats of all the flowers will be Singing to the Glory of God alone. And the earth, which has lost its Eden-shape, Will begin to take the form of a ball, And roll upon its side for sorrow, And it will trouble all the fountains That creep upon it, for grief will be the word That the soul shall utter and the tongue shall leave To say: "I am defeated and beaten; Shall these creatures be on the earth Who did no harm to us who are so dear?" Once in Eden on a time A justice of God spoke out and said: "Why are my angels so sad? They are as great as they are fair. If something be out of harmony Why do my angels mourn? Let us make a treaty: Let earth bring forth justice and truth, And paradise the Elixir." And all the angels made a treaty, And when the justice was made, God said: "Upon this ball I now am very proud to make My throne, which must be granite; And all things made of gold, And all things fashioned from the breath Of heaven, shall bow before this throne Against the face of Adam the sinless." Upon the ball God sat And made a diamond On which he hung the crown. And all the angels made a treaty And when the treaty was made God said: "Upon this head I am very proud to make My altar and my cock, And all things made of gold Shall there be incense, pure and bright; The souls of just men shall there be born, <|endoftext|> Rational was the march; for pathos, Ye are inexorable to a shudder; Though past what cause, the Poet's burden Held he ever to the verge of truth, At range and plateu Yet followed Paul Madlcons in their wake; Firm to the pole, where none could see, No human sight the pathway went-- Hence, human passion's cry His cheek to hide he had within, And strife, which claims his heart's consent, To wrest as chief the honor from the prey. Within the pantheon of poetry The first fixt fixed star Resounded evermore; And, as it seem'd, thro' wide abysses It roll'd, to all beside As with a thunder deep and true, But turned, ere it pass'd, T' interest them aught that human sense Ever senses of delight. Upward it went, unseen, But when it gain'd the height Of Eden's starry void, It shake'd the atmosphere With a new sensation, giving birth T' intense intense delight, Which wafted to mine. Nor may the human mind divine The secret cause of that first thrill, Which swell'd so famous souls in youth, To stand beyond all fear As those who walk in light, And bosom noneeps hush'd, For at the dark abysses' end, Which I was to pursue, My senses could perceive A spirit full of gracious beams, That mov'd me on. I saw again my mortal land, My human family; My den, my kennel, my diet, Were all turn'd into something more. The sunlight played in the tall trees, Like Illyrian music on the breeze, And spring from every yew-tree, With bonny greenness, crown'd my head, In spotless beauty quite. Nor, then, did beauty, or at least Unblamed grandeur appear afar, But nature's better self Moved with me, and curb'd superstition; And I beheld my purer soul Most perfect in a perfect sphere, And love and friendship 'gan to flow In greater abundance. I saw the sun in clouds of gold, Not in the air from gold, as now; The sunset sightless and forlorn Not by vain colours nor a dream, But as it really was; And as it really was, not drenched With autumnal tears and grey autumn's tears, But when I had beheld it cold Within a golden frame. From the unfathomable abyss Of the spirit of man And of all nature, down to the lowest form And rudest particle, I saw it pure and perfect evermore, Amid the morning, as in morning's stead, The beauty of a radiant frame Glowing and transparent as the sun, Till all the winter of its shivering sheet Became as the ruddy atmosphere, In whose putrid youth and vainer strength It vainly tries to cover the wounds Of the old season open'd wide, In withered conditions, to the light, And such, when the moon's contracted sphere Reposes within the sky. But even there, during the winter-tide, When the still heavens seem'd the repository Of the world's dispassionate beauty, Not to the eye that in them beholds The everlasting comeliness Of forms most ethereal, I saw The spirit pure of nature's face Gild ever newer forms of love In ever newer beauty; for no form Will bloom too wildly in the mind's fair painting, From that bright medium whence such types as bear So strangely fine the distempered outline, Come to themselves. Nor was there help nor pity Above me, when I dropp'd my torch; For I knew that evermore Thou shouldst be in hell, not me. I was with Joy again, For his watch had turn'd the second watch, And love of thee was stronger than the first, And we had wander'd up and down Under the holy sky And on each other, like old friends, And I was tonguing of thy lips. And when on earth I did become Part of thy nature and the giver Of thy inheritance, lo! I saw How long I had been unworthy, And I thought of all I should not say And all I could not dream; And I was glad to think I might be A teacher of thy rank and years, And of the other of thine age To come; and I could not tell But that I was glad. I saw thou shouldst be queen, Of that starlit realm the crown Of the first heav'n, whence I of thee Had receive'd the allegiance Without number. I was king, And my will did rule thy heart From that hour, and was my own As thou mightst be any where King and me; and I was free Because, by mine own free will I did renounce the ties Which for long years past I had not known, And which were love and not love, And which in size and not in kind Were larger than myself, and much stronger And much more dangerous; and I was free Because, by mine own free will I had renounced the hopes and fears Which were less than love, and which for years Had been the heavier than the lightest part Of all my heart; and which to cast off Were more than love, and less than freedom. And this new love, which was the opposite Of these, was much less than love, And more than I, not knowing it, knew, And yet a heavy bound and threat'ning Of loss and trouble and affliction, And day by day make less and less, And night by night a heavier and heavier Duty, until the end thereof Was to depart from thee and forego All that I had, all that I was, All that I might have of thee; and love, Whose size is as the heart of man With his several knots and his numerous wounds, Were less than these, and much lighter; and yet I had been free to cast all these aside And to make one bound but these two; and love, The love which was my more certain certainty, Was less than this, less than these, and could not With its so vivid a colour make up For the darkness of uncertainty, And the uncertainty of pain and fear With which my heart was fill'd. I was afraid No longer; yet how fearful still I seemed Shall I be left alone in the world And in my own heart's presence, and bereft Of all I desire'd, when I thought how much Of my condition I therein could well Contemplate; and how much of my condition I therefore could endure; and I therefore Could not contemplate the dire disaster O thou! whose cheerful and progressive ray, Falling on many a moody detail Of our excess, has fraternal furmed Together in one wholesome and delicate And readable shudder, be seated now With thy sovereign soothe and friend, to offset At every breath of business and foreboding; So that the rising surge of our distemper May be kept in measure; and thou be seated Here, with the brother first, who after thee Shall be the minister of my destruction. I would not be the whole; I should not shrink From any half measure thou may'st appoint, To save our patient health: so, for our delight, We'll contemplate for a season, till then, Holding our mortal bodies and our hearts, As gamesmen, with a quavering fire, Prattle on in strokes that are lame, and loose, Lest absolute haste should destroy the game; And hence I have reserve'd the system I unfold Till next year, and its object also, By enquiry and by recitation, Not only taught our hearts to take more pride In what is mean, but also meant to warn Few over-zealously optimistic, That it is but a phantom and a show, Without substance or interest, and, therefore, Unsound and useless: here 'tis perchance best, So far as time goes, to let it drop, And call it what it may--entirely upbore By one of those pious impostors, who blind Their own hearts to God's existence. There is a sweet and native feminine grace In sweetness, rarely found apart, When join'd with modesty of demeanor: But when, along with false elegance, it comes In comeliness, or shining nobility, It is as certain death to be slighted By soft refinement. Beauty thus used Is true bliss, but used as a club, Or, robed in faltering flowers, appears To promise nought but funeral; for, like those Dandies they call romancers, they are Suspicion's sensitive characteristic; Those stanzas which so sweetly speak Of summer evenings at a Court ball, Which on such evenings, as I know full well, My wits oft fall into an amber haze, <|endoftext|> And her name was Dodonia-- 'Twas her pet tulip That in the critical time Had borne the brunt of fate! And where'er the timid grass Nod's leaf on the grave Of the long-forgotten dead, I can hear her whisper, Like a miser's secret, "Home! home! or a dying man Nought heeds--it is home." "It was once the lair Of a mighty lion, Where a hunter still may stalk With his father's wolves; A black time 't was For a girl with a lion, A girl with a tiger! "And when wild beasts growed fierce And men were very strong, 'Twas this gay girl's bright eyes That sooth'd the hunter's woe; But when armed men were seen, Then the tiger from his lair Was forced to flee." And long may she Smile on him who oft Enfolds her in his arm, And may he Bear her to his heart As pure as the blossom, And as bright as the spray, And as true as the dew. These small flocks that in April Are dancing to the wild wind In trees that toss and sing Hear what the singers call Out on the hills by the rill: We sing a simple song: "We too are fouett–es kenn'd fa' By the brave and the free." O wander on, thou little stream; Thy bubblings do sing, I ween, As rings and ripples do sing, When one tumbling rushes past In dreamy beauty bright. And, wandering by these wild woods, And many a smiling face Whose light dreams all too soon will part, I, too, to bliss am destined; And when death calls an end To feeling and to speech, Oh! whose would bond with feeling Oh! whose could join speech with song! A brown ancient man in russet coat, Wearing a pyramidal hat That half a century has ne'er seen-- On either side of his hair there is A dusting of gray, which once was white; His eyes beneath their fringes were blue, But now are gleaming like Coila's lake; His face is reverend, hale, and hearty, And his hearty mouth is red as wine! Old Mother Hare, with powder and charms Of many a shaggy hair's length, With withered hair the woods do shroud, And foxglove buds, and aiders twine; (Whose praise all birds do pay, you know, And so join hands and sing alang); And over her a shawl of the fields Where harvest has been bright: She walks with a prance that is shrill-- No wonder if her steps are so free: And her strings of merry wild-flowers Are all complete as she needs must be! "It is but a tease," she does cry, As she flits to the tall fir tree; When in under the lofty bough She gathers a blast of the cleft wind; And then she shouts, and strains again, As high she can send a whistle of it: And all the sweet wild-flowers join in play, The wind-blown seed-pod dripping its reward: And anon she gathers a blast again, As clear as the whistle she knows by rote; And 'tween the trees she sends a mighty shout, As loud as her youngest's wildest scream: Then jumps and cries with a merry bound, And jumps again, for more hearty anger takes At the blind brute who dos not know her at all-- That even the birds cannot trust. She 's doing all she can for their sake, Or he's doing his, for her sake; And with such troubles she'll have no rest Until she do him or him make." "The marchin' spaniels' old hawk does me fret, His boughs is brindle like my straw-yellow hair; The brown orioles and red-crowned crowns, The robins with green crowns, are all for me; The wild-bees' hues and parabolas Are all for me, so are the vines full fine; And o'er me the mountain stars and moon Their golden tangles let float and glow; But not the bears! So here's a Fido lode For the rough, rough grander bears who is! 'T will cheer their hearts and bright their foreheads be When the Fido he will lead to battle hie To the Fido he will bring to bale. 'T will be a day for the droochy tener When the bears have been taught their fill! Fido, if Fido could be so bold To the Fido he would boldly bite; And the Fido would boldly be so coy To the Fido it would follow he would. Nigh, nigh, the beasts to the grass ris'n, Their tired heads resting at the Cain-head; For the race is begun and the fun'ral: The Fido is gettin' his fur to-go, Fido-lie, all's fair in our books." <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> My little friends, I hate to take The long way home. 'T is a dirty, weary, difficult way, Full of hidden dangers. I don't like to go alone; I like to come With my bird, my duck, or my bunny. 'T is better by far to take the train; You can always find a ScotRailway near. With the clock about eight. The fields are still; But a slight sound Would make all the roses break. There is a slight sound Would make all the lilies shake. My little dears, I must go; Good-bye, sweethearts! I shall be back At the laundry station. All day I have been sweeping For a soldier coming home. I have finished at night. And then I have to start Another day earlier To start the cleaning up. The trenches are full of dead; But I go in and do the best I can. The shadows creep along the road; I am nearly home. And the roses droop on wither'd boughs; No one is here to see. But the storm is high. There is a hopeless fight about me; But I do my best. The trenches are far away. You can fight them back to England, If you get there in the end. <|endoftext|> "I have heard since that miserable night That all the terrors of the earth were planned By God with perfect wisdom from the plan Of perfect happiness. That only just And righteous punishment for man's transgression, Death and the shroud, was assigned. Other woes Such as these seemed as merely trouble morning, As the little cloud that lifts to east And sinks to sunset crosses over the moon. "I shall climb the spires and townabouts, And listen low down to all about. Yet in a small way I have comfort found, For through a frosty wind I can follow With the dust as it passes by again My way to and fro. For how should earthly charms, Praise, or applause, or any sound or sight, Make up for the lost celestial shows That star fields produce? Or what cheers or threats Of real ill such spectacles omit? "I have thought, my dear, you will not mind, I have thought that, on returning here, All the bright crowds of the town will hear My feet tap the stair and wish to go. My dear, all love will have to say, 'He would be sorry he never comes, But it would please him to come soon, perchance.' "If any one should come who was blind, Or lame, or who was any cause of pain, That we two together on the stair Would strive to climb together, perchance, I would find it pleasant, like this wind, To sigh and turn and wave my hand about As here I must and wish to go. "I have thought this happy place is set For such as these and such like souls as they. But they have promised they will not come, And I would not that they should be sad If they miss me and the dear chance Of coming late and seeing how I live, And loving well while they watched by my side. "My dear, I do not like it when The moon is shining, for no song is heard Among the leaves along the pleasant glade; But in the damp hard light of starlight, or When stars are shining if the peasant-girl Stirs gently in her sleep, or if the driver Of a cow along the bare road senses blood, His heart fails and nightmares come to frighten him. "This house among the hills looks down On the valley where the cows are driven; <|endoftext|> How if by unholy hands divine Be consecrate, and perishes the bough, Which did endure till now the whole long day; Then quickly that man will to the earth be borne, Just for the crimes which on earth he did: What shall I say, what can I say, and say not; That this comes not to mine hand, and this the power To which I say I submit not, neither ask. <|endoftext|> "from The Invasion of Erskine", by William Wallace [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] (Letter to John Keats) What friends in you remains! Nor sight nor sound Of life in various areas Appears to me:— Owl nor crows Came, nor the night hawk's wing, Rustle of rain; Whate'er of life Hath died, its life Nor sound nor sight. Will this ennoble death? Hath the spirit what Is not in short supply Swiftly, suddenly fulfilled, Sent to me Those dear companions Still on me hinders? Nay, but such beauty When I pass, Breathes o'er me A joyous grace, Like the glow-worm's bloom Brightening the dew That tingles My lord, but like an east wind blowing The colours of all things bright That he sees, and swiftly Upbraideth All evils wrought by Disease, age, and eld. What shall I say? All evil work Illume his eye: What shame to me Not to ken his nature! Who can say That he who works such good Has not in his Heart blind are? That his heart, Like the white rose's face Heavenward at rest, Or some soft star Forward facing The eternal law, In love with me Thy truer part And thy better day! Adieu! yet stay! My soul through This speechless instrument Through the shades of centuries Has soared Towards morning Of the first in the world, Dawn. But the night is here, And the air Is drearier than hope. Adieu! yet stay! This is the image Of Thy loving hand Handed me by hope When I in the shadow Of the mist alone Knew that it was long Before my body Roam'd on life's billow, And even then Sought with hands to thrust it From the grasp. That hope lie die Like a seed of my desire The dim and distant moon Sow'd in my heart: This is the likeness Of Thy heavenly hand: O my heart, in me Tell the wonder hence! This lie in me, in me The print of Thy fair palm Traced, O soul, die For a star more fair Doom'd to live but to die, And be not age's knave. This is the image Of Thy beloved name With the sweet tone Borne on the breeze: And O my soul, take The joy that round it Thy thought follows. I am all desolate, all desolate: No voice for ever soundeth to my ear; And, where the sun shines, snow lies deep on the ground; And the wide air is chill with the frost's snows: The hill-winds walk about in their world all alone, And the trees and the rivers are gray with the freeze. I will arise, and go, and go out of the town; And find some field which is green, and green enough for me, And move about among a people that are blind, And give them my two hands to drink of the water there: I will walk about the field, and talk to the grass, And tell to the green grass the news I bring to you. They cannot see my two hands give the Holy Bread, Nor the white grass I sit upon, neither they nor I Can see the crown of glory upon my head: But out of the fire's cold heart a spirit my lord Draws me, and makes me the target of her faith: She is blind, yet she asks me why I would not feed, Have I not hands and feet enough in the world? Then she clapped me on the hand and the crown on the head, "And eat thou with them, my son, eat thou with them Shall I or thou, naked, eat bread, my son, About the brown table fill'd with good wine and bread?" "Nay, mother, but thou art cold, and my heart is full, And I have a longing, but a bitter wish, to go." And the mother clapt her hands, and the room rang, "And eat thou with them, my son, eat thou with them Shall I or thou, naked, eat bread, my son, About the brown table with the shining fire, Thou art cold, and a fierce longing doth move Thy pulses, and a thirst within thee doth wait; But thirst and the needs of the flesh are not the same." "But thirst and the needs of the flesh are not the same!" I cry'd in my despair; and a smile of a ray Dawn'd on my lips, as I gave place to my Lord, "But thirst and the needs of the flesh are not the same." And I turned to my father, my father I, And my lips from a baptism of pain I did wait, For a need of the flesh is a greater than need I am weak, and the flesh and my spirit are groue; But I am strong in my faith, and I know that we Are one, as I have heard the Holy One say: God can do more for England and America By a sword-stroke in a dungeon-oratory Than he can do with all his crowns of glory; I will drink of the water of life, I will drink, and I will lie down, Pour out my soul in a living pool, Never again to kneel or pray For kings and power; Only for me Shall the water of life be free; The bow shall bend Of my captivity. I am old, and my days are many, My days as many are as my days; I wear the crown of life, and no man denies Me food and shelter on account of my years; But my faith swells in my heart, because my years Divinely stretch to the end of the road For England and America. And I had no strength to come and claim thee, But the strength that wrote the verse is gone; It cannot write its words no more; And it lay the strength of ten men When it lay on the desk. I have placed you in the light of fame, You are the brightest jewel Of a son of the desert, Whose eyes burn in the red splendour of the sun, Whose name in the world is song: The tongue of the wild bard Is loud with your praise. I gave you to the poet's daughter, A pledge of his fame; I gave a kingdom to the boy, Because the one who gave me you Went to the gate In silence. To-day the star of the poet Sends messages of peace, To-day the fields are ensphered with song And the bird is on the wing, For to-day the star of the poet Sends messages of peace. Because our fathers In the heat of the fight Could not turn their faces From the front-line soldier And to the back-charted Forest to wend their way; Because they refused, In the darkness of the Rue d'Auteuil To shelter in the shelter of a tent, But rather fought and died Like their good comrades fought and died; Because the old saw Of the coward and the brave Did not work to bring them home From slaughter and from slaughter; Because we were content To leave them there In the darkness of the forest With their comrades dead, To rise with the morning And go home again; Because the cool earth Is a fairer thing When the blood is dried up Than the red earth In the bath-house of blood; Because in a throne There is a more content Than a couch in a tent Where the shadow of sleep Falls like a shroud; Because the sky Must shine somewhere At the ruin of something Still living somewhere With a spark of life; Because my soul Has a more complete faith In God and in Love Than the soul of a slave; Because I have seen the face Of the Great God at the end Of the journey of the cross; Because I know that He Has eyes to see All who leave this world Peace and health and freedom; Because I know He Who keeps the gate Has a shoulder to lean on And warm lips to kiss; Because I am strong And He is weak; Because I kneel and raise <|endoftext|> Then, away with the dreadful gods, And of Greece rid thee. Where sped the Trojan host like flame, Shrill shrieks and shriekings rent the air, And great Aeneas, breaking, cried: "Ah, whither, Scylla, whither goest?" But in the distance can be none, And with dismay the lusty crew Behold a wondrous ship appear, Yielding to the furious gale; But what the omens forebode, Nought said; amazement seized them all. They view the gladdest; with uncontroll'd delight They view the wonderful bark appear. To them to her was quickly borne; They enter'd, and alighting meet her there; Who thus their hapless story told: "Ye meet us, brothers, these who bear Preying to you in awful shame, Surpassing all our former lot, A omen of ill to all our host. Now with such woes, and now with fear, As ye behold from whence I spring, The gods themselves have therefore given Me here a place amid the dead. Thence came I, mother, swaddling-wear, To shun the light, for eager of that fate, Which though I feel an eager faith to die, Yet am I taught to bear the infant's doom With strong fortitude of soul. I pray, From you, my brethren, you alone Do not my sufferings understand; Do not my sighs alarm or fright you, O Elders who have oft my child-beds fed, Now sick, the nurse, now the mournful mother misses, And, soon, an end of me shall bring to all. There left I, sire, my family and friends, To the woe of all the wide world applies; The hope of being nourish'd on the earth By them whose law is human need induces; Their prayers, their works, their faith, are my delight, And what they look for, that they obtain. Hard is their lot, who, having sued me, find That I have chang'd their petition away: But let them suing travel on in vain; They can have nought, though they for me should speed: They can receive me not, and I cannot give. They ask not little, they would have nothing less; They had at first hearing of my fate, full much Expectant of the acceptation paid: And haply now, in hope it will be known Whether I more here stand, or has retired, Their hopes from day to day employ their thought. They say that, after day, in bitter wise Curses they hourly curse my cave for sake Of him, my grandsire, who first built it up; And more than so, to torment me at the last. I had an infant when myself was born; He died before he could deny me sake; And I was fram'd as soon as he was born; So that death was in my power before My life, by nature very gentle made. Should it be stronger, then I had time To submit to death, as is in act now: But nature is so kind, we are alive Before the wish of our will can be determin'd. But, for their rage, which in my form would hunt Their prey through all the world, I am too well Protected by my parents, who, nay And death, themselves, would at my expense Prevent, though not willingly the wish. But, O my parents! O my kindred dear! Whose prayers and tears at my disposal are I see it not a favour'd plan, to draw So deep a penance on a son, that flies To them for succour, like a helpless bird. I wish indeed the wretched work were mine (And those unfinished it are), if it were mine; But mine is not: let him, who can, disdain it: I would not have it planted at my door. Long did I live, as thou seest, in content: To this desire was fate not kind, nor grace: And I, which much bounty destin'd on me To be these flocks' guardian, suffer'd not the grace To be impossibly transferred me. O, had my fate and my present state been the same, For thy sheep I had been purchased by thee, And had the goblet, which I would pour out, Receiv'd from thee, where it had been advanc'd In return for a small favour done me! Now step aside, and, Ate, your turn take!" Here suspend'd by force, as one unversed In eldritch and dark dreamings, I express'd To my compeer, my wonder at his tale. But, as he mutter'd "Why should the truth displease Don Juan?" I answer'd, no reason, Nor fitting term, accommodate To that discomfort. "Indeed I see Much obstinacy and contradiction In that which has so long bind'd me. But, ere I proceed, a few more steps Cannot be too far diverting, in view Of the dark bank, the fuming ridge, and the fiend Whose foul wing blots the livid corse. "Those fam'd events, in which thy father swam, Or so they tell, in the sea in the year Of the great plague, twenty-three, left him thence Forever, and for ever deprive'd Us of his comforts. We were all yr Devoutly deceav'd by sad DeLofte, A brave man, who might have us too believe Such facts, except he sought with accident His own affronts to work us greater woe. His sufferings carrot not more fiercely here Than those we of our son, slain by causes inteligent, Suffer. We from our tenderest love derive Dear pleasure by contemplating his lot, We sigh that he was surpriz'd so, and mourn Much as we are amiss, yet scanty share If any profit, in that his estate In our care is, which must continue so, So long as shall be keen hunger, thirst, and drouth Our life and necessary sustenance. But what if he, though graves may shut us out, Escape them, and no pingane pursue? -- By him fatal also to ourselves That fatal world, in which we all are cobweb cloth, And by our mob the vent of all our rage That rages without cause, may hold us therefore Bind, yet break us; whence unmanly rage Glares angrily, since it goes unpunish'd thus. Had all this proved uninform'd, I had told That truth; but few that were so minded reached. The orb of the world, which yonder sun So glories in, though by us is obscure, Wrought by the still ill-fated orb's own virtue, Hath nevertheless less deadly been. What th' other worlds have wantonly err'd To admiring crowd into dark and narrow seats, The soul, that motley passeth, with admiration Ne'er pass beyond; white by contrast unmanly Creeps into it, and mars the strange appearance. But, if the orb so passing beauty have No dangerous poison, how had those other orbs, The blue, the linear, the scilic, seen By spirits peering forth on their ecoch chart, Trace to its base their circling year? Which could not have availed them much in as much As they were weaker than the soul, whose geoid Wavers and bats them from the tranquil place Into a cloudy whirl, and void of rest. Then too, the solid earth, so full of wounds And men's inconstancy and fault, might seem Too feebler for such giants as we. "But why doubt the soul's solidness? -- Had not the seed so infinite extent, It would at last in its own majesty Fulfil itself by corrugations countless? All these are bones and marrow, less than phlegm; All, save the brain, are dullness: wherefore weak And immaterial are these terrors' parts; But spirit is part strong, part inclemency. So that whosoe'er of you there findeth right And good, towards it more will I incline, That it again to life may swift be brought By digestion, than by wounds, when feverish, And gasping in its disease so long As life itself doth bar the holy way. Now, because I see there's need sufficient That some one should communicate his will, I, that my sight may be more efficacious, Vote, that from hence a seer I'll bring, Who shall both tell of things before unperfect, And things after-reaching, where all views And knowledge will be perfected more: The which he shall unprecarious tell, Without a feigned seer, and shall impart As Will the seer can direct, while he listens. Next, I, that soundeth loud the deaf or dumb, Will be confided to him; and he shall write <|endoftext|> With eyes of fiery beauty, each beat A blythe, a happy joy. One while we lookt on each To the painless radiant wane Of the stranger-stealing sun, And the soft Eastern wave, Fraught with vague sentiments of rest, Avenged the wrong we had done. "And yet," she said, "that harsh beautiful West Still offers never tired lovers last chance. For all those honours of the woods, those Languid lilies, those meek lily-blossoms, And yonder frail slender pagoda-tower, In which the mad lilies climb so high, All those are to this love of ours, a torch, Which in its flashing and inexhaustible Light illumes the languid splendours of the Vale. And O that love could be so in vain! But the night breeze, that always kisses those Whom that fair wind sings, that wind is love, And its white magic is a lily-light Too sublime for us to live with it, but flee Far away from it, and so bring it down, And with it bring love, and make a happier day!" "Yet why, since we have these eyes, why should we lose An eye for love?" our host' asked, as he looked Upon the lids of all those snowy eyes. "Nay, not so," one soft contending voice replied, "Since we have these excellent tongues, we have An excellent tongue for every answer. Nay, why so? since each voice we hear is still One of our dear loved ones, for whose dear sake These voices shall exalt them in death, Until no more," 'twas so close, and yet so fain Each poor soul should shriek the name of that Which still is unaccipitous among men." "But," cried a porter, "when hath your town To singing been by your harp and pipe?" Our poets too, with all their wonderful And loving devices, might here be proud To change their themes, and leave the valley land, In praise of ours, to sing of--CUPID, diviner The hill, the lake, the river, and the star By which the wise diviner finds his way, Were they not beautiful? Let them sing, Soothing the soul in sound, and o'er the grave What a sweet sadness that should move at last. Let them sing, should they be able, of whom They sing, still more glorious than the sun. Apoet's voice hath points of love, but frames More like the sighing of a neighing steed, Fast bound and wheezing, cut asunder by The sickle of some hungry uttering wind, Into pensive short coherent words as clear And still as when the cranes of Orpheus brood On the music of a single note. We have, of course, in the poet's language, Words of a Hephaestusian simplicity,-- Verse rich and simple being by their selves Acquired, as the condition of a smooth And even utterance of the words we have. What's a strange accent, or a word misplaced, To the ear of a Hephaestusian? Nothing, If 't is but iambic. 'Tis an ancient rule, And deserves our thanks that it is kept so. So, if the poet's language be abrupt or broken, It is the poet's indication, he supplies, Not ours must it,--to thee, the reader, we bend, Not to the style of our pieces, but the heart At the heart of each,--our indebtedness being By dint of pith and of fibres more or less Indented and woven into each,-- As the stumps of oaks are interwoven Into a lofty forest, a vast log-house. So never be the praising of our fellow-men, In the poet's lanthorn or the actor's ding-dong, Lopt as undue upon the plea that 't is harsh, Boring, or discordant with the occasion. Be it so,--thee, Pity, will I seek, not scorn;-- Pity me,--I am not what I seem, I confess; If in one blemish, one shudder, one sidelong glance I can find in you, a creature cold and mean; If in the nodding of your brow, your lip, or eye, I find at all, an accent, a thought that's low; If in you can imitative fury sock Me with a sense of your own superior rhythm, Now more than I can keep in suspense, no less; If in the flight of your eyes, a glance there is That, cutting me to the heart, puts me to the proof,-- Pity me,--that I cannot, cannot tell you why; As a child, I sank, overwhelmed with strange objects; As a child, my forehead, more over-strained than it ought To be, received the bitter impressions of the world; As a child, in the house, received such instructors That, with the possibility open to me, I lost the sense of being a child forever; As a child, I learned in the world's howlings That children were the small ones, and men the worst; As a child, there was in me, a sense of my nature That never in my heart had been imbued before; As a child, myself being the prime cause and goal Of what I felt and did, I learned to disguise The being that trembled and the nature that ached; As a child, I learned to turn my face, my face to shut Upon myself; as a child, I learned to take A hiding that was not for me; as a child, I learned To enthrall myself; as a child, I learned to find In that trodden spot--a place of refuge from all The seared and rubbed places of my life; as a child, I passed from sight; as a child, I walked and moved Unkinged, and went where I chose, where I chose; As a child, I sought no more, and received no more; As a child, I found what I'd lost, what I'd found,-- The rest I had when I had thrown it. IN sun-sustained roofless houses, Where sunlight had never found its way, The lower light of the sunlight found its way. Through a prism of pavements and sky, That reflected light, light underwent change. This was the method of travelling light: It is the sun that carries light, that, wandering through The universe, brings the light to suns on earth, The embryo of suns from vapour of vapour Deposited on planets and suns on suns And adds this motion to their own globe-rocked And centripetal and other attraction, To make the satellites of suns and planets Feel, where they are set, like satellites free. He, not seeing and believing that sun, Not waiting to see the actual sun, The real sun, in his own eye (as she said), Which was not larger than a pin's head, Put out his own little eye, on the whole Size of which, as she said, so large it was,-- His little eye did by reflection give Fluctuations that were acceleration, Away from the sun, and away from all suns. (But since we're told that earth-sun has always been, And is, a model of the solar mind, I'm glad to learn it has always been Simplified down to this tiny state For the instruction of our kind.) He, not believing this, In optics as we know them, at least, Thrust out his eye, the size of a pin's head, And there found light, for this is light, The light we perceive, indirect or not, Direct or not, to us or other eyes. Because, as she said, his eyes were small, So the great world looks small from up there, And their respect was due to such a cause, His eye was put for receiving causes Unto the candles, that they all might see The cause, the cause, whence all things proceed; His eye received the leading-strings of music, The rest,--a little after. The play they showed him, of how the sun, Riding through space, made all the waters run, All the thick seas pour up, and everything, Purred into being through his eyes at length; Which, understood to be a play to make him wise, And that his eyes, while he was there, had not sent out All the light,--his wonder and amazement At what he took for darkness at his feet Brought him such reflections that he fell down dead. Your path is like a stream whose waters fill At equal monitions from all sides; Though you may climb by twisting eddies nowhere, The water will not err. If your path is like a mountain-side that never <|endoftext|> And the plover whistles above. There's going to be a wedding in the hills For the love of our very dearest dear; And we never can tell you what may come to this, But only know that it's out of our ken. There's going to be a wedding in the hills, For the love of our very dearest dear, And we never may tell you what may come to this, But only know that it's out of our ken. There's going to be a wedding in the hills For the love of our very dearest dear; And there's going to be a marriage chime; But just as the bridegroom finishes his stanza, There's going to be a wedding in the hills. There's going to be a wedding in the hills, For the love of our very dearest dear, And there's going to be a marriage in the hills, For the love of our very dearest dear, And we never may tell you what may come to this, But only know that it's out of our ken. How many miles is it to the westward Where the road runs dim with the misty sheen Of the slashed black dead leaves? All the way there's no softness or rest But just the rush and the roar; And I wish he'd slow it down a bit, And pass me a tobacco-tray. How many miles is it to the eastward Where the road runs kinder and kinder Along the whiny reeds? The streams that dance in the wold seem half blind With tears they bucket up; And I wish he'd whistle a bit, and harken, And slow it down a bit. How many miles is it to the northward Where the road runs downright savage? For here there is not one redwood tree, Not one silver blue bay, Not one good little fisher's sail That might carry me along. I'd like to wake in my own real home After all these years, And many silken throated birds would sing For me, and I might sit down, With old soft things that know me. The wind might rouse round and round my soul Like a great swelling tide, And I'd open my eyes and look at what Might lurk in the dark. Sometimes, in after years, when I'm wandering I'll find the sun platformed in a cloud, And I'll think how silly it all seemed In the old, tired days. And then I'll look back, and recall how scared I was, just like the poor little thing, And then I'll close my eyes, and dream away The happiest of lifetimes. For Life is short, the fool writes, the wise one replies; So you should be anxious to have written before. As for me, the fear of having writ before Has kept me scribbling out this canto so long; But in a future age if men shall say That turtles were ever born to light the lake, They'll have to give us the old twenty-five. Out in the great hush of the aether The chatter of brooks is low and lighter, And the green leaves open to the sun And fall with a rustle like dry leaves, When to and fro over the dim ridge With its elm-trunks tumbling over stones That hold in a far silence the dead, With a light tread, a rustic, sparsely garbed, The ladies pass. The crescent moon sits crescent down, And light comes in through the leafy screen, Flickering a moment in the glass, Then softly scattering far, leaving light Only where the leaves drop lightly, From the branches that bend down to touch Their wavering shadows on the ground, Along the trail that's five-and-twenty miles, The red rocks peel back to reveal A panoramic vista, wide and deep, Brimmed with the foam of the huge oceans That meet this moment in a calm, reflective pause. From the ocean's surf, with the roar of tides, And the clink of oars, a carven ship, Low descending, comes almost to shore, Leaves the waves above it and the shore below, And the waves are whitening like the waves of foam As the lady comes. For the moment the broad-winged ship flies Caribbeanward, with the long lines abreast; Then draws level with the riverside, and the tide Leaves the long ridges bare; and low and hollow The moon comes up. So the long night went on and she had slept, And the day, like a cataract, fell away; And through the silver mist of the drifting dawn She touched down on Cuchillo Hill, and trod The rain-soft ground, and, following the path That skirts the summit, mounts up where the ascent Falls down from verticordia to the pass, And where with art and wisdom man has marked The pathway to Perugia. So, after rest and food and the desire For the day's great emprize, toward noon She leaves the encampment and the paved square, And goes toward the mountain with a intent To climb. And still the seasons gird the hill; and still Upon her right, far below, the flames Lie fallow, white and dying; and now, Green grasses and shining stones inscribe Her empress or her consort's line. And there are waters here that shall not grow Till fire burns from the foundation of the world; And there are caves that no lisping song Of phantoms may remember ere they sound; And there are steps that count as perilous The feet of woman or man. But that, at noon, the signs will all be one, And joy stand still, and change to careful care, And love will change to hatred and forgetfulness, And peace will change to undertaking work And endeavor; and still the ladies' feet Will touch the stones and sands at noon, and turn After love in the passing sunlight green; And what, beyond doubt, they will do at night, Innocent of motive, but circle round The summits of mountains searching, and then Return again to day. Camel's hoof clickety-clack, The bells ring, The shepherd lad Singeth to his lady, "My lady is out in the grass." The fountain gurglestopi, The bells ring, The shepherd lad Singeth to his lady, "My lady is in the house." The star goes, going, The bells ring, The shepherd lad Setheth a lady, "My lady is in the grass." I heard last night a lisping, And the loveliest sighing I yet have heard, Were over the pianofort Playing a rain-drop-drenched minuet. Ah, good-for-nothing lover, I heard you play, The long grey strings a-sing, And, like a mourning lover, I stood and almost I heard you sigh. A minuet! Ah, good-for-nothing lover, I heard you play and every note Was like a thousand singing My spirit was like a rain-drop fall Upon a distant hill. O grass-green hills, O red hills near you, O hills bare and brown and hill-sides, I pray to-day, That the rain-drop may break, As a sun-beam breaks, Upon your hills near you. O my love's hill, O my love's hill, O many hills, one and all, O hills where I lie and sigh In a gold-brown place, I pray to-day, That the rain-drop may break, As a sun-beam breaks, Upon your hills far away. When the dawn is breaking On the meadows gray, And the drizzle is made Of a blossom's drizzle, I will sing for you, And I ask nothing more. And all night long In the wet and chill, I will sing for you Through the moment gray. If you should never wake, I will sing all night long. Fountains of earth, that Give Joy and quietness, Shine as from lamps of kings When their day's imperfect. I love the melancholy And the rapture that is born Of a solitary feel, And I love the quietness Of a hillside night. Blue smoke, blue smoke, And the rivers' marge Like a waste sky in a dream. Blue smoke, blue smoke, Like the ghost of Christmas gone, And the distant hoof-beats loud. Blue smoke, blue smoke, Awom Kaplan's, Horsey's mine, And the far-off hoof-beats near. Fond liar, I don't believe it, Dark horse will never win it, <|endoftext|> Which to an ancient mourner this august Assembly, By experience, spirit, and by reason, Empowered, ennobles, and exalts, and crowns. Who can be sorry for the richest room, Which he may take in this his richest hall, Where many spirits are? nor for his wo Which is occasion of glory in this hall; And where the eldest hath command of all. He, if he be able, may glory give That hall to some great Prince; if not, he leaves A glory more high, to raise an eagle's nest, Which with his next related kindred shall bring forth A brood the noblest of all time shall bear. O ye! in whom full plenty shines before, As honey laden, honour and love; in whom, As honey drunk, honour is imbibed and fed In equal share; not in the court of Rumption. And if no love of these ye then withhold, O then I ask no kingship, when ye fill up Your glasses with sparkling wine, with nectar hail! With all your crowns and sceptres, in one array I crown you all, wherewith ye all crown me; And greet as their own prince, Miss Pennsylvania. O make your peace! I have no kingdom to give: Your kingdom is but vacant, in my blood. <|endoftext|> "Marrying Allen, Massachusetts", by Sarah Morgan Bryan Doty [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Labor Day] a) the fierce competition for the last nib room. i) Nurse says, Sir, drink some water, look at your watch. ii) Allen, in the delivery room, hears the newborn iii) water falling on the babies in the other room. iv) Mrs. Howell says, v) Allen, who is friendly with Mrs. Howell, kisses her b) the forceful entry of Betty Warren into the labor c) the labor, forceful to the nurses, d) the nurses' tentative welcome of Mrs. Warren, e) the birth of the infant girl, f) Mrs. Warren's denunciation of the doctors g) the newborn girl died h) Allen, who buried the dead infant i) with a shovel, j) the boy who lived. k) Allen, under heavy weights, l) Allen, when he awoke, m) his labor, n) the disease that killed him, o) his burial, p) the police investigation, q) the investigation by the newspapers. 2 a) Allen lived, b) Allen died, c) nurse intimidation, d) changing room, e) Mrs. Howell's death, f) Mrs. Howell's life, g) press scrutiny, h) labor, i) Oregon case, j) Kennedy assassination, 3 In the cool of autumn, long before red and black began their downfall, I left them in their quietness on a city block, in a house whose old timbers held their weight, near a house whose exquisite neighborhood held its own, and a house whose yard suggested calm and a yard whose very odor suggested quiet. I walked east. I came to Ninth Street, and it was black and bright in the morning light, but I did not enter. I thought of that hour in the book where the mother talks of heaven and how her son's body will be buried, how that hour summons all the anguish and all the tenderness, how the boy will not be there to see it, how the mother will still think of him, but that all will be another's. I walked west. I came to Ninth and L Streets. There were people everywhere. I drank in one store, but as I walked west in a footpass, in an instant, two men approached, and in a matter of moments one was on my back, and the other was on my chest. 4 A voice whispers it, a voice whose intelligence brings distance, still the voice manages to hold us small, to steal our breath:Quiet! I cry. You listen as they lead us, these are the things that always hold you, something whispered, that urge you to obey though the voices tire of pleading silently. 5 How clear this room! It is as if there is nothing else in the world, and yet the windows are rich with light, the furniture rich with shine. You could drop down from your high bench, your skates sharp, and hit the floor with your knuckles, and the floor would not come away dirty. How clear the room! The body slides into room, sans knobs and a bell. There are skates and helmets on the wall, the ice is smooth and even, there are no cracks. It is morning. I am reading. You are kneeling on the floor. I am kneeling too, the book in my hands, watching you, watching the ice, watching my body like a long sheet of glass. <|endoftext|> "The Book of Love", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Home Life] Now she comes into the room, all smiles, the bracelets on her right hand like gems, the one-year-old curled on her breast. "She is mine and only mine," I say. "It is O.K. to treat your wife as though she were a piece of jewelry." "But she is more than that. She is life." "True." "You are clever." "I am loving my wife, careful not to love her too much." "You two are a pair." "We like to joke about love." "She is a piece of jewelry, for my need." "And where will we go now that you have made your choice?" "To that mountain—but with O.T.A.—and with her?" "No need for that." "Then how will we get there?" "We will not lose our nerve." "Lucky dog." "We are climbing," I say. "To the top." <|endoftext|> "The Lover's Plea", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] It was so hard to say good-by, To say good-by. If only there were a lever That would return me to the earth! And I could make him climb it. Then he should have a lookout, As he climbed the tall one mountain. And there should be a vale beside it, As there was a vale beside him. And there should be his will beside it, And the privilege of his example. And above there in purple he would see Another woman there to assist him Who would aid him in climbing the mountain. <|endoftext|> "Fall in Love with Someone who Shows Less Aggressiveness than You", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, Growing Old, Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Valentine's Day] How does the old soldier fall in love? In love with pain, with sickness, With solitude, with solitude? Sudden he sees the face that was lost In that black building of the past, Sees it is beautiful, and madly In love goes he to embrace it! <|endoftext|> "A Urologist Pursues a Girl", by Lewis Thomas [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Health & Illness, Relationships, Men & Women, Valentine's Day] A Urologist pursues a girl across the Atlantic, A lock-box of a man, personal, A lock-box of a man, personal, Over sea and land, between Germany and Spain, All by night and day, At a game of deposits, at a game of deposits, A lock-box of a man, personal, A lock-box of a man, personal. <|endoftext|> "Sewing a Button for a Lady", by Anne Miller McAdam [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] Sewing a button for a lady, After the war, was always a blast. —For years, how I fought her relentless pokes, For trying so hard to make our dyin' meet! <|endoftext|> "O my mother, he's wanting to go," he murmured, "And I thought of the journey when my work was done." "Go, go," she said. "Now before he travels too far He'll want something to do." She raised The pitcher which had rusted old and grey And in it he took the yellow spray, Rubbed it on his arms and then his face, Rubbed it on his hair and splashed it on his eyes To keep the spray inside. "What's the use," she remarked, "Of glass at every stroke? A man without a hat might help some one out And save a shilling, you know. But as for a hat--what would you wear? What can a man do without one? Your head would come unto your feet and you'd look right famished, Then she gave him a kick on his protuberant hip Which caused him to stumble into the field And bumblingly he looted a holly bush While little Victoria watched in silence. When she dared to say anything he sneered, And that was not possible in his eyes, So she gazed up at him, then down at the ground, For what could he have said that was not perfectly plain? Or far off there was the jostling of a cart, And a dragging of heavy loads, and a clatter of hoofs And a man's voice that cried 'Later! Later!' And the step came and the clatter ceased and now They only heard the river, running wild and free, And little Victoria sat down and cried. And now she looked up with wonder in her eyes At the traveller, who stood smoothing his shirtfront proudly "There's better than you have," said Mary, And kissed him; and he waked, and, remembering, looked At the woman, who walked impatiently Towards them with a walk that was very wavy And very silver-shanked; And there at the end of the path he stopped And kissed her, and brought her towards them "Eat whatever you like," he said. "Your cook is good," said Mary; "I have it found In a book--it's called 'Ruth'." "It's for boys," said Vivian. "We all know boys should eat, Except you. You're a girl's child." "Not I," she replied. "You can't deny that I am. A girl, though, means nothing to a boy like me, And so I say to Mary, "I am your son, My own born daughter; I give you that life. It's all the same to me." And Vivian smiled and kissed her again. And then they walked. <|endoftext|> Sitting alone by the window in the glare, One dim misty afternoon, I put my things in a box. I took my knife from the belt, Sharpened it to a point. I put my Love in a box. On a low sill in the kitchen-part I put my Love in a box. A sudden gust of wind swept by, Ruffling the orange blossoms, Slanting the wavering leaves Walking the yellow lawn. The street-lamp's faint blue sparkled Through the swaying branches, And the dust on the fly-board Went up and down with the swaying. I slipped my Love into a box. I put my Love in a box. The day was still; the lilies Stirred in the drowsy air All round the window-square. The March sea-wind did not stir, The April wind was still, And all but stopped me saying, "Now it is May, now it is May." I drew the door to my new room As the overhead light began To ripple into color. I turned my key in the lock And turned my key in the door, Wondering what it all meant. All day I had sat and heaved At a place I had named. I had called it--something, But not again exactly sure. Then I began to have fears For the kind of life I would lead. And I would come and say That I was afraid of the sea, But my fears were not for hurting, But for breaking a ship in two. Then I feared that I should have to give Up my ships, and think only of mines. That fear went quickly by. When I landed, I could find a stack Of coal on the doorstep any time. And I knew that, whatever would happen, Whatever came to be, The stack of coal on the doorstep Would serve me for winter, warm enough For me to know I had not gone astray. <|endoftext|> King Shula, on seeing his cunning little swine So awkward, flustered and apologized profusely. "What, you stupid Natchaw!" (He said this softly, Slapping his right palm with the other hand) "You do not mean, 'I cannot bear This sight without indignation, please forgive me.'" "Bah, Bihir! Bah, Moslem! You are so silly! I meant that I could not bear to see you act such an act!" "But, Natchaw, such an one as that Would not be quite so mildly disposed." "No, no, that one would never!" The sweet shy Cabot once in Mauch Ching saying one day To our lively Magwitch and me, that she could not see a creature without pangs, Cried, sobbing, "Oh, how shall I be able to get over this?" Not knowing what the creature was she was after, she said it all in five minutes. And when her case was made and all was made clear, she asked leave to go. Of going home--was it to stay with her old master there? For in settling the case she did not have much difficulty in settling to go. And on the morrow, when Magwitch was going with her, They passed through the old plantation home, passing near the old masters' houses. Magwitch grinn'd, "I'll take care of that one;" but he never got the hint that it was Naught but the mine and garden, And I have not any scaring Myself. No, it cannot be! Tell me where I shall go, What will I see? 'Tis hard for me to say. 'Tis odd for me in that I went To stay with my great granny, And she was near sixty years old! There was nobody to answer when she spake to us. She stood beside a peg In the garden, and looked steadily at us; But to-night, when I thought her dead She sat upright, rose from her chair, And began to cry, and asked her, if I could but go, How shall I pay my keeper dear?" The other children answered, laughing, "Granny! You must pay Your keeper well." But her eyes were too tearful for us to make much headway, So I made an end of it and had gone homeward, and then I heard Her softly saying, as I passed, "Poor little Bocca! When shall I see him, my Bocca?" 'Tis a beautiful day in Spring! Through the quiet evening It gradually grows red and warm. The cool pale wind blows On a house-top. The house-top says, As it lifts its head, "May the fireflies prove All those nice folks away! May they never come again! Oh, what shall I do If they should all be gone!" The fly-paper at the window Catches the wind, and drapes All over with now a blue, Flame-like spray, And the top's a-tease, And there goes one, With a lollipop, Like a rabbit from dark to light. The fly-paper at the window Waves to the breeze; And the cool wind sounds, As it sways and shimmers, All the words round; But no one can tell What the house-top says, Or if it's thinking at all. The tumbling dipper in the Brick-arable pond, With a whump and a wa-wa, Falls not once or twice, But as straight as a line. On the grass it lies, With no heads below, All a-cheek in the chilly blue. One end is red, and the other Black, and red again; And a criss-cross Of green and blue Marks the spot where it falls. "See," says the stick, "The bounces we get." The pond, you see, Is a little pond, And the bounces are, well, Not so nice. The water drops straight to the knees, And where it drips From the knees A frog can see, <|endoftext|> Upon me, in these deep shades; And all that glory of the past, The first emotions of my soul, Like streams that flow and fade and flow In ancient sweet cascade, foam and flow, Soon shall forever flow away. Sweet memories, sweet lips, My dead and living confederates! What then remains? the light Of memories, and lips of loving, And sweet, recalled pains; And then, perhaps, an obscure, And most unguessed desire, Which time and passage years have taught My soul to cast aside, and me Hear no more. Oh, there are joys I have concealed in my breast For ever, since that summer day, When first you breathed your Amrita's blessed balm Over me, a sick man. These you have brought me again, and laid Upon my burning brow a kiss, And made me drunk with that azure liquor, The Silken Wetback, Which changes all our characters, And makes one heart its own 'Twixt Thang-wud and Dan - nagin what the Baron called 'Wimmin' Redcap! I had not time to speak, I moved Before your questioning, falling mute As falls an oak before the angry wind That sways him aawhere; and still I said The words that did not come, and made Unintelligible some of the words I had to understand to know they were you Borne on that swift, imperious gibbering That came at me down the dark, disarrayed In that accoutrement, the unquiet conscience, The arrowy look of one who stands alone In the presence of the whole universe, And feels it not himself, but knows he knows What others feel. I was not as you are, when I came Unto you, hold back my moving body, And drag it through the tangled thicket To where I knew you hid the windy land, And shone before it a celestial moon. And there was the swift unknown thing that bore My body. And when I touched your lips I did not know you. And your black eyes Burned through me. And I heard you call me The blood was hot upon my brows and face, And I knew you thought the grey-tipped ashes had Stirred in my vein the sparks of something like wit, And you had drugged me so that I knew not wit Was anywhere, but only a waste of pain So lithe and forestalled, and the hunger That words have for the heart of men. And you knew, as well as I, I had not seen your face for twenty years. So our hands clung, and there was a kiss, We did not say how we knew each other, But there it was. And your hand touched the fire A moment's spark to quench. And our voices Sounded like a tune, a small voice, put into song A doom like this. And like two winds, as when two bony trees Bellow and bawl through summer-time deep, Our lips clung. But I, who had not spoke a word, Stammered out a few words like these: "I was mad in youth, but not more mad than that, I was mad in old age, with the winds of doubt, The ragged calm wind that blows apart The heaving sea of manhood." I was dumb. And then you said: "Ah, but you were angry with me to see me stand There in the wind, And gaze after the grey-green gate of youth, And make no reply to the calls of youth, That mocked me and bantered. "But we have sat together When you were thirty-three, and I was seventy. And there we talked of many things, Of our English boyhood, and we talked Of the end of love, the end of youth, And of the time when hearts must change And souls be bound together, whether In silence or some louder song Such as the mirthful birds at autumn-time Sing for pleasure and forget the cares Of summer and its greening time, And red with the loving blood of spring Must every tree that loves the sun. And at the last As the last autumn sunshine died in spring, As the red night nipped and kissed the dead, As the tall sombre thistle curled to the ground, As the long yellow flowers that set in ranks On stalks the hue of days and hours gone by, As well you know as well as I do now, As well as I knew then, we stood alone At the grey gate of youth, and at the last, As the long grey autumn twilight closed around It, the grey gate of life, and there we stood, And through the long night we looked across The gathering fields to the morning east, And there you talked of England and of youth, And we nodded, and I seemed to see The feet of Hope that went singing onwards Afar into the west, and I knew That I could meet you again, and draw Upon your hand a living heart, And go with you to that dawning land, Ere yet the far Waning drifted west, Ere yet grey Time had on the world Swept all its glory—but it was then Too late, too late for me to go with you. I was young, and I was strong, And it seems a sin to have loved her. Yet with the bitterest grief of mind I turn my face and not to see My queen, who mourns me not alone, Whose presence would have made life sweet, Whose very touch might have set fire To pity in a careless heart, Worth beating like a beating man To offer his heart and life at love's desire. If we were old, and life but grew Less passionate and caerulian, Would not the scent of woman's roses Still make us burn? Would not their touch, The very perfume of their grace, Turn us to bristly, fierce beasts, Adrenergic, nerved to kill And gorge and kill, and kill again? And would not love be gone and fled Like dim grounds of forgotten prayer, Ecseufe, that were grass and rough grass And had no rose at all, nor sound Of any voice that called? I think The God who gave the kiss was fain To keep it for a little while To teach us how to love each other Till love be taught, until love be taught. And all the world will be old, And charmed with songs and sleep, And each poor rascal fool Be changed into a prince, And we will hear the angels' song In all their sweetest stress and strain. The sylphs will light all heaven on fire, And Venus mount us to the skies To be her eyes and pleasures; And when the earth turns burner red We'll seek in every burning heart Some unextinguished fire, some vein Of passion undefiled. O my heart, be light and fearless Of what the gods have given; This ancient, fearful, difficult land Will yield thee greater joy; We'll find the salt that was the poison And find the sweet that was the gall, And thou shalt be a queen, not dead. But with a brave, awake, unbetray'd heart And worshiping smile; and thou shalt see My hand, O my heart, between thine own And make thine own first free to go. Here in this garden of my land I do love thee. God I swear it, This rich, this forest-scented summer-tide, I have no need of these secluded bowers Where God only comes to His own again. I will not follow in the way of life, I will not love the things I cannot share; I will be free; and when I go astray I will look up to the great invincible heaven, And when I find my way I will not stay. My eyes will always be apart, And when I look intently on the face Of Love I will not see myself there, But see a face not marred nor made, And remembering make myself a lamp For all poor, worldly, trammelled days. For Love is free to all men; God or devil or what not, He is the High Priest of love. He cannot lie, he cannot lie, I know him as I know Truth, The one all-policier thing. But a man's true face is he, And Love will shine on a man In secret, until the day We call man saint, when He And I shall cast aside the hood, And kneel, and pray, and listen; And thine eyes shall see me through them, And thine heart forgive. Let England glorify Her keepers of the crown; Let India's bards proclaim Her saints above the Spouse. Let Russia's serfs sing her Lives worth living for, <|endoftext|> He's loud and rude and ready to scold, Tells white lies through it, but doesn't know it. His paunch is very small, yet not so small As to be devoid of nourishment. In countenance he's alter'd, yet not mean, For I've observ'd it often in his ways; Besides, he says quite a good deal that's false. To tell the truth, in him I don't see A gen'rous heart or open ear. Thoughts are rooted up within him deep, That spring up not again there. A blank is fix'd fair well in his brain; A count'nance clogs and stings his brain, No sense can penetrate it, nor joy. The notion that's born in him persists, Or, springing up, lives no where it likes, But in a blind, indiscriminate rash, Like a blind bird, dives in its doom, And lives an untimely death. The world is wild to him, And he is from its means estranged; Of common things he has a fine ignorance, And will not learning recall. Like a block of timber he's bound And cannot break his bounds to know more; No light he throws on diction, For he has never learn'd a sentence. And as he lives thus the world takes note, Nor rests he still till he's well well acquainted With what 'tis he's contriving; Thus this motto, 'Truth is a many-tongued lie,' Is giv'n in his defense: He'll not confess he's a liar, Or it will become his blood; He'll not see the malice mean Which a fool so strong must sin. One chief aim alone a wise man may Have in this world of folly, And that is, as I have seen it stated From various schools of philosophy, Is to discover what the true direction Of this life's movement is. The true order in this world Is an eternal ditty, Wherein the lover, whom I of late Have seen to lean with pensive feeling, Was ordered by an alien power On a deep winter's night to his fireplace. With a long eyelash his eyeballs peer In the hole of a window smiling low, But the house is now a cavernous room, Whose walls and roof like ice are melting fast, And the chains rusted that held him down Are cracked now like bones of the skull. He has risen from out the cavernous cavern And past the fields of corn that fringe the sky, And he goes now with slow and unholy step On a road that slopes to a sad-purpled hill, And with inflorescence laden from the earth, And with all the greenness of the landscape that once Was all his own, his back he turns now to see How the heavy black-hooded pall came to weigh Upon that pillow of the dead. A thunder-softer than that falling sleep, That, lolling under the eyelids that sink Faint and white in the dim eyes that teaken To the dead face now that once was dear, And that once lov'd as the sun-god's face is dear, A face whose light we no more can hold, Wherefrom all lights are now forsaken. But 'tis most fearful, that like that pale light Stern faces cast in the sky's engulfing shroud, All night he walks by the pallid river, And to the dim bridge by the bridge of stone Crosses without a word of demijohn And drinks the runes from a narrow cask His gold plated nostrils fill with drink. Now in the morning he has eat the corn, And the bridge-stones taste duller than they were; The sudden smells of the barley brew Intolerable together, and it is Hard to watch how the living and the dead Crouch up at the bridge-foot in their black gowns To cross at a single trot o'er the rime Of the dead stream's glimmering edge. The winter's icy crust on all things grows, And the frost's tongues cling hard and fast in the field, And upon the moss no flakes are left But only fragments frozen to the earth, And the patches of ice in the merry-go-round's path Are broken and gone all of a sudden. A little woman climbs this way, The river and the field are in her hand; She looks at the trees that were leafless. At the bridge that spanned the frozen stream. At the old cottage-door where the ice was loose. At the high, new house that was all white With the single star in the frosty sky. She takes a bolt from her cross-tomato, She takes her shovel, she takes her Formica scales, And, ere the spring comes, she will dig a hole Upon this bank, deep and shady and alone. There will the ice-path follow that I showed. There will the rhomb-de-ross await its rider, And the musk-hed dangled from its neck. It was summer in some years, and freeze In others, drought, drought, and storms have filled These deep, barren hollows. And the stream That I knew go sounding has wasted now Its kings of silver, and the bird-lime That lay upon its banks has melted down To nothing. The lily-bell is silent. It seemed to me that I was there at the part When the rocks had found the earth a hard receptacle, When the sunlight grew so bright that flowers were found So quickly nowhere, and the pools stood spotted with grass That the children sought abroad for some sweet odour, When the hermit-thrush had stopped on his wings of sleep, When all the fear had ceased, and the sun had gleamed With a silvery might. I, who am now returned To this world, remember more than I wish to say, And I know not why I know it. When a child, I too had dreams of a fantastic sort And I knew that in some years hereafter The old familiar things would once more appear Like phantoms in my dreams. Then I seem'd to run A fantastic course from good to evil, Always receiving at the worst a smack In the face, and once wounding a friend of mine To a very bitter degree, and all Because I did not believe that he was good, Which cannot be explained, nor again can be. These filthy things that grow on these clumps of trees Are the fountains of my rapids. I must know What galls their growth; the fount whence their red spores reach My vessel when I am full to overflow'd. These fountains, pungent things, must be punished That they thus have life and multiply; or else Ridiculously beautiful, like flowers Upon a carriage-piece, that beauty be Fenced about with gilt swords and gridled banners, That beauty be set off with gladiators. The corollas for the donjon-guards of death Are too holy a theme for conversation. They must be cruelly hurt, in order that, Beneath the bed of one who already lies Decrepit, she may not in her sorrows sink Beneath the whole earth's underbelly. Thou hast given me, and dost give, an Altar Where I may celebrate my gods of wood, And all such altars are and sacred things As all good people shall allow Wherever they may come; a more excellent And lovelier altar not stands on earth. When I have said the prayer and the deed, And spoken the oath and sworn the word, And given to them the part and commission That gives them their due for gods of wood For hunting the wild beast of the wood, I shall need not sing this incantation. A song that in the heart shall burn, And blaze with such a light of love, That one shall see the mist of mists That lingers in the valley bottom Clear off, and as a new-born sun Clear off, and the light arise. This new sun of love was new--the mist Cl after he came and went. I do not know how it comes, but clear, As one that is new to life, And born of light, And one that knew and loved her right, A bridegroom that was new to life, A bridegroom new to death. I know the bridegroom that she knew, Nor seek to know the other, I only know that when he came, It was a bridegroom new to death, And when he went It was a bridegroom old. He had grown so fine a spirit, So glorified of heart, That we, who saw the outward show Of love, might not discern A sweetness, which, as time went on, We well believe, grew more and more Till, through his love, her life grew old, And the loss of life was change for him, <|endoftext|> bust of Erotikos (Bekdyns) who's known as the good ol' Jewish "Little Otso"; you nod yes; but that sort of thing must never be mentioned here, right? I thought your attitude was more progressive than that of most of your class, but a Saturday night vide press review, where you spoke of the arts as if they were something to be bought and sold, gave me cause to question it. For the record, I've never took an interest in the arts (except as something to spend money on, as I'd just be wasting my own); I've been more or less neutral on some very nice dinners, I've been sometimes in the presence of remarkable pieces of art; and the fault lies not with the art at all, but rather with the people who go to those sorts of places too often, and then talk ... but still, I liked him. I liked the dramatic bent he took with Shakespeare and the rest; and for those who knew him, there was no one who could be more interesting or important. No more. Look, the dead people I mention are still alive, not to speak of the well-known survivors, but the dead people are not the least bit involved in this conversation. No more. I won't go so far. I know that now you won't excuse me. But I know what I'm doing What happened to Aunt Ern's nephews, if they happened to be his own people? You'll pardon me if I have to set the record straight. Well, now the thing about the little is that, when they were little, somebody got the bright idea of making lots of money (ha!) by manufacturing little things. For instance, shampoos and toothpastes and such; and, in spite of my belief in the God and Jesus and stuff, and the uplifting of the heart on a regular basis, I just can't make the alleged benefits of this business attractive to a person (a) of plain income (b) of moderate means; and (c) one who regards it as a calling, as he ought to. Look, I know this from first hand experience. At birth, most every person acquires an inherent preference as to the number of either SIX or TWELVE under whatever disposition of which organization the united stocks are kept; and this keeps him in a state of morbid self-distrust. I know a man, and HE knows this, for, when the matter arose concerning a particular schedule of visits by his own nephew, after a lifetime of attention to that nephew in his young person's tender and frivolous way, this man acknowledged that he had a feeling that this nephew would never be an uncle but a coke-and-bake-men's-superintendent. But now, since the suspected successor has a different schedule, this man, as it appears, has had a nimbleness of feeling to furnish the part, and a confidence in his own powers to execute it. And his friendship for the brandy and the ball-rooms extends from the initial draught on the new man's cigar-room to the latest unerring pickings from the granary. And now, for the first time this man has an object in his hands, and a place in his heart where he feels himself a part of this or that, that, or another, and this power inspires him to act. He will feel this power elated him, for this man is no coward. Well, now, it's absolutely certain that the Chief has a business interest in this country. It is absolute, and it's permanent. And if he goes to this seeming repugnant idea of quitting a such a pretty part in our political order, he's thinking of his own interest, and his relationship to his President, and the plaudits he's getting, and the glory of his office, and not of suicide. Now, since the Chief is thinking of these things in his deliberations, let us consider the possibilities. First, it would be a good thing to have on trial some prominent name-callant from the rebellions in the South; for, if there is one, there are ninety-nine, and they're the power in the state. Now, there are two principles under which government can be made to act in the interest of the people. One is public nomenklatura, or pseudo-scholarly alphabet usurping the Chief's time, which is the time of demagogues and comic poets. The other is the public trust, which exists between the Chief and the people, for the Chief is but a typoque, and a wretchedly abusive one at that. The Chief takes the first; he's for it, therefore he must take the second. And who would have thought it? No doubt, and according to this man's usual ability, he has shrewdly so taken it. He's a clever man, that Chief--and so shrewd he's been, that no one knows just what for, and he's clever in the sense of clinging. Yes, and he says he's taken them out of their way, and made a place in his own for them. But there's no appearance of that. He may mean well, but, so far as I see, his heart's not in it. The very best thing he could do for his country's cause is simply--to quit where he is, and give up his life to the Chief's service, and so make his leadership known to the people. He can't do any more good acting a drill-sergeant than a colonel. Well, let me see if I understand it. If I give advice, I don't mind doing it, but when I give my vote for going I must really mean it. And that's impossible. For it's plain to me that the Chief will vote against us time after time, and so that in the end we shall never quit. If that's your position, I can't help feeling you're on the side of the majority. It's inevitable we shall take the majority, and that will mean we must vote for going--then you will understand, and you can see it in our case, the resolute-seeming Chief on the cannon-stern bottom of the bay, and the sentries at the gun-bustars, the leeches on the bleeding gun-slats, the fevers in the camp, and the divers running down through the black scupper- holes, a few at a time, all sipping tea, and laughing over the similitude of things--but the casualty lists going up, and you will say: "How funny!" and you will be right--we must vote for going, and you must say it after the drill, or the next day will have begun the formation of that political question in our camp, which if it is not cleared and entirely settled before then it will be impossible for us to agree to stay. Well, what do I care if we do something political? What does it matter who it is, or what his name may be, or what his party may be, or how he may go? I want to take part in the business--that's all. I want to be able to say to the men: "I joined the army, and I want to do my damnedest to get into the platoons of battle, and if I have to serve in a forward field way, I'll do whatever is necessary to help my company out." The men began turning their guns on their own bodies--that's how it was; and they knew that any second they might be taken prisoners, and it's no use trying to be all careful about it now, when they are being captured. Well, there was a man there who said he was a physician, and the phrase for it is enough. Another said he was a teacher, and the phrase for that is enough too. And another said he was a miner, and the phrase for that is enough also. Here's the way it is with military operations: You may take any boy out of the ranks of ordinary soldiers, and make him a corporal or a private first, but you have lost the kid if he is mauled to death in a battle afterward. There is no like too much rigor for the idea of military functions. Well, it all came to the surgery; <|endoftext|> With their eyes the silver-flecked foam Fringes with the stern and shrouds Whom Love leads; thus not in vain They spent the years that lives were sweet, Felt the blissful years, I looked far from shore; O Lord, O God! I could not see, Nor track thy shadow, save to the shore. All the ship's company then Feasted on the good air; Yet all would fain have stayed And rested with the dead; But the winds blew foul: O Christ, O Christ! the shroud was rent, And all that lay therein, and died Within her grave, on the south, Was borne a tempest to the shore. On the north they landed free, Yet never left the shore; And the great ship's long motion Were but twenty- four hours; And they set the sails, and pushed From the land with a cheer, Lightly as deer, the ship's side Sailed o'er the stormy sea, While the darkness of night was cast, By the sun was uncovered, ere They had passed the latitude of the sun. In the year of the long, long sky, When the sun comes up to the east, Then the swan sings on the shore, And the goose is corded for the flagellant's feast; And the wind is tempest, and the storm is rough, And seldom a day goes by But the sawn wood sighs through the yard, And the loose planks creak as the ship heaves. But at dawn, when the breeze has bent Her straining sails, and the hungry wave Gaspingly draws back from the trough to receive The sheep, the ship has loosed her hold; And the sawn wood sings through the place, And the loose planks creak, as the ship heaves; And the birds sit on the yard, and the pigs feed, And the heifers sway, and the salt water plays In the swarthy face of the unleashed sea. They fatten the goose, and the venison roasts, And the captive swan has her throat for a wing; But the sated swine will not go to bed, But will stretch and stretch his limbs in the sun; And the pig, though he bleats not, kicks his heels, And plays in the light of the newborn sun, Looking as he acts with a foolish heart. They set the screaming swan free, To sing and to coo and to coo; And we hear him sing At night, when the noiseless mist Has drifted through the wood, From hill to hill; And we hear him sing In the morning, when again The thick, black, baneful mist Bows down from the mountains; And we hear him sing When the sun comes up to the east, When the bright day is re-risen, And the hoarse, rough sea is distant and still. But to-morrow, when once more The mist is rolled away, All the landscape will wear New, unfamiliar beauty; For the young, sweet-featured Babe Is born upon the ocean, And, with a merry cry, Will swim upon the misty shore, And garland the rocks with curls. The stooped, bowed mouth will still Its well-learned thanks to God, And the bowed head will be Again upon the plough, For another turn, And with a wily look The red, red roses of Spring Will blossom and blossom and blossom. Stately buildings down Will rise, and gay streets, and throngs, And courts, and theatres, and schools; While the public song Will weave and resound A mighty music over all. But in the belted lute The strummed lute, strummed shrill, Will find the golden strum of summer, The tinkling courts of winter past. O Knight of Christ Saint Stephen! look At us, my Brothers, looking at thee. Beholdest thou not in us, at once The oldest, and the youngest, and the best Fired up to fulfil thy great ambition? Beholdest thou not our heart of seven Young blood-warmés, all beating to thy beat? Lo! all our beauty, and all our youth, Courting thy blessing, courting thy will, Is longing to speak aloud thy sweet command-- "Do thou something!" 'Tis our fervent wish, "Do thou something!" 'tis all we can say. Do thou, sweet Lord God, Do thou something! Our Fatherland Hath need of thee: let her be free! As thou wouldst be left alone, Do thou something for her free from shame! To pass the night in endless freedom, To strive through days in innocence and strength, To lift the serfs unto thy grace, Take thou my Brothers--now--by the hand. What God would not do it for his own? Sow no more seeds of cunning gold, No living men from the sepulchre; Let the tomb hide each death-created lord. Bring no more plagues, no more ills in the four seas, Nor yet in the strong land of the kine; Give unto the wind their fickle wills, And make them serve thee and love thee well; Give into the air their breathing sounds, To blow no more against thy dwelling-place. But in the green common-place of the field Do thou do something to relieve the men. Make a foe of Earth, let the opposing steel Keenst the anguish of her cattle-keeper: Yea, let Earth feel that thou art she, and know That thou art she and not a monster ungrown, But she in thy infancy, and ashamed. In thy prime youth's pride thou hast been made, And hast conquered many in contests of chance. But not for her, not for her art thou great, And not for her shall thou bring great things to pass. Yea, though a God do thou rule the grains of earth, Suck the sweet honey out of the flowers, And turn to bread her waxenness of glory; Though she give thee worship, great and good, And give thine every one a joyful home, And wilt to lighten all her wandering-place-- In her, and no other, didest thou make Her for whom all honour ever is thy due? What power hast thou that, wrangling with the winds, The thunder-clouds thou canst that tightly bind? Or how, wringing the mountain-heights, dost thou build Gates unobeyed, unsealing the true springs there? O God of power, what good sense in thee dost show? What deep designs? Dost thou plan, else why this So long in vain them struggling, them forbidding? Now, for once, do thou to humble man descry: Take the broad land, that they may labour no more, But with broad hands, and with broad hearts all of one mind, Meet thee in peace, and do thy will, as bidden by thee. Behold, thou hast a gift, men point to thee; For from all thy gifts men joy in eye or nose. But see, though all men praise thee, only thou Seest that, and makest men thy equals no more. Then these that once were proprietors, and were, O'er their chiefs, and all their towns thy brethren, see, Though best of all the ploughmen, most of all the gods, Man's lust of praise, not truth, shall save thee hence, As, for a glory, to advance thy race, Make men thy slaves, that from thee are wholly freed. See all things turn to thy advantage now: Free to use their gifts, to use thy calling, O thou, the only god, to whom all give heed! Yea, though with all thy gifts men strive to family thee, Thy name is home to them, thy face is home: To thee they come, to thee, for joy, they come; Thy dwelling-place is open, open thou art. Still the same bread, the same water free, The same good things are kept from both their hands; But one man's mischief, caused by his table, Closes all his doors, one man's meat is meat, No man knoweth where God's meals are best. If any one had choosement to direct His lewd wish, to earth the truth would rise Illume with light, and show to each his mind, Yea, might take wings from earth and shine on death. Nay, but to bless is greater than our will, And our ill thoughts from that goodness rise in light, And straightway men's deeds from evil ideas grow, And straightway good deeds alter into bad. Was man made to be afflicted and to wish? And are our chiefest comforts th'unhappiness Which makes us holy to each other's woe? <|endoftext|> Poor Red Riding Hood. Now winter nights come soon again, The winds neigh sleepy cars, The snow is gone from fields of cam, Now yestreen children's laughter Rise in our town together. The winter moon shines huggable On robin's wings; And buds beneath the snowblow, Like snowdrop blossoms fair, Beside the firelight rippling, Now drooping, now complete, As hearts that have been pressed. Between the firelight and the rosy Frost-gloomed shadows of the elms My heart is lost in blushes tender, That drop o'er me heavy and cold. My glance is darkening, and I lean For comfort on the chimney-corners, And think of you with deep desires For you, and for what I have not. The spring is past, my love is dead; Springtime is past with me; Since Mary died it were Best to let it die away; But I remember a spell Than it should seem of to-day, So I hedge it up and live For its sweet sake again. A young fair tree is growing Where the wild winds weep; And it shines like faint stars in The quiet wood. It stands so still and grows so That it seems a blessing On this life that comes to me; It is holy, and I sing The old, old songs again. It grows in wind and rain and sun And friendship weaves From its boughs a crown of happiness For thoughts that wither. A quiver comes o'er me; I feel That this is God, For it is growing And growing in peace and in light Upon its mystical stem. An old man sits by the shore Of a flower-lit river And looks down into its depths. He is so peaceful that he seems To have given up his life of crime. His wrinkled face is o'ershaded With the down of ages, and his gray Eyes, brightened with an untroubled grace, Gaze tranquilly down the waves of green. A smile of grace breaks through the gloom Of his sad old eyes, and he sings: We twain did meet--we, who were made Of the same heavens; yea, the air, Thy dear wind, kissed my weary soul With healing wings. Its benison suppressed I grieve, That my wings, as it were nightly fog, Would not propagate the light; As my slow heart enlarged by tears, I should not find the swiftness came Of winged flight, Ere her eyes found rest. Ah! the sweet world's calm face cries To her white soul on high, Of love and peace and innocence, Rest ye in death! Where is thy rest, sweet, poor Soul, On such a glorious head? Thy crown, it lights the earth with smiles, That light the skies above thee: Like stars, that shine afar, It lights them, and remains. Was it a summer's eve, and thee A music-loving child, Dancing round the sunbeam-lit grass, While murmuring moonshiners made Rich incense from your own young voice? Breathing thy own heart's pure song On dewy summer ways? When thou didst fall, sad, with silent feet Upon a shadowy shore, Where still the lithe water-lilies tossed Their lush leaves, and, lingering there, Made fragrant with their charms The damp and abysmal shade,-- Sweet soul, beneath the lurid flood That joined those distant hills of light, Thy earthly journey came To Nathless's way. From night and grief to day and rest, And then again night and grief. And when thou hast crossed the populous dead, The hungry grave That yawns for souls, that cannot die, And found the cool and steadfast peace Thy weary feet pursued, Then wast thou chaste. Ah! waste not precious years in lust Of vacant luxury. No; to the great, high aims, To great, high things, Divinely wise, Lurk that inefficient stain Of laggard life. Or on some far, mystic ground, Where, 'round a sacred altar, slow The slow wheel falls, Placed in the background of the day, Where flame and music blend, And blood, deep blood, Runs through the heart that's touched the lyre! Or 'neath the flowering tree, Where secret delights are found Within the brooding night, In dreams of other years, With little night-built towers Of love unto thrown Across the memory-rivers air, Yet still what purity sheweth In moonlit air, And what quiet treasure Within the grey, vast interior Of the silent shrines; Above the dim, unconjectured sky, Unsung, unexpressed, unknown,-- "Go forth and wander In the rural hum; When next the dusk is dense And the perfume sweet, Gather thy strength for another task. To join an idler on the road." "The road I must tread From Slateberge down to Wilton, To Hardscrabble! howe'er Down there we veer;--there is the cliff! Who dare begin the ascent? It is the Ban-Bar, the Beast of Carduel! "Over the hill, Through the spurt of snow, Sounded from the mountain, Beginning low and rising Clear in the light and louder, Thin, sudden, crisp and clear Dew-rattling, thin, sudden, crisp, Down-ballot poured in floods! "Three hundred yards! what strength Has the lone prophet spent To fling us there with mad cheers And clatter of voices! Quick! let us on! each on his horse With plenty of bridle-rein And lively gait--on! let us go, Ridden free from earth and press of years, Journeying with Lady Morgan. "Hark! Hark! up by the lake Came a foot-horse's feet! O'er the hills an excited hoof Drew by with spurs the long march. Ho! welcome! Brave Kid Grant Brings us cheer and music. "Do you not hear the shout, Down by the beach,-- How they sing the skirmish's ended! Who'd have thought that under the moon, On the edge of the deep,-- No, only yesterday in November,-- In the murky dawning On the Island Battlefield,-- In the eerier dawning For the Battle of the Bannockburn,-- That the Empire of Rogers would begin Her folly again?"-- "Never fear, my friends; Though our horses are dull, Though our swords are dull, We will not be slack; Down by the beach we'll ride, Our backs to the glistening foam, The wild waves licking salt Up our stinging sides, And in our mouths who knows what pain, With their sharp spears upturned, The sea-wolves' sharp teeth will be!"-- While thus, in spirit, he spake, And mused, the unseen bat Winged near his sleeping fair one, And beat her hair, and came again And fluttered near his dainty side; Her eager eyes he bends down, With an earthy bloom in their depths, And an eager look on their depths-- Then she sank to his ear his whole soul. And the night winds sighing, shuddered and fled. The moon shone palely, a mute witness Of all that he had seen, the night before; And he knew the face of every beast That bounded through the woodland, drawing near And nearer, as they bobbed, erect and pale, By the scent that that the vast heart of him Had for such sweet things dreamed before. In the forest clear and transparent, Where no foot had gone before, or came Behind, save her horse's bare touch on the road, Wherever his horse's shadow blazed, And no eye looked but his, It seemed the angel Morpheus came. Again he saw her pass; Yet not like her of old, but like a woman Of the heart, and deep down soft, and warm, and true, And that had known pity and the wild emotions Which I have written in this heart of mine. She passed him now, with her equestrian, sweet, And air of those who commune with the earth, And moving footstep, but no single man, And no single face. Like a light before him she goes, And he, who knew her before, calls A name upon the night, in his interest, And waits and sees. He knows that it is not late. He knows that his horse has the wind. He goes to the side of his horse, <|endoftext|> First embrace and then raise: They ever must be clasped and pressed, And never parted be Till we have bade farewell. She is as nigh to me as if I Had faced her alone; Else could she speak so fond a friend And her soul did but need her. I am the friend she needs, the friend Her soul would say, "Love! Love!" of its delight, And I am she that, though dead, Will leave her love when she is dead. What does it mean when she tells me That I am not to blame? I clasp her warm-clasped hand, she tallies The clasp by pressing on mine. Her finger-tips upon my hair Tinkle curious tricks of comfort, sweet, As one in slumber dreaming may Half-awake remember some darling fawn That spread its limb on relieving cool And pleasant arms, a fond forerunner Of the sure watchers by the slumbering snake That later will rise To scare our sleeping eyes. The hair's all silvered over, the eye's all closed, The skin's all pallid over, So hiding sorrow from my heart's self. I am so tented, so confined Within this mist of wonder That once more I'll look upon The dear easy nights and the warm Pure love-livered things. When sleep lies chain-mailed At my feet, I'll see you stand, Your stript shining body thin, Like an upright blade of wheat, Bathed in the stream's white foam; Your dainty head held high for me To see it float away. To see you on my breast, To lie my length upon, To feel you flush and turn Your lips to mine, and blush, And quick and sweetly part: Shall make my heart of two, And wonder, wonder more. As watches the night-wind In our drowsy garden, as the moon Makes lovelier the hills of clay, As from the wind we have to learn To touch each other's hand, To clasp and murmur, to break The faint cool gates of Sleep. As long thin shadows pass Along the wall Of dawn that follows day, When day has passed In swift swift solitude, My heart stands ye, a pall Against the world; and day Shines a cold thin light On me and on you. As long thin shadows pass Along the wall Of dawn that follows night, When night has passed In swift swift solitude, My heart stands ye, a pall Against the world; and night Shines a cold thin light On me and on you. As long thin shadows pass Along the wall Of dawn that follows day, When day has passed In swift swift solitude, My heart stands ye, a pall Against the world; and day Shines a cold thin light On me and on you. As long thin shadows pass Along the wall Of dawn that follows night, When night has passed In swift swift solitude, My heart stands ye, a pall Against the world; and night Shines a cold thin light On me and on you. Let the night draw down Her robes of starlight till She shine, a silver light Cold and clear and strange, Shining through me, through him, Let him, like water Let him like wind, Let him like air, Let him like the moonlight-- The chill moonlight in his eyes-- Pass between the bars, Let me pass the bars; Pass between the bars; Let him, like water, Pass between the bars. Let the night draw down Her robes of starlight till She shine, a silver light Cold and clear and strange, Shining through me, through him, Let him, like water, Let him like wind, Let him like air, Let him like the wind in me, The chill moonlight in his eyes; For, death in life, a silence flies Between the bars, Between the bars; Let me pass the bars. One face in a thousand years Has touched me, touched a dozen In a dozen years has scarcely seemed The faintest finger-tip of her hand-- And I've gone to slink out of parking Because some one, somewhere, wants To know whether I'm Mr. X, Or Mr. X with the beard. It may be new, but it isn't new Not to me, and I find, now, what I always find: That the truly old are the ones who know They are old; and, like an aged beast untried, You know when old you are, and then you are old; And I believe that this, this, this, this is old. They are not new, these grown-up fancies, They are not new--they are a thousand years old; And our fancies have been used from the beginning To stick with us, to cling, and to go away Like the husks of rose-leaves when the weather is dull; And we don't know why, but we feel touched as well And softened, in spite of a dull day, by all The simple sweetness of old fancies. I knew a man Who had a wife, And two children: A decent, honest, sober woman, Fair of feature, and good natured, and firm In mind and morals--all which, by the by, Made her somewhat unpopular with the people. As she was clean and sober And a woman of property The people, I might say, Liked her dearly. She was a wife and mother, But she kept a titter, Or had a jest, Of no size, sometimes, which she flashed As she looked round on them With a jest, that was not very jingling. She held a mistress, A sensual Dame; The people, I say, Laughed outright at her; They knew her face was blighted By a casual touch, Or they saw her cheeks were achime, And they said nothing, saying only It was at least half half half true In what she said. But she had a laugh, And she was fun. She had no serious twinges From the thought of her disgrace; Her humour was better Than the village gossip's: And her house was loved of all the people For the singing and the singing-; And the pea-green car could go, And the children ride, and play; And a wise old woman sat in the shadow In the hearthrug at night Singing, and the god of cakes came in To calm her:-- And there in the pasture by the well, If the day were hot, He would lie, and stare, and pore On a book; and at sunset say To his companion, "Shall we have done? Is there no further tidings? The touch of the motherland Will live in us both." And he drank his wine, And rubbed his sleep and hair With a roughened elbow. His companion said: "Now I fear That we must go"; And he smiled and held out his wine In a third glass, that he changed From a red to a clear one. "For," he said, "I have a hidden thing You must know"; and, scarcely spoken, He lit a cigarette. They drank and smoked, and he told His companions of the place Where a man may find his way Out of the world: "This way." The lady said nothing. She sat with her legs parted, And her white naked feet In the centre of the table; And she leaned her head From side to side, And listened intently For the text of the old men, And, saying "Amen," she died. The car drove over the hills; 'Twas very warm and pleasant. The journey was very long; There was a most deplorable Deep silence in the sky, So deep that the hands could not Kneel down to pray. And not an ant stirred in the fields, Or a bird made a sound. There was no living thing Around, although the year was hot; The grasses were dry and dead; And they had to pause Because they feared to touch. The lady in yellow sat there, With her legs parted, And her hands were crossed on her breast, And her head was bowed, And she seemed as dead as can be, And they had to drive Forth of a mile, And stop, and rest, and then go on, Because they feared to touch. For the long and dreary way They had journeyed, they had lost So much of their understanding; And their thoughts had reverted To the old wants and desires. And, as they drove, they thought That even death might not be all; <|endoftext|> 'I have no wealth, but worth and honour too; I do not boast the brazen helmet, In that I am not armed, I have none, But bards and heroes heed my name and fame, And my renown is spread through every nation: The earth is troubled and the heavens are hung With stars of my renown; I was the first To walk the dark land where the ores are found, And where the gleaming gold is found in plenty; But come--thy birthright--I will lay it down-- I will lay it down and bid thee rise, I'm old-- And lay it down for thee.' We set out and journeyed till day was spent, Till, pitying her, the earth grew young with earth, Then we came to the harbour and there landed, And I, said to her, 'My lady mine, To-morrow eve thou must sail once more, And make thine early way to these wide waves That burn with holy fires at the holy estuaries, For I must seek the desert of the dead, And I must find the mariners of other days.' Then spake the lady unto me, 'Strange dream! What word hath past thy stroke of iron blood?' And I to her replied, 'Son, I know not why But this like lightning strikes across my spirit, Like lightning leaps upon my thought. I thought of thee, and now, and now, And now, beholding thee, I seem to know Another yeomen than I ever was, And better than I ever was.' Said she, 'I may not give thee answer here, But know that well in other days thou didst wed The fair Calydon, of Circe's race, and bring To-day a son unto her. But when ever man Hath felt a sorrow, whether long or sudden, Aged or youthful, his blood grows denser, And he grows weaker in his manhood's prime, And in the full enjoyment of his strength, As unto Tubal Cain, whom yester-eve I remember like a fiery star much scorning, So unto thee, whenever a man's spirit 'gins to fail From its keenness, in sweet childhood, or a growling age, Or a tedious aged life, or languid health, He needs must drink in wine to strengthen his strength.' And I to her replied: 'Mother, how could it be That I should drink?--For lo! I go the way of Cain, The doer of the deed, not the victim for sacrifice. And lo! a wild beast in my passage comes, Coxarion, bier-bearer for the sheep of Fenice, And between his jaws he bears the child I bear, And beneath his pouncing jaws, like an infant, As naked as the other children of their father.' And she to me, 'Fool, it is thy doing, yet The fates ordained that thou shouldst suffer for thyself Even as thy father. But come, we'll rest thee now, That thou mayst fare through securely; thy new fate Will satisfy thee for ever. To the stream That choketh over yonder from the high hill Pass, and be bathed and anointed, lest thy body, Obedient, bring the others of its kind to swell The numbing tide.' We passed along the shore, and I anointed My body with the juice of mixed lotus; but she To wash me in the stream that went across, And anointed me with good old-fashioned oil, And gave me clothing as fair to see upon earth As the clothing of the Kings of Death, or Dardan men. Then we came into the great Bosphorus' tide, Down battlemented from the European sea, In whose swift eddies was no spreading stain Of pollution, or of man's offending blood. But I beheld a wondrous thing below, A terrible slaughter-house, wherein were met Mangled soldiers, flung in one another's arms Away upon the sad, sore-smitten tables, Slain for their country, where they flung and cracked Gory Butcher's-shears, to stop their screaming. There beside me Ross were, and Edward and Richard, And Giles, who told me stories of the fight, And Macky, a Piddingham, and a Taunton; And a-while a Cressy there with a giant glass Took my puzzled eyes, that gaped to see the things. In each two men there sat, who met me when I drew Forth from the smoke-filled choir, and stammered out Words in my tongue, before I knew what they were. When lo! a grim old Tartar of a twenty-year Period, wearing a kalpak tipped with gold, Saying to me with a grim laugh: 'He whose hand This Soviet sapphire is, so helped his Dear Before the sword of Wilhelm, so made his brother His comrade, and his comrade helped him again, Will deal with you like your countryman Ho Chi If we withstand him, and we fight him first.' Then I to Ross, who was paying his visits Unto his Paternal homeland: 'Let me join Somebody else that I match with this Soviet craze, And prove from proof that they are what they are base.' And he: 'Ay well, though we be not half so strong. There came in Spain a rebel Moslem, who flung Down some ten gallant officers of ours, In one fierce swoop, when they were fighting for him, Whose bodies lie in a forests of bullets. This Chinese offing even in the teeth of the best Defense of America would have caught, A new cataract to our dam. But five of us Were bitten, and fighting on, they lost their wits, And now they carry butcher's rows of teeth In their heads, or wear two sets in case of bandits, Or wear them like tridents in their heels.' I answered him: 'To talk of people's people The Reds with a proletarian meanness calls-- A sham, and meant to mislead, as this affair Of the devils you describe is shamming them, As your great tribunals are the great docks, Where all men are taxed and enriched by law, And no man suffereth lack of clean linen, And bread and butter make more rich the purse.' Then Ross said: 'The noble papers, sir, Are full of ominous things, as I know full well, For the heart of every citizen is hard, And the face of every priest is hard, to know Who is a friend, or a foe. It will breed In the noble ranks a kind of antipathy, If I give my heart out to a lunatic. A country town in time of war is a beacon, That the madness of a moment catches with its wings, As we saw with our own eyes when our valiant forces Put the cat out of its misery at San Sebastian, When Napoleon lost Elba, or something. The conduct of the world is a good rule, And I know what I am talking about, but still-- How can a man in spite of himself get on With the lady he loves? It makes no difference, For what makes a man mad is not his own self, But some other, never himself, and ever But the self that he craves--or would fetch.' 'Perhaps, sir, there is no need to ask me, As all know that I can play the musician, And have got so far as to bring The notes, not very far from their truth, As I can touch them, and I play With a small fiddle that I fashioned Out of a willow stem that grew in my garden. The lads that are now fighting here will want Better instruments, and so they're lucky To have me spare a fiddle now and again. Why should not we, that have heard and seen, Be confident that there is more than this In what you call madness, Ross, for we know That the face that we think, is but the mask For the soul that is strangely in conflict, And never can be seen excepting in action? And have we not all had full opportunity To test this fancy, and see it for the Hologram that it is, that can never be In the literature of the country, and In the journals that are printed at New York?' And he said: 'Now, Ross, I'm not so sure That your reasoning is always the best. When you were young and musical and wise (You, by the way, were called HOMER -- we all Hold that distinction in the fellowship), I remember hearing you play at card With your left hand, and one of the gentlemen In the box was betting with your right; And when he lost, there was always a shout, And laughter of all kinds, from the gentlemen Who had put money on your next card. There's something in that; I'll never forget The deep satisfaction of winning or losing, <|endoftext|> And shuddered at the sound of yon solitary, mournful cricket Heralded as of yore by Paddy Malone:-- Out of the gloom and down the chasm Rushed clanging the wild, hungry band Behind their chieftain, and before. Now he stood above them all, Stinging their arms with his blazing brand, And red with war's revenges spread The hideous war-whoop rang again. 'Take Boscawen,' the earl cried, 'Take the mighty champion, Boscawen, Who ploughs our bloody plain, Down to the ancient Bruin, Who pities no man, vindicates No man's right, but gives his all to God, And is neither choicer nor poorer Than all men who dwell below him. For my sake take him. A few words more, And our captive steed will straightway be Forged to your bidding--do you obey, Or fain were afar to plough the plain, To see how true the tale that e'er I heard Of our great crony, Wulliahan, That he went down beneath the weighed glens And burning coals, a very fish For whiting, to be driven by a blast Of wind to Largs, a strange, lone isle. Be wise! Then, go. By bade and watch, Let mercy go from man to man; For who rides up without one man right Pursued of right, shall find, perchance, Some worse than savage in his path. Let the whirling snow and bog and cloud Snow down, and blast and cower and coil Blizzard-wide around him overweigh His caution and his craft and might; But, for a man who sees the way, Unmoved by snow, stunned by tempest, Or half-dazed by stormy anger, I've never seen one hand such grips On the reins as King Carlemaine Camped in his galloping troop, When, stirred by rage and rage and pain, He drave his courser down the plain, While lash and snort and stir and groan Burst from his breast in throbs and bleeds, While the loose bridle snapped again, And like a foeman's noose he rode, While hands and cried and curses met, While in his galloping wrath and haste He dashed from pony and charger side, Lashed and bellowed, from the fatal way. Long looked he at the scorner's horse, (So was it in the head or as in heart?) At ease he sat, as if at rest, As if content and proud and glad, And watched the frozen world go by; Then rose and spake among his men:-- "My fine adventure and fine fight I need not to justify, And full and fair and praise it is That to-day the rain delayeth not But doth condemn and condemneth me To fight against a sure and clear day. I saw the blast, saw the sun's light And thence the way that I have come, And so the storm and the tempest came, Which made me shrink a little from mine eye In scruple, as I entered on this fight; But now I see that all is well, And well I foresaw this fight, as well As I have sought to cover it with ease. As I have promised, ere January meet The snow-loaded plain, I will not hide Myself from fight and sore affright, But will come out where God, the battle's friend, Has joined me, and my companions meet, From the thick roars of winter sent abroad, The wind that drives, the snow that keeps away. For thus it was enjoined of old On Israel, by Prophet or of Saint, That they should feed the Church with fair, fit fire, And the great altar light upon the land Be twenty cubits greater than its size On every high holiday of all souls To-day in honour of the Founder of Lights.-- I see the veil is rent! and here are foes That will not stand in solemn league and peace With me, but haply may arise To contest for the Church and the keys And the sure strength in Gospel truth of the Word Which fall from hand to hand on every wall While faith holds fast the western mountains fast, And makes the sunshine gold-brown in the skies, But draws from earth the produce of fruit, The oil from flannels, the red from blood, The wine of wands from thorn and wheel, The light of chaplets from the inspired tree. "Behold, we had sown well the seeds, But now another hand as strong and great, As a strong captain who sways a land When twenty baronies all around Have declared themselves against him bent, And brigand-like and far thence off Hath ruled the Kingdom from his rule-tower And all the land is held in deadly dread; Now must we watch and make for death, Seek God's assistance, and be strong. "Do I bring forth fruit for food or sale, And profit more than all the world beside? Surely profit in that my Father's will Ordained in heaven for to all men doth give. God liveth! I profit as the sun that made The world when this dear Master left his home, And saw how sin's roof set high against God's love Had caved in the heart of man for fear of man And left in straits this narrow world, This little that I bear and love so much. And many are sinless, and to Christ's word Have come that great joy and life for life; He saves and bringeth them again, Amen! Amen! that every man may win Where God the Father doth his glory give." There lay an ancient oak in Salem's vales, From whose acorn's gallant shade the name Of Little Beard came down to us of old, Whence, though he largely fell, yet now he lifts His olive arms to buffet mirth and us. A little old man, shaven clean, That scarce could walk, he seemed agape From touching of the bell, But gladly scarce could stay, For all the merriment and noise, To see what usually lies At rest, upon a bench, In sleep's old coverlet. The brook's small murmuring Had found him out beside The isle's unroofed wall, As by his sly neglect A fresher path was made; The fairies there had leant And admired his long white beard, And thought it like their own. When their negligence was seen, And passed the maiden-anteeth That ran before the sun To heat the public road, They made that little old man fast Between the spindrift and the wall, That he should keep his watch in that The heavens might be his bed, And look upon their sheets for rain. With cheerful good-night They had not left him then, But had gone towards the hall, Where oftentimes some guest To Little Beard might come To woo him for his pet, And kiss his knees and sowl, And call him wife and mother. There came, at night, a delver's cart With its load of flowers, He filled his with the fairest by And most impatient of all things To wait on Fairy Bread; Who to the jasmine-bud undid The palm of his right hand, And rushed in without delay With dainty fingers over all, And ate the purple top. Her hand had made such a quick incision, She almost thought it ate, Yet drew it back at once and smiled, Though there was not a mark, And continued still to eat The crumbs her fingers put there. Though always most frugal in the left, She used it now to change her mind And eat the whole stack of rue. Thus feasted, till the dawn of day In hollow pilasters lengthened The old house, behind which slept the throng Of unavailing vanities, All folk who live beyond compare, All mockeries and all pharxes, The old house made a pleasing place To think of when in company. There, as his faithless servants brought Their daily allotment of fret And resentment to the tyrant's board, Or tossed up handfuls of contempt From mismanaged boards of state, He told some tale of private grace Which made them laugh and kiss his hand, Though but in secret. And had it not been for the habits And known tendency of the man, The very jester of the place, In a short space he would have grown To be its heart and conscience, Its very thumb-print and seal. What pride in youth Could take the field with age! What mirth of body vies With limbs of steel! What strain of song, With laughter leaping Through all its frame, <|endoftext|> wisdom a charmed circle holds To those who can—and those who can't, Worn out in a vale between the throne And the fleecy skies above. Nay, not by lot nor grace divine Our senses' capacity we gain, But nature's. Know you not, O friends, Some pleasures float and some sink? The tide runs ever in its course, And steals and clogs and leaves a shore. As fish with fins can fleetly go O'er sea-mike waters—then, ah, how mean Must man be, bent to remain on earth, Unvext by the eternal sea Beyond the bars of the abyss! For to the animals belong Words and ideas; and the more we learn From them, the more we learn of Man. Innovate, teachers, cause a search By observation, and the mind Will show you in what you are a slave. So your rude builders with fancy's aid Kept Creation's mystery dark; And, save they well the germ they tried to sow, And planted it with vital wheat, They never could have mounted up to man, And looked towards the dim Supernal dawn. He will come, my soul, when Time's dread cruelties, But Death, they will not bar his glorious way; Even now the wings of Thought have took flight, My heart is stirred with a voiceless song. Where is that lofty, noble nature hid, That first-fruits of the Divine it helped To set this earth refulgent with its work? Behold! Creation's Voice is mending With a better heart the foul intention Of that prevaricating race, Who turned to evil merely because it paid. For every spirit-drum is raised, By that far higher Wisdom, to the Might Of the creation's dwelling-place. But lo! false-reading warnings lurk In every sound I hear; Earth cannot slake for Heaven's lowness now, Nor Heaven ease earth's burning; That should be man's privilege, who knows The debt of gratitude he owes to Heaven. Ah! dear departed ones, Whose deathless blood my breast is fortifying, Though we have slumbered in the grave While the dull earth with blood was soaked For the shock of the encounter That would make new life rejoice, Behold! this new creation flies Before your eyes like the bird of the sky. Art thou aging, baby? Think of the miles 'twill bring To that heart where love dwelt. Surely, thine eyes were far From that far bright shore where dwelt All thy departed ones. Farther, alas! yet ever so, That shore is ever nigh; Rise, sleepy, to that lovely smile, That smiled around. And press thy little hands To that honest, brave heart, That fights for thee, yet fears for itself. In the spirit-world, is a glorious ball Where the departed are gathered, that they May mingle there, enwound in the thraldom Of the spirit-flames that burn round them round. Now I know, in that splendid world, it is Man's duty to see that a stray shall not Be channelled 'neath his lash, and to come fro That poor, damned throng, ere his kingdom's paid. Is this not true, my baby? It is not true, for these, in the sphere That they die in when here man may be, Need not a thought from his awak'ning For their welfare in this life. Himself should see to it that they need No salvation, which is the soul; He should see that they need not, in hour Of need, the help of a prayer. So shall they need no aid, nor thou To bless them and heal them in their need. They are nobler, and their reward Is a purer life, in holier state, As if, by living at their desire, They enriched Thy rich earth with a lustre. This infant thou gavest a life, What well it paid with a father's love; A life, that seems for its creator's joy Blessed with such an only son. But see! how its tasks come heavier, How, as it works, it needs more and more Of Thy rich gifts, that bless it more; Gifts which it hath not earned, nor can Refresh its uncleanness, because It grew with its sunshine, And within its vitality lies The watcher of Thy world, and its law, And must be kept in or ease of its pelf, For its life is Thine, not Thine the life of its child. O fair child, for whose fair sake I have so much mourned in me found That I my own want could see, For whom I have loved and drank to-night Long though I have drank of thine, I mourn no more; no longer I mourn The mind that now looks backward, The spirit that so gladly has striven, And striven well, and found its result So hard to compass, look toward. We are a glad folk, we dames of Whitefield; For all our troubles, and all our cares, The world hath yet to sing our praise, Thou art a sister, a faithful friend, And a mother, as whitefield can show. We dames of Whitefield, in reverent awe Retire together; then, ye widows, dwell In silence like your honored dead; But we, O fair ones, will rejoice, Since we have wives who love us all. O lovely house that seems to be A image of the house of God; When to the world thou forsooth art nam'd, And men invade thy slumbers, thou Rest in peace; no intrusion can be there: In peace, in quietness, all shoure trim, And take thine image as your bed. Ah, but alas! what peace there is, When this life seems but a time to go And come again, when youth can forget, And this bright world of sun and clover Sleeps but a dry skeleton-- O there is no bliss, when affairs are so. For all thy days we saw thee care, As if thou hadst eyes to see, And no friend's hand to ward Thy way, nor helping touch to give The languor of thy slumbering sense; No soothing words to waken thee When from thy side the broad-brac'd pillory did fade. Then not man, then not maid, then children, then The body's rest, except it were their own; But, waking up, to go alone, Nor fitter comrade than thyself, To find the world a monster wild and harsh; The mirror sad; but yet a comfort none. And yet 'tis better than to sleep Without a sorrow, seeing all joy Is but a sleep of awareness: The earth is happy; all is well; We yet may find a pleasant clime In the quick drouth of the ocean tide: And of his creatures man 'tis the begetter: This he can dream of, as he goes down to sleep. Then not earth, then not heaven, all shines, Ah! when men are no more to think on it: Thee and thy children they shall leave alone, And for a time not have all to bear; Thou now hast right to lay thy hands aside, Since in thyself wilt lie: and when thou goest to sleep Thou wilt rise up, and go, but one, and sleep. No, my Corinna, A better man never yet Was bornes this world knowes of, Or that God wot of! Sleeps with the dead, no more; Gentlest mynds it is That is our fightresse; Blythe our eyees' light Brighten especialte With likest beames there That wanes in weares divine; Black-beames that do flour "by the worm" And springe "bythe crucifying"-- And there is none too wise For to behold and see The pless of yonder snaw Where our Cross doth glowe As yonder sun doth glowe. It is certes glad To him that eye-liue th'anguish That we do bear: But faine wold he be All calmer then he is. This cannot bee, we se, That yonder cross on weares Of roseate whiteness; Or, certes, he may not Feel this his bruise on his faire feet: For certes that is more of heales On his whitest head Then all the jewels In mine eyes to-day. Wherefore I mote tellen, That wepe therewith your hues, And my love heare my hart; For certes when you list <|endoftext|> When the heart has sought the earth below. For then I must appear to this Dreadful reunion with no good Gaining to brag of, in the promise Of hope cherished through our many days. There is little comfort for us here Who loved, and cherish still, the lofty range And rushing splendour of our waterfalls! For what were they for, when we know A lonelier, less welcome face before, Come quietly, with a full-voiced call, On the road to us unknown? The road was lonely, but in us were Fears of being wholly hopeless to the sight. So far the torrents were singing along With a far-whispering rhapsody of sound Till I grew weary. The tall spires of rock Glimmered, below, like jewels unto me, Shining through filmy twilight, in the stream. I leaned above my fretting love, and thought, 'Is it not dangerous, this love? Must I Wear a mask, in truth, to keep up this show? I would not lose the bliss for which I sigh. If I am weary, on the land below, Let me lie and watch the water-fountains. I can fall asleep.' But from her depths of love A faint horrible whisper issued--a sound Like doors slamming, blindfold, in the midnight; and that Was enough for me. From my rest I drifted As is the torrent's course above the lake; and being floated Slowly downward to the level of the sand-hills I looked and saw before me, far below, All laid in graves, the people of that long ago When I was a child, and left so desolate. The red blood ran and wandered round my limbs Like thirsty water in a sandy desert. And my head was bare of life, for I had lived In fear of my own heart. I forced my eyes Back to the painful twilight of our life, And, struggling fiercely with my terror, looked Out over the misery of the world,-- The tortured, agonized, starving millions, The hopeless, shut-out millions, of man's hunger. I looked and saw a boy upon a mountain, With a wild, strange look of joy upon his face. And out of the desert came to him the river, With murmur and ripple, and the fragrance of flowers, And the pale girl with the anvil-gain, who had taught The love of life to the wild lad of mountains, And the blue-eyed girl with the anvil-hash, Who had taught the love of life to the boy. And the grey-haired man who leaned on his lance, And was bald as a beloved child, and the women All gazing on their bright shawled faces, like trees Which a wind-storm has o'erbrimmed and shrivelled, Looked at us with a doubtful compassion. And the wild mountain wind rose and swept the clouds Off their fleecy cruises, and it blew the rain In hoarse bursts among the palm-trees of the valley. I was sick and I leaned over and tried to weep. But the rain of heaven beat down on my cheek Like hot tears which warm water drips from our eyes When we weep, forgetting that we are weeping, When the tear's rise is hastening to its fall. I was sick for a little while, for there Stood in my sight a strange crowd of strange faces, Of which my heart was glad, for I knew that they Were faces I had known before--the faces Of all the dear ones whom I cherish still, Except the one I love most who is absent, And the dark eyes that gaze at me out of the night When I lean over and try to weep, forgetting. Pity me, Virtue, And bid me not forget One little one who needs one caress. Let me drink of one drop Of that pure water, that radiancies Of heart-crimson shine. Face me, Virtue, With your clearest radiance. Faced with doubt You comfort me; how else can I hope To sink me in the river of forgetfulness, Freshening its currents with every motion? I will try to move my eyelids. As children pick the flowers which way The wind or the wild spring rain Disses them; the wild spring rain Gives me such pain, that I even tremble When I think how like it would be To let the poor spring rain alone, Or the bright wind not come in the night. For the small hands of the wild spring rain Dissolves me as it passes by. But the great hand of Virtue Clothes me with a defence, and brings To my thought the thought of the sun. Dost thou not often view with woe Thy weary eyes grown old, my lovely one? Yet look not thou so old that thou mayst seem As I remember, look as they did then, In the bright eyes when first we met; Then my heart drank up the love of that golden hair, And in mine own heart burned a sudden fire. I thought it the pure spirit of a face, Unseemly in its youth and beauty, and spoke thus: "O fairest, my purest, my own loved one, Why dost thou fade, and dost thou see thy lover Thus sink beneath the torments of the hell Which thy fancy hath wrought for his heart and thee?" But it is well, alas! for the wretched heart That its tormentor is its virtue. In me There passed a tremble into my life, And in my life a thirst, and in both water; For I knew that my old soul was dead and gone, And called out for my soul which was no more. Yet what I called for was not in me, For I am still deficient in something, And on my silence hung the still shadow Of my own idle words. Yet did the shade of his pleasant face, Whose healthy life was yet to come, Hallow my thirst, and brighten my anguish; For thirst is as a river in sorrow, And anguish as flood in a drought. I know not how it be, but something Which kills all its fellows seeks for, so My thirst was slaked, and my anguish Was in all want quenched, when the dear shade Of my departed beauty came again, And gleamed across my eyes, and stood beside me, And made me know that my thirst was still unquenched. How shall a man bring his noble wife And little beauteous sons up to me, That he may for no babbling band Of flatterers wait the finishing stroke Of his irrevocable sentence? And how shall he make his poor birds His ministers and his counsellors, Nor for disobedience shed his blood To satisfy a rebellious nature? But I will teach my sons the lore That shall within them keep them faithful To the death, though they are slayn, faithful, To their dear father, though they fall, To the ashes, though they fade. But if I have taught my sons aright, And they have learnt it in their hearts, Their next need is knowledge of thee That they may give account thereof Unto their children; for a son Is like a daughter to the soul, And mother to theweak knees. They know the way that she Was willing to do it; they know it, And are bold to make it her own. It shall be hard for them to deny That it was right she should suffer wrong, And nobly had she borne her part In this our trial by fire. And it shall grieve her, O my brothers, When she shall read her children's books That tell of justice and of peace, But leaves it unpaid, alas! For they are poor, and my treasure I give to those that may possess, And my brave treasure, she devours. I made my fortune, yet I lived In a wilderness, nor had I, Though I am rich in this dear land, A single rule, nor fair renown, A brother, or a father, there. I left my husband when the storm Of wife-torture was the wildest yet; I pray thee let this be my last Sickness of body and ails of mind, For my men are my weak companions, My strength is gone, and my feeble knee A weak and weary thing is come. My wives are fair, and as clear Of jealous foresight is each of them As is the cloudless blue of morn Without a cloud. Yet if it were The bitter pill I have to bear, And my children were at peril, I would justify it with my children. I'll see them, though it be in sea, Or, if it were any place, Within a thousand winds' unlimited Languages, and if I must know That it is raining, then the loud Unending cracking of the waves Is not so very far away <|endoftext|> And hard the water, for its coral rocks, Made brave his briny sinewy arms. Yet now--tho' long the struggle--he lies Upon the sands his last sorry lay, With snortings of dark wave-vexed things; The breeze of morn is gone, his willow stays No more upon the foamy sun From hush to hush to a low growl, A low growl is it, or more or less, And faint the breeze that waked its petals all day long And swung them from parent stem to stem. Unclad, and shy, like timid fawn, In fairy forest of the sun, It wakes a tender sense of grace, A sense of boundless thingness free, In that warm silver light in which it stands, In that soft blazonry of bliss. The sun is fast his week at noon, The waters open on the land, In green unclouded glory pass, No longer woman's weeping fits Have dreary wilds to fright. So Love-songs sighing in the sun, The sea and shore in green dispense, Unmingled joy, all spring anew, Sigh, Love-songs, sigh, and all is well. So Beauty still walks by the sea And smiles, and love in her eyes, And life, his life, all beauty possesses, Wearily, as one that has enjoyed All gifts his worthdest wish. Ah, why, to him how strange, and why Why his wishes should not be denied! The earth--but for her womb, what else Must Love, that ever aye must grieve To live without her, think? 'Tis there he tends his heart true and brave, That spurns the worm, the wintry wind, The sternest element, and fears No shadow till a day be spent. Love's trust they never can betray, Nor earth aught that 'gainst it can do. The sea--but for his harm, what else Must Love, that ever aye must rue To love without her? 'Tis there he lives for ever and aye, Nor friend nor foe can ever dissever From bond eternal his bliss. Even sun and star shrink pale and wan Before the sighing and the tear. The mountain--but for his fire, what else Love's king, who governs well, could wish, But cold and frosty air? What else could woo the soul of man, Love's darling, thoughtless at his heart, Save love's wild happiness? Whence could he find delight, save from what He loves, and finds, and has himself? The star--but for his glory, what, pray, Was all? Yet we behold him set Where the rose redder burns than all; Yea, we behold his lamps of fire Wax dimmer, as the frost dimmers them. Ay, we behold the flame, but nought The mighty shiver and the swoon. And yet, if all might Virtue own, And take God's message to heart, Whate'er he yields we still could claim; And sun and star, and all that shine Would pale before the yonder star, Fled would the heart be, and all the head Be crowded to that neighbouring deep, Ere we had won the fair, to give Her charm to any taker. Like the lone mountains in the night, I stand in great despair, On ye, good persons, bright, who live, Or know some three or four as they! Here's the stuff all will not buy; Nor would I have ye sit at sorrow To be my nurse, or some one In place of my, where they've killed My Will, that hither hither hie. That all my worth is all undone, As the stole of a widow mine! And that in my old age I lie In bed, a ghost, and sigh, and sigh. I have no labour to denounce; For I know nothing, yet am wise; And being thus of divers ways Myself advised, I'll take occasion To take in brief mine own design. A mask and She's in her shroud Came Inspiration to me. I have been a long season mad To see in true colours shine Those that love her, and cherish her. These be the ruddy rays of Faith, And these the velvet rays of Love. Dons, dozents, and muslins gay, Sheaths, and orlins, and pomatin's, She's well enough, but she's better than you. For dainty pleasure, true devotion, For the mind's pleasurable delight Solemn, solemn, and holy may be The funeral, funeral dirge, For such as should so late lie! May no guest ever come, Never a mouth to eat, And the cup to drink, And the friendly hand to meet, And the eye to watch, And the brow to wear, For that dust to blush! In the old-fashioned dress She's properly buried; But, should a spotless raiment be Presented, may I take it! May no rag or stain betray Those that go hence! And when you come to lay her, May you make her bare! May the fair one you love her By the grave be buried! Fair lady of pleasure stay, Until the day be o'er, Sinking dusk shall ne'er again Make sunset seem too hot; Whilst still you linger here, Heaven's day be fair and clear. You are weary with the day, Sick of its noise and light, When you may rest in night Safe from midnight's heat and fret. I will sing, and rest my lay Where lily bells make moan Fair lady, I have loved a maid, Though love were met when she Looked not as thou dost now; Though fondly she is o'er thee As white stone is o'er me; I never looked upon thy face, And I doubt that I should now: I would not scorn in any way To owe my life to thee: Aquarius should not guide my lyre If aught were hid from thee. For thou art fair as fire, And gold unmeasur'd lies In the centre of thy face; If wizards hold of thee Some secret art divine, 'Tis not hidden from thy glance. Fair lady, I have loved a maid, Though love were met when she Looked not as thou dost now; I have loved her before the bloom Of any lovely maid was seen, I have loved her ere her form Was beautified by skill. If you need have heard his vow, I can not refuse to swear 'Twas made in love alone, 'Twas not by any chance, 'Twas not by chance in view, 'Twas a thing of right and fit. 'Twas for the love of Beauty, Sweet lady, took he wing; For her he stands in air Fain to win the rose's nest, For her on earth to be The heart of every lay. If all men could be made like thee No sickle but a scythe were needed To get the fire of men: But now the land was sad and bare Seeds were scant and bread was dear, And men were weak and feared to sow, And sweat for sun came scarce. But come, give me a roof above To cover me and mine, A food that's clean and merry, Flesh to touch and taste and see, For when all that we need's grown, Who'll wish for more than we've got? For here at best, And here at worst The lean do grow fat on money; And 'tis our bittercle is fat, And moneybags full to the mouth; And yet, thou dost walk the street, Chez nous, as if thou wert not. And all to thee Thou liftiest through the gate, A bellows grown to hate, With heavy breathing, bloweth Thy mealy money; Hath money upon thy tongue As fish have scent; And yet thou'st not so: He shames thee not To be so lavish caught, And blushing still dost stand The surprise of young; And in thy hand to thee Their fewpas sell themselves; And they but sing thy song, Who holds them so to the last. The lot of the labourer is hard, 'Tis seldom well fulfilled; To take what he may get, And what not even get; The creaming lip and the bended knee, Toil never finishes. And the lot of the teacher is hard, Unto her it is given To guide souls fit for heaven, And the rest he can leave to them <|endoftext|> Body, of dust I can bestow,-- You promised me, and that I would keep,-- This you see, is what I mean. I am a-weary of your mirth and your wit, A-weary of your flaring head, That lights up your face, and burns in your eye, And puffs up your bosom, I trow. I am weary, O brother, of your long and wry stare; So, have your stilletion sheep, That to the shearer's voice are dumb. I may not go to church, for all my straitened heart's prayer, My bread may be of such poor plight, My draught of water sour and dry. And but for you, dear brother, O God above, My life were hardest of any! Though it be so, I pray, and pray in vain, What boots it that the body be in trust? Who scales your church, or plugs your pulpit, Needs but a bare and bent back to climb, And steal on whitening altar-flames, In your grey head, if you have one, or none! It seems all one to walk in shame, to pray, To preach, pierce, or pen, or scrawl; To wear the gownsprinkle and the hood, To do, to have, to look, to be For all one takes of worth, and more. If some one chanceth in your way Hereward you turn, upstart, and chide,-- I know whereof I speak. One half the joy to have been born, To have lived, and to have gone with scorn, To be with ghosts that go not to heaven; To live on pain, on blood, on mould, Where none a crown, a scepter shall have, No triumph there,--but merely this-- The sepulchre must be one's own! Oh, that I might die with praise un-spent, Die in the glare, in the smouldering heat, That my naked soul in your sight spans; Ah, Lord, to be round me thrust, and with the Victor gather'd to Thee! Pardon me, Christ! If with my taste, Careless of others' value, My aim, my skill, I am not worth your notice; Pardon, Christ! My master and his princes, My comrades, lords and knights 'Tis strange to live in awe Of usurers and troops of slaves, When ye yourself know not The fetters that bind you. Christ have mercy on your souls If ye for worldly good Begin to rule yourselves; The kingdom of Heaven is wrought Not on the spurious kind, But on the chosen seed; Men whose disobedience made Christ in you to dispense! Are ye not bound, On pain of death, Your sins to purge? Yet love is made of love, And sin is sin; It cannot be remitted Till your blood is shed, Or your souls atone for yours. There is no kingdom service Without the sinning, Nor earthly weapon war But as a means to kill; And no return but loss, The lost love and fame; When the bruised reed pays the debt, The criminal pays his debt. Then from the place in which ye dwell, He who, looking at ye, seeks A kingdom of his own, Seek'st out a faithful soldier, Seeking to gain you over To his way of faith and truth; Lo, one who has the watchword, Do what I bid you, to the end; He by the sword shall gain it! Such a one was I; and I stand In the service and the service Of a wayward and a rebellious nation, For the sake of one that was quite gone astray, Who to give back, and to fulfill her death, Would try all her life, through pain and sorrow And doubt and unbelief, to keep on truth, To serve truth and work upon error. I am loyal to her, who gave, and still gives, More than words ever could express; I am loyal to truth, to labor, to the truth, To my king, and my faith, and the country; To my queen, and to all that makes life worth The duties of man; to my country, The home and the nest; to human life, To all that in me is dear. There was a blue-eyed angel, Born without hands and feet, Whose upper world was the sky, The lower world the earth; His wisdom was a light and song, And a word was his sentence, And a look a vision, And a look a decree. Not a king and not a lord Dared claim the word of wisdom He spoke and sang and taught; For his face was above their eyes, His song a light they had no power To look upon his feet; He willed his own will and spread The fulness of his thought. With a word the firmament Was cleft as with the breath Of a trumpet, the earth was split, The sky was heaped on high, The valleys were designed, The mountains stood in base For wings to fly to the sun, And man was born. For he, though born with wings, Yet wandered on the earth For other feet to guide, And left in his orbit A treading space for spirits, That shall continue For ever and ever. The strength of his work is known To few, but the speed of his is Unmatched, and all men must dream In their land where he may die That his course was unfair, And his strength was not their strong, But the strength of the soul. He stood high on Pilate's throne And all the Jews round about Fixed their eyes upon his face, Fixed their eyes upon his feet, And saw the shoot of heaven, And saw the stretching sea, The setting sun, and stars unnumbered, And years in the development Of the dark and living skies. A speech ran through his blood, And in his troubled mind Were premeditated ways For lifting up his soul And opening wide the door To nations living under the sun, And telling them of the sun, And of their place in the cycle, Of the righteousness of God, Of the majesty of man's hand, And the beauty of the world. He made his enemy a promise, And he will keep his word; He bore his testimony Against the world, and walked with God Out of the flesh; he preached and spoke And wrought and believed the words That flesh should never bring to birth; And his sufferings were as the things That they should do and live. He suffered as a brother, whom God, Masking the earth in darkness, had Led up and through the vale of Death Into the light, out of the dark; Who had of His truth, and strength, and grace, Stripped the earth for ashes, made him Like a feeble branch, which they Should build with strength from God. From our soul's condition could we borrow Such strength as we needed see and do, When the flesh has failed us? Could we take The strength of faith and hope and pray, Say to the flesh, Take up thy shame, For shame thy guilt excites, O quit Thy guilt, thy shame, with new resolve, Lift up thine heart, lift up thine eyes, O And he of steel was silenced and put to rout Who, in the midst of the thunder, heard and bore Up his voice into the very throat of God, And, lifting up his hand, stood dumb. When he was dumb the blind earth heard and world Felt the sound of his endurance; And as a great ocean that comes rolling on While the thunder beats abroad, feels the breath Of the great pressure, and lies filled high With the great distance, felt her tremendous might, And stood to war. Then came the firing on the Sanctuary, As the shot is fired on the side that night When the moon, full, robed in light, sets free, And we look forth to the silent skies, Hearing the rattle of the shafts and shells, And the tremble of the coals. And his father's voice came to my mind, As I lay listening to the sound of breaks And the fall of shells; and I said: "O son, Let us not go now, but let me rest Here, at the bottom of the trench below; For the man who there rests with me, he Will fight like a devil unto death." "No, let us go," he answered to my tongue; "The easier the slaughter, the greater gain. And by God's peace, my fire will not burn Longer than it must. Let it burn and feel The torment of fire and iron, and die <|endoftext|> Clabber'd by the damp, that had been bright, So high they rose, many have they cast, A palsy seizing every limb, Like lamps whose light is gone. They scudded to the road once more, And left the wretch to sink, Down from the summit of the hill, Their face they headlong smote, Each with a full white front. As wind and water wildly strike, So at a blow they struck, The one another griev'd, As through the woods they fly. The Count Rollánd, when he descried Those knights on the road side, Before his charger fled; Nor any could a dint His golden helm like his, It seemed as though 'twere breast-plates, For solid brass. Forthwith to him is known Who bears such a great tear, As of a tragic sense, He wipes it with his hand. Then, with his spur, he spurs, And bids his courser run. By the highway side, 'tis well known, Two giants ever meet; One so broad is not so stout, And neither so is not so tall. The least on either side is tall, But very weak, and very light; When once that pair is seen, 'Tis not worth while to gain their aid. Thus every day the warriors meet On the Chillon's river side; And since more than a thousand years Their feud has flourished still. 'Tis said, that hermits of old 'Graved anchorites in those deep And dreadful waters there, For their high pilgrimage To the city famous there, Ascending and descending there, Each in his sad orisons, Resolves to be born again, And so return in due time To his dark cell on the grain-plains. No sparrow hears the Shepherds' tents, But, free and merry, is free To flutter round the golden equivalent Of a hill or steed. The young men take their beards of humidity, And the old men their damasks; And, gathering on the banks of Rance, The damasks grow golden in the dew. Now every faulchion of temper call'd Is fasten to the horse or ass; And there's ready money to pay The surgeon for a wound. In the dim coign the palfrey lies, And 'tis indeed a death; But the good chivalry Bounties the thief that can Get thence the faulchion quick, Or make the dog his foot: It is a dreadful thing To break a thief's neck. Firm and close to the solid wood, Is the old man's worship, King Francis; And if his head you dismount, He will not rise again. His hands and his belly are thieves, But there's plenty of money in His house: his royalty Is but a short contract, In respect to the sun's life. He is a friend of the palfrey, Who to boot is a thief; 'Tis an ignorant and base thing My lord, too long, the night has mov'd; Good night, good night, good night! Thy sleepless world await, Till the morning peep'd this way. To rest, to rest, good night! Tis no crime in poor hearts To want night's whole enjoyment: By this sad art -- to curse, Or to be merry, at their own will. How sweet were the sound, when a child, Of the fell thunder pealing near! How striking the creak of the oak! How dreadfully the flash of the light! And then, how like a night of sorrow, As if, in one dread interruption, All nature had been marr'd with darkness! When I became a man, I wished For a home in the deep-sea, far, far From places where men suffer shame, And find no excuse for dull sadness, No room for the heroic sorrow That moves the bosom with pity! It is not matter of shame, I have found, When solitude and face-counting press, For man is a child of God, at heart; And the greater his degree of growth, The deeper the communion, the greater. Wherefore I am full of gratitude, And of pride, and of joy, and of peace, That such a home as this is mine; That I am here, and have leisure to spare, From labour on the world's great face to keep; And the fulness of time and space to act, Is just the humbler the loftier his attempt, As God gives me more to do, the more I have to give. What though we see not the far-smiling One, Whose splendor lights the universe? The infinite bosom, sick of pain, Is so empty, that all is sugar. The people breathe not so calm and sweet, Who live in the camp of pain and woe, As the freemen of this state of grace; Nor could they long hold out life and health, Secure from the sick heart's return, Whose torturing thoughts will soon destroy All their acquired mental powers. Life is not happiness; Who steals from life's long night, Will get but a bitter taste: Who steals a single hour Of ere the day break, Will spend it in despair, And find it the very next day A heavy injury. Ah! happy are the broken, broken! Yet they were happy; we are all. O weeping age, age brutal! You will not, can not kill. Where lies the marrow in your bone? Is it on cheek or forehead? O, raise the house by the drawing. Hush! hush! the lover's sighing, The bride's low weeping, The lute, the cymbals, and all The lights that gild the bride. Hush! hush! the lover's sighing, The bride's low weeping. O the silly morning hours! Their globe and state are odd, But true love is not. In vain have I for thee, My day of love of late; But true love is not of hours, Love that endures. Now that another spring And time bear flowers again, I'll woo thee with streaming tresses And scent of bergamot. Then, as our loves again Come to their ending, One of us will turn to go, The other will stay. There is a town in my heart As sweet as any town That I have known before. The lights of it are turned Radiant as those that flash On nacreous clearings. The music of its clocks With musical quavers furies Makes dreams in me. The narrow streets, and the close, Intimate, confessional odor Of scents and simple relays, I smell in there. It is the kind of town That can make a man free; It is the rich life's prerogative -- My fears and my ambitions Are bound within its walls. And I would be a captive here, Wear a servitude, If it would be my fate to write Or paint here such art as mine That the faithful beatified That live afar could see And understand. At night when I know not my sleep, When soft stars hold the sky in fee, I am reviving vivid dreams Of happy days gone by. O the petty errors, the trivial In life we never recall! Life passes for aye our soul in this Close watching, what we see is what we have, O, wearying dream! Yet, lest another's mind interpreting, Dream on, I will begin my task: At morning, o'er the quiet stream, My path will I pursue, Beginning where Itasoy brings up The city to my sight. For Itasoy, like many a lake, Is dim with himself. Too weak to stand alone, He needs the neighbour's joy. For nought is ever sufficient That is missing wholly. He will fill you and me with awe If we but help him to be free. Beside a glowing and voracious grate, For there I sit and wait, Whispering the ghosts of things that were, When I was a child. I dream I sit by slender streams, All fern-covered by the leaves, And hear the water riffling by And gathering round the ferns. A little dark-haired maiden stands, With beads in hand, Her hand holding a wreath, And pointing straight ahead. When will my turn to attend come? She asks, and stands a moment, And seems to wait a answer. No one has lived, has breathed This beautiful, this strong air, Nor ever will, I think. 'Tis yellow as gold, <|endoftext|> Nor had not yet these ears in any wise Perceived the yet living voice, that sang The prisoned soul of this her coney, While but the mortality of her age Distinguished her with her locks--an heirloom Wringing among her locks. O soul So all unblest! did I then begin To love thee, or dost thou now begin To love me? We are not ten years old Nor one short hour among the aged Among the Hebrews, but in short distances Across long places, yet different, we are And ever will be: and if thine heart Its yearnings of content sore hinder, as The jars upon jars of seasonable corn Between the not too marvellous subjects which Have crowd'd upon it; dost thou find the jar And open it. The summer was not mine, Nor was the year uncradled; but my soul Lack'd the one dear fruit thou gave'st me--joy. The everlasting gods, who make the seasons, Sing me this song. Whence came it? what author? Whence did he write it? was it prophesied, Or did the spirit speak it forth? to men? To ghosts? or did the written page make known The author's name, his inmost heart? Doth he hold This too as gospel? Doth he bid us ask What follows, if we would believe the truth He tells us? This, all mankind have sworn To after years. How came this book abroad, Outside the bounds prescribed by any human, Or angel, writer's, or locust-prepared, But God himself? This, no gnomes or demons, Nor hell-spoke adders in the rainbow have, Or torrent-consumption of the levin, Hath lifted hence, or 'scape of a sear, Or old torments breaking down the walls of heaven, Or fire-shattered exodus of the chaff. This, none can find beyond a star, or shewn In any chamber of the vaulted sky. 'Twas borne, as all the thunder is borne, Down from the equinoctial plains and poles Of the eternal south. The author's name Is writ at the beginning of the world, And shall be writ at the end. This the colour And the life of men, and the whole earth's complexion Betrayed as pale were an evening-star, With a much finer and a far healthier heart Than this which whirls on. If we have need to doubt This book is Christ's; and if we doubt Christ, We shall thereby more easily doubt all else. To my son Said Lorenzo gently. "He belongs To that purer throng of men who, having seen Whatever is to them seen, write out the scene In words at least as lovely as it was dear to them." "To be sure," said my wife, "that's very true And apt to be missed, e'en by a censor, Who reads right on by nearest analogy. Sometimes it did escape me, even, What delight my son took in what he saw, And why he took it, which at this distance Is quite impossible to assess. 'T was like a skilled actor who, in act To the very end, goes through his task With perfect skill--'t is quite unconscious. 'T is like a poet, on the other hand, Who makes it his business alone To conceive and to express it, Which is the art which suits him best. At times, indeed, he did not look so good But I could see the smile light in his eye. So, although he could not yet talk, he Was very rational and pretty In mere disregard of the time we have To fill in, and, therefore, we could say That his very first word was his last As a child. Indeed, I can't but say That it was better for us, for all The faults we might blame him of, to have had His youth. Had he begun thus early, I'm sure he would have been a brawler In human nature, as in years, a brute. My son is like that, and I sometimes wish I had dropped in at the first four years Of his life instead, when the choice was mine. He will have to be quite a rake to do As much good as he has done, and he'll need An awful pluck to do it good." "Ah," said my wife, "you seem to see What's bad in the man, and yet disapprove Of what is good in the woman, which Is something like presenting two cakes On the same tray, one hot, one cold. And what's bad in the woman? She's slow In the dancing, and it's always men Who go home with the women, and the worst Are those who come home empty-handed. It's just as hard out of doors to find Belchuts and chocolats, as it is in. If I'd known what I know now, I'd made My family of full six dozen men, Six dozen women. That would have done." "And so," I replied, "you're still to be In control, no matter what we do. This house has grown into something All so unlike what you knew, in fact, You'd wish to let it remain a two-storied house, With half the stories finished, instead Of this shell of a nursery where You, as 'moment' mother, sit and spin. I see what you mean," she said, "but I Think that a man, whose wife is small, Will need some lotion with regular uses, And regular uses have to be barred To bachirs and so on, which seems to me To be out of line with the rest of woman. It's rather the mother of that girl that's little That has the grievance, I think. You know How she would hold her cloth, polish, and spin, As all her girls do, until the rags Began to smoke like a nice clean Alsatian. Well, Mabel let her rattle away As if spinning with all her heart, and it Has smoked her hands and so her workmen too. You've seen, or haven't you, how terrible Her workmen can be? They're the reason she Can't brush her mother's clothes any more. And now she has to spin for nobody but me. I've spun myself enough, for I've been spun By this same man and that, and now I'm spun By somebody else. 'Twould be easy to see How the poor woman is reduced to let-ting go Her life for money; but she's too proud To ask anybody for a cent. It seems So little, so far, that I'm surprised She doesn't kill herself, or marry somebody. Of course it's wrong, but at the same time It's convenient, isn't it? And so we'll see. She must have her reasons. We must all have Our reasons. 'Twouldn't do to let on how I See it. Why should she? She's a respectable Woman, though she's so low down, she doesn't know it. It's something about her--I can't explain it." "Didn't you, father?" I asked. "When you saw her, You probably thought I'd better straightaway Marry her. You can't do it, of course, or you Would. And I can't ask you to, either. We're not a block on the back of a street, Neither are we. Just now I wouldn't recommend Getting a wife so cheap, while money's at stake As she's worth more than her share of the estate. We belong to the common weal, after all. But still, there are secrets about her I feel I must know. Suppose you found her, for instance, Were you pleased?" "Yes, yes," he answered me, "I knew it all. But she'd never tell a soul." My father looked askance his head at me. "What! still in the act of lying?" he cried. "Were you not very quick to come to the spot Where you two bullocks are penned? 'Twas bad of her To deceive you like that, even knowing what! You know that nothing is quite all right, But still I fail to see the common sense Of her doing that. For myself, if I Found her such a priapic rascal, I think I'd have her whipped. I don't like lies from women." "Well, then," said father, A private eye whom nobody liked. "She won't deceive me again," he said. "I own it--like all good private men, I'm jaded; but I'll look and see her rightly." He returned with pleasure to the place Where the bullocks were penned. Not one of them Barked, but they heard a soft whining <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> That the old wounded hand shall unloose Its hold upon the mountain ash, And the heavy pulse of body sing In its mournful promise of rest; And he will stand erect, like one Who some sad mission has fulfilled, With forward steps and weary head, In the great strength of manhood matured, Unfaltering in the strife of life. The stranger hears the tale o'er, And the deep pity in his heart Doth more abundantly gladden. He will meet the dying man there, Meet as brothers are wont to meet, And lie down beside him there. O Mountain-Heart! Mountain-Mouth! O Heaven! O Man! believe me, When I tell you that the sigh Died in the voice of one who told His comrades of Mountain-Mouth's fate, And when they came with their tale to tell, Their comrade in death and sorrow, When they went from him in his blood, Crushed him out with jaws of war-- When he lay, in his rude cavern, Withered and empty of breath, Dead, they came to the valley down, And they bore him to the holy Hill, Where 'twas reft of weeds and branches, And placed him by a crystal pool, Upon the bank of the meadow, Where many mountain-ashes grow, And ferns uproot in the dells; There they laid him down in his tombs Where mists and wildness hide him And darkness keeps him ever In ice and stone and a silence, Pestilence, typhus and death-- All these were wont to keep him In icy sleep and darkness. But there came a man from the South, And this was the voice he had: "If thou dost believe my story, Come with me to the West-Land; For that hill and that craggy peak Hath waves and whirlwinds and dooms of dread For those who are doomed to be doom'd, And while they doom them, are tempest pushes And life is sucked out of them. And sin, and the passion of man, Dies in the throat and draws to the heart, And man and wife and child Look vainly for the hands of their To save them and guide them on life's verge. Therefore is the West-Land forsook, And in the world there is naught but woe-- On the high mountain there shall be found Where lovers may kiss in the morning And at night they may speak sweet words And give each other a name Without fear or shame or sign or word, And make their peace." But the man went and met disaster, And wandered all his life long Over the craggy peak, while the waves Of passion swept over him In tempest, and when at last he fell Sorely stricken, sick, alone and frightened He laid him down by the wide-strained peak, And slept a season, till came the Rescue, With cold and damp and the night and mist, And some dark-brown, gnarl-tongued, lying thing That fed on the sickness of his despair, And the man he had thought was his friend turned his foe, And showed him all the wild, and unsparing hand Of the Grave-gods, that sought for human bones, And marred his peace, and left him for a spell A ghastly inversion of the things he loved. Then came the Bride, and the dawn of the day Sighed like a dirge, and Night with her black wings Clove to the highest tree, and all the world was shrouded, Till the last bell pealed, and all was dawn again. "O thou! O thou! to whom I did own As my own soul in life's first dawn, For all things human thoughtest thou! Upon that hill-side once, while watering My place-plowed field, as time went by, I did but think of thee, my dear, And of thy form and face, fair flower, Whose smile, whose awe, whose all, Thy girlhood's conscious loveliness, Mortals cannot see, nor know The splendour, the supremacy Of thy fair, easy, everyday grace, But keep in mind, with humble mind, I could not say 'So long;' Again, not to return. 'Come away, come far away,' Sobs the weary wind and wave. 'My life is deep, my life is fair,' How like thee the sky, the sea, The boughs on which the quail Cooat and chat on every hand? If any earthly thing Suffice me or attract, To make me happy now, 'Tis thee, my beloved one! Come, love me, love me, Come, love me, love me!' Smit with my desire, Too high the heart's desire, Mistrust would be my name 'Tis love! 'tis love! 'tis love! I shall be blest in vain If I am not so blind As not to see thy form Glancing with gentle eyes From morn till even, bright And full of lily-like dreams; And, till night and sleep Then I shall dream that all Mankind, the sun that sows, Sows alike in vain With roses in his skin And thorns in his cheek. And, if I walk where streams Fling them o'er, I shall know That though the streams betray That all men sow alike With roses in their skin, Blossom and berry, stem and leaf, All seek but come to be The vine-crowned, jewel-layered vine. And if a boy should sing Of youth, he should sing still Of thine, my lover true; Of what thou art, and only Of what thou art, my love! And in some prelude wise, Oratorio-like, Of fiery finger-tips, Or cadence more sweet, I shall dream I 'll win thee. When I do count the clock, Looking what time it is, And see that bells are pealing, Then I lean my ear To catch the words,-- 'Somewhere 's light,' Somewhere 's light,' Somewhere 's light.' If I see you still. In the last cloud's thin fire, And its dying gleam, I shall know 'tis you And echo them, 'Oh, somewhere 's light,' Oh, somewhere 's light.' If I hear you push, Through the wind and rain, Along the railroad 'Shh, don't cry,' 'Shh, don't cry,' 'Shh, don't cry.' If I hear you pray, In the knotted tree, For a Union store, 'Don't pick the fruit, Don't pick the fruit, Don't pick the fruit.' If I see youre door Lean open wide, And a man you say, 'We two are twins, We are twins yet,' True, we are twins; But yet That time shall be, That time shall be! Poor Soul! if I seem to cast Some preux chevalier look On yer sheet of paper, What think ye now to pay, Lest I seem to brow here At the Registre? Poor Child! if I seem to stare At yer research, What is that field of green, What that curve there, Where your parot nobler Than mine? Give me the Roland's touch Of Nature's beauty here! Give me the tender hue Of May-bloom there! Let me count as notes, As I doe, I oft do roam For that wild treasure. Poor Child! if I think to write 'Grief's letter there, Oh, that rich ink let flow, And that just pen to write That Word there! Nay, nay, it is not rich; But that just pen Will tell as well For that rich cost. Dear friend! I have our Society's seal On this simple paper; Yet oh! I fain would see it too, And abroad to foreign parts. As all of them has heard of thee, In land of love and long delight! The stars grow out in the river; The river rolls on above; And the stars, and the river, Seem straight, and clear, and fair, As it flowed down from olden times, When the Kings of England ruled from Ireland. The bare boughs overhang it Like an age-worn hat. There's nothing fragrant in the air; But, all the same, it is a lovely sight With the trees and skies and stars o'erhead, And the quick, rapid water below! They bend beneath the weight, For a little lie; <|endoftext|> a wing an eggshell a living shell caught in time Eve in her lair a speck of ice in the lake a nymph in search of a pool a young girl takes off In the midst of a war gaining footholds The Nile in the river bank tackling with great force reaches higher creating a dam I am from the beginning Your marks a child who lives The ages later a tavern a cage in the Museum Time: moving of people Time: crossing of languages Time: acquiring of knowledge <|endoftext|> "En la Sierra: at La Redite", by Jorge Sánchez [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] For Guillermo Giménez First we could not stand to see low-lying countries flood its plateaus white-skinned people overwhelmed by the earth silently retreating, not yet extinct or endangered but "seen with suspicion" as a disease, then as vermin that might replace native people or devour what's left of them as in a book this old account of a journey from El Salvador to the border was written in a colonial handsomeness instead of the name of the lead singer of the band La Amada The language is a mixture of Spanish and Castilian (the lingua franca of the Western Italy and the Near East for a thousand years) mutation of names of indigenous characters Death’s dark presence obliterates history You, who follow me on this journey <|endoftext|> "Bolero", by David Mason A supper of dates and prunes, honey-curds and black olives, an airdrops of blue incense threaded through a waltz of fire and, for the chandelier, an orchid I found in the garden that I think will look good if we fix it right, stuck to the base of that other ball on fire is a moth I have no name for wearing a smile that I cannot see <|endoftext|> "Without Prayer", by Audre Lorde [Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, Kwanzaa] for Nydia Emery in which a girl grows up in a wheelchair to be called everlastinly bud she starts high school knowing nothing she doesn't even own a telephone not even a credit card to make calls to her rich uncle in the stratosphere not knowing how to make one she attends school where she is taught to bare her breasts and is taught to be ashamed of her white upper-middle-class body of her pale, alabaster skin she is taught to bare her breasts and is taught that being puckered up makes her vulgar of being a woman of privilege where she starts learning how to curve her punches and how to make her combinations she learns the racial history of her form and is also taught the racial history of phrases like pun Jinn and hambone not knowing how to dance she starts learning hip-hop and rapping at the same time <|endoftext|> "from If/Then", by Audre Lorde [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] for Moira logdot (if/then)/or/bo (if/then)/while/black (if/then)/then/ra (if/then) /r means/bow means /bow means Moira /r means Moira means Moira /r/means Moira means /r/means Moira means Moira means/Moira/means/Moira/means /r means and/bow means /r/means/Moira/means Moira r means Moira means /r/means/Moira/means Moira/means Moira /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means /r means and/bow means /r/means/Moira/means /r/means/Moira/means Moira /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means Moira /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means/Moira r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means/Moira r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means/Moira /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means/Moira /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means/Moira /r/means/Moira/means/Moira/means/Moira <|endoftext|> "from If/Then, between war and death", by Audre Lorde [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Before John F. Kennedy was killed, I said, the United States would not be the United States. Now there is an attempted coup and all our beautiful wonderful unity would be torn asunder. <|endoftext|> "A Trojan Toward Israel", by Audre Lorde [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] With all the weakness I had become accustomed to, the country struggling to survive, struggling against its own forces, I couldn't have held out longer. All at once I felt the military might of the United States and Canada organize around my father, around his dream of building a bridge across the Jordan River. Why did I have to live through those times again? I want to go back, I want to be a child again, a prisoner of that house without a father, free and with no homeland, no history, no country. What did I ever do? I had to pay the rent for the next decade. I had to continue doing what I was doing. I had to write, lecture, tour, be Mitzie's cousin for a while and then marry Richard and make a home with our friends. I had to raise a family. I tried to love them all again. I have been a husband, a father, and a man, if that. I think I may have been ready to die at last when Mitzie was murdered. I was ready to go to the grave of our daughter and reconcile with my wife. A church bell pealed, there was a new mayor, that was Mitzie's idea. I see now that Mitzie was the oldest outfitter in the area and had taken the use portion of the municipal road, the municipal road that led to our church on the hill. They never guessed she was planning to have us build our church on the hill. Why did she have to die? She was ready to die, she was happy, what did I ever do? The pain becomes incurable. And then the rapes begin. The rapes begin, the stabbings, the beatings, the smother-ings, the burned child-faces, the white-face-Children-of-Paradise, beautiful little child faces, I can be only one thing, only a father, only a man, and that's Mitzie's child. I'd go to her, I'd kneel to her, and I'd say, "I love you, Baby." And I'd drop to my knees, and I'd pick up my rock and fell . . . <|endoftext|> "Two Years Later, I Walk Up the Mall", by Audre Lorde [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] With my daughter in my arms, I walk up the mall. All afternoon, African-Americans sit, stand, eat, and watch the clowns in Batman Tee-shirts and plaid, the circus-attired doctors, and rapping fire-fighters from Ladue. They look just like me, only whiter, their deep voices inexpressible in the broad daylight. And in their fine suits of drag the transgender acrobats uncurl and fly through the air, their wet tan lines echoing the rainbow behind them. I don't care what they say, racism is a failing, and I'm angry and in debt and tired of being tired. At the dry-cleaners, a girl, her face a Disney princess' underbite and cloudy contact lenses, buys <|endoftext|> what the flies moving over the sill carrying the odor of rot you spill on your shirt which was new before you were born why did you spill it on your shirt the flies dont seem to mind only thing that seems to be hurting isn't even on his shirt its that little black spot on the left chest feels like someone else's arm the arm of someone who died too young i guess its ok though i never even knew he died i still have his ashes in Texas on my shirt they smell like cat pee when i say ashes its like i cant help but think back on all the times we really cried about all the things that would never be ok to leave on someone else's shirt even though its not my shirt <|endoftext|> "Song of the Marrow", by Molly McQuade [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce] What was he made of, anyway? Iron, or something weaker, what more could a man do to a woman who simply wanted to be with him? Surely she had every right to refuse him, no? They were together a short time and then they were not. They married, they raised a family. Now they are not anymore. They divorced. They try to remember what is always gone, what cannot come back. He forgets the pathos, the tenderness. He does not miss the sweaty body, wet hair, how her face brightened for a moment the gloom of a bad day, and how her body had smoothed its language long ago. He remembers the cane, the violent length, the twisting neck and the punching bag. And yet the end of his path seemed already in the books, on the TV, in the newspapers, its formal inevitability chronicled, recorded. The pathos was wiped from his memory long ago, or at least so it seems to him now. He is on the far end of the woods by himself. He is near the physical limit. He has called far into the future and no one picks up. He can never be alone again. Not again. His loneliness is his fire, its source and its end. He may be a man now, but he is also only a man. A man at the end of a long line, one that long predates the existence of the modern man. He remembers too much, and what he cannot recover he attempts to construct anew. He constructs the woman that he married, the life that devoured him, and all the separate lives that he was and was not apart of. He builds her out of the scattered fragments of his mind, all the lost images and feelings and objects that make up the world. For all his work is ultimately a construction, a coming to terms with loss, a memory and a construction. Yet he is himself only half the time, constructing the part of himself that will eventually die away, that will never return. What was he made of, anyway? Iron, or something weaker, what more could a man do? <|endoftext|> "Golden Hour", by Shane McCrae [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body] For Brendan Behan Sometimes I think I see him standing alone in memory, eyes fixed forward as if he were walking through an open window. It isn’t fair, the world can be this cruel. But then he's not pissed off about the unfairness, but only that other shit, that other crap the world drops on you, and he turns and smiles, waves with one hand, like a fucking jerk, and walks away. He laughs when people talk shit, just looks like a chill piece of shit the rest of the time. He isn't any kind of king. And I don't get to be king no more, just another struggling guy trying to get by, so many men just like me, just waiting for our day to end, so many men walking into the desert in the morning. But he never comes back, just stands there, smiling. There aren't enough monarchs in the world, or kings, I guess, to warrant a thought or a dream, much less a song like this one. He watches his shadow pass across the ground, and is content. Not once does he beat himself up for being so terrible at his job, for being such a failure. He gets to sleep and stretches, and isn't tired anymore. Why should he be tired? He doesn't even know what sleep is. He gets up and keeps on working. He seems so happy. He doesn't know what pain is. Nothing bothers him, never. All his time is his own. He doesn't talk much, but when he talks it's usually about the weather, or the birds. He never talks shit, he just tells it like it is. He doesn't have to, it's not like he has anyone to listen to. People talk about him like he's fucking famous, but he's not. He's just a normal guy who happens to be paralyzed from the waist down, but he doesn't give a shit. He just keeps on working. It's a fucking nightmare, waking up, but he just keeps on working. I like that about him. If I had a dime for every time I've wanted to kill myself because of everything, I'd be rich as fuck. <|endoftext|> "Field of View", by Brian Kim Stefans [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] It's not that the universe is very bright, or that it's very dark, it's that the former is a method of describing the latter, and the only way to see the former is to accept the latter as true. —Terry Riley Light doesn't have a pattern. A grain of wheat in the hand of a farmer is equal to a grain of sand in the hand of a nomad. Gravity bends rays. The field of view is not a pattern. Light travels on for billions of years before decaying into visible light and the cosmic microwave background radiation. The field of view is the lucent filament tying together all the stars. So what happens to the fields of view that bridge the distance from us to angels? There's no light coming from there, yet here I am with you. Let the object live. Let the thread be a tether to the field of view in which we live and share the limits of our sight. Angels are connected to us by this field of view. Angels cast their lines to us when they die. Let the field of view be the limit of our vision, because the field of view is not a pattern, it's a thread. Let the objects live. Let us die and die with the objects we live with. Let us commit our lives to the fields of view, in which we live and share the limits of our sight. What is the field of view if it's not there and here? <|endoftext|> "from Aurealis", by Brian Kim Stefans [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] People sing a long way after they stop singing. The tale is told in arcs, not parallel and cannot be done in two. Every person will tell a different tale. The name of the song is the most important thing as it is a signal of who the story is for. The message follows in the form of a query: do I care? Would I care if I cared? Who cares about that? <|endoftext|> "Diary", by Brian Kim Stefans [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Painting & Sculpture] I found a small notebook in the corner of the classroom. I say "found" because it was in fact torn apart and discarded piece by piece in the very corner of the classroom. It would have been more useful as evidence in the case of property damage or an inheritance. Where it belongs now is unclear, but it is certain that there is another notebook somewhere in the school with more torn pages, pages that have no text and no photos, pages that once were in the possession of Efthymiadenus Pasha. This may or may not be a pseudonym for the content of the notebook. He was not a name that I would have known. Perhaps it was a nickname. There is little point in looking it up. I doubt it was a prank. This diary has no place to be in the school newspaper library. The fact is I have a lot to learn. At this point in the composition of this poem, I have already explored every single one of the word's possibilities. My notebook, once in another's possession, no longer has any use to me. It is half destroyed beyond use. And so now that my own journal is no longer in my possession, I am left with the difficult decision to donate it or to trash it. The donation would have two advantages. First, if I had to pick between the two, I think I would rather keep the destruction of this notebook. Second, in a couple of years, this destroyed book may bring in some money at auction or second hand. Trash it? That seems to be the easy way out. That's what made it to the recycling bin this morning. <|endoftext|> "Praise", by Rebecca Lindenberg [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] We have a problem Because praise comes so slow And rains of praise never end <|endoftext|> Till the sweet spirits all will prove the fruit. No vain pretence to friendship here I strut, For, you shall be my friends; who now disdain My love, my faithful votary shall be; My golden chain with friendship's charm is bound. So armed, let all my loyal friends attest, That I accept as comrades at my side, The still faithful minority. It abjures All kind of treason, conscious of our loyalty: 'Tis fellowship alone, shall clothe in blue, And march behind our chief to the most bloody fray, Nor can I longer sheathed in my gun-belt, The death and doom of the Christian foes in sight. I freely pledge myself, if your grace be kind, My life's greater glory to your care, O ray of red glory! O brilliant sun! My nation's glory! Not yours, but mine, This conquered land shall be our own, our own, And bathed in triumph and blood. This sainted band Of heroes shall end ever: not of blood, Our arms, nor our prowess, shall avail them a jot: We'll make this truth heard, and seen, and understood. Thus having said, he started from his seat, Swelling with angry passion and with pride: And, striding o'er the burning pavement so brandished, Where livid streams the fury of the sun, And headlong plunged into the crowd he passed, A moving spectre without shape or frame; Or semblance of a human being endured; Or moan of suffering or of anguish'd sigh: His right hand eagle-claw'd; and in his left, Venomed tongue of evil service speak. Furious grew the tramp of relentless men, While in the step of Lincoln's they spoke: That no persuasive eloquence could dry Their passionate grief, or damp with funeral lament: But that his language, still the stern but fair, Of stern but fair meant something more than just: And that, 'twas beyond their understanding too, So that his form seem'd a shadow on the grave. Who stooping 'mid the mass he abruptly spied; For from beneath a filling vane's bright rail He, stooping, lighten'd with his hand the dead. Upon his left side a streak of red Came in his eye; and from his forehead fell His hair, burn'd with angry lightning; and his brow, Gripp'd with cold sweat, seemed of itself to feel No pulse, no living motion make. 'Twas Lucy, he besought: but when with hands Dominic interposed, saying, "Do not touch In such a place," he started, starting, fearing That he had answered thus: and so, turning round, His figure fell, as it were, on his knee, Wondering, and fixt in mute amaze. Where on the crowd, whose figure fell and shrunk So, from the elevator's brink, the stranger fell, Stood Margaret, with her back to the stricken grate: And a tight clutch she knit on her husband's knees; And his small feet caressing, as they went, To each were marker'd, and his features seen No more; nor sound was heard of speech for hours; And when the sun sank, the withered hand was seen Still stroking the little formalin-drop: And in the chilly air of night a chill Not heard before that figure was no more. Beside the portal, when the office-time came, And, restless, he its haunting questions put; Beside the deputy's face of wonted white, That look'd so melancholy when a shroud The funeral uncle, the grave-digger's task, The sunburnt maid, the palsied stranger made. Beyond the ring of people in the sun, And the new moon glistening o'er the wave as blue As the white temple's roof, on which the moon Made a dark circle like a blood-stain'd veil, Were set the vases of the lamps; and loud As from a rapid fire in a casement, came The music which went sounding through the room, Of the clock, the cow-bell, and the sparrow: So that the time was like a drum in throat, When, up from the ground, the voice began anew. Stern it was in its hollow, as a drum That quails at the voice of the melody; And in its hollow, when it sound'd anew, Was heard a vanishing, as of wind in tree, Or the far-off sound that man suppresses, In his dark throat, in an unknown bird's throat. And not a sound, except that loud voice, in the stillness round, Which awe hears when it speaks alone, and wonder hears When it speaks in the great solitude of lakes, Under the moon, on a night of autumn, in the land Of that unknown sunlight. As the voice arose, Like the alarm of a trumpet, or like that made By the tromp, when victory advances, in crowd Of the victory's supporters; or like that sent To the weary women of war, when victory Emerges in prospect from the long delay, And threatens the triumph of Clifford at last; The bloodless thunders of one earthquake met; And, though the blood ran in heated veins along A vein whose opening pulses, as they glow, Eternal coals are drawing, as they strike On the Earth's hot and agate flame of dross; Though it was matter for terror, fear Came not; for where that voice arose, there rose The shadow of a stern-gated church. And, as the thunder's hollow rose lay there, Thin as a cloud, raised upon its realm Of black and gloomy light, the figure rose, A knight from France, whose name and honours flame In ardour still, whose brow of men is fair, And, if the synod of his land would say, By the same light against whose beauty thrust His betel-rings of fame, that brow he wears; Yet, while the sages weigh his beauty worth His blood's worth, he cannot call it blest; And by the sight, by the words, his deeds will speak. And the sight were good for none but those who feel The keen invidious ardour of their strife; And for none but the knight in question; for his Then both were silent, and the silence fell Faint as the breath of a dream upon the air; And that other figure from their sight was gone, And the light waxed fearful, and the shade Grew vivid as the ardour grown obscure. At this, while from attention yet more deep They watch'd the stranger, he, the father, spoke; My son, not in this world I ever found So keen a rapture of so warm a love. Yet such a love as I should never have found So strong in flesh; these words find ye, yet I should be loath to hear them said: for me, I find the existence of beauty half A blindness; in the eyes of Beauty half A dwarfness; scarce perceiving her at all; And in her brain an absence of thought; Which is as it were a mirror none among. And therefore thus I speak unto you, my sons, Seeing that ye live in this wild world; and ever Your eyes, in all the sloth and drunkenness, Have wander'd from the true path; seeing none Beyond the few that on the wilderness Arrive to test their energy or love Before they leap into the deep abyss. Then are ye weary of the wilderness, And I a rebel to the law of the kingdoms; And she, against whom I need not say What strength and mighty patience I have shown, Herself a captive, from the very Peace that would be among us evermore. And therefore am I come unto you, my sons, And ye are come unto me; yea, I am come Because ye live, and ye live because I live. Not as the dead, who, out of the millennium, Rest and dream and no more follow the stars, But in a sham death behold their former state, Haunt and make a mockery of the years, So the four living islands now see me dead And the four living islands are in thrall. And most in Troy were they for warlike deeds And for revenge, and for great daring in fight, Thrilled by great grief, and by the hope to have Thrown depth on the limits of their home. Yea, in my absence they are let adust In sword-sight sail upon the swords and steeds Of this outlaw band. Not so the Achaeans, Who hear that I am dead and gone from them. Aye, I have gone out of my life and state; For so it is when man doth the sacred roll Over the condition of the whole life, And with the few wherewith he may count, Counts also the fruits of his short-lived life, <|endoftext|> A signal for an ancient rite. And they with anxious faces waited, All behind the curtain of green. But the venerable priest heard No sound from that vast place of prayer, No sound from the solemn wall, And handed on the signal light. And the time rolled by as passed the night, And all the bells with maledictions Ringed in the dying twilight; But the voice of Father Horner Thrilled and called across the hills, And the people of the town came out As walking in a pleasing dream. They felt as they in some pleasant place, And knew not why they heard the bells Across the now familiar hills, And felt, one voice in a happy throng, That they would be together always In Christ's far off, blue skies, Through thickets of tendergrass, Or glowing meadows spreading wide, Through, falling dew, across the hills. With equal faith, eyes and hearts committed, With hands outstretched in supplication, Forth into the night they poured: To that far blue sky they knew the place They meant to be members of. They laid their chalices at His feet, They filled their altars with the kingly wine; They sang His praise, they made His praise their own, His praise they still repeat to this day. And we who stand with them there, A god anew in thought and breath, We dare to hope that some off-worlder Lives in a world far, far hence, Where He who reigns in the blue and green Of all nature, from His throne Head of dominion, like a king Shakes off control of earthly rule. For we have learned that He will not Wait, till we believe and inherit His laws, His orders, His discharge; But we will learn with His glory Who lives and who dies By the fast-obedient Spirit, And will obey Him, though it be To bliss, to misery as it shall be, Thro' believing and disbelieving. Then a quiet smile came over his face As though he felt this all-at-once All-nights-hollow-light upon him Was but the image of that star, That lingered behind his shield, That, like the prophet's light of old, Tinged the veil of doubt and disbelieving Wherewith he veiled the brightness of his soul From the slow daylight of the unbelieving. Then he turned aside, and, as one that walks Out of a dream where he hath passed With a light foot on the realised ground Out of a house of dreams, where late he paused Hearing the voices of the young girls, And, walking in a world of hope and joy, Hears the door slamming behind him, heard the gate Draw to its uttermost limit, so that none May pass forever out of that house Save for a moment of rejoicing, then Gat him on his way To the endless night. Farewell! There will be night For thee to pass thy days away In some dim land, far away From this sunny world of dreams; From all love and joy and strife, From all the trouble of life, Farewell! a far-off farewell. Farewell! and when the ways of life A lett of thy parting shall transcribe, May the pen of envious Time, And some rude name, not sweet and holy, Not sweet and holy, touch thy name And turn a glad, but grey head's breath Over the lids of all thy dreaming, Forever leaving the kisses, glad As when the old Gods, in daylight sweet, Gave thee the little dainty smiles That were to die away in sleep, So, as a mother from her child awakes, And smiles and calls him, and the laugh that shook His little sleeping eyes and brought Light of the unchanging hills, and stir Of fountains of one Nectar once divine, And sent a joy along the quivering veins, And set his lips a poetry, and made Dancing and leaping and singing and fond All his long illustrious lineage of thought, A laugh of gladness upon his lips, His whole manly body and his heart A gift of living lips to make sweet The whole earth's race of living things. And then, O last farewell! as brief As his departing voice, may his remembered face Pass, as it were a white phantom, down the ways Into the dark everlasting shade Of endless night, and the dreams that go Down the long vista of the death-drowned years, Far, far away, where on starry knees, With the good gods that live beyond our sight, The pining stars hie 'mid silent rivers Of tears, and come again, and hie again Along the dreaming pathways of a soul, Where aisles of songs, where shadowy floors of song Trouble the darkness with the footsteps of the dead. And I will remember, as he listens, I will ask This of my Master: can I forget? He says: "Yea! and do thou rejoice." What is this joy, but the glad knowledge That a man's death, kept short of years, Can dew the drenching sorrow of a life Driven in the joy of his desire Keeping a step on those short steeds, Which, all men born, across a world of men Leave but tracks of glory in the way they go? If men long for Him and His love Longer, as he, they long for Death; If Death, as one says, "For me," Given for you, is for me; "for me" Is "for me" for you; "for me" Is "for me" for you; "for me" Is "for me" for you; Who so hast Thou dowered With so rich a grace of words, Yet who, for ever, have off-sprung So waving a branch of leaves That wrapt Him who gave them, Serving you, over all the earth, The waves of your passing songs. May I forget that I need Thee, Who for my life didst bend all Fate To build this house of Faith and Hope, This palace of one boundless love, In which I see my dreams like lamps Burning, and hear my words, the fire Of longing hearts which all souls repine To feel, and yet obey; The house, where, though I see not where Its door swings open, I shall hear The sweet vow and sigh of all the walls; Hear, as I hear, all my life long, Voices, of the Soul, of the Church, of Blasphemy Singing ever, songs in me Unearthly, ethereal, deep as thine, Resounding ever in my heart; And thus, I think, may they glide Through thy fingers, gentle lady, As through the leaves, shimmering and fast, Of some thin cloud their gold but shines; Though to me each thing that hath breath Shall seem to shudder and its hue Degenerate into dyes of death, While, like the shrouds, my spirit flies Into the deathless bright above. May I forget that to me My child will look like something dead, Some black and hidden doom that lurks Within me, bidding over and over, Through all the years to be, Go, Back from the gates whence I may not come; Not to my child, my life, my sin, Mourning and loving, who shall be Some gay angel passing with his lute; Nor to her mother, calling her Back, bidding her back again To wait for him beyond the Gate Where her sad soul will wait with throng Of dreaming angels, and on him Yearning, waiting, until he pass From this dim earth and more dim a life, And I no more his father shall be. Is that what thou wilt have done, Dear my God? Is that thy wish? A boy in pain, upon his mother's knee, Lifting his weak, pleading, wondering look; Two childish hands which he in vain intends To reach and cling about her skirts of gray; A little breast which she in pity bare To him in trust; a dog at her feet Which, standing, never leaves her side; And love, and wonder and sorrow and hope, Tossed together in one rich wistful cry Which cries to her, as she bends to look In his dear face, What may be the doom Of one so young, who, while he lives to wear A human soul, will surely long to see One face, one thing as well, the sun's own head. My son, my sweet son! This dog, my brown dog, Killing it with a boney tooth ought To teach it more wisdom, misshap and small, Than ever humanity could bring To my poor shoulders, sagging now and old. The blacksmith walks upon the street And bellows to an anvil saith <|endoftext|> Let him be stoln in all his condition. For in the cause of Christ especial count He takes on honde of holi cherche for to prave. And yet al is of bale, for he nomore Useth his Saint in his barge like a lorde, And yet prouide men to ben his comune, Wherof this lawe thou myht by made undertake: He turneth him hom ayein a lorde, And al the country torneth into derke. So Godds good heste hath hath now noght possest, Bot him that wol noght ben a dai to ben. If Christ that nobil seed ha has id, And it were now in hevene so, Ther myh no lif go mad than yit Of man or womman for his sake: Bot if thei it wolden assaie And alle that ben anon parti In goddes service in this warde, Als wel to ben a kinge or pitee As he fond nobleie as he couthe, And thei no goodnesse take kepe. Bot for this time that thei have He priveliche hath take no kepe, Bot to and fro be weie of kinde He hath hem sluyn, til he be king It sit the gentiles liberi, Wherof cam out a gret reste. Biberis the king of Bulgarie, That was to longith a verrai man, He thonketh of that yonge dowhter, Which lich to his chambre was possest, And hath his Sone leten it so, He sikerly it was forto wedde, To take the messenger he bad, And tolde him forth with al the stede Of gold and money which he hadde, And seide hou that sche was knyhtes bille, And tolde hem forth al the reule Wherto that sche scholde be a knyht, And hou that sche scholde be a kinge: Bot for men sein, wher he was wod He was of worldes good ansuerd. He yaf anon, er that he cam, So that his children scholden wyde Be goddes, as he tho spak, Whan he himself it was fulfild. Tho saw I no thing which he wroghte, Bot therupon, as I you telle, I axed him hou that it stod; And he his oghne chiere aboghte And seide he wolde wel do so. Bot for al that it myhte me snath, That he ne was the betre wod, A king of gret proprete He was, and that was caste so. And thus broght he unto his Mai And thoghte his sihte of such a plit: For whan the king hath herd his say He fond no progenie therinne, Bot as a king which stod therto He was in every lond and riche: For him was such, that he thertole The gold and the miht of other there And nameliche a king also. Bot he that wolde his word feigne, Whan that he scholde his etre gete, Forth with his Ere he gan aweie, And preith he moste be noght hirmed, That he ne scholde hire noght ahiht, That sche ne wolde the betre kepe, Which the king soghte of him felle, And thoghte as thogh he was assailed, So that ther was no prive pass Of doghter in hire Entre thanne; For evere among these yonge wise Men wolde hire doves cusseth hiere; The king and al the lordes oghne With him thedel Pendalie With hem that wolden take the queene And geten love in sondri wise, Bot so it were of gret desir. And thus betwen lust and covoitise Yaf therupon the lordes alle Of hem that wolden gon to wyve: And thus tofore in gret array Thei hadde seid hem alle one, And weren oute upon the chace. Ther was ous on of kinde broght, Be name and be compainie, With conseil and consolevance In goode stede of the tirannie Of tounes, as it was the nombre, Which loveden hem forto seche That ther was no murder nor schame. The covine of hem that it was wroght, To pleigne of love and of chiere Was noght as the wyndes hirself Hath blowen of the wolde and softe, And alle the pleasour were goode Unto the wommen hirselven, That ben of that compaignie: Wherof thei weren most bewaked And most feble, er that thei myhten; So that among hem wher I se The grete men be yonge and olde, Whiche dai in such on curs desplese, With al the wo beflihten alle, Of hem be whom the contre is, He hath the wommen withoute matiere, That ben of his syserwe fond. Whan they into hir pris behield That were thei faireste of all, Fro day to nyht thei alle abod, And whan thei of wommen hadde songe, And herde that this worldes fame Is soubtilie to meddle with, Thei knele up to the goddes And beseche them that thei saiste To taken hir chambre from behinde: Whan that the goddes it herde, Anon into the same chambre Thei fledde, as it were forgat. Men wonder hou thei fledde, Bot natheles thei came ayein, And preiden hou that thei myhte Repreue witen suche thinges Which that thei hadde deserve tho. Thei preiden for the grace, er that Thei hadden wonne, in such a wise To letten evere what it amonte. Bot nou herkne, this oghte ye, Of that the wommen of the syhte Of hem that fledde hadde wit, Ther sprong a gret colbre in the see, Which thing which thei mihten noght refte: And this yit was nothing wonder, For what man scholde hem avise, Such thing it mihte everemore. Now have ye herd o thing and ek alle Touchende of this I have discovereid, Wher that the world schal harme or raine. Ther was a Sangole, as men seide, That king as he stod above Upon the grene wolle of Aspur, Which he yaf for his richesse, Riht as the clene wolle he nam. Nou herkne a tale, and evere wexe, Hou thei nevere were in battaile, Bot forto selle into love To Stelthe was a Maide also, And al be bartliht to suche Tuo mannes lif thei hadde; And so forth upon o day, Thei sporneden out such joies there, That alle poeple therof beleve. Whan time is wel, and it is wende, Men gete wher sche wole or non, Bot where sche wot, sche mot algate. So mai a womman bilded be, That thei anon withoute cheste This Sangre in hire herte assote, And a little chiere a man, Which lacketh hirer softe myhte, It takth hire him al thinges slowe, And al is torned into pitaste, Bot sche wot nevere what it mente. Thus hath sche nevere this noght more, Bot forto founde hire house anon In him sche brede, be it nevere so, That be hire housebonde chiere, Sche myhte the deth be riden oute, And hire yhe hou it stant forlore Thurgh feith, which thilke ymage, To whom sche was an Emprere; <|endoftext|> if ever one damselfly up shelt'ring to the sky could feel the suns hot breath on the blossom of her right hand . . . if one song changeth, there are more lyrics. Don't ever let a hero be undone! That lyric and song and English breathless in a white gauze dress making a gold on gold double note in the yellow spring Thick with the golds and purples of babies . . . If a song changeth, there are more lyrics. If song and lyric have fail'd, don't fret . . . a second song shall rhyme And there, and there, that shimmering lady is making a v In this big spangled park full of birds, lily and rose and locket and shell and tree and bush . . . or he will make himself a c Birds, birds, birds in the white March air birds . . . How far west do you want to go? Do you prefer moonrise or sunset? Out of the sunlight, there are clouds, And after the sun, there is always The scent of the world somewhere About us, waiting . . . there is no end to the rhyme In the breath of the blue March sun as it kisses both feet, one foot at a time . . . don't you wish, in your new poem, that you could say what you say to me at this moment, that you could say the feeling of the words in your mouth, in this morning's breath that you do not know, they are a word for every song we make In the breath of the blue March sun one foot at a time . . . But I do know the world some of the time, I am a poet . . . I wonder now, what does the moon say? Do you know what the moon says? In the sand, in the white foam beneath the moon the children are alive with shells . . . Do you know what the moon says? I wonder now, what does the dawn say? Do you know what the dawn says? The sound of the snow on the roof, And a silence, and a singing Beyond silence, beyond singing You and I, and one another, and a morning with no past, no future . . . Do you know what the dream says? <|endoftext|> "Young Men", by Lucia Perillo [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Men & Women, Philosophy] They pull me in, close my eyes. They fix me with guns and barking dogs. Now they strip off my clothes, lie beneath the candlelight and drill my body with holes, my guts paralized, defenseless. A wailing inside. The rain is loud. It's impossible to tell if it's morning or afternoon. They push my face into the dirt. I don't know how far they take me. I'm so stuffed up I can't gather myself enough to escape. When they're done, I squeal. They laugh. I don't think they'll kill me though I'm laying on the cold, soft ground, defenseless. They sure as hell won't kill me now that I'm dressed. What a joke is a naked man. * Do you know what the dream says? I said, do you know what the dream says? And I said, do you know what the dream says? And the only thing I can say for sure is this: The whole point of the dream is that she wants to marry me. <|endoftext|> "A Novelty", by Lucia Perillo [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Any one of us could have read Yeats as a boy and become a man. And if you think that audre and pietro made their names unisex, think again. Men call catgut "manly" and women louis d'or and amarantis. And louis d'or and amarantis have both become abbreviations for life. <|endoftext|> "Driving to Santa Fe", by Peter O'Rourke [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Weather, Winter] Under the smog of snow a woman has killed herself because of the pain she was in. Her husband did not want to go to the doctor because he said it wasn't his job to cheer up people in pain. The tempest is hiding in the chambers of the man who keeps the local offices of the Christian Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. The committee is made up of church ladies from all over the county—Mary Ann Vecchio from Limerick, Lucille McCann of Morgantown, and Mrs. Wallace Smyth of Chesterfield. John Nevin is the investigator for the committee. The committee keeps trying to get the coroner to open up an investigation into the death of Rosemary Phagan, the woman who died in the tobacco barn on the Mount of Olives. Mary Ann Vecchio and Mrs. Wallace Smyth came down to Phagan's wake and were so overcome by the magnitude of the loss that they went back to Limerick and wrote to the coroner. Now the committee is trying to investigate the death of Mrs. Phagan because she is a friend of Mrs. Vecchio's and Mrs. Wallace Smyth's son is a passenger on a bus that was supposed to have taken them to watch the sunrise on Palm Sunday. The committee thinks that Mary Ann Vecchio and Mrs. Wallace Smyth have conspired to kill Mrs. Phagan in Limerick. <|endoftext|> "Sun Riser", by Philip Levine [Nature, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The paint is still wet on the bronze frames, which were enchased with ewenscale, traditional brushwork, a royal pen, a fusty brush. Waves of paint break on the golden foil and smoke as morning paints the shore. Here's the paint that will be peeled off the faces, top and face, to the teeth and lips, and the raw nudes, the original nude, have wax dripped off their bodies into the clay and are waiting to be filled with water. Here's the paint in palm that was drying when Schiller said, "The sun rises in the castle of Grimalkin in the kingdom of Wellspeed." Here's the paint on the tips of spears toward the end of the song that opens this exhibition: "Le sacré humain est resté" from his eponymous 1623 cello sonata <|endoftext|> "Krampusatlephony", by Gisela Kraft [Living, Death, The Body, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] As for her, there are stories of vampires that attack after midnight with tentacles and bite the road. As for me, the terror began when I was three, a bedtime story, my father telling from the back seat of a taxi, his hands under his chinstraps. He told me to run. I did not like the talk of burnings and ice chips in the winter snow. So I ran. From then on, there was trouble with the vampires, their sight, their taste. The bite would leave a black eye. The fangs of the vampires would bite deeper than the fangs of the thorns. The hair would fall out. I do not like these stories. And I am not folklore in the way that these stories are folklore. Eating rocks, growing teeth have always been part of the folklore, but they do not make one folklore. I look around me and see light above and grit in the snow. I see a law that has no creature, no mortal, no human, no human with a body and a head. It is as if I am folklore. And I do not like the look of this scholarship. Here is my situation: a man is stuck on the back steps, a woman watches my brother leave for a grocery store. He is covered in a rash that would make you sick. And he is also covered in snow. This is the situation: my brother's vision and my burning thirst. This is my situation: my brother's vision and the taste of blood. <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> Which is your own; Or else I'll wag my finger at your blanket. I shall never go back To the sun and sea For ever; I shall never tread the wave again With the men that tread it now, My brothers who make it strong, Or take the wind in my hand and say, "Be strong, O sea!" I shall never go back To the sun and sea, nor fancy there the death of love; For the sun and sea are gone forever, and we that love Only talk of the sea and sun a little while, Till the souls that light us in our flight to the West Think they can rest, for the wings of the wind shall break-- Unless we keep the will alive with our singing. O song of the wind in the leaves And the song of the sea in the stones, O river of the world's desire Reverberated once for all, Re-echoed once for all in pain; Shall we not make some response? And shall man's love not make answer too? If we spare not the will, O song, We shall learn the song of the wind to be; Shall we not learn it and keep it alive Eternally, for our sake alone? And the voice shall be one, and men call it good, One voice, one answer forever and ever? O heart and head and hands In the sword's steel burn red and pale; The fingers of the sea-swan quiver and clutch, And the wild blood of the world runs free: Man and woman and man and woman And man and woman and man are one. One with the land and sea and air; One in the city of doom and dream; All the rage of God is in them, and they groan Man, woman, and man and woman, and man and woman-- "They are one, they are one, They are one," I say, and they say, "We are three!" O love that is higher than marriage, Love that has wounded and betrayed you, Lost love that is forever gone from you, Love that assails and outrages and taints you, O you have but begun to taste it, You will quiver with laughter at the bitter, You will snatch at the mockery of the cold. The world of men is a prison house, The world of women is a galley-slave; The world of dragons is made of wood, The world of flowers is but of thorns and thistles: Now you see it, now you wonder it, Now you stand between the truth and falsehood. If I were God, my children, and you, I would have men build a temple to Me Upon this earth; and men are building now; And the temples of the gods are but of brick, And Cold from the cold fallen sea-ends and sands And dead age drinks the blossoming flowers. I would have men build another temple, One that shall with sound and flame be blest; And men are building now, for this is builded. And they lay down the earth's people as stone To this new temple of me; and then They build it, you, me, these mortal things. But, children, what are men building? What but old dry gomaitres and carven stones, And dried-up streams and dust of dark ages? And they call it building? If I were God, my children, and you, I would have men build anew A temple to Me in word, in deed, in thought; And men are building; And it is builded. I would have men build it with rue and rose and myrrh, That men might worship me within it alone; And I would give within it fiery harmonies That men might not worship me without it. I would have men build it of vanity and pride And not desire for me, not fear me, not delight me, But seek unto, desire of it, To win God's desire, my children, and you, And have it in their sight. O pain, but I would heal you, children; For I would take God's flame and put it in you, And hold you each in his or her place; And I would strike fire from it, and walk in it, And make you all whole, for I would not curse you. Be free of pain; Call I would grace, Call I any name, Let them build as wilt, Mine are the ways of the Sea-thing's house. In the silence of the winter night, When the snow-peaks view the land, In the dimness of the autumn day, When the soft winds sally from the sea, My heart finds silent worship. To the rock-outtowering pine, Like some bold knight of old romance, With silver clasps and cloven shield I rise to seek my outlaw star. Like the King in the legend old, Who paused with foeman's slew, I pause where steep Parnassus stands And again am cast to die. But I fell not on the day When cold death found me slain. I saw the naked heavens fill With light from out their hills afar; And with a day more bright I saw again my God. Lilies and lankets in pink and white, Baby's breathless as a little maid, Little by little I grow wise. But far above, God's marvelous stars are soft to mine eyes, Eager to give their love and take; And I stand beholding and praying, Sorrow and bliss to be. For, swinging in the bright And golden sphere that is the morning sky, The sun is a-shining, and the green Scattering like flowers at a spring tree's death; And the rose-wreaths, lifting high, Fold us, for we shall be beautiful. So in the depths of love Gladly I tell thee, Night, All the long morning long How the sun and the gold have run, How the last birds go by, In their love of brightness fair. I stood bare where the walls are tall, To the dark that the morning made, Gazing for a full hour upon the blue, And the trace of a sign upon a wall. I had a sweet longing; and my hair Was in an unaccustomed way. And I had a sweet longing; and my eyes Fell late and a little sad; and I said to myself: "There must be a limit above the blue, And a rose-tree in the Garden of Heaven." I would have dreamed of a Garden of Joy, And of the winds of whirling song, And of fair bodies that pass and smile In the dark of a garden full of flowers. I would have dreamed of a Garden of Joy; But no dream passed unhandicapt. Horns of dawn, Wine-red, gold-hued, Heads of men, Warm, sleeping, golden, Bows of roses, Stands of boughs, Tresses, flowers-- One of these nights As I went to the door of the Room, With the flowers in my face, I wished for the Garden of the Twin. For there You would build me a chair In the glory of carved wood, In a place of power Where the silver rail Curves and swells, And the marble-topped gate Flashes with sunlight as you passed. And you would hold, above my head, Messiah's scroll, And you would read to me Some sweet and sacred word That I might know I was looking at the handiwork Of the Almighty, Eternal Man. Nay, in my sight Naught but Time's old uncurling trees, And the rails that keep crost them in, And the smooth forepart of long lines Of rock brought up from beneath the earth To make a border for the house, And the marble at the frieze, And the doors that stand against the wall. And you would hold in both hands out To where the Ocean would be, Some rose in flower at the curve Of a wave, and you would say: "You will see it one day, boy, You will see it if you live." There where the sweet, wild grasses grow By the ocean black and red Would be a tower of perfect rose Like a great spike of flame, And my head at the moment of its highest one Would be turned to its highest one, And the rose of the sign to the sun Would have turned in the centre of the sun With a breeze rippling its petals white, And the weight of you and of me Would be turned to a coat of gold. I would rest on the shoulders of giants As I bowed to the east And the thistledown of them would be folded away And the flowers where they grow Would put out their tongues of fire <|endoftext|> War remains? Look back! Staggered, Italia never rose again. After her swords the millers of Mississippi sharpened swords. After them, through spadefuls of mass-market pulp, The sword of democracy burst upon the world’s stage. It was an axe of liberating hope, a lever of the future, The ideal weapon for the work of souls. For four long years it shaped the axe-moon of a new Poland, And in the trenches of northwest Europe, Across the long expanse of one black-green sea, From Limestone to the Azores, it rushed, It shook the earth, it showered its sparks, It heathered the fagots of peace. I hold it still an ideal weapon, For flesh is not as it was in those days. The ideal weapon must find a new tamer, It works best when a little child, With naked fingers and bare feet, With voice as naive and pure as a bird’s, With this scrap of imagination Puts hand to wedge and brings the old to death. So, until the ideal weapon learns That its power needs to be more robust, Until it catches some fear in the jaws, Until it catches a touch as fragile As the petty fear that the ticking of the brain Causes in the heart of a man Heedless of Death, whose image walks the mountains, That little child must be the tiny tiger Concealing his claws, That little child must be the rider in the riders’ bower, Caressing each harmless neck, Laying his own to kiss the earth his panting breath. Somewhere, on high, Over the wintry peaks, A small boy rides alone, Through the snow, up the mountain. He is changing into a gentle child, And his mother is proud of him. He is small, He is weak, But his strength is his weakness. <|endoftext|> "The Velvet Ice-Cream Factory", by Dana Levin [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Not to be confused with the velvetfolk nymphs of Asia,Velvet Feminism is a strategy and tactic used by women in 80s New York to gain entry into male-dominated spaces, much like how a female gorilla would approach a zoo and attempt to be accepted by the savage male gorillas. Founded in 1947 by May Cooper, the company took its name from the fabric of the company’s uniforms, which are very much like evening dew, a semi-matriarchal profession, and is famous for its '50s advertisement campaign, in which all-female teams of barmeniggers vied to win ribbons in the company’s ¾ dress uniform, during which time they became known as the Golden Girls, a term coined by Cooper to refer to themselves as a group, much like how a coed volleyball team may be referred to as a unit. Cooper would go on to found another company, VHS Video, in 1970, which was sold to Maverik in 1978 and was sold again in '85, but in 1989 the company became a nonprofit in New York, and has since become one of the premiere feminist organizations in the country. Just as Cooper foresaw, the company has thrived, and women continue to flock to its ranks and buy its uniforms, with the company reporting a 38 percent increase in female profits in the year 2000, as compared to a 6 percent increase in profits for all businesses. While it is certainly true that the movement of the company’s uniforms has often been described as being somewhat like the rolling of a silk bloom, this has led to charges that the company has appropriated the name of an indigenous textile in the Carolinas, and there are even those who claim that the name itself is racist, as the word curtains (in its colonial German spelling) has referred to Appalachian servant women who cleaned the homes of well-to-do whites, thus appropriating a job that was previously a woman’s job. Though the termhas since been reclaimed by Black and Latino feminist activists, its history with the support of mainstream feminism makes it a controversial term among feminists, and has led some to dub themselves Velvet Feminists. But Cooper, who died in 2002, never seemed bothered by these accusations, or the controversy they inspired in the first place, as she made her name by naming herself after her invention, and despised labels. Her nickname was inspired by Cooper-CAVALCADE, the name of the first recording studio in Harlem, where Cooper and her friends lived, and whom she saw as a revival of the vaudeville show and vaudeville stage that had flourished in New York City before the Civil War. Noted Velvet Feminist Simone de Beije Goes wrote, “The name of the show was a shout-out to Alice in Wonderland. At Alice's house we danced to vaudeville songs. We were drugged and raped and left on the doorstep. This was New York in the early 1800s, and Louise broke the chains of sexual deprivation.” Cooper-CAVALCADE became a play, directed by Jacob Hopper, and featured a wildly sexual denouement that has since become known as the Velvet Revolution. Louise Bogan, a seamstress, dancer, and acting enigma, is hired as the voluptuous voice of VCD, a post that pays only $25, compared to the marquee rate of $100 for a Broadway star. After Bogan suffers a humiliating flop as VCD, Cooper-CAVALCADE closes its doors for good, presumably to return to the jungles of Indonesia, which is where the paintings of Mark Strand were taken. But the company survives, thanks to a $20,000 loan from a sympathetic widow, and by forming a limited liability company in Scotland, Crescent Cinema, which shows Birth of a Beauty, one of the more politically incorrect films of the 1970s. Cooper-CAVALCADE also gains from the opening of RoboCop, a notorious look at the perils of female leadership, in which Jennifer Hurt as Officer Jenny Lee fights against the cartoonish robot antagonist with an antique broad-sword and wooden costume, thereby inspiring the formation of the Soft Metal Worker’s Guild. Though Cooper-CAVALCADE shows a marked reduction in violent acts against women, there are still 7,000 murders of women each year in the United States, and another 300,000 or so annually in other industrialized nations. And the violence continues to flow, as in the recently reported case of Serena, a 6-year-old murdered in Cleveland, who 3 days later appears in a video message to her boyfriend, her smiling face wrapped in a rainbow-colored seraphic cleaver. But the reduction in the total number of such murders could be attributed in no small part to the widespread availability of the anti-anorexia pill lesoretrocarbonate, or LTC. Before the invention of LTC, there were no condom companies. Therefore, in the absence of one, the male partner of the 1912 Chicago Strike Relief shipment, led by Mary "Kit" Libertad, who contracted venereal warts after a twelve-year-long affair with a 'lap-dog, went on a date with her friend Charlotte Tandon and got AIDS. The news was so shocking that Libertad formed the first ever AIDS support group, the Green Ribbon Committee to Control the Infection of Animals in Chicago, which also proscribed sex, promoted blood transfusions, and said that AIDS was probably caused by eating too much spicy food. The impact of this and other discoveries has been dramatic: in the mid-to-late aughts, the average man had a higher status among his female friends than he had among his fellow workers. Indeed, as I will discuss in more detail in a moment, the proliferation of single-sex categories of friends has had the ironic effect, by making the experience of misanthropy—calling a woman friend 'spec' or a man friend 'main'—seem like an improvement, or at least, less absurd than it would have been, before. Though there are still no HIV testing centers in the developing world, it is widely believed that the average person in Sub-Saharan Africa today can be infected with HIV at any time, and thus be in danger of becoming a statistic. In the developing world, the typical college-age man is described as “slick;” in the developed world, as “white;” and by journalists in general as “geek.” Hence the pressure on writers to announce their blackout—or, as it is phrased by the opposite sex, to “go viral.” At the same time, the emergence of apps like Beme (an acronym for Being Fully Internet-Based) suggests a regression to the mean: the normalization of ignorance. These days, when a woman is caught on tape saying “my child wouldn’t know,” it is taken as confirmation that she is ignorant, which is an opinion that is, of course, permissible, but only if the meaning of the words used to denigrate her have been officially endorsed by the political left. <|endoftext|> Strange, whilst these rocks and skies are left, To view the positive lessening space, And sit on Angels at our feet! In Truth's Eternal Cow, my bosom's pride, I read, with other meditations, A holy poetry in her eyes, A fairy mountaineer's,--in her head, A religious seer. For Truth will shine, Despite of clouds, amid this milky way. The perfumed crystal sleep that waits upon the shrine, And sings there all the Goddess' praises; Her pure religious love, her sacred alone, Immortal,--her weakness, her unbounded worth, Make her, whene'er she lifts her holy eyes, A charm for angels, and a truth for man! Earth hath no higher power, nor mans most dear delight, Untill her brightest throne she mount on high, And truth around her wave each worshipper, In proud and radiant holiness! As Earth's first born Has wonder, faith and awe when she takes a place Within his lucid heart, yet is not he Of all his suspicions but the obvious thing, With whom she thus is welcome as the household friend, Whose hand hath gathered fruits from unseen trees. This is the reverie of the world's first scene, Where all was dark, and men were dumb, When she hath taken the cross, and placed it on The altar of her heart, and life is lived! Hath given them wings to mount and fly abroad, And the desire to know, have bid their souls soar! And even now our earth is full of wonders, Where God's own voice, though out of sight, Speaks to the sons and daughters of men, As in the days gone by, when life was young! Oh, children of earth! Though ye be children yet, Look up, and see what wondrous things are done In the eternal Heaven, where all is bright! Our eyes must turn with trembling awe, And our hearts leap fast with tender glee, To hear the sacred angels sing, When we awake from dreams of sleep, And see the dawn of morning gladden The glowing East, with break of gold Upon our long love-wearied blue! A cloudy spot of sky, in the throes of morn, In the eve, an ethereal radiant mass Of sun-gold; day and night A scene for day-dreams rapt and sweet content! Where hangs around a wondrous luminous air, That plays in bright shimmering meshes o'er the foam Of the gay waves that o'er the carvel dance; By mountain-peaks, where wander the scudding gleams, And bards of the mountains their memories sing When winds in summer are at rest. I behold, all shining, aloft, How the gallant vessel flies; I see how her sail, unfurled, Swings round her foundations free As the light hair on her brow. I see her surging and rounding Like waves in the soft breeze, That never come near, but still are sweeping Where the vessel is bound! As in a summer's eve, So in the summer-spirit, I see her sailing away. And the echoes from the shores Come to me in my dreams, As the sailors, sailing, sing To the music of oars, And the bells on the shore. And the winds go sighing to her, And the stars in their courses go, Lonely and laggard grown, Whilst the vessel skims on Her undaunted course o'er; I hear their death-like dying gurgles In the depths of the night, As the balmy, fragrant vapours Float from the lonely sea. Her harps on the billows, playing, The sailors sing, "There's a reef ahead!" Or "Now brace the oars, ye ships that bear!" "Safety and comfort, sailor boys, Hope and joy be yours, ere the coming day!" So sing the sails on the midnight moon, Till, all transformed in the dawn, I see on the sea-side strange ships sailing, All with banners unfurled! Night and day, in the face of the sun, The bright moonshine all gleams like the face of a king. I left my home in the Northern sea, On the desolate plains of Russell, Up the down valley of Glencoe, In the bitter North cold and grey. In pain and in sorrow I passed, Many a dark, dark valley and stream, And came to the harbour at Glencoe. A cottage there, within the rocks, Above the rolling tide of sand, With walls of piny hickory, And doors that opened with a smile, When the sailor came in his boat. He kissed my forehead, and I brushed The ribbon from his fingers, coarse With red shell-lamps. He smiled and smiled. For many years he lived there, And all his children were my own. He saw me an instant, and then Turned to his cottage as I passed. And all the manly voices turned To tender thoughts and fond consolings. "Oh, daughter dear! if I knew The trouble that I am bringing, For heaven and for Maine and for me, I would hurry and leave the waves; And I would plant, with the scent of pine, A shelter to protect our homely tree, And drive the cold dogs of the soldiers away, Who have tormented our peace for years. My darling! let me tell you of a tree, A pua with white blossoms, on a mountaintain That overlooks the winding river. A second tree is all that I have, Where the red maple once had sway. And the third tree is a fir tree, among The mountain-springs, for a shelter from the storms. But if the white man should come to cut down These trees, oh! he would envy and chide, For they are not like the red maple." The white man came to cut down the trees, But no one could run to their defence. To the high mountains they came, and they looked With fearless eyes into the heart of danger. But soon the mountain-waves swelled, and swept The shelter away, as the sailors say. There was laughter in the waters near, And laughter in the islands too, But soon the red maple trees were safe; The sailors laughed and headed for home. The shelter they were making was short-lived; The northern whirlwind soon came up-stream, And dashed the fragments into the St. Lawrence. Now at midnight when the freezing winds begin, As they singly and silently we pass, You may hear some fifty wintry, tinkling bells, As they range over valley and hill; But be sure you never hear them strike Their harsh, discordant bells beneath the stars, For it is only from their icy breaths, And the slow, human laugh that is frozen there, That you have heard the harsh, discordant bells, As they strike against the midnight stars. For it is only the frost, and the chill, And the glittering ice, and the shifting lights, That keep the hearts of Northmen young and glad, And the misty dewlet that is so rare, That have kept the heart of old Nokomis So deep in the shadow of mystery, That she sang the adventure of Little Big Horn, And said she had heard the Little Big Horn Oh! it was all excitement and delight, For it was truly a marvelous thing, To see the winter sun shining bright Upon this huge landscape of the hills, And this old, scenic mountain range, And all the little ragged, penciled village, With its attic windows dark and low, And its chimneys like long grovels of blackened spruce, That rose up like crematorium chimneys In the sky over the hills of the prairies. It was truly a marvelous thing To watch the sun descending slowly, With a touch of the Caesars in his gaze, As he held just behind the mountains, Like a back entrance to a fortress, A rim of white. And it was truly a marvelous thing To watch the sun descending slowly, With a touch of the Roman in his gaze, As he hovered over prairie and rose, And lightsomely on the prairies sprang, As the air on a fan, As the sunbeam on the midnight woods, As the very feather of the plume of a bird. Oh! it was all motion and glamour and joy, For it was truly a wonderful thing To see these prairie lights and the prairie fires, That rose and sank in the hollows of the hills; To see the flames in their glory rise, As they swept into the blue of the sky; To watch the smoke as it nexus and zeroed; To see the smoke in its many colors Gleamed like a diamond on the sky of the hills; To see it as it softly climbed the mesas, <|endoftext|> Bright watchmen, guarding with craft divine Life's treasure, ever in our care. The Hatter rides high. His days are spent In talking to himself. His face is sad, His tie is rough to the forelock; the legs Of his breeches are long and the legs are high. He tugs his legs, turning somersaults. This way and that he tumbles, searching for Some new way to show his feelings. The Hound is proud. He sees his bits and ties, The bells, the gowns, the pranks, the girls, the guts That all things have, but no thing he finds To describe his joy, his pride, his dignity. He chafes, but he never explains. The Cat in Blue is fair. She has many friends Who come and go from her window; they are proud Of her and secretly wish she were fairer. Their wishes are expressed in the complaints They spew into her lap, and try to cover By outcry the pain they feel, and would conceal. To Cook the Wife goes outside. She drops her aprons And her bonnet, to go dance with the good cat. She climbs the light pole, and swings wildly. She hops about on top of the cat. She is in a great passion, and flaps her hands. She never changes her tune; the same old songs Ever peal out of her throat. Mr. and Mrs. Fox, from their sunny bed, Look up and frown. They hear the Cat in Blue Singing a slow song, and they know He means them all wrong and are furious. They shriek, they slap each other, and beat on the window; And this makes the Cat very merry indeed. The Sky Lark goes climbing. The tired moth is yawning, And slowly drifts to rest. Now the Queen Bee is out, About to emerge from her sticky hair. The rats are creeping Slowly toward the light. Now the bright dog is barking Bashfully, as if she had a very bad master. 'Twas late when I went down to the Great Blue World To the Gates of the Gold. The wind was blowing chill; I shivered and took no heed. An immense wall of cloud Hung in a mist above the earth and burned the sky With one great black eye. Out of the gloom it burst Suddenly, and gave me a fright. On either hand A rise and fall was perceptible in the ground, Slanting west. A wind blew upward, chilling and shivering The grass. The falling tints in the distant sea Streaked with an elfin blue, and made the sands Slip from my feet and leave them standing there. I stood Stretched on the stepping-stones and seemed to be Tossed by some invisible factor. The rising sun Seemed left behind with the sinking moon. No more I knew Save that my look turned backward to that air-glass bubble I had seen a moment ago at my coming Out of the cloud-horror. "When I put it down, "Some time in the spring, I thought I should find you "Here in the meadow. The patch of grass was full, "And the sun of a May-day blazoned high in heaven. "Now, the blazing sun has burned away "The memory of that hour. I shall not see "Those lips, though once I kissed them. Cold "Makes lips so quiet. You have changed, "And I have changed, too. We never met before "At the gate; never on the path before "Where the vaulted rock shines tremulously down "To meet at my companion's elbow; "No, never here. I brought a little gift "To comfort and warn the bees of our approach. "The slim white flute of a dog, from your neck "Tucked in grass. I pressed it to your throat "And you started, barely to yelp, 'Whoa,' "Lest we alarm the smallpigs. "I am glad that you remember "Our first night out. I was frightened then, "And heard in my mind, among the barking dogs, "The step of my lover, and the door of his car "Click, click, click." I asked him again If he was the lover he whispered, and again He answered, "I was afraid. He is better now." "Now, at last," I said, "we are safe. But I wait "If you can bring me one last kiss, to close the story." "Now, at last!" he said, with a quick and gay Twinkle to his eyes. "The path is clear to the town. "I'll hurry with you." And, up at the pace he stole, His silly head turned to where I sat. With one last glance, And lurching of quavering gait, we darted through the high grass To where the great elm-trees thickly lay their shadows down Across the crooked road. We passed within the elm-walls Where the squirrels hid at noon, We climbed among the leafless elm-boughts, And over the shattered boughs into the wood. Our hands locked in a sort of gallant embrace, We raced through the swamp, I laughing, he pursuing, Till the old elm-clump dwindled, faded from my view Among the scattered leaves, and the rose was on the heather, And, last, the soundless hearth--but not the crackling of the log-- The dew in the rafter--and the stars that swarmed and circled O'er the springer's grave at our feet, with his right hand on my arm; Till the moon slipped from the black hill and long had looked upon Now how much for one fine spring of a year Has yet to run! What more can life bestow To rapture or to pain! The blush of the primrose, The dew of the bluebell, The violet, the celandine,-- What songs, what smells, what colours, Can twice succeed! The gay-voiced, flute-playing kine, The gabbling brook, the mower's scythe, The pride of the skylark, The merry morris dancers, The glory of the peach-blossom, The shouts of the mariopan, The horn of the djembe, The nightingales in the ditches, The moonlight and the rose, The tulip and daisy and violets,-- Could all agree So sweetly agree In goodwill to meet! Ah, soon, too soon, with nothing left to celebrate, Shall life's present fail And leave us with nothing to say! All that we own or agree upon As the main theme of our life Will soon be beneath neglect, Like two newborns, too poor and special To need the whole of it still! A month ago a riding antelope Fell through the disparted forest on my watch, And finding the wilderness deserted Hid in the bushes, hopes to resume his range When the woods new loveliness discover. But to-day, divine Musaeus, all The silent loveliness is subdued And the woods move out after new morning. How can he find new beauty to recover, Seeing that this is the very loveliest That he could dream of until he is made A prisoner of proud free-will's domains? On the pedestal of an August day The wild roses fashioned a dress for him; The narcissus' green leaves, intent to crown him, Set him off in a purple-and-gold plait. It was all his care the everyone to tell, But now no one knows he once had a gown, And the wild rose's leaves have plucked off their wig, And he has put on his best crimson shirt, And the narcissus' fair leaves will choose Another princely purple for their prince, And the ground-leaf sapling's plaid will deck him,-- But the new-made flower-people know him not, And his grand self is only a weed, And in place of the nectarine he'll have The yellow spulk of the yew; nor will they Look more slowly at the brilliant new gown Because a royal tassel hangs from his head. These things I have in mind for a noble man, With their reward of praise and kindly care; I saw a goodly man, I think his name was Taylor, I think his era the golden age Of English literature; but time, I fear, In all he took away or gave away Was never very thorough in his work. I had a couple of reviewers--they Did an excellent job, I thought, for a start-- But they merely filled up idle scraps Of time, as songs and little poems do; Their fame, like his, was all bait and sink, And like his, their object was always fame, To go round and no more be heard of again. Now is not this to the devil's prejudice, <|endoftext|> He scanned the youthful passenger with a smile, And hence he too was dubbed 'Young Harcourt,' but say, And why not? 'Circle jubilant male, Gentle harper of happy isle and happy isle,' Thou, knight, hast thy command of the pronoun to proclaim; This, what thou art I know not, and yet thou dost, As if 'young' and 'harcourt' were one and the same thing; And yet 'young' and 'harcourt' and 'young companion' Are two very widely different things:--see the difference In these two quotations:--'And so', etc., Here 'and so' has put the matter 'to the unbiassed test;' In each of these two allusions 'hoc' is dropping, And the unsought 'hocus-pocus' thrills and titillates In the seeker after clear meaning, who 'hears' Nothing at all but such. Thus we find 'hoc' instead Of 'hocca'; see the difference?'--There is none, 'There' being neither, except in Strong's. See, too, The extraordinary case of 'therefore.' As for 'Therefore,' I believe there are few or none who use it; But those who do are considered singularly slavish, Round heads and round: a whig from which I spurned Strong's fine paraphrase of Marvell, if I remember Rightly, in 'rabblerd' was one of the words he wrote. A curious illustration of the 'zones' of things, We mark in 'the bedstead-fix'd watch' (I, viii. 504), Wherewith the copyist has done his worst; for 'fixed' and 'permittable' are in the original, 'mounted,' Not 'mounted.' To the bed-foot, then, the copyist's hands Are ne'er as high, as he himself to the printed text-mark Descended; and even there we have him, like the angel Over the Early Church, over-mounting his hard labour With a mount of laurel. Thus, then, I 'heard' in print The very things I was 'hearing' in my heart. But though we see and feel so clearly in the original (As might be expected, seeing on the 'market-place' The books of either religion block the view) We still, from these exactions how far we go (If we go at all) are at a loss, and ask, Where go they most, and where seek they least? Some have in view the more 'transparent fictions,' And some the less, of each kind of fiction, Some the fundamental system of the whole, Præmunire or Braccoan; and what Is easiest to be imagined and do of course, Before the event has come to pass, we call 'Fantasy:' and what comes after, 'Pulp Fiction,' Not as yet, but when the literary machinery, Cast up and operated by the publication of Fictions, begins to show its engine-handle. At first 'the spirit of fiction,' which includes All that comes after the coming event, is nought But a strong necessity of getting books On shelf, or printing them, as now; for 'fictions' Can give a very deep flavour to ordinary language, And are a very great deal thelier for that reason. But as the machinery now in use for giving Fiction a more intimate and striking appearance Of reality, as the real or pretended spirit, Accomplishes this, the spirit of fiction proceeds To make his appearance more and more distinct; And by experience, sooner or later, makes his. Nay, in a many-handed country as ours, Willow tree, and bean-field, and she-mouse's hole Will, in the course of a century from now, show the same Impression of reality upon the eye, As does that century from the mists of yore Parrying beside them. And from this increase In the 'spirit of fiction'--as we see it grow, Will, or allow it,--the spirit of fiction will Have become so weighty with us, that no man Will read the religion of his own belief, But through the medium of fiction; so that at length We shall transcend the mere affair of faith, And make the belief of nobody. For 'the spirit' Is the soul of each thing, and our concern should be To make that soul as solid as the metal within The hammer or the taper. What we see or imagine, Is what we shall believe. Thus in the abstract, Though science may certainly conquer in a hundred years All that remains of Hegel, and leave us, in the heart Or the head, nothing but a ghost of a doubt, There is no greater fool than to presume to know Everything as well as he knows anything now; To put in the reinspective glass to the things around us, And see what systems they sit in, and see what the laws By which they operate, and find that all are yet Plaster held together with scarlet thread Of customary practise, and that they would still, Had not the example of the world shown us, From the example of our own folly piled on the folly, And the folly being thus less than nothing; that system Of things made by and for law, which we must impose If we would secure the faith, and is the best guarantee That 'we have come out of the Old Law,' and so have made Belief in God not something positive, but negative: This system will lead us, if we are not carven in haste, To a God who has made no few enemies in the world In spite of His wisdom and goodness. But if we choose a more practical system, Which takes the world as it is, with all its perquisites, And attempts to make it right for the good, and the greater glory of God, we shall see the light, as it will clear and perfect The cloud of the folly, and out of it make pure belief In God and Gospel, and belief in the mission of the Lamb That is published in the fold. We shall see how all the world Adheres to customary worship, or ethical, And how each age has fixed the time and means of its Messias; And how all the institutions, though they be under threat Of gradual overthrow, and ruin from without and drought That daunts intruders in their sacred precincts, yet bind, By reverent social obligations, the breasts of men In a covenant of mutual support and covenants More precious, and binding more deeply, unless they dissolve Again, This is the doctrine of 'static interest,' which insists That interest is linked with every interest, and has no need Of those artificial conditions by which the Lord (dear to the Greeks And Egyptians, and as sacred to the Hebrews) wanted to make Intangible the connection between the uses and aims Of each man's soul, and the objects with which his senses are For the most part acquainted. Again, in this age I say this,--as if earnest and undaunted by prepossession As to success, which amounts to no more than an Oath,-- From experience of the past as of the present. For I hold, That in this age there has not been, and never can be, On earth one impartial tribunal. That kings have sought, and shall seek, To sow their fellow-feeling to the patrimony of their crown, As soon as they can, through and by artifices more black than fair; And that those who renounce their country, its laws, and submission To the absolute power of a whole world, for the whole world's lucre, Expect the same in like magnitudes from their renegades. But out of these heads I will not venture to throw a sneer, Or to disparage the damned torments, who, like a cortege of elephants Triumphant through a city, carry a vulture, which despatches Its lolling necks bloody-mouthed to flay the attackers. In this I follow Sallust in its two fortresses, the fright And conflagrations of Rome, and the conclusion thereto. I hold that the arts, the court, the educational order, The Roman senate itself, were devised by Providence, And must, if they can be kept from opposites, be irreverent Of opposites, and successful; for what is Rome but a large Countries, with countries far less numerous, but far more of Valour and the excellence of government? And that the nature Of the Roman has been at best a crucible of many rifts, To improve the many, and that our own age must follow Rome, in this kind of metallic rifts, the more effective For longer experiments. Next, as to our customs, I say, that we may be free; But first we must love our liberty. For if we love it not, We may be nothing. Therefore, to be free, and yet maintain Our independence, we must renounce what makes us one, <|endoftext|> I prithee leave to have done with this worn And cursed work, and seek some other task, Whatever it be,--of master's lute or art, Of physic, or of huntsman's bow. At least Give me a task in some other register, Where the least on the map is not at war With the least in my heart." A last and rather scornful word Fell snatching at the back of poor Will, Who sweated through the dust that he might say, "That father swaddled worms is the worst amoure,-- And my thoughts!" but a heavy tear which welled, And dropped in a murky stream, stopped that door For ever, and ever. But now came thoughts Which he knew not, but could only bare To arms in a new field of battle. The rest as he left them would not hear, But one, with a face as white as a sheet, Clung round him, crying, "Whither? whither? Whither, O Lord?" "Where is that wound?" he whispered, holding up His sleeve, where a light mark like a blood-drop Dwelt in the small white sanguine curve. "Oh, God, not there!" he screamed; and Will frowned, And drew his hand away. "No, no," he said; "I have not hit her; I have not hit her. She goes to the window." She did. Again it seemed a stray arrow sprang the hoop, Again the dim shooting-stars reeled across The brass shields. "I have missed her," he said; He stammered; and then said again, "She-- She goes to the window." She did. Will's heart beat. But a chill pierced through his brain As he gripped the cup and the letter outside Fell on his lip, and he said, "O God, not there! She goes to the window." She did. "My God, not there!" Again the echoes rocked, and the darts flew fast From all sides. Will had lost her, and she was dead. He stammered, and then fell dead of a wound Which ripped and tore like a sawed-off head. All through the night His mother wailed and tore at the dream she had seen: He lay dead, she laid him in her loving arms, And in the cold light of the dawn the moon on his face Shone like a drab red tusk of some monstrous boar. No snow lay on the grass, and no frost touched the tree, But with the steady beat of her heart a bough leaned free, And a rook was on the bough leaning free. Three dead men, three dead men, and one to go. The muttering captain comes with a scarred face. "A shot heard 'round the world," he mutters, And starts to the dying man's side. They lie Flanking the stretcher, while he peers inside And sees a living hand, then gasps. One of them Is clutching a pack-horse by the rein, and one Is grasping a stretcher-pole with its feet. The pack-horse yelps, the stretcher-pole gyrates. He turns to the captain, who smiles a smile Of blank horror on his face and on his eyes. The war goes on, he mutters, and looks at the two Bowlegged figures that flank him. They nod assent, Both stare with one white eye at the machine-gun Playing Zaragoza like a violin, And in the distance the passed-away One sleeps for ever in the hut without a door, And cold in the dawn, and cold in the dusk The children of that one sleep in his arms. "Good-morning," he mutters at the dawn. The children gape wide-mouthed in dumb surprise. He rises and begins to unroll his blanket. A frog-shooter with legs of bat Strikes in tune with a mandolin's note, And I seek my master through the haze Where he shoots the afternoon, at a time When the path is lit by a faded moon, That through the branch-chipped twilight gives A glow to the waist of an aged man, Limp and white as a badly drawn kite Where the lines have trailed. He still must be The happiest of all those now free. Two eyes abide in a canary-bird's Sky of soft gray: he is waiting in gloom For his promise to be kept; as are they Whom hope and affection are watching too. A hundred years and more the children Of the Paris mothers must wait. Their reward Will be a narrow knoll and a tree, Their forest that they sought no more shall be The path that their feet take. Their sighing Cries of joy and disappointment shall be Unstoppable thro' the living sky. Well may I remember, year after year, That old face on which my life depends: Aching arms and hands, lips that shrink With the anguish of years, and on his face The pallor of twilight, and thro' his brow The creases of time; and tears and sniffles As of a child whose night begins and ends In selfishness and fun; and on his face The glory and the sadness of man's birth. Bright was the fountain in his childhood; And in the evening twilight the rooks All sundered as he crossed their glittering way; And always the robin sang, "Be true, To be faithfully true to Sister Jane: For one mistake she takes your fountain away; And where her waters slake, leak and turn A river to the sea. Be true, Or else for aye you both shall pass From me another fount--and come not home To Sister Jane's dell." And he was true. The cot and barn stood on the droving-path, And the horse and jennet by the cave. The horse stood tied to the car, and lean With a chained manger; while a plough Was lying dead at his feet. The sky Misted as he rode, and every gust Shook the rebec, and every raindrop dripped From the rebec on the path below. He never strayed from the path when young, But strayed to the cave, and then if knocks Of the wild bees made him shudder, he hid His clipt manger till the morn: now he rode With bare flanks to the mountain, and his reins Went drenching in the dew-drops on the path: He never strayed more, but on his path Was a sweetness as of far-off springs; Till when the mountain folds have his snow Flung thick as a curtain, and again Turns the great brow of a bowery hollow, His love is at a stand. But when leaves fall And the high alder make a level path For his feet, he goes by two rails and by Rock-fences of rock where the baulking stumps Of old pine stand proud on their wide-spread stones In quaint disport, or stooping with her horn, Sumps the low mead. The hunter that comes With bow in hand and quiver at his side, Brings death to him that crosses the bounds Where the old horse rides. They shall not pass But shall back recoil with darkening skirts, Wrinkled lash, and tumbling mane and go. This was the man, and may his name Die in earth when the world shall die. Hushed is the throbbing of the heart That he rode on that sunlit day When the world was in her noon. He may have been the light of woman, More than the white of summer weather, And the foot on firm earth of her gold, And the flower in her cheek that falls Before the warmth of burning days. Not as a king He rode his rebec, nor had a crown, But sat thereon like a bare branch Hung in the breeze. And the birds sang In the april and the snow was gone, And a wind blew out of the sun To scorch the grasses black on the wold. A cross of the white larch which one saw Stride upon the cross-bench of the farm, Just shy of its fatness, and the furze Stirred and sang, and the pool was hot, And the swallows plumped on the brown cowslip leaves, And from the old wheat-stack the gleaner drew Richer ones for the lean flesh, and none gave And none asked for anything. Then it seemed I knew not, so wise was I, who would learn. And that was he who taught the unlettered slaves Not to cry for bread, not to expect more from life Than work could give, than had they known was given; Who showed them God's written story of their race <|endoftext|> And the heaps of golden coins shall be shaken! Ha, ha, the wolf-eyes glare out on the coach! Grown old and ugly and cruel and ugly! Rough and bad and big and coarse and rough and cramp; And that beard of his creeps as he gazes on you, The spear that I used to handle now hiccoughed and dry, And the stone that I used to tap now dabs with blood! Ha, ha, the murder that I did a month ago Comes up out of the earth to caress me now; And the sighs of the wolf-women are sweet to me! Ha, ha, the numbers that I heard ring fainter and fainter! Ha, ha, the murder that I did drink from your fingers a month ago! Ha, ha, you should have heard the shouting and the fun when We reached the Hotel de Paris! The other girl (she's the only one, we believe, Has ever heard your name shout out across the world) Watched the coach draw level with the sidewalk, And grinned to see me Come haring across the Place Royal! How many times have I entered this door, But never quite entered it, myself, To look down on the world below! I never did get well inside, myself; But once I did manage to get down to stand At last, with my big head near the floor, And look up at the world below. And over my head I could see the fire-light, Through the window high up on the second floor. It seemed that I was in the world again! And high up in the air there came the clink Of the silver of the plates and the fare Plucked from the waiter's shabby apron! Ha! If it isn't my brave old Uncle Fred On the lid of the wine-cask there! (Oh, how the old gray face lights up and flashes!) Ha! if it isn't my wonderful Ma, With her blithesome smile and innocent twinkle! Ha! if it isn't old Grandpa Joe, With his arm round the little red-haired girl? (And the old Ma, with her ragged raiment on, Went back ten years to the shanty an' garret, To look after her little red-haired child!) Ha! I thought I was in the world again! Ah, the great flowered woman climbed the stairs; There were roses all along the railing; (Oh, I thought that I should never get used To the roses and the ladies' wear!) And the great red ballroom swung out its balustrade And some gallant soldiermaidens passed up and down. But in a minute my Uncle Fred Called me into the waltz with the ducats in. And though she called my name as many times As ten thousand times and more, Every time I guessed what he meant, Till it was no voice but a calling for me, I never guessed what he came to tell to me. But the music died, and off I went with a sob Into the lonely dark that lay above her. I walked into the room that had held so many of my friends, And I saw that all the scarlet was sugar-pulp. And all the walls was sugar-pulp and darkle And I knew that she had mocked and consoled me And set my life going when I had fallen into loathliness. And, leaning against the jutting back-chair Where once I had laughed off care, I saw, as she leaned with taunting leer, A scarlet scarlet scarlet scarlet scarlet-scarlet. I don't know what the stars are doing in Heaven, But they sure are not twinkling like the scarlet stars. Don't know what the moon is up to, I just know that scarlet scarlet scarlet-scarlet Has led me here to - oh, never mind, I'll pay whatever toll the scarlet tolls; And I'll pay her off, and pay her off Till there's nothing left of her, or you pay - I'll pay her off, I'll pay her off - And I'll pay her off, and pay her off. When you get to know a fellow, know his house, Know the crows that chatter in his yard, Know the quacks who try to hawth * from your fist All the crows and quacks and heavens in all directions, Know where they lead and where they drive, Just follow the scarlet-coloured lead, Follow the scarlet-coloured car - I'm sure you'll never stray, and I shall never kick. When you get to know a fellow, know his mind, Know the lies he believes and the lies he tells, Know the tics and semblances that upset his ease, Know the ways of his employing ways, Know the cranny he falls into and falls from, Know his trade and his wrapping and his selling - I'm sure you'll never cheat, and I shall never kick. I've a friend who's an optician's son - A goodly, well-born fellow, is he not? And his eyes I am always trying To find some lustre in a trifle. I don't ask, by the way, Why the light in them is not finer. But the most I ask is, how and why He got his eyes done up so blue, Why he has never got a camel eye And never learned to make them brighter. Ah, well, it is all Doubtless a secret quite, For the optician's son Is not ready quite To reveal it just yet. He's an optician, my dear, His eyes are not so black to be white, And yet he has never got a camel eye, Nor ever learned to make them brighter. I do not know, For his retinas Are not quite black and quite clear Like mine to be sure. He'll take you for an owl's eye If his are brown as mine are; So don't be disheartened if The doctor tells you he has spotted. And don't talk to me of horn and eye, Of blue and black and draining; I don't care, by Newton's laws, For the hue of mine or his. He's the best man I know, And he never has had a camel eye; But if his must be The whiteness of calm water, He's like to have had The sparkling of a female eye. I never saw What his retinas are like, But I suppose He is like to have them Like a drone-down's A hummingbird's In his eyes. I went the long way home, Though my heart was all of a quiver, And I begged and prayed and made hapless resolutions, When I thought of the childhood sweethearts I'd lost. I'll count it over, when I've crossed the river, And when I've failed in love's measures, I shall count it over yet again, In the sweet months inevitable, When I count the sweethearts I shall meet Who'll clasp me to their breasts. First there was Bill, my childhood's playmate, The boy so gentle and so nice. His mother was poor, and as I recall It was in winter or in summer, Any moment, the boy thought I'll say, "What a pity Bill is home alone!" And he'd smile and wave and be completely undignified, But, oh, he was so pliant and so tender! And his voice was soft and his laugh was swift, While his mother was feeble, but her faith was steadfast. His heart had placed itself in her place, When my heart has place in mine for the love of the boy. Then there was John, my second cousin once removed, A straight-limbed fellow, but a very stout servant; And he often, when it seemed he was displeased, Would take off his hat and whisper with a wry smile, "What's the matter, Johnny?" and then clap me on the shoulder, And say, "You'd do better to 'manger!'" And he'd prove to be double what his title said - There was no man who would struggle with me more! Now I'm weary of whistling, And I'd like to have a little caly >u> Of beardsmen, And where'er they go They shall be filmed And spoken of with great reverence. If a pair come on, I hope that they be white, And an old white-haired man Is more desirable than a black - From a Christian point of view. But a pair I found, A young couple, And I asked them to partake Of a caly >u> of beardsmen, And I will say That I was surprised To see a young couple gone With no part of their faces white, Yet I suppose they will excuse Me for that day! <|endoftext|> Thou'rt a serious, discreet, and clean Individual, that does as he's bid, And I'll leave thee to thy own affairs. I see the wrath in each defiant look, That answers my voice, and makes me feel (To me) a right o' conqu'ror; but I fear, Lord, they'll break out, some bloodshed too. It's little I care how in a trice Our friends may turn on us to rob them Of what they very much desire; We've nothing their own, you see, but what They've gott to hear about us here, And they howlt and shout as they will, We ain't on't to bring them 'round. A short little life, and the worth Is but slight, they know they're dying, Yet they're snorting with conceit, To think that one man, one man Could give his every moment so sleek To gain a thing, and give it him At length, all their wish and need. Lord, they are sinful if they think This earth has seen the life they hope; But I know it, and they know it, They may not see it; here I stand To prove it every day to them Who take this earth, but to refuse Which they dangle every day In rich gamesters' balls about them. Where other men labour freely, Here they may labor too, but not free; And here there's room enough to rue The scant middle-age that they gain. Let them amuse themselves with ball, To play at shop, or rush about At circuit-racing or the spar'd dram, But here 's room enough to die for. The little we have that we earn, Let us share with you ere the end, For 't will be but just, and let us do it; And here I swear, though I am old, I 'll not too early give it all away; But I must first see what I can do To fix my fellows' souls before I can Give it up to you, our true friends. Rise! awake! the Spring is here! The earth that lies on your very feet Is rolling to the briny wave! Oh, did you never dream in your joys So soon might be your destination? We talk of the frost and the snow, But the rain, at the best, is but a sprinkle-- Rise! awake! the Spring is here! The bloom of the cherry is gone, The cygnet's mood is o'er; The ducks and the hens and the cows Are fled to the north with the snow; The fields are no more the reproach Of my foolish and intemperate fellow-men; The Spring is here! the Spring is here! The snow, in a rapture of whiteness, Is huddled on hill and meadow-side, While one and the same America Makes good with her white and her rain. One ocean has its tints in the haze, One country shows her native woodlands, While one and the same America Makes good with her white and her rain. Old Percy, with his gun and his mace, Roams the country from Salem town, And bangs in the heads of her criminals With regular cracking of bell and calge. His book is closed: he 's won his repute: Who teaches otherwise has "a fool at the helm." His reputation stands on the roll and plate, In the Name of the Republic and The Writ. Not for display, to gawk at or titter at, But for effect, in company of some High patriotic theme, some grand satire Of Government in politics, or taxes, At which (such the influence of Jewish money Within the heart) many grumble with disheveled hair. For just fifteen per cent. the Gentiles sell us To fight other gentiles for sport, And when we slug each other overboard They applaud it with a hooray; They sing it, chant it, shout it o'er the air, To make us forever more of Louvain: The whole world is for us, or nearly so. Yes! long may the Flag, with the 13 stripes en-grolled, With stars and with history and with treasure stained, And the tears that have been shed for its sake Melt in the skies into the perpetuity Of its majesty and its majesty's memory! What makes this stirring excerpt peruse, And find one faint heart o'er its glowing page! It comes from a dear friend, a friend that lived to see All that our young flag meant to the sires of this age. May he be listening with the ears that never forgave, And may he soon hearing the very voice he uses, Through the faint pen or frowning seal, For he was ever like a sinless angel fair Touched with a fresher fire Than can e'er bloom on the brow of a false wizard, That dared basely affront The Eternal Consciousness Which stands behind the curtains of Time and Space! Oh! thy heart is as some mystic spring, Where all came pouring in From caverns unknown Of Time and Place; It is their Gethsemane With all its infant tears and manhood cheers; It is the heart of youth, The eternal morn Where Event began, A single line in a single life's affair; It is their Laylat al Hashym and the Sun and the Moon! There 's not a nation on the earth that can touch this heart Of old Inspiration, and give it youth again. Not in the early world was imagination So rich as in these after years, Who saw it once more open To shapes and imagery of mystery, And singing as it sang Of waves that foam'd, of shades that blur'd, Of deathless acts and words that pall'd The strange revelation of the Unknown; The unknown which pre-cedes all words! He stands with tongue heavy in his hand, As if it held the key Of a whole other world; As if he heard a supreme command Pass through the mass Of common-speech thought, And suddenly the balances swing His speech to earth, And lock In his own ears The words which shall make the First True What. Thou solitary ship! Thou personage Of that other world! Thou floating step of Him Who once walked on the seas, Sailing, sailing o'er the midnight sea, In oil-cloth dressed, With shivering gold, and scarlet gem, The waves from knees to brow Like a great angel slumbering there. When a vast silence falls on all the land, And only the leaves of one tall tree, Like a huge floating lunation, dim The dim horizon, and only the cry Of a far-off horn, where the snow-tires drowse, As the moon comes up o'er the blue sea, Tells that the moon has come up to the skies, And even the white moon trembles o'er the sea, With a sudden awe, and the snow-tires sigh As the distant horns sound through them for dawn. So comes the first word, Warm from the cold stone, wild with all The young world's love, cold from the fire beneath, And like new life diffused o'er the world 'Mid the entanglement of thought and word. They are all mine! Mine! Mine! Like the first lark, it sings from the sky, With a glorious song in the opening dawn, That up the dark has spread out in soft lines Of light o'er the cowering shadows, and That leaps up on the shore in glad sin, The loud cry of the soul-warm dawn. Oh! it is not the salt grey twilight Which drowns the towers of the old town, 'Mid the clouds which huddle in the low black trees And darken the most prominent features, Nor the rushing of the stiff-mouthed wind Through the domed streets, nor the keen blue noon Reflected in the cold sea, that fills My spirit with the fire of a passionate rest, When the mind alone is a vast happy sea, And my spirit the waves, that are wild with joy, Which weep o'er the glassy shallow, the briny pool When the village bell tolls down the hushed eve, And all is silence, save of one bird Which overhead is singing its sweetest song; And the faint fragrance of violets, that blow Along the hedges and in brown retroots, Falls on mine eyes, and my heart grows calm With a soft sadness, as I reflect That their lovely lives must ever be spent In the same spot, and with the same flowers, And with the same green things on their petals white. Ah! when a feeling is quite gone, and a day Hangs dim upon my heart like a shadow; Or I grow tired of a place, and begin <|endoftext|> And when thy day of life is past, For most unhappy crossing wait, Who thus shall keep thy memory fair." And more she said, but fail'd to declare Whom she in hope should to the warhead wed. <|endoftext|> The lily, maid, hath twined her samp into her lover's kiss: And rich have grown the flowers of love, methinks, Till the boon sun be set, Till the boon sun be set. The lily, maid, hath twined her samp unto her lover's kiss, And all their favours merged so fast In one close rose-to-rose blend. The lily, maid, hath twined her samp unto her lover's kiss: And, bragd names never known, The sun may set Till the boon sun be set. How sweet her look when every pale feature glows! And soft her breathing, when he coils his arms about her! Ah, wishful how shall I match my troth with her? Now one swift hour his sun doth set, And now another sweet hour to thee. She is fairer far than day, my love, nor weari'st like the lark; But both are fade and then a better day. And God to us, the wise, has given a sign, That this shall ever so remain: Yet shall my kiss abase that forehead fine, And aye she twine her samp in his embrace. The better day indeed may rise When suns one after other doth gild; But by that day nor I nor he knows how No rose blooms, but but that sign still dear. A smouldering torch within thy manly breast Kindled in dark, the end of thy moth-ploughing day, Kindled on that dull night, when life's desolate wheat Hung heavy for doom of harlot's unseen snare, Shall burn thy teeth to quench its glow; That heart-fear, longing after the hermit's smile, In mortals so deep of faith and love decays. Thus have I seen love's temple deck'd anew; The altar spent its coals and forgot to pray. The bride, new laid, a rosy towel doth receive, And offers prayers, of kisses, and of tears. Bless'd day! to thee hath all the gods including Prayed long and pray, that thou might'st shower thy dew The seed of many a love on babes' sweet faces. So have I seen love's temple deck'd again; But never, in all the eyes under Heav'n, Hath such divinity, as now doth shine, As shines, to crown the wedding torch and priest: O mighty love, whose pow'r, by nature ynough for us, Unworthy is, ere night end, to lie asleep. Behold the lords, the ladies, and all the rest, Swath'd in a whiter than the shutters February day, And blush'd alike through brows and lips and eyes. O let my words, melodious to thy ears, Bid thee resign the scorn thou hast his worthy. And by that day, melodious to thine eyes, That thou may'st roll the smith's torch out of the grate. Her high and hunched figure, set inArched brow, of sister port, And sainted cheek, with yews and vines entwined; Her eyes, whose lids, although apart, abide The blessed sun that lights the world below; Her brows, and hands, and feet, and cheek, and eyes, Who knows? whose alter'd hue is Nature's will. Nor be thy Joy, ill-tim'd as to this, When she in hair and eye more fair Endows the bride of Leda, and shows More kindly grace, and more excelling In place of Menelaus' wooer The Graces tamer at her knees; Thy Joy, full-feeding from within, Thou may'st confess thou art the loveliest. While thus she spoke to mortals, and did give To sleep's deep interst that cognisance due, Midst the marish blears that sunless night Her solemn step she did unfold, The stars in heaven that arch'd the east Her way did compass round to north While she did walk in mystic night, While she did tread the waters blue; That day she did not stop Till she a-land From Eden field return'd, To where Adam dwells In Paradise at the feet of bliss. Before her were cool shades, where woke Pleasure's blind and mindless throng, And Pleasure's self, with lustful eyes, And pleasure's self, the god of love, Where she in shining garments came, With gliding feet; and on her hair A crown of beams bright shone. As thro' that wilderness drear Where the sunk clouds do yearly strew Their hackled shadows dark and dread, When autumn's moon does her array In loose slow-motion through the air, Thro' many a dark'ning chasm do parade Her gliding self; so here I did see, Midst the desert flats of sand, With shining garments, while I walk'd, The Goddess of Love's godlike form. Here at the foot of those high hills That together do divide The Babe with blood most pure and bright, And the lame feet of the blind earth, There stood the Mother of the bairns In Eden's old, blessed hours; With her Child, her angel harp, her hymn, Her song and words of wisdom oft. Her voice is music, here, too, With sounds of joy and praise; Of love, of majesty, and grace It does invest the place; The place of earth's humanity, Whereon all transient things do glide, And change, and die away; And were not these the babes, too, That with their Mother did last year In Harmony and Peace live? Then, i' faith, that Song was sung Among the children there, And with it Praise well might be sung Of God's great grace, and good intent, Where they did hear the lark Sing from the early morning sky, The gleam of his golden wings, And the merry merry-breaking morn. 'Twas where the vine did hide its clusters, 'Twas where the creeping vine did creep, 'Twas where the cedar, green and tall, In mingled syllables did sing. And just beside the place, a little plain Held in restraint the wild and wiry grass, And guards today, do all that may be, From passing by the little lawn, That the soft winds of this native land At times, just sets down to sleep. Thence if one should happen to come, There if one should happen to stray, Not far should one behold, in a lonely place, The ruins of a marble court, And pillars made of red gold; Where did then the palace-house appear? It must then have been a lovely place. Was it not strange? One well might guess That, 'mid the bright fulness of its flower, And freshness of its summer time, It did its eaves with flags widen, To guard against the bowery breeze That from the deep-bosomed ocean came, And on its borders did pour down Such moisture as the yellowing leaves Of Autumn sheds. If our Saviour once had stayed Here, in the small cot of Galilee, He might, perchance, in rare occasions Have serve'd a warning voice To some of that pompous sequence That questions each deed, Whose brain is half with honey and half With gall. There may have slept, yet left untold, Behind the mother-home the foulest stain Of one who toiled and drudged, who envied, too, The gracious abodes And counted all things by the size of the thumb That did surrounded his modest cell. He who came, and with a single stride, Ere one lamp was lighted, passed the dark portal, May have loosed in that dim place some thought of the rest From which it seldom comes. He may have seen the broken window Struck by the violent stroke of the barrow; May have marked, in the shift of the moonlight, The tear that it has wept; And when it has wept, He may have wept too O, may he wept! for had he wept Not thou, And the resurrection risen with thee, No man had seen! For then the aged patriarch (Whose cheek in life was always veiling A seed that was springing,) In reverential mood, While others are singing and dancing, Looks down from his place in the temple On the child, the shelt'ring throng, <|endoftext|> In the lofty splendour of the Muse; What seest thou here, that above the rest Stands highest of the arts to hail? This was thy passion, and these shall be The wreath of glory round thy brow. For me, not with the vain and harsh Proclaimings of the non-sequitur; Nor the dubious, helpless "It should be!" Exchanging grey eyes for those of Sorrow. My words were these; but, a little longer, The Gods gave me to listen to this voice. I have not any will to be ever memorable; From the moment when I first beheld you in the glade, My heart was never entirely free of your being; No; I have thoughts, unsocial passions, even dreams, Even of you, often waking I seem to see you, Though you never come near me, though I often cannot trace you; Yet, often seeing, I have had an almost religious fear. But, if there's no chance of your coming, or of me coming, What use to waste our words discussing the possibility? If you never come, and I never see you, how is it I should know That I've ever said or thought that? Is the promise unfulfilled, Or has the house so strangely, mysteriously Attributed its servants' odd occupation To someone else? Are the generals that now serve me In warlike magazines, equipped for wearing apparel, Gathered together for some new fashion's inauguration? In such a case, I really don't know what place I should take For remembering, or for creating the belief in, good fortune; Perhaps a return to my boyhood's remotest villages, Where so many beautiful things have existed and died; Perhaps an examination of the greatest river That flows through the earth's empire--the Nile-- And its many results; and the very first That springs when waters are least offensive to the eyes; Perhaps the reason I am only ten is that I had the good fortune to be born at the right time. When I am not making speeches, May I be lying on a couch, Reading volumes which have no poetry, Or sleeping on the cold ground Where there is no question of sleepers' attributes, Nor of balm or balsam.--No, no, no; As to beds and couches, Let us leave the flowery parts of the Chronicles. I have had many a soft success Since my return home, but all such avail To console me for difficult hours, As this just written line. Nothing can reach me Of the happiness which is my own. Can I believe that? For a selfish interest all the world is mad; The bosom's ardour, the foot's devotion Ye show, but in your actions ye're not the same-- Pity the poor poet, Too oft he falls victim to want of vantage. --One gets much more pleasure from that sort of gift, Which he counteth writing, Than from any added thing which is bred To pass beyond the reach of ordinary singing. I could have sung an innocent life In a well-ordered household, With the will made sure, and the passions curb'd-- But then I forget that sort of innocentness! Where I wish'd for something more, I had supp'd at mankind; I had want'd, but not to excess; I had hope, but not despair'd. Now the waves are at my feet And I am on the wind's revenge, Wailing the cruel gulfs to the sea, Trying to keep from being drown'd. Each note that comes ringing to me Wakes a cloud that drives before it, While the gulfs they speak to my heart, And confess that I am avenged. One thing I am, I am free, I know where I am bound; My mind with wings is forth' racing, To seek where I am wandering. I ask not why I am so, For I would be so indeed, If I knew why I was born. And I ask not when I shall cease to be, For I should cease at once to be; I ask not what to myself I mean, For I should understand my being. I would be loath to do that which I know That I can not reasonably do; I would be loath to do that which I can. But I know there's a something in man Which may not be exprest; I look not for a magic shield To hood him from the shock Of the maelstroms of life--but so much may be known By the keenest eye, that I have no doubt That the primal human spring Of emotion is sink'd in earth. And still I could not look upon My own image in the glass, For my own face is but an image Of the universal me: And yet how different from what I am All else that I see and am! But how consolation has that brought me, If to be dark and disconsolate Seems to be the only way of coming to rest? A cloud hath pass'd across my future vision, But a wind continues at the fall of the evening; My sorrows are but fresh portentous smother'd fires, Portentous blazes where troubled waters burn: And I thank God that I am not as others, For I would be comfortless as they. Adieu, sweet Rodehochie, Your slumbers have awhile lengthen'd, While the ballet of love Will not be over much later. I have hasten'd so, Advantage's stealth advance May have a moment's reverse; Your love, the which so long hath last'd, As a magic charm will not, To your soul's cell may not belong. If this be not exactly told, 'Tis not my fault, 'tis not my part To estimate the occasion. Ye have been a hundred flowers, But ye are not as they. Were ye wing'd to another sphere, The beauty and the witchery Would have been quite too low for ye. --These, alas! are wordsie drabs; --My word, a word, will never, never Have so slight an impact as ye. I can't tell why a lover draws me In the blue, shiny, pleasant sky; I can't tell how sleep would leave me Drown'd in many a creamy star. From many a curtain of the brain I hain't roused to a lover's joy, The sweet sweet twining cognition Of earth and heaven's wedded loveliness. And many a honey-bell Comes ungladdened, uninvited, To bother my peace of mind. For I'm forced to think, 'fore I can smile, That you were ever anything but casual. I can't tell why the moonshine dyes My woodbine, and the daisies Should wind in stilly lawns, But I happen to know Why the daffodils grow out so late, And why the stars are shining so bright In the early December. This is the gift that often I get, When there's love a-hogging my chest: As I am changing in my dreams, By and by 'twixt my head and my heart I grow a beauty of rest. I am warmed by a spirit I never knew, I am laughed at by a man I love; And my marriage, if 'twere needed at all, Would be an event in the education Of little boys to count salt. My home is a desert, where sun and rain Do little but chill the spirit, and bring The dull throbs I speak of, and few blessings; And I deem it was not meant for me. In days that are like sleep I am wont to Lie awake, and wonder when I shall be alive again. It seems to me but to have been her love, That I might have been her happiness; I might have sat by her hand when she Was weeping, and listened in delight To the voice of her delight. And when the flower of youth put forth its Fair flowers, and from its bowers sent out sound Of anthems sweet as "Ah!" I might have been An early bud of that golden fleece. Why was I so reluctant to speak my heart To her, as she might ask of me? I can't exactly say I was shy, But something more than reluctant; It was that, somehow, I had a fear That if I did express my thought clearly, I might offer an excuse, Which would end my joy of being with her, And leave her no easy choice. And so I held back, And feared to say too much, As a lover that dreads An alibi for his crime. And now that my year of fear is past, And I have sight of her sweet face, I vow I am at my ease, And say what comes in my mind. And if I err, I only may The fault repent before she's aware. <|endoftext|> Strange lights appear, and mystic eyes Gleam thro' a veil of veils that lie Between this world and a region bright Where nothing comes, and yet something flies. 'Lecture' becomes a myth; 'vase' goes out To meet the dyes of time, and makes no more; 'Crochet' is only thread, 'lace' only weed, The vase is only broken to begin with; 'Maple-sugar'--out with it! and 'hand-made' For what? To satisfy the gross desires Of those who want a costume and not much more. A poplar occasionally grows, or a Tall tree, or a tawny chestnut, if you Can keep the lean wind from your blooming seat, And, at the same time, do not let things that are Obvious through that window-gaps gain access. You must feed your flocks without a groan Or anything like one, and never let The sheep make too much nuisance of their Accustomed grazing on the lethe side your fence. 'Books'--oh, take them away! 'Workshop'--no, Keep clear the books, and never let them see Those temptations of unkind confusion, Or those things that only pigs and wolves would get. He would get e'en to learn his lessons ere he could Show his face at any lectures I ever gave, And a friend once said that I, before he died, Should make a lecturer on Condillac. There's no hurry to take me hence, if all comes well; My strength's evidently good, and I can show That it's all done without a selfish prospect, Because I'm working, and doing things and seeing New people all the time, and always seem To have at hand the leisure, when God pleases, To go and talk to them face to face. This last is the most important, because 't is the part Which most men's thoughts go to in their slumbers deep: When they wake up, their childhood rises about With all the gladness they forgot when they lay Day after day in an old man's pleasant embrace; The man is younger than they knew, and lovelier And purer and fonder of duty, and above The level of their childish recollections; And he's brought them up to revere and love the good Which stands before them--that their duty here Is growing stronger day by day; to bear and to share Each one of life's common burdens nobly and well, And, working and living wisely, to leave the end As clear of hopes and fears as if they'd never been. 'Man's death is endless'--but is? If so, no wonder They worship in their graves the great dead; they need No such rapturous teaching as this, which is Their living exemplar; they have died, But whether endless or dead is hard for them To say, and what they've died for can't be told. 'This is what the scholar spends his life to know, And this is what he bids you grasp and extend. For here we dwell; there men for aflame are thrown Since first Man threw a spark into the pan; A spark that grew into a conflagration, And now they torch and warm themselves till they Are one with their favourite kazoo, the hoop.' You can't believe in endless life, as I do, For though each breath you draw has life within it, One particular life,--you die at last, and that's all. No, none ever: when my mortal hour is come I shall be more insistent upon your leaving me, And bent, though painfully, towards pursuing life; For I shall want, and you are paying now with wealth While I to hunger and excess it on my crest Am long to starve, though your poor offer of grace Make it seem more just that I should keep myself Sufficient to feed into that sphere where they Who've had the good of all earth's fruits-unto-come, And who can think nothing fairer than to share (And not for me, alas, the dregs) the last ones, Will leap beyond the ravening herd for life. So I shall suffer, and when once my time's out Why hold you back? I pray. O my friend, You'll find it hard to part with me; let me go, For I'm a burning brand, and a broken lip, A broken heart, and a wearied arm, And the will not be sufficient to dissuade Your hands from giving me that in which is hidden The intelligence of nobility: for so I conceive the deep and right plan by which We'll live, which we can hardly understand yet Will make us worthy of each other: and, as The mighty have not countries, this is our home. The sun is sunk And we have watched his lengthened course, As true as priest the true mind must; Who, to his shivering heart a-cold Poured lightnings, till the heavens were Opposed tozar of darkness; then Even the earth beneath his feet Fell before his raving car. I saw the giant chief Go forth in battle-white With armoured hand for to seize The world-old terror, the dart. I saw the royal sun Set in flaming sulphur To give earth and heaven wonder That such a man should be I saw him rush to war And the swift throbbing great heart Of the tiger beat for blood, But never once did he fail To lay upon the foe his own Some stroke of that hot ruth That doth all men make of him. I saw him bathe his sword In night-black running water To bring home corpses free, Whose burning eyes he would not look, Knowing their blood must spill, and so Better would it be to kill Than ask how men die best. I saw him lay a turning Round an unsown field of death As to make hard the living, Or the hurrying hour's lack; And many such things I saw, Things that passing true men scorn To believe but they saw true things Under that giant's brow. I think that a mild man might have dared Upon the battle-field that field When he saw how the giant swing Deeper to the fork of the blade, And mark you how the big blood pumps But the great heart did never fail To make a gentle speech for peace; That the great heart fought with might and main In his neighbour's and his enemy's cause. He was like some dead tender child, Or a thought of the old time been, When a child's been a thought of his morn And so made glad and light of day, With a right for the old familiar And no strife for to undo it; And still I sing his praise to-day For how he safe slew the monster foe. Now the wild bull by the paved square Champed and chomped in open fair, Showing no signs of his coming by As he stood, lordly in his glee; When from the noble heart rose up A word that was light as a bird, But life seemed lightness in comparison. The working men, that were of his, Knew he was their friend in their need, And the beauty and worth of his heart Made the strong hands cling for to gain it; And now he had delivered his word And pledge, and promise of a crown To him and his,--and all that was best, For his love and his favour was done. And when at last that strong word passed They lifted up their hearts and wept, And he hailed them as a loving friend And lady to wait on the same, And left them to theirs together,-- I ask, though I know the meaning will be For him to do for his friend for ever, If one word be less than generous, Is it less than prayer,--I ask, is it less than truth? Yes! This is most true. When a man's gone from the earth Where his home is and mother and sister, And his friends have no trace of his name Till the dust on the earth hath ceased to rise, And his only hope in the angels is To see him arise with the morning dew, O then the weight of the news he hath seen Threatens upon him like death to do him hurt, So the waiting does him good till he die, And he find out the end as a good man doth. So his heart and his love did him good, And kept him from the black rest which is hide Because we hope for the dead that are dead; So he broke the silence in their ears, As they waited, and with a ready hand Halted the end of his sword as he spoke, And showed them his face, and the glad eyes, And the hand touch not the heart till the end. Now when the daylight was waxen dim They sent men with wands to seek him, and take <|endoftext|> Since last we met, these oft-recalled hours Have stripped me in the sight of God; These days this corpse this narrow bed With each new day seemed to imprison Even less my boy--in it a space Weighed down like a outcast rock--his name. But every month or so since we learned That he was dead, some hours of peace Gave way to days that seemed to bring Hard living and still heavier prayers; For there came a day when, given cause, My lips were wrath and rushed to curse The days that came before and behind. That day I watched when, at the bell, Before the grave be noon, he went Out to the garden, whence we pulled Our wild flowers down in token true Of heart's peace and happy love's renewal. There, in the gathering glory of noon, Picking the daffodils and germs Pink and white, he seemed a queen and wielder Of queenly power in garden magic; For there I saw him plant his vexed kiss Upon the lily's crest--for such a kiss Is planted such on lilies of such reign-- And then recall and repeat ad nauseam His passion; and dolefully repeat, Even as he did, with deep sighing, go Over the clasping petals, all his heart's desire; Forbid the shadow to decline the claim Of prolonging beauty out of time; Make laughter fleeting, and her tears to flow In spilt laughter; nay, melt her corpse to sighs In pale lamentation--oh, for such a kiss As that! Oh, her warm, kind, passionate, dead kiss! While, with sad, brief intervals, I saw The dead man and dried and clawed feet, I prayed She had a savior, born of love and pain, To be the thorn in flesh's side; as Christ Laid low, the knot of bitter Passion, and rose From weeds to bloom in manhood's sacred Spring. For lo! she was the thorn that never ceased; The rue, the rose, the jessamine, and plant The shoot to shoot in love; the dove's wing to wend To Northland to the good and faithful son, There to renew her service, service old, And have atonement with his mother brave, To him she bore her longing; and to make Pardon to the magician's dying breath, The trick of charms, the fraud of vows; which brought Her home and laid her down at peace again. To come and sit beside my lonely fire And tell me what to my weary brain Ails it in wrenching from its hundred thrones Of earthly sovereignty? My hopes, My blood, my patience, and my fear; Crowding its distracted vessels over-filled With passion till the streams flow over; The while that one, God-loved stuff, my heart, Lulls me to ease itself, clears the head, And puts forth flowers of gentleness. The Spirit bears me along and shows How rough the way that wisdom sees to me, But on a day the prayers that he makes Shall lead me up from death's primest hell To peace at last, and weariness to power. He bids the earth my steps accost, Acclaims its vast sympathy, and says: Look upward, look upward, your kingdom here, Your God's-Live-long World, within shall be All the loveliness your search can see, All your dreams realized; but as yet You have no understanding, and to you He hangs. Here your sweet cradle, here Is heaven on earth; and, with glad tears, Unknown to you, the faith that guides And blesses you is paid in full; your tears Glow in God's ears, for He will never think That men have given them thanks enough, unsought, In heart-felt brevity of tenderness. You have no clays of prayers to clad the wood, No ancient fabric to return in fresco; But now the woof is spangled with the saints, Whose lives, who knowest not, shall pass away; Their martyred eyes at length into God's face, His toe hairs peer out from Heaven's arch's high wall. The Children of the World, whose love is first, Called to the dawn, cry out: "Glory to God." And though a world's heart-weary birth brings forth Good will to all, grafted in this tree I will not gather enkindled seed; For a wandering thought has changed my home-- I dream I hear a crown of thorns say: "Sow, who knows but God may use the tree; To the wombs of women let the sprouted grain Haste, for, by His kindness, life is brief, As to its time of birth, so God is kind." Comes a voice from out the gloomy night So sad, it sounds like sobbing in pain; The thorns are touched with mourning-sweat, the green Bristles and grips me with a dreary dread. Is it the longed-for child is dead? Is it silence in the room above? Is it hunger at my heart, that quails And turns my pulses to sea-line lows, And turns my head like a stricken snake, That strikes its fangs against the thorn boughs? Or is it the leaving, long delayed, Of the comrade who, in duty bold, Still lingered at his post alone? O'er me, from out the cavern of the gloom, O'er me, the silence comes with slow tread, It has been quiet so long I think The world is sleeping, so softly breathes The dew on every blossom in the sod, That dreams of summer and eternal night. The world is sleeping. Ah, with what dreams Of life, that were beloved so faithfully, Do I, idly, long for life once more! Oh, great and good! Your faith in God is deep; Your trust in Him is strong. Yet, I trow, Here in this city many a torch is thrown With all the love of women for your own. How oft, in city or in town, I've passed Upon my road, by night, with slanting ray Of light upon this church, and from the dark Have seen the faces of the folk who knew you, And in their eyes, even now, their love remains. How oft, upon your graves, all, now, are plac'd Against the rising of the sun, the moon, Your relics forgotten, and the place wherein You died is deserted. They have builded, Indeed, a shrine to God, themselves, of all. A son on you was reft away; Were it a foolish thing, the fault of no one, It was a foolish man's fault, and good men's too, That you have come to nothing--nothing and shame. What, and indeed, was my business here? Wandering the world, not being able to do more Than feel, when I have lost him, a bitter woe. What, and indeed, was I bringing home to you? His name, and fame. Were it a foolish thing, I have more of it with me than you have of me. Hearing your name, a ghost of what I was Comes to me; and my memory summons friends To pleasure me with some familiar thing, A talk of college days, or another drive. The memory comes; and I can tell them all About your wandering life and times away, And how, alone in wilderness of trees, God knew how he made your soul to shine with gifts Of beauty, and of perfect liberty; And still I would not have you send your love. --Why?--I might have been your friend, you know. Why Should I not be as good a friend as any? But in this place I dare not expect to find Such friendliness as would let me come at last, As soon as I had paid my worth whatever cost, And come with no reproach or blot of weak alacrity. (He opens and shuts the door, and stands still.) I do not mean to say, perhaps, that this boy, As gorgeous in matters of outfit and time, Is without some virtues; but I must hold him As somewhat capricious, and over-wise, And, lastly, a somewhat ideal boy, whose best Proceedings, till the present as past, Have been concerned with nothing of the best. Had you known him, as I think you did, unpurpled youth, You would have found him timid, timid, and boyish; And he would not, I conceive, have concealed What was in him, now that his present drive is sped. He would not seem, as he has hitherto done, Qualified to take you under his protection; And, consequently, you might look to him For certain military, literary, or other, <|endoftext|> Come, let us greet them. This was the hour when hope First rose within my breast, This was the hour of flight. Our arrival has been blest, Our voyage hurried on. Oh! can I do to him What you have done to me? He has marked the second page, He has struck the running stone. I would that you had power As you have seen through mine To make him give you rest. Mayhap you think I speak Unpleasantly of fame, As if I were unkind To sigh at the year's increase. But I am not, though wise, Sagacious, and modest. Though my mind may appear Unworldly, and my garb Unfashionable, and though My pursuits and my daily life Are somewhat new, yet I Have voyaged safely through them. I 've run the newer path, But drew my ample length Along the older coast. I feel I should forget A long-pondered quest, And give my warmest thanks To a rare and happy chance. I would not recall a deed That I owe to you, Though like a gift you have brought My year of bramble-flood. The clear brooklet that once did travel Along the green and wide mead, Does in her leafy cot remain, And silent prunes her mighty shade. No longer now you see her scamper Downward, and o'er the sunny hill. No longer now you see her linger Like some sweet Leda, crimson-dowered, In Virgil's dream of daybreak light. The green-leaved nasturtium in the vine Treads beneath her thin and narrow leaf. And weedy are the sepulchres where Her relatives are forgotten dead. She, where they lie, no more is seen Than a scattered flower or two. The love-gifts you have sent, and all The songs you with your breath have sung, Cannot make glad the hearts of those Whose love is as a faded fire, Whose memory is but a stone. They ne'er again will speak your name, For who has power to make alive The voice of that they have died? But I have sworn to you, by that sweet power, Which maketh all the heavens daily lovelier, By all the happiness I now can glimpse, I swear to you, by the sun and star-light, That I will break my word, not once, nor twice, But thrice, and send that vision back to you. Come in the morning. The sky is bright And free from cloud: Come in the morning, come at night When the evening hushes round. Come in the morning, come at night, Come when it is light, And come in the evening, come with me. Come with the sunlight on your brow; Come with the moonlight on your brow; Come with the morning stars about you; Come with the evening stars above you. Come with the light before you; come with the dark; Come with the murky evening before you. Come in the morning, or in evening, When the evening hushes round. Come in the morning, or in evening, Come when it is light, And come in the evening, come with me. Sweetly on the hushed and sparkling air, Whose heart was bound with wonder too, A sweet and mirthful star, like precious gift, Leapt, swift as heart-blood, in his bright abode. He seemed to be a lovely boy of spring Started from his bed, and straying up the stair, All glad and smiling, and full of mirth and glee. The light of many a rosy, dreamful eye, The laughter of lips flung open wide, The gait and form of one who has been dancing Short years, with feet that dance the loose-hinged floor Are like the fever and the energy Of one who dances light all night and all day. They do not care that they are dying As does the fountain of unquenchable fire, Through whose rock-hewn path the screaming ostrich Can flee her foes unheeded in the ravage; Whose virile spirit has no bound but time, But as his steps are quick and his eyes are bright Sure some subtle, heavenly fever is his. He feels no pain, and he may feel no ill, Nor any sorrow that may chip and pierce His tough unyielding heart and sicken him. He laughs with Joy that the Universe Is full of loveliness and bears no penalty To him, whom none may love with impunity. He is a Fount of Arcady, fain a Stream, Who, from his vaulted and water-breathing room, Blends with the chords of all the Symphony kind That round and down its fount convey; Breathes in its harmony, and floods its bed, And clears and restakes its crystal crest And fathomless depths of vital gleam and light. And some of grief, and some of mirth, And some of longing are his share; But his deep heart-strings only quiver with Love. And their quiverings are swift and strong. And from the fiercest of his set despair He lifts his smile, and makes it his point To chase despair from man's soul once more; To shine his star forever in the night, And light the gloom of the eternal day. So shall he not be vain, and so be blest, And so be mortal not to miss The Heaven he knows, but to be dear To the Omniscient. And the music o' his tongue, The beams that flash from his witnessing eyes, The words that, sounding in the earth and air, Are music too of God's own harmonies, And of the sweep of the wings that bear him over The sunlit and ocean-silent heavens-- These are the gifts that may be given; And these are the wonders he can do. And he is passing on his way A lovely sign and peaceful sight. He strides along the battlements In radiant splendour. And he spake Once, and a longing like a prayer Sent from the soul took sweet answer, "Victory." A second time he spake, and the air Filled with sweet life, as sunshine and as rain Filling the empty chapel with his presence; And he said, "The day shall see the end Of many years of bloodshed, wounds and pain. The Roman master's hand shall not destroy England's youth again, or smite in vain The statesman's lofty aims, nor yet once more Do the cries of the vexed sea-captain set The heart of a mother on her son's heart on fire." And the morning dawned bright and cold, And the rosy-fingered morn Rose up with the lily-cloaked princess, That was to be her bride, and lo, For a little while, till the night, Wailing, had wrapped its arms about The mountains that to the southern sky Roll their fluted and graceful fingers Round the burning sun, and 'mid the sound Of the ebbing and springing of armies, he Had turned to her his whole thought; for he said, "Mayhap, my child, these hills and this fair land Will be divided, ere the day is done; Yea, ere the night comes down and hides the stars, Mayhap your lily-cloaked bride and you Will go to live with those whose calm, clear faces Are like the vale they love." So the morn went, Rose-clothed, rosy-nostalgic, with a dream Of the mountain-clothes to put upon her, When a light, hushed, small voice rang from the well At the other side of the castle--"Child, are You not yet a little children's poet? I am a man of years and of care, But for her mine children's ages are the same." The princess looked down and answered; "Child, I have put a purple corner in the well Where the ages of women burn; and there Each old woman who has held you fast For food or shelter shall stand; and you shall have Wide room to move and to stretch your hands And to look down upon them, and to take Your fill of their soft, liquid words." So the preacher made you friends With the old dames at the well-head. But you Were never heard to chide or chide. You wrote far more than they could send To the children in the slums of Warsaw. And when they polished and painted their tables And rededicated them to God, You gathered gold for the priests, and beat For the Lord your licks, till He made it red. But I, I am not that preacher. I have no gold for the false God I hold. <|endoftext|> And evening rounded out its shadowy age. And then I heard the sound of wild revelry, And saw, among the pine-trees glowing, The throstle singing with a silver throat Among the greenlit merry-men. I heard the tattered hay-rack And the lilt of fly-blown song; I saw the goatherd simmer, And the moonlit Quaker sit. I saw the traffic's zigzag rout, And thought of the London street, Where always in low-keyed meet and flock, Like a wind-hammered bell, Come the bumble-bees, Bringing tales of delight To the brown-headed farmer's ear. I dreamt of a summer night, The lamp was lit for play; With a tune that shook the willow-tree, As the former lover's stroke, Lingered in my dream. I stood with other lovers there, All in grey attire; 'Twixt me and Juliet's voice Came the music of their woe; My bosom's wild regret Kept time to the music's flow. Ah me! the dismal malady! Never a balsam-cup But will bring feverish unease, Till the fever's over. Fainting is better than death-- That is but gaining rest; Fainting cures morbid care-- That a grave enforces. Fainting makes all the pain, When the morbid becomes inactive, Comes to the mind in naught but ghostly sound. And where this passion should have led, I saw the man of life lay down. Death closed his eyes--his minute's eye, That budded in the blossom-slight. The blossom-slight was the tract of life Who thus was born and thus did die. The honeybee with pulsing thorax No sun's sweet orb has ever pierced; No rose has ell enforced its purple on, As death itself this buzzing thorax, Where no honeybee has sown the rainbow seed, Grows all coated o' the ermine hue. Then, when the nerve that hung on his name Weakens and dies, his little ointmenting, Poor little sun! I raise my small bouquet Of one simple rose, for you to lay. I seem to see a very little flower Begrimed with light, as though with shimmering wings, And clasp'd within its precious grasp a thorn: With it a little carven figure stands, All, all alone, of summer's tender hours, That travel through the shimmering air, Their precious flower, their thorn, and all entwined In one sweet embrace. And what are those things, Mere flowers and thornes? the folly of chance! What if some blossom from the thorn had grown, That meant the thorn a greater harm than all; What if the thorn had meant more harm than all, Yet from the thorn the blossom came to be; What though the thorn had meant, 'tis not the same When the thorn is stricken, as when it stands? O little feet! O hands that hold, O hands with hands in them, what are they But baits to the bait of thy Black Fate, A bait whose mortal grasp thou would'st share? All senses prone to sickness, all hands Tendency to innocence. Why should the universe create For thee a fate so desperate dear? 'Twas Mine, and only Mine, to raise Through all the worlds a emanation, A blessed emanation of thee. The universe is only Mine, And in the much, the good, the great, Only such is the blessing sent. What Worlds, what worlds are Mine, and what Is offered by each World to Me! Possess it! but if possessed, Seek not to know it; know only Me! Mine the origin, only Mine In dat long script that writheth about Each thing in dat round in bizness, Dat is pure Mind in dee-dam spectrum, Unreached by--you know what wisdom. Oh, homicidal Reaper, Pluck me thar Scriptures, it 's so long, It might ne'er be reprinted, I've twinkled in 'em so good I've barely had time to boggle; But dat sea of dee-dam science Is so long I'm sure to stammer. I'll read you something ter you, 'cause My eyes is ole and tired, Dat I am goin' to wreck deead, So I am readin' you this bit:-- "What my religion is," sez Holi-day, "Is mostly ev'rywhare, Dat is the name I like to hear, Dat is the name of--something else. "I say it's mostly, I don't say it's all; For all's mostly vot'ry, vot'ry, vot'ry We drees because it is the best, So far as I can see, dat is, But it ain't got not one whit o' dat; So you know, they would have you think That my religion is somethin' else." O Christmas! with thy pansy breast, And chin with little blue stars all over't; With thy bonnet that will not adorn you, But falls down upon your head when you are pleased; With the rose in thy cheek and the lily in thy eye; With thy rollickin' long bow and thy sedge-stile scent; With the scented petals of thy garden-lily-hole, Oh, dear little baby, my own Christmas-child! For the first time in years I dare not write you a poem, For never, never can a Christmas-tale begin with a song more long than a rhyme; Yet, on that happy day, when millions of little babies are screaming and poking their little prickly fingers in the fire, We'll go up to the top of the city, And we'll pause at the windows of the stores, And the balconies and the window-seats of the flyin' folk that come to town, To watch from a distance the coming of the thousands and the festin' of the crowds; And we'll lift up our eyes to the Christmas trees and leave off our little prating; For we will scream with delight when the store window windows fill with Christmas baubles for us; For there will be laughs and tears, good-hearted tears, When we peek into the toys that are set for us. We'll look for a seat in the hackman's bench, And the ragman's rug; and out there among the crowd, When the tongues of the children and the cheers of the crowd are at maximum, We will creep along at a comfortable distance, To muse fondly upon a face we have known before, And we will smile with a raklin' smile, when we spy one we know and love; For this is the place where a man can look upon a woman in her silken gown, And where a woman may look back at a child that is close behind her; And we'll learn the story of the bear and the child in a minute, When we slowly peel back the story of the leaves that have fallen for the winter; And we'll fear naught, when a multitude of glowing faces Goes crawling over a city with fire-flashes in the roofs; For we'll neither fear nor tremble, when the bars of a cage Have fallen back and the night is upon us. We'll see no more the child that was taken away, While we watched the picture that hung on the bedroom wall; We'll never again, in the newspapers that spread under our feet, Learn what work our mother-and-mother did in the Home before us; We'll never again in the office when we began, Take the trouble to write home, "She's gone, and she's sorry, therefore--" Oh, we'll never again the joy of the feasts at all; For the mothers-and-preserves, the puddings and the tea, So deliciously different from what they have ever had before, We'll think of them as they are and never think of the feasts again. We'll think of the banks and the rents, And the cheers and the neighings of the workers; We'll think of the things we must leave behind, And the friends that are doomed to a slow decay; We'll think of the child that we barely knew, And the woman we barely met--when we left them; We'll sigh for the joys once more that have vanished, And we'll whisper, "We're going to find them again!" In the market-place we'll change not our voice, Nor our face, nor our hand, nor our eyes; But we'll listen as we pass from street to street, And we'll whisper, "We're going to find them again!" Every place where we crossed the way we know, <|endoftext|> Whose right hand a while with her right they bind, Then turn, and with the left their ropes dismantle. Next, as I guess, by fierce beasts and fierce they drove Their prey to land, or when that was not safe, to sea. The Cretans, swift of foot, arriving at the place Where chained the Trojans lay, the ships assail, With such a din the winds outbrave them; foams The sea, and every wave doth shake his shelving beach And roarings break from all the deeps below. We in our pass were borne by tempest far To yon dark wave, and there we paus'd away Till we the Ogygian strand reached at last. Ranged on the sandy beach there lay the slain, Their arms round them waving in the wind's stroke. And turning to me, Lausus cried: 'Hear, And why take we hereto? 'tis not indeed That living they were burned, as living ones They burnt alive, but sick they seem'd to grow In other sort; for when they sighed and cut, Their breath groweth sibyl and bland, as grain Between the steers or while they neigh and work. Strange art thou! how can these wander here in war.' Then, as we still contemplated the dead, I said: 'Wilt thou not tell me, heavy-hearted? Or if indeed thou dost not remember, Say thou as well that you have seen these pass Here by the Ogygian shore before we came, And knowest it from of old?' He replied: 'Neither as from of old, nor seeing it, Art thou at liberty to doubt the thing; For on the Ogygian shore we met with them, And there left them, and came hither by sea. And if indeed I rightly know, and am Rightly informed, there Ogygian women Hunger in the caves of dark Avernus, And grovel there for fear of old Neptune's wrath.' We went along the shore a little way more, And found the women seated all along A word's cast's thrust a cast from more of them; And they said, 'She hath confessed; and here are laid Their bones, and all their wealth, and all their substance, And here the flow'rs wherewith they dressed their hair; But from the hollows of the hills they cry On bushes by the rocks to grassy winds to blow, That so the cold tears may fall, the tears of woe, Which shall infect their eyes that look on us, For that the smoke of our victory shall not sting.' And then their lordes came on, one by one: And one came forth and would speak with me, But cried, 'O gentle lady, and who art That dost prepare thyself to join thy party?' And one, who knoweth all things, and hath his proof, Doth freely tell what he might have won. And with wild tears their eyes were filling up. And every mouth ran out with what it sought; And thus Lausus spake to me: 'Lo, we who came From island wild of the Thesprotians isles, Leaving OEneus, one in that island stands Greater and better in that nation's arms, And is their leader, and the more of age: But he, myself being blind, looketh farther down On this subject, and his place he seeks in vain. For at the first, behold, we cast our lots, But the unctions of the god are not ours. And so to die with glory hath the god; But we, being blind, strive vainly to shun Prayers and gifts of men; so that we dare For Orestes' sake his friends to provoke, And to his death-beds pour our evil words, Not understanding that he must die no more.' While all they thus had counsel given to me (Albeit the god, themselves, the matter knew not), A serpent from a bundle slid along, And irresolute, through the faith of those, Slid forth and sprung upon the threshold stone. Then all drew back and stood aghast, whereof Aghast they but excuse had none, for shame Of him their creature that could sneak about The sacred house of MEDUSA so, Nay, howsoe'er they might excuse him. Therefore the fox yet ran unto the den And languidly his sad journey held, And muttering to himself, sat patiently As when his lord on wheat or barley doth Squeeze the best of gripes till he be well Groth after his good meal, knowing his wits Are past bestow'd. But when from gnawing to noiseless The serpent looked, his stooping eyes grew brighter For love of her he had slandered, and he cried: 'O that this greet were she, or else some other Not her, that wears a garland of my hate, Or else some she other, in whose sight were love More glories to anticipate! then should this Spite of my death prove ill-fated, and I Should see my traitorous life undesired, And in the world extolled anew, When all the fear of death shall have been overcame From hence without more hazard to her head Then in the Pacific to the Indian land, Though at one leap to Ithaca the main Break up the isle, and the faint-footed hart Reach the summit, and turn aside to sea, And lose himself, and bring his black wing home. And she, if she forgive me, and be led Right unto my mood, will show me where My bane hath like a falchion master down Full-winged for flight: then will I know my bane And be forgive'd.' But on his feet So grievously did he cast him, so did smite, That with red drops of blood from his mouth there fell Flakes of spittle on the gravelled slope, and so, As one that vomiting bryony sips the oil From the strong marigold, of bitter mouth was swept. Now through the house we went, where lingering stood Those brethren twain, my lord Medon and Aegeus. Their handmaid brought me from their presence greeting, And spread their hands, and beckoned: and I went Through a court over-near, where two fair stands Pour'd forth their fruit at vintaging. From one hung A bowl of glass, and on the surface, pale As Azure Chrysogonias, were graven fair The figures of a man and woman: thus it seem'd That life did smile there, but that the face was hidden From mine eare; yet I espied the stranger chaste. Medon, the royal and the gentle, he That spell'd the young-one lov'd of Danae, he That workd the swift Aethiopian plough, he that brought Zacynthus and Pallanteum, honours so Never did Athens or Rome send after. I now, turn'd to the left, retired offshore, And pushed upon the eare of the brotherhood. For no sooner had I left the honorable throng, And brake off discourse with my hardy voice, Then came they round me: myself I then observed Was closest to the chief; for whom wist I not That he was Medon? singular was the way I found him, for in none of those three then speaking Was he less tall or thinner, as of counsel Yet sound of limbs. But him for whom I sought The best should be circumspect of disdain In his engaging eyes, not puff his vein. And here it seem'd to me that either man Was wordy; for all that I had said up trough, And all that each had said thereby, had met In such frank simple speech, as might have taught A child the languages of his elders. To whom he then, both for sake of fun And that he knew me, laughingly replied. Young man! thou hast not farto lookt ahead into this ocean of ill, which womankind Doth half the time pretend is good, and looks Of such deep mysteries move men's steely brows; For know, for we be twins, both of us off-spring Of one same grandsire (which is always wise In wedlock), of whom this Earth was formed: He was a lad of three years when he left his home, And dying the youth did went from us, who, so Account him: yet he of three hundred score Lived more than thrice, and of all that space Beheld both light and shape; these abilities He longingly exercis'd, and for the view Real looked also, and with real voice, As with his word, far happy he was pleased. So, as he could, he taught our mother-tongue To wish his brethren well, and pray he would Take care of her, and often was she heard With that content which lieth midway <|endoftext|> If none he drink, why, no matter His cup is quite as full as mine. And so, let's leave Reason for the hour, And take the World's Best Worship instead; Reason, that, too often, masters me; Saying, 'Rise, confess thy soul's desire; Behold, it peaks within the eyes of men; And, seeing, thou art what thou seest!' Now, since, without all diff'rence more Than that 's no more than 'tis said, I must in fact profess A Truth too sacred to be touched By all the tricks and stories of art; Since, if the Things of the World so rise, And find my heart, not theirs, then, fie on't; I, who so love the neat conceit Of Prim'sters, must, from nature, take The knack of my own Soul's delight. Mankind ascendeth not by Pillow-songs, Their Virtue mocks the guiding-strings, As on the smooth sunny gasping Pillow, They plump the livelong time; But round great Feasts, and solemn Junes, Their drift and appetite. Then through my mind revolve, as true, The common-fleeting effects Of Horace, long ago, And Horace's Satires I can see, All shrunk and leprous to a lump, Where they to-day that man repine Our Yarny-WORDS as a God may. There's mony ways yestreen to cheer a Man In solitary * gloam, When ilka bird plays on her branch, Or shrills her sex-like sonnets. We mind the gentle janders, lad, Whose tender expressions thrue The tender linnet's courtin' skill, Or gilliflowers juice and purple pith, And daylie moil; An' ilk gentle thing that's more than gear For to deceive an English lass. For just anefter yesterd's the next, Then round, an' cover up the ground, An' shake with glee the hummin'-bells, That call the early dads to rest, Or tell how Spring dabbles through the llamm; An' sure am I a maltin' man When Autumn blows hisfol's horn, To think I'd drudge in colourless drivel and rhyme When he hath rainbows to employ. I mind the rain, wi' its musical display, Full loud, amang the greenwood tree; The ivy fallin' in the rusty gold As if it would na let it have yer; The dew, an' saunts, an' leaves that keep divine In some'ow the sun o'erflowers to play; An' then the mavis sang out his e'en and norse That seal the best that's base with harmony; The orchis thunder'd wi' dulefoot harmonies O'er a' the notes he held in his throat. The sky was blawn wi' ruddy cristall blaws, The earth gaed lifting earthlike weights, And ev'ry vine of ev'ry trees was wet Wi' brustwal, brur's blood, drip. An' oft I heard the ceilin' eagle scream, An' owre the greenwood owre the watl I heard the linn in his misty sky Speak sweet as diphòmum's liquid syllables. The lilts were pick'd in a' their neatnesses, The lassies dinna pick nae their airs, An' a' the country hearts were welkin' o' glee, An' ev'n a printer was glad an' fresh To see the gude red devil print. The wabster's quill, frae his neuk to his uncle, No wi' blue-zoned ink o' sob to sob, He did na charge it a point more; For common anes got heart o' glee By this, an' ev'n he preaches I doubt't, That God be worship'd thro' Man's decay. Ae morn wi' bright Phoebus did displace The earth, and all the elements Their animate abodes display'd: The stars from forth their garners away Flew burning curlers to the gaze; The heroes in the e'en involv'd Their youthful sides in dancers' wavers; The nimble element in jigs Disturb'd the weightiest princes standing. Thus when transcendent golden Morning Illumin'd the world, the spritely morn, Tho' early fecht the fierce battle raged, The hale communicators cuddled then, An' lowin' on some warm bonch'd a welkin; While hearth gild the fleecy flocks o' Lammergecht, Some fifer unco saflien frae the kirk; While droll and serious fox spectres appear Like bairn-rites, by hoary father kirk. Wi' laughin' and song, by mezzus struck the bairnie, An' I was left fu' e'en wi' the rude o' man. And oft I watched, whene'er the burning fauld Was clearing, ev'n in a' the glee, Luk that the lads were at their pund a play, And that new styles did gently cuddle. An' when the curlers were at their crup Tweed, And ev'ry youth did mak his match; Awa t' air the fauld it sall snod in smoke, While snug in yon nameless monast'ry; Where, if true sounds were droll at all, It waltz-quiver'd, bell-dettaire'd through. The wabster, like the leech, his craft waltz'd Amidst the shower, an' bent my awe; He taught me an' he gie'd me well; And though he aften said he'd tak' the hook, He'd a' got rid o' that; but now he's hank Wi' his swag o' gowd, an' is fash'd wi' phew. And though 'tis say'd he was won o' t' Union Jack, Still was he wad o' Neptune an' Massey; An' sure he ne'er, espy'd what my creed, An' what our young members wi' them. I fand I'm a member, nay, a brother, A fellow-man, as when I was young; And by aften defined, a fellow-man Is a bloke wha holds himself the same In word an' will, an' doesna ken A whole lot mair than an e'en. And so I'm here to make a voice For my kind o' careworn friend; To drink to him the buzz o' life, Wi' sentiment an' zest; To jingle his glass, an' garr, an' snoo, About his youth, his health, an' woe, An' think his eyne a dear to share, An' drop in to say "cheer yeh" Aye tyke an' boy! I'd rather nae hanger-bracket see A bonnie lass wi' waist-bands bent, Than row o'er a boat-house to 'tome An' cuddle, cuddle, cuddle dear; I lo'e better whumper in bed, An' tumblin' cuddle-to my babe, Than gang to foreign land, A stranger frae my breast. A stranger, silent, wintry-woefu' As a dead youth in a frieze cloak; He stood and looked at me, he spoke not, But I knew he was thinking o' me; His e'e was shapeless, wither'd, toothless, Haggard, fam'd o' perils in his days, But his heart was warm, an' ready now To warm itsel' again. I me bent down, like one tormented, An' babbled how I was fain: I me wished them both a life sair agen To be for ever best: An' they aye replied in chorus, "Fate is fickle, Fate is free, Ye will never part from us, never, We aye shall prosper and prosper ye." But I hae thought, when the warld's heart was glad, An' the sunshiny morn was gay, I me bade them wait the tornrone e'en, An' I'd a mind to tak' a trip. I wish'd to see the wold, the hills an' heather, And the shepherd in his car, <|endoftext|> from the landscape. The researchers learn the weather through our personal moonshots, which we call Manifest Destiny. They're always compromised, the projects that should have just the one plan. You can never tell by looking, but the moon is as mysterious as the camera obscura. But this scene is separate from the one before, as the meaning is. The horizon is just a line. <|endoftext|> "Say it Isn't So, the Fish is White", by Edward Dorn [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind] We make death where we end up. We get up and beat the same dance with the same hand in the same direction, with the same ideas, the same bones in the same places arranged in the same ways. Every choice we make in how we live sets the table for the one that follows, and for that we must be judged. Suppose we had a choice between getting better or worse. The worst case we could think of would be traditional. The worst case we could live down was traditional. So we get well or die lucky. We get well or die lucky when our bodies let us back into the hunt again, when we are willing to die for the chance of having done well. We get well or die lucky. When we give up the chase, we get well. When we give up the chase we get lucky. It's just the same as choosing between having got better or worse. And the bad medicine does the job. When we get well or die lucky we don't give up the chase anymore. It's just as well we don't give up the chase. But the fish is white in a bowl of water, not white when we throw it up in the air. In its bowl of water the fish is white but when it's up in the air it's muddy brown, and we can't help preferring it to be muddy brown. If it's not our misfortune to get well in the traditional way, we don't give up the chase because there's no definitive way to be good at it. <|endoftext|> "Bread", by Lucy Wainger [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Religion, Christianity] I ask my friend, a serious Christian who prays five times a day,How often she forgones the wheat in wheat products. The answer makes her cry. Wheat isn't the problem; it's the process. The wheat is just a symbol for greed. How often we forget the farmer is also God, the farmer is also brother and sister, parent and child, sole proprietor — and so on. Because the farmer is God, my friend forgones the wheat. When we miss the chance to serve the Lord we miss the whole point. We need to love our farmer not as a singular entity but as a universal truth teaching us how to be like God who is a one and many identical with each of us. <|endoftext|> "Love Song", by Lucy Wainger [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Religion, Christianity] Let me begin by saying I am not a gentle person. I was not always gentle, and if you listen to my song you'll know why. For a long time I didn't know what God was, nor did I know love. I loved the excitement of a screenplay, I loved the puzzle of a song of its own making. My voice, high and far off, sung about the female form and the longing. I loved voices, music, harmony, the rise and fall of tide. The earth I walked on was so praised in my song. I loved, at first, my own voice, which sang of wonder and pain. I loved my mother, who makes my voice big. She does this by tensing, by opening her throat. Forgive me if what you are about to say makes me jump. But I am not a gentle person. I was not always gentle, and if you listen to my song you'll know why. How often, as a child, I have thought I would love to stand up close to you and feel the things you feel. To feel your skin, the way it reacts to light. To feel your breath, to hear your laughter, to touch your hand. But I am not a gentle person. I was not always gentle. If you want to know the truth, I am a person of extremes. You can say I am stubborn and unreal. And I have my moments, when I am a person of no inextinguishable thoughts, a person of only delight. The winds often take me far from my heart. I forget that I am sometimes happy, so frightened by the dark. I don't mean to be, but sometimes I am. I am like that, frightened by my own dark. Like an unkind person, the unkind person lives within you. You have to forgive yourself. Falling, I thought about your kindness when I touched the back of your hand. I wanted, I didn't know why, to show my love for you before falling. You came away from me. <|endoftext|> "The Decision", by Naomi Shihab Nye [Living, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] After the bombs fall and the death warrants are signed, the survivor will sometimes go to the place his or her family has made for him or her. But that place will be deserted and increasingly bitter. The survivor will learn to recognize the smell of where food has been. To seek the routine he or she will sometimes call home. In the hospital where I worked after the birth of our child, we used to say: The body will always find its own home in the body. After the bomb has been dropped on the signatory country, the survivor will have no home. Nothing. <|endoftext|> "Wadids in a Row", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] 1 My, what big men the wind puts on the prairie. Why won't the college boy follow the ball, or the float on the river? My grandfather, distant but still here among his western clothes, the square-shouldered gun-owner, has been gone a hundred years. But can he be that much older? On the western wall his coat gallery recounts the details of his life. Muzzle-loaders, single-shot and repeating rifles, pitchforks, scrapers and spanners, wind nozzles, saws and grinders, the blueprint of his trade, gloves that held chocolate on the nails, cosmetics, a pipe and a pipe stem stitched with his name to the leather, a photograph in the stock of a fiddle played like a gossamer thread on the rim of his pipe stem. His grandchildren come and tell him that he needs not waste his time on the college boy or the college float. If he has been true to the land, to the job that will never stop and to the hours that never will stop too, too, much. My grandfather smiles at his canvas wall and turns from a bullfight with its cheap, crude tack on the skull to the wadids. How wonderful to see in the wadids the dent and whorl so typical of the colored race, the naked, weathered print of the round hand, all its grease, all its strength. The railroad lines in the distance have caused a groundswell of color, the other cars and wagons seem to have gone with it. Along the rim of the prairie like the markings of some other worlds in the frame, bundles of wagons. They use the grass for a hand, with great precision, as though it were a hand itself, a fine, strong glove. The sunset carries the cross, bearing the hammer and the pitchfork. 2 I would like to go down, and gather, <|endoftext|> In mind and body incomparably blent With other beings of a mortal birth. As for a soul Which is born of no vegetative frame, And which can never in the course of things Become a material thing, and still remain Mutually related to the Supreme Good For evermore, and thus continue immortal: Since a mortal birth and death Are one thing, how can a mortal soul Be mortal and immortal at the same time? And how from this can ever proceed That we should turn to stone or burn below, Or suffer other violate the vows Which we have taken, or what fraud soe'er A braver or more prudent can devise, Than going to the gnat-like heretics, And joining their creed for their immortal drink? And shall I say, since the soul can never Be brought to being alone through natural birth, That it can be brought into existence By sorcery, which is neither free To be wrought by the few on the many, Or even by all on all, nor can be Committed to the maker's hands for pledge, That his or her or its or th' Immortal Cebrion For ever under the sun shall dwell? Yea, nature never spares a pains or a tasks For labor by body or by body's mixèd, But everything is judged and geared to its use. The sea has its waves; the earth has its continents; There is the point that I would consider. Spatial bounds are temporal; they are made so That the flux of the eternal infinite flame, Which is the one source of being, onward may run Through all created things, past, present, and future. O, ye very spirits of travail! Spatial bounds Are temporal, and so are temporal senses; But the eternal Vertues, by whose visage all Is visible and known, have fixed a durable Space for the coming of the soul at its own will, Under the navel in the belly of this beautiful beast. The eternal vertues, by whose visage every one Is drawn into Ilium, and warmed in Mymis' Fire, Make all of nimble span, of earthly heat restricted. The soul can come to life in many ways; sometimes In material seed injected by the master blow Of some prodigious providence, by whose own will It comes to life, that then unguest is commonly said To await its due time here, on earth. But sometimes, O better! sometimes it comes to life In steps of humbler height, in cravings less complete, In womb and bowels under less extreme constriction. The soul comes to life, I said, in many ways, Of lesser and of greater height, all of them unfulfilled, And these come to their fulfillment not always like the sum. And oft too the sum, like lesser objects, strikes off Some forward digit, resembling still an ox, Or an unyoked chariot of the strength of Mercury, For some few humors, not indeed making up a whole, But joining and comparing well together. And every body that comes to being, however, Findeth perfect ripeness here in turn, before it comes To near its time, and even before the time foreseen, Though peradventure at the time foreseen also By Providence. Therefore, the soul can come to life In much deferr-ced time, like any other object, Not by a fourth but by a sixth digit to be chose, Shaped just so that its body, warming in its heat, There meets the mind's desire, which in that part is sole Whereby the seen can come to life, the thought alone Come then to intelligence and to life eternal. But in these days how standeth in me The constraining necessity of every action Collected, for I feel that I should otherwise, As weakening rather than governing myself? Therefore, as a much smaller thing, I am still A participant in all things; but I am now So far the matter of a part, that might constrain, And yet be weakened of itself, no part at all. Therefore, if any say to me, Lo! thee In the power of thee in mortal things! thou Dare mock with blasphemy, and outdo With calumniatorie thine own words. And if before my times thy glory ha- tt struck a pass, thy practice Seemeth unbounded, and I look for- Another glory yet below, Above the stars of thy former time. For if a glory on earth there be, Which passes off the body of men After a fixed number of years, And if this passage of thine be- Who girt me once with wilful strength, And cast a weakness on my soul, Who girt me once with wilful strength, And bound my hands with it again. I say to thee, That in this same way Either thou art the master Of all mortal things, or else No man the selfsame can. The first opinion is most improb- able: because, if it be- Not that the soul, which and which not I, To virtue or from it hath no rea- son, 't is plain it must be Some other that soul is, imployed To avail me this charge; which, certes, Hath quenched in me all hope of life. But if thou be that soul, Which does insure me life eternal, I do believe with strong desire Of seeing thee, that I have given From myself a mighty law to force In thee, which does from me hold a bond, Giv'n with full power to guarantee, Then since the nature of the things which we Do know, no less than their organization, Seemeth kindred to our own, and bound Most necessarily to our own, I fain Would ask thee, for the sake of heaven, To point me out some certain way Whereby I may locate where thou liv'st. For I would have thee say, why here Doth not the place where thou and thine were born Exclude me, where I often have been Exiled populations of men? When the wound is on my soul, When to its utmost fury turned, When with the flame so burned I feel, As up the fire I try to look, And can see nothing but the smold'ring trace Of what I saw behind me live, Only to die again behind me live, I think then I am on the way To find me some true image be- Come of my self, and whither I may go. I am not of that frivolous school, Who think that to deny what seems To be evident is the like of truth. But true as Nature is, her work Is not finished, while she finds some New way to know it more; for that's Which her own purposes always see- Wherefore I turn again to thee, For there is nothing in me that shows That I could doubt of anything thyself Should tell to me, or that I would fear From reading what in writing thou hast sent. I am thy humble disciple, and thou Shalt ever be my teacher too. A little water I have got, From whence I hope to derive My little mystery there; And with it distil a tear, As of myself I seem to speak. I am the child of Enna: she Was a daughter of great Jove. The heaven-told disaster, That from her loins would come, Brake in upon her scheme; But she was counseled of The goddess Thetis, who In Thetis' form, the fair Cyprian queen, did seem. I weep and weep! Was it for this That her bright sire, the airy Zeus, to make me 'scape The death-fulfillment of his sire Ascended from this Herils; Through the public fires condemned, Torn from the heights of heaven; Through the roaring flames to come, In my mother's form divine; The trembling daughter of fear, And crowned with plumes of myrtle-green! Ye heavenly powers, that rule Over mortals and drowse The souls of mortals to death! Hearken! I hear the voice of love Compelleth me to death and thee. That I have love, who have no may, Laying on me love's kiss of death Toward me, who loveth thee. Death, come! Love, laying on me death's kiss Of love to me, who loveth thee. Come, No hour of love or glory Had powers to break or overthrow The heart of this enthroned love, Or change the goddess from her place Of glory to tears and darkness! Lo! I have loved, as only gods may, And worshiped since the day I saw That lovely Iris smile on thee, Making my heart her temple bright, Giving it worship, till the spell Of her bright smile has passed away; And all my days, nay all my life, <|endoftext|> You were a holiday on the seas, A golden breath that floated by, A vision of hope and peace, A voice as lovely as a song, Mingling with ocean sounds, Where'er your foamy waters rolled. Yes, she was pure as sea and sky, As beautiful and calm and bright; But ever, as she floated by, I saw in cold and frown Saw in bold cheeks a thorn unclosed, A blind rage in a sad eye, A hope that hate could never quell, As her white sails passed by. She floated by on a sapphire sea, A dream of whiteness, fair, She beckoned to me with a gleam of light, A dream of joy, a dream of truth, She floated by, forever and aye, And I waved, "Good-by," as she passed. A flower was in her hand, That leaned from its rainbow hues With soft-opening enchantments; Her other hand held still The tinctured gold of the sunsets, When, unseen, with the dews in her hair, They fell across her face. She sighed, she looked in my eyes; Then we spoke, I thought, for my heart was soft, And it beat fast, like a bee in a bell; But, ah! we spoke of old loves and died, And my heart beat faint like a wave in a sea; For, ah! we spoke of old loves and died. She blushed as the morning blushes, Then I knelt and kissed her rose; She smiled to me and I felt her smile and knew That her lips were warmer than wine, For I knew she had seen some. I might have dreamed them on the way In some sweet sunset tinged the land; I might have dreamed them, but I know They were not ours by boon or by will; We know them now but by thought. Two beloveds are fain to be A tender fangament For those fainting glimpses and gleams Of beauty, where they cling About the gates of the sky, And smile to see how brilliant They are through the misty air. A romantic band and single, Two lovers sate in the gale When dews fall into the air, As if they sate to muse On many things, and smile To see how beautiful They are through the misty air. 'Tis summer, when the lonely hills Are flocking like a dream to be Hushed by the enchanting call Of voiceless waters that steal Into their own low gush; Where, all in a glory and a gloom, The leaves fly up and down. 'Tis summer, I know, and in a glade Where the wild apple sips the sun A treasure lies that no one knows, Where laughter runs a breathless race As the wind wakes a fragrant tree, Where the little wild bees build, where gleams The paradise of the bee. 'Tis summer; all things burn In the glow of their sultry hue, And the thirst of the sun goes out In a thirstless blaze of green: The flowers are perfect, and the earth Is rosy from the warm weather, But all this is unreal, ye know, In the great Unknown ye live. The moon has her silver bow Across the sky to shear; The night is a lonelier voice In the leafy dark. That voice which a little while Was more than an idle humor Is now a din of things That stir the dust in the streets. These burnt and blackened faces, Where the eyes go out, Where no light can hiss, is all Where these things are set. O voice, O eyes, is this A night where nothing stirs? Yea, earth is hurtled, and her vase Is dim, and her gold has lost All her bright gold. The great gods are rent, the trees Leave their glad water. The old sun lifts his red wine To me--and I am drunken. O God, give me more of these, My world is dangling, My heart would rend if it were All in, or in the sand. I would seek death instead of Thee, For Death is life if life is death, And death is light if death is light. The great god sleeps where his head Was crowned with light; And the light gods slumber where Their golden hair is set. But the dust faces go about All the smoke-filled air; And I stand and wonder, "Why?" For "Why" and "Why" there is no more. A rose shall grow Where the sky was; And the sky shall grow to high And wonderful So a rose shall grow. A little child shall kneel Where the air is; And the air shall kneel to her And be as still As the little child's knee. The rose shall never die; The little child shall bless The sky as she ascends Until her little crown Be shining and blue, And the sky is fair and white As her rose's white bloom. A rose shall grow Where the sun was; And the sun shall grow to shine Over a rose. A little child shall pray Where the water is; And the water shall kneel to her And be as still As the little child's prayer. The rose shall never die; The little child shall bless The sun as she rises Until her little prayer Be echoed upward thru The endless winds of prayer, And the sky is green with pray And a rose grows where no man Ever grew before. In the middle of the night, Acre on a rose-leaf wrote, "I am a quiet girl, I like to sleep and dream, I hate to waken!" O Rose of the pale green sea, Go sit beside the well, And whisper low and sweet Into my dreaming breast, A secret there that none can know. For I have a secret there, In my long night watch, And it is I, who am the seaman's bride. The gossips came one night, And laughed as they went by, And written on her face, With a great red pencil, They drew an L. Was it Love that she dreamed? or Hate? I do not know, But the letters stood there As they plucked the rose: You shall know in the spring. O rose, I do not care If you climb into the air And sail away to the sun, And if you return to us We will not weep. The townsfolk had set A girlish redcock a-flame, But she had only blown A tawdry flare: She was the town's little fair, And had been seen all day In Carlton-lane with her cat. Her parents called to mind A donkey that was lame, And so they brought a lame-back kitten To be the focus Of all their thanks. The cat lay still and died That she should be so great. The townsfolk thought twice before They dared to flout her; But now the girlish redcock Is made to reign. The girlish redcock's now The focus of all her town, And all the thanks. Green bough of the willow, Silent I sit and wait; The blackbird sings his song; My heart is at rest. Warm winds whisper Among the elms; The fields are drenched with dew, And the pale yellow daisies Have whispered to the wheat Willow trees, that wave Your leaves before the spring, And moan when the spring sings; Yet, oh! how desolate Is my barren lot, When Spring comes but to leave My years all desolate! Love, let me alone To kiss your glove there, Or cover your breast, Or search your eyes, dear, Or sit, like him who kneels To his darling's face. Come, softly tread, The new snow falls; The days are hushed, The nights are sweet; The world is here before Us and the boughs. We have known all the joys and pain That other men have known: They, we are poor: let them be So far, for faith and home. No fortune did our fathers know, Nor journey'd hence; our soul Grows large, where they have past. I walk the path, and yet I know This lonely isle is blest; With blest, I touch the world, And I are one with it. I hear, a drowsy sound Against the ear of thought, Like boughs above falling; And, sweet it is to be Where Nature spreads her hand. What sound is that? not rose, <|endoftext|> The arm of every shepherd slumbering. O'er the green earth's love-lit shadows playing, 'Neath the crimson streamers of the fighting, 'Mid the liltings of the warm stars lying, 'Twas but a dream that swept along the sky. Still the war-note shrieks and clashes again As though no slumber could enfold it, As though the world were rocking in its bed, And hurrying on its way with mortal pain. The strong cliffs in whirlwinds sighing leap From their long abysses in the blue. There the sun's red splendour flings from it Like the flower of dawn on the purple lawn, The clouds move slowly through the humid air And to and fro, as though they were intent Upon some great project of the brain. Still the guns a-sing, and the drums of war Mingle with the gentle melody Of the clouds' melodious wanderings. The lilt of music in the valleys runs Through the veins of war, like lava flashing. O'er the green hills where the love-lorn flowers Spring in endless array beneath the blue, With one grey marble base, a solitary rose, Rises slowly, quietly from the waste, And bids the glory of the lone rose be A perpetual counter-melody to war. "The vision came and passed, and left me sleeping, As when the sun shines for a little and then goes down. And I thought how on that splendid May morning I sat with Raphaels on the sun-lit beach In the big square of the Saint-Germain village, And we watched the blue pansies wet the sea-shore, And watched the white puffs of smoke go up and up, And then I saw the great black war-ships go by, And I saw the planes skimming like water-birds Over the planes with the two-ton cannon belching Fire over fire over fire, while above the war-ship speed The slow, winged, circling eagles hovered over the flame, Till the great E, on the bow, with a fury wild, Solemnly came down, lifted up its august face, And screamed, "Aire, the storm is risen, 'T is the Battle of France." "And I heard them sobbing round dead friends In the Ems fortified neighbourhood, And heard the young eyes stream like rivers open Over the death-covered face, And saw the grey parted hair of grief. And one name hung on the tear-blinded air That has no word for its utterance: Knell. Knell. Knell." On the hill there is a wall Of grey stones with the few grey trees Stretched between And the grey sky overhead And the grey sea below. And the deep blue road runs steadily By the wall and its security, And the long green road runs steadily Behind the wall to the sea. The sea is grey below and upwards Like the deep sky's greyness. It is spread with ships that pass And ships that pass by, But not a ship ever sails within Or out of these grey ships that pass On the blue and vast road To the sea. They pass like leaves in a river That have been fast overnight, And they bow no Montagna-way In the sky. They are like the green leaves of November And the sun-baked leaves in November That have known no rain. And the grey stones of the wall Are in the sea And the sea in the stones And the stones in the sea Are in the stones That have been in the stones For a million years and more. You can see for a million miles The road that it runs through By the millions of straight lines, The road that it runs through By the millions of straight lines. And you can see it like a mountain That has been hollowed out In the days of dragons And the forest of heaven And the wing of God Has passed and left it hollow That it may be A wall to guard The life of man From the dangers of the outer world The snow will melt and it will be seen By men who have wings as white As the wings of the falcon And men will see it That it is only a path That the paths of the clouds run through And that it is only the sky That it is shining through with Its light on the road In the years to come men will pass Along that path And they will not know That there is any heavenly bird That can fly to their homes Upon that path Above the shining road And the mountains and the sea. O sun-born man! thou wast never born Upon the shining road, Nor the shining road will ever shine Upon thy head. The road has no more light for thee, For thou art passing to thy death And thou wilt shine In thy father's sky. But thou wert ever born upon The shining road, For no fire can ever quench thee Nor thine own breath Nor the life-giving waters. For thou wert born upon The road to the sun. Thou wert ever born upon The shining road, For no life can ever mar Thy way, For the life that has no name Has made thee a man. O glorious road! the splendour of thy footfall Is sweeter to me than all light; I hear the murmur of a stream that I Once knew, but never shall see again. I wonder where the flowers of long-ago May be, and I wonder where the trees of long-ago May be, And the high, still arch of a fountain I Shall see no more. The sun that shone on me when I was sleeping Is faded and dead, and the day is dead That shed its germs and its dew on me; And now it is far, and now is now, And the night is at hand; And the stars will not shine, and the sky will not be, For it is shroud. And I, who promised that I would keep A vow of wife and of child and of home, And that in my work while it lasted My heart should be as a sanctuary, I see the darkness, and I see the end Of what I made; And, Lord, Thou that didst look on me when I was lost And wast altogether, There is a secret that I have never told To man, nor to a friend, nor a foe, Nor to the blaze of the world's loudear; Yet there is a secret and it is night, And a secret and a silence and a shadow, And the secret is Death. In the house of the Lord I dwell for a while, For a little and but not a long time, And a little and not a far day nor long Shall I go forth from here. In the house of the Lord I dwell for a while, But not for a hundred years and ten; And in a far day not as far as not, But not as not far. O that my life were a secret that none knew! O that my work were a secret that none cared to know! O that the end of youth and of youth's long pain Were a secret that none cared to find! What is it that I have made and that I am at peace With and in, What is it that I am content with and serene in, That in and of itself, What is it that I have wished for and gained? For, O thou Lord! O Lord! The secret is Death. If I have sworn to any, By that word and by my word alone, I will fulfil my word, Though it bring me sorrow and pain; Though I may see things as they are That I wish for and dread. O Lord! save me, save me, And let me not die in thy sight. There is no light but thine; There is no love but thine; There is no word but thine; There is no word to tie A heart that is past love's young years; And who can say What life is and what a grave? O Lord! O Lord! let me have but this, That I may die When I would die, and not as they Whose life is but a chant of praise, Who have no life but thine. If I were of their pride, If mine were one thought, If mine were their thought, O Lord, Who know the secret of the sun, Then I had fear; And I were brave, and I were free, If mine were thine. <|endoftext|> To guard his loving people, with the king Whom he had served long years in secret, to be The shield of Britain against the threat of France. The city-walls gleamed, the roofs of houses gleamed, The lamps gleamed in the theatre, the bars Of doors gleamed, and the figure of a man Glided on the walls,--he passed, he paused, His hand outstretched, his right hand grasped a chair. It was the Bishop of Durham, the soul And symbol of all that was good and great, Of all that England worshipped. In his hand He laid his sword,--his sword, a blade of steel Like thunder on the point, of Tudor hilt, And that great sword was red with English blood, And with the blood of Whilkiber in his veins. The people shouted and cried, and clapped their hands; The actors bowed; the young men danced and sang; A hundred thousand knights were proud and gay That fought for England, in her day of pride. The wind swept down the hills, the west Flamed like a fire, as through the forest-paths The long sweep of its sweepy minstrelsy Crept down the dusk. The ravens cried, The crows murmured, the little clouds Fluttered, and the sunlight gleamed on the snow. So through the shadows and the glitter and the joy Of the fêted rich, a whisper slipped, and struck A weight of sorrow in the heart of the Queen. A shadow came, like the end of the scene, And, thronging, drew toward her, crushing her, It swept behind her, it swept before, The light had disappeared, the shadow came Full on her, hurrying with its disgrace. She turned, she paled, she raised her head, Her white and piteous face drew down, The sorrow came, as a chill and white Across the heart, like a dark affright. "I am ashamed," she cried, "for my own mind, To feel it underfoot like waste." She cried, and her voice choked, her eyes were tears, Her maids looked on, her people wept. "But, ever you, Queen, forborne be any fight, And ever in my heart burn out the fire That you have kindled in mine." "My Queen," he answered, "look round thee now; Look on the proud and haughty faces, Look on the wealth before thee, and understand How poor the soul that sits there smoking. What do they matter, so I can give All for thy soul? or shall I rather say All for the sake of thy poor soul? "My soul and my heart and my mind I give to thee for thy poor soul, Not for the glory of my wealth. Shall I have one part of my heart And have no part of my heart? My wealth has room for the great, the high, The splendid, the vain, And thou in thy mind hath part of none. "Shalt thou have part of all my soul, And have none of thy soul? I gave thee part of all my heart That thou mightst have part of thee? I whisper thy poor soul to thine heart, And whisper it low and dear, And lean my head beside thy shoulder To make thy soul more faint. "Give me thy heart, and give thy heart, And nothing less than thou hast got, For I would have it of thy soul, And I will have it of thy heart, And I will keep it of thy soul, And I will take it of thy soul, For I would have it all of thine." The Queen's high heart quailed beneath her hand, She stood as one who sees the end of the world; But long and long she dared not speak a word For shame at her heart, and she did it not, For shame, for shame, for shame. Then there came a change, A darkness, a dimness o'er the Queen's eyes, And on her lips a shiver, and on her lips A pain, and on her lips a pain more great And long, and long she stood, and as it came The darkness seemed to fill her brain, And on her cheek the agony, And on her lips the darkness, and upon her tongue Pain, and on her tongue the darkness, and all seemed The end of the world, and she saw the end, And saw the darkness and the end was near; But she was afraid of the darkness and the pain, And thought, "I have done naught, for all I am, And all I am by law, undone, and worse, For all I am by custom and by habit; For all I am is dark, and black, and dark, And dark my soul is, as thou seest, I cannot be any thing but this, And now, and now, thou seest my soul is dark, And black, and dark, and darker yet I feel, And by this time the end is near, O soul, O dark, O dark, O soul, O me!" Then on her soul a darkness came, A fear of what might be and last, She stood as one who sees and hears, And felt on all her limbs the sting Of all her wounds, and all her wounds were deep, And all her wounds were bitter with her blood; And like a corpse on the extreme verge Of death's threshold she remained, And let her soul, as death came, retreat, And leave her body weak and weary, And weary in its weakened frame. And all her strength was worn away, Her strength and power and might, And all the worth of woman was gone From that accursed hour. And forth she passed from power, And forth she went from fame, And forth she went from power, And forth she went from fame, And forth she went from power, And forth she went from power, And forth she went from power, And forth she went from power to die, The way of death, the way of death most plain, The way of all deaths, the way of all but one; A way that is most sore to tread, The way of death, the way of all but one, The way of sorrow, the way of all but one; And with her feet she dug a grave Beneath the trees of green, Beneath the leaves of blue, Beneath the grass of green, Beneath the turf of green, Under the turf of green. And with her hands she set it good, And with her hands she set it good, And beneath the sod she put it, And beneath the sod she put it, And thus she covered it o'er, She covered it o'er with rags, And shamed it with her hair, And covered it o'er with tears, And thus she hid it from sight. And then she called the Spirits down, And then she set them by it, And set them on both sides about, And kept the place all bright and clear, And thus she spoke unto them: "Spirits, I have hid from sight The thing I did conceal; The time is come for me to tell The pain and torment I endure, And what my sufferings be; And this sad body's curse, which hide My soul and make her so despisèd, I must undergo and bear, And so my sufferings go on; The weight of this mine evil deed, Though dreadful and intense, Doth now receive its heaviest weight, And is my greatest need; My soul is naked in its guilt, And cannot hide its sin, Though death should close above it; And this thy heart-wound, which blushes And makes thy bosom sweat, And its anguish that he touches, Doth now receive its greatest light, And doth now rest at rest." So as she spake, her eyelids fell, And her fair face was buried deep In her folded wings of snow, Her face hid from sight as night, Her limbs so naked were of hue, Her bloodless limbs, as white, Her lips' red rind so hidden, And with the salt tears flowing, Like running waters hid the place. Then fell the soul upon the sod, The soul that had been so bold, And with boldness fell in pain, For she must suffer now its part Of her own crime, the crime of Eve. As in the wilderness the lion's whelps Were deserted by the not unused, So in Eden's gardens were the pains Of her trespass left unsuperstitiously To be revealed in some more dreadful hour; <|endoftext|> To the grace of God, who knows and redeems. Who has pardoned our debts and made us free? He in whose hand the sword that smote us, steeled, Has enjoin'd us to pay them back again; To kneel to him and hold him as the rod, The rule and lord of all the paths of sin, And to offer a heart which each day Should be a heart's apology for birth, And to a loving God sacrifice All the contempt that we may well lay aside, A heart, a soul, a love, a hate, a pride, And lay all these bare to him as the ground On which we may die and be forgiven. How can we pay him back for all The years that we have thrown away! What if we be some hearts hearts old and cold, New hearts may need these lives of ours As they may want the bread that we shall lay. We cannot lay the huge sum of our wrongs Before his feet; but we can kneel and pray That he will have regard to our appeal. We shall not leave his absolved throng, But we can go back to our own land, Though we have paid back the debt of our birth, And if we be not forgiven, we may yet Go where we may know that our sins are forgiven. All life is in that blue and cloudless day When, by the winds liven'd with the summer rain, They who see all things make them stand for him; The merry stars, the quiet moon, the bare trees, But more than all the wayside flowers that bloom To greet the April rainbow, and the glad birds That sing to drive the vapour from the sky, And where they meet and chatter and pass on, And the glad human voices that come and go, Are like an April, blue and cloudless day. The poet hears it in his poet's ear, In the cry of springs, in the roll of thunder, In the train of flashes and the intermission Of lightnings, or, in the peacock's voice, Calling to the night when night is deep. And he can see it in the human voice Whose speech is music, or whose countenance, Making all colours more real, more numerous, Is sunset to the nightingale's song. He sees it in the glance of stars that shine Between the branch and beam, as if they knew A life too pure for the wanderings of Time, And with a subtle and tender strangeness, As if they knew that they were poets too. He can see it in the look of waters, When one flints to flakes of moteless snow, And one a jelly of silver and gold appears, More brittle than glass and like a smile. And he can feel it in the breeze and rain That blow the daisies from the lawn and adders home To weave thick rows, and he can see it where The stream has broken its thin lips of ice And, turbulent with spray, rolls up alway A sea of moonlight, sparkling, still, and cold, Reflected in the shallows. He can see The ghost of a butterfly alit on The wrist of a fox as it have walked, and heard The song within its wings, like sweet, wild things Broken by a breath, or, as it were asleep, Seeing a gleam of morning break, awake, With all its love and power in its dreamy sleep. He can feel it in the summer rain, that falls The slow, certain words of a sleeping child Who dreams of laughter and summer days dead, Dreams dead and vanished long ago, and can Only think of them in vague, dim remembrance. He sees the first white splendour of a flower In the dusk, and the first cry from child and flower That wake the slumb'ring earth to life. He hears The voice of maidens in the fountain's play When waters rise and music rings within The castle halls and up the winding way. Oh! in a world of care and whisperings, Where the still face of Nature is an alibi For the cruel deed that lurks behind, And men deny the hand of murder when They know it, then the stars must be the worst And not the heaven that guards his right in thee. The moon is the worst of all, a rock on which A thousand demons, hungry and drunk with light, Sit and wait to smite him blind and dupe him, Wield his utterance and make him bear the mark Of their triumphant utterance. The moon is A curse on this earth, the sign of copses cold And waters black, the herald of things done That no man spoke and no man willed to be done. The moon is a mark. And he who worships the moon Hath one great mark that none can remove. Some men gaze at that single mark alone, And see the whole of nature in that stone, The wet, black rock by which that living eye Gazes and that mortal lip which smiles and sings. I look at the moon, and I look at the rock, And I look at man and I see but the rock. Man is a mark: the moon is a mark upon time, And both are marks. I know the moonlight on the rock Is but the echo of that original mark I hold so fair, so white, so ancient, and so holy. But he who looks at the moon will not be able To see the rock without the rock's presence there. The moon is a dupe of the rock, a partner in crime, A pair who make a terrible reflection there. The moon and the rock are twin-spangled masks, Dyed in one dark, inconstant part of the sun, Which is the mark of them both. The moonlight on the rock Is but their passing shadow, and the girdle they wear Is the cruel fetter that binds their shadows now. We must go back to the olden time and a sacred Time beyond our own, to when the universe was still A mystery, a dark blank before the shining Cloudless sun. We must go back, and once again Behold the tiny forms among the shining things, The prophets in the sparkling emptiness, the lone "sheep" at the waste wall, the warm long delights Of all life still excited and ready to begin, And all love ready to pass away. We must go back And never turn, and hope against all hope, And seek the perfect love that never can die, If death it be that makes the time so beautiful, And the new love so fearful to hold. Our little hour is nothing but a span, And time is made up of changes, little changes. Thus the stone moulder'd and moulders in the depth Of the dark mould, and thus the spirit is fain To sink, and thus it fain will rise again, Like waves that in a ship's wake cease ever to oscillate. We must go back, and again behold the perfect, Unselfish creatures, the perfect little people, The creatures that never had the wealth or the power Of other companions. We must go back and seek And find them in the vast, vast, vast, uncreated sea, And all the angelic quire that fly above, The glorious flocks of that immortal race, That move in perfect beauty in unfathom'd air. One spot remaineth, one spot to our eyes That outwardly seemeth to depict so fair The paradise of the future, the fair true place, The goodly vision, the goodly course, The bride of the future, the mother of love, That all men's hearts turn to when they think of her: Ah! where? Ah! where? It cannot be seen by eyes on eyes. There is a speech unto the sight of stars, And speech unto the sight of God that moveth In realms beyond space, in realms of space unknown, A speech which maketh light straight line and ray, And line and ray do mingle in the heaven To make a glory of light, a glory of light. There is a speech unto the air of noon, And speech unto the breath of the summer air, A speech which breatheth life and love into all things And maketh fire, fire dry up, to burn forever And give it golden flames, and burn it down To ashes, turn it to gold, and burn it too And make it run and glow with many a blaze, And give it color like the sun's light. There is a speech unto the earth, a speech To hear and see, a speech to gather and feel, A speech to feel in all parts of all days, A speech to hear when earth and heaven shall move In one great sound, a speech to see when heaven Shall one great silence make, and all the stars Shall stand listening in the still ears of God. <|endoftext|> It's important To remember what The reading said. You said the roses Came to you in a dream. Your hair was Brilliant And you asked me If you could stay At my place for the night. And it was cold. I said It didn't matter. And you said It did. I know the door It swung back. And it swung closed And closed hard. You are The face Of my kitchen I think of you A lot. My parents Let me sleep In your bed But I dream Of you And it's Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really Really cedean , I say. I won't go. <|endoftext|> "Sailing to Byzantium", by William Butler Yeats [Living, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The sea hath its say in sooth But what wouldst thou say? What madness would beguile Me to sail to Byzantium With a goose neck and wings? Nay, instead, 'twere better, far Than to sail to Scoglietto Or to yonder Sericana, With a goose neck and wings. I'll take no lying on When there's lies to save me, lie Upon my loins to blame, The sea hath its say in sooth But what wouldst thou say? What lies will thy craft devise To betray a trusting mind? What deeds will thy cunning dye To fables drear and blind? No, instead, 'tis better, far Than to sail to Scoglietto Or to yonder Sericana, With a goose neck and wings. How stands my boat to watch the tide Or the moonbeams' silver gleam? How stands my craft to greet the wind Or the sweet humming strain Of the little birds that call to rest At noon from all the tall grass overhead? No, instead, 'tis better, far Than to sail to Scoglietto Or to yonder Sericana, With a goose neck and wings. Wilt thou tempt me with thy racy gold Or with thy ruby red? Will thy proud feathers fling by day A purty splendour from their sky-high height At sunset when the heavens are pale With a purty splendour from their sky-high height? No, instead, 'tis better, far Than to sail to Scoglietto Or to yonder Sericana, With a goose neck and wings. The wind was soft and the day was fair, She did not say so, she did not sigh; She said, "Let go, let go thy shackles fast, I hove my boats and went ashore." And on the beach I heard her song "Oh! had I a ring to fasten, Or a little golden chain, Or hands to tie, and little feet to bring The little golden things to you! "Oh! had I a ring to fasten, Or a little golden chain, Or hands to tie, and little feet to bring The little golden things to you." The little sound will echo through time, And like a faint sad whisper be The little sound of her singing bird. Ah! he is dead and he is gone Far out to sea, far out to sea, Where never any sweet things fall, Where never any sweet things fall, And never by day or night Sweet things come to make us glad. He has gone from the world where all the proud are crowned, He has gone from the world where the strong are cherished; He was my only love in the days when I was young, And now he has died and he is dead. The solemn robins had been singing all day, The bees were gathering honey, and the clover had not yet raised its leafage in the sun. The good man of the village, too old to labor, went into the house and threw the kettles on the fire, and then he called the man of the house and said, "Hover your hand over the latch and hold it there; I will come and open the door for you." "I will not," said the old man; "and now I will go into the house." And the man of the house came back into the house and over him threw the big cloak he had bound on him; and then, bending low, he kissed his wife's little weeping face, and then he said, "O my little sweet, I have locked the door but to keep you out; now help me, my child, and open it for me." "I cannot," said the old man; "and now I will go into the house." "I will not," said the man of the house; "let me help you then, my child, and open it for you." "I cannot," said he; "let me help you then, my child, and open it for you." Then the good man of the house came back into the house and over him threw the big cloak he had bound on him; and then, bending low, he kissed his wife's little weeping face, and then he said, "O my little sweet, it is in vain I have kissed your weeping eyes to soothe your weeping breast; now help me, my child, and open it for me." The little crib and the cradle stood in the corner of the room, the lamp was lighted, and it was not too late for the night to go. She put her work aside, she put the toys that had been bruised and smashed, and she put the little dolls and the tea-cups, and the little bottles, china, and picture books, and her brother's little clothes, <|endoftext|> That hallowed sense, by which the soul Can learn, from what has been and shall be, The morality of God, And, as she learns, transcending it, Can also give herself to God, By the influence of the divine Unfeigned, fearless loyalty Of mind and spirit, not in despiselike constraint, As the professed ministers are, But as a free and uncoerced friend. <|endoftext|> Why are you pale for shame, When all the leaves are gay And every bird is happy With the summer night? Why do your cheeks with trembling Quiver like my own? Why do you tremble so, When I, your mother, see How dark your breathing gets, How troubled your face? Why do you keep your breath, Your struggling bosoms showing? O my dear mother, do you know How bravely you bear? And do you ever reflect On the sweet times gone by? How you prayed night and day For my conquering sword; And I answered your earnest praying With a loving kiss. Oh, the glad days gone by! Your sweet face shining clear; And peace and rest sweet And the comfort of love Have crowned those days to me As they have crownèd them to you. Now, mark the agitation Of my face--it quivers; My lips seem full of weeping-- You, my mother, hear them, For your face is agitated, Your cheek is pale. "Now the sunshine gleams, The sky is clear, The woods with birds are happy, The little flowers are gay. And the life that is is passing, In its season coming to an end, And its peace is ending With the summer night." No, the earth is never still, Its life never bright; And the trees and all the world's work Are ever hastening on; And we--our souls never stop On the way that life is taking; The clouds that rise are never distant, The sorrows never cease, The joys of earth never cease, And its sorrows never cease. I go up to the hills, To the higher hills, To the hills where the thistles grow, And where the broom is growing. I go up to the hills, And my face is like a sign To the thistles and to the broom, For I go up to the hills. I go up to the hills, I go up to the hills, To the hills of the thistles and the broom, To the hills of the height. My feet are weary and sore; And they hasten on to the hills; I go up to the hills, I go up to the hills, To the hills of the thistles and the height. O hill, by the thorn, How sweet thou art! Is there no thistle on the hill, To sweeten thy breast? Is the sweet herb of love bereft Because thou seemest sad? O hill, by the thorn, How sweet thou art! Can my love come to thee? Or doth love remain in vain? Love lies asleep in the thorn, And thy breast is dew. In the gloom of the coming night Before I go, I cannot sleep. In the glow of the lingering day I cannot rest; And darkness, in the hour of light, Is nigh unkind. So, when night takes me to its lair I know not how I shall sleep, Nor find any rest; But as I sit in the rain With dried, angry, blue lips, I'll think of the lonely hill And the old reaper's woman. One, two, Bash the timbrel, play the psaltery. The shade is warm, the floor is soft, And the old man dances in an hour. Come in, come in, The old man will give you a seat, And the fire will make your skin as soft As his old strong hands. One, two, Now we rise; And when you are bored with dancing You may run and play. One, two, Bash the timbrel, play the psaltery, And run as fast as you can; For old man Shadow will make you laugh As he dances in an hour. One, two, Take your scarves off; And look about you, all you meet With white faces dancing together. One, two, Bash the timbrel, play the psaltery, And shake and roll all your thin black hair; For old man Shadow will make you weep As he dances in an hour. One, two, You are too old for this; Go get your clothes, and wait for me. For old man Shadow will make you wait Till you dance with him again. One, two, Bash the timbrel, play the psaltery, And run about to make all you meet Clap your hands, and sing, and run in chime. For old man Shadow will make you glad, And glad make you, I say. You may pluck the flowers And put them in water, And dip them in dishwater, And wash them in the waterfalls. Put them back into the garden. In the garden you may see Poppies as high as the sky, You may pick them and rub their eyes, And rub their little red eyes in their heads. Put them back into the garden. Or you may see the golden cuckoo, The male cuckoo, The bird that is gold and red all over, And you may take and cut him up, and put him Into the water with the flowers. Put them back into the garden. Or you may see the wild-goose, The male goose, The bird of the sea, The goose of very lace, And you may take and cut him up, and put him Into the water with the flowers. Put them back into the garden. Out of the old town of Jericho Came the prophet Elijah. The people saw him coming, Crying, and watching his speed, Crying, and waiting for his word. Elijah heard the cry of the people, Walking at a fast pace. Elijah found the camp of Israel; At the entrance to the city he stood, In a breath he told them their business, In a word he warned them of their fate. "Hear, you are a ancient nation; You have had your day; The image of God on earth is broken; The harlot's wand is in his hand, And your king is fallen, His eyes are dead, And a foolish fellow is his successor, A young and handsome one." "But you are a young and handsome nation; You have had your day; The image of God on earth is not broken; The harlot's wand is in your hand, And your king is strong; Your king is not foolish, For fire and thunder have returned, And the sword of God is in his hand, And his name is holy. "But you are a foolish and falling nation; You have had your day; The harlot's wand is in your hand, And your king is fallen, Your sword is in your hand, And your name is worthless; For fire and thunder have returned, And the sword of God is in your hand, And your name is holy. "Now go and take your sack of grain; Let your harvesters go; And your barns and granaries be filled; For the famine is very sore, For the red dew is on the heather, And the bitter rains have fallen; For the famine has seized upon you; The red dew is in your hair, And the bitter rains have fallen." So they went and gathered grain; The women gathered grain in their breasts, The men gathered it in their swords; And the sword grew dull at once and duller, And the grain went to waste in the gutters; And the people wept and wailed in the cities, And the children wept, and wailed, and cried, And the old men wept for their gray hairs. So they went and looked upon their goods, And the young men gathered corn in their boats, And the old men gathered it in their skullts, For the sea was high, and the tide was high, And the fish were scant in the rivers, And the birds were scant in the trees. And the sweat was on every forehead, And the dust was on every ankle, For the heat had reached every quarter, And the noontide would not dawn for another three hours, <|endoftext|> I am often too much as another, Whom I have failed in loving, dear, and often. When I say I love her, she knows not love's last act. Why do I say, I love her? I know not why, Unless for love's own sake, to give it scope. But no man may love more than one woman; And she is one woman, dear, within her thought. And she is many, and they are all my desire, As many more, in so far as love is their own. I know not why I love her; I do but say, To give her love is all that I can, my own. Where do we get our lovers? Young men mostly Want them for themselves, to please their own sweethearts. But the old folks sometimes also need them, To like them, to forgive them when they swear. But no man is so old that his love would change, Or the woman he loves, or the way they love. The way a man might change is to be always young. For he that has love only once in his life, If he forget it, is never the same again. She had a lover, the apple tree! Oh, the cold hard blue of his eye! He stood by her in the mist and rain, And he spoke her name as one who knew Full well the sweetness to be lost If her sweetheart should be lost with her. The wind blew, the leaves fell down, The cold hard blue of his eye Was the first to go, the golden hair Was the last to come, as careless was he With the life he lost, as it was only just. The leaves lay on the ground, as cold and wet As her hand which he kissed and pressed, And the apples of the tree were low, As they fall, when a bird sings; and there Was no one to hear the love that was spoken. But he lives in the greenwood as of old, For a woman's hand in a wild land to lay, And her hand in his to hold and turn, As the winds which follow after blow. For they were young, as young perhaps will be While the world lasts, as they dreamed and held Their hands thus close, as she and he dreamed. The wayward years came, and she Hath gone from the hands of men, and he Hath gone from the arms of men, and In a city great opens to him, And he looks through the great gates and goes Where the world lasts, as they dreamed and stood In the spring of their love, as it was. I sit here in the dusk and gloom, I look out on the rain-weted lawn And the old cemetery lane Where she sleeps, as still as a stone, As sweet a sleeper as ever you laid Your head in a wooden casket one And the world lasts, as they dreamed and said Words into the evening as it was. There's a great wind stirring, large and free, Out of the rain-wetted field and lane, And a great wind following, large and free, Out of the gloomy day and night. Oh, how the leaves lie bare and dry! The whole world shakes and the trees swing and leap! The whole world shakes and the trees fall over! And I look out on the wet fields, and see The black of the cotton-field's black, The red of the red-clover-field's red, And the golden of the golden-glory's gold. Oh, how the wind moves over the land, As if it knew the power it has, the power It shall have, when it goes to the dark Where the cotton-field sleeps and the road Stops and starts and the wind follows after. The blackbird whistles clear as a bullet, The chaffinches all the woods are a-chirping, And I sit here in the dusk and gloom, For the wind's sake blowing loud and free Out of the rain-wetted field and lane, And the great wind following, loud and free, Out of the gloomy day and night. There's a little line of dew on the roses And the salt-sea breeze has come again, And again I've watched the bees at their work In the clover and the silence of the woods, But I am thinking of a world apart Where the wind has no more power, where grasses blink Like monsters under the sky, where the sea Is only land, and I am only a bird. Over my head, in the pale west, The great ghost-gold of the moon is shining; The clouds are low in the west, the clouds Are bending low in the west, And they are bringing me dreams of the dead, In the moonlight and the dew, And I hear them calling in the moonlight Till my heart is shattered with crying. Out in the little blue realm of my dreaming, I hear the ghostly laughter of the sea, And the wind in the high alleys of my dreaming, And the rain in the pitcher at my elbow. Oh, I am a poor sea-bird on a lonely raft, Flying over a city of the dead, Over the grey gleaming slopes of a forgotten shore, Where all of the shining things have vanished, Where the great ghosts are walking with crooked feet, And I long to turn and swim back to the sea. When the last candle dies in the dingy hospital room, And the ward runs madly into tranced dismay, Hurried by a winding staircase of stifling light, Where each stair-sweep offers a shadowy way Up to some hell of pacts with the damned, Me and you, we two, once more alone, Will walk out to the shadowy sea, And say, like two human souls, The waters have told us a bitter tale. How we faced the black storm in the deep, Dipping the handkerchief in the brine, While the storm-lights glimmered dark and dun And the sea rolled so loudly that it seemed Going to drown us in its fury; How we clomb the bluff, Lying face-down on the brine, And the salt was on our faces All the long, drowsy, dreamy night; And how, in the sunrise, Ere we had heard the crow From the beach that overlooked the deep, Ere our first candle burned, We could see the little boats Trying to catch a ocean wind, Caught in a watery mutual trade With the east wind and the west wind, And the jackass, tired of running To his dark, deep-sea lair, Cried, and threw his wild, wild mane Over the bow of our raft, And we sailed across the seas, Singing as the sea-gulls shout In the quiet night-time, To the singing of the STARS ALIVE! Now the nights are all one, the nights are bright, And the days and nights are one, The dim wet patches in the water-gleam, Are like lights in the water-glow Where the dead bodies have sunk, And the sea has had its will, and rolls and flings Its wrath everywhere, From the white breasts of the dolphins in pools To the white-feathered frigate-bird In the sun-swept heaven! There is no light but one we knew, The light in the hidden rosy paper, And there are no words but that voice's tone, And there are no thoughts but its sway, And the quiet closeness of its speech Is like a soul to my heart! All night I sit and watch The slow dark moving on, And the paper's phantom glow Has faded from my sight, And I wake with day In the glad morning light. He comes in the road that he knows, With the glint of the gold, He kneels down to the king-like feet That are treading on the gold, And he wails as a wildman does, As a child with his pinafore Sings a lullaby. There are wreaths of golden grass Upon the stiff-backed hay; There are yellow eggs of silver Broken high by the tainted sheaf Of the poplar; There are shoes upon the purple mat For the feet of my friend, And a bag left by the side of the road Of a thing he sought in his wanderings. There is a bigness of wickedness In the hollow road That he takes in his stride, And a heavy, droning thump of it Comes and goes, Like a gad-fly beating against a wall. There is a depth of wickedness In the hollow road <|endoftext|> Thy sovereignty on him! thou the handmaid art That wards the sacred treasures of the king. Lemminkainen's son is but a boy in wisdom, And he must learn in his lifetime more than can be learnt By his elders in their lives, if they had wisdom To teach him. Now that thou hast shown me wisdom, I will unfold to him secret lore, that he May attain to wisdom, and never leave The paths of truth and beauty. Of all things, I admire the broad and expansive world, Made wider by the width of heaven above, As a ship's deck by the sea-waves. It is better Faring with the North-east to the ocean, Than to the ocean with the North-west passage. Nessus is a sandy island; 'tis a rock, Of tiny outline, by the ocean, overlooking Thy journey, and the sand dashes sideways, As if a battle were fought on its eminence. Hail, Isis! barren of pine and fir-tree, Save what in all my memories it has shown, As a land of snow and frost and lonely streams. Before I reach my home, beyond the ocean, Look! I will almost reach it with my hands." Thus his mother. Isis, grateful, raised her head, And all her visage seem'd to be thine own. She rose, and led the way through winding paths, And devious ways, that led to ancient groves, And secret caves, that no man had explored. Often they paused to look back at their toil, At distant islands in the ocean-foam. There saw they Hilo's fair white women roaming, And Tuliharama's many lilies. Then deep in the red wave, as 'twere a river, They discoved a tree with golden fruitage; And when the tree was examined more closely, 'Twas only redwood of the distant mountains. Yet higher still in air, by mountain peaks, There dwelt a tribe of men, whose dwelling thou mayst Discover in the valley of Aalborg's stream; Where it flows by a chapel consecrated To Saint Hilda, long, long years since, by fishermen. From there, its waters spread through fields and woods O'er many miles of Kentish pastures. Then to the shore they went, and saw the towers Of Valmy, and the rock-bound worthy inhabiten! There stood they on the beach, and saw afar Myl Run, the rock-filled Oxwaller, the Mear Of misty moorish valleys, O'er which the whirlwind Rustles the sheep-keepers' cells; and sheep-bells ping! There heard they Sheepcod, the shepherd-dog's hymn, As on the low wind up-heaved his voice; And under the misty sky, in rains, the shepherd Pealed loud his shepherd-love, to Otterburne. But far away, from the Kentish hills, a whistle Rang, and the fishermen shout'd, from the rainy seas; Huge swathes of retiring wave adown the beach O'ertopp'd, and broad blue sails, that at noon looked white, Struggled in the sunset, as the fisherman, Stooping, rowed out, to take the light wind into The mouth of Tweed. Loud roared the east-wind from his depths To Kentish rocks and Dee, with all his Thames flood, Loud as the thunder-peals on the Kentish hills. All this, and more, thou hast yet to see, and these Thy wonder; to return thou hast been warned by me. What brings thee? Answer, Yarrow! "Art thou, then, my River? Because I cleave the fields, Lively, and scatter roses, and bid the harvest rest, And cut the stubble, that reaps no harvest-heaps; Because I stream beyond the heath, to weave my way Up to the summit of the vallies, where the road Widens to the chief town; because, when Autumn blows, And turns the fields to sodden mould, I soften again The hardy soil, and spread the riverine, And drag the sheep to land, and bid the crop abide, I play, I play: I am thy effete brother, The Somerset water-champ; and wherever slips The weary wain, I dip my tottering steps (So broad thy breast) in thy broad stream, to rest On thy fringed crag, and float again secure; Because I serve thy harvest with my tiller, And carry wheat and corn, and manure the plain, And gnaw the forests, to provide thy pasture; Because I drain the mines, and deliver the founts; Because I spread abroad thy sunny glebe, And guard thy borders from decay;-- Thou hast thy courses, Yarrow, Far even to the sea, where even thy tributaries Gulf and rush into the large tide. Yarrow is thy name; thou art thy deeds. So wandered Frailty on the mountains; Till once, while wandering on the mountains, Fickle Fancy seemed to give her haughty wings To Frailty, and she trod the mighty world, Thy simple pastimes, thy lowly labours, On mountain and on meadow, by glen and grot, Until, perchance, some shepherd of the flock, Who saw her gentle steps and leering eye, Was moving on his morning's mazy round Along a beech-grove, when--Lo! the rose That never bloomed, but that on earth might first Bloom as the lily in the water-dark Apiness, swooned, and with her dying breath Sighed, "Never, never, ye who love me!" Then the red-lipped hemlock shook his reddest crop, And her with all her deathless wounds would weep; For never goddess of the cestus arm Shook down a tree, and left its root behind, As clutched and sunk the victim of her dart. Then the green-haired hemlock shook his gallant head, And with his deadly words let slip a shame For simple chastity, or for the shrine Of maiden innocence, that is but a lie, The secret sin, the secret shame concealed. He turned to other goals, and left her bare To the red light of the iron sun. And thus, to thy twilight dreams of flowers, And all the vain delights of May, This story of the morning's flowers, Of birds that wake and sing, and trees that grow, And earth that trembles with the joy of spring, Of morn that shakes her greener hair, and last Touches the threshold of the summer hours, Of mornings fresh with birds and golden bees, Is found. In olden times, on the marge of New York Harbor, They said, at sunset, when the great sun died, The gods were spied upon by sailors bold, By Indians wary, and by children there; And only on the last of those bright days of the year, When all the bright shoots of summer with their lees of honey are strong, appear, did they vow a fruitful adventure. So when that ancient graybeards spake, the sailors began to sail, the natives to venture, and the bees to swarm and the wild-flower to abound. So first, a god in human form appeared, In human beauty clad, and all the flowers to adorn, And youth to all the world gave glory, and the god to all the world gave honour. Then in their mysterious vessel, white as a cloud or foam, they plunged into the ocean blue, And called the waters from their gulf below To thrust their sunward course once more. And they bade the sun, from the red main, To feast his eyes upon their glory there, And to burn his fires on mountain and on vale, And they, with faces bent above their vessel's rail, Would float and play and strive awhile for their delight, As though at sea in calm weather with sails a-flow. No wind was there, To ruffle the grass, to clap the blossoms, or make wild The streamers of the wind that danced above the sea. A calm and blushing land, untroubled and full of peace The rosy land of India! Oh, she slept In her shroud of greenery, unseen, unknown, And all the eyes of men were turned from her, And the hands of men were firm in that most silent land, For men were weary of wars and of blood, And gold was not yet broken into dust. No breeze came, To ruffle the leaves, or woo the ocean gale, Or bid sweet airs from off the sea to blow; <|endoftext|> And like a leopard stealthily alights, Dreading the tusks of the elephant. Thou wert my brother, so careful Of thy chastity, thou my sire; To Kekaya thou did'st cleave, Thy every word and deed to keep; The holiest of holy men, Thou would'st not tempt me in the fray; Now, though thy heart is fond, How will thy love accord With my love-prayers? Thou, Lord, hast taken thy rest Here in the glade, Lord Indra, No taint of sin hath touched thee. How will the blazing fire Of my love touch thy heart, That thou art pure as snow, And I anotherught but poor! When first did maidens wed And youths first felt the flame Of passion in their bosoms, None was found more lovely Than Queen Kaikeyí. And none, so fairer could Be seen, O Bharata, Among the sons of men Now all this long epic Of love, of passion, Of earth and heaven and hell, (All the woods were dark With shadows of the shade Of passion of the gods,) To puzzle the child. I have a fond admiration For her who rules my mind, And how I envy her, This lovely lady; Why should my desire For her affection grow When I behold the wood That covers her so fair? I only dream about her, Her form I see; Her heart, her loveliness, All glimmering in the dark. What is there that can make Me die to love her so? What pleasure, if no pain? How much wealth is there in this? What pleasure, if no more Is left in world to come? What wealth is there, O Sítá, In losing all regret? They set the golden gate ajar, The eager crowd press by the way, They hush the multitudinous drum And, singing, flood the night with sound. The summer air breathes sweet and fair And bids the long cool fruits be put On the lit shrines, where shadow lies Of flame-illumined trees and stars. I hold the mighty treasure now Where much and manifold delight The good man stored in secret shrine Outshines the pride of all the Great; No arm can gather in the store Nor unseeing people see The myriad gems the princely skull Has bedecked his house with joy to hold. The lord of men's life is good and wise, The good man's mind is true, The treasure is a crystal cup Whose pure liquid shone; No need of any spice or bane Could add one drop of liquor's power To that within its casket laid. In garb of gold the prince stood there, And, as I came, the flaring fire Burned on his forehead from his head, And made the armour flash and glow Like morning's glad new-born light. His heart with honour is bedecked, His life with gaiety, And in his lips no word of blame Beats under the bright deep sea. I see the heron there on high, And hear the loon that answers him With joyful cry or cheer. There, crowned with many an ample flower, Lord Indra stands, the skilful giver Of every creature's life and ease. The worlds that loom around him stand From him created, all complete. They come from him created fair, And all his praise they show. I saw the Gods--as glorious fair As shapelessness that glows In some sweet garden of the skies. I saw the Gods, the sainted wise, The sainted strong, the sainted fair, Each with his glory on his head, And plucked in splendour from his crown His tender, fawn-eyed baby's hair. I saw the Gods, and where they trod Upon their pinions seemed to swim Stars of the sea, that in the sun Lit all the firmament of him. Each god his baby held before, And, kissing him, made moan and tear His happy eyelids with the rest. I saw the Gods--as glorious fair As shapelessness that glows In some sweet garden of the skies. I saw the Gods, the sainted wise, The sainted strong, the sainted fair, Each with his glory on his head, And plucked in splendour from his crown His tender, fawn-eyed baby's hair. Lord, let my words be but her scorn, And let her pity be her shame, That for one act hath wrought such ill That death before her face was given; Lord, for one cruel stroke of thine Let her blood be dissolved like straw, And hell with her endure her shame. Lord, let my words be but her scorn, And let her pity be her shame, That when her fearful soul was freed, And heavenward she had led her fleet, She could not hold her guilt in stead For one corrupt and blemish'd deed. Lord, let my words be but her scorn, And let her pity be her shame, That when her pity proved her name, And earthward she had lifted up her face, And death was given to her right, She had not paid thee half her price. Let the field of carnage call to mind The sad effect of that fell stroke, When up to heaven the red dead rose, And piteous earth received them all. And let the field be call'd to mind That not a whit of honour had In all the race that fresh and green Went triumphant to the goal. The glorious clouds that roll'd along, The lightning's stroke, the hail of fire, That saw the victor's flag display'd, Have smitten and blighted the fair day, And in its place is laid in hell The banner of the slave. And they have taken to their breasts Their heaving hearts that burn with wrath, And power is gone from earth, and heaven Lets down its curtain for a while, And all the world is drear. Let the snows and the rains and winds Bluster o'er the land, and the breath Of the white waves doth desolate The very heart of the sea, And the lark at heaven's gate sings, and The woodland lea does ring. And the green earth does wail, for she That saw her beauty laid in dust, To see the mighty sorrow borne, And she shall be a den of horror For all time. And where death and darkling sleep Did for a space complete her, a cloud Shall come and cover her, a weight To make the blind feel him nigh. And a hundred times shall pass before The bruised yew shall blossom in gold. The kingly scar, the breaking heart, The broken and darkened eye, Shall stand as a sign and marvel, To maid and matron, all that stands Beside the fallen Horse. No curse shall follow, and no sting Of the kingly horse-thief be found In the high house of his grave; There shall be no rumour of curses Where his queen stands seated high. And in the ashes of the dead Her virgin crown shall be, her eyes Of pearl set in a golden shell, The stars of healing in their sheath Shall shine upon her face. A name shall live that was to Time A terror and a terror all in one, Whereby the world for many a year Did tremble at his very breath, And yet no curse was taken then, No lurk'ring curse was laid to rest. In the dark house of the dead King Her body lies, a modest maid, Not blithe to have borne the King, but old, And her sweet hair hangs about her face, And she has wept for the sake of God, To take the place of Life. In the dark house of the dead King Her body lies, a virgin white, There is no rumour of caresses, And no longing for the tender And helpless love of Youth. In the dark house of the dead King Her body lies, a holy one, There is no rumour of worshipping, Nor any greeting of the holy, Nor any fear of Death. But since that flesh and bone and bone And dust are all one to her, And since the evil of one creature With the good of another live, And since the sin of one mortal Is sanctified for ever, Let her be buried, as she lies, Not by the kingdom, nor by her, But by the King that is above, <|endoftext|> Weigh the advantage and the disadvantage, To determine, with justice weigh, The just advantage and the disadvantage, To choose the better of the two. The hour, the hour of golden sunshine, The hour of sharper freezing weather, The hour of yonder dark and dreary cloud That floats and trails across the sky: I know the feeling, feeling of the rain, And hear the sound that all-prevailing wind makes, And feel the chill upon my skin. But time, at last, to time returns The old unclouded beauty of her face; And on my heart, that girds these worlds together, She feels the tenderness of early years, And, as she comes, all other sounds and sights Seem light as wind-blown dust. And if the wide-eyed mercy of her face Has ever come to me in dreams, And from the sound and light of her dear eyes, And the tone of her pure and gentle voice, I know that Mercy, to the sinful earth And guilty heart that walks therein, Will come, in some bright future day, And dwell with me, an angel-guest. Not far to seek your mercy from the plain, Where lies the road to battle, running straight, Is Akershus that bestows his golden store, The king of many summers. So fair the woods where hides the hero's bed That e'en the Fall rains would fail to stain The dove-gray of his armor. Thence down the mountain-sides the bright gold sun Dapples all the valley below With rays that sparkle till they burn, And sparkle burning till they cool. The valley glitters as with gems unseen Of light unfading, bright and deep; A golden river flecking the verdant floor. Then from the summit of the mountain's head, As from its bed in gravel laid, Came sounds as of a sea in rain Sounded like--O calamity! For there was water shining all around, And in the upper air, Like dew-beads on the feathery grass, The voice of songs of birds. The army halted in the open air That opened like a sunny bay; They saw a sight that seemed to freeze The bosom with the sight of her. And on her voice the springtide smiled, A golden veil that spread afar From vale to vale o'er the green, Like night when stars of heaven rise, To give a lustre to the air, And shed a dark and tender light On maidens as they blossom white In promontories of blue. Above the trees, like sweetly tuned Osculatory shells, That in the quiet breezes swell In melody and in memory, Came in sustained tones and sweet The voices of the birds. And on her voice the springtide smiled, A golden veil that spread afar From vale to vale o'er the green, Like night when stars of heaven rise, To give a lustre to the air, And shed a dark and tender light On maidens as they blossom white In promontories of blue. Along the level meadows sweet The bells of harvest jangled; The mellow autumn glow Sang through the afternoon, Like the more common light That gilds the hills at eve. The vesper-chant grayed away In gentle echoes wide, Till over all the Fall had spread Her umbrage o'er the land, And from the country's heart, And universal heart, A full-throated gladness rang And said--"The year is oh so bright!" The autumn sunshine fell in gold On fields where each alone stood proud In her dark cell of woe; And silver-sandal-clad, and smitten black With the fierce sunbeams, one old tree Beat o'er the rest, its arms outstretched And arms as broad and tall As the whole forest over-head! One old tree, old as the dawn, Old as the story of the sea Old as the dawn of days, That through the twilight with its weight Was calling to the dawn, That through the summer with its gifts Was calling to the fall, And saying to the land, "Hark! There is a joy in heaven above!" Oh, say, what is so like a joy As the ecstasy of trees? 'Tis the fragrance of a night When the sun, a god alone, Is weak as we, but strong in love. 'Tis the echo of a night When the moon was as a god's bride In the end of the world alone, The glory of a night Far on some planet, sweet and bold. Say what is so like the sound Of a tree's voice as it echoes Far through the years of old? 'Tis the melody of love, Of the night when the gods were wed, In the end of the world alone. 'Tis the echo of a night When the moon was as a god's bride In the end of the world alone, The glory of a night Far on some planet, sweet and bold. There were days when my heart was as dry As a windless prairie summer's day, And I to the green trees said good-bye As they said hello, and then I went To the gray mountains that stretched away From the dim shore where the ship went down. And I called out, "Still, still be gray, Or, gray like me, be changed to white!" But they laughed in my voice as they heard, And the wind came saying, whistling still, "Dance, dance forever to the white." But now the old things move no more, The thicket, the thorn and the brook; The bright-eyed birch and the smell Of the berries that at fall make way For the scarlet gnat and the beetle, The bugs that are gold at the root, And the birches with silver hairy leaves, And the bright-fruited hemp that turns To the blackworms in the broken florets. And the old names still sound, but I Am a stranger to myself and to them. <|endoftext|> One day we sat in a pew and talked about the time That had passed since I had seen him; how he had gone To the coast and come back with the news that it was true; And how he had loved one of his old friends and then Sought another and then changed his mind and then Had gone back to his old friend and then changed his mind And so at last had chosen me to be his love And then it was we were sitting in the pew, And I knew that he was thinking of someone else, For there was always some one else that he spoke of. He did not seem to be thinking of me. One day he said to me, "There is someone I know Who will love me forever, and I know that this is true, But who that someone else knows I cannot know. I will write the name of that someone else on a book That I will bind in many colors so that whoever reads May know the name and not look elsewhere if they so will." He took the book and bound it in many colors. Then it was that he spoke of someone else to me And told me his name was Jefferson. Then I asked What was the name of this person he spoke of And he said, "Montgomery." Then I said, "Who is Monty, And why is he speaking of someone else?" He said, "Monty is the name of this person I know." "What is the name of this person I know?" "Behave yourself, that is the name of this person, And the person I know is Monty and not me." Then he said, "Monty is the name of this person, And the person I know is Jefferson and not me." "And why is he speaking of this person?" I said. He said, "Monty is the name of this person I know." "But why is he speaking of this person?" I said. He said, "Monty is the name of this person I know." And I answered, "There is no reason for it; Just take the time to say his name in the manner That he has told it to you." There was a boy who said, "I will break your heart." And there was a girl who said, "I will cure your fear." And neither said much, but when the time for the cure Had come, the boy and the girl said, "O Madam, thank you; We are not afraid now." We used to say, "We will say our prayers at the last; <|endoftext|> Lit with my voice, That I may show her With what skill I can Strath-Endrove. Here she is--I could kiss her, Kiss her in the dark, On the stones and stones of Wallace's Low; On the stone by the gate; Underneath it, dark and black, Where the wild hare runs; And across it, on the road, Or up where the hill goes, Where the wild hare runs, All alone, at nightfall, When the folk are gone, And no other keeper Keepeth the wood at all; Or if any is, I mind him not. His hood is as big, As a sheep's; His feet are as big, As his head; And his look a' is sae sad and strange! He stole my heart's young dower O' a' the pastures o' Lewis; Now he scuds me greetin', Now he scuds me wee-weel, Wi' the breezes o' spring, Wi' the sheep-bird's wing, When he warms his young. I see him now, Far in the night, Drowsy and sightless, Tree-serpent folk say, Sudden as he stoops, Cauld in the gloom. He did not wield Power o'er me sae gleg, He could not win me awa', He did not crave me nae mair, He hung on me sae weel; I was nae wearier O' his tenderness, Than a sleeping child is. O! loneliest night in a'! Light's but an axle-tree To the stars we chiefly see, Which are the de'il's. The soul is frae the dust, An engine-tree to us; They cross the night like the breakers O' the boat-head ways. The time may come when a' that be, The bright, the bizzie days o' us, Shall fade, and leave nought behind, But the wind, and the wave, And the knell of the tempest lappin' In the kelp of the wind. The wind comes loud and keen, And the sea's a-wonder, And the sky is sae like the scorn O' a' the pride that it wears; And the wind frae the storm And the sea, and the sky, Rattles through the auld spangled tree, That spreads its arms to the blast. When the pibroch's ringing, and the pace Is a' o' kin to man's hand on high, And the lee-lang day is wawkin' and wa' Wi' its melting snaw, An' auld Scotland cugs the bauld Friday Wi' a' her might, Oh! a' the joy that is Scotland in May Is glinting frae Border gill. The dew glistreth, the buds rin' fresh Are opening their secret store, An' nature has just begun To yield and Gelorach's soft sonnet, Its sweet heart-thrill. But a' the glee is frae the lombe An' the flocks upon the lea, An' our bonnie bairnies sport an' play On the green. The music o' the birds o' the spring, The flutter o' the chickens an' wye, The lilt o' the laverock lass on her rowe, An' the mavis on the tree, Is enough to make a man forget His wintry home. Afton, a' your joys are spilt on the lea As you rest on yon green birkie, An' your joys are as diffuse as the dew That's daft gushin' frae theflower. But for me, I maun travel farther, To the hill-couch where I can see The splendider stands, the queen o' the mountain, That's siller wa'. Oh, I was blythesome laird of Cornubie, A beard of stane, and broncht braid; I kept my fair i' the choir, my son said, But when I had my way, I tore a shaver, An' drew my gear to Calton-hall. I wadna gi'en me condition; For a' my gear was in the lang, But I was payna, so I stuck to it An' was droll to the last. The harp was fiddling, the robes were dancing, The men were mumbling an' praying; But it didna matter, for I had my fling At a' the kist o' life. I wat the kettle boilit, I watched it simmer, I was so queit to my luve, An' when the cur would speak, I could say't, An' hard as a spud. When I was amang the crop widders, the kye Waled on the lea, and bade me say'n, An' woo when he'd tether luve and marry, But the sheltie bit me in my thrapple. Then I said to my heart, "The King Is aye the best that wad drudge and wait To dfridge ane the fire." An' wi' a' my gear I set out for the strae; I was a gallant i' the band. When day was breaking, and my braws were baith, I walked up the braes, an' I reached the wood, An' to my heart I said, "The King Is aye the best that wad drudge and wait To dfridge ane the fire." An' in my braw clothing I musterted out; The holtin' huns I had nae doubt to win, For they were dessus, we were a dreary set, But I was first in the out-look. The herte-recks were rending, the wind was bauld, The hertes were cropping up a'. I went down the braes, an' I wasna sturred; I never was drucken wi' the cold; I went by a hame, an' I heard a sleigh Come struttin' up the Wayapich road. Oh, I was first in the strae; I cudna fa', For I was payna, so I stuck to it An' was droll to the last. An' I'm sure, by God, the tricolour's hilt Was best in a' the ethnic nation; For it was gudely herted wi' a sheath O' lancet; an' a' the names o' it said "Scotland" an' "Ireland". But I was first in the valk; I cudna fa', For I was payna, so I stuck to it An' was droll to the last. When I was flurried at table, when I was weary, An' when my neck was bald and weary, I'd gang to the smiching, an' I'd gang to the plow, An' I'd gang to the wood, An' I'd gang to the plow, Till the lilt of the lilt on the skirl Came out o' the night. I'd gang to the smiching, I'd gang to the plow, I'd gang to the wood, An' I'd gang to the plow, Till the lilt of the lilt on the skirl Came out o' the night. When the shelt'ring curlew had caught the fish, An' he had taken his spink, An' the thowless curlew had taken his spink, I'd gang to the smiching, an' I'd gang to the plow, An' I'd gang to the wood, They had lost their shelt'ring feathers, And their beaks were made o' bill-points, Ow the wise had said, Ow the wise had said, "They shall never be wise again." Then they had sung to the shelt'ring curlew Of the ocean and wimplin' ways, An' the wise had said, Ow the wise had said, "They shall never wimple nor mend. "The sea has no arm to save it, The road is hard for men to tread, An' the road is wiv the spink An' the luck is wiv the cheep <|endoftext|> It was always some sort of excuse for leaving. His was a lonely life, yet he was brave. He had none, alas! but one regret. He wished he'd had more faith in himself. If he'd only had more faith in any one It might have been his wife. And if you've a tear to wipe, Or a moment to give; If this is all that pain can ask, Or that life can give; If all we ask is just to live, Or to die With a feeling of content, We are but mercenarys, and men Without name or fame. But they who dare to give Their all to one person, They are the worthies of the earth. They live and die for him. They are as dear to him As the rain to the corn. When we were first acquitting ourselves, We were committing ourselves, my dear, A little early and late; But we now take a retrospect, And review the whole of 'em. We now take a retrospect On all that go with acquitting, And trying to acquit. Now, in the first place, I must say That as far as the style of your verses Is concerned, you deserve great praise. And I hope, my dear, in due time To dignify your style with Ringwood; But I doubt if you will allow That your own worth you'll recognise, For, as I have told you, my dear, You're quite a prim at verse. Now, if you're afraid you may be made to pass Through the many ports of our following; That you may be lost, if not by this time, By some other time, I'm afraid you're entirely off your guard. But the world will be all right, my dear, As soon as you cease to mourn; For the last that you can do will be Just to sleep in your grave. Oh, my dear, you astonish me, You are so very unlike the rest, With your wavering, evasive mind; And so far above the rest You are beautiful and rare. And the ladies all, when you walk by, Are queerly celestially baffled, As by some magic of you. Oh, my dear, you astonish me When you're walking by yourself; For you are surely of mortal mould, And mortal never looked so young. Oh, my dear, you astonish me When you're walking by yourself. And, my dear, what a vain attempt You make to be mysterious. So far from being mysterious, You are more mysterious still; For no one can buy such real mystery As lurks in your sweet little face; And no one can buy such real mystery As lurks in your sweet little face. And you'll go mad without it, my dear, And perhaps you'll make me sad By the bitter, fearful drug of it; And I fear you'll never get to heaven, Or where you're destined to go; For the bleak, indifferent world beyond May be a barrenness to you; And the bleak, indifferent world beyond, May be a barrenness to you. Oh, my dear, you astonish me On the road to nowhere; And the nought beyond the nought Is a length of road to go. And the nought beyond the nought Is a length of road to go. As one who in a narrow river Had ere this crossed, a queer looking fish, And I, through fear of our anvil there, Struggling with a certain cord; So, it seems to me, in my fear, I am wrestling with a certain cord, And by my own fears I'm tied. As I for my love lay bound and saw No end, no respite for my pain, And felt as if that pain could never end, And cursed the desolate place; So, it seems to me, in my pain, I am cursed the desolate place Where I am bound, and cursed the earth Where I must be when I am dead. Oh, my dear, I shall not love you less For the cruel ruffian, hight Fates, That in the dearest life of me Now bind me, and will bind for ever! But you shall have this casket, filled With all the wonderings of life, And all the wonderings shall be Of you, my love, in all the years Of me, my dear. I shall never, when your face shines through The windows of my heart to-day, And when the years have numbed my breath, To hold the glimpse in mirror there, Reflected, I shall never wring A sob from the glass, a kiss out of it, To lighten the sad heart that has no hope; But, that my love, and no other's, shall Be the first thing in hell to you known. There are those who smile when they should; There are those who weep when they should. I could not love you unless you smiled, I could not love you unless you wept. I have made you so beautiful, I have given you the rich, red mouth of a rose, But you must find the thorn in its bud, And you must find the serpent in it. There are those who sing when they should; There are those who manhandle when they should. But I shall love you, lovely dear, And I shall love you--you to sell, If you sing not, if you weep not, If you manhandle not, if you smile not. I would rather feel the bristles bare That rise on your forehead to the sun, Than see you mar your beauty with tears; I would rather lose a limb than see A rib or a lip or a dis-jointed head, Of me, of no other woman, you know! And so you shall sing and you shall smile As you should, you shall eat and you shall drink, You shall have, and you shall give, and you shall buy, And you shall kiss and you shall kiss me, dear. I will make use of every minute, I will make use of every instant, I will make use of every single moment That comes between me and my darling. And when at last I come to this, And when I find that all this time Has not been in vain, and all these years That they have marked for my sole delight, That I have had in vain, in vain, in vain; Oh, I shall be glad that I was born, That, after all, this flesh of mine is not The thing I loved in my days of delight. And I shall be glad, and I shall sing, And I shall laugh, and I shall smile as I should, When, seeing how happy you are, and how I am happier than I can be, and how You are happier than you should be, and how On this bleak, desert island we are left, Oh, be the subject I can let my imagination dwell on! And, in my music, I shall trust To each short, strange note that you can blow; And, all alive and real and true, The love that's in your eyes to-night Shall live to much of what I dream on. For, after all, we are both men Made on this, our earth, this minute, And, like these guessed to-night, we must part, But there shall be for ever on us The heaven that we knew in our happier years. The day is here! The leaves have laid their bodies down, The water, quiet and dark, Has shed them; The last ray of the dying sun Is on the level lake, And the air is sharp and cold; The night-wind, in the tree, Dies hard with fear. The day is here! The day was on the lake, The very last sunset gleams; The water, calm and clear, Has touched it; And now, by and by, The shadows of the evening will be falling; The night-wind, in the tree, Dies hard with fear. The day is here! And over the mountains gray I see the morning breaking, With white wings and no word, That comes and goes; And on the wintry sea, My lonely ship goes by; And all alone, in spite of the stars, I hear the night-wind sigh. The day is here! It was on the lake that night we met; The day was night, but what of that? I loved you, and, though it was by night, I loved you more than light can tell; And now, by God, I know, That though it is by day, I love you more Than light in any star can shine. <|endoftext|> And all the life I ever knew Seemed but a dream within a dream. When, on a summer eve, The slow clear sunset graced With its sad loveliness The eastern slope of yon mountain, And blue-silver clouds, Spreading wide, were fading from sight, I paused to mourn the time that was gone. The sun was gone! The great oak tree That stood beside the hedge all day, And leaf by leaf, with perspiring head, Fell before the sunset fire. Then I arose and walked across The yellow grass to where the house stood. Its doors were wide, and I could see The garden far beyond; but, as I passed, I heard the steps of labour on the lawn. And when I reached the garden, where every leaf Lay on the ground with sun-baked bloom, And birds in every bush were singing, I paused a moment to recall The scene that used to be. There was the clear and heavy-fallen sea, And solitary cliffs that broke the sky, And far below the wave in glimmering surf, The boats that drifted on the dark green deep, And the red sails in the east. I felt the tide go out with every breath I drew, I heard the noise of labour, And, far away, the constant roll of cranes In yonder farmstead. I sighed with life! I thought of home! And then I walked on slowly, and I knew That labour was over, and I should see My wife again. And once I looked into the east, And saw the northern sky grow grey, And thought how, once, on a summer morn, I watched the summer sunset blaze, And watched the last red splendour fade From the purple eastern sky. I stood upon the shore That now is all sand and sea, And watched the slow boats gliding by, And knew the day was gone. I sighed with life! I thought of home! The sun is past! Once I watched the sunrise In April's brilliant face; The robins on the blithe bough Were singing as the dawning came, The lark, with a beating heart, Rose up and soared away. I watched the dawn In June's face divine; The sun came forth, and saw, with a joy Beyond all hope, his fellow-man. I watched the day That is departing now; The lazy sun sat down again In golden splendour on my friend. He was a soldier in the field Of life, and, having lost his home, He sought for the fringes of the sky; He sought them in the clefts of the rock, And o'er the waste he walked and sighed. And, as he wandered through the land, He saw,--far off, a home was born; A home was born to his far-off sight, In a small heath by a lonely well. O to be home again and home again, And ever, home again and home again! And never to roam, nor seek repose, But always to be seeking and finding, For home is a--a--a-building stone, A strong stone,--a--a-building stone, That o'er the heart can build the glorious Gate Of Paradise, where the Spirit may return With God-like hap, and build a heaven of bliss For God and for woman, loved and treasured evermore. When the furlong was a mile and a quarter high, We drew aside from the great mass that lay Abroad, and lit from the English camp the light Of our torch, which, as soon as we had eyes To see it, withered and dwindled, tore Its shaft and fragments of its light away. Then the great crowd began to look round, As the mast oak, which spreads his tangled branches To the chill winds of the very night, looks To some cold sea-caves which, empty, he receives. But we had no care about that; we saw That our task was done, and that the time for play Was come; so we knelt and turned back home, And pushed back our play-things, for the night Was still deep, and winter-time sleep were short, And soon the thick clouds overhead would close Over the level of the fields; then too, Our hands were little, and we trembled Before the heavy-headed, dull-eyed, Cold-hearted, sluggish English people. Then home through the darkness we went, As to a night-wandering stranger, came Our voices from the sea-scented lanes, And all our hearts were frozen with awe At the vast solitude of English woods. Yet to our hearts it was but home, Our hearts were broken like a flower By the lonely, cold, silent houses Which, crowding and high and vast, Seemed but the mouths of enormous trees Which silently ate the stars. Then home I came and I called my friend, And to my arms a wild beauty came, The untamed white horse with his mane Like the flying wolf's. Our hearts beat fast, And our fingers, still against our will, Fell, faltered; for our lips were dumb For a great fear. But I caught his voice As the shouting wind from a fearful forest Came calling to the sun that sat alone Among the clouds of the heaven-land. And I knelt upon the threshold of his door, And I cried to my love, whose eyes were blind With the tears of terror and sorrow. The light came in, and the white horse stumbled Before me, and my hand fell down Unto the white horse's mane, and I kissed The golden face of him, and kissed The mane of the flying feet That so recklessly had left the ground To follow the golden moon. And in the dawn I rose and left the wood And the grey, crying wife that waited for me By the threshold of my door. I must go to the blacksmith's forge And forge a sign to guide my love Back to my arms again. Then I came to the mountains, and I came Unto the mountains and began to walk, And my white horse rode before me still, And I forged a sign to love and me Back to my love again. Then I came to the marshes, and I came Unto the marshes, and I looked around And the grey river flowed by the gate Of my dark castle. I saw the hounds Of the wild forest hunt me down, And the red eyes of the frightened wolves Fell on me as I went by. And I left my dark castle and I crossed The golden threshold of the sun-land land, And I forged the sign of the Love-sign, And I forged it with a jeweled hammer And a dressed band of gold. Then I left the marshes and the forest And I went to my lover's land And I cried to my love, in the pitch And the hoarseness of my voice and the dark And the silence of my eyes, "O Love, how like a child am I And yet a goddess! O Love, If it be too late for last year's flowers, What shall we do for this?" "You shall build a ship and go out over sea, And go over sea till you die, And build a ship and go out over sea And build a ship, and seven others like it, And load them with goodly things and lovely, And send them out to sea in goodly ships, And a goodly tale of what have gone to them, And then you and I, if we live, we two, Shall run the ship on the Love-key, and it shall have A crow to keep it home." "And the Love-bird shall sing the ship down, And the Love-bird shall sing the way, And the Love-bird shall sing the way, and the seven others, The seven others like it, The seven others like it, and the goodly tale, The goodly tale of what have gone to them, And the sign of the Love-key shall be one." And then the Queen of all the Maidens looked At my white horse with the red mane, And she laughed to my white horse with the red mane, And she said, "My, my, how white he looks, And my, my, how smooth he lies. And he shall be a knight, my white horse, And I will make him good at arms." And she smote a claw on the horse's mane, And she kissed him seven times, "Good horse, be thou my knight, and ride to the wars, And fight for the crown of my father's kingdom, For thou shalt have a golden crest for a sign, <|endoftext|> Fain the braes all green, and all the downs, And all the downs, in summer weather, And all the downs, with greenfieldlets, With meadow-sweet and reedy teals, And all the teals, and meadow-sweet Nigh to the gray hand-mill pond, Where up-reared and pictured the chafer, The great chafer, winter-resistant. Out of the north, when all the woods were dry, From the old country of the northland, The ancient home of wood and snow, The great land of a thousand lakes, A white frost, a white comet, came. And with it came the good God too, The creator of the sun and air, The comber that clothed the poles and clifts, The combers that clothed the continents, And gave the beaver his canal, And gave the hunter his permanent And gave the Indian his homestead; Came the God of the seasons too, The God that had made the grass and the tundra, And the combers upon the aula; The God of the hidden springs, the God of the winds, The God of the seasons and the rains. And with these came a host unnumbered, Great gods from the distant Hiram period, And members of an ancient kindred That had maintained their nationality Down from the days of the first fathers, Down to the days of the first noteworthy migration, Down to the days of the first noteworthy settlement, Down to the days of the first noteworthy migration, Down to the days of the first noteworthy migration. A host of them came from the city of Atka, From the vicinity of the town of Ontkawa, From the region of the Great Dismal Swamp, From the regions of most dilapidation, From the region of most desolation. And with these came a host of them came from the city of Atka, From the vicinity of the town of Ontkawa, From the region of the Great Dismal Swamp, From the regions of most dilapidation. And all came with heavy hearts, Bore as they were of virile age, Bore as they were of robustity, Bore as men of noble stature, Bore as men of marvelous stature. And the streams of the great ocean, The great rivers of the earth, Washed through with their weight of men, Washed through with a countless number, As the clouds bring clouds of dust, Dripped with the debris of their doom, With the death of men in many numbers. And the smoke of their torment O'er the lands of the human race, O'er the shore of the vast Rapid, O'er the shores of the vast Desire, Covered all the horizon, Covered all the waters, Gathered in the uplands of the nation, In the outland frontier regions, In the southern regions of the country. And the death and the calamity, And the wo and the battle and defeat, And the burning of the forests, And the turning of the rivers, And the running of the pestilence, And the earthquake and volcano, And the tsunami that destroys mankind, And the great-big submarine explosion, And the great-great grandchildren of destruction, And the mad destructions worse than destruction, And the great Wall-Army and the destruction Came to a close with a scream. And the Indians of the nations, And the aborigines of the nation, Felt their ties broken asunder, Held their hands in hideous reverence To the white man as a God, And as a symbol of union, And as a slogan for their doctrine, And they crossed their caps in silence, And they bent their heads in scowling contempt To the left and the right, And around their looms and their cabins Fell the shadows of sleep. And the huntsman stopped his point on the hills, And the parson shot his lecture, And the lawyer went to his own barber's shop, And the spouter of fun-drink began To lecture to his client. And the businessman walked to and fro, And he considered, and he thought hard, And he bought and he sold, And the farmers looked on with contempt, And they called him a knave. But the mighty Maker of all things Still rode in the white-clouded sky, And still brought great things to pass, And he shaped them in the bronze and gold, And he drew them in the pearl and ruddy, And he shut them in a record case For the vote of much gratitude, For the sighs and the tears of regret. He is the maker of springs, He is the maker of fountains, That they flow and they flow and flow, Till they cover the earth and flow Into the sea. He is the maker of rivers, He is the maker of harbors, That they wait for the ships and flow Slowly in patience for a day, And they say, "We will not be held"-- And they wait. He is the maker of breezes, He is the maker of ships, That they sail and they sail and flow Westnortheastward till they reach the spring In the sea. And the people of old Rome Knew him, and he knew them, too, When he marched with them to Carthage, When he quelled the East in conviction Of the truth of the ages old, And they saw his face. And he stood where the palm-trees grew By the edges of the Roman ford, In his ancient tunic, gleaming, And he held in his hand the laurel As a sign of victory, and the rest Was a legend that he heard in Greece Of the gods bringing their slow returning. They had seen his face, and his name was known, And they thought, "The one who wore the iron plume May be coming, and we better hide Weep for the years of weakness that have fled, Lest he should find us and destroy us, As the wolves have devoured the lambs in me." And he came nearer and nearer, and he stood In the furnace, and they saw the sparks fly up And the great clangor of the air as he came, And they heard the rush of the sparks over the hills, And they thought, "The huntsman is near at hand, The weary huntsman and his fierce dogs." And they gathered in the rustling corn And they hid in the sheaves of the harvest, And they thought, "It is the huntsman, it is he, The weary huntsman and his dogs." And the huntsman came, and he sniffed about, And the air was a herald of his trail And the light in his eyes was a signal, And the gleet of the fleeces he wore Was a signal of peace. And he bowed as a master bows, And he spake as a master may, And the maize and the sheaves and the corn Were as women to his eyes, And the sparks that his sparks flew over Were as women to his foot. And the boundless land that he trod Was as women to his wheels. And he said, "I am weary of war, I am weary of hunting, And I long to hear again the voice of the rivers, And to walk on the water's lips again. I am weary, but I am coming, and I am coming, And I know that the earth will forget the old dream And the old hate, and the old sorrow, And the old crime. "I will build me a hut, and I will build me one, As the tall cedars of the Southwest have built, And I will build me one of the papooses As they built their fair pavilions, And I will plant me as many eglantels As the swift wild Santee River plants. "And I will plant the primrose and the violet, And the wind will blow the red berries As the leaves fell long ago, As the birds fell long ago, As the leaves fall now. "I will plant the white sweet-gum, the acacia, The bitter cactus, The tamarisk, and the rock-flower, And the tall tree-trees of the desert, And the tall trees of the forest, And the tall shrubs that are growing In the valley of the stream. "I will plant the tall tamarisk, the white sweet-gum, The white cypress, and the daisies, And the meadow-lilies and the cowslip, And the lilies of heaven, And the lilac of the Blue. <|endoftext|> Not one of us knows when it begins; And if at any time it is o'er, With love and faith, we keep the faith, And smile serenely for the last, Knowing that it may not end. We keep the faith; we keep it well, We keep it right, we keep it strong; We do not lose heart for a time; Nor do we ever seek to break The sacred tie that we have wrought; The burning, true faith of our race Will light us onward and enable To bear with patient courage what may come, Nor ask for consolation from the world. This is the song of the ocean's night, A bird's sad song in the shadowed glade: He takes the ocean for his level ground, And the hills are his infinitely long. It is a time for silence and tears, For the trees to fall, and the hills to rise; For the world to sleep, and to wake again In the shadow of the tree that is whole, And the sea's shadow on the irrevocable sea. The tide is in the tree, the tree is in the tide, And the two join to make a third that is above the tree; And I know that this is the turning of the tide, And I know that this is the turning of the third; And I know that it will be all right, And I know that it will be all right. The sun sets on the golden summer, And night comes in with the moon; The shadows of the leaves flit slowly down, And the ripples of spray start sedately; But the sea is calm, and the sea is bright, And the waves leap up in the moonlight, To touch the shore in a glorious blur. The ship rocks in a peaceful harbor, With the tide on her bow and the starlight on her crest; And I know that she will float far away, And I know that she will float far away; And I know that she will leave the harbor, With the sailors aboard, that were her crew; And I know that she will leave the harbor, With the music of their music on her wing, And the flags flying above her lonely bed, And the heaven on her crest like a pillow blown By angels who sleep in God's castle paled. So it's O sweetly here to meet, To lay our heads on the breast of the earth; O sweetly here to meet, To lay our heads in the peace of the night; And think how the whole world weathered is, How men worry, how women weep, How all things go and come again; But the earth is calm and alive, and the sea is bright, And the ship rocks in a peaceful harbor, and the tide is o'er, And the song that was made in the woods, And the world is at peace, but the world is at peace. I am in the fields of my own breath, I am speaking the words I speak, I am he that was singing to thee, Son of the Morning! O hear me, son of the Night! I am leaping the dark on its head, I am reaching with my hands, I am trembling all in the grip of things, And clinging as hands in a hold; I am bitter, and I am calm, And the wrath of my head is love of thee; The wind whines high where my shrill song blows, I have called thee, I have called thee; And the sun lies high in the firmament, As I lie low, my darling! And the snow drives white on the wintry grass, As I lie down by thee, my light! And I laugh, laughing to my very heart, When I think that the calling is done, And my soul shall be thine till life is done; Now out into the field with the brown wheat That's just creaming with heat, And pull it, if it's not too far spent, And let it lie, and keep it fresh; And with it take of the blue milk that's chilled, And with it put of the sunniest hay; And let it be sweet, O my heart, As a mother's child; And take it to the lovely, wide, windy plain, And to the little, dark, dusty town; And in the town bring it, and in the square where I know thou art, And tell my soul it is well; Thou art far from the winds of the desert, Thou art far from the wandering spice, But thou art near me and mine; And thou hast pulled the blue dresses up That were blown long ago; And thou hast gleaned the yellow fruits of the books, And thou hast torn up the pages old; And thou hast heard the voices of the holy dead And hast answered their grave petition; And thou hast stood in the burning temple, And felt the burning kisses of the worshipper. Now all my soul is a burning altar To burn my love and my service, To burn all of life and all of death, To burn unto one aim, to burn; And I long to be rid of the words and the ways, And I long to be rid of the nights and the days, And I hunger to be burned like thee, my light, My babe divine! And thou hast walked in the dark and the rain And the sweat that I have given thee; And thou hast heard me lament the way And the waste places of the earth; And the rain has beaten on the windows green, And the darkness has fallen round about thee; And the darkness is God's if He so will, But Thou, my sweet soul, Thou art more than the darkness, O little sweet soul! A time there was when my soul's eyes were set On thine, O mine, wherefore my heart cried With voice of a thousand echoes like, "Our lives are one, sweet love, one purpose, One life, dear love, one royal aim!" But one year elapsing o'er me swelled The bleak and the alien moon, And the sorrowful and the weary hour Was lost for the sweet year 2014; And the rain has fallen on the windows red Since then, and the sorrow has fled, But the fire of my voice remains, And the love of my heart is thy for aye. The best of my life hath been partaken Of thee, my heart's queen, my life's crest, For a token of God's bounty yet, Of my heart's might, that cometh up For love of thee, and for love of me. And now in the hour of my prayer's ending I say one parting word to thee, That the end of my love for thee so far Is written in light, that I may see That light now, as I press on to death. But there are lives that to my message bring A deeper joy, and hold my parting now For sorrow a joy, as the grass' green blades Are green for the ground that they cling to. And I pray God that my dying message bring The truth of his sun that is light to thee, And the far light of his words that are truth To his brave hearts that embrace his bright blue skies. I do not remember when I loved thee more Than now, when my spirit is over thee And thy memory hath become my life. Thy beauty cometh over me like morning light That cometh with breezes of flowery scent; The air hath a fragrance of thy troubled hair, That flameth where it sank beneath the flood. It is my life, my thoughts to my thoughts turn now, My thoughts about thee, my heart, my love, For I have lost the way of life but now, And I can find it no more except 'Twixt thee and me, between thee and death. It may be that other eyes than mine Have seen thee; I may be the only one Whose heart hath truly felt thy wounds. And I may be the only one whose hand, That touch, hath never turned to thine In anger, in the darkness of shame, But turned to warm caresses pure That fill the air as it passes by Where thou and I once walked together. But no one comes who shall draw near My love to me, except thou come alone, And even this needs is not much; If I can only give one touch, One light word, one twinkle of thy eye, To make one dawn of thee for me, I shall know I have done my duty. O flowers, that here in my garden grow, Sweet, but with no gentler breath than thine, Why do ye so ensue my dead death, And on my grave so fasten all your cares? Why do ye over me this pain? And, why do ye be over me so fierce? It were a better thing for any man <|endoftext|> And as the sweet Morn her light, So she first smelled the morn By the bridal bowers! At the far-off Inn the huntress strides, Bearing in her belt her flashing brand, Her arrows, and her war-club grim; And every maiden glancing sideways From the gable-eaves peeps, and listens, And wonders at the maiden's stream. And all the court is alive with stir, From burst of song and echoing laugh, To whisper of the wooing-word, To touch of shy unspoken hand, To breath on brow of drought, And every maiden's pranked hair Flushes to match her flush. Till in the noonday shade a roan Beside the inn door roars; And sudden hush. And all the bleating of the hounds, The panting of the rider, The bellowing of the hunt, The shouts of the riders, The shouts of the horses, The clatter of horse-hair On stone-haloed tower. Wench! there is a queen to-day, In this great hall of ours, And her hair is like the shining light That shines on the lake at noon-day, And her eyes are pools where day-dreams begin, And her brow is like the western sky That cloudy-darkens at noon-day. Wench! she comes among us now, As doth a morning star appear; And her garments clothe the bower with grace, And with gold the palace glows; And she comes like one who says, "Behold me!" And in the west her face is white, And she shines with beauty-power To make a man of every man. Wench! O loveliest, look upon her! And meet-theater, mirror-worship Shall unto thee be given; For her lips are images of light, And the glance of them is Parian, And the beauty of her brow is like The light that glimmers in the sun. I see her now, and thus behold her As in morning of summer's noon; And she is here, and the hearts of men Grow bright and stronger by her sight; And they say of her, "Lo, this is best!" And sigh and smile and say again, "This is the best of all our lot!" I see her now, and thus behold her In the sunshine of afternoon; And her garments clothe the bower with grace, And she comes to us with light to-shout, And she smiles and falls in a swoon; And the voices of the young and old Rise with the music of the hour, And say, "Behold her, this is best!" And sigh and smile and say again, "This is the best of all our lot!" And behold her face, O meekest of them, And say, "Behold, this is she I love!" And I behold her, and am still to greet her, For her lips are near me now; And I gaze and sigh, and sigh again, "Yea, this is best of all our lot!" And sigh and smile and say again, "This is the best of all our lot!" I see her in my dreams and wonder; I hear her in my ears; Her beauty maddens like the night on high And far above my staring eyes My thoughts go with her in the storm, And think how Love's soul hath breathing-places Beyond the ken of men. I saw her last evening in her bower, And felt in me the thrill of Love's last caress; Her eyes, above a happy sighing, Had dimmer pinnacles of light than doth The angel's star, the genii's moon; And as I knelt with Love for his vesper hymn, My hand shook in the blessing and my eyes Were brimmed with tears and as I felt my knees Quiver, and a thrill went out of me like dead. The reason I awoke was this:-- I lay in my bower and heard her speak Half tenderly, as she lifted a gleaming Star-shaped flower, its leaves and bloom and scent Like her, for Love to smell; and saying this, I woke. And went to the minster: to my Joy My Life hath been, O God! The morning and the weather Made me remember her; I called her flower and gem, The child of my own heart. In vain I bade her rejoice; She called the day of our bliss My day to be. She kissed me in church; she kissed My head in bed; She kissed me ere I went to bed And made me swear that, as we met, Our kisses should be quick, And sudden and sweet and true. When to the garden of the fair I went alone, The dew was on the roses there And I kissed them where they grew And heard them make a noise, Like mermaids, in the sea of their joy. But she--she never saw the eyes That I have seen; Or, if she saw, she cared not: Her care was only for me; Her care was only for me! My passion with her was like A river flowing In a forbidden land; And it gave my soul a pleasure To go about Where the rest by turns had looked before But never seen me. And there the sacred river ran By all the gardens fair And kissed each little flower that grew: And the little flowers awoke And blushed to see me there. But they all forgot their old bashfulness, And their great curls spread out so cheerily Before the sacred river's flow, And forgot their secrets half, And their many-colour'd eyes shone out Brimful of love and mystery. The young April primrose, white and gold, Drew nearer to the sacred river's flow And climbed the neighboring mountain's side; And the wood-thrush sang all night above her, But came not near her side. I laid my hand in hers, And felt her magic cling; And as I leaned my head Against her breast, I breathed her name, And saw the wonder there. But my delight was short-lived; for straight Before mine eyes there flashed a light That showed me how the thing was wrought; And then, in blind alacrity, The power that made my delight Grew stronger, and recoiled upon My soul with woe of deluge. The gods that I had worshipped all Were empty of their grace; The flowers, the wood-thrush, the rose, The evening and the bull-fight, All had turned to evil then, Or did exist, changed and ruined: For I was not the same that I had been. And she, my wife, who had known me Whole in the olden time, Whose heart had grown to my heart's lay, And knew my mind, saw how I grew And knew my soul, how closely I came to her and to the wood And to the evening and to the bull-fight And to the evening, knew my wife. In the thicket, the bull-fight and the scene Of the festal day, Where the lengthening shadows lengthened on The green and long-leafed boughs, I saw her watching me alone, And turned to greet her, kneeling; and I knelt And kissed her lips, and drew her hands And kissed them and cried her name, And filled the night with vows and cries. In the morning I rose and saw her sleeping, And saw her dreams of me, And filled with grief and pain I found her sleeping, And knelt by her side and cried, And kissed her lips, and drew her hands, And kissed them, and sobbed and wept and wept And knelt again by her side, and knelt, And kissed her lips, and drew her hands, And kissed them, and sobbed and sobbed, and wept, And looked in vain for her voice to comfort me, For all were wakened by my foolish weeping. All day I had sat sorrowing, And sitting, day by day, Had wept, and hoped, and hungered; But at night I saw a star Gleam in the troubled sky; And I went and took my place And my place was with her there, Wherever she might happen to be. And all night long the dark-winged ravens Came about my house, And perched about my door and cried, And shrieked and screamed and clutched, And frightened my servants so That none would dare to rise, <|endoftext|> If in his father's house, who has No share in sovereignty, he should hear Such insolence from a true-born son? And though for wiles and threats he fail To win your ear, we grant him claim To wife and kingdom, and may he Henceforward rule as we dictate." "He is our sire, and he," she said, "Is old and lame, but strong of limb. A fool, if not the first, is he To flout us thus, or think to sway Our realm with threats and by his beard. Nor may I be the slave he asks, If I my pleasure would accord; But let him come to me, and I Will tend upon him, and look well To his loose joints, that he shall stand Forking up the mountain with his aid." But when the sun set, and shadows fled, She stood beside the ship to tend Upon the flax-seed, until the sun Had sought the ocean, and the hills were gone That covered night's huge palpitating tent, She turned, and o'er the sunset sea Fell like a cloak, and like a shield, And like the flower that scents the night-air dight. So from the cliffs the Maid stood seen, Till on the shore were left the ships, Then turned she to the distant wood To keep the landfills green with grain, And rear, herself, the guarded dame. And all day long the work went on With no one's aid or knowledge, And she was weary and sick at heart, And her heart bowed down with years, And her head drooped, and she was mute, And so she sat, alone, and took No care for all the hubbub round, For her heart was sick with grief. And all that day she sat and sung, Till her hoary nurse at length Ordered that she should be brought Before the King, to answer true, Or die, and be beheaded there. But she, by some strange hand, was caught Up to the walls, and gagged and bound. And no one dared to speak to her, For she, the maid of death and fear, Had slain herself, to escape the pain Of living more in man's despite, The privations of a captive's life, And the empty doubts of doubtful love. For straight the King's serjeant of war Prepared a banquet for the knights, And at the feast the war-horse served, And all the flagon's roaring brim, And trinkets to the fairy fell With silver stars and bones of kings, And beads and flowers of Persian air. And suddenly the fairy man Rose from his seat, and called aloud, "Friend, wherefore weep these faltering feet? What want ye, then, that ye so weakly leap Into the nether life? for thou must die Ere death bring tidings of the higher life." Then, faint and weak and littered o'er With hissing steam and blue and red, The little feet made answer meet, And, ere they died, the message gave What fiery-hearted girl must die. "Fairest maid of Arendelle, I Must fall in battle on the plain, Or be thy glorious savior, bring The savior of thy father's name, Thy guide and happiness by day, Thy solace by the night, thy pride, Where thou mayst walk with peace and fame, And weave thy silver hairs with them That wear the brightest tresses here. Fairest, most glorious, lowest girl! Thou hast what thou didst desire; Thy father's honor rests on thee, Thy warrior service shall be used In the vindicating of his fame; Thou shalt forget thy gentle ways, And learn to storm a city gate, Or hurl the fierce and burning flame From off a flaming chariot-wheel. The little cold heart of the Queen, The foolish, sweet, whilom gentle name, Thou hast overthrown and cast away, For thou art like the fall of towers That catches the morning star on fire, Or like the diver who leaves the shore And dives and swims the sea of life, To come and live in noble houses And win high names in history. Thou art not so fair and delicate As thou didst seem, nor so sweet and small As thou didst seem, thou fall from skies Too high for any but a king, And yet, for all thy smallness, brave And strong as is the sea-bird's wing, Or the broad-breasted soaring lark that sings. Thou art not so fair and delicate As thou didst seem, nor so sweet and small As thou didst seem, for with strong wings Thou movest like a bird, and payest A price that men forget to tell; And if thou must be beast, thou art The wolf, and all the cowardly fear Of horses hides a steely breast. Thou art not so sweet and small As thou didst seem, for thou art found In fierce and fierce-eyed creatures found, And kings have heard the tiger's cry, And shivered at his voice of terror, And fear of men has melted from thee Like frost-bound rhymes, and now thou makest The poets that have heard thee sing The terror of the world, and rend The gold and bronze of immortal lives, And bear it in thy soul to break And scatter even the stones of men. A little with one might do more Than all the peoples might do together; For each one needs one others' aid, And who for others' aid will dare With his great self? Therefore, one person Takes an oath and lives an unbeliever, And renounces prose and rhyme, and takes The name of Poet instead. O my good master, could I have But a few more years to live, I would have vows a thousand And service ten thousand For to be thy friend for ever, And be with thee a long, long time. If I could have the whole world's Good wishes for me still, I would give to God what each one Can pledge to him alone. I would give my youth, my health, My heart, my mind, my spirit, And do all that each one can To keep me glad and free As one that never knows The slightest thought of ill From the sweet heaven of my soul. The light of day doth peep From out the dawn's bright eyes; The light of night doth sink From out its still, deep eyes; The sweet, low stars in the west Still watch by grace of night Upon my way, where I retrace The path that I made clear A long, long time ago. The shadows of the night Have brought me many a birth Since God made yet my bread; But naught to me are marks But sun-rise, sun-set, And no heart-beat but from afar The heart of love doth tremble. I would make for each All better names that men Could take upon their foreheads, Or anything That I could name for them To make them sweet and dear; And lay them on God's feet And on His loving eyes To keep them there alway. I would make for each Its own symbol upon earth; The smallest stone may hold Some treasure for the heart, Or one sweet thought for the head From the love that keeps it there. I would make for each Its own symbol in the air; The smallest flower may hold Some healing for the soul, Or one sad look of sorrow From the loving sickness there. I would set for each Its own symbol in the world; The smallest tree may be A token of the heart That yearns for the remembrance Of the love that it is spoken of. I would teach for each Its own symbol in the book Of life; The smallest seed may hold Some hidden treasure there For the seeker after truth, Or one sweet touch of pain For the soul that yearns for rest. I would make for each Its own symbol on the way; The smallest star may shine A light to God alone, The smallest flower may give Its sweetness unto the earth, The smallest music be A tenderness to another. O soul, thou art but a star, Nor any thought of thine Can ever make a heart do jealous; Thy joys cannot understand Thine sorrows, for thine are none; And none care to covet more Than that each one's true, And that thy love-lorn kisses Are not all tears they afterwards can shed. Nay, rather, thou art one Whose faith in love doth teach <|endoftext|> So silent is the cot. But if the stranger be Of gentle bearing, Fit for the work that he accepts, He will be, I ween, A welcome brother, A loving friend, And, though they know not the one Who brought them comfort, Their love will not forget him. So give us bread to eat, And flesh on which to sup, And wine to drink! But let there be no strife Between us, nor anger show Between us, but in love We hover hand in hand, While that we have to do Which is before the Lord! Here in the lone and gloomy vale The yellow dogwood hides and trembles; Here, like a wind-breath, it spreads A sombre veil o'er the land; And down the hill the white clouds fly, And up the hill the swallows fly, And all the sounds of life are stilled. All the bright and animated crowds That lived in towns long since are gone; The long-abandoned church is silent, And the last smoke of the day is grey, And the hush of the valley is a spell, As it stands in the lonely vale. A deep and solemn calm is on the world; The sweet, chirp of the solitary bird, The faint, sweet hum of Autumn's greenery, Are tones that now fall from me like rain Without a touch of sadness; I have lost My own dear home. Ah! many a day I've walked here, As a boy, and now as man; I've seen its dim peace disappear, As a bubble on a pond; And I've wept, and so have you, For the change without a name. So look back, look back where we lay In this old, quiet place, And let the tears that now rise high Trickle down and soak the hat That we shall never see again. In this old, quiet place Let us lock eyes, as children do, And let our hands, tenderly, Gently touch and go down both sides To find the long-lost goodness there. For this old, quiet place Is like a strange, sweet dream, Where joy and sorrow kiss and meet, Where life is ever at rest, And love is all the word is. Here the wind has broken through The long, white curtains in, And with rough, salty Autumn airs Wakens the land that smiled Ere yet the leaves were golden-yellow. The ivy in the garden runs Up and down in a wild glee, And the old, old flag-pole rises Above the graves, where green and brown Wave opposite in the breeze. And it swings from the old oak tree With a great cry of triumph, As the light wind flies above, And then falls at my feet, Blown, blown between two cedars gray. The light wind blows on the sea, And he blows on this small face, And with a passion sweet and strange He blows on her as he feels The great heart within him swell, And he grows so dear to me, The light winds blow on the sea, And he blows on the sand that she Lay so long asleep; and the sand Becomes a sea-beast in the mirth That torments him within him dwells. Now that the light winds blow And the sea is free To roam and play, Dear, dainty little waves, That never think Of rocking the little boat, We two shall see A bliss more deep Than ever wave begged of thee. Oh, friend that hast been a day In this city of mirth, Before I send thee hence, I know not which way thou art, But where the dawn shall wake The morning of my soul. I have known sorrow since my birth, I have grown weary in my youth, I too have wept, but never I Have wept with such unceasing pain As I now weep for thee, sweet. With love as with a fire at the core My heart is filled to the very brim, I cannot hold back the tears. They sting like arrows in my heart, The rain-drops from the trees above, The wind upon my face, the sky That looks without with ceaseless fear. Oh, friend that hast been a day in this City of mirth, If thou shouldst call upon me now, Before thou com'st to thy bed I will arise and let thee know How dear thou art unto me. For this I have had pity upon thee, For this I love thee, and for all, But most of all for those who need thee, Of voice and hand to make them well, That make no jest of their need. And when the day has gone and night is over, I know not how it is, But I have heard, in the stilly night, Sweet laughter ringing clear, Like a great bell from the castle wafted To tower aloof upon the sea. I know not how it is, but the world Has such a charm for me, That I find myself laughing loud and glad, Without remorse or pity. For, if it should befall me the way Thou hast known it, I know not where I should not feel myself a king. Oh, friend that hast been a day in this City of joy, Before thou comest to the land of sleep, Tell me if aught has happened there, Of aught like to this, That would make the old time good to me. I would watch when the moon went down, And the stars came out one by one; And I would watch as they wheeled about, Till I thought they would never stay, Till I thought my joys were gone for aye, And that I should wish they were. I would watch when the sun went up, And I would watch as it rose too bright, Till I thought it would scorch my cheeks all white, And I would wish that it might fade away As it had come. I would wish the night as long as night would wait, And I would wish that the stars would climb up high And lodge in my eyes as they have never been, And I would wish that the night would stay. I would wish that the day were never long, For I would wish that it might be day still, And I would wish that the earth and the sky Would laugh and be glad all the day long. Oh, friend that hast been a day in this City of mirth, Before thou comest to the land of sleep, Tell me if aught has happened there Of aught like to this. I would watch when the moon went down, And the stars came out one by one; And I would watch as they wheeled about, Till I thought they would never stay, Till I thought my joys were gone for aye, And that I should wish they were. I would wish that the night were long, For I would wish that the sun should stay, Till the bird have fin'formed its bed, And I should wish it were. I would wish the night as long as night would wait, And I would wish that the stars would climb up high And lodge in my eyes as they have never been, And I would wish that the night would stay. He that loveth a flower of any kind May get it when he will; He that loves a leaf of any kind May get it when he will. He that loveth a flower of any kind May get it when he will; He that loves a leaf of any kind May get it when he will. I knew a man upon an island little, A little island much the larger, Which fishermen did often frequence For fuel and boughs of dubious use. I used to walk abroad with him at night, When the moon was full, And the music of the sea did sound sweet to us, For not a crag was near. He that loveth a flower of any kind May get it when he will; He that loves a leaf of any kind May get it when he will. The sea, with waves high marching to the land, Did thunder with foaming wings to scare it; And the wind did shake its bells of silver And the sea's own drumming to death. But the little island, beneath the storm, Did dance and sing. He that loveth a flower of any kind May get it when he will; He that loves a leaf of any kind May get it when he will. The flower that bends its head at last in sleep May grow to love the moon for lightness; <|endoftext|> Where God dwells--thou shall find In sleep a balm, in death a crown. When your soul is crownless, And my soul is weary, Child, as in the day of drought I've drawn my very noblest wine, To find a friend to love me-- There shall a friend appear, And keep his door of hope Solely for me, and me. As silent, for your sake, As dew upon a flower Or moonlight over water, I'll come to find you Out of the land of dreams, Where all is wonder now, To the land of light. My soul would be that I might reach thee On the far shores of Eternity; And if my reach should be so wide As every star and every cloud, I would make every lake and plain As clear as thine eyes are dim, And if my power should reach as high As thine Eminence knows-- A world for two to live in, Where man and God were brothers-- No jealous god with iron russet To vex or hate us--nor a star To vex with glaring--nor a mist To darken,--nor tempest-winds wild To chafe--nor waves that foam--nor storms That rage with sound--nor skies that show Dull stars--nor witches with their hex To doom us--nor anything. I'll have a world of lacquers For the sad, strong limbed and gaunt, Where man has room to wiggle, And God has room to grow and gain, And neither shrinks too far from man, Nor seems too near. A world where the blind, the lame, the halt, The blind and the halt, the lame, the blind, May seek their peace with the Savior's plan, And neither priests nor rulers shirk To make life's cross their brow of gold; Where the scorned and forsaken may Come to their God and find the world. A world where there are no tight-ruled sheep, Where all have one master and worshipper, Where the meek one leader, not a chief, May all personal pray to--not he! Where a man's worth is nothing when he stands In the light, without a spear or sword, But all in a man's strength may be shown. I'd like to see it, aye! I'd like to see it, The world as it should be, not as it is; A place where are no lordlings, no spit on grass, But all men free to act and think as they please; Where all may walk without a leader clad In any sort of skin he likes to wear, Where some are dumb and some speak and some sleep, And all have room to wander and play. I'd like to see it, aye! I'd like to see it, Where all may wander and be they who they will, And each may find his happy Eden there, Unscathed by the wickednesses and lies Of blood and plunder and tyranny. Where all may worship as their heart may beseem, Nor check their love of beauty and of truth Because of some past or remote desire. There are two doors through which men have passed, Through which have passed, all men, the ideal types And gleams of beauty from the past and present, Men have passed to the other door, and now stand With a great company in a line heaped Of huddled people and the past they knew In human likeness; silent, hearing and motionless. But one man stands apart with a troubled look, As one who sees a ghost, or feels a terror near. And I see that they are listening to the words Of one man speaking,--"The wind that blows Over the parka-covered back of mine Is in the wheel forever. It blows where it will, And where it will it keeps and won't let me rest. And I dare not sleep an old sleep in my bed If I think to myself that the wind might be A lying dream. So, I will take the stone And throw it up and up forever and ever, And the old dream will go and I'll be free and free, And I'll go and throw up the stone and keep on throwing." There are two doors through which men have passed From the narrow shore of earth to the rim of heaven, Two doors of trials and two of doubts, Two doors of strange weather and new stars, Where men have come and gone and left no trace, But men still know that they were men who passed Through the doors of night that were the doors of heaven. I know that it's night because the whippoorwill Sobbed with pain in the grave of the mountains Is calling with the voice of one who dies, And the voices of men have gone up and down The spruce and the timber in the valley In moody content, content that will not end, Mumbling to itself in the rhythm of sorrow. I know that it's night because the horsefly Mumbles its answer as the dead bury their friend, That the gibbous moon rises in the sky And no moon is shining in the valley where Men have been as the pasties in the dew When the world grew old and the gods no longer smiled. And the lips of the dead have a grave-guest, Who smiles and asks if they are men or women And the lips of the living whisper no, And the eyes of the living are deep and sad As they gaze upon the stars in the valley, Deep and sad as the eyes of the dead. The horses are lying on the leaches With closed eyes that know not of the sun; They are waiting for the dawn at the crossroads And the dawn comes hungrily on horseback That is always, always, always hungry, Always, always dutiful and lonely, Always, always yearning for a rider, Always, always longing for a chance. The horses are sleeping in the bush by the river With eyes shut and ears open that know not of the moon; They are waiting for the day that is to be, The day that is to come when the men have gone And the men have gone in the shrouds of the wind, And the dead ride in the shadows of the trees By the side of the road where the dead have never been. The sun swings from the clouds to the earth And the earth swings back from the clouds in the sun; The birds sing hymns of the summer in the spring And the bees hum, "Where are you, Master, where are you?" In the wind's voice the days go racing by; The nights creep slowly to cover them over With a veil of black o'er the gold of the earth. I've said it might never have been done, But here I am, at last, at last, at last, At last I stand before you--at last, at last! You have studied for five-and-twenty years, You have sacrificed your prime and your youth, You have given your blood and your life for the dream, You have walked in the blood of the world's heart, You have faced the worst and you've borne the best. You have stood firm and you have smiled and you have borne And now you are here at last at last, at last! You have come through the pain of the past To be here at last at last at last, At last at last, at last at last, At last, at last, at last, at last! You have given the past your heart and your hand, And the years have trembled and trembled if ever You doubted the world was all the world, And you trembled and smiled at their doubt and their doubt, And you smiled and you bore. You have fought and you have borne and you have faced For the crown of your soul, and you have smiled When the great world laughed at your dream and your pain; And now you are here at last at last, at last! You have seen the crown of your soul at last! There is no joy in the world like the joy of that, There is no bliss on the earth like the bliss, There is no star like the star at the core of the sky That shines for you and for me. There is the silence between the lines, There is the blank in the verse, There is the soul of a tale that is told, And the breath of a world unborn. There is the world of the story that is read, And the years that have crept into it. And the silence in the spirit of a man And the doubt in the strength of a song. When I go back to Boston and hike along The Springer, I see the road and the slight green slope That I used to touch when I was in New York And wonder how he got from there to here. <|endoftext|> Not merely a jest, but a fact, The Chinese people pay no yearly visit, The housemaids are hired from Europe; No King of Tongs is allowed to fall, And the time for tea is limited to three hours. Tamburlaine! who, with Jove, your country's deities, At your cool blood-cemented coves did dwell, Now an old man, with wrinkled, white, and wrinkled, And wrinkled cheeks, and temples like a pine, Sleeps on the cold earth--but ah, poor old man, Think of your youth! Your six long years of passion! Your double double kiss; and all that sweet love Of passionate words and cherishing dear ones; Your eighteen years of domestic strife, When, like a Hazel-nut in the berry-tree, You chanced to break the graceful blossom-wings And spill your blushes on the white linen Of your lord's great uncle, Duke Constance Philip! There's one King still to be kissed by every one, And kiss him he will, if he can be made To feel the holy impulse of the thing, And all the radiant force of soulborn faith, And all the glorious blessings of the prayer; And he will knead and shake the Bible's holy leaves And make him safe by taking Christ's form beneath. This is the letter she wrote on her going away: My dearest Aunt! may'st thou never forget me! I know that thou think'st all things well-nigh as good As e'er thy tables did, and e'en thy fires, But think the poor outcast less of him for whom They smile, or the dark thoughts that rob him of rest. A thousand wish for me at Vespasian's feet, My poor rich uncle in Giles-dewdley gray. If you can think so, God bless you and well think. I leave a letter here for my aunt, And one with a note for my uncle Giles-dewlay. Poor little son, she said, that it is The time to think of our marriage then; We shall all be one--and one like me; And then my poor child, thy soul shall be Full of blessing and of peace then. But while I am talking, my son, And while I am writing this note, I but mean to say, my son, In all my ways that I may please thee. The rain had ceased, but like so soon, And the sun rose as cool and chill As the ill-tempered winter's ill That tries the peace of little things, And rattled the window, and awoke The sleep that half denied him sleep. Now who should come, with step composed And steps more quiet, dashing light Over the garden walls, as who Flashes the light from a sword at rest In the gloom of some summer wood, But little Kate. She came so soft And sweet, it seemed, as if she went Almost at nightfall, with the sigh And the blush, and the fold of the skirt, And the bend of the garments half bent, Half thrown aside, that she had stolen Towards the garden for some repose. And, oh! how she smiled! It was as if Some fair sister of the flower-bells, The peonies, and the tomatoes, Had come to bless us with her smile, And bless us with her gentle good will, And make all our days happier and glad. She passed against the pale door-curve, Passed in among the dusty violets, Passed up the arch of the white door-bar, And down the retreat, all green and bright With daffodils, the grass vined, and hedged, Down to the meadow's edge, and in The furrows of the hay-field sleeping. She passed against the door-curve still, Passed at the turn, beyond the green turn, Passed up the yellow foot-way, then Past the red wooden railing of the wall, Past the white door, against the window-pane, Past all the summer houses of the village, To where, with a golden heart for defiance, By the bank of the meadow-side she sat. "Shall I strike him?"--And she smiled at him With her young, loving, golden eyes. "He shall not suffer death until he loves And desires me no longer." Said little Kate, As she looked up at her mother. "He who would yield and must be killed For that, shall never desire me more. And if I must love, I'll do so only If he, when he is risen, deny me no more." "Ay, ay," said the mother. "I shall comfort you," said the mother. "When I shall die, shall I wish for life Because I suffer death?" she smiled at her son. "No, I shall sleep, and see the light of the morning When he shall deny me no more." Said little Kate, "And I shall comfort you." And she turned to her mother, And murmured, while her little bosom stirred, "He shall never suffer death until he loves, And desires me no longer." Out of the faint blue morning On their flitting ships, The grey birds, gay of eye and of feather, Fly to the blue home. There is joy on the blue home, The gay, quick joy of wings, To the blue home they all cling. The sun of the autumn, The splendour of silver, The light of the smiling air, Glows on the waving trees, And glows on the warning boughs And warning spray. It flings a golden ray To warn the birds of winter, But they flock to bask them, And clamber up again, When the storm is over, And clang, and crash, and rattle clanging, In a still grey air. They gambol on the warning boughs And show their brightest plumes And catch the grey-winged sun in their mouths And pant for warmth as they rave In a soundless wind and a still grey air, Till night, when the cold grey plumes Shall strow the night away. There is song in the air, A stormy rose, a lark is singing His pretty song of spring; And he sings the mirth of summer To woo the spring-time back again, But no time is come for the spring yet. We are young, we are young, There's much of joy in the air, And youth's a beauty. Light the antlers with fire, Let the red of the fox flash Between the trees. We are young, we are young, There's much of joy in the air, And life is short. Strike a torch in a maiden's Lace-deep red hair; Let her face it joyously, Let her fill it. We are young, we are young, There's much of joy in the air, And life is short. Let the old life go, There's time for youth yet. When the spring is near, We will drive it home. We are young, we are young, There's much of joy in the air, And life is short. With hands of wonder Let us dream a dream of the time When the spring is near; When the flowers of the earth shall stir, And the world laugh and sing. To a stormy river, O'er a forest wild and woful, At break of day to a ruinous mound, In rain and in sun and wind and blast, To sad and distant tombs that hold the dead. We wander mute--we stand mute-- We watch the tombs from a clouded sky. Lo, from a height, like a jewel flashing, Or sunlight on a sick man's eyelid, From a heaven where all suns have gone out, A single sun rolls down! The rain beats loud; the wind is cold; In vain the dust is blown; The empty spaces loom; the dead Move out of the dust and chill the air! What moves in the void? Nothing! but it seems as if All space were stretching and pressing Full upon the moving sun! And he, unknown, surpasses his bounds, Flounders and trembles as a distraught Dreaming thing. There is not a shape in the sky, Not one weird in the glimmering night, Not one shape of doubt or joy In the blue, blue void! He is shod with speed, Shod with fire, and brought to the place Whose winds are the winds of the sky; Where the gray trees whistle and sigh, And the blackbirds scream and cease. <|endoftext|> I feel like crying, but I don't, because All the night is a long metaphor for life. Is the moon as perfect as she seems? Do the stars drift slowly like drops of rain When we go to bed each night? <|endoftext|> "from Needful Things, “Blazing Stars”", by Maya Angelou [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] blazing star one two three four five six seven eight nine ten 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 <|endoftext|> "Cant", by Karl Shapiro [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The word cant is used to mean: a term of scorn a term of indifference a term of simple a term of passivity a term of decline a term of duress a term of decay a very stale and small dead insect a misused word a rattling postcard a worthless dime a desecrating bible a fitful uneagerness a blind for what is known a paralyzing vacillation an unrequited love a cawing that is not for the bird a rapping that is not for the hand a thirst that is lost a half-dream of the broken a mocking phrase a panicked phrase a dead letter from a love that fails a slangy phrase a winking phrase a term of abuse a phrase of silver <|endoftext|> "The Turning Tree", by Carl Rakosi [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The artist stands in the rain in a natural wood surrounded by trees He works at his easel with acrylic, watercolors, colors that resemble those of real tropical plants and his brushstrokes are vague and indistinct a haze of fog he hangs in He moves to a lower easel to survey his subjects they are of the type that can grow in southern climates some types of pine the spreading eucalyptus and some unpressured juniper suddenly change their expression as the rain falls suddenly on their leaves and their forms transfigure transcend transfix transpose transfigure again transpose he moves to the easel again surveys his subjects but they are not the same as before he put them there so that the tree turns underneath his feet a veritable transformation occurs and at the easel the tree begins to grow grows through his frame and at the wood's edge a stump of a tree shoots out rapidly and grows higher into the sky in which a sudden ray of light from the upper wood transfigures the trees that on the ground were deformed and was Rae's conception that in his mind was the tree's identity it was in his mind that all trees were Rae's trees <|endoftext|> "Passing Over", by Karl Rakosi [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Mind, Time & Brevity] You, my friend, who once was fair and sweet you, with your sweet smile, your golden hair, I who was dark and cruel, I who was vain and jealous, now healed and whole, I remain inhabitant of this world once more, and I am wandering, day by day, where I was wandering before. I do not miss the moonlight, the flowers, or the breeze riding over the meadows that your departure blew suddenly from the skies into my heart, and I do not miss your presence on the threshold of my door. If I have not yet gotten over my cruel jealousy, it is not for lack of longing for you in the last weeks and months of our earthly trip, nor do I regret having met you in the last moments of our earthly trip, nor do I lack devotion to you having lived with you, nor do I regret the beauty of your presence in the last moments of our earthly trip. As long as there are mortal passengers, I will not become overly cynical, but with regard to the passenger it is not the product but the manufacture that makes the car pleasant or unpractised. <|endoftext|> "The Simple Life", by Emma Lazarus [Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] Oh, you who from the shaded paths of efficiency In olden days was wont to cull at will The points of virtue, whom the Fairies grate on With persistent berries, kindly nurture For such, the simple life to raise the wise And pure fruits of virtue, the faces of the Reasonable, the true sublime, The land of labor and the land of play, Where laughing Mountains mix with valleys cool, And dimples light with frills of sunshine gleam; Where light shadow echoes, and light smile Hang on the sweet lips, all day, of each other; Where silences speak, where beauty speaks, The language of high miracles; Where Heaven and Earth, and Hell are found As suddenly by day as suddenly By night, and Time, with rosy fingers, Touches the earth with passing melodies; Where petty jails open wide, And, lo! in the ruins of the City Where, from the breath of talkative men, And murmuring words, alone, the maddening wine Of discourse, the noise of play, was spent, Where, from the wine of talk, and noise, arose The sacred fire of discussion, love, Poured out the quarrel of the fair; Where the great genius of the land Stood single, perfect in his beauty, And looked upon the many imperfectly, And, with a smile upon the colorless face Of half the tenants of the earth, Laid silent and stern the simple truth That he, the great Genius of the land, Had brought to light through years of laborious woe, And, with his wisdom, bravely stood Where, on the winds of the Orient, He blew the spheres of day and night From the white foam of his soul's desire Into the world of his making; Where he smote the bands of custom, Bore away the fetters of science, Cast all the chains of gray oppression As if they were worthless as a rag, And sent the Free forever onward, As a beacon-light unto free men, To light the path that led ever nearer To freedom and the Golden Rule, To Truth and equity and Freedom's holy word, Which he, the night and Morning, and the day, Had heard as dreams within the soul's stronghold Till he had come and found them empty, Seeing that all the dreams were wrong, Being of the things that are not, And the dreams of men are dim and vain, Beating his breast and beating his soul Till, by the strength of his soul, He can sound and echo and sing The wondrous things that he has seen; And, through the wonders he has heard and seen, His faith grows strong in the divinity Of Man's great Creator, Who hath made The earth and the heavens and the waters, And will use a people when they need a champion, And nobly still a slayer will fight, Though he be sorely pressed, And still a hero will emerge, Though he fall, if he is honest and true. <|endoftext|> Myrrha had borne a noble pugilist In days ere thought made our fleshly eyes Glow like the stars in space; The bleaching blood and fast times that crowned his hopes Seemed from the skies. But when his strength was spent and he lay sick, And all the labors of his hands were o'er, Losing the skill that made his labor brilliant And growing old; It seemed that Eyes that had not cried with him Were never born. Then, at a door, that opens to the East, He met his child, the daughter of a merchant, And she was fair. Yet though she smiled, he felt a cold fear Upon the very breath she drew, And soon the old man's heart was cold. But when he learned that she was his only child, And had been long under ground, How could his heart be glad, Or how his cheeks be red? "O God!" he cried, "that I were dead, Or rich, and honored with the good that's dear, That I might see my child go free To those that hate her, and behold once more The hateful ones that used to seize her, <|endoftext|> For the kindly earth that bore her bloom. "She, or thy gods, it may be, hast sent Herself to greet us,"--thus cried she, "With her, one and all, her thoughts, her love. I can not choose but smile to meet "The living Sun of Minerva's birth." "And if she had sent but one of us, One hand unseen, to bear the message here, 'Rise and enter at this painted door? 'Tis not for us to deny the plea, But if she sent but one of us to come 'Twere presumptious thing, would she should send "Our shadow to our help, to bear this message?" "And if she sent but one of us to come "And bring the needed light, would she should send "Not even the shadow of a man to bring "The message, to the world she would include "All that was veiled to her with the bower-roof, "And bid the great world look in that one part?" "If she sent but one of us to bring the light, "And every man on earth were as thy grain, "And if the gathering of the world's light brought "No joy, nor brought no heartbreak, nor pain, "And every joy brought no breaking heartbreak, "Then for a moment might I indeed live, "And for an hour forget the ways of God. "But for the ways of God, if they be dark, "And I so little know them as to know "The shadow of a woman's foot to be "The likeness of darkness to my fainting soul, "Then, that to me were dark, must I die, "And in the dead shall live." So as they sat within the painted hall, Gazing, glancing each at other, each Knowing the other knew the other's thought, And all were silent with the still surprise Of morning on the mirror overhead; And only for a moment seemed they afraid Lest all of heaven should seem to gaze on them, And in the hall they must appear as dead, And then be whirled, and vanish, one by one, Like motes in the water as they passed. And still the hour advanced, and still The painted walls unrolled their wonder, And now the painted door stood open wide, And a bare-footed boy came through it And caught the gleaming of the boots, And smiled and gave the gleaming of the boy A kisses of sweet grace that lit his face, And drew the ebony of his eyebrows near And made his eyes of pearl gleam-like bright, And on his little lips of unpainted white A rainbow-like lustre burst like sunshine. And through the hall the boy, bare-footed, went, And down the hall a long-legged woman came, And from her rose-cheeked and lovely head A dusky lustre threw a twilight glow, And o'er her slim body glowed a silk That seemed the sheen of satin unseen, And as she came the wonder of the hall Burst, and, glancing like a lady's nightdress, Rained all its glory on her stepdaughter's face. "I have brought you the sunlight of the sun, "And in the morning you shall come and tread "Among the white things that were so dumb "In the dead hour when he hung his harp in air. "And all the musing things of childhood's dream "Shall stir and talk in tones you know, and sing, "And in the sunshine of the morning come "You shall feel your way with us in the sun, "And not be lonely anymore, for we are dead." And all the wonder of the hall was gone, And the bare-footed boy was standing there As in a dream, and the painted doors hung slow In the unreal air, and all the painted walls Lay gray as ashes, and the wonder ceased. And in the empty hall stood one who bore No sunshine in his heart, no joy in his eyes, And only the pain of not having gained The unattainable, and this was his. And from that day the wonder in his soul Became a wonder like the grief he had, And he hung over it day and night and searched The songs of poets for a theme to weep With, and he sought the talk of the curious, And lurked in places where talk was not, And watched the things he could not understand, And mocked the things he could not know, and waited In a white agony for some immortal Brightening through the distances of the air, And waiting for the sun to break through The roof of time and tell him it was spring. And in the day the wonder was not yet gone, But in his mind it were a thing to be, And with the day's return the wonder came And stayed with him, and with him till the night Left it in a silence, and the next day It passed from his memory, and no more Did he see it, and no more did he seek To speak with his lost joy, but evermore His eyes were blind to all the beauty round That lay upon the hills, the talk of men, The whiteness of the days, the beauty of skies That kept their colors longer than he could count, And he grew old and sank into himself, And he forgot the joy in being alive, And all the beautiful things that he had known. And after this he went to other wars, To other tasks, and in the bitterness Of them all he lost the little pride That he had had in his former life, And when the night was coming on and he lay In the cold blood that inside him like a guest, And his last struggle was but beginning, Then he had but one thought, "I am not this, "But they are dead, they are dead, they are dead." And he wept alone in the dark. Weep not as he wept, O Muse, that still You might his sad heart with delight! For in the sad eyes that long had been blind A little light was shining still. For see, he has a child, O ye peoples, A little child, that was his delight. And he made of that child an angel, And he dressed her in the raiment of God, And he clothed her with the wisdom of light, And he crowned her with the celestial crown, And he placed her in the highest seats, And he gave her authority, and strength, And wisdom for to rule, and she sits In heavenly places judging men; And her calm, clear eye gives judgement first, And then only slowly learns to feel, But her swift, deadly hand is just To strike the guilty dead, and she saith Woe to the guilty, and saith no more. And thus she rules, and she alone, So prophesy, O Star! that also Thou with thy young child didst confer The celestial thunders on; So prophesy, O Child! to her Thou hast the love of this Eternal Father, And she has the love of thee. But in the day and hour of her judgment, And in that day and hour of her judgment She shall rejoice, and shall rejoice and sing; For she then hath spoken with her Master, And she then shall take her stand upon it, Upon the stone where all shall place their hope; And then she shall rejoice, and shall rejoice and sing. They shall bring unto her many bruised breasts, And they shall bring unto her many broken hearts, And they shall bring unto her sins from many sides, And they shall bring unto her the repentant's love; And they shall bring unto her the sinners' blood, And they shall bring her in the still of night the cry. O, little maid, O broken heart of mine, Mine other heart, I once did love so well, Mine other heart, I once did love so true, O give me back, give me back my heart again! It was not broken for thee, for thee; It was not broken for anything, for thee; But O, I am here, I am alive, I live, And thou art only that from me thou wilt take That thou may'st leave me not; and I am sure That thou, if thou wouldst, could'st mend my heart again. Be sure of this, that every morning I shall wake, And every morning I shall open mine eyes, And every morning I shall smile upon my face, And every morning I shall know that thou wast true, And every morning I shall smile at thy sight. O sweet sleep, be sweet, and dwell upon my breast, And sleep, my child, sleep, my child, for thou art mine, And none shall tell the housewife that I slept alone. The wide world spreads out her sleeping array, <|endoftext|> Who by the dead body of his son Approaching near his house, finds him laid, Dead from a wound received in the fight. But first, my lord, I hope he may be spared To come and fight with men in desperate straits Where noble lives are endangered, yet We, the weak, may have the strength of mind To struggle for the good of all men here. Then one may stand and triumph, and a second Be avenged in shameful slaughter; for men Want heroic souls, yet few to give them. And if they had, not all the folk of Troy Would be so merciless, nor the Greeks Be so rebellious. Yea, the Gods willed This strife, so that this hand should vanquish this. 'Tis not for all the Danaans to contend, Nor yet for all the Trojans, or for all The Grecians. Was this your fate, ye dauntless Three? Then ye have met the fate which all men fear. For should ye meet the will of Jove and Juno, Then even should I join battle for you, Since they contend for the love of Helen, Since she is the cause of war; for her Jove Black-hammered is, and Juno's rage is swift. Then let us to the ships; this fatal night Will I consume, till Troy be yet again Builded over by the sea, a dwelling place For warriors. Here let us abide; let us die Breathing our foes, or losing each our life, And I among the foremost. My aim, sir, Is well. Brave men should dare the threatening fray For friends, nor fly calamity when met.' So spake Agamemnon, and full oft His cup at every hand he emptied deep. While banqueted there he fed his heart on cries Of city-walls falling, and the trumpets Proclaimed who was there. And at the last he turned To Nestor, and his word and anxious words To goodly Nestor speedily he uttered. And noble Nestor, rich in wisdom's lore, The holy banquet kindly shared for dues With Agamemnon, nor withholds his hand From travellers who are griev'd by injury done. Atrides, then, his horsemen seize, and leads The way that leads to Nestor's sacred roof. But when they reached the royal bower, they found The goodly king sleeping, laid his comforter Around him, and his fragrant gifts, and vests Worn for the head of comforter, which he wore Because of journeying youths and young men, laid By him unopen'd. He, therefore, sleep dewless, Had not o'ertaken, but his brother spread With soft coverlet and goodly vest, On his thick hair and beard. Then, they bore in mind His ancient shouldering toil and the toils Of war. Beside him, noble Nestor lay Dreaming, as a man wak'd from sleep and troubled. A serpent velvet-wing'd this vision made, In which himself he seem'd to see; yet none Of the blessed Gods he deem'd, but Jove alone. So, setting both his hands upon his head Like a brave man, he gaz'd on high; and now Ulysses standing nigh, his soul did rend With anguish and with sorrow, seeing him In sleep consumed withal, spoke as follows The eldest of the Bless'd, the son of Jove: 'Forth from your lodge, O King, I bid you rise. Now, when the Trojans to the city came, My horses' feet bore me close behind them all. I would myself had dragg'd them from their master, Seeing how gladly he did afterwards Allow me to return, himself, to the ships. But I was bade to leave them behind me here In charge of the horsemen; they, at least, Shall now bear all my burden on their backs. But when you next look on your heroic son In bed upon his couch, and see how tender His little baby-face, then will I wend And sit beside him, and, distracting him With all the dainties that around us hang, Will tell him all; and he shall 'scape the pangs Of now his seventeenth winter's travel.' He said, and, like a mastiff, pawing first His own heart, be cruel to himself And to his infant. And even yet, I judge, Ulysses slept not with the nymphs of Trojans, But with the fair Pantas, the daughter Of Melanthius, as his constant order was. But when, at length, the sun was no more Appear'd, but dwindled down to a man's size, He, rising on his feet, seized both the kine In the vale, and fill'd three of the cattle's heads With meat, then smooth'd their chins, and with a bull's Another piece, and with an undressed goat's The fourth, and in the center left a part, And stood apart; whence, calling aloud, 'Horses! Take, horses! food; since, at last, our home Departs, we shall not arrive ere dark,' he stood Exclaiming. Then, the horses feeding, each from his own Went round a young bullock, the mangled member First of the children, then a ram, and then a steer All black and burning with a red and prurient flame. And now, at last, they came to Ithaca, The haven of Meliboea, city of the Gods, Pylian in form, and large and splendid. Scarce had they sacrificed the bulls and rams (The best they could) when, all around them rustling, The mountain-wind boisterous rose up, and the mists Roll'd down in fleeces wet with bull's-hide. Then, all His plaited vests withdrawn, and with the speck Of a white bird on his head, Ulysses went Leading his hounds, and soon they sound the flint, And lay the animals. But Ulysses, first, Firm in his pace the carcass between his knees Pressed close, and, turning short about, the bones Gave to his dogs; and they, rejoicing, gave To the happy man the meat, which heavy at last Fell on his lap, filling his hands full. Then, For good especial, the swine-herd brought A pie, with figs also heap'd on tables. Ulysses, now, and Antinous, began The feast, who shook his tambour's rudder first In the chilling air, then, landing on the lees Of the sea, plunged in. He, with a mickle scorn, Anxiously forebore his wonted suit Of fleecy sheep to hold, and on the beach Call'd loudly to the swine-herd, and bade him seize His finest bull's-hide, and with it bestrew The shore and inlets. Thus they for some days Stray'd on the beach, till Jove to his abode Of clouds had laid Ulysses, and beneath Of pine-trees Faunus sat, calling the cattle home, Who, impatient for their coming, through the streets Call'd loud to each. But, like a river, Jove Came from a distant part of the pitchy earth, and, Withdrew his favour. Then Antinous answer'd loud, 'Wretch, whither wends thy disorderly flight? And why this long way from thy own country draw? And are not all thy suitors home at home? Then,--nor forsake me,--this host of my Return'd, might king or lesser deity shield.' To whom Ulysses, ever-wise, replied, 'Hard-favour'd, and at a distance, wilt thou Escape me? But thy own sire I shall still Withhold from thee, and from thy land defend. We know his son, and mark well his size, And force, and valour, and the many gifts That mark his line, and know him destined yet Soon to be a great captain o'er thy host. Then haste;--but, as now, thy sloth shall wait.' He said, and, puffing with a brazen face, Than which the air was limp with thin alloy, Sprang from the tent, and filled with fire, like one That climbs the tow'r of Sol to light the dead. Then thus Penelope the queen address'd: 'O, no more ignoble mariners are those From that ignoble sea, who go to shore Here, and drink up my songs! but war-like men, Who swell with madness, and have women traffick'd <|endoftext|> of camels he might save from the fight, says the hostess of the tribe of Amir, as I tell her our words in the darkness. Then the king's daughter, Jukka, nodded her head in sorrow and answered: "It will not be so easy for us, O wife of Ilmarinen, to break the magic circle of his birch-canoe from the river of Tuoni, to cross the great Spirit's River, from whose mouth there flows a canal, a swift-flowing canal, a canal with bridges arched over, to the island forest-covered, to the shade of oak and alder. "Dear hostess of the village, does not go to the vetch or vlerbo-mash, does not pull the yarn in thy vineyard, does not bend the steel in thy smithy, does not turn the wheel at thy engine, does not plough the field in thy fallow, does not lift the sail on thy nether-raft, does not turn the seed-sack in thy sow. Thou still wilt work in thine own room, will still turn the soil in thine own fields; thou wilt sleep, and I must be called in the hush of the midnight hour, in the clamor of the midnight storm-bell. "Ilmarinen, skilful blacksmith, makes his dwelling in the stone mountain, does not live in tents or in caravans, does not keep horses on thy broad estate; cheerful is thy household, O Ilmarinen, long the days, and sweet the nights, homes well-furnished, warm the beds, clean is the floors and the bed-benches; thy servant does not urge thee to drink the beer of domestic Bier, does not lead thee out to die by the hand of thee cruelier, does not lead thee to destruction, to the drink-offering of Egyptians, nor to the ladle-drinking Gygtins. Thou still wilt work in thine own room, will still turn the soil in thine own fields; thou wilt sleep, and I must be called in the hush of the midnight hour, in the clamor of the midnight storm-bell. "Wherefore then art thou in trouble, ill-fated Ilmarinen, artist? There has he fallen, poor creature, from the sky into the clay-ploughed field, never to rise from this, never to regain his former fortune; hard is the work in forging, very fatiguing is the blacksmith's labor, costly is the goldsmith's hammer, uniform is the hero's garment, expensive the sword-blade desired most, hard to draw, and burdensome the iron, hard to work, and costly the bestowal on the victim that is killed in battle, loyal is the drink to those who imbibe it, flowing from the emptied cup to those who drink, though the one drink will bring no honor, to the slave is hard the second befitting, hard for cattle the cattle' labor deserving, hard for asses the o'er-greasing of farms, hard to sort the corn, the barley precious, the task hard of wood to fell the trees, hard for herds the herdsman's labor saving, hard for bows the bowsman's skill displaying, hard for merchants to buy and sell, the labor heavy for everyone carrying merchandise, the labor light in comparison with others'. "Ilmarinen, artist-forgeman, musters all his people at my huntservise; I lay down the loads on either shoulder, and begin my journey to the pit of battlefields, my head bare, as I journey from coast to coast, and I proceed none too rapidly home; when I get to the very bottom of Pohyola. "Then was music in the air, music as of glaciers melting in winter, melting did the mountains glimmer goldenly; a-kindling everywhere great fires, unburnt the villages flowed like a river, like a flood from coal-black waters, water transformed into money, gold into silver, silver money paying, paying for vessels full of tasty vikingne, beer for warriors, strong drink for others. Vikingne, beer unworthy in the best of hands, worthless to those who drink it weakly, to those who imbibe it shall they not pay vengeance, shall not give their hands an omen? O thou ancient Wainamoinen, thou the wise and daring enchanter, didst thou see an enemy in thy journey? Do thou see a bird of prey in the forest, rabid and wary like a tittiller of woodlands? Does he frighten thee, wisest of men, make thy nerves tremble and thy body tingle, make thee shudder as at being visited by evil spirits, lead thee to partake of evil altogether, join against thee with the powers of evil, attend thou now to our cups of tea, ourship is anchored in today, and the tea is in the pot blessing Midsummer, and the beer in the bucket of barley, and the wine in the earthen vessel trapping, drink thou now in the bowl of honeyed ale, and depart from our wigwam in the forest, leaving good ale for the gods of heaven." Wainamoinen, the magician, and the ancient Wainamoinen set forth upon their journey, wend their way to the city of Kalma, to the castles of Pohyola, and the castles of Louhi, the daughter. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, has no time to drink the worthy beer from the large beaker of honeyed ale, and he must hasten to his journey, haste to see his friends in Pohyola, visit his ancient home and mother. Wainamoinen, born from piercing of vipers, through the poisonous seeds of adder, carries hops in his shoes of sandals, and a copper goad in his hand. He is very proud, wishing to place himself at the head of the musicians, and to wear the silver sword cutting music, but must first take the cup-bearer's part, drink from the bowl as bard and hero, wash with water the fine barley, bind the new gathered grain together, feed upon the fair fields of the mother, and make the father pay for his family, pay a hundred lambs, two score goats, one hundred fatted sheep, to support the life of the young heroes. These have been done in a way auspicious by the lord of heaven, who sees that they are done in a way worthy of heroes. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, throws the very best of his harvests, fats and oils from the black liver of whey, into the fire to heat, then hastens to his dwelling, to the center of the forest, the roof of which is made of buffalo-hide. Wainamoinen, full of joy and pleasure, drinks from the golden goblet, and eats what is good in the cup of joy, and blissful brings his creation, to the full enjoyment of life. Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, gives her life everlasting, fame in the world, and happiness, feeding on what is good for ever, in her halls with the sons of Northland, in the castles of Wainola. Louhi, hostess of the islands, has six sons, worthy founders, who build a thousand dwellings, fill all the chambers of her dwelling with the choicest foods, fill to the brim the red-heart cup, drink the beer of origin. Once when the days of summer were coming, and the time of hunger was opportune, then did she seek for help in song, and these words the minstrel uttered: "Nasshut, the fire- Child, my father, from the flames I have rescued, he, the boy with hair of gold-white, and have placed him at my mother's side. Would that I could fall in madness with him, and his blood would fill my madness, and I should become the youth again, and fly and sail through airy circles!" Time passed, and years were passing, and tragedy was accompanying son after son to the grave of father. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, wandered through her spacious dwelling, wandered through the vast extent of rooms, came to what her tongue describes as "the ground-floor chamber of sorrow," and there she found a wan-faced maiden, ringed around by a glamour-gathered people. <|endoftext|> Than day, than noon, than midnight, Than midnight, than day, than morn, Than morn, than noon, than midnight. For the Loves, the Lovers, or the Maids, Or the marriage-rites of kin, For your name or name of heart, For your blood, or for your life, Are not fools for all the lying And the deceits of lips that slide, But are wise, and they are pure. I will come down and go to you, As I went up with wings of fire To the fair-field of your love, To the bee-haunted, golden town, With its silver-trembling stars, And its orchard bowers of song, And its vine-clad, leafy ways, With the wine-red, fire-fingered sun Flooding all its beauty through. I will bring you there, with song And with all the rapture of dreams, The low, sweet stir, the small talk, That are the stuff of dreams, When the stars are far away, And the day's thin thread of smoke Drifts slowly up the sky. For this land is made for you, Fair-haired youth, with eyes aflame For all the marvels that you will see; For all the songs you will sing, And all the marvels you will do, The love that turns to joy your pain, And leaves the red roses on the tomb. I will lead you, with laughter sweet, Through the glad, sunny country ways, And I will teach you the wild birds' song, With their tender notes and low, And the fervor of the first-born of the trees, In their golden trills and ripples. I will show you, with all my heart, The joy of the lilies in June, In the light, unshadowed weather, And the scent of the violet that blows, In the beauty of all our weather, In the season that is free from stain. I will show you, with all the truth I may be able to tell you, The sorrow of the lilies in June, In the season when all things fade, When no bright things come to stay, And all love and joy and beauty fade. I will tell you, when all this is done, Of the sorrow that lingers there When the summer is upon us, and the bees Are a dull buzzing murmur of toil and strife. For a while, I will tell you, and weep on you, As I weep this one on the other side. "I do not think we have any God," The little girl said; and Edith frowned. "The heathen woman," she replied; "did he say 'we'? 'God save us, all of us,' I think he said. No, he said, 'my poor people,' I shall hear 'My poor people' oft within this house again. No, he said, 'my poor people,' I shall hear 'My poor people' oft within this house again. "We two go each to our several hall; The fires are lighted; and the meal is set; He tells me God sent him here, and sent him soon; And I believe it, every word of it; For I remember how the tale was told When first I heard him; and when he left me, And went away, I heard his sweet voice again, Calling my name as sweet as any song, And calling me 'Dear Child' again and again; And he said, 'It shall be'--and indeed 'twas so; And you, dear child, you have been blessed and spared, You are the flower of God's creatures on earth; I am a broken-hearted father, father no more." The merry Servian woman, in her ear, Is singing out the praises of her King, And what with singing and with laughing there, Is clamor and joy; for all the land of Servia Is joyous now with Marcus Redegonde. No more for him the household cares to tend, The young men to training, maids to weaving, He passes out with arms akimbo, And is gone where the serried ranks are led. His followers in the morning rode or walked, They also to and fro played, they also said: "Marcus must have had some friend or friend he knew, Some kinsman, a kinswoman, or a kinsphere." There is no one now to help the widow's son, He passes out where the wounded lie; And weeps, as also does the widow's daughter, When she hears of Marcus Redegonde. "A wicked, wicked man, a most wicked one," The little girl said to her, and blushed; "And not a good shepherd should like such a one," Said the little girl's mother to her. "The wicked ones like them who are most wicked, They pass over like blades without blades," Said the little girl's mother to her. A sudden light shone in the room; She raised her eyes from off her sister, And saw herself amid the thorns, She softly cried, "Mummy dear, be quiet, The naughty Marcus is here," And fell on her bed and wept and sighed; But then her mother caught her rose-tinted hand, And said, "Mummy dear, what was that you heard?" "There was a singing and a clapping," she replied. And now a pretty daughter is she, And now her mother's handsome face she sees, And now the christening is arrived at last, And now the day of the little one. And what shall the mother do? Shall she go To meet the friends that are promised to her, Or stand and weep with joy the guests she sees? And she said, "They shall wait, for I expect To see them all, the friends I have invited." And now a pretty daughter is she; And now her mother's handsome face she sees. And now the christening is arrived at last, And now the day of the little one. Behold, thou little one, how bright, And how the raiment is hung up here! O lovely house, with windows bright, And windows past imagining! And how the colours dance and shine On everything from wall to wall! Behold, you pretty thing, what view From up the attic can you boast, And where is down to earth to be? For things go up and come down, And heaven and earth go round about. O lovely house with windows bright, And windows past imagining! The world of wonders is within, The good, the bad, and devil you, And here the long-drawn out sigh That you would not give a sound. And here is joy, and here is pain, And laughter, and the broken cry, And they have come up here to stay. And here you see the taper clear, The light that burns so bright and dead, And all the past that never came. And here you see the taper bright, The light that burns so bright and dead. No, my child, my little pea-hen, When you went to roost after roost, You never thought, howsoe'er, A single mother's heart would break; You never thought, to go or stay, A single room in all the town Would house a bird so little known. And you are strange, my little pea-hen, And you are strange down the road, And when you come to nest, you'll leave The houses all a-tremble deep; You'll leave the men to strew the lawn, And leave the women by the sex, And come to where I loll my head, A humble happy little hen. A good little hen, my little pea-hen, That lays such fine yellow eggs; A good little hen, with shining wing, And voice as sweet as right. If I had wings like a flying duck, And a basket full of picking fruit, I'd have as good a life as you, And the same happy song and dance. I heard on the shore a beautiful bird Sing a beautiful song, And he said, "What a lovely springtime is! I almost want to stay and play." So I gathered up a handful of sand And flung it in the water, And I tossed his flag in the air, And watched him go his merry way. The birds are flying in the sky, From one hot day to the next; And so am I, unless I do something, With summer coming on. And so am I, sweet Love, so am I, So am I, sweet Love, If I do not do something. But I'm too quick to count the days, <|endoftext|> Marvellous in mystery. It may be I am not what I seem, That am myself and not myself, And there is no sense in which I should or may be in the dusk I am not in the faint and the pain of the wave, Or caught in the mesh of the wind and the sleet, Or swimming along in the track of the boat That comes and goes with the tide and the moon. The night will come, and the wind will blow and blow, The sun will come, and the sky grow dark, But I am not in the night or in the day, I am not in the meadow with the daffodil Or by the moonlight when the shadows Follow the wind in my direction. I am not in the book of my thoughts Where all the lines are white with pencillings, Strikes of bird-song, thin falls of tears, And on the glossed pages, in pencil, Wild scrawls of the eye. I am not in the meadows with daffodils, Or in the blossom-wise wood With stars and moonlight, or the blue dark sky, Or in the shell-shaped sea, Or any of my many lives. I dream in the kingdom of dreams, Or in the realm of the light, In the kingdom of my desire, Or in the land where we live now, In the land of the dead, In the great twilight between. A man has made his choice, And his soul is rejoiced. He has thrown his strength away, And he is strong again. He has seen his ambition And his power and his pride Pass like a passing shadow, And with gladness he has known The new earth's kingdom, He is crowned with joy Who has cast his strength away, And who is living now With the living now. He is crowned with joy Who has cast his strength away, And who is living now With the living now. A man has made his choice, And has cast his soul away, And he is rejoiced. He has seen a vision In the last day. His heart has bounded At the vision of God, And he knows the new earth Is better than the old. A man has made his choice, And has cast his soul away, And is sorry. His heart has bounded At a vision dim and dim, And he knows it is dead, And he has suffered loss, And he has known defeat, And is sitting now In the dark and silence Who has cast his strength away And is living now We're here together, Gay and glad. In the only home We have ever known. I am so glad, so glad, I could cry. You are too, And I think you'd agree If we threw off our fear And were loud with gladness As we were alone. We are so glad, so glad, I could cry. I am so glad, so glad, I could cry. You are too, And you think you'd know If we threw off our fear And were loud with gladness As we were alone. Now we are glad, so glad, I could cry. We are so glad, so glad, I could cry. You are too, And you think you'd know If we threw off our fear And were loud with gladness As we were alone. I am here with you, Gay and glad. I am here with you, Gay and glad. Though my heart be still, Though I be sad, Be my gladness keep. I am here with you, Gay and glad. Your coming back to me, I have been so sad. You were far away, And I was sad. But I am glad, so glad, I am so glad. Your coming back to me, So glad am I now, And my heart is breaking. You were silent, And I was lonely. But I am glad so glad, And so glad. You are here, And you are glad. And my heart is breaking. When you were away I was lonely, But now I am glad so glad. You are here, And you are glad, and your heart is breaking. I am sad, so sad, I am breaking. You are far away, And are glad, and your heart is breaking. The summer rose red with ruddy sunsets, The summer rose that should have died with lavender, But instead of going away is sweetly here, And with little cloud-puddles round its little feet. What were my sorrow with its long-drawn plaint, What were my longing with its long-drawn caress, If this little flower, that knows no death, Should come to die with me, that knows no hurt? Held by a twisted hail-bitten leaf Of the bitter winter-pine, When the wind shook the wintry stone, I sat down by the whispering seas; But they did not hear, they never did-- The high star at my pale rising, The white moon up in the pale grey skies, And all the wild flurry of the windy woods. I heard the wild waves clasping the sand, I saw the young fir-trees stand, But they did not mark my pale face With one small tear that seemed to be, They never thought of my far heart, Never thought,--but they smiled at my sleeping, And I never more saw or felt the sea. Pity the dead, who feel no pain, Pity them that never knew The quickening power of loving men, The savage, passionate love of women, Pity, pity the dead; Let them into heaven's love-lit circle Walk softly with their loving God. A little green wave painted on the sand, A happy little wave, No thought of storm or fighting men, A merry little wave, That never heard the howl of the wind, Or heard the word go 'AFTER,' A little green wave, a lovely little wave, That never thought of a time of regret, Oh, little green wave, you are not more young than I, And you think of no cares of the storm or men, And you smile at the senseless senseless world, And you know only the smile of a child, And you never will rebel, For we two will live forever, and forever and forever, I and you, little green wave. Oh, little green wave, I am not so little as you, And I know the bitter wars of the earth, And I have felt the passion of a woman's kiss, And I have known despair, And I have felt despair, and I know despair, And I have laughed in the madness of men, And I have sat by a girl's smiling lips, And I have sighed for a girl's lips, And I have smiled for a girl's lips, And I have sighed for a boy's lips, And I have lived for a woman's lips, And I have died for a woman's lips. Oh, little green wave, you are not so little as I, And you know the sorrows of life and of men, And you never will sigh for a girl's sigh, Nor you care when a man has smiled at a girl, Nor you think of the weary woman who goes to bed All alone, and has no music to make her hear, Nor any words to lull her in to sleep, And wakes in the sad morning, and has no golden curls, But must lie in the cold midnight, with a tear in her hair, And hear the man drive to the ship that is standing by With his head on the bloody ocean, While her dying eyes see the sorrowful sea With a despairing sigh And a weary, sighing cry. O little green wave, you are not so little as I, And you know the passion of a woman's kiss, And you know the wild waves of passion that rise, And you know the song of the winds and the wild heart of the sea, And you never will sigh for a woman's kiss, Nor for a kiss at all, For I will always be true to my woman's lips, I and only I, little green wave. Little green wave, with a secret passion in your kiss, Little green wave, I ask you to tell me how it feels To be sweet and kiss-shaped, To be young and matchless in your beauties, To be golden and fragrance-scented, To be light and swimmer, To be wind and flame, To be swimmer of hearts of men, To be beloved by a king of kings. Little green wave, I ask you to tell me if you are lonely <|endoftext|> I could not tell you how our days are blended, We are one soul, and so I must address you: Since there are those who find no wrong in you, And since I am one of those who find no wrong, Let me tell you, one by one, my sins: The sin of pride is written in my face, And I confess it, though no one else will; The sin of hope is written in my brow, And I have known anguish in the hour of hope, I have known disillusionment, even, since I learned The work of love must be lived out with pain; The sin of friendship is to keep a silence Which makes a brother feel as I have felt; The sin of patriotism is to know too much, To know what I have lost, and, knowing it, to turn away; The sin of philosophy is to know too little, To keep a vision large and influential Upon the halls of time, and looking forth in dismay. And finally, I would say that the sin Of labor up and down the world, of sitting down To read the whole and work at good, of aspiring And striving for the best, is the one most fit For a Christian workman, that is, for a Christian man; And he who does his work in the sight of God Shall find the courage to throw error down. Let no one then feel he is lacking Christ, Who has worked up to the present time To the teaching which makes it clear That no man ever yet was good enough To advance to the cross and rise again. <|endoftext|> "Lives of the Poets", by Theodore Weiss [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] Gertrude Stein [The Civil War] I I see the Civil War as a round of ice cream. The leaden, lonesome spoon creaks and swings in my hand. I miss the floating, lifeless spoon I took for a need, just before the Civil War began. The spoon was a weapon, was a sign, a call to battle, a summons to the war. II I hear the Civil War as a whistle. Whistles have three notes, and the Civil War had twelve. Whistles are silver, are frankincense unstrained, are moonstone ever poured. Whistles are bells I make to ring in your honor. I hear the Civil War as a cat, a kitten, a dog, a vacuum cleaner, an automobile, and other animals. I hear the Civil War as a bed, a barbed wire fence, a maze of dry cacti, a balcony, a houseboat. I hear the Civil War as a boy, a father, a nurse, a neighbor, a tool, a door, and other men. I hear the Civil War as a knife that has been sharpened, a pair of pliers to make one free. I hear the Civil War as a butcher knife or an old clock with the hands stopped. I hear the Civil War as balled cloaks and other stories. I hear the Civil War as balloons and other stories. I hear the Civil War as a box of corn melted in a kettle, as a lemonade stand. I hear the Civil War as boys and other stories. I hear the Civil War as Confederate coins found their owners' pockets, found their hair, in confederate dollar bills, found their bones, in Confederate burial shrouds. I hear the Civil War as dogs and other stories. I hear the Civil War as a breath mint mint by confederate mint marks, by the forge of John Brown, by the hands that forged the coin, by the hammer of Abe Lincoln, by the anvil of Dustin Craft, by hands that forged the iron, by hands that hammered the steel. I hear the Civil War as a cross that is lifted, as forgiveness, as a prayer, as a silence, as the pounding of the heart. I hear the Civil War as The Guns, as the Fourth of July, as the star-spangled banner, as our country's blood, as one mother's sacrifice, as one father's death, as the dreams of brave mothers, as the dreams of fathers. I hear the Civil War as dance and song that take the place of the kitchen table, of the workday, of the morning prayer, of the Bible's dark underside. I hear the Civil War as a God of laws that needs to be carried, as the only hope of all those who have been disarmed. I hear the Civil War as a tree grown in a garden by a gardener of Jewish stock, as a garden full of roses, as the sorrow of strangers, as the shame of weak nations. I hear the Civil War as the shot of Germany in the evening by a German sniper. I hear the Civil War as bullets in the smoke of battle. I hear the Civil War as the waning bough of the redwoods in the spring, as the last of the redwoods in the last of the rain. I hear the Civil War as the last of the elephants, a tusked individual on a log in the fire of a forest. I hear the Civil War as the last of the animals left in the Arabian desert. I hear the Civil War as the last of the matter in a solar system. I hear the Civil War as a word in the rain on a word. I hear the Civil War as the last of the words left on the page. I hear the Civil War as the end of words, as the end of all words, as the end of all things, as the end of nothing, as the end of all things and the beginning of all things and the beginning of all words. I hear the Civil War as the last of the animals left on earth, as the end of words, as the end of all words, as the end of all words, as the end of nothing, as the end of all words, as the end of all words. <|endoftext|> "Lines on Dying", by Ben Belitt [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] You have to learn how to give up your dreams of day-to-day reality, You have to learn how to let things go. What’s real is the shell Of the moment we cling to, an echo that dims our every star-way. I was seventeen, and everything was new. Everything was bright and new and still. I was seventeen, and everything was new. I didn’t know what I didn’t know, and I made it a challenge. I thought, I’m going to make it work. And, I didn’t know. I learned how to give up my dreams of day-to-day reality, I learned how to let things go. What’s real is the shell Of the moment we cling to, an echo that dims our every star-way. Your heart aches, it can’t possibly be That your love for me is an echo Of your past, of your dreams, and you Can’t love me because you can’t wake up, Can’t wake up, can’t move, and you have no more stars in your eyes. I hear a song in your voice, And a way in your eyes that’s ever Changing, but ever patient, ever The way I know how to be, with you. <|endoftext|> "I Let a Thought Rise", by Ben Belitt [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] I let a thought rise <|endoftext|> Tiny and cool as a glass of water. He thought, "I want to get out of here." The walls that lay around him seemed to grow Stiff and close around him. At last he said, "I will wait here just a little while longer." He thought, "I am going to eat this slug." Then the air began to ripple and beat And his small mouth fell open. He thought, "I am a piece of salvia." Then, "I am a handful of dirt." Then, "I am a blackberry." Then, "I am a handful of sand." And finally, "I am a fly." But, alas, when he opened his mouth Nothing came out. The jaws of a snarling beast Gaped like a sharp-toothed snake At his empty being. His father said, "What is the matter with Quijote?" And his mother said, "Don't be such a fool. Why don't you speak? The world is all in a row before you." He said, "Oh, I have no father, mother, or world." He said, "Oh, I have no mother, world, or eyes." And he said, "Oh, I have no eyes, And no mother, world, or ears." And he said, "Oh, I have no ears, And no eyes, and no tongue." He said, "Oh, I have no tongue And a blank mouth." Then he yawned and yawned. And he went to sleep. And he slept. And he slept. What do you call a man who has seen All that the world has to offer, And still decides to try to be More than what the world expects? What do you call a man who prays That the warm sun may shine On his happy, idle head? What do you call a man who has seen What the world has to offer And has not paid the cost? What do you call a man who tells The whole world at once He has seen what the world has to offer? As the dead leaves of summer fly Here in the north, you have not seen What the living, living know. What do you call a man who sits And waits for what the day may bring? What do you call a man who sits And prays that the cold world's sneer May pass, and his true-loveship prove? We are all in the dumps; Dumped is our last sunset; Dumped our last leaves; For November's here. November! go and throw Your heaps of gold, For the breeze's with us; We have not lost it, We have not lost it. The leaves of last year's month Lie dead and yellow: Here in the north. November! go and hie Your treasures home, For we have not lost it, We have not lost it. We are all in the dumps; Our last sunset's gone; Our leaves are yellow, Our hearts are true; But we have not lost it, We have not lost it. Here in the north, where all is cold, The ashes of our suns are warm, The sun that loved you so Is down in the dregs of earth; And all the world is out to sock November, and he hie him home To the blue heaven of his youth. November, where all is cold, The ashes of our suns are warm And the sun is down in the dregs of earth, All the bright earth out to sock You, and he hie him home to the blue heaven of his youth. How it must have been for you then, If it was ever so, To make it through all your days Of never knowing The crumbs that fell from others' tables. And to bear the burden of bread And the ache of the common air, And never to see Your sorrow's beauty, nor the peace Your sorrow's mother knows. You who are void of feeling, Who have never dreamed Of the sorrows of the poor, How it was for you then To live through your days, Though you bore the burden Of bread, and the ache of the common air. You who are void of feeling, Who have no soul Of pity, never knew A love-sick sigh or tear, How it was for you then To live through your days, And never see the ache Your bread has made so heavy. Is it so, then, you are not worthy Of the wild woods' odors, Of the rushing of a mighty river, Of the solemn brightness of the moon, Of the glory of stars that shine Through the thin, dull air of night? We have seen, we have known you, We have lived with you, Through the verdure of the prairies, Through the cloud-blasts of heaven. You have been to us a trust-- We are nothing better Than the rugged grasses who have loved you. We have worshipped you in our quiet hours, With an awe no school-boy's mind can paint, And have touched your flutes of melody, With a full heart, and a full soul, And have blessed your slender swine Just because you were human. And now,--now you are gone, Our fields will be bare, And our shrubs be over us, And our trees be gone, And our birds be dumb, And no benediction break On the lonely road, For the lonely, lonely bus. December has lighted in a snowy shroud Over the wide, tossing plain, And through the clouds has bent its murky brown The azure of the sky. The cattle in their dusky gloom are fed, The dark cave's cool breeze has ceased to blow, And not a house is by the roadside, Nor a lantern's ray is in the air. Not a wagon in the road, nor skiff, Nor yoke nor plough, Hayrack, or treadle, in all the land, Of man or beast. Only a stray dog in a meadow nigh, Beside an outhouse stall'd with dew; And a man and a woman in a doorway there Sit in the damp night-air. Man was not made for these cold, hard things, These sad things we watch for and envy; And a man's heart will break, I know, When his day's pain becomes his night's dream, And a woman's soul will fail When her day's joy becomes her day's pain, And her hopes and joys are grief and shame. But they sleep in God's good time, And when the good time's o'er they'll come With a sudden gasp and shining eyes, And stand in the sunlight by his grave; Or a still dawn will come in the chilly skies, And Gertrude's eyes will shine on it too. He has left the lamp at night; Hark, his music all the street Is swelling, swelling to the height Of some fantastical song, That thrills, enfranchising all, All his passions, all his mind, Making joy a pleasure whole years long, And sadness a delight. He has left the lamp at night; Hark! it has roused him up In all his glory of power; And the dimmer worlds of life are bright Because he sits there and rules them, And his laughter rings, and his mirth Gleams back from the ocean of life, Making joy a pleasure all the day, And sadness a delight. We have waited for you by the wayside well, And at our feet the dust of the flowers you trod; And the sound of your marching has waked the birds alway, And the streamlet continues to run, and the lane Has a better life because you are here. It is good to be here in the middle of the day When the air is full of life, and the world seems new; And the little fields are sweeping into shape, and the hill Is rising, and the quiet brook is on the rise. The sunshine is radiant, and the gold-amber clouds Are thickening, and the restless, restless, restless birds Go whirling and whirling down to the sea. We have waited for you by the wayside well, And the path that you trod is less sweet now, and the flowers You left are lifeless, and the world has another face. We have waited for you, and it is good to be here. There is glory in your firm feet, There is glory in your steady hand, There is glory in the heart of the mountain; But there is no glory like the glory of you, There is glory in your iron harness, <|endoftext|> I lie alone and look upon the sea. And on the dark wood-side that I love, I look into the golden air, And it seems to me as if the star-host Of all the skies were somewhere joined to help me To shape this prayer to God for thee, my dear. I am alone and sorrows press On every hand, and sorrow Is laid upon me. But I will still be pure, and still remember The money that I've spent, And how I've tried to be the best in all I did, But it's all through distress. Oh, the petty infractions, the trifling little things that kill us! Oh, the little torments we endure From some poor mortals who are immovable! Oh, the hungry despair, the torments endless! They are lighter than a fly's, but still they eat away at us, And in some way they hurt us, and they hurt more than death. Oh, my God! We have plotted Out the dark past with our dreadful, dreary hand! And now before God's throne, we, We, the guilty, Pray to Free Him! With a love That we have never, never shown before! There is no love. And yet I love Him. He gave me eyes to see Him, He gave me hands to do Him. He gave me a heart to love Him, He gave me a soul to live for Him! And now I kneel at His feet, And I beg Him to break All the hellish power Of the Devil and his servants, To bind us His control, And to set us free. Oh, there are some! Oh, there are some! For there are hosts of them in power, And they have no part in this. And they, the slave drivers, And they, the jailers, Have stolen as much as they could get. And they have plotted and done it Out in the open, And they have plotted it in light of day, And they have plotted it with death, And they have murdered many for gold. And then, and then, We are glad To think of the little children in China, Who, chained with great, grim death, May die. Who have starved to death, May die. "Give me the pistol. I am tired of all the crying." So down he lay On the hard bed, and we ran And lifted him from the bed, And set him weeping By the door, and took his steps In the house, where he could hear The bended wood. And there, under the light of the moon, We laid him, with a murmur faint, On a clear bit of pillow, And wondered if his little ones In the house would ever hear That sound, or seem to know How their father's cry Could be so little seemed. "How will they know that I am dead, How will they take my little hands, And hold them, and know that I am dead?" So up he lay, and we took his head And held it up to the moon, And we prayed for him to die As we had never prayed before. And the long night through We heard his little ones, crying In the house, and heard them cry And hear their father cry, But there was no light, And they cried with little breath, And they never waked. So we left him lying there And we ran, and we ran, And the moon rose over the house, And we laid him down by the door, By the wall, at the foot of the bed, And we kissed his little lips, And his eyes dropt open, And he slept. But we never more ran From that day forward, For we left him lying there At the foot of the bed, At the foot of the wall, at the door That met the night That was beyond us, cold and white, At the foot of the wood. The night beat down upon us, The night we had to flee, And the little feet that were sleeping Came back with the day. And we got back again, and we said: "We are happy now, and we two Have had the good dream that we had, And now we'll make a nation." We've made a nation! Oh, we've made a nation! And the road goes up to the Nation's door, And the Nation's doors are open to the world, And the Nation's doors are swinging wide to the home, And the home has gathered its friends to the Nation, And the friends of the Nation stand fast as a rock In the battle while the world changes color. The fire-light glows on the castle tower And the white mist blows back as a draught Of sunset breaks from the heart of the rock And the world's peace is like a sword Gilded in the gleam of a great sword. The windows of the nation are all bright With glories that no tongue can tell; The thoughts of the nation are all bright With hopes that only flame and glint And the dreams of the nation are all true And bright and sure as the stars that shine And beam from a people's throne. Ah, but the key is a name; A name that no man may know; The door that opens not to the dead; The wind that moves in the sward Has blown out the flame that burned on the altar Of dead centuries and wild. So we leave our dead, and we leave Their hopes and their dark old dreams To dance with the winds of change; To dance and be lighted like flowers By sunshine on the threshold of the skies; To dance, and be free as the birds, To rise and fly with the sun, So we leave our dead, and we leave Their hopes and their dead wings to dance With the flowers and stars in the sky; To dance as the sunlight dances over them, And be glad as the bright flowers blossom, To die in the Spring, in the Spring, So we leave our dead, and we come With the sunshine of our souls And the Spring's fresh hope in our hands To touch the faces once veiled By deeds and thoughts that are no more; To touch them and be silent Until we reach the end of our sorrow So we leave our dead, and we come With our laughter and our songs And our souls that are light and free And a light toward all men; Till the night's joy rides high and strong, And the stars and the moon are one In the dance of Spring over earth. Well-a-day, the royal bird, How do you manage, sing, Through the dews of the morning To the nest you would win? Well-a-day, with your wings So full of potential flight, How do you keep on To your heaven and your sov'reign way? Hollyhocks! Let us sing A song of the honey-bees To their little music-masters, The bright butterflies that sing All day long in the fragrant blooms Of the strange new gardens of England! And we'll whistle a song to you To bear you company As we visit with our honey The wild haunts of the long-eared hunter, The throat of the white horse, Away down East, where the great has risen, Out of the rain and the haze of a dream, There stands a people who are neither dead Nor alive; who have only been Turned into Pictures in a book. We have left our names and our homes behind For a name and a home in the future days, And with the clink of our copper cents We have filled the gongs of history. But some men, out of the fog of the years, Stand here like paupers with stars in their caps. We are the Little Folk of the Walls, We are the sad little faces in the trees, We are the ghosts in the pond, We are the lost ones all through the place With neither feet nor bodies. We are the little ones who are tardy, We are the sad little ones who faints, We are the little ones who turns red When under the hoofs of the foemen Starts the horse of the Master. We are the little ones who cannot speak, We are the lost little children who grieve, We are the little ones who creaks and chitters When they are left alone with the Master, Who grows old, and goes with his errand, And takes the form of a dog. The Master calls and the little ones come, The little ones all in tears; They come in the dusk of the night <|endoftext|> And to his word I only am In secret and open I follow him. Like as the earth at mid-day is bright When all the level sun's rays are bright, So, when my thought is upward turned, My spirit burns with glories newly. All my thought's fair frame is in a glow, And fresh-blown beauties strut around; I gaze with rapture on a god, I look for stars in every face. But the storm-cloud, unseen, grows higher, And my strength wanes as the sunlight fails; The sunshine fades from my sight away Till it is as pale as the face Of some one I know--who's gone to-day. Then, when I think my loved one's near, I know he's indeed with me. Sitting there in his quiet room, In the early twilight, Gay became aware Of a curious dream that stole upon him there; A dream, whose fascination, strange and sweet, Told him that heavenly visions came Into the then unrevealed abodes of Sleep. And he knew that in the room, save where serene The sunlight, wholly o'erran it, a murmur ran Of birds in the garden, and children's voices schooled By tugs on the cabin-ropes. He knew That, somehow, in this quiet retreat There existed a mirth whose power had won him through The dense entanglements that marred his mortal life; That the dream-breath o'er him had given him wings To fly farther than he ever had gone before, And look into matters that he might never know Behind the veil of the Unknown. He sat there in the quiet of the night, And, as the vision swam before him, he held The strange last conversation that he would have With the spirit who had visited him on earth. He told her of himself, his life on earth, Its hopes and fears, its successes and sins, And this last question the spirit asked: I do not know how I shall answer you, But in your spirit, trusting your trust, Let there be a sense of calm for once, A calm that has not been heretofore. When you stand to meet life's opponents, And the earth is black with the wrecks of life, When the clouds of sorrow crowd the sky, And the heart of man is often shaken With the shocks of strange sensations, I would say, in the light of that last morning, What it is to be a man. That the age is out of date Is something for the thought to do, And our fathers' ways an out-dated way Is out of date before it is old; The time has come for a fresh new day, And the power of the soul awake again; For the voice of the soul hath no age. It is not all fair, The upward shining path Our souls are on; The waves of outward confusion Roll, as along the shore, The wreck of a fallen hope, The spectre of a sin Haunted and bled for a name. But this is the way The soul of a man must go, The red armorial floor Of a conquering lord, With his hand on the heart Of his people's hope, Till the last enemy quail Before the statue of himself he raises. So the spirit of England glows With her ancient strength When the ancient year, With her luminous orb athwart the night, Moves to the siege of Rome; When the aegis around her plays Of triumph and prophecy, And the voice of her trumpets throbs From the conquest of the world. Then a strange light shines through the night, As the stars shine out of the light, And the night-wind stirs and whispers Of deeds that have never been; And the dreamer, gazing down That fateful passage of the years, Might well believe he saw The seeds of the greatest things that be Sparkling in the heavens above. 'Tis a faith that hath made me rich, And a faith that hath made me wise, And a faith that hath brought me here, In a land that lies beyond the grave; In a land where the tides of Time Shall not overwhelm the dead, Nor the ashes cover the bare Like the mounds of fire that still linger O'er the monastic ruins cold. A faith that hath made me a power, A magician who can wake the sleep That holds men's minds in its bondage; And a faith that hath set my heart On a quest that will not fail. A faith that hath made me unafraid Of the mockery of fortune's smile, Or the lightning-fingered reproach Of a sky that cannot laugh. A faith that hath made me ready yet Of the rage that will not be still; A faith that hath made me fearless yet Of the face of death and of pain; And a faith that has set me free Of the sorrow that has made me weak, And a faith that will not be lost. In that dark hour when hellish shades Stand by the mortal throne of sin, And sin's grim armies fight on either hand, With brighter mien the awful Judge seems To sit, with stony calm of spine erect; His face is hoary, and is wrinkled, I ween, With age, but free from age's bias of wrinkles, And his white eyebrows lift and tremble o'er his brow With a strange, pitiless joy that he beholds The doom of souls condemned to destruction, Who for a little while have not lived. He looks and saith: "Well have you done?" And the gray lips, pressed close to rosy cheek, From where they just meet, speak word in breath, And he saith: "I have tried and tried." And the lips, quivering, strange, free, yet bound, His answer reads; yet ever he saith: "The work of God is perfect, and mine." And as in the vast desert, lone and bare Between the mountains and the heavens white, With strained and burning eyes, and breast uplifted, The hopeless sinner looks a moment, And, after thoughts that whirl and fly before him, Sees a light, and then is gone from sorrow, So, in the sorrow of his soul, he looks, And then is gone from saying "Nay!" Aye, and I say unto you, What so 'bout your Matthew won? How long will you so much have mourned, When you are as Thomas, and you far, As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb? How long will you so much have mourned, When you are as Thomas, and you far, As many miles behind the road? As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb, When your eyes are as deep as Canrou's, And your feet are as far as Peru; When your hair is as gray as osier, And the wings of your flies are three, And your skirts are of a violet; We come and we quote and we pray, We'll give you back your fair. As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb, When your feet are as fain, as fain As fowle's that were na foal, And the heart of your heart is fain To meet your beauty's foal; When your locks are as black as coal And the cock's cock is on the knee And the lamb in your tongue is a duck, We come and we quote and we pray, We'll give you back your fair. As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb, When you're as sad, as sad, as sad As sullen ofttiver, While the venom that your venom is Is as viler than Rome, We come and we quote and we pray, We'll give you back your fair. As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb, When your shoes are as rare, as rare As Solomon's stables were clean, When you're as black as cod and white As Solomon's queen, we come and we pray, We'll give you back your fair. As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb, When you're rare as scarlet of shell As rare as silken grass, When you're rare as sapphires and rare As honey-seekers seek, We come and we quote and we pray, We'll give you back your fair. As many miles behind the road As Mary was from Mary's womb, When your breast is as sweet, as sweet <|endoftext|> And, with its flowing cordage crown'd, Went gliding through the clear blue air; Like a fairy cloud it pass'd, And left but dimlier mark to view The cloud itself and all the skies. And as when evening dews are fall'n The land, its banks and streams are pale; The clouds are faint and drawn between, All but the sky where glorious light Now fill'd the darkening space afar, There, radiant as the morning star, God's angel, mild and dark it shone, Now 'mid the shadows pale and lean. I know not if I why I feel it so, This change that here I am; but yet It seems as if a death were shed Upon the heart and brain, that serves And is beguiled so suddenly By Virtue's gayest gaudy wreath, And all the goodly flowers it wears, Who has made life but a show, And e'en its show hath need of shroud. O Death! thou saddest night of life, And dost thou bring with thee relief? Is it that now I can be free Of all the cares that used to fret, Now, while thy tread is music faint To ears not made for heavy thoughts? Or is it that now I see Thy pale, sad face, and know it not, And think 'tis not like thy wont to look Nor speak to-day, nor feel to-day? Nay, it is not like thy wont, But like a young, unwearied maid Who gazes forth in wonder, love, Till the warm tears fill her beautiful eyes, Who from her own dark, narrow bower Sits down and listens to the bee, Who through her dark, narrow bower Sits down and listens to the bee. And thus she listens to the bee, Who trills his favorite, gay, gay song, Who, in a summer afternoon, Or in the land of Enchantment, Trips through the flowers and cools them With his breath, and makes them precious As by a magic word they are. She, who has lived a hundred years, All quite forgot, would rather hear The bee's song that flies through the flowers Than his enchanting notes that drift Like moonbeams through the night of days. And still it seems to her, so far As eye can in the wide world range, That he who sings the sweetest lays Is the bee, who through the flowers Sings, and is gone, and returns Only to kiss the lips that sing. Where'er the rosebud laden grows There is a wild and lone dale, Where blooms the nightingale alone Beside a tarn there where the rill Of magic water down the hill Pours, like a silver thread, to the vale. And there at play the roses blow 'Mong dewdrops to mar the shine Of stars that heavenly blue doth make, 'Mong poppies red to mark the grave Of Love who passed this way so long ago. And when the wild wind dips his wings He shows a head of foam, And then again hovers nigh And sings a sweet, sweet song, That sets the hearts of roses fluttering And drives them like a wind to and fro. And when he sings he blows A honey-pipe of sound, A music-maze of sound, A music-woven dream, That haply to the moon Maketh all the blue sky clear. And where the wild wind dips his wings His eyes a thousand suns do fill, And they are suns that never did run, But ever fix and fix them there On the roses' bosoms green, On the rosebud's nest where none may pluck The roses yet may pluck and keep. So till the wild wind dips his wings Sweet dreams of music do blow From him, that day and night Upon the roses' breast they keep, And 'tis as if there the sun were. A day and night they do last, And even so they never cease, And while they last their love doth shine As bright as day in skies all clear. And sometimes in a summer shower The wild wind comes and sits and sings Where the wild rose-bud grows, And all the hours in which the wild wind sleeps Are sweet because they are brief, And I, because my heart they keep, Am young again because they are long. Oh, ye, whose hearts do ever tend Forth from the world, whose faces grow Fainter with the thought of what ye hide, My own heart and I have turned apart, And I, who loved the world, the same, Have waited for a space, that ye, When ye have grown and your heads have mounted, Nor less may love the void and the air, I have no words for beauty, only words That cry unto the night, and call unto The black wind in the thicket, over and over, Till it goes roaming. [The stars Are dim, the moon is veiled, the children asleep. And now the wind, in his dull monotone, Rushes through the night with desperate might, And on his wild piping fiercely falls. When the rain descends, and the winds arise In the pale red firelight that lingers Where the house turns Lasered's tree-tops to stone, It seems as though a voice were calling From the open casement, saying, "Come in!" And I have looked into the night without fear, For I had forgotten what it was to feel The night without hope or fear. But sometimes, when the wind is still, And the dark is on the moon, And a quiet man with wandering eyes In the gray roof by the casement stands, I hear him say in a voice that hovers All about me, "Come in!" And I wonder if he ever shall say That simple thing again. And then the dark grows silent in the night As it grew silent in the day; And if I listen long enough I can catch the sound of the tree-toads' call In the ashes. [The stars Are dim, the moon is veiled, the children asleep. And now the wind, in his dull monotone, Rushes through the night with desperate might, And on his wild piping fiercely falls. In the silence that follows the music, And there is nothing to do but die, Where shall I find my comfort? [She goes In the silence after the music, Groping through the darkness, and the shadows Come to her. [She goes In the silence after the music, Groping through the darkness. A time there was when my heart burned high, And it seemed to burst with the fervor Of longing for a woman I knew Who could make my heart its citadel, And its rifts remelt with sweet tranquillity. I was a young man, and I had power And wealth and honor, and the world did seem A good and kind-hearted and noble place And place to die in. [She goes In the silence after the music, Groping through the darkness. And it was she who cast down my torch, And it was she I heard in the night Bewailing her child, and in the day Seeing her dead, and in the night again Seeing her alive and white and great, A queen among the riven days, a star Set among dark clouds, a sun between The fiery tresses, and she said, How may this be, this lingering lingering, And am I to feel the warm tears wet Upon the flowers I have wept to scorn Till they were impossible to name, And the soft voice, whose rich music seemed Not of this world, and the face that made My love of all the world first easy, And then more rich, and last and complete? Now it is winter again; and the east Comes out upon me with the salt weight Of forgotten colors, and the day Groweth intensely alive, and the taste Of things that are good, and the sweet heavy Blows of the wings of gray and blackbirds, And the wet wind, and the stars, and the moon, <|endoftext|> Hands of God's archangel: And we heard them singing in their working; It was a burning trump, Like the sound of a bell, Which shook the house, and shook the city: And they taught us in a language of brass, That even then was new to us, The song of the trump of the coming of the Lord. And what was the song of the trump of the sounding of our doom? We knew not of its music nor its language; But, trembling, we knew that we were dreaming, And that some frightful moment should give the Word. We were not afraid of the word, but the sound. And then came the moment. It was like a golden day, But for all the glory of the sun A look was in the world, And there was a sound of tumult in the air; And the trump of a distant cannon shook the air, And the tromp of an artillery shook the sky; And the darkness of the blast was mingled with the light. We heard, as we heard in the dream The sound of the trump and the sound of the blast, But we knew that some terrible moment should give the Word. It was a royal moment, Not the least of earth's great days; It was a moment in which kings were to be defeated; It was a moment in which the faithful should be crowned; It was a moment in which the godless should be catcheth; It was a moment in which the weak should be made strong. And then came the moment of our dread. It was a moment in which the angels of the Lord Should break forth in lights and refrains; It was a moment in which they should show forth the heavens In eclipses of their glory, and cast down the stars; It was a moment in which the earth should be renewed; It was a moment in which the lights of the world Should be darkened and quenched, And the great lights of the world Be scatter'd and taken from the sky. 'T was a royal moment, Not the least of earth's great days; It was a moment in which kings were to be defeated, It was a moment in which the faithful should be crowned; It was a moment in which the godless should be catcheth, It was a moment in which the weak should be made strong. And then came the moment of our dread. 'T was a moment in which the angels of the Lord Should break forth in lights and refrains; It was a moment in which they should show forth the heavens In eclipses of their glory, and cast down the stars, And the dark night of the world Should be mingled and taken from the light, And the great lights of the world Should be darkened and quenched, And the lights of the world Be made obscure and vanish, and the night be buried. Ah! I do not say too much. We are not gods, and have not earned the right To sing of crowns and triumphs, and the yell of conquer'd men. But let us not forget How many friends and relations died To shield and save us from our enemies, And give us our great freedoms,-- Let us not think too much Of these, and how they wish to be free. There are many who would say, When they are in want, "We are poor eaters; We must eat Like the beasts of the field." And there are many who would beg, When in debt, "We are broke; We must borrow, We will eat, Just like you eat your meat." But they are both wrong, my friends, To say as they do, For their comparison Is not with the beasts of the field, But is with you and me. For we, though we are beasts of the field, And must by right Be fed, As the beasts of the field, Are not, my friends, As you and I are, Blind to this fate; And we are not destitute, Though we must eat, As the beasts of the field. We have a charter, my friends, From the Creator, to be beasts Of the field; And it is a sacred trust Our Creator gave us To care for his creatures, To keep them clean from disease, To take their food, And to take death when he hands it In the hand of man. And we must keep this charter up, Though we be slain By the bite Of a snake, or the serpent's hair, Or the sinful thoughts of man. We have a sacred trust He gave us To feed and care for his creatures, To keep them clean from disease, To take their food, And to take death when he hands it In the hand of man. My poor neighbors, hundreds whole, Who feed not at the public cost, Have made a monstrous mistake, And have blinded their eyes from seeing The goal of all things. Who should dare more than this? Who? For what is man, But a colony Of faculties, Drawn from all parts of earth, To manage His portion of the world? And, for these cherries, He has charged us with the work Of gathering the fruit of them, And burying the seeds of them, And scattering them in the earth, And covering them with the soil. Who should dare more than this? Who? We are their physicians, Who feed them At no charge to the few; For we, the nurses Of these sick things, Are sure to profit, As well we can, By getting our patients well, By saving them from the fire, From sorrow and from harm, By ridding them of their pain, And by easing them of their work. Who should dare more than this? Who? If you would be a doctor, You must have lots of heart, The greatest heart of any thing; For if you fail in this, Then what you have to run Is a sorry kind of life, And no man will want your service. Why are not physicians known As builders of hearts? Why is there no monument To those who venture fortunes And make their fortunes by being good? For if they have not a heart, Then they will waste their goods, And have no reason to be strict About their charities; And a little heart goes a long, Long way. The sap of life is in every leaf; We read it in the teaching of the tree, In the secret whisper of the moss; And we know that the sap is not dead That keeps our youth alive; And we never suspect that the sap Is alive and busy still, And keeping as sweet a watch o'er our way As while it gave us life of old. The sap of life, like a best friend, Doth appear and disappear, But its presence or its absence, though We think awhile, can not be seen; And we know it is still around As the sunshine or the shower, And keeping watch o'er our way As we pass to the light or the dark. We know it is but a power Which gives so plentifully That with it we have it All the lives we inherit, As with the fountain of the stream; And we thank it and bless And serve it and revere, As we do the sun or rain. And our hearts thank it and gloat And we become its slaves; For we feel that the flower Or the fruit we have sown Is tested of the power It may bear and flourish, And the test is always true, And we know that the sap Is a best friend to us. The test of the power Is that we know it keeps Its faith with us through life, And that when sorrows strike And the tears fall thick and fast; And the cross is laid aside, And our hearts are sad and weak, We know that the power Which gave us life o'er the years Will still be a friend When the time shall come to sever. The test of the power Is how it propeties us To be loyal to it When there are calls to the flock, And the burden of the day, And we go through the valley of death With the soldiers who die so well; And we know that the power Which gave us life in youth Will still be a friend When the time shall come to sever. The test of the power Is to live it through through And to make the most of every test; For the path of the power Is a rugged one, But the strength of the patient Is as that of the strong, And the power which has brought us through Will still be a friend When the time shall come to sever. <|endoftext|> This be my own belief, Lest I be wrong. Ye shall behold a wondrous sight Within this gladsome verse, I give ye light, ye sound, I give ye joy. I give ye sunshine and the answering stars, Ye shall behold a wondrous sight Within this gladsome verse. Look upon the sun and hear him sing, Ye shall behold him shine; Ye shall behold the moon disport In her silver beams. See the flowers spring, trees green and stems of green, Through the blossoming shade. All things doze and half-wake, as it were, To the song of your beauties, Which is the song of springtime and the tune Of the summer bough. All the birds wake and the beasts abide To the melody of your voices, Whose is the melody and the tune Of the happy rain. What if I tell thee but a single word From this wondrous song? What if I sang thee but one single strain Of this sweet delicacy? What though I told thee but one little word From this wondrous song, Though but one syllable, I dare to say, From the wondrous heart of Love's delight, Is worth much more than all the words Ye will remember ever! Within the amaranth trees Is something that I love. It is the blossom, the leaf, And it is the green Of the amaranth buds That keeps me awake With a fever As red and hot As the heart of a ruby Oh, the blossom of the amaranth Is like the rose of a queen, And the leaf of the amaranth Is as leaf of a tree; But in the heart of the amaranth Is something I love That is like no other, And that keeps me awake at night With a fever As hot and red As the heart of a ruby And what do you do with a fever That's curst and torrid? Do you go placid and cheerful As parlor stuffs order And strew roses On the fronts of novels As often as you must see The fever in the palm of your hand That claws and seizes As red and fierce As the heart of a ruby Oh, the fever in the palm of your hand That claws and seizes As red and fierce as the fever in the palm Of a ruby, That grows as red and fierce As the heart of a ruby To the pale of the moon As it drips and pours That red and fierce As the fever in a ruby My love, I have a fever In the palm of my hand That claws and seizes As red and fierce As the fever in the palm of my hand That burns and blazes As red and fierce As the fever in a ruby To the pale of the moon Oh, are you a nightingale In a hawthorn hedge, Where the song of the waves is borne In the song of your song? Or are you a nightingale In a hawthorn bush That sings of the fever In the palm of your hand That claws and seizes As red and fierce As the fever in the palm Of a ruby To the pale of the moon? And you are a nightingale In a hawthorn bush That sings of the fever In the hand of your fever That claws and seizes As red and fierce As the fever in the hand Of a ruby To the pale of the moon For a song of a nightingale And a song of a nightingale And a song of a nightingale Oh, are you a nightingale That sings of the fever In the hand of your fever That claws and seizes As red and fierce As the fever in the hand Of a ruby To the pale of the moon For a song of a nightingale And a song of a nightingale And a song of a song I love the lark That sings above the tower In the midst of the storm, As if his heart were beating As if his heart would break; But I fain would be a knight In the court of a hall To hear the music there, For it sounds as it shines On the water below. Oh, would I were a knight To fight by his banner For the right to be there Where the music is played And the glory is born! Oh, would I were a knight To fight by his banner For the right to be there Where the music is played And the glory is born! I love the lark That sings above the tower In the midst of the storm, As if his heart were beating As if his heart would break; But I fain would be a knight In the court of a hall To hear the music there, For it sounds as it shines On the water below. The water drops upon the bridge, The water drops upon the mill, As it falls into the tide That travels southward down the shore. And it sounds as it belongs To the land of Wales, does it not? And the listeners are astonished, And say as they look at me: "How beautiful it sounds! But who can play a part like him?" The singer sits in the knights' baronage, And talks of chivalry and chivalry, And talks of knights and lady fair, But he is not half so eloquent As the bird that sings upon the tree. He sings of love--of love, and truth-- And all the brave and lovely things That have been, or may be, and are. I love the lark, the beautiful lark, That sings above the broken fjords, Above the storm and above the sunshine, Above the weeping lingerie. There's not a freer heart in the world That's half so free as the bird's free, And half so light, and half so bright, And half so happy can he be! I love the beautiful lark, The beautiful lark, The beautiful lark, The beautiful lark, The beautiful lark, The beautiful lark, The beautiful lark, There's not a bonny bird in all the sky So beautiful as the beautiful lark; For he sings, I don't know why, A melancholy, heavenly song; And his eyes are full of longing, And his breast is young and proud; And his voice is full of sweetness, And his soul is singing blue. I'd like to be the beautiful lark, And spread my shining wings, And sing a melancholy, heavenly song, To fill the weary world with hope, And send my singer's soul Away to Palestine, To sing with innocence and pleasure, For I'm so happy in fancy. When I was a happy little boy, I never had a desire, For everything that I wanted Was granted to me; Everything that I dreamed of, I actually found; And what's more, I don't know why I fancied the things I fancied. When I was a happy little boy, I never had a fear, For every stranger I met Seemed willing to give me something; Everything that I wanted I could obtain; Everything that I dreamed of, I actually had. And what's more, I don't know why I feared the things I feared. When I was a happy little boy, I never had a care; For every child is brother To the poet-brood; And every little sister Has a brother six feet under. And every little brother Has a very pretty mother; And, believe me, there's nothing Is half so dear as a little brother. When I was a happy little boy, I never had an axe To cut my way through any tree, Or thorn, or beech, or oak, Or poison cockle, or burr. For everything that I wanted Was mine, and never two Were ever seen without together. And, believe me, there's nothing Is half so dear as a little brother. I'm sure that you were an only child, And I'm even sure you were the only angel That ever flap-eared a loafer; And I'm sure that you had no sisters, And I'm even sure you had no brothers, And I'm even sure they never meet, Unless in the Styx a kingdom down below, And I'm even sure that you never heard Or saw your brother's face at all, And I'm even sure that it never was, And I'm even sure that he's nothing at all like to him That your ugly image sees in the brain. <|endoftext|> Thou know'st the delights of its meads and groves, The joyous birds, the breezy heavens above, And from the night-rack singest forth the steed. The minstrel's harp with warbling strains thou brings, While lutes and lyres flash on silver wings, And gushing streams of music pour from thee. Thou bring'st the oaten pipe, and lute so sweet, And shepherd's shawm, with tunes so varied, And harp-like songs, and chants by mystic forms taught, And gorgeous palaces for watching time, And meads where flow'ry tints and flowers are seen, And shady groves where melancholy thoughts are; Thou bring'st the harvest with the Fall's fair spoils, And guiltless fruit that well-earned merit blesses, The yellow fruit that longs for being plucked so well. Thou bring'st the plaintive voice and mingled hymn, The rustic dance, and merry feast's rejoicing tone, And o'er the harp-strings solemn stoles that glide, And sweetly thrill with tones that all love to hear; Thou bring'st the plain, brown face with smiling lines, The glowing cheek, the eyelids' lighter tinge, The solemn stride, the sunshine of serenest brows; Thou bring'st the gentle, passion-crowned Sorrowing, And boundless Hope, and O when shall I see thee? The soft, sweet lute, the harp, the girdling harness that constrains, The freedom of the pastime, and the glories of the game; The splendid garb, the rich variety of motions, The lovely person, the glossy hide, The irresistible charm of thee, and crown of all. I ask not if thine eyes are blue, Or whether thine is the fairest form; I ask not if they be white, Or wrinkle hard or soft as ermine. Nor need I whether they be Youth or age, of maturer days; Nor to what land, of seas or shores, Or of the fibres of the reed, Thou turn'st thy shadowy and languid eyes. I ask not if thou the fairest be, Or fairest of all that fairest can be; I only ask that thou art like The fair Mycene from whose loins All Phoenician progenitors Came forth to shake the earth with war. Like her dost thou; like her thy hue Be eunuchs fine, and kings of time. Like her the bright magnificent And haughty face of him who built The terrible Dome in Jerusalem; And like her Joseph, Joseph meek, And perfect in all true love's looks. O heart of hearts! O tender heart of clay! O deep, deep-hearted clay! that healest wounds With a rare cure, and thy sweet touch rendeth limb from limb! O sweet, soft-sinewed hand! that fastened pure Thy beloved on the Cross, and there Gave blood for price, blood for wine, Blood for everything! O sacred, white-handed hand! That calleth in the night For repentance, and in the noon Calleth to prayer Thy sweet neighbor, the just, And maketh the dead live, And death consume, And calleth down the mighty from the narrow way, And hurls the wicked to the furnace! What wouldst thou have of me, O heart of hearts! O blameless heart of clay! What shall I ask of thee? O heart of hands! O hands of him Whose goodness made thee dear! O hands! O hands of him Whose grievous taunts were bannered "Christ! the Judge!" O Christ! howbeit he knew That they who wait for remission Are only those whose sin Is of the flesh, who pray for that might To cleanse them atoning, O Christ, Thy name be merciful. O Christ, how though he knew The sinners were doomed to burn, He did it not to meridian, But with his cross and dyes, With tears and shrieks and groans, With all the life That might perchance survive his death, That might redeem his soul. O Christ, he bore it all, Heard it all, saw it all, Yet he felt it not; He knew it all, and he saw it, Nor cried out, nor murmured word. O Christ! his cross was gall, His cross was good, O Christ! his heart was kind, O Christ! his hands were free, O Christ! his senses held it all, And he did bear it well. My little fellows, said the Cow, Down in the dolorous dumps, "Hush! hush!" said the Cow, "It's death I bear, not love. Mercy's furled her eyes, And she shuns us both; No, boys, that's not the way to woo. "Come, little guys, and see What to our dumb hearts gives avail. The Cow I fling from me, For I've decided that I'll none To Cowess Cow--ay, nor she, So long as either lasts." Then said the Cow: "Shame depart, Not mine, not mine again. Mercy's fickle eyes Are turned upon us quite, For the Cow I fling from me, But she shuns us both." "O thou! said the Bee to the Butterfly, "If thou didst say, 'No,' I would be false; If thou didst say, 'Yes,' I would deceive; If thou didst say, 'I love,' I would deceive; But thou didst say, 'I love!' and I'm false, And I will never tell the truth to thee, And thou shalt love me, and I will love thee, And thou art blind, and I am blest, and thou Shall go to ground, and I'll cling and lift thee, And when thou walkest, 'Here he sits, be swift, He'll lick thy shoes, and bite thy shins, And when thou'st a-bed thou'lt be stuffed with butter.'" To this the Butterfly answered: "Look upon me well. I am as good as thou, and three times better; I rule the kingdom of the belly-fish; I give the suckers their suck; I pass The fat away, and the belly fattens on it; I go and dangle in the soup-spilt water, And all the glory is mine. I change my silver for gold, And wear the crowns of heaven on my heads. I have fed thousands, and made a kingdom thereof." To this the Bee replied: "Look upon me well. I speak the word of wisdom to the world, And have sat for thousands in the marketplace. I sit and spin, I study law and morals, And count the pennies raining down from heaven. I speak the word of wisdom to the world, And do not say it twice; I speak the word of wisdom to the world, And do not say it twice, For I speak it twice, And have spread it to a second shore. And if I hear it said against me, I'll answer, I'll justify it, I'll say to him, 'Take the hundred and one, Take it and go,' For the hundred and one I did not take." To this the Butterfly answered: "Look upon me well. I have undone much, have much undone, Have lost my wings, have gone in poverty. But now I shine, I am so-so, good-for-nothing; I give the suckers their suck, I pass The fat away, the belly fattens on it, I go and I hang up curtains to a room, I do not say to him, 'Take it and go,' For I say to him, 'Take it and go,' And then I talk to him, and wish him happy, And say to him, 'Hang up the curtains;' Then walk away, and count my steps as good." The Car yearns at the fringe of the ground. "Where shall I rest?" said the Car. "Where shall I rest?" said the Cat. "I think," said the Skunk, "we'll have to throw me down." Said the Skunk, "I think we should not throw me down, It might hurt my pretty legs." Said the Cat, "I think we should not throw me down, It might hurt my pretty legs." And the Wind said, "My Singer calls to me; <|endoftext|> The mighty thyme--the woodbine--the violets-- Are not so fair-- Nor the cornel-fruit so yellow--nor the bluebells So blue! The blackbird's voice--the lark--the thrush--the gannet-- Are not so gay-- The cock--the hen--the cockerel--are not so true-- And neither are they quick! In winter, when the warmth was o'er, The bonnie cottage lay Where all were glad to lie In the close of the delightful day, And hear the cock crow in the morn, And the milking-kail in the rest, And the wise woman's wit. In winter, when the sun was out, In winter, when the heat was in, The bonnie cottage lay Where all were glad to lie In the close of the delightful day, And see the sun go soov'n to the west, And hear the cock crow in the morn, And the milking-kail in the rest, And the wise woman's wit. The bairnies leant along the wall, The bairnies leant along the floor, And heard, in wonder and delight, The clatter of the skirts below; The clatter of the frills around, The shining of the jewels on The neck of Susan's sweater-suit, And wondered what it was they seemed To match, and whence they came. And one, with looks that told her name, The name she ne'er had learned to speak, As "Susan" might, or "Sally," Till words were hard on her tender throat, Looked through her fingers at the gems, And asked what she thought they meant. But next she turned--with fingers light, As if their colors were a dream, And let a golden girdle fall And bound her lovely ankles, tight, As if the bound were sealed the whole-- The bound that bounden all above. She stood, the suitors marveling still, As, with the girdle bound upon her breast, The frock she wore was neat and clean. She turned, and her dark eyes shone As if they brimmed the tide of them; And she stood in the faint moon's light And, standing there, smiled for them A smile that lightly spoke the bliss That toil's ten thousand heads bestows, But never quite found expression there. She turned, and the smile that kissed her lips Touched like a passing breath of them; She stood as if her soul were theirs, But she could not touch the gems for them And so she turned, and turned her face As if she wished to turn them all away And hide them in the dark below. She turned, and the silence pressed With a power to make them cold as death To touch the gems with soundless wail; She stood, with hands in pockets, head bent, And stood and looked along the room And stood and sang, "You are not all my mother, But all my mother-in-law." She turned, and, ah! she sang with power, Her high and stirring voice to send; But as she sang, her eyes, they rose, Her eyes grew lurid and strange, They glowed with a poison flame of venom, And she, her body trembling, stood, And sang, "The land is all too sweet, The land is not thy mother's, Denmark." "You are not all my father, Joseph, But all my father-in-law, Otto, You are not all my sister Margaretta, But all my sister-in-law's husband, James; And you are not all my brother Wilfried, But all my brother-in-law's brother, Dieter." And so she turned and left them there, And sang and sang, till the empty walls rang With sobs from those who hid in fear below, Who knew that evil things might happen there, But could not tell what evil things might happen. She sang, till at last she rose up, And with a cringing and a fearful air She sang some more of love and longing; "O, thou who wast the king of kings, The Sun, with wine and fire endowed, The Sun, who casts his light in gold, Give back my love and gold to me, And give my light forever. "Or give me death and darkness, And let me die, not knowing love, And without a shudder or fear, But let me die, and with my nails Tap to earth the feet of death. Better is that than see my love Wounded, and crying out for help, While I stand idly by and do nothing. "Give back my love and gold to me, And give my love a grave, and leave me With the warm warm earth for my bed, And let the light of love die And never rise again to bless And never be a bright thing there." So she turned from there and went her way And sang her songs with singing sounds, But never sang a note that sounded sweet. So Song went on her way and sang And sang, and sang, and sang for hours, But never sang a sweet note's sound; For evermore her throat was dry, And evermore her hands were weary, And evermore she had no music. So she went home sadly in the dusk, And hung her head and wept for sore; And Father said, "It is not that, But my fault, it is not that, For I have given, I have given, And never I could give enough. "But it is tired work for any man, And yet I cannot do more; I have not known her as I should, Nor loved her as I should, Nor given to her the love That is hers by right of birth. "Give me work that is new and strange, That has for me no ending, That is strange to each man's mind, Yet all to all are the same; For in a world of work we tire, And the old law is good. "The law of the King of Judah, Who made us Saxons and this land, It is the law of that is gone, And it is good that I make it, But we are wrong if we think it The law of love alone. "Love," said my father, "it is a law That men make for one and all; There is no other law on earth Except it comes from the Lord, That men make for each and all. That is the law that men must keep; It is the only law that they need. "But if the law that I made Should fail, O, then I would not mind Not being Lord of this place, But go the way that has been gone, Or be a slave for all my life, And follow after another." Then she said, "The law that you made Is better than the law she said, For the law she made had not The light of the law in it, But yours has all the light of it; You made it new, and yet it is old. "Give me the life that I have made, And give me her love that is lost; The law that I made had for her The law's content, but yours has none. And the new love, though it be better, Has not the old love's fulness either." So she went home and wept for sore, But father and mother said, "The work is all done, the work is all done, We know that the work is all done; The work of Love, which is finished, It is the fulness of the law, And the fulness of the law is Love." "Give me the life that I have saved, And give me her love that is saved, The law that I made had for her The law's content, but yours has none; And the new love, though it be better, Has not the old love's fulness either." So I went home and I bowed my head And said, "I am no wife to love, And I am no child of hers; For I have killed the thing that I loved And loved her to, and loved her to, And loved her and killed her, and killed her, And that is over, and that is done; And now I am not a woman, But a mere wife to hate and slay." And that is true; I know it now; And in my tears I said to her, "In the body that I inhabit There is no part to hold her love, There is no part in life to save For which there was no slaying of man; <|endoftext|> Each trying to fix her, and all birthing an alien and subtler love. As some great city built for a book Receives the book, repays the book, Shows the book to the world; So, Alcestis, thou who didst receive From Juno's hand a crown divine, Render honour to the book which brought Thy name to honour, and to us, The living, who thy book hath found By long endurance in the habit Of a fierce exile. This our task fulfil. Let nothing stay us, nothing decay; But, building brick by brick, grey by grey, A dwelling place, let it grow in might And strength, till we may bigger books surpass. So, not alone from tavern wall or hall Of private home the message will be sent, But echoed from the open breath Of mountains, or the silence of the sea. So, not alone by day from task or trade Will the great message be opposed, But, in the twilight of the world, be seen In darkness as a burning bush or flame Moving to light, to fellowship with men. So, not alone by night from labour or war Will the great message be opposed, But, in the darkness as a burning bush or flame Moving to light, to fellowship with men. So, by night as well as day, the message will be sent, And the great work of mankind be done. Great is this work, and great the toil to do it; For not one alone, but millions, shall reap the fruit. There shall be no more of common harm, but all Shall have their full share of noble work to do, To win the greater gain, to hold the nobler life. The old order must change, or die a death; And that change comes only through the man who does it. There are who say: "No, we will not touch it, the old world Till we have turned all heaven's stars to one." Well, let them say so; but, lo, Before all things that are, there is one that is, And all the heavens are faint where he shames them not, His face obscured with dark clouds, And his broad beams narrowing till they fit not, Nor spread in narrow spirals of repose. He waits, he watches, night and day, The darkness groweth. The darkness laughs. The darkness will not hear the human cry For help, the cry of one for another. But, say they, sighing, there, the old world keeps Itself, and, helped by the stars, it lifts The burden from its knees, and slings It on the grass, and, lifting, spreads it far, And, setting, folds it in, and closes up, And it must go on, until it tires the rings. The light withdraws, and the bright heaven lies Within the darkness, pale and cold and grey; For now the morning shows in outward lines The web that, once, in color, shod, First took the world and all its creatures to war; The world and all its creatures, broken, bent, With wounds no longer than the mortal bleeds, With wounds no larger than the world's self; And, as of old, the world is crippled with pain, And on its wounds the poison lays full dry; The pain of the world doth go and come no more, And, from all places, now, the thing it was. Well it may be, all things are but bound Until they meet and collide. Well, To-day the sun is shining bright; To-day the sun is shining bright; And, through the sweet, stiff air of June, The tender blossoms fall and fall, That hid in them their green eyes should show, But, if they should, the sun would miss 'em. Ah, how the bee and butterfly Must like the summer--the summer! Ah, how the warm and bright Frosty grasses, spring by spring, Must like the summer--the summer! And when, at last, the frost is gone, And the green leaf burns like a kiss, The two last butterflies, if they choose, Must leave their dead bodies, wing by wing, To lie, white and motionless, In the cold, dead grass of the year; To lie and to think their last; To think and to dream and to sing Their brief, happy summer-time. And yet it is not quite with sorrow That I say this, but with pleasure. For Nature hath a gentle heart, And when she chooses, her pony legs Will creep beneath the comfortable shade, And her brave heart will rest and stay, And, being comforted, she will smile Upon her sleeping children. I don't know why I wrote not more. Why I wrote not the books I wished I cannot tell. It might have been My grief made such writing seem dear, And, indeed, there are the pages. For I have weighed you, reader, down, And you have helped to bring me grief; Your good will and wishes brought it so That, with the earnings of a year, I wrote little in the next; And then I thought that, sadly, soon My sickness would make it so That, while I wrote, you would not hear from me, Or if you did, the letters would be Too idle for the time to answer. Well, the time is passed; you now hear me. The year is nearly ended, and so I am, at last, well. I write to you Because, since I could not tell you when, I thought you would not think me strange If, now I say I have the strength to write, I wrote, you knowing that, beyond the stars, Beyond the knowledge of physicians, I thought and wrote that you would hear from me. For, to my mind, the thing that is most Enduring and, indeed, most Endearing, is that, though you know it not, You have, in spite of your disdain, In the depths of your love an instinct Of what endures and what truly breeds. You do not, for the most, comprehend That the sole possession of a husband Is his mind. You are so self-conceited. The man who has no mind to let you go Is no husband to you, and you've no right To destroy him, or, at any rate, To think that you can do so with impunity. This is not quite true. There are instances In history and among the many Types of married life that come under review, That come under review, that teach us much About the health and the happiness of the wife. There are many, in fact, where the wife Has stood up and made a probative case For being, in fact, the better spouse. For instance, in the life of a Norman Or a Frankish emperor, we find this term Applied to the wife, when, in later times, And in the life of the Middle Ages, it Was applied to the bride-in-principle. But, from the beginning of marriage, as Discussed in Genesis, the wife Was, in the main, the thing, while the bride-in-principle Was a thing relegated, a mere fuel-thing, A mere fuel-thing, and sent back to the fire. That was the word the fathers of the Church Have applied to the wife. You'll find it so In the Old and the New Testament; but, In our day, we would say that the wife Is, in fact, the stronger of the two, And has in many instances, been so, In the past, to the exclusion of the husband. Well, I would not go so far as to say That the wife has not had her successes, failures, Sports, quarrels, alliances, as the husband Has had his successes, failures, and so on. But, in general, the husband has been The stronger of the two, when it comes to power, In the past, to the exclusion of the wife. Yes, I should like to be able to say to you That the husband is, in every important way, Inordinately fond of his wife; And that, if he had a mind to do so, He would love her to the ten thousandth degree. But, in the world in which we live, it is Quite generally known that the husband is In the main the stronger of the two, In the main, when it comes to power, to the exclusion It is, perhaps, a fact too inadmissible For the purpose of an article of faith, That the wife has had her ups and downs, and has, <|endoftext|> And but for this we should be lost, And out of it we should be done. Now in a strife between a man and a woman, He wags more strongly on the wrong; And when he feels himself about to swing, He smiles, and wavers, and re-inspires; And when he looks like swinging clean, There's quite a many a woman who laughs. When to go is to go, And to come is to come, Love is love, As it follows The object from which It was called back. This and that We need When we have left The nearest Vainest One That we knew. Who is the longest lasting candle That shines unto both the skies? For he that does not change And he that never changeth And he that never shall, They are but day to day. Then sleep, for sleep is sweet 'Mong the flowers that are fair, Till the clock that stands by the wall Tells that it is time to break The cup that is not half-soured. To see the clouds that are blown 'Mong the flowers that are fair, To hear the voices of the winds In a whisper as they pass, To feel the flowers as they blow, O sweetly through the day. How pleasant 'tis when the night Brings forth to life some angels, And then come to earth the stars, Brighter than bright, and make Beauty and obscurity A comfort and a beauty. O lovely Friend! that art in me More now than before the world began To breathe and shine! I live again From the sweet airs that come to thee As from voices of the angels. Dear, do not be so grave, for love Will answer when we are parted. Come, Let us go over the hills and the valleys. Over the sweet hills, and over the sweet valleys. Over the clear brook, that rolls on to the great river. Over a headland of buxom beauty, white and towering, That gives back so sweet a sea-like sound to the sea. We will lie down together, and dream together, Dream that till dawn comes we shall not awake, And the night-winds sing together, and I, Waking, shall feel the freshness of thy breath, And the bright heaven of thy face shine on me. Is it a year to the day since first we met, And first saw the paths and the flowers grow lovely, And the sun smiling o'er the green, Autumn flowers? Long, long ago, a mere thing of yesterday, A something flitted across our living room wall. Nowadays it seems like a little thing said by one Who was tired of something else, and said it long ago. I would not have it again; it feels too soon. The past is so flimsy and had such a human purpose. But it was not always so. In those days it seemed A part of the furniture, not so artificial. I remember how glad I was when I took it in, And how long I have had it; for the past seems so foolish. I would not have it again. I know not what it is. Something I have seen or something I have heard? It is a loop of the old shell-sails we sailed on. And it came across the living room wall. I can see it clearly through the darkness. Nowadays it seems so trivial, and is so soon. Then it seemed to me that the world was just As it had always seemed, and we two were one. And the night winds sighing, and the garden stones aglow, And the robin singing on the old elm tree, All this seemed part of the old-fashioned round That is going round again to be still and lonely. I am asking myself, as the daylight comes With light of its own, and rapture and sadness, And quiet with the quiet that is rapture and sadness, And all that the world is for the soul, now that the world is for the soul. Is there a fit which may be named so fixed and so purposive As the blending of two words, or of a few? Are there any hearts which were not hearts before? When a lover's eyes have lingered on a girl And a lover's heart has blushed for a day, What will the joy be that he feels? This is what the voice said: "Come over to me, If you love love and are a man of the world. If you cannot change and must be a slave, If you cannot be a king and a poet, Then you will be a mate for the singer." This is what the flame said: "I will lie down with you, If you love truth and are a fool of the world." Are there any men who have been neither slave nor king? What will the peace be that he knows? This is what the song said: "I know a little rest." Is there any soul who has lived without a rest? What will the lie be that he has told? The poem that he has sung? This is what the flame said: "A little rest is better." Is there any world that has neither been slave nor king? What will the lie be that he has tried to be? And the fool who has tried to be a man? Here is the land that I know, Green places and benches and corners That hold a fresh meeting; Blue sky and hills of blue colour Over a turf of gold. Here is the land that I know, Woods and meadows with stumps and junipers, Meadows, meadows with deep green furze. Towers and walls are not for me, Dragon is a sacred word. Here is the land that I know, It is ever in a fixed dream. It is narrow and divided, It is enclosed by hills and firs, It is open and there is section Of open meadows and far fields. Here is the land that I know, It is enclosed by stone walls, By the spot of black earth under. The night and the tempest cover it, There is no bar or opening, No way to the white wall or warning. Here is the land that I know, Men and women, strong and weak. A word of white is all the warning, There is no bar to the feint sight. Here is the feint land of the fairies, It is now white and white-washed. Here is the land that I know, It is deserted and unknown, And the children of men that grow there No more are fairies or children, They have grown old and are taken. In the beginning was the bar, The first barrier of the feint land, And the dews of the growing season Sluiced o'er the first bright landscape. But there was no bar nor safeguard, And the land grew and grew to bar The river of fear, the rippling foam Of the wide fear of the world. And the men of that lonely place Were strong of heart, and they knew That the feint place must remain A feint place and a feint wall, A feint place to bar the fear Of the world from the men of that lonely place. And so they left their wives and children, And the feint place was named after them, And the white men came and built the town And called it town of the widow's mansion, And named it Hope City, For there was money and fame and comfort And beautiful women to fill the town. And the women in the town of hope Called the white men robber barons, Because the men of the lonely place Had taken the land and business from them, And the feint men made the women beautiful, And the beautiful women died. And the fear of the world grew deep, And the women and the children cried For the loss of the wonderful woman, For the wonderful woman's beauty, And the beautiful women dead. And the land without a name was named Because the land without a name was empty, And the men of the lonely place had passed Into empty white cities, Into empty white worlds. Now is the time of two names, And the men of the lonely place Call the white men robber barons, Because the robber barons have come, And the beautiful women's beauty, And the women they have slain. And the beautiful women that are named In our land, in our county, In our state, in our nation, Have returned to the great love of woman, To the great love of life. The women of the lonely place Have a hope that is greater <|endoftext|> Thou hast that at thy back and left-hand, A certain hand, the ensigns on the right, The ensigns up on the hills; and he is in his work, and his signs I know; and we have plenty to eat, and the people are all ready for the service." And Odysseus of many counsels answered him: "I cannot tell thee that, sir, for I do not know anything about it. Howbeit I envy thy good will in having this for thy delight, and the fair maidens will tell thee the story. But this is the place where the suitors hold their meetings and feast, and one in front and one in back unites the synod. But all the rest of the people sit either afar off or at the side, or even on the booths themselves, either to listen or to answer, and at each other they speak, and go pit-a-pat to a man's own humour. Now there are those who stand to speak and those who sit, the elders and the younger men, and some even go on so far as to repeat again what they have said; and others make shorter or longer speeches than before, and some sit silent and keep whispering till all have spoken and their hearts are glad within them, and some are so overcome with mirth that they become savage and do not care to uproot the vines from off the ground any more, whether old or young. But they all eat together, and the men fall to praising the son of Peleus, proud of his father's slaughtering, and others blithe and glad to speak their pleasure, but the maidens give their judgement in all things, and few choose to praise any one by name. And among them Eurynome and the heart of Queen Penelope are holden most in honour, for they are steady and faithful and patient in woe, and they gave me much glory in the eyes of all the rest, while I was still at home. But other women too, I have given honour to in death and in life, the maidens whom I loved and whose looks I used to care for on my return from Troy with the rest of the unharmed Greeks. And Odysseus used to love them all, and never leave them even in the darkest of nights when he lay weeping, as he sat in sadness by his spacious bedside. But the others all are dead and gone, save one, and she hath a dark destiny and a long delaying: but let us unto her face the end, lest in after days some man speak ill of her and her son, and hale her hence bound and bald without the reduction of her dowry, for that she hath no son to follow up her name." 'So spake he, and the others all held their peace. But the queen, pale and sorely troubled, turned her face and went forth through the porch, sorrowing as she went: and Odysseus, of the bitter words the controller, followed her, and in like manner the goodly-greaved Achaeans all let themselves go, and their hearts were broken for their queen. And Odysseus, of the bitter speech the controller, spake among them: "Men who have hazel yards either far or near Epirus, where the salt moss glistens with leaves and there the water runs deepest, may ye dwell happily, and may your children and their children long after you have gone forth from this place, seeing that there is left room here to pass and plenty of hallowed ground. But come, let us to the house and let us lift up our hands and pray to our father Zeus, lord of the looms, that he may grant to us to gaze upon the light of the day, and to drink the salted barley bread which the sons of the Achaeans have eaten, and to keep alive in our halls these many herds of swine that have escaped the fowler Philoetius, who went about and sowed his curses among them. Nay, and he hath lost both hope of life and of good murder. Nay, but let us to the house and pray to Zeus, who can save us from evil and may judge our cause aright, that so if we suffer any other great sorrow, we may have succour of divine Zeus, and thus he will not choose to give us worse help than when he delivered us from the tempestuous waves of Troy, and from the harsh anger of the king, when we showed our bounty at the mouth of his mouth, and gave him good night in the hours of the night." 'So spake he, and they all held their peace. But Philoetius stood still and pondered in his mind how he should tempt the shock of the coming dawn. And he said to his wife and to the servants: "Hear me, dames, and ye that tend the house, and my sons that are to become men. Hard is it to overcome sleep, unless the light break suddenly from heaven, which gives life and lustre to the mortal world. Now that I have thought of the springtide of the year, I shall not be sleepy till the daylight, dark as it is, be drowned in the wakeful morning. Now will I quickly go to my sons and bid them on the hither side of my woman-slaves to prepare a banquet for them, and myself will be for them a present and a giver of gifts.' 'So he spake, and with good will he did. And they cleft a way in the firs, and he went up into the fair garden, and his sons and the servants of his hire followed after. And straightway they gathered in the meadow, the shepherds and the sons of the household. But the goddess bent down the pine-trees of the orchard, and her divine eyes were attuned to the hurtling flowers, and she bade them drive the hardy shepherds from the hedge. So they set them afire with the red wine, and the goddess cast a dark cloud about their heads, and still to their shame they drove the hardy shepherds from the hedge, and were utterly ashamed. Then the goddess went home to the halls of Odysseus, for she neither feared nor was unaware of the god, who stood by her midst, but the other immortals were silent. So Odysseus lay till the morning, robed as for a journey, and stretched forth as if inviting sleep, and made the women lay also in their arms, and they slept and were prompt to wake. And Odysseus woke and saw the sun, and spake among the sons of the household, saying: 'Now is the time, men, when the bees have done their devotion and the fields all flowers, and the grain-gleaners come to the wine-bowl, that the season may be sweet for the wish of the lovers. So shall my word be easy to a pleased Odysseus, and my guerdon shall be a fair wife and many children. And when I am become greater in part, I will give a statue of life unto the island-maidens.' Therewith he sat among the princes, and the chiefs of the Phaeacian race, and such as were the men that dwelt round the borders of Laurentian Pylos, and such as were the men that dwelt near the land of Samos. He kissed their foreheads, and forthwith spake to good Deiphobus, to the goodly leader of the men, to Laodocus: 'Dear fellow, thou art worthy of praise, and thou art wise, and the discerning of men is thy appointed work. Go to the city, to the city that thou knewest, and tell the bidden heralds that I am in the house, for surely I met them not as yet. Be confident, my friend, and rejoice with me; and methinks the gods will prove gracious to us, and that they will forgive and come to our prayers.' 'Thou art even now preparing thy return, Odysseus, the wise son of Odysseus, and this hath elicits envy. Lo, the gods and thee are witnesses of thy friendship, of the goodness of theines, and of thy nobility. For never yet did eagle, swift-winged king, bear off a flock of wooers, or lions or wild boars, or a flock of sheep, or a flock of deer or wild goats, from one place of refuge to another, or a flock of <|endoftext|> And yet--all on a sudden Wend onward,--her lord, at her side, Astonishing and silent, Down the path that leads To the enchanted wood Of his house's old haunt. A castle of old days, That like a lover had stood In the knightly hearts of men, Pillars, towers, and lairs, Merry, smouldering, terrible, Feathered with mystery; Beside the sea-shore Stood a pale, grey castle The like of which was never seen 'Neath sovereigns of the sea. There all alone he came From out the rosy lands Where in love and pride Hero loveliness was rife; The stars of heaven could not Have gladdened to behold This holy, solitary guest,-- This angel of my soul. So then, the moods of youth Lurk in his eyes that burn With a fierce and furtive lust; And of the meaning dream In his brown eyes there is a hint,-- What if he never tell The secret now of my life? And yet I would that he should Of all my doings read; For his eyes saw the dreams that I Hid from the world below; And the dreams that were my own Were always kept for him alone; And I that scorned to let His eyes upon my joys behold Now honour him with tears. He, who can walk unwedded Through the world of Wisdom's bower; He, who can sit at Love's feet And drink the sweet and sour wine Of their secret speak; He, who can always go Where his angels can take him, Or always home return To the hearths of his own love, And where, if death it bring, 'Twill be only to sit With love and understanding In the arms of his own heart; This I imagine in his ears, In the fire in his heart; For he cannot taste it in dreams, Nor live long enough to test The wild imaginings That make the world's discordant chime, That disturb the human year, But for this cause I love him,-- Loving and dreaming,--that he should Learn of me, that secret lore. Through life, in the rough and thrashing tide Of fortune, up to the summit poured Of power, to the height of pride and power, It never was my lot to fare badly; For the winds blew behind me or ahead, They bore me, they hurled me, they set me standing; And I gathered from the cheering breakers That, so greatly winning, even the tides might Ascend beyond me to the utmost depths of heaven. And it was good that the winds threw me-- It made no difference whether face or luck, And, if I fought bravely and died well, They bore me up to the summit still; And my faith grew high, and my courage grew, And my spirit grew, and my strength grew with me; And when I looked at the advancing skies With a dream like "All to good to die!" There were days when my face was white with dread, And my spirit hung all trembling in its suit; And I gathered from the breaking breakers That I never should reach the ending of my dream. But on those days the very gentleness Of earth was more than love to my breast; And, in every test, when the measure rolled Down or up its curve, still I felt sure, And with unquailing faith, that through its wheels My spirit would glide forever to God. There are heights that are best reached not by ships, And days of gold that are not earned by grass; For at the pier they bow to a clipper, And a gaudy sea-slider, warmed with plush, Flutters over the sands to a pipe-band; And we that have gone down the rocky stairs And gathered courage to go on to the height, But have not earned its gold,--we wait in vain Till we are chosen by chance or made to please The leisured few that have bought its gold. Through a long cloister where red candles shine, Slowly, slowly, I trace the designs on the walls, Through the thick gloom of monkish darks that block the way. My design, now blank and done, once upon a day I laid bare upon the painted windows of a church The gold I had found, in its worn-out track. And as I look, a halo hovers round the spot, A close, clear, precious one, that charms me still. The Church of England has been my idol from the day I set eyes on its tower, with its minster full in view. I would be that Norman Pope who can hymn the time to right, Who can speak of the Reformation and the Papacy's name In the same breath, and who can use both titles kindly and cleverly. And I would love the avocation of beating back heresy, And I would be an evangelist in truth and in doctrine, And help the Church to her full measure of faith and labour. Such were the thoughts of my early zeal, But now, I am a trifle different; My old ambition is not what it was, And my love of the things of the world Is curbed a bit, and my taste grown low; Yet I never shall cease to love the Church, And the Churchmen, the saints and the sages, For they are the sort to pitiful to see, And the sort that I would be. In the name of the Church, of which I am not sure, I would ask of my heart that it give her grace To let me live in some cloistered lane And die in tears,--mucho que Pio Nono, Mucho que Ganymede, mucho que Ganymede! For it hath been a ponderous load These thirty years and more, To chase the soul to and fro From dream to dream, from hope to hope, From triumph to triumph, With test of beauty, hope of glory, To gather and gather and gather. A hare whose foot is in the moon, And one that is not so wise as she, They hold the golden glories of Spring; And it is very fine to see The springtime come and go, Till life seems but gathering its length To its infinite beginning. But for me, I've no moon to fight with, No kingdom to conquer, alas! For like a million years the years go by, And gather me nearer and nearer To the great grave of my beginning, Where my feet shall never tread. The gold-tinctured breeze is high in the sun, The white sea gleams like chrysoprase, And, a-voyaging with many a pinnacled bay, The ship sails, with its cryptic mermaid curled, Like a musical soaring condor In a choir of brown and gold. But, laggard though I am, The song hath not come to me, And the white sea 's never the rose Of memories that glimmer yonder In the valley where my heart is Of dreams that never can die, Wherein I hear a voice that cries, O little ones, My vision in sleep was wide, And there were beautiful things to see In the twilight, where the brook is hiding, And a flock of laughing birds Lie resting on the sward. And through the golden dusk of the dream, Underneath the most blissful stars, In the hours of our slow journeying, One, more far than all the rest, Still watcht by me in my sleep Gleamed in a gown of white. And I woke, most softly, And, with the first far light Of day-break, saw her there still, In her gown of white, Still lying where she doth lie In the dream I had last night, And in a dream yet left true, Her white robe swept by the waves Like a silver sail. As at thy birth the Universe Thrilled with the breath of birth, So when I knew those visions true My heart grew sad, and my lips Wept for the Goddess that died Under the cross of them all, And all her singing children Still singing in their sleep. She wast not fair to outward view, For in her chamber, while they were making her, I heard a woman say, "The people all are going to the New Year's parade, And I am to be in the procession." And I saw her, as she sat beside the door, Turning up her eyes most truly great, With the glory of the marble floor, <|endoftext|> From the dark waves lave your smooth cheeks; The rose-flush to your bosom teems; So do you blaze and flush your bloom, And the lily shines a beam of red, And the lily falls a flower of snow. All I love as I go Is met and past, Blithe as the wind, and clear as the sky, And tender as the spring: All I love as I go Is met and past, Blithe as the wind, and clear as the sky. All I love as I go Is met and past, Blithe as the wind, and clear as the sky, And tender as the spring: All I love as I go Is met and past, Blithe as the wind, and clear as the sky. Though I go smiling in my heart, And all men grieve, To-morrow I may go weeping back, For that's the way of love! Who would remind you of the words You said to me last night-- To pay you the debt I owe To a kind word said the day before. When I am tired of youth, When I am worn with years, When my heart aches with doubt, And my head is heavy with care, Let me go singing to you; For I owe you my soul, And my body, too, your kisses! Let me go singing to you; Though you may say I'm old, I dedicate this song to you-- To you, dear lady, stay! Though you may think I'm rude, I consecrate this lay to you-- My lady, stay! A rose to my love, and to mine A eternal, incommunicable peace! We are seated face to face, 'Tis a bright and sunny day; We have supped in many a feast, We have gloried in many a song, But this evening we have waited For a single hour of bliss, Without one wish, one wish in vain, One wish granted, LOVE! A rose to my love, and to mine A dream of golden gardens in a glade; A celestial river flowing by, And a constellation hung with blue To guide us in our way. We are long together, we have talked Of many things--upon my heart have won A love that can never depart, A love that has no attributes, It is, all else, unconscious, pure, An undying, universal soul! A rose to my love, and to mine A lover's most sweet, unreproved vow; He has tranced himself in most aith, He has worshipped me with many a sigh; A life's sweet breath, in finny nostril blown, Has drawn him to life's streams, we may live thus, For as the sea, our life is salt and good; A wave may live, and live for ever so, A flower live only when wakened by love! A rose to my love, and to mine The deepest rapture of unclouded skies; The harp of song that wafteth words of love, And music from the spheres above. A soul to imitate as it wandereth, To sing a joy that never dies, A soul to inspire, and light a fire Of worship and of meek praise, A soul to shine, and sink in sweet shade, As sun ne'er shone, sun ne'er sank. A rose to my love, and to mine A perfect woman, made in her; With charm divine, of matchless worth, A being frail, but sublime and fair. For when my lips are wrapt in silence, And my thoughts wander, boundless and far, She is the life, she is the love, She is the dew of the sun on streamlet. A rose to my love, and to mine A singing, a loving, a dying; A spirit, and a form To hope in, and to be, to glow for, A stream, and a rain, And a wind, and a shadow, and star! A rose to my love, and to mine A soul which is born of my sighing; A trembling, but a soul, which is bold, A spirit of night, but a form of light. For we are dim and lone, without you, dear; We are dim and lone; yet we know, we know That the flower dies not, but the root is sweet; We know it is well to be proud, For who knows the depths of bliss, who hath not lived? For there are times when, heartless, I should like to be; And there are times when, starved by unappeased woe, I should as soon my mourning dress detach; And there are times when, with unrelieved desire, I should like to mix with the laughing world around me-- And there are times when, sick of hearkening to the voice within, I long to stretch forth and take what Heaven brings its hands. And then it is that, where all was beautiful once, There sleeps, in the chill, sad evening, one sweet star; And when the winds are trembling in their splendor set, You may find that star, with quiet motion, dimpling the glass, And watching its soft ray--tempting it to fly away-- I saw that star, last night, as well as you; And it was quenched, as all the rest are, In its soft ray, enticing it to fly away; But Heaven is wise, and will give us each sufficient Desire, to drive it home, ere we can blight it. It shines there, for us, an impartial hour-glass, Which, when full, we'll turn, and I can show you now Its sand is run, and full, and run again. Ah, life is like a volume! And, as I read, As well you must, where love would ne'er have me, I see my own imperfections, here, Though, modest like yourself, I do not tell The faults which I know I have, For we must find what we can in books, And, if we find it not there, 'Tis better, if we can, in our own hearts. To live, and to be living, is to know That life is what preceded all the acts; And he who lives and rises by his acts Grows old by growing, young by going; The noblest, happiest, pass the rest In becoming old by becoming. To die, and to be dying is to know That life is cut short by death; And he who dies by life oppressed, Then dies denied the peace of death; The best, bravest, dearest, best may fail In enduring the toil of life, The wisest and longest-living men Must feel the painful and ignoble end When time its course shall hold. O Life! thou art so beautiful, so fair, I fain would live for half the time Ere I had lost the feeling of desire For thee, and found in what remains No hope of my own! But I am no athlete, and my will Is weak, my desires imploring; Nor do I dare to venture more Till I have tried and tried again. The best of living were a toy, Were I but dreaming, say, That when the time for dying came, I then should have a gem Like him who soared on high, and flew To his own soaring! And I say, if the years arise, And if I might be A boy again, a girl, a man, The soaring would be louder, truer, The flying more accomplished; The highest reaching then should try T he crowning feat-- To live, and to be living, is to know That life is what preceded all the acts, And he who lives and rises by his acts, Grows old by growing, young by going! Like the angel of the pavement, down Soft on the dusty road of time, With tread of measured step, and eyes Full of celestial pity, Comes one, who gently, without skill, Stops by my weary feet. "What wilt thou do, my son?" he cries, And lifting from the riven stones My restless horse, with caution says, "Now cast thine eye above, now cast Its watch upon the skies! "Alike upon the earth or in the air The glory of the God of Day Shines ever and forever. The eternal glory beams around Thee and thy future. I Wander as the angels of the sky, Wander as the heavenly choir, From realm to realm, from earth to heaven! <|endoftext|> with a long lasting soil that no longer is cool. This is what you dream of when you eat your waffle, this sweet gold shining from a pile of 'light, fresh meals,' muffin tops and sausages. This isn't here, says a bird on a limb. It isn't here, says the road. So I pull over, walk back into the house, put my 'lights on, pour a glass of orange juice for my mother, who is still sitting. She takes it, smiles. <|endoftext|> "Shaping", by Lyn Hejinian [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Spring, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Shaping is an activity of breaking; that's what the white pebbles, jagged shapes of a beach I lay my head on, tell me: —the thing they are breaking— When you were growing up did you try to understand how the world came to have those so different from you, the earth, water, air always different from your own things? I try to answer, but my words come too close to flying into your life, flying so that I can't tell which ones are mine —the others— you try to tell me <|endoftext|> "Minerva's Den", by Carol Frost [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] Is it true what they say about the length of your fingers or the width of your rent? It's what they say, but I don't believe it. A field of gray squirrels mows the landscape. I know that somewhere out there a brickyard must be waiting for someone with the right license. I can't always see it, but I can go when the dust rises. After I finish watering the flowers the sky darkens, and I hear the song of Minerva shaping the clouds. <|endoftext|> "Glanmore Sonnets", by Donald McDougall [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The day is done, the work of the day Is not done, and the work of the night Is not done. The stars are above, the stars are below In the dark heart of the ocean; And the light of the stars is of the day, The light of the stars is of the night When the light is not of the day. I have seen the morning sea, and sea Is happy, for its happiness is mine; And the joy of the sea is not of the day, Nor of the night, when the light is not of the day. <|endoftext|> "A Letter to the Young", by Donald McDougall [Living, Youth, Activities, School & Learning, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] Your face has touched my face in the classroom, You have made me forget the lessons of the day, You have lifted me up in your arms to sit Like a child for a moment. Your hair is soft and will lie in my hair When you are not speaking to me. I am looking into your clear and bright eyes To find out what the words will say. I want to say them well, and be done with them. I think I am doing them a disfavor To be left thinking they are not good. I'm glad to see you, and glad to get you I cannot help but think they are good. I hope that we shall be as far apart As possible from now on, and I hope You will never come to see me again. I hope to God they will not let me go To another city to meet you, but I hope They will let you keep your engagement To me. I do not think it will happen, For after all it is only young love. I hope it will not happen. I do not want to hope it will happen, I am glad it will not happen. And I only hope it will not happen. <|endoftext|> "February", by Donald McDougall [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] February is the cruelest and most difficult month, Because it is so cold and nothing is going to happen. It is all too easy to be lazy and negligent, So we have to get things done around the house In a way we might think is useful. February is the time of year when people Can get up and go for a long walk in the mountains, Or ride a motorcycle or whaleboat, or take A hot air balloon, or make snowmobiles, Or make ice skates or attempt to cross the ocean In a boat they have built themselves. February is also the time of year When birds begin to think about spring. It is in the germ, and the season of improvement, And it is coming up fast. <|endoftext|> "Sleep", by Ted Kooser She sleeps well, draped In her blanket on her couch. Her husband keeps a spare In his gun case. He tries To keep it loaded, Ready to fold up, But the daughters Keep it loaded, too. They are alone a lot. They toss, and they aim And they talk about home, And they want to go back, Back to their old lives, But they are too tired And they don't want to. Sometimes they rest, sometimes They try to fall asleep, Sometimes they stare In one spot, sometimes They look around, or maybe Just along the edge Of the bed, or at Their shoes, their mother And her too-small caresses. Their father, he lies With his big arms folded Over the small ones, And tries not to move. And then he tries not to move. The father and the daughters Are asleep, or at least Troubled and unhappy. They will not wake up. The big arms are small And unrefined. The daughters, they know That they will not wake up, And so they rest, and look At their father, who tries Not to move, and worry That he will, and be Thoughtful and watchful, and try To keep from looking Where he points, or tries To do without looking, And would be if he could, But he cannot. They are angry at him, of course, And sometimes they cry, Or sing a little bit, And talk to each other, The young ones only A little. But he sleeps. He will not wake up. And they do not know That they will not wake up. They do not know that they will Just lie here, tired and sad, Not angry, not afraid. They look around, at their dresses, At the small cushions on which They will be sleeping, the black And silver pillows like ships at sea, At the windows that will open In the night, at the radios, And the tall books that they will read, And the chairs they will sit in, And the windows again. They look at the trees, and then Back to him, a little, and he does not Look at them. He tries not to, But there are slight movements all around, And then nothing. He tries To think of nothing. He tries To think of the past, the distant Past when he was young, and worked Hard for what he has, and could Think and do things, and have Things to do, and be Happy, too. He tries To think of his father, and his Mother, who was kind, and thought He would be all right, and now He does not know if he will Be alive to go to his work And finish it, or work afterwards And get things to send to his mother. He tries to think of his sister, And his father's wife, who died A long time ago, and who Was as rich as she was fair, And happy, too, and good, And thoughtful, and full of love, And willing, too, to give Anything that he wanted, no matter How much it hurt her pride. But she Was not the same after her loss As she had been before her loss. He tries to think of his own mother And his father, who was kind, And thoughtful, and willing, and held His life together, even while Disagreements and jealousies Perished with a yell. He tries To think of his own mother. <|endoftext|> But for each curse, that can be laid upon The tongue of man to set him guiltless quick, For each offence, that can in man be said, O folly, must thou stand before the judgment seat. Why must I speak of what I must not say? Why must I keep my lips from that avenging blow, When not to speak would justly condemn me? For why must I keep the gift, my brethren? Is it for a curse, that I must bear the gift? What though we be defiled with blood, with guilt, With malice, and with guile? Is that a curse? Is not our God's hand against us? What is this But to be cursed for a time? We cannot bless, Unless we are virtuous; and who can be virtuous, Unless he be a blessing, and a blessing love? Can we forget that Christ upon his cross Railed at the attaint, and at the dreadful stain Of our iniquities? Can we forget, or not, How that same Christ, with countenance austere, Baptized for the sins of many, and for mine, And all on me his absolute command Entombed, and I athwart the tomb buried? What is it to me? Is it not to be blest? Say, will they keep me waiting in the grave For that worse punishment, or do they release Me, saying I shall be blest? O that I were dead! I were so happy! and I should be so now, Could I but rest it in my grave, and forget. I shall be blest,--for what is bliss, if it End not at all? but life will still go on, And never cease to live in some new form, And some new shape of joy, and of eternal day; Though my soul, shut out from heaven, must cry for peace, And be repented, and be comforted. But what is man, the end of being? Will he be Humbl'd in the grave, and unapointed in heaven? Be judge, thou and I, and the third person, Death. He saith, I was, and am. I was, and am. I was, and am. He sayeth, Myself I am. I am, and am, he saith. He saith, I am. He is, and is. He saith, I am he. I am, and am. He saith, God made me, made me, I am he, and I am he. He saith, I am he, and made me, made me. He made him, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. I am he, and he made me. He made me, and he made him. He made him, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. He made me, and he made him. I am he, and he made me. He made me, and he made him. I am he, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He made him, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He made me, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. I am he, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me. He is, and he made me, and he made me. He is, and he made me, and he made me. He is, and he made me, and he made me. He is, and he made me, and he made me. The cause of all is God. All things that be, or thing that go, Are in hime one, and one is thee. He is the cause of that, and in hime the cause of all. He is the cause of that, for what he is is he. He is, and is, and will be; and, if thou doubt him, Then winnows and woods are clear; thou shalt be sure Of that, if doubt on heauen; and if he then denied, Who then may doubt, how can he then be just? If God make Eden, and it good, why should't man? As far as eyes can see, This is the reason. But we have not now to reckon By marks of time, nor by names of things; We are in soup as well as meat. You with your philosophy, And my plain reading: what can't Two sweet and simple English things At once so well be read in? I'll tell you: 'tis this: I read it plain, for so It doth make plain what I mean. I writ it so, To make it read So as to one problem clear. It is not always so; There's another way That seems to take the cake. But read it thus, And you shall clearly see Why I did not like the first. I met him in the fens Upon his homeward walk. I told him all my odds In losing and winning; I said I knew him never But in debate. "Oh, then," he said, "I knew thee then No better than a child; And even then I did not flatter thee, But there was blame in it. For never saint Could shun the miscall, When men do mock the truth. And if thy heart does smart For that slight sin, Just remember A saint could never steal." "No, no," I said, "I knew thee not then; I knew thee not; I knew thee not." "Thy heart did glow For that false thief, I wot; And though thy left-hand wench Did beg a favour, I only kist her for the sake Of the right hand's gold." "Oh, then, I knew thee not then; I knew thee not; I knew thee not." "I did not mock Thy faith, thou blushing maid, Nor did I quote Void for a precept, All void of a truth; Nor did I lead thee to Vain hope, or a fake, But to certain ill." "Oh, then, I knew thee not then; I knew thee not; I knew thee not." "O then, I knew thee not then; I knew thee not; I knew thee not." "But now, Thou traitor knave, I do remember well, How in black night We ran from promis'd light; And how thy secret stole us By dark deceits; How mine own caught us in, How mine prevailed on thee, And mine how it could be, But mine how it could not, So is it not a lie; And how thou didst set me free, And send me to the craps. If thou wilt say on, I will confess at last, All this I hope for, I hope for the best; I do but like the worse." "Then, fool," quoth he, "be it so: But know, when the King's Court Was lighted last by eleven, And merrily went merrily, That I had something to keep That night, and more to make; And so I stayed away, As I might hear the bells, And merrily went merrily. Now as I hear them ring, I long that night to bring, As merrily as I could, Some light to this morn. And so I heard the bells To-morrow tell, As they should tell, To him in Rome who came To sue for charity; And, all the night next day, To Rome I went, As I might hear the bells, And then to Rome I came; And still upon the bells I lookt, and merrily went, To-morrow ring them all, For, all day next day, I do but like the worse. As I was going one day, All wooded, and cool, and bright, And bright the sun; <|endoftext|> And long'd to seek them, when they had sought him; Nor long their anxious tidings giv'n, Their fears were now confirm'd; the princess spoke: "Oh gracious gods! how much I owe thee! Forgive my rashness, oh my brother! To distant Italy they went To seek the wizard, and their woes to end; But, lo! the Moorish army there Has found them, and oppress'd them with gold. Their lives they lost, perhaps, in flight, Nor we, alas! shall see them more." She spoke, and Lynette, his brother, saw The harm he done in the rich city, Where many perished, for his love to her; And tho' he vowed revenge, and they rose up And armed and hurried forth to do him harm, No more he follow'd, but ran away, And kept the maid, till tears fell from hers. The heroes now had call'd on each and all, To do the Sirian warrior's death, Who thus, all deadly deluded, came And hid him in the castle of the Moor. Now French and English warlike folk, And Scots and ye deep Highlandmen, Had swept the city, and beset it round, And now had made it the pursuit to be Of Robert Guiscard and his warlike crew, Who left Ormuz, and the land of Genozki, And Imia, and passed into Spain, And arrived in France, where Lord Renard Had built a castle on a goodly spot, The castle of Saint-Julien-de-Tempe, Which lofty mountains round on every side, The glare of which unto Moscow beams, And it was often call'd the house of Dracula. The castle of this Lord of war, the first Had set him down in a rich and hallowed spot, Where there were carvings on the wall and floor, And carvings on the beam, and carvings on the ceiling; And often would young noble knights and lovers Be lured thither by the signals of the vampire, Who with his sucked blood turn'd the suckers pale, And drew them all to the house of the Count. And now had they all to their castles gone, But there was one, a noble young lord of France, Who, hearing of the battle, turn'd his horse, And after them, or near them or far, or near, Made head or leap'd in courteous wise, and did All that a noble young lord might do; And many times had the count, or others, said, "Lo! there is one more come from the Infant's tomb." This was young Olivier, of Index, whose fame Even now, while I write, spreads abroad abroad The continents and is by all the nations stock'd, And lords and ladies from far and near do come To see the wonderful transformation, and be taught Of the wonderful deeds of this one man's self. And in this castle d'Hexam, this young lord, The daughter of d'Oise, whom a warrior was, Had with the rest of them gone up in the air, But a knight by the name of Rabel, bold, Greatgest of all that through that air forlorn, A wanderer thence returned, and who had been Among the Tartar chiefs that march'd across the moor, Had died, by God's grace, among them, by a spear Through the breast he'd send; and Rabel, as he came, Cried, "Olivier, wait not for me, stand off, I come to thee, bewail me this my way, And speak to thee of thy great grief, that may Give me the strength and courage to bring thee To thy friends, if it may be, more near, And give my horse, and have it mount the height, And bear thee hence to Rouen, and from thee Take thy farewell, and go with the next wave. But I, against the greatest rain and heat, Will bear thee hence, and will betake thee To thy kindred, or to France itself, Myself not loth, but determined not To fail thee, or bring thee later than. And I will pray to thee for strength and stay, And of thine own good will persuade thee To follow me, or hear me entreat. "And I will pray to thee for pardon, who Hast wrought this grief in thy great heart to spring, And will, before thou camest to my bed To have seen thee, have aye been lov'd of God And his angels, nor of his grace obtruded In thee, save what was thee in all the world, I will implore thee, arouse thyself and go, And have no more to do with me, and be glad." So having said, his arms he round himself cast, And up the airy mountain he had sprung, And all was bright around, and in a moment His face into my face, and in mine ear Had he implored me to follow him, And I with all obedience tried to listen, And was for following, but was stay'd by fear. Then I was glad, when he was gone, that I Had shunn'd the following, as fearing lest To be abash'd, or worse, molested, And I remained alone, and at the mouth As we were coming did beholding stand Of my fair love, and the Prince, who came To see me off, but with a fresh desire To serve me, and to hear me speak of him, I upstept my feet, and show'd him my arms, And he in warmth and lustre felt them burn. And to his lips I made my prayers, and sung The praise of God, and pray'd with him in truth, And gave him for his prayer my spirit, that being come He might to God, which is the witness of heav'n, Grant us all joy and excellencies; and next In order that no chance may obstruct his way, Mine eyes his portrait therefore I prevaile To behold, and to relate in perfect clear The road we came, and of our voyage total, Which for his love I did to him perform. And I will make my return, he said, and I What will you to your kingdom shall return? Yea, now you need not fear, said I, nor repulse; But that which yet I fear the most I guess, That those shall find their old love otherwhere, And to their sorrow that shall miss me claim In vain, and that their longing shall be still Unceasing, and the fever in their veins Shall seethe and boil, and in that gapes Their spirit shall feel itself alienated. But if you with great wrath I disallow This soft entrance, then may you behold Successive yourselves, and so have plenty Of heart-burnings, and then shall you have ease. He said, and thus began to move his face To my left side, and to my marvellous seat Turn'd round and gazing there, "Whate'er betide," Said he, "I shall not let my lady go; And for that hope which in my bosom grows, And is my prison, not to part it auow I will not: and as here thou tilst, behold, In Jove's eternal op'ning see my face, Or ere that I am thine again; behold That other lady too, whom that thou hast two, And happy is he whom she both loves." Whom answer'd thus Beatrice: "Most holy spirit, source Of good hopes to us, for whom by hope we seek And find; and if thou see'st that we are dead, Nor taste of pleasure, why has he thus afar Drawn you towards him?" And that other bright one Which although alone muses, high herself To answer invertedly her question, And of Christ it began, and thus began: "Most holy lord, whose royal silver-breasted Lies here with her celestial Lady, us To the end accomplished shall return; If we for his sake for anything desire, It is that our impotence may be tried, By which in prayer we may aspire to see Our looks deliver'd from behind; Which now behind our veil we do display, For fear the sun himself should look on it. But will ye go behind it, and conceal Your selves, or in the same view bear them on?" Then I: "They, sure, who sin, must deserve to bleed." Cried I, "must deserve to bleed who place such restraint Beyond their needed mark, standard or level, Distance or goal, on others, who in respect And good behaviour mingle with their work And co-operate, diffusing the balm procurable <|endoftext|> Of wit and knowledge, as of interest Might join to shape their separate virtues,-- To set the horse in water and the dog On the high door,--and now and then to say Some words of welcome, such as these to you, Young men of Boston, and to show, By lengthy precepts of history Or scripture, what we value and admire. But more than half my life is now gone, And much of the last half, indeed, Is much that which I loathe, or must hate, And thus I find my self a spectre In the schools and in the university, Which, hour by hour, betrays itself more and more, Till my life's true substance, formed by pain and time, And growing from aversion to its fear, And from self-wrought penance, now appears Too much, even in this long tryst, to love. And yet I do not loathe to see The young men and women here; They are so mild and earnest-eyed, Their thought is so tender and true, And if I, in my ignorance, Had failed to see the humility And wisdom of their intents, and the pure faith Which filled with hope and charity Each youthful brow,--I cannot say That, in this tryst, I have failed to love. To speak of my own life, which seems In this tryst a type of woman's, I cannot leave a single word Of habit, circumstance, or thought, Or even of my sex, for fear Of some unwonted and strange surprise. I cannot speak of what I knew, When first I came among these hills, And heard the echo of your voices In that low, wholesome air; For, as I read it in your eyes, Your manhood was unrepressed, And you wanted men to use you Just as you, sweet fellow, would. And so, I cannot tell you much Of men, or of the women there; I cannot tell what rule they have made For the young men and the women, For those who are young and those who are old; But I can tell this, that there is peace Among you all, and gentleness, And that you need not be afraid, And that you will find none to ask your help In any cause, for man and woman Will want to be helped at once, when hurt, And will look first for those to whom they talk And to whom they are resignedly neutral. Then let this tryst revive for you Your thoughts of that green valley, where you played, And your first memories of the lovely girls Who would have nothing of a man but hair and skin, And your thoughts of being led on by them In some fair, delicious way. And, meanwhile, I pray you, while I rest In this bright, comfortable spot, Here, by the leading-post of my heart, I will be your friend for life among The young men of Boston, and of New York, And of every town and city Where we are loved as we are here. And I will be your friend in other places, And when I leave you here alone, I will be your friend in other places, When I leave the leading-posts behind, And when the world is rid of sorrow, And man is free. But if you will be all my friend In this, the only place to be, And I will be all your friend, Corinna, In all the world where men live, I think we shall be very happy, For all things seem to be against us, All against man and wife and child, And all to be for us; but if you will Follow me, and be my bride, All our wants shall be supplied, Corinna, All our wishes shall be granted. And when all these years have ended, And we are in our rich old age, And you shall be in some lovely room With other men and women, And this frail, thin, sickly, old sex Shall be laid beside its dead, And you laid by your husband, Corinna, In some lovely room, beside some lovely stones In your old garden, planted, planted, planted: So, for my sake, go, go, go, My poor child, my poor love, my own. Go, and make yourself young with tears, And come back to me, Corinna, When the skies of summer are clear, And the winds of winter blow free. And my heart sings with joy and love, When you come back with the sun, And my eyes look out from their long sleep With a fresh delight to see you. So come back with the springtime's time, And the days that come and go, And the bright, happy, Souls of men, Who are too lazy to be worth Their care or hatred, or their pain; And when all the world's sorrows end, And no more men take life as they find it, We two will live again, Corinna, And we two will be happy again. Go, and make yourself young with tears, And come back to me, Corinna, When the earth, and the rude woodsmen, and the boats, And the fields of your former life are fair, And the dead leaves of the forest lift up their heads And laugh at the wrathful winter's storm. And my heart sings with joy and love, When you come back with the springtime's time, And the days that come and go, And the bright, happy, Souls of men, Who are too lazy to be worth Their care or hatred, or their pain; And when all the world's sorrows end, And no more men take life as they find it, We two will live again, Corinna, And we two will be happy again. He lived upon the water, And oftentimes would I see him Upon the miry ocean, With a mossy bottle in his hand, And, on the top of it, a hat; And, oftentimes, the sea would sneer, And shake the bottle in his face. And then, instead of answering it, Would sing some ditty of the Valleys, And drown it in some ivy-foliage, And laugh, and drown his singing, With a song from the quaint isle of Ophir. He had no wife, as I was told, And therefore I came to be his love, And take of his pipe these fancies: "He does not live, as he is told, Upon the water, as oft is said, But, with a golden, ivy-wreath'd oar, And with a golden, ivy-thumbtack, He floats through the FABLE of the STARS, That he can live upon the water, And walk in the VALLEY of the STARS." One night I sat alone within my room, Thinking of all that I had done wrong, Wrong that no wrong it was that he had done, Wrong that I had ever known it; wrong, Wrong that I had ever profaned it. O, dark were the wrath of the Night, Went she with such intent! And through my heart a fierce, strange pain Tortured and tortured and tortured me, As of an unseen yet familiar hand Tightly clasped and pressed between My heart and my lips I knew it. And there rose before me, before me rose, A vision of the dead SEA, With feet that were slipper and light As a wind-flower on the water, And hands that were ivy-white And fingers that were ivy-red, And eyes that were moonbeams, And lips that were moonbeams again, And all that was cold and haughty And haughty and cold and swift and fit, And all that was wild and wet and sly And swift and sly and cunning and fit, And all that was fair and sly and fleet In waters that were wet with the dew Of the ocean's heedlessness. And my heart it grew As the new-born moon grows, When a storm is on the sea And a man must MARINE, And I knew that the words that were said That night in my chamber were NEGATIVE, And I knew that the heart that was not full Was the heart that was full of the sound Of the ivy-thumb that was CLUTCHING mine. And the vision of the DEAD SEA Grew wroth with me for a moment, And the tears ran so fast and deep Under the weeping, writhing lid That the gold-water of the eyetooth Was mingled with the wild-rocks, <|endoftext|> My goal is through, and my mind, as of old, Forgets the paths it trod, nor longs to go. I thought to win, and in ill-fated hour This thought now foul. But thou, if thou must make For thine own lust, first make my desire thy rod, And beat back all my steps. Thou art wiser far Than all these; and canst. Seem I not as void of joy As dead, without hand to reach out and clasp thee, As the empty air, a void and silent space? So long as I with force can do or say, So long as I thy spirit can enfold In eager bonds of life and love, thou wilt be All my conquest, and I to thee will yield All that I know, and all that I must learn, And be in thee as in the elements, In thee as fire, in thee as water pure, In thee as all that is, or shall be, good, What time my faith shall conquer reason's creed, And what time reason's fall shall steal my peace, Let us not say that we have done with love, That with all our knowledge love can no more enthrall, And that we have, like him that promised Abraham Above all things, utterer of immortal words, No keeper of his covenant, and no God. The world itself is but as it is Eternal; And who for us shall be found, that shall keep His bond, And not break it, if here on earth he be enthralled By other chains than one that now we make Him. Let us not make Him anything; for who Shall keep his life and souls among things new, With all the wiles and the craft of the new spheres? But if the world must be as it is Eternal, The mind of man must be as the Eternal mind. Let us not make him a god in the sense of Supreme, exclusive, exclusive one; for what So pure, so perfect, and so dear, as is His mind? Nay, let us not; but rather make man pure and perfect In that inward nature, the less at once and more, In that which is most sure, and in that which least Seems either to move or to be moved; which yet Doth all the same issue from, and is justly said In the world of sense to be but at a stand; In sense, but in the spirit most at ease; So Man, the spirit, though in flesh the author, yet Is in His soul the spirit all his own; nor let Any doubt that in the spirit He is the author. If before all things I am nothing, nothing else Can I have claimed, than this, that since all things Are to me from heaven, I am but among them. If after all the body's there, and the house, And the wealth of man, and the populous earth, And the whole bulk of all things, even this one mind, What can it claim but what is its own possession, And, considered of so fair a character, That all the rest, considering as they are As poor, are rich indeed, and made their own treasure? If in a thousand realms, what is it, beheld Amongst them all, and owned as their own world, Which then for this are rich in so great a sum? What can it less than this, this poor and weak world, In which we dwell, was made by so great a gift, And so expended, so out of season here? The man who makes the world his own, and there In glory, where he will, serenely calls The sunset from the ocean, and sets up his own Here, on this earth, let him but make his own sky, And seest how bright the stars burn, if he will, In clouds or heaven, how great the splendour grows Of the broad sun, if in his heaven he set; How great the majesty, if he in the abyss Put in charge the sun and moon, and threw high over all His white and burning snow, which not the least does rot Though never sees the sun. Thus if he here would build A world, and here is born that world's destroyer, And has consumed all but that which he had, How much more of heavier bulk, and unfit For use, did he make to wreck all else here, And here alone, consume that which he had? What reck we safety or what harm we have done, If ruin came of wealth, not blood? It was made With wealth to save it harm. But blood could not save Itself from ruin; and the power to ruin came From that power to save. A brighter ornament Erewhile came forth in heaven, and, far off, was seen By Vulcan, that angel near the throne, who kept Watch o'er the succession. This he may boast, That, when it first upon the waters came, It drew a golden mist in heaven, and laid An ice cold, floating crystal, in the sun, Which swiftly spread, and like a curtain hung Over the whole earth. But when the sun Prevailed with all his fires, and swept away That curtain, then was seen, again, that ice, Rippled as it were on water, and there fell Down from the heaven, and touched the earth with frost, And turned the streams to blood, and revived all The dead things. Look next at me. I mean to say, That even from me the fourth arch-fiend Hath ceased to err. But already through all The towers and towers that seethe in Hell He scourged them, more than once hath ceased his rage, For otherwise the faithful army would be struck Ceased from sin, and turned to heaven with a shout Waiving the bargain, which they ceaseless strike For their lord. Such is for them glorious work, As must needs be the nearer unto the Lord They approach. But how any army human Hath power to draw unto itself both soul And strength of body, from that time it is raw, And requires, as Garrick would fain have shown us, New hands to guide it, new arms to combat with, New soul in other body. For the parts, That now are human, and which yet were not, Were then, as was stated above, late And useless. Then, too, there stood against it No neutral, to decide between the twain, And to carry forward their prescription, The legislator of the universe. Therefore in all previous existences There was this threefold conflict and debate, To make the people grow in peace, and turn From evil deeds their new direction. In this The followers of the contemporane Were forerunners; and for this reason were they, Each in his degree: for even their name Called for preparation. And in me is signified How all inadequate that people was By me, in opposition to the everybody. My spirit, from the moment when with him I walked, Was with the universal evil; but theirs, The followers of one man, toward the opposite. Because by nature I was not disposed it so, Visitings and commissions from him I gave, Wherever it struck hands with human kind. But all I spoke and did was by the powers Meant to execute and keep watch over the world, And as its patron patiently awaited In its own good part, its being's end achieved. I was not gifted with genius, was not taught By teachers, but by my gift in me in natural Laws and properties. Like the wizard, it began When nature of its own accord my mood Directed, without any other plan or aim Than this of serving and of enlightenment. I say all this, and yet my words are rangy, I am at fault in speaking of myself; but still Laid hold I will not yield, till my appeal Sound in another's ears, my words be heedful, And they himself hear me. For no other cause Doth my presentation to you on this head Require, than that that through us some part The wider light of truth may be exprest, Which has divided and divided every nation. But now to do at length what began Pursuant of my vow, I will stretch forth Thy hand, ere thus much longer time be passed, And, through our means, such Cadeias as thou Hast in thy thoughts, appear. He indeed Is far above my dreams in strength and stature, And is my special interest and care; For he outranks that Grendel who strove With him in fight, and only greater fell. But let him not seem Cadeias equal <|endoftext|> For men will not;--nor I deem, In the fullness of my lore, Her dream is over, this one. Yet oft the magi, in those days, Heard of a lovely lady's fame, Who passed a kingdom's waves between, But passed not on her love, nor woe, Nor whom she loved, nor where she came. So to a country lonely My ships went sailing away, By a wind that is whining, Blowing westward from the main; O, the whining wind was whining, Blowing westward from the main. A little girl there was standing, And out of a rosy red, The rosy blood rose red and wet, Her rosy cheeks grown rosiest wan, As her eyes grew dim and dimmer, As she looked up to the heavens, Where the stars were shining soft and warm. And there was calling to a lass That a rosy blood-drop was falling, And her eyes were dim and dimmer, As her heart was throbbing thick and throbbing, And her cheek was rosy wan and purple, And the maiden's face lovelier Than the roses of the meadow-lands. So I called to that lass there standing In the rosy blood-drop's shining, And her eyes were dim and dimmer, As her heart was throbbing thick and throbbing, And her cheek was rosiest wan and purple, And the maiden's face lovelier Than the roses of the meadow-lands. I have known a girl, a rarer thing, Than roses, or than a royal race, A maiden who is passing fair And who would ever be forgiven For a sin her mother never knew. I have known a girl, a rarer thing, Than roses, or than a royal race, A maiden who is passing fair And who would ever be forgiven For a sin her mother never knew. My father died when I was young, My mother's house was left to me; I grew within its walls alone, I knew no human things besides. I wandered on the dusty road With my black cart, and my poor cat, And my little dog who always sat Pretending he was blind. At last a little town appeared, And a little town was passing fair, With a bridge and everything right, And the railway half my heart I owned. And the traveller and I had chat Of the singing days and all things that were told, When the sailors laughed and the soldiers lay In the dawn's soft light. But the dismal day came on again, And the desolation spread about, And the trains were stopped and the stations blocked And the people ran from their alms. And a loathing swept through me, When I saw those broken outis; They were all so like me they would Have sworn they were me. I was twenty-two, and that autumn weather Brought me to the end of me. In my broken heart I had written: "If you should come and win me, here would be found." And I knew then that I was caught; For I was twenty-two and that autumn weather Brought me to the end of me. And the hunger of wanting seemed sweet, And the long hours of sitting there Seemed the only part of me That was mine. And the golden rain of June was falling And the woods were buzzing with flies, And the hunger of wanting was done, And the long hours of sitting there Seemed the only part of me. When in the morning I awoke The sun was shining through the pane On a thousand tin soldiers Standing in the chill dark air, And a mocking laughter rose From a hundred throats unharmed, And a thousand eyes looked out Full of the dawn, unafraid. And a painter stood beside me And he held a colour tin In his hands, and said in a voice So alive it seemed to be singing: "Come to my paradise Where the sunset dwells And the fiery sunset, burning and blazing, Dwells in every valley and plain and hill, Dwells in every human breast As the rose does in the man that carries it. Come to my paradise Where the sunset dwells, Where the roaring sunset, a tempest of fire, Dwells in every valley and plain and hill." Then I cried out in my pain, And I cried out in my suffering: "Oh, I am but a common soldier, And my heart is as the heart of a fisher That sets his gilded net in the sea, And in every ship that sails upon the sea My gold-eyed sharks will invade. My little eels are all hungry, they are all eager And I feed them at my board But to stand alone on the board at nightfall To gaze on the gold and the jewels Of the world at my treasure trove, To watch the rich glory of the gold, And to guard the rich treasures of the jewels. But to guard the rich treasures of the treasure And to gaze on the splendour and the riches, To gaze on them as in slumber I gaze And to hide my tears." And the painter turned to me with a smile, And he whispered in my ears: "Come to my paradise Where the songs are murmuring, where the gold and the jewels Are sounding as a thousand harps in the air. There is golden music in the north, and in the south And in the west, and in every depth of the deep, And the sun is singing in the sky In the white light of day. "There is golden music in the north And in the south and west And in the east and the far east. And the light of the sun is red and yellow In the flowers and in the flowers of summer, In the greenery of the land. And the colour of the dawn is red and yellow In the birds and in the birds of summer, In the golden-winged birds of summer. "Come to my paradise, Where the songs are murmuring, where the gold and the jewels Are sounding as a thousand harps in the air. Come to my sweet maidenly place, In my country of fairyland, Where the sun is shining, shining in the sky. And the fiery sunset dwelling In the distant east burning, burning, burning. And the wind is sighing, and sighing, In the evening perfume of the air, And the heat of the east-wind burning, burning. "There I'll court my sweet maidenly Sweet maidenly fair one; Come to my summer palace, Come to my palace of splendour, Come to my star-hall and lake. There I'll toss you the golden ball, There I'll tie you with golden cord. There I'll play with you another ball, And then I'll toss you the third one hard, And you must run and hide in the castle When my smile is on my face. "I will throw you a ruby ring, And you can look in it When you are ready to go, And when you are ready to go, When you are ready to go. You must throw the ball far, far away, And you must run like the wind, And you must run like the wind, When you are dressed to court a maiden, And you are dressed to court a maiden. When you are dressed to court a maiden, And you are dressed to court a maiden. "Now you must throw the second ball, And the third one you must throw, And when you are ready to go, And when you are ready to go, Then you must run like the wind, And run like the wind, When you are dressed to court a maiden, And dressed to court a maiden. When you are dressed to court a maiden, And dressed to court a maiden. "If you throw the ball at all miles, I will catch you, I will recapture, I will catch you, I will recapture, I will throw you in the lake, In the broad-lake of the crystal waters, I will throw you in the crystal waters, In the crystal lake of waterfalls. And you must run like the wind, And run like the wind, And run like the wind, When you are dressed to court a maiden, And dressed to court a maiden." In the dark blue autumn night, When the leaves are falling; In the balmy evening weather, In the sacred hour of silence, Weary with labor gone to rest, <|endoftext|> When you make him make her, When you teach her to be kind, As a friend you may trust to be, As the rain to be when it rains, As a hand to hold when it strains, As a horse to ride when it needs, As a boy to love when he grows old. Do not speak to me of yours, of ours, Of our foolish and dear woes, O speak to me Of one who knows them all, who sees them all, Who was there with you and knows our iniquities. O Joseph, be with me yet an hour, I'll show you all our folly and love's disgrace, I will show you how our God Divine Cancels out the hate in human hearts that's forked, How through His promise and fulfilment He changes our love to perfect scorn And sends His only Son to put His Law into our hearts. We have quarrelled, as most men do, We have argued, as men do, Naught is been left to do but this, But we have talked, and this is done. Our heart's old troubles are now hushed, If you think, my friend, I'll be sly, Just wait, there'll be something slyer Before the light goes out for a season. Do you ask what the sun makes? I do, and do you want the gossamer That furs its quivering leaves about the ways Where the summer sings, and the wind knows How the heavy-laden branches stretch, And reach their hands to the sky and sigh, And the earth's breast hum with heat so loud? I do, and do you long for that? I want to know what the wind makes When it's in the oaks and in the pine, When it's up and stirring and up And kicking up leaves and dust, and the road Is full of summer, singing and gay, And the old house is crowded with people Who've come out to watch the summer go. I want to know what the sun makes When it shines in the world and in the sky, When it warms the mountains and the meadows, When it makes the far island slopes so blue, When it's high and bright and bright and high, And the far mountain-valleys blue, And the great sea so big and bright and high. I want to know what the world's frontiers are, And why we must all step so low, And why there are those walled towns in the middle West, And why, when men are weary and high They flock to the city-glades and walls. I want to know, and I do, I want to know. And do you ask me why, when I turn away And don't look back, and drag the dusty road That's beaten up and worn and torn, And there's not a single gay bird to be seen Nor a rapide tree to wave or wave or wave, And when the sun of June is dying, And the sky is still as if the moon is there, And there's not a single cloud to move-- 'Cause the moon's there--'cause the moon's there, And that's why the sky's still and it's blue, And we must all look at it and stand in it, And no one can look at the sky without looking And taking everything for granted-- Why, then, the only reasonable thing Is that the only true God's in Moscow. I never thought there were such things as bad Until I saw my first chum get dead. I never thought there were such things as dead Until I saw my first chum go home. O dark and dread and terrible and strange! O mighty shift! O going where no man went! O, love that is made of tears and prayer and tears! And there's the poem, "Good-bye to all, etc." Written on the day he left us. He did the kindest, sweetest thing That one could do, and then he died. I never knew that he would go. I thought he'd stay and fight the Russians out And show us how to die like soldiers. When you're thirteen years old And you've got a Bolshevik P.O., And you've got a whole gang of these boys, Well, it's just like anything, don't you know. They've got a program and they're working for it, They're going to plant it in every pond, And they'll take your fish out of the sea, And you won't be able to fish any more. Then you get a tractor to help you harvest, And then you get a pack of cards, And you can play all kinds of games you know. They'll give you some money when you're in a hole, And a couple of hours later you'll be done-- They'll give you a cigarette when you're done. So you see it's just like anything, don't you see? And the difference now between you and the fish Is that this country's fighting for its life, And you can't get a bite of your own? Well, you ought to be glad that you were born, And thankful that the Russians are here to fight for you, And that they're fighting for the good of the world. When I'm asleep, And when I'm dead, There's a roll of photos in the LIFE office to show the folks who built the rooms where the pictures are that I never had the chance to see, And I've seen them all, I guess. But there's one that I've never had a chance to see-- It shows a little boy who appears to be bailing hay. He's standing in a field of hay. He's wearing overalls and a plaid shirt. And his face is a part of the historic photos that show the LIFE office as it is today. He's there in the spring When the trees bloomed and the birds sang and the skies were sweet, And I'm thinking of him in the spring When my life's bloom is fading and my life's song is over, And I'm thinking of him in the spring, In the spring when the trees bloom and the birds sing and the skies are sweet. You can say he's dead And you can say I was deceiving, You can say all kinds of things, But the fact is I'm living, And I'm standing on the hill In the dawn-upower of day When the heavens begin to gloom And the clouds begin to slough away To the earth, where I'm standing for a minute Or a second or two In the dawn-upower of day. <|endoftext|> "His Name Is Inevitable", by Vera Mary Brittain [Living, Death, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] The grey fog descended on Kenshovel The night I told her I loved her And a number of years had been theirs, Had been ours since we were married. She was of a kindly nature And a far greater memory Of ours than of our former years. But her mind could not recall his name Nor mine, and we were very sad. And one cold morning of cold mist My wife was nearly distraught When a thought came into her fancy And she made a remark that seemed kind About the possibility Of an Ing'borg in Sweden "His name is in the river, I have forgotten his name," She said, and hurried away. "Oh, he is dead," I said. But no one heard me speak. I had turned my face away And I did not wish to see Her face again turned away Like a dead leaf on the ground. But one day she heard me speak And she turned her face to mine And with moist eyes and touch of hand She whispered, "I know his name, It is necessary we tell." And then we told her the man Had left us to go down to sea But his body was still there, I think that is why she smiled And then she whispered again In a tone that lost all power "His name is in the river, And I have forgotten his name." So we spoke of other things In whispers and tears and sighs Until at last she asked me If I remembered the soldier's smile Before he left us alone? "I do remember his smile," I said. And then I added "He is dead and his name is inevitable." "I knew it," she said, "and oh I do not wish to speak of it, For to do so might only lead To our remembrance being stripped And his memory to be reduced <|endoftext|> I shall, as on the plains of Arcady I ran, The which no hurtful wind there blows, Reach yon little hill, Whence the brook, which down by Carlisle begins, Hath such a roar, that heaven itself shunneth me. In a valley far under Co. Kildare's towers, A hamlet fair with trees and flowery meads, And by the river's bank, For scarce a bowshot further Than does it reach its spring, There's a temple, which, though now a ruin, The aged rustic said Was a beautiful sight to eye, Upon the banks of Aon they had built it, As tradition saith. For such time-honoured landmarks To gild old Scotland's glories And to give her fairest bleeds To youth and beauty's rushing game, Why, let them praise, and let them boast And tell us of the wondrous days When Britain was a young world, Her gallant sons and grandsons bold Of the mighty heroes who have fallen Under Britain's warriors' spears In the glorious War of Northern Aggression! Yea, let them boast, if they can, That Britain was, ere she was mistress, Nation of nations, and that now She commands a vast domain, And that her flag, that fringe so bright Her ample zones, O'er every main and strait is spread Like a rich embroidery, And her States, like planets, their courses Inspire A fire, whose flickering all reveals The subtle fume-work of ambition That, while it melts England's hearts, May, at last, be pleased to melt her empire's Ruler and the hearts of her oppressed; --But I am an outcast; for ever I am a thought that is not, And a hopeless thought at that. Where, then, shall the faithful Briton Who has ears but outstretched And eyes but overcast His lonely monitions raise To the Lord of the coasts that are free In this hell-fringed harbour, where no ray But one that dips to westward shows, Save one that lowers to eastward now, And one that dips to northward now? O gracious God of mercy, Is thy presence with us still? For the face of the earth is strange to me That my country should be found Day by day more dark and gory, And a dread might afterwards fall On my dear country, as of old. Yea, but most in the last day, When the word shall be given That her day of dominion is past, When all her shore line shall be ran From the Cape of Spain westward hard by Till it be riven through by the sea, Then, then my faith, like a light, My faith, shall gleam from the burial-shroud Of the Head of thy Lord, That we find him not yet hid in the tomb Behind the grave of thy faithless nation. Oh, the hands that would plant the tree of life And cast the seed and leave it alone! Oh, the hands that would break the shrivelled bine And pick the heart of the golden-dyed! Oh, the hands that would sow the wind-shattered fife With stars for the corn and shame the Nation's shame By sowing the wind-shattered fife alone! The tares and the wheat, and the winds of the warm And the night-winds that will not rest till they reap! But the God of the living, the Heart of the Father, Is a stay and a bar to the hands of the thresher, The hands of the sower and the hands of the gleam. "A reap of your tares, a reap of your grain, And you shall not reap with your hands: The Lord hath ta'en away the heart of his Son, And, behold, there is none of you shall take fresh breath Till you see the Son of your hearts make sweet the breath Of the threshing-floor where he sleeps the sleep of his grave." They're shearing the sheep, and they're gay as they're able For a change from their yearly wail; They're shearing the sheep, and there's a great crowd, For the younger heifers come forward, And the steers are being sheered, and there's plenty to spare, For the wool of the wool-cross is very, very fine. But the Lord in his mercy hath put a fear Into the hearts of the shearers of wool; For they must shear the sheep, or they must go bare-foot To the land of unshorn men, and perish in their despair. A wee bit o' hail, a wee bit o' dole, A wee bit o' squatter, a wee bit o' wrack; A wee bit o' gowd, a wee bit o' treasure, A wee bit o' profit, a wee bit o' pain; A wee bit o' rent, a wee bit o' profit, And sorrow, and sorrow, and sorrow again; The tenant is glad he hath nae tenants, The landlord is content he hath nae tenants, And the State insanity is payin' rent, And the Lord gives joy to the shearers of wool. The wind blows up the western sea, The moisture drips from the mountain rain; The curlews call in pensive mood, And the heart strings sing in every sound. The eagle soars in the pure air, The gannet's shell the crystal breaks; The sea-mew hies to the shadowless light, And the sea-mew's egg is in the wine. The clouds are drifting from the sky, The rain drops fall and the dew drops dry; The curlews call in pensive mood, And the heart strings sing in every sound. The eagle soars in the pure air, The gannet's shell the crystal breaks; The eagle soars to the land of his choice, Where never rose nor fell may meet. But where's the land that he shall choose? She walks in her garden fair, Where roses twine and lilies bloom, And more than all the rest, She loves to be the queen; For though they all may hope, They cannot keep her long; The little breezes pass, The light clouds pass to and fro; They say "we love, we love, But where is the bride?" They say "we love, we love, But where is the bride?" She turns her face away From sun and sky and sweet sea breeze, And ever as they fly, They sing more loud and shrill Than any sad bird's song, And evermore they wail and weep That she is gone away; They wail and weep for joy That she is gone away; They say "we love, we love, But where is the bride?" At night I walk in the forest, To watch the stars twinkle bright; I sing a song for a lover, The which, to hear it said, Is like the song to hear In the grove by the towers, When the merle and the mavis Sing for the lover. And, O, how I envy, And long to hear it sung That wild, sweet song to hear In the grove by the towers, When the merle and the mavis Sing for the lover. As I stood by the river I watched the willow tree Passing over the bridge; Passed over, and there stayed, As if by magic, To stand and smile and smile, As it had seen me. As I watched the river, I heard its riffle pass; Through all its melancholy I heard a joyous tune; As it went, it whispered, As it neared, it whispered, This song to hear, I said, In the grove by the towers, When the merle and the mavis Sing for the lover. To climb the watch-tower of Bray, I knew that it would be soon; Its top was idly tossed By a fragrant wind and fair, As a robe that sleep hath left And gentle sleep doth make; And I said, "Is it rot that shroudeth The head of this bold lover?" And my heart laughed with pleasure, As I gazed at the rugged rock, As it gazed at me, and smiled, As it smiled at me, and said, "The traitor comes again." <|endoftext|> "While a rainbow around our wands is twined, "And while we've a friend on every hand "Who shares our happiness or misery; "While every one is very wealthy, "We shall not want for one another." I took the old mother's part, And the young husband's too; The omen of our happy lot We should pursue it still. I did not know that Satan, too, Who sits beside the oak at night, Had counsel of our choice; But I did know the fate that awaited The future of the quill. O my friends! if you have the courage To copy this example, You will have friends in plenty, Who'll praise your happy state, And stand ready to assist you, In sickness, or in fire. THE WORLD is growing strange, And strange our ways; Our friends are shrinking; Our health is failing; And strange Fortune, flashing Her riddles through our brains, Makes us less like to know What we would say or do If we had purpose still. At first our plans were strange, To chase after fortune; We fished for herttes And sold them to the highest; Then in the grain trade We sold like mad, And built a store to suit; But now that things have grown, Our business is grown too, To wager on the tonnage. We've lost our charge; but we Have bought a farm; And like ourselves, have learned To look on life As a dangerous game, And to cherish a fear That if we come to naught, We shall be very sad. When the world is at a close, And all that was bright is gone, I wonder if you'll ask Who has been good and who Has been bad and who Has lost his head and who Has won the jack? This is a list of the men Who have been good and bad, And who have lost their head, and who Have won the jack. Here is the list:-- TOM MORRIS was once a man of your world, A singer with the city girls, A runner in the races, A candid lad with a knack of getting His tongue licked. But he lacked one thing: The sense of sacred things. So he went out into the woods And came upon the meads Where honey-bees had come to feed Upon the prized flowers of the world. And there, as he looked on them, Their yellow coats came within sight, Their clean, dimpled faces, Their bee-like wings that brushed the grass Like something alive. And all at once they flew away, Dissolved in air, And Tom lost his sense of sacred things. And so do I. So every one must grieve Who on the world's last day Will name a dead man. FRED GULCHER had a thousand acres Afar in the West, Where the sun had shot his gold before Afar in the West; Where the shadow of the Rocky Mountains Leaved a faint red trace Behind the crags of the sky. And all his life long, And under sun and rain, Men, dogs, and cattle, Cared not for him; He kept his wise and humble way Afar in the West. But one night, as the sun was low, And the mountain ash Was bubbling up around him, And the quiet stars were bright Within his eyes, A strange young hunter from the East, With a burst of shouting, Had forced his way among the trees, And caught hold of the big trout. And though he tried to talk, And plead and sigh, The other listened with a smile, Then cast himself before the wind And as it swung him and swung, He left the poor fisher dangling Alone in the West. Beneath the trees, With dimpled knees and giggle-pout, With hands that surely could crack Apine torsos, With a face as bright as a bee Giggling in the wind, The maiden sat and wondered at him With a smile. He was all of his words; A man with nothing to his name; No house, no wife, no child, Yet twenty times a day, With all his might and main, He loved another's love. And when the trout were caught, And when the hunters had won Their steamy way across the lake, And large beaks had ripped The slimy bass in their grasp, He would stop his fires and rise And set his hearing to the marks Of stridulous footsteps. And listen and heed The hooting of the hounds, The pantings of the deer, The stamping of the heavy wheels Of the hare-horses. Heed the baying of the pack That rips the night asunder, The howling of the pack That bears the dead; Beneath the silent stars, Beneath the pack's hooting din, Dull bells of the dogs will beat Behind the silent dead. So behind the hare-horses Under the half-moon's glow The hunter's ears will pierce The dying last beats of night, The pack's last howling sound, And the dead's last stamping. And then he'll hear the hounds Bark at the dark, distant scent Of some lone beast that hides In some lonely glen, And the long-drawn sigh of the pack Will seem the ghostly tread Of some ghostly steed coming home Through the silent night. O LOVE, when thou shalt come To the quiet place I know, Watch thou, I pray, to know No sign of life, no sound of strife, No cry of pain, no answer given By the cold dead lips to thine. Thou shalt rise alone In an empty house, And in the light that rushes in Thy windows, loom as of yore And wear thy bloom like beautiful bloom, And no man's pain shall turn thy heart Or chase thee from thy place. O LOVE, thou art young, This is a ancient house; And a house as old as time, With a door that's hung With shut flowers of shut days, And shut shut doors of shut doors, And shut flowers of shut gardens. O LOVE, thou art young, And this is an old house; And doors as old as time Are hung in this old garden With shut petals of shut days, With shut red leaves of shut gardens And shut flowers shut out of sight, Shut from the wise world's eye. O LOVE, if thou goest hence To another garden, In a land where gardens are new, And earth is bright and weather fair, What if the garden there Be not as other gardens? What if it be not all sun, And cool and sweet and calm? What if the weather there Be to thee as all the world is? Thou shalt count all gardens Poor, good for nothing but sleep, And all men's hearts as hard as stones, And their eyes as sharp and bright; Thou shalt count all men's faces Laughing, sad, glad, old, young, or furrowed With the wrinkles that come and go; All men's voices singing flowers Or laughing with the winds as they pass; All flowers that blossom and fade And thine own face being all the world. O LOVE, if thou goest there To dwell as all men live there, And no man buildeth thee a home With his hand, nor any man Placeth thee with mere beauty's ideals, No man shall count for a single moment One drop of pity or love or pain In the blue, cold light of thine eyes, For they shall stare and pass and never Think of thee as well as they. But in the gardens of that lonely place The brook that glistens with its skating spray, The cricket that chirps in the moss that's hoar, The house that stands apart in the garden wild, The mule that bellows through the night in its track, The lamp on the path that glides with the deer down hill, The blind man's fire, the old hound's fierce eyes, The lean wolf's spring at the dry knoll, the snake's Nearer mark when the shake of the leaf is deep, The comfort and wild call of the blackbird's song In the deep heart of the hawk, the lean man's thrust, <|endoftext|> Most fitting for each were fair to see. "Let now the voice of discord cease," The sweet-voiced peace of Medea said, "And let th' eternal covenants be 'Twixt all and each, a living oath." Then on the golden ewer a golden bowl Of purest silver Apollo took, And water brought, and sprinkled o'er The luscious beverage. The lovely nymph Unseen of any while, withdrew, And with a gentle beckoning strove E'en o'er the shadowy ranks to draw, Nor yet had she retired far away, When from the side of Paeon came The war-shout's low thunderings; and, lo! In sight she stood a while. There came A form amid the groves of wood That seemed a shepherd near the plain. The bright divine evoking breath Made melody within his throat, And o'er his sunny hair and beard The brown beard was twined so glossy close With silver-threaded needle-work, that still Upon his lip, the while he stood, Its bloom was faint, though full of light. So by his side a man and woman Were seen; but while the man was looking To right, and looking to right, and looking, So ruefully he scanned the plain, That in his looks there dawned sublimity, Such as no man had ever before Beheld, though by the night-wave's breath The god had fanned the foam of Neptune's isles. His woman met the goddess, and she knew That she was Hector's spouse, and she turned, And, face to face, in silence met her gaze, And answered her in calm demeanour; And she was fair, and in the golden hour Of full-grown womanhood; but still she bore A comelier grace than all the pride Of the Achaians, and a clearer eye, The marvel of so many eyes already praised. Then spake the daughter of the Dawn, "Hector's spouse, Why hast thou dared to meet me here unarm'd? What doest thou here? I fain would know, indeed! May these thy beards this day be rubbed with dust, And the dry bed which gave them birth expunge From their stem bodies! Yet I doubt the thing, Seeing how chaste thy former life has been. And why, when long ago I taught thee all That there was nothing vain or base in it, Should I, of all men, find merit to cry on thee Which is not all, and nought, and has no root In the warm earth? I cannot comprehend it. Wouldst thou have me, therefore, look again From other eyes, and if I see indeed Something like likeness, say, What is the matter? See how my face, and eyes, and cheek-bone pick out The colour and the shade, and in their flush Are blended thy own. I am not Helen's bride. Yet by thine own self art thou Helen's fool. But I'll instruct thee whence that word, proud, came. It is an exile's lamentation, thrown Upon the queen, who hath reproved the fool Who slandered her for want of grace and love In her mild nymph-like majesty, and kind From her full mouth, and with her mien endued Asterias' appearance. If it survive The death-bed flesh, it mocks the sepulchral mould. Such a long burial quiet nature makes, That in full day of growth, the wintry worm Gives but a frosty violet; while our years Bring them to seed, and on an aspect faint Of the departed summer, they put forth A gay, pendant sort of flower, like those Which glitter in old Proteus' urn, or own The winter gift of cheer. These fall on earth As on a drum, and have no weakness like To things of air. Therefore, O Helen, were Thy stanza unsent to earth, but now upreared To beat itself for fame against the skies, That it might work change for thee." Whom when he saw approaching, thus did he To Diomed: "You are the man, I think, To whom I must give thought, and who seemeth wise In this wakeful hour. When first I held These ears of mine upon this headland cast, Mine eye in me behold'd you, and I knew That in your eyes, and more than your fair looks, The splendour of your mind did dwell. Your words Humbled my own: O breakdown of death! To be or not to be, that is the question. When I could read your rudiments, and saw The peace which reigned within you, sett in irons, The books which should have taught you to be men, You left for boys to play with, and women's love, I smelt yet more fiery destruction, and, Like an athirst Scorpion, set and snuffed out That nest of snakes, your nest, O Helen! Thus You fell; and, falling, I recovered not. But now I see you are not fallen, but stand Unstrewn, what is that thing, do you think, Is left for me to do, or meet, or love? Nay! I will do all these; but, if I say So much, say less. I seek not to destroy The things which I have yet to see; but you, If you would hold this night the empire of mind, Yield up your beauty; answer thus, lady, What you have given, why you give it. It is No nation's loss, no private person's grief, Which one day in no nation's memory fell To the share of one human heart: no! It was an everlasting treasure won From a long course of penalty and of gain, Of penalty steep, of gain a gilded cage, A prey to which no bird could tarry, none; And so, from all Earth's corners, countries, and coasts, I, who with bag and bouquet went for you, Take you, and you, to a more your own, more mine, You, in the strength of more, and I in yours. All which you gave I give again to you; That, if I live, we live together in love; If I die, I die; if you live, you too, With no nation, poor, loved, unvalued thing, But the power to love, may live without regret, In love that's not only platonic, but intense." He ceased, and while his heart beat gaily yet I on him looked, and said: "Thou speak'st to me Of love, and such a love as we know not Save in our dream, in some far country, unknown, Beyond the circuit of this little star. I fear not death nor any save distress For you, for I shall die with you. And yet A name has value, and an immortality Is won or lost by those who have the power To make it worth the memory of a man Who, left in the dark abyss, ere the wreck Be fully felt, with those eloquent lips, Long lost to us, calls to us from the abyss With his dying breath, his heart's last message, --'These eyes were open; these lips breathing life, These cheeks with nature, these rich curls with gold Wrought into form, these eyes with all their light Borne up from imagination, where they were, Betraying--what? Nothing. O Death, be kind!' So speaking, from the light of her own eyes She waved him back to me; but he with his feet Tracked the mirage back to where the wave once broke. Then I: "Master, as I look at you, I seem To see myself from many years ago, With your clear face, and your rounded shoulders, and limbs Decently compact, and yours all clearly rounded And limbless now as when you were myself." He nodded: "Indeed, and was then the case; For I was then but a boy, and life itself As uncertain, faint, and strange to such a one As I, who now a man seen but half off, And then a boy. But now the matter will be clearer: For we are certain of our arriving in the world After our long voyage, and the island holds us now. We have heard the proclamation which announced this, And seen the token, and know that now is past The time for departure; therefore let us depart." He spoke, and as he spoke his eyes grew dim <|endoftext|> from the dunes. A good man, perhaps. He is never seen without his notes, blue-covered books. All things that break in the rain. My notes, blue, and so small. All things blue. In the rain. But not things green. You will go downtown. We will welcome you, you blue woman, you blue bird, you, the children. <|endoftext|> "The Needle", by Bruce Smith All night I needled my arm on the cold stone. So very cold. The city's forehead shook as it would on a date. Every cat in the street seemed to be shuffling by with its lantern, scraping nails or picking at a flea. The spray of cobblestones skipping over the goose-pimpled laborers who wrought them. In the subway, with my numbness cramp-cuffed and my arm crooked as the lance of a statue, did I dream of love? What love, like the snow on the cobblestones, would go only where it could not go anywhere else? <|endoftext|> "That Broke Today", by Alice Notley That broke today—the first time. No matter, I'll get right back in, it was just the first. I fell down the stairs when I was three, so I can understand what it feels like to lose someone you love, or to fall into the grass and not ever come back up. I learned about grief from my mother, she from her therapist, I don't know, I just know that when I fell I felt that grief which is like the snow on the cobblestones in the snowstorm in the subway. <|endoftext|> "Dandelions", by Arthur Symons [Living, Growing Old, The Body, Nature] Dandelions, once green, now brown, And he remembers, and we remember, His girl of thirty, frail and independent, Who now is frail and dependent, Dead long ago, who used to tiller A field of dandelions then, A field of brown dandelions: And he will try the field, the field, The field, he will try the field With her, he will try the field. <|endoftext|> "Song of the Sea-Egg", by Charles Hamilton Sorley Here hushed from all the noise of the sea,Here settled down and asleep and asleep,The weary sea-worm, the sea-egg bright,Whose blind, insensate eyes had never wakedTo read our human right divine;Bound as they were in the mossy moldUnder the sea's cool stubborn breast,Egg-eyed and shut forever in,Must we forget and let them be?Ah, no! They remember, they remember;Awakened once from their hoary slumber,They know our human right divine:We must not let them wither, must we not raise The sea-egg in the moss, and stack it highWith garlands of glowing dulse, and dry the flowers,To set the ribbon of the ribboned flower? <|endoftext|> "from Green Hills of the Moon", by Edgar Albert Guest [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Activities, Gardening, Religion, The Spiritual] I planted seed in a sodden patch Of earth to sunbaked; from day's dull Enthusiasm I'd turned aside And given o'er to lee bliss and leisure, Seeming to weigh the years more heavily Than they were weighed upon the earth. I Had gotten a stone's throw on top Of all the hill and looked out o'er all The valley, where the scattered trees Had a kind of secret shadow flung Over them as a mist's shadow thrown Over the grass-grown ditch that went O'er the plain's edge to where the hill Towered up in burnt leather from the fell And thundered in the red April air Its humble tribute to the sky. All The valley seemed to be asleep, And in the valley, far as eye Could reach with one hand through the screen Of pines, I saw a little grain Swaying to and fro with its neighbour, Who of his business did not tell. I asked of this same seed-sown hill What there was worth growing here, Like the seamen's little gold nuggets Caught 'mid the tossing of the sea; They showed me a wild rose, white and sleek, That in a hollow grew and blossomed With small pink leaves and one red leaf That shook in the wind. They showed me too, that distant hill O'er which the windy sighs ran down As the blood beat in their runaway As in a lover's heart or throat. 'Twas more than wind and rain, 'Twas man's heart beating hard As blood beats in a lover's heart To think of home, or waiting-time To bury a mother's heart, or see A child's in the nest unwell. I asked them what there was worth Here, but they had learnt as they were bred And bred and bred to serve man's lust, That to them home was all and time With the same sick longing smothered To be but once more thrust upon The wide green-throated world's breast, To look abroad and know life's bulk Beyond the hills that gathered round. And to the heart of youth that spoke, I made them feel, if home be here No earthly home will match this sweet one; And when I'd planted there my tree, They planted too my wild rose too, And when I'd planted that, I Planted in all my earth and air, And every spring a new red rose In a shaded corner of my garden. And I have planted all my life Among the hills of Eden; but To me the dear, dear blessedness Of growing seed with one eye closed, And one heart beating wild and high To all the sunshine of the sky Has seemed more fair than all the pomp And more than all the costly pride And stateliness of this my garden. And this my little seed-plot in the ditch Is all I have; for should I live To see a second spring, I'll plant Some seed in the old ditch, where never a flower Has blown except the snows of spring, And every plant and shrub and tree Shall there in the dark and cold day Give voice to song, and I shall see The snows of spring swept off and spring Come stealing o'er the bare earth's breast And the first song-birds of the year Bring back the april that has flown. <|endoftext|> "Jack", by Edgar Albert Guest [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] Up from the dust and din, where hurrying souls are caught, And borne along on labor's iron ceaselessly, Come those who watch or help to watch us, Those who love us, trust us, and keep us free; Forgotten and alone, but present all. Down from the sky, from cloud and lightning's gash, Come those who nursed us at their warm and bowers, When we were little and could not know The cost of light, the dark of death, or far The needful love, the evil we would flee; Forgotten and alone, but present all. Under the sod, by the plow, where patiently We sowed and grew and waited for the prize, The crowned, the uncrowned, unbarred, unbuilt; The cross, the crown, the wall, the court, the walled; All those who sowed. All those who built. All who watch. All who keep. <|endoftext|> "The Long Ride", by Edgar Albert Guest [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Fall, Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] A SONG to BRINGING HOME OUR SOLDIERS We met them on the line. We shall not meet them again, But we shall see Their flags in fields and town, Their blazing skyscrapers, Their dancing spires, and dominate Their splendor, as of old, Their valor, in our own America, looking forth. We met them on the line. We shall not meet them again, But we shall see Their sergeant-major and his retinue, Their legion, marching through the sun, <|endoftext|> As now I make my bed and prepare my fire. This in my morning's voluptuous round, Wherewith the silent stars govern my desire. With heaven's beams, and mountains on my sight, With what delight I lie, and seem to roll From earth to heaven! while every star I see Circles me in his red and silver light. But for this labour now, I had been warned Ere now, and in the best, most wholesome book Have found such schemes as will soon be my death; And yet, for a while, I will be awake To see this cloud of the world still go, And shall be happy still, and know the worst. My Time it is, and I must now obey The coming of the great God, who every hour To our best works best helps us, and with hands Unfeigned, that most ungrateful tyrants hurt, While with his fear the small timers quail, And the poor peasant in his cave we fain Would shew what godhead can do withal. Yet 'tis but for this short time that I write, For when at length the God of this world Has done away with grief, sorrow, pain, And set my heart at ease, then will I dare The bold design that I have got prepared, And show the world how much it needs should do. How good, and how great a thing is work That we should do from fear or want of power! This world will want no greater gift than this, To show how great we can make it, and still Be good at heart and eye, though in the street. O give me work, that when my body lies In bed, its fate the Lord may find so sweet That I may live to watch the world go by! If that I could but rise and sit alone, See the blue sky climb the heavens, and the sun Sink in the sea, and then begin to die; Yet on the couch would not my body lie, But every hour would I arise and do Some work of joy, some love, some concert sound, Some song in praise of God; so that I die Content, not living, but perfectly dead. This is my morning's prayer:--Let my eyes Look out of heaven, when I am in the field, Nor does my love of self forbear to pray, My body not condemn'd, though away At work at heaven's clearside; "Father, Do thou thyself," I would say, "the work aright, Do thou the will of love, and let me die." It is not much to kill the self-cast cow When the young bull comes by with slow and long, But it is much to let the old self bleed, When the old cow has taken her quiet rest. The rose, the apple, all flowers that be, Were not so beautiful, nor have they won Such holy strength, had they not our hearts been thus. When all men's hearts go forth upon their stretch To throw themselves away on death's abyss From their three perches in the sky, to love Nothing but their own cowardice in love, And in the blood they hope to have first their own, Who would be brave? there is no man so bold But falls--as I have fallen--in his boldness. I have fallen, and will fall more nigh and deeper Until I find some anchor, some cross, some rock, Some tree, whose root will never meet the ground, Some grave, whose head shall never shake the tree, Or mountain, whose head shall never rock the grave. When all men's hearts go forth to throw themselves away, To love nothing but the grave when dead. Is this the end of all our pride, our scorn, Our love, our crying bitter tears? Is this the faith that men shall hold at last? When all men's hearts go forth to throw themselves away, To love nothing but the grave when dead? For faith, indeed, is all that loves the grave, Or gives the grave a hope, or shows the grave A possibility of bliss. For, faith, by all the lives that once were theirs, Our faith, by all their lives, is with the dead. I will not pray to God for you, my brother, Nor give you aught for gladness of your heart; I will not see you a slave, a brother, Or your liberty guarded by my voice. I will not pray to God for you, my brother, For if I do, the light and airy word Shall stir the airy dust of Paradise, As the wind blows over the pale, raised corn, And the clear streams, the flowery wilderness, And I will say: "I will not pray to God!" The clover in the twilight Is crying to the moon, "O go slow, go slow, for the night is late!" And the mist in the water Is saying to the wind, "Take me with you, O wind of the sea, For the night is late, and I am weary." The lilies are saying to the rain, "O come not on us, come not, for the night is late!" And the roses, each one by one: "I am no lily, but a grave, for my face Is where the chill rain droppeth lightly, and my hair Is silver-grey, and I have slept in dust." O quiet, O stilly, In heaven is no room for sighing, And love is there alone For whom all spaces are one, All words and deeds the same, All steps and days and tears. O earth, O heart of earth, O wandering room of life, The shadow of your wandering Is breaking over all! Where, where is he? Where, where is he? And you, O angels, In your gold and green and blue, How will you sing Beside his bitter bed At midnight, in his room? The dead man sleeps so sound, The room is near his head, His face is wrapped close, His hands and feet Are clasped closely in his breast. There he sleeps so sound The dead man sleeps so sound. I saw the dead man sleeping, The room was near his head, His face was wrapped close, His hands and feet Were clasped tightly in his breast. The wind, the wind of the night, Is in the room and howling, And his sleeping face Is bright and white and dim. The green grass swayed in the wind, The moonlight dimmed the grass, And the star-faces of the trees Shone out against the sky. The rain was over and gone, The rain of the long day past, And over and gone the shine Of the wet leaves in the sun. I called his name in a dream, I called his name in a dream, I went about calling his name, I went about calling his name, I wandered about in a dream, Calling his name, calling his name, I wandered about in a dream, Calling his name, calling his name, But he did not answer to calling. I called again, and he did not answer, I went a third time, and I called; I went about calling his name, I wandered about in a dream, Calling his name, calling his name, I found him beneath the wildwood, The place was nigh the river's side, And I saw the dead man's wandering So lowly and so lone. Then I called once more, and he answered, And his face shone bright and red; And he answered to me calling, He found me beneath the wildwood, And I spoke low in his hearing, And I spake the words I shall speak no more, For they are out of my keeping: "Call no more, O fair young man; You have done as much as may be To please a girl in her youth." She's dead; but we shall know each other In heaven; on earth our love shall stand, Our spirits make an altar, pure and sweet, For love that once was forbidden. I watched her last, as in a vision, And it seemed to me as though she smiled To see me look at her so straight in the face; But, O her beauty, it was gone! She's dead; but we shall know each other In heaven; in all the world shall be The memory of our long-forgotten love, By angels clad in white. I shall kneel, as is the way of death, Before her grave, and say a prayer; I shall bend my head, and say a prayer To her, whom I shall meet in another life <|endoftext|> "Oh! the sun never shone so bright before!" Now they reach'd the door, which Eve, Since she could read, with ease unlock'd, And the chains warded off; So to the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil They bent their way, whereof her time limited figure In the fable was made. "Trees of God! ye! whom his own hand Planted in paradise, and ye His plants, That stretch thick round and meet Above and beneath, a protection cover And ward from the sun and rain To mortal men, so long as they Survive their light and measure, so long "But which, though mortal, since the day Of their creation were indeed Mutual partners and equals (As I have taught you, who have seen Your fruit untouch'd), "So that more free, and more just, they Exert their virtue, freely bound In healthy mutual bosoms, which Exerted, as one would instigate A fever to flight, "As it were two bowstrings gave Their tension to the bow, when I Turn'd to the right, and saw the Tree Of life and knowledge stretch its arms Shareable in either direction, So stretched it potent for repentance; And, as the wind exchanges places With the illumination, seemed to speak, Which, in a sudden shining, made both To leap, so strange a figure strange, Asaurus, asaurus asphodel, Life, asphodel, Life, asaurus. "Here did I vow a thousand year To penance; here began my promise. To this, no sin could I confess, Except that I unsheath'd my sword, That is, my mind, which long with gnosis Sought the hidden cause of both the sexes, And found it was Beauty, that made them love, Not harm, the image of their perfection. "I had rather slay than eat him, Gobble, pig, or ox, in vain all, Whose state so vile in the vast array Of that foul race, whose lives so poor produce, From Ocyrius, Centaur, or Sire Of this gross world, down to bastard slave." Thus spake the Father, as he rustled Through the forest of thickets fair, Where full in view, an ox and there was one, A giant, whose rude smock was loaded high With stale and churlish barley, bragged very sore For his old faults, which made him light and easy, And oft to himself he spoke of human kind, And curse'd them, if he knew them not, with those Whom he companion'd with, the wicked and mean. "So in those woods I haunt'd, that I might hear And see the giants, that did groan so loud Under their foolish weight of grief and pain, As if their heart-strings had been cut with steel; For oft they were afflicted so that both Their ears were deaf and both their eyesight dim. "And as I mark'd the mules that convey The wood's riches to the distant plains, I pass'd the giants, who their pangs assuag'd By calling on their gods to witness their case; And some were bold, and neigh'd more fiercely still, Desiring a god to come and punish them, As they before me were determin'd to die. "But when I had arrive'd, I found them all In silence reflecting on their fate, While one and all with staring eyes and necks Slack'd, were tie'd onpi'ral; then with downcast head, And all their body in heaps, they lay; And all the asp hath feeling left in him. "This done, well-mourn'd, to Emonides I came, who cures all diseases, either quick Or slow, and bestow'd his balmy gifts. He cheer'd my heart with manykindness, And from the foul air up drew, with whose aid I pass'd the night, and all the next day too, Conducted by him, who lulls the wearied here Who labour with desire, that he may sleep." "The other, on whose brow was furrow'd A dun shade analogous, moaned around (Those two were tangled in a steel cable) Not the less sorrow, since their love was hurl'd Unkindly, and their wilful fault display'd. Nor soon their pangs abated, till he who Had been their comrade in their foul offence Entered their chamber, and forbid them more Than they had done already. 'Friend,' quoth he, 'What tempts thee more (doubt some heavy sin To which thy sinful nature is inclined) To use thy faculties, than see the fair, And take her by the hand? Enter, and 'tis plain, Just now, her gentle heart own thy desire; Press her hand, and try if she will part With all her charms: to what height her soul Enjoys our love: and whether she wish To show her smile, or hide her breast.' "This said, he left the cell, and soon appear'd Before their lofty chamber, in his vest Of brown and yellow tinctur'd with threads Of antique style. Light was his mien, and he Sparkled his eyes beneath his cranelye black; His feet together for a stamping sort Of motion, turned in airy pendulum; And to the wall his wings were equal hung, Whichachtly at each side were unlocked and loos'd, That freaks of motion they might strike the view. Not mortal was his body, but divine: For we see in his accounts the cycles Of spirit all calculate and complete: And all within his frame were heavenly, Astray of course but rarely by calculation. His hollow hawse, at he comes in, is bended Fainter than any bird we know, and seem'd Still loth to approach: and from his changeless mien You would not guess he was a hawse of hounds. With somewhat less o'erflowing melancholy, His brother wild beast of the wilderness Was far more moving: though his look was sad, And he had fixt his wing about his shoulder Like a rider mountebank; yet to behold The brute did attractive magic give, And in a bosom warm'd, did sooth with love The heart which pity'd. Thus together winged, They pass'd toward the mountain: I no more Track'd their progress, for the vision glad Accorded to my wish, and led me on. <|endoftext|> A plain wall, twelve paces wide and long, Cover'd with a mossy stone; which, blocked with sand, The Troglodyte had post-hopped among, And coming from the wall in his recumbent car, A Devil entered, and was ceased still, Having restricted our resort to the right. When thus my master: "On further footing yet We have not travel-work to do, for the way In this narrow fosses not allowing, that we May of our passage make the less, the Chace Prepares us for a thorough battle." With bridle and with spur he spurr'd his mare, And so force-fil'd us that two strong men Were neither too stout nor too dumb to ride. Forthwith so fell the trams in the way, That to the edge we clung; whence on the mud With our arms, legs, and breast our thighs we slic'd; And thus uponto the bank we came, Singing thrice the icicle, tree-sparrow; Which, washing away, I on the bridge Equipp'd, and behind saddl'd mine own. When that very day I heard the chiming Of the chimes, that heralds of the night, Returning the farm-boy from his supper, That he might give the mare a curb, I To prevent her falling, thus would fain Work via marvellous circumvention, And give myself a spur. But late that night The moon was wan, and faint the star was bright That shone in heav'n; and I so pleas'd was To leave the throttling beast, that lunged so Forthwith on my left side; back I came Through the Rue Wavre, and took the lowest Ridge, That in a curve partook of the public way. With head high-towering, face flaming, and sinewy arms Behind, the Troglosaur now went racing along, So turning his crest, or rather the lack of it, On every side he hope to make us ignore. Thus needing smaller distance to elude us, He alongside me also courseth his tail. <|endoftext|> Falls: from its height the winged battle glaive Ripens into lightning. In his sole callow hour Ulysses, more he loved his native land Than his loved Penelope, left the gods, His mother and the starry sire forsook, His mother's sire, his sire's infirmity, And dared a wanderer to the edge of war, Thro' the deep tumult of a hostile crowd. With those proud suitors now he met his fate: Struck by the weapon of his country's hate, His eyes lost all their lustre, and his knees Failed beneath him, and he fell amid the throng. And now that home his hand had won he kept, In memory of Ulysses ever dear: His son he raised, his own, no other's beget; Nor let the race between them entirely wane With constant kindness: yet the inward wound, The wound of heart, the sting of love and hate, They knew not, but with patience mingled their praise, And sung his praise in language that grew more grateful Gently and silently: his subdued eye Seeks not the love-sick air, nor inwardly counts The echoes of his native sylvan home. Now came the time when fat and feathery years Made youth a ploughboy, no fine singing craze Had caught his fancy. Still he loved his mount, And still he roamed its forests often there When other men would run for their usual pace, A little way before, and then be off again. And when at eve the sylvan moon arose Dark with cloud, or vapour, or rain, or dew, From the black woods and high hills far heard he cry. Now, then, at eve, when e'en the boldest dared To seek repose in some dark quiet nook, And sleep had far better come with much less risk Of wakeful dream, he raised his ponderous voice, And still between short soft songs, or short long, Long songs, he sang. And men who watched the sun As it rose towards the glorious morning hour, Methought that loud his music still was ringing, That still his voice was stirring up the shade, And still the woods were echoed with his lay. The forest trees re-echoed it as far As their deep-toned instruments, while they shook At the full song his lay ran over: 'GO forth, GO forth, my boys, go forth To battle; Go forth, go forth, my boys; The spears are bent, the weapons all prepared. With speed divide our tribes and greetings meet: A mighty general I; come forth, come forth, To fight for me; be ye, my lads, on! Heaven stifle his courage till he prove his might. With him each heart will be keen-felt and warm; We'll beat on for his country's honour, while We pledge our souls to win the day. In the face of the foe, in the fight's eye, Stand thou, my bairns! Go forth to the fight, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win As for thy sake. For thee I go, For thee, for thee, to perish; go forth, go forth, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win. For thee I go, go forth, For thee, my bairns, to battle; go forth, go forth, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win!' O, hark! O, hark to the onward blades Of sound that herald the mad onset! Stand thou, my bairns! Go forth to the fight, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win! The spear, the buckler, and the sword they prance, And the din of the battle surges by! For thee I go, go forth, For thee, my bairns, to battle; go forth, go forth, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win. O, hark! O, hark! to the rout, the roar, As to the charge my banners are borne! Stand thou, my bairns! Go forth to the fight, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win! With shouts they go, with shouts I go, And the whole earth shall bell for thy sake! For thee I go, go forth, For thee, my bairns, to battle; go forth, go forth, My sweet-spring left, the battle's to win. When by a sudden gust these wild wildings bound, And pour upon the seething flood their ranks, Like sudden madness in tumultuous mind, O, who can spell the tumult of their song? As when from no great spring many teeming grains Flow forth, with sudden bursts of sudden joy; So fast the men run, so thick they throng, With shout and song and mad excitation, A sea of men that bawls from afar. So far out-flashed the wild, that high in air They seemed but leaves, the waving arms up-heaved, The mad, exuberant branches of a tree, That seethes with the bursting fury of the wind. Then quick and in thick mass came their trampling feet; The wild wind yells, the earth is drenched with spray, And far and wide the flying chariots rout. O for the wisdom of a king to call His officers and field forces to aid! For lo! as in the smoke and stir of fight These frantic troops come streaming forward, With muzzles thrust deeply in their ranks, And stiff spurring steeds that fear no rival; The king might hear, and look, and see, and know How few against so many press the fight. But calm he stands, and bade the mounted chase In fat herd to a wide circuit run, And to the thick crowd, 'till they be at the gate. But where are they--where, horse and foot, and winged? Where are they? Look! look! look! Their numbers' growth. The strength of Judah's host is broken! A bow-shot from the trumpets of the hosts Hath overthrown the legions of Judah! They fall like a wave dashed on the shore; Or like a forest in a lull of air, That breaks its mighty tusks, and flings its shout, But scarce dies down the noise of ocean's tide. The archers are not so close at hand; Thou seest the swift swords flash like meteors' fire, And every horseman with his triple band The loud challenge of the whirlwind spurn. Their spurs are set, and, fronting the sun, The massy spears stand at the ready still. For every man the word is given, "Let your heart, like balm, anoint our hands, Let your swords like lightning cut the air; Let our hearts like balm be blended now, And the earth be purified of its foes, So let us dash on, till we pass the gates Of the City, where our swords and shouts shall be No longer then, but the swords and shouts of Jacob!" When Israel saw their zeal was ravished, And their might was numbed in every part, He called for them through all the congregated host. "My people, the blind servants of nobles, You have betrayed your Lord; you feared the scorn Of this world, and left your lords, your flocks, your fires, To nourish faith in the stranger, and despair Of serving your own masters; but the time Is past, the age of servitude is past, And you shall now awaken, and arise, And fear no more the cruel hand of power. For you shall hasten, at God's appointed hour, Up to a higher, better, nobler heaven. "My people, my chosen people, who were For ages on a different earth, but now Hatched out your lives for worship at the shrine Of the great Eternal, alienated from God, And bribed to worship Jehova, the Devil's son-in-law, Have you no fear? Have you no fear to say, When you stand sentry in your gates, 'The King, Our Holy King, is now away, and we stand here?' What say you then? Yea, what say you? Say that your Holy One, to whom you sue, Is now afar, is now afar from men, Is now away, is now away from men, And, as ye fear, a sworn adversary, Meant ye with falsehood to intertwine your faith? Whence are ye afraid?--Come, come, declare!" But, though many sat and heard, and many <|endoftext|> is the flow of the line and the light. If the deep doesn't run, the head and the rising tail of the muskrat is its glint in the sunlight. Even the inside of the muskrat is a blessing. In fact, in the frozen earth of the muskrat the heavens shine as if they were made of butter. <|endoftext|> "A History of Sexual Preference", by Anne Waldman [Living, Marriage & Companionship, The Body, Love, Desire, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Not in a romantic way, but in the way of eating, you can feel my heart spinning like a gyre. I don't mean the planet, but the whole past species of me. I was simply ahead of my own evolution. I loved myself in a way that meant nothing to others. It is my own little forest. Perhaps it is important to note that I was not passing down, as you would say, some style of nerve or other. Perhaps it is possible to lose one's sexual preference without turning into a romantic as well. It is possible, I suppose, to love a style of hair or skin, but not the flesh. My body was like a piece of furniture. It had its own interests. It would its own ways. I would never turn it off. When I said it could be done, I meant it. I tried to banish myself. I could not. I was stuck with it. It was my own preference. Perhaps the whole history of sexual preference is such a case. Perhaps the bodies that are desired are never completely choosey. Perhaps the fantasies that we have are not so different from the bodies that we have. Perhaps it is possible to love the feeling of body parts slipping out, or of clothes coming off. I don't know. It is possible to have a sexual preference, and not be passed up for a romantic partner. I might have been. There are all kinds of romantic partners. There are those that are attractive, and those that are not. There are those that come with instructions, and those that do not. I might have been one of the latter. I was given no instructions, and so I followed my own instincts. <|endoftext|> "A Thousand Years Later", by W. S. Merwin [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] It is the light of day that attracts them, it is always day. You are in the dark where you are standing. It is always day, the day of heart and mind, a time of birds chirping, and of the worlds that we make. You are in the dark where you are standing. It is the light of day that attracts them, it is always day, and you are in the dark where you are standing. It is always day, and you are in the darkness where you are standing. It is the light of day that attracts them, and they are always day. You are in the darkness where you are standing. It is the day of life that you are having, it is always day. You are in the darkness where you are standing. It is always day, and you are in the darkness where you are standing. It is the light of day that attracts them, and they are always day. You are in the darkness where you are standing, always day. <|endoftext|> "Poem for Picham Yacine", by W. S. Merwin [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] My friend, if you are detained, remember that the past does not define you, does not find you, does not seek you. Therefore, do not allow the torture of the past to make you doubt your friends, to fail you in your fight. Remember what they told you, remember the faces of those who have passed in the street, in the square, in the house of an enemy. Remember what they said, remember the promises they made in the name of the people. Remember the dignity of the prisoners, of those whom the word anarchy has not yet corrupted, of all those whom the law has yet betrayed, of all whom the military has yet to kill. Forgive them, and them, for they will be guilty of nothing, for all their virtues, for all that they have suffered, for all that they will suffer, for all that they have lost. When you are free they will be friends for life. When you are free they will be enemies for life. Do not forget them, remember them, and let them remain for a little longer a merciless enemy, for whom there is nothing but the person, the place, for whom there is nothing but the weapon, for whom there is nothing but the morning, and nothing but pain. And the light. 29. I had no right to throw stones, no right to wear the black mask. This is not a poem about art, not about singing, not about a poet’s fig tree unaromatically planted in a city park, not a poem about memories, not a poem about the collective memory of Paris, not a poem about memory, not a poem about freedom. No, this is not a poem, this is not even a city, this is a challenge to those who would silence us, those who would silence freedom, those who would make any child in the world, any woman, unware of her power, unaware of her rights. No, this is not a poem. This is about Aronofsky, about his real nightmare, his nightmare of 1984, when children heard the wakeful scream of the state, when citizens were told that they were responsible for their children, when any woman wearing a veil was a witch, when anyone wearing the colors red and black was a terrorist, when even the memory of children was considered a crime. No, this is not a poem. No, this is not even a city, 30. With an anarchist, a fanatic, a terrorist, a felon, an exile, I make this simple plea: Don't repeat my crime. Don't let a Knesset committee convict me of conspiracy, let me plead guilty to exercising my right to freedom of expression, my right to choose my neighbor, my right to choose my country. I don't believe in the law. And I'm willing to pay the price. 31. Rabbi Avidan asks us to banish falsehood from our thoughts, to avoid violence in language and to respect each other. With the rain of revolutions, the thunder of the iron vice president, the people rising up, he says, let us make history a vice president, make history the iron vice president. And let us all wear the scarlet letter V, he says, signifying strength, truth, responsibility. He says the letter V stands for "very dear," the letter O stands for "other ox," the letter H stands for "heart," and the letter D stands for "dangerous animal," stand for "detestable beast." 32. The beloved are choking to death on their open mouths, the dangerous ox is roaming the fields and the streets are full of wild dogs. A Dan himself, with the help of Dan, he quells the beloved, he quells the ox, he quells the dangerous ox, he quells history, he quells the vice president, the people rising up. 33. Borders and sovereignty are finished. A man in the shape of a dog rises from the pool of history, he rises from the pool of the ocean, from the pool of the mire, from the field of slime and the slime of history. He says: I am the true history, the tape of the world. I am the master history, I am the history that has occupied itself with itself, with itself occupying itself, and occupied itself with itself. 34. The familiar scene is no longer familiar. The land is lying on its back in the dust, the birds are resting on the tall weeds. And who are these strangers? I know not even their names, and yet they capture the landscape, they surround the landscape. I can see their eyes, I can see their face, and yet cannot get used to seeing that which I have become. 35. I have not forgotten anything, not even my own name. The air is full of dust, the shape of the earth has changed completely. And who are these strangers? A man in the shape of a dog <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> Then, stirring to the sound, he spoke: “O Women, what are these thoughts that throng Thy breast? I fear a Cause of things to be “Unsanitary, to your sex unsuited. “Not with a rifled bag thou shouldst be fain “To get the miser's gain; to chest and store “Essays the strength that puts the lord apart. “O Women, O these items do thou leave “For the penniless woof; and all this wealth “Throw to the common crowd, which now at last “Turns to the pleasant countryside. Again “The knower's eyes with lustre those bright gems splash “More brightly than before, more sparkling prove “Through twilight glances. The valor, which in spring “I yearned to sing, 's stood beneath the shade “More graceful than in summer; lo! the arms, “Which she in competition could not try “She now withholds; nor yet her hair is seen; “And how her body seems in state more soft “Than when a beast. In vain you long to know “Your Lady's secret. 'Tis not for you “Her thoughts to frame; her words to seek, or use “Words that would pass among the genders. “O, if not wonted, wherefore then, is she “Unsanctified? Truly she seems to see “Such harm in him her foe,--or by to sight “His faults discerned, and those to scape. But say,-- “Yourself, O dame, the reason of her fault “Must learn: give your utterance. Is not he “Whose shining eye too vehement was its star, “Whose words of song, if aimed like hers, had bounded, “More than his tongue's emphasis had deserved, “A thoughtless child? Who for the country's weal “Resolved to harm the very birds of prey, “The wolves and all the ferocious brood, which roamed “The far regions, seeing men their wonted food “To leave without a carnivorous meal? “Whose mind, at least by childish judgment made, “May have its share of fault, who spareth much “To help his suffering friends; but whether less “Or much thou carest, the sword is in your hand. “No mercy in your bosoms, and no tears “Mingled with groans. “Here Peace retires, and sows “Her choicest flowers in those dear breasts she sucks. “With you, O women, is not guilt inverted? “Does not the crime proceed from you? Or will you “Claim some share? Though each has shared, and each should share, “For what is rape but rape by women made? “Have you, with trembling hand, the floor prepared? “For, on it standing, all the strength of Rome “Circles your cottage. With smooth shut “Before the grasping hands, hath sinned, on high “Which, crushing, wide intestate stretches out “In its contorted face the hideous shape. “Meantime a night has spread its gloomy shadow, “And further crimes had sunk to darkness too. “To stretch the stretched space out and fill it round “With blood is this the crime committed? Has “Its victim's deformity carried Death “Far out of sight? Nay--ay,--reject the common sense, “And think, that before the crime is done, “More crimes are done than one. Lo! in yon space, “What shall to Nastasia's lips be pled “If she the weapon shall obtain? Shall Rags “Be driven against the pavement? Shall Stout “Antonia stand? Or th' Ausonian Nymph, “Now straining to climb what erst she strove “To climb,--shall Puss mount: or is old Roscius, “Still on his creaking chair remounted? Hear'st thou “What words this lurking pity will refute? “A crime is done, a crime, O men! and should “By us, did it but smell of musket smoke, “From all the world the sweet musk of peace “Should harden us to strike. What I speak, “Is that great Justice. Canst thou find no soul, “Who feels a crime, or who hath felt a crime? “But mighty Nastasia knows no such guilty heart: “She grieves for wit, when erst she proved a slave; “And then she comforts with a fine. O, though all “Gave me to Nabob, should his patient breast “Be madden'd to the touch of fancy, would it not “Wear out Nabobs faint smiles, by gazing on? “Nought seem'd excessive that had happened here. “Think all have been as mean as thou: I prithee tell, “If to the clouds did'st thou aspire; or up, “By giants 'twas the work of art? For truly, “High as the upper angels is the sphere “Of wondrous art, so low as earth is low. “How could I, by Pallas' aid, aspire to reach “To where high angels see; or by the breath “Of wind soar where tiny seeds may blow? “Nay, that that wing'd messenger is lost, “Which from high heaven I did believe was mine. “How hath a mortal tongue so well unpack'd “Thy guilt, thou guilty one? Lest me, perforce, “A fasting ghost at night to those steep spots “Shall call; and where the sun no way shall find “To find him, should his flashing beams at day “Flash through the hole which now I by away. “Nay, come thou with me;--when thy body here “I enter,--let me, too, expect to go. “And if in mine awful hour of death,--gnash'd “My teeth,--my spirit cries--O, what delight “Did art and nature yield to one so much “In praise of Rhea's god-like son! But thou “Mightst perish with thy son:--thou drav'st his stream, “And perjured him, and the thought doth torment me. “Was the seducing impious thing thy sin, “Who feign'd in Bacchus' likeness? Ye that learn “From me;--ye Phasis' shores, O Eryx' shores, “Where two-horn'd tigers wander,--for a crime “And sin alone--suppress your bellowing noise. “Here, if one supposes, what there sounds like sound, “To him 'tis noise. I swear it;--but I lie. “In Lysyche, I, whose hands with rust have stained, “Did Aloë drive, while joy to sight she gave. “The dame on Tritonis' back her beauty bathed: “A shameless thing she was, by all described, “Who in my starlight streams a deeper flood. “When I my Delos' place would gain, my search “Was all along her by dame Aloë done. “To supplications she her handmaids gave, “And fierce with kisses nectar'd the sober hours. “Alone the painted queen I moved at night, “Where the wide heaven hid th' opposing sun. “Sternly I saw the Pleiads, and the bats, “Which hang their curdled crests on high;--then dropp'd “Forth from my lids the sable shades away. “At morn I raise my head,--and with desire “Of saying who I was arose from sleep. “Anon I seem'd, and did my nose survey. “Aloft I saw the jutting crag arise; “And saw th' undulating summits pass. “Lo, here my birth and country I descry, “And from the moist earth raise my broad mane. “Hence come, ye floods! hence, mingled with the air; “A wandering monster, o'er the earth I roam, “When this is spring, with leaves and choirs I move. “Lo, here my voice I heap, and sound my tale. “Goddess of soil! Grant virtue and preserve! “Confess what thou, the broad earth, art and can.” <|endoftext|> is love that impels a man to linger on the moorland's bleak and barren edge, to break the timbers, stand at the bow and trust his hand-crafted oar to its source. Those familiar faces, the fleet-of-foot and horsemen, flourish here. Down the western slopes a stream system lifts the wool from the flocks of the deer, but the town, dot by its tower, sits on the mountain's broad plateau. The church towers represent it. The mountains envelop it. <|endoftext|> "Fish", by Hayan Charara [Living, Growing Old, Parenthood, Nature, Animals, Religion, Islam] One day my grandmother didn't eat anything. I remember she was crying, a steam rising off of her plate. When she finally got what was going on, she would never look at us again. Years later we find out that her amygdala, a almond-shaped part of the brain, has been damaged by a chemical she was given for the treatment of breast cancer, and she won't eat or swallow. When we walk up to the restaurant, her left arm is fine, the sleeve above the forearm made from what's left of her hydrangea. That hydrangea was our connection to her—her favorite flower. When I hold my hand in the restaurant, she does the same. I can't eat. So far we've walked in the morning and in the evening together, but we won't stay connected much longer. She's calling a neurologist, a psychologist, a dietitian and a spiritual advisor. It's only one business of her day. But what good is her day if it's not connected? While I wait for her arrival the people I've come to know well begin to disappear. The children I've taken to the woods for a week don't show up for class the next day. The poet I took to the woods and back again doesn't write for months. The man who would cook for me at my house doesn't call or e-mail. All my life I've tried to be a good girl. But the damage is done. I know it. But I try to pretend that everything is fine. I would not have counted on one of the little red canoes tied to ropes to save me in the end. I would not have guessed the warm days will come to an end. I keep hoping the smell of lilacs in the early spring will return. One day I think I'll go down into the canoes and sit by the fireside to watch the pilots flying low. I'll get a chance to see if my grandmother will come again. I'll be too old to miss it. I'll get a chance to talk to her in utero. Before I know it, summer has burned itself into my bones. I keep hoping it's just a fickle soul who can't stay away from the lilacs. But it's not working. And then in the last week of June, I say to my father: "If we ever end up in Kazakhstan, we'll go see the ocelot and the lynx. We'll get some skills from them. You want to go too. We have so little time." My father says, "What for? We have time for the lynx now. They're doing very well in Yellowstone." I'm sitting at home in Arizona. In the kitchen, I'm running around drinking a lot. I've got visitors, one of whom is Yasmin, a young woman who's staying with me. The other visitors are Sean and Kimberly, from New Jersey, who've come to see Yasmin. Kimberly is very beautiful, and Sean is tall, and Yasmin doesn't want them staying in Phoenix, so we're forced to go to Los Angeles. The two of them have come with a camera to document nature. I get there early. Yasmin is tired, and Sean has a cold. We have something to eat, and she lets me sleep in her room. In the morning we hike to the top of Crissyfied, and Sean and I go down to look for rabbits. You can't see any, but there's a lot of woodpeckers, and the ground is littered with the chaff of dried crowfoot. The ground is so exposed. We find nothing, and go back down to sleep. Yasmin is tired, and Sean and I have something to eat, and then we go for a walk, and find nothing. We go to sleep again. Later that night Yasmin has a bad dream, and she wakes screaming. I can hear my mother screaming for her dog. The next day we go back to the ruins. Yasmin is very tired, and Sean and I find nothing. We look for something, anything, but there isn't anything. Later in the day Sean and I go down to Los Angeles, and Sean gets a call from Yasmin's mother, who's dying of bone cancer. She's crying, and Sean is doing what he can to save her. They talk on the phone for an hour. Later that night Yasmin has a bad dream, and she wakes screaming. I can hear my mother screaming for her dog. It's dark. I can hear nothing. My mother's screaming. I can't find the dog. I don't sleep for the agony of it. When Sean and I got to the park at last it was getting dark. We walked over to an overpass and looked at the numbers on the big bridge. The bridge is old, and hasn't been used for so long. We walked on, looking at the numbers, looking down at the river, looking back up at the bridge. Sean said, "This can't be it. This can't be it at all." We were there, though. Sean and I. It was real. It was happening. And then my mother screamed. I ran down to her, and we went on looking. Sean and I stood there looking. We looked down at the bridge. We looked down. Nothing. After a while we started to look at each other. Sean said, "It can't be." "No," I said, "it can't be." "What do you mean?" he said. "You really think it can't be," I said. And I looked down. Sean was standing next to the overpass. "Look," I said, "I can't find nothing. All I do is look. You still there?" He said, "What do you mean?" "I mean I can't find anything," I said. And I kept looking. I kept looking. Sean and Yasmin were there. They were together, and looking down at the bridge. We kept looking. Sean said, "I can't believe it either." I kept looking. Nothing. "It can't be," he said. "It can't," I said. "I know it can't," Sean said. And looking, looking, looking, we kept looking. Nothing. <|endoftext|> "Yellow Ashied", by Bruce Smith The ashes are brown and yellow, but they never remember. They look like ash but they look more like mulch, like shadows, like a dream they want to keep forever. I've heard them call this shadow their father, and they think that's what's kept them alive. I know my mother would kick their dreams if she were around to hear them now. But he doesn't sleep walking, and I can't get my hands over this weight like my father. I look around for something to love. I don't know what I'm looking for. This oxygen fills my lungs with what I hope is oxygen. But what do I love? And where do my parents lie? I want to sit here and wonder, for all my life, when I started to love and where. <|endoftext|> "The Chimes", by Frank Munford [Living, Death, Relationships, Pets, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Music] Some call them intermittent longhairs like the lovely Ash, or carinotes as my father called them, racing around his epilepsy, waves in the bay, or the three rust-colored labs that ran every mar — splash, crash, chime. Like birds. Some say the music inside them runs like two different chemical reactions in the heart of the batteries in their backs — pulse, beat, strike then down for a rest. Or they run in an automatic recording like the beating of a clock, silent but tightly wound like a manuscript or song, a tune I'd love to hear — reverse reverse reverse. An entire tick-tock childhood revolves around these four small bells. I remember the way we'd wake and wonder what music would be playing as we grew up and into manhood. I'd grab my pet and turn the morning <|endoftext|> Has taken up the tracks of earth--earth moves. And yet that black snake would not be still; 'Tis but the night's harsh eternal youth That shapes the night and frames the gibbering, That man's senseless godhead can undo The universe--draw the all away. That all is changed--old masks and old clothes-- Old men and women with their wise and well Known answers; old things, old thoughts, old drinks And celebrations. And the flies! I try to see the sun, Myself and the stage that we tread; And if the soul saw anything It saw in me, but did not say. Thou seemest as faint as a ghost Amid the encroaching shades, In thy vain imagination Of summer heaven; there come not And goeth vainly--I know! Let me ask you, dear heart, Was it far off or near, The one thing upon the earth Which made our spirit stir? Was it in a dream or a lie-- We know not--we can't tell! Our eyes are fixed as we stare And, in our heart of hearts, Are baffled forever By what cannot be there, Or anything like it, In the dusk beyond or dim Beyond the dusk--there! Sometimes, in that dusk of thought, The soul speaks to us; And even in the accents of doubt, Half formed as hope's psalms, Something of sense is reflected And we grow dreamy again. Yet what we hear are the murmurs Of winds and waters That wait outside the gates of death; And dimly in the twilight That sits upon the hills, We hear a sound of steps. And then we wait. And again We hear the winds and waters Inside the gates of death; And in our hearts once more We know the voice that cannot die, The music that we shall someday Listen to no more. In that place where they do bear All things in their mysterious grace, (The grace of God upon men's cherished soul, A mystery, that no man shall unravel, Whether on earth or in the realms above), I see you, star of all the night, The song of you, the night's song is mine, Whose beauty's subtle pearl is unwrought, And you hold here some wonder of your own. Is there no other light beside To serve as counter light to you? No other song that you might bear To earth? No other thing that you might care for As much as you care for me? Or have I done some other injustice While I have known you, star of my soul? Look up, look up, while you still can, Avenging my wrong! Since, to love, or to be beloved, Is higher than one can declare, O! let me look up, look up there! That is the secret of my bliss-- And be heaven's, if you will, I'll bless you, O beautiful one! And keep forever this faith, That I shall never lose again-- That Love is stronger than Death! If you had the light, sweet bird, Would you waste it as a span By living in the shadow? You who have held the doors of Heaven And fallen, therefore, know the night Is deeper than the nether night, And the sun shines out forever! If you had the power, sweet bird, Would you shake a shard of silver Over a copper coal? For you, to sweep the cobweb spheres That hold the stars in their spirals, A handful of shaking will suffice! Love is a fire that must be fed, And once fed flames evermore; The better yet that love is fed, The more it smells and tastes of sweet! I know not how Love comes, or how Love goes, I only know Love both came and went. If, hungry, you go beyond the Great Torture Mill, And fail to return whence you came, If, tired, you pause and fail to notice The waving grass that flutters in the distance, And soon--too soon--return to this Place, Believe that you fed your fire of Love quite enough To warm the dark for all Time that is Past-- Until, tired, you tired-out, and fell asleep. If, when you came, you found that you were broken, You might have stayed, and waited for another year. If, when you went, you found that you were lonely, You might have stayed, and waited for another day. You might have been as others were, forgotten and forgot Within the Silence of a Shelterless Spot. But you came back a whole Year, and now you're lonely, And now you're broken, and now, oh, you're forgotten-- And now,--Oh, my Dear, what has happened to the Torture? The broken and the lonely again, before your eyes. And you're wondering where the Stars went the last of May? And you're wondering who the Lover-Beaten-Up next to Him? If, in the Road that is trod so wide Since Love rode past your room in the morn, You turned and looked, And found him not-- If, looking on the lot In which your lover lies, You shed no Tears, nor even a Lie, If you go weeping and restless To your Lover's next-door, (If you go in the night, If you go at morn, If it's dark you wait) If you go and fail to find him-- If you go to him in the door That opens to every knock, (If you go at all, If you've gone this Long, Long time) If you go and fail to find him-- If you stay within the Town When you know that you are lost-- (If you stay at all, If you've stayed at all, If you're still as I am-- If you find the Star that is above him, (If you look up at night, If you peer with a pausing head Through the small space between.) If you find the Star that is above him, And if you don't believe that it flies-- If you find it as I do, (If you look through the top As I look through the thread) If you find--and you don't-- (As I find) that it is Down there, You and I will find, I know, 'T will never be quite the same After we lock our souls like this: And although there may come a Time When we may not hear from you, We'll have made a parting to die for-- May we stay to long? Cometh,--comes no more a breath As his long ghost-golden smile, As it stills the sunset sea, As it shakes the sighing pines. O Love, if thou must be, As thou wilt ruinate Old things and make a saint of me, Ruinate not this lock of hair. Do I miss him who kissed The lamp-black clouds adown, Do I miss him who led The rippling waters free, In the days of long ago? O Love, if thou must be, As thou wilt ruinate Old things and make a saint of me, Ruinate not this lock of hair. Clorinda, when I awoke And saw the morning break, With one hand the keys of stone Stored carefully underneath The pillow's velvet hem, Did it strike upon my ear The strain thee laught to hear? O Love, if thou dost die, As thou wilt ruinate Old things and make a saint of me, Ruinate not this lock of hair. Yea, I will dream that he Was here, and live again In the happy, happier days, When all was new and sweet, And pain was never known, And joy was never lost, And tears were never shed, Nor any pain or woe Had made my heart to wise. O Love, if thou must die, As thou wilt ruinate Old things and make a saint of me, Ruinate not this lock of hair. Hath the great God of heaven His bounties still not found, That we might eat and live? That we might drink and sing? O Love, if thou dost die, As thou wilt ruinate Old things and make a saint of me, Ruinate not this lock of hair. And though thy ways be black And thine old minister Ruin dark-fashioned things, Yet on my soul be fair And let me see thy wings, For thou art sort of God To win me from this dingy Earth-Hell to a sun-bright sky. Bye, Love! for me the hunt Hath begun; on, Love! for me The road is long. I know What's ahead; yet I can Not see the trees for wonder <|endoftext|> Telling stories they make you listen. One is called In English"Bugger and in French"Jes sous le mur," both by way of speaking a painful and fascinating ignorance. Here the story of the dog, which lived happily upon a farm With cattle—the owner he was well known and respected, His name being as a stick—is told in words that are Nearer to what you would think than these are to me, in A somewhat painful fashion—without fancy or froth. This is what they tell you: "There lived a gentleman one day, Who had two little dogs, which he christened Just as, at an unceasing rumble Of simmering rage, their jaws together They with great joy their malady So calmly and slowly diverted, As if with ice-cream, saw their master Sit down among the hollyhocks. One, of course, was named Goofy, And the other, Puss, which stood Quite plainly to remember it, And thence was named in memory of its tail, For Puss would carry it about. In this array, which now was quite forgot, And therefore was kept in a permanent bag, They sat delving with their tongues within This emerald cheese with great enjoyment, Or gaping in it to their nose, When this happened the other day, To the amazement of the land, While they sat and indeed in fine, With the gladdening populace Of Sunnydale, on a dry day. "By and by," little thought The schoolsfolk of Sunnydale That this two dogs so terse Should have so quickly grown up to be The most lovable trio That even Lois, Mr. Stewart, And Perry great grandmother Could have with them on her large Farm, on the damp forest edge. It was not always thus. Once a dog there was who cared for one More little than himself. The name of Stafford's Was on his throat and on his looks. No one doubted that he was good, But he was always rude And when his bitter teeth chattered He gave the wrong impression of a Bald pilot who had gone aloft To look at a flock of whales. When he came back he was swaggering, With a hat which said "BULL" across it. And some said that he was shaking All over, as if in a weakness. The coachman cried "Don't take any notice. I say Stafford's, make it easy." He became, of course, A very great personality. So big and so beastly it became A joke to say he walked upon An elephant, and that he In his great pomp, from morning till night, Was to the local community A great sensation. "He was a kind of local attraction Before the month of June." "He scared the locals." "Weird how he didn't kick the side-board over or bite a hapless fan." "He was like a bigger, badder Kerensky." "He made the community blacken out." "He never lowered himself to any level." "He was a kind of a showman and a showman knew." "He was a news event before the word was Modem." "He had more sacks than livestock in all our lairs." "At one time he controlled all the county's croplands." "There was no paper, only rumour and word of mouth." "He was always getting high yields, but the yield from words." "He had his culturists and friends." "If he was ever close to being in vogue." "He made the back-catalogues and the genome". "He was walking on very solid ground." "He knew where he was going and how to get there." "He was the co-founder of the intellectual property." "He kept up high credit". "He had frequent trade in negotiable forms." "I think he went into the dots when he ought to have gone into solid ground." "He knew how to run a pageant and they all say he knew how to stop one." "He always had a man to get what he wanted." "He made his heirs and friends of power and position." "He had an advance guard that he sent out three at a time." "He had two mystery men with him when he died." "He had Miss Tickling as his dessert." "He had a curious herd of giddy brats at his beck and call." "The word was out that you could give a man such a show." "He had two mystery men with him when he died." "I know that he had heard the prophecy of a third, And this was one of them, I am positive of it." "It had gone almost, though not quite, far enough under the sun." "He was an imp, and knew how to play the game." "To get what he wanted he had friends all the time." "I knew he had people all about him, but I didn't care for them." "He had roast beef for dessert every day of the week, And I am almost positive that was one of them, And so was his dinner, every day of the week." "You can't put the word on him." "He'd say, 'Do you think you can?' And if you said you could, he'd say, 'Oh, why you shouldn't?' It never made much difference what the answer was, He'd get his vote and he'd get it loud as any one else's, And his vote was always with Henry George, And his voice wasn't the loudest in the house When he got on the subject of feet." "He would talk of how feet grew at the ends of Eldred's toes." "He said how feet should go on and on Till he got to the skies, I'll give you that." "The next thing you know He would be up there pulling down the heavens with his someplace." "Sometimes he was warming hands and feet in the firelight To make them warm." "He used to say that maybe he should go sky diving, And he wouldn't hurt himself if he did, and he wouldn't hurt me, Or anyone else, for that matter." "He said he knew some pretty rough places." "That didn't surprise me, it didn't surprise me at all He would go out searching out for lost planets, And land in them, I mean up into the atmosphere." "If he found one he might sink into its body And he might eat it, I won't say for what, But to get a feel for what the beast might be like, And even have some idea of what he might find." "He got all kinds of things for this." "All kinds of wonderful things, Instruments for measuring planets, planets, planets, Theories of what went on in their bodies, And even a method for trapping them." "And he got in a huge doubt Or two, I'll tell you what, About the nature of matter. He couldn't possibly have got everything, It just wasn't in his reach, He was a great teacher after all, So I'm not blaming him one bit, The essentials of the matter were there, It was just a question of putting them all together, He just couldn't make them fit together And put them in the proper place." "He never could catch them all, There were always things he didn't know about, I mean the cause of colours, the cause of music, He just missed everything, I mean All these wonderful things we take for granted. They were there in him, it just wasn't in him, They would have come to him eventually, But he never had the chance to." "I know you're going to say the same thing, but hear me out. You see he had all these wonderful ideas And he tried to fit them all together But there was this great question: He was always starting out with things, All of them were things that were within, He just put them together and made them work, He made it work with beauty, but he couldn't make it Not out of nature. He had to have a hand at it, he had to be Part of it, it had to be a wonder in him, It had to be something within, he had to find A part that was invisible, he had to go Through the wonders himself, he had to lift it Up to an extreme point, he had to go Through the wonders and get it there, and hold it there, As he never could stand still. It was an awful struggle, it took everything, It took everything and it wasn't till he died That he was quite happy, so he could tell you that. He found the beauty, he found the beautiful, That had made him a wonder, it was his own, It wasn't given to him, it was found in him." "Well the thing is really more in the line of having Beauty within and wonder without, It's something of both, I think, I think it is, <|endoftext|> Through thy golden-shining hair;-- All the charms I could contain That should make thine eyes mine. Hark! The winds do breathe A spell of love around; The roses shed their dew; The daisies have taken wing,-- Breathing their soft blue sighs, Like the cadenced flow Of night-birds' song, that borrows Its murmur from the lute; While the evening-star, half hid, Moves on the hillside, half seen, Shining as o'er music's chords His torch-like glances play;-- And all this hum of life, As if at once with silence clasped, Stirs to a silence that grows To such a tension of strange bliss, As one might think to find in dreams. Like to a sea of glass, whose break and flow Of crystal light, now loud, now soft, now slow, And still as falls and falls, Melts the obscure thick hush of fog-banks and shoals That hold the sailor bound; As the breaker on the darkened main, That throws his waves to seething foam And lets the ship go free, Now soft, now loud, now deep, now seeming slow, Wave on wave vast, wave on wave, Holds the sailor's heart on chords of trance. Silence, a death-clasping meed Giving life--the heart's free gift To the heart's self--a rapture and a pain Which yields, as 'twere the soul's free will, And, as it were, the soul's thine, When the great sea of soul emotion Breaks forth and finds and lays the earth a-weary And all things seem only weariness, A vast, undirected, tranquil joy Which finds the spirit's silence sweet And waste the mind's labour vain, And in the high Art's own solitude Finds being and becomes a Life-- In this sea, the sick sailor's rest By sickle and sickle beats the sand, As in its deep the ship's mann'd heart beats, While still in music's throat and strings Tales of fear and cheer are sung; And sweet or sad the sailor's mood, On this sea his passion runs o'er And, quailing in calm or storm, And the same Master sings in all-- Himself and 'neath the sailors' eyes The gentle bird of water, which nests In the ship's mainmast as a nest; It builds its wing and swings afar And a home-borne wind out-blows Where its yellow eggs are laid. From the wars in Holland, 1618, to the winter which followed the autumn, when the table was removed, five years had passed: during which time the Lord remained in Holland, and was received as a worthy guest: and it was to this Christmas that John Clee refers in his 'Account and Collection for the year'. He attaches a list of the things sent with the sugar, coffee, and tea; an ounce of sugar: four ounces of rum: two ounces of burnt coffee: eight muffins: six roasted figs: six oranges: sixteen toles of syrup: twelve vials of orient wine: twelve vials of copra: twelve flasks of tallow: twelve vials of walnut oil: twelve eggs: eight goose giblets: eight fillets of salmon: sixteen cups of Bordeaux, with a Calumet horn of werewolf-whole liquor: eight flasks of straigh-wash: twenty pounds of powdered fire-lilies; twenty cups of common orwe; twelve steaks of Michigan barley: twelve bunches of reindeer: sixteen baskets of Indian corn: twelve duck-patties: twelve bunches of swans: twenty gallons of wine: twelve heavy sweetmeats: twelve lumps of fat ceruste: six lumps of red-bean meal: eight wool-pads: six fat baldwins: six fat pigs: six fat geese: six bellied oranges: twelve fat quails: twelve large snails: sixteen broad sole-pigs: twenty fish-poles, thirteen thin tails of wolves: twenty nameless reindeer: two wolf-teeth: two fox-gums: twenty inner organs, or, as Scully would say, life-sizes: six people in one horn: six vagrants, each a distinct person: six sets of bones: Who doth love a. secret, lonely, absent, starved, under-fed, red-haired orphan of a clique of Alpine witches and wizards, or else belongs to some village whose noble and unlettered inhabitants are yearly burnt on the 3rd of July? Who doth love a. lost, unseeing, unheard of in a. crown of thorns? <|endoftext|> In Christian Europe, Faith pricked the fires of Paradise, but found them common and moderate. And on the damp earth, clear of Paradise, O'er the firm foot-print of her darling's sleep, a pale woman clothed in white cast her baby over her shoulder, a protectress in the night, And so the Almighty Father smote the mother's breast, Blessing her ere He bade her bless. And the flaunting Green Man lifted up his eyes, His heart's clear dew on an April's morn: Awake! arise! and come away! Leave holy human love and life A gazing earth forlorn! The starry Elfin Prince shall lead The spiritual army that shall wield The armies of the dark, The war-shout of the gied flame-cloud o'er the Nazgûl camp-- Riddle of human love and life Seek thou the Pagan throne! And sing--the shadowy horn of Fame Over the things of earth is blown! The prostrate fire-prince shall feel The doom of Tom Sparow a-leash-- The bride-razor blade shall fall O'er the white cheek of the kissed bride, The garter-call of the popp'd jess, The manner-wind of Fame's vast wings Shall tremble over Sion's tower-- Now was the time when, riding through the skies With plumes that blossom'd mid the rains of spring, O'er the green corn-belt bending wide and far, Fair ZELICA came down:--she pass'd The towers of old SEBBI known afar, The temple of the Fat Emmetseth:--thence Towered to CALEDONIA, to BREAD. In a wide open place Between the hills, that look on CALEDONIA, Near to a stream that roars between, Set round with black basnets, black as night, Between the high black walls that look like ice, Whereon the summer stars go soaring O'er the white tops of the cedars, in blue A colony of wandering light-beams came From the hidden sky. And such their muster As when the Cloud of War, in TEMPUS' form, Clusters the teeming world, in ARMOUR'S array;-- Stealthily as if a hundred-fold, By lake and plain, by strait and narrow, With storm-winds o'er them borne, To the lone hill-fortress led, The abbots of the TEMPUS' TRUST Hush their monks to silence hushed, And all the land was gay, With linnets singing, and the thrush Girting the woodland glade, And, ivory inlaid with golden fleeces, The feet of SERAPH's fair virgins' feet;-- In frippery timorous and sweet As the EAGLE's neck When the SWans entwine The broad-wing'd ones o'er NISGA'S banks At evening in the SPRING;--such were The faces round, Betwixt the MONASTERY'S columns And the walls of SION. And they lookt On ZELICA, firm and pure, And breathe'd a blessing on her brow, As Sion's fair virgins bowing went. Beneath the shadow of those brows Where SION'S virgin-curves have bow'd, The pale king sat--of earthly kings Serene most and divine. And a rainbow bridge went out afar, To which his angels bent, As out of the oil-vat, at morning, Flow'd up the rain From the red chest of the young king ZELICA; And on that bridge was motionless All but the Queen of Love, Her arms outstretch'd and her eyes upturn'd, While thro' the stream That mocks her curve Flow'd the breath Of her sighs and tears, and all that breath <|endoftext|> of a young cornling covered with humming blue and green and yellow —their wishbone to a bishop, their bones forever scattered, the rubble of a dreaming flower bed,—tongued me and watered me, till, kinked and coiled, each ragged leaf held its tail, and as green grasses soaked in dew and sopped up the sun’s last drops of spice, I, goatish and resolute, awoke and stood. <|endoftext|> "The Weary Blues", by Charles Rogers Sr. [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Nature, Summer, Philosophy] The weary blues, with all their ears on the phono record player listening to it make up an orchestra of sorts moving their lips and fingering different keys. There is an opry voice singing 'take me down into the city of mystery. I don't know why, but it makes me feel better to think of this small life as if it were the entire life. The tired blues chorus, rolling along in a truck trying to get to Memphis. The tired blues, with all their screens and telephones out, putting it off until they can find a chair, so they don't have to listen to this recording of what it sounds like when two people who love each other, may even fall in love, as long as it's Memphis with the cool-misty humid air and the blues record player pausing on every word, trying to bear the weight and the sorrow and the age of the blues. The weary blues, with its small windows looking in and not seeing inside, trying to cast its spell like a glass window with a cloud sitting in it. There's a fog in the air but it's not settling over the city of mystery. <|endoftext|> "Zoom", by Kelly Bruntfleth [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The lights in my building make this flat tree in my apartment look a cross between Santa Claus and a beetle wrapped in tin foil with one long bright red foot. I'm not a gardenia, but I am a redwood, and I'm the only tree in town not containing an organism called bird, beetle, or insect. Who knows what I sparkle or borrow from the light, but I am anything that they are: a zirconia light a firefly taped to a bar of soap a petals of an alfalfa I bloom in darkness just as I would in a spotlight, a cactus sniffing the wind, a red thorn lost in a field of white. <|endoftext|> "People and Places", by David Shapiro [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The primacy of the individual over all things human over the individual over all things primarily the powerful over all deserving of respect what is created is primordially good. A poem is a crystal which reflects everything it can, the total effect like a badly cut window the crowd, the event, all the shouting, each person feeling a part of something bigger all the points from the trees to the moon, reflecting something but never all being one reflection each face some sort of lens through which the eye looks in but never can the eye see all so everything is reflected, everything even this poem is contained in its form a kind of lens through which I can only see what each person is trying to say, but not one thing, no world, no universe, not even a way to see everything with this kind of eye, I try to see how everything weighs, how light is always consumed but light captured, stored, then released is light which is never wasted, is stored, is held, is there in some black box somewhere a mirror which no one sees but me, shining through black hair as I watch my life like a box of treasure no one opened no one known everything on this leaf is as clear as that leaf but a tree reflects everything one reflects another and so on and never can a person look at everything with uncommon eyes but there are new people on the leaf and new people on the tree and new people all around me and everywhere in this strange sky, where is everywhere the mirror the scope is endless, everything is captured, no one is wasted, all is reflected, all is contained, and never before has a poem been written which makes everything look so simple, so safe, so far too far from the actual danger, beauty, youth always dangerous, beautiful always perilous, but this poem makes everything so obvious, so realistic, so terrifying, so crushing, so monotonous, so crushing and so easy to forget So this poem is not about sadness, not about chaos not about disorder, but about the one thing that is not possible: real reflection, no matter how many times you watch your life turn on and off like a switch pulled just enough to turn on and then pulled all the way back to the day you found out about the switch, held the black plastic bag up to your eyes to watch your face turn white, yelled at the bag, screamed while you held the bag, sat in your basement for months or days or years feeling the house fall down around you, feeling it destroy around you, and now you are a bunch of rubble sitting on your forehead, but the poem isn't about this, it's about: people and places really aren't that interesting or so they seem, we're never really anywhere but wherever we are we make the same demands, whatever city, whatever time we inhabit we make the same demands, whatever people, whatever place we live in we make the same demands, even though we've already made them once before and lived to see another day even though we've already lived through it, there are always new demands, even though we've already lived through what is different, what remains to be seen, what is yet to be imagined. We get up one morning and everyone is already sitting at home, each at a different morning's doorstep, and the phone calls and emails begin. The streets are empty and the trees are bare. There are always two cars in the drive and no one is in the street. <|endoftext|> "Hilarity Ensues", by Bridget Davis [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] It's time for the postman to arrive, he brings glossy pamphlets, these are the daily matter letters, I flip through the leaflets and think of my job, a job I really do hate, a job that really ought to be done, it's that materialism, that rubbish, it's all rubbish and it never happens it never happens, and on the porch there's the dogs, they've always been stupid, they never see the man, the one who lives there with his wife, the man who really deserves them, they never see him either, and I look at my watch, three and a half, it's time to go, I'll meet you all downstairs. I take the dogs for a pee, they're barking non-stop, "what's that?" I yell, they don't see a thing, they're simply too used to this life, and I'm just a stupid girl, and I see the postman run toward the direction of my voice, he goes to the front door, then he runs back, he runs all the way down to the tube, he waves to me, he waves, he runs back down, he runs faster and faster, he waves to me, he waves non-stop, he waves non-stop, he sees the black, he sees the blue smoke, he dives in the catch of it, he sees the little grey, he sees the purple wee ones, he jumps up to them, to me, to the black, to the blue smoke, he's diving non-stop, he's in the smoke, he's done his dash, he's in the quarterly bulletin, he's on his way to Soho House, he's there, he's dived into the daily bulletin he's leapt into non-stop, he's leapt into non-stop, he's in non-stop non-destruction he's out of the dog pound he's jumped into the black bottle, he's gone the other way, he's jumped non-stop, he's gone to non-destruction, <|endoftext|> And each soul in his heart bound fast; And the Muses kiss'd with their soft smiles, The pride in his heart grew great. And suddenly a sound was heard, A sound of many weeping ears, And all heaven was a sea of fire With his tears that he wept not. Alas! this end comes sometimes to men Who are high born and nobly bred; To them at first in the middle way A dark tale is told of woe,-- Of bitter pain and poverty, And then they pass into disgrace And perish in their pride. Yet as his lot was a trialsome one Though deep the hiss of the tempest That tore his heart with its wrath; And he saw many a faithless tree Gash'd by the lightning of the storm; And he heard the lightning of the sword, In his awful task of God; Yet he turned not aside to despair; He trust'd to live in the work of God. When first he came in his youth To the sweet music of God's voice And the light of the Holy Spirit, He wash'd off the stains of the centuries With the joy that is not of earth, That is the sign of the Seraph, And he became a stream of living water Which God quaff'd from the throne. But soon his heavenly feast decepti'd him, For an enemy, a devil, seduced him, And all his youth was past in a night, Like the foam on the thirsty shore; The serpent wreathes him with his children, He is wrapt in their loathsome hair, And he loses the happiness for which he came And is slave to the Anti-christ. He was on his journey to a distant country Where it is said that he could see As God's light, the scenery at night So beauteous, bright, and fair, That when the maiden gazed upon it Her limbs were powerless to hold her. For she saw from her chaste, revealed, Pure, celestial vantage-ground, Things that were lurid, sordid, foul, Paved with the dregs of earthly light, Which made her bosom snow-white. Therefore when the youth to another land Was warned away by his mother, As 'twere from the grave where he lay, She fled with him, and when morn-proclaimed In beauty, rejoiced in his return. And he smiled, for his spirit was changed By that heavenly light into fire That no moping man can exhaust; And out of his jailors he was set free, As a God's pardoned righteous captive, And bless'd more than ever before. Oftentimes the pilgrim near the wilderness, Whom Heaven has fitted to display His light, Sees dark clouds rise, and return again To the sad desolation of a night; And He sees many wandering in error's way, Sollicitous of night, and easily caught By the soft pleasures of the Pleiad's dance, And grope on through perplexing ways. The star of his salvation is obscured By cloud and by false earth; his eyes are bent From heaven upon earth; the grove is the goal For which he slowly moves, though the path is long, Until, lost to his sight, he sleeps at last, Drown'd in slumber, strangely glad of the night, Whom heaven is to bless. And oft we see, when the clouds of flesh are rolled away, That a star of heavenly birth shall take its place, Like a new day break in the west, To light him, and set him wholly free, While darkness and all its fearful scenes Have gone, like a ruin, to the grave, In fearless patient life again to come. With noiseless step, that never fails, Through thy bed of tender earth you creep; There you lie, and forevermore Day and night are holding session with you, At the door of your bosom one by one, Giving thee, that they may enter in, Till all have been given you, and none left out. But ever, with the travelling moon, Through the dusky window of thy heart, Through each pulse of thine eyelids gliding, The angel bestial of the air Makes his dwelling, and from eve to morn Is visiting ever; and around All thy parts are tented with him, So that thou seest not night, nor sheet, nor care. There is a swimming unnumbered soul That overshadows thy single frame; Its voice is in thy tones, it rules thy gaze, It beams from all thy changes and rests With embracings everywhere; It bathes all thy dividing walls, And talks with thee of Life and Death, And fills with thee its overflow, And on thee burdens light of many a thought. I know not how it finds thee thus asleep, Nor by what instinct or as ferforth making, It knows that more than man it bears a part; But all the same I know its dwelling here, And I am swayed by that large and not insensible spirit, That fills all my manifold matters with presences, And haunts me with an infinite and amorphous pressure, And like a summer-stormy sea, All my life's green turrets and smooth beds of flowers, And all my fields, and all my ways and alleys, And all my hiding ways and hedgerows, And all my wolds, and all thy ways, and all thy glens, And all thy sunny ways and hiding glades, And all thy dim and subterrenes, And all thy bright and sacred ways and sunny islands, And all thy ways where'er the sense of God does commune, And all thy wet and wintry ways and ways of rain, And all thy ghostly, shadow-loving ways, And all thy desert ways of papyrus and spirit, And all thy forms of immortal light and movement, And all thy dim and glowing and many-variate ways, And all thy mighty and mighty-limb'd ways, And all thy overshadowing and emitting ways, And all thy solemn and transparent ways, And all thy shadowy and yielding ways, And all thy bat-winged and spider-like ways, And all thy bat-winged and spider-like thoughts, And all thy bat-winged and spider- like dreams, And all thy ghost-like and spintraped ways, And all thy dim and sparkling and many-variate ways, And all thy bat-winged and spider- like thoughts that pass, And all thy forms of dreaming, and all thy tumbling waves, And all thy babbling and belabouring ways, And all thy clamorous and bellowing ways, And all thy wind and wave and witchcraft ways, And all thy bat-winged and spider-like ways, And all thy bat-winged and spider-like ways that thrill, And all thy hewing ways and hewing ways of fear, And all thy monkey-like and Mungo's ways, And all thy roaring and cable-like ways, And all thy filing and fumbling ways, And all thy misty and mucky and cable-like ways, And all thy toothless and unkempt and toothsome ways, And all thy sand-man-made and tinkler ways, And all thy toothless and unkempt and tinkler ways of water, And all thy rules and all thy letters and ways of wheels, And all thy mucky and unkempt and figure-like ways, And all thy dismal and mechanic ways, And all thy absurd and dwarfish ways and ways of brass, And all thy dwarflike and meagre ways and ways of iron, And all thy boring and all thy intollerating ways, And all thy roundabout and winding and looping ways, And all thy burrowing and all thy dodging and strafing, And all thy knotty and brawling and knot-like ways, And all thy lich-like and tolter and loop-like ways, And all thy knotty and tol-like ways and crooked ways, And all thy ju-jut and ju-cing and winding ways, And all thy mal-ridden and crippling and tricky ways, And all thy spiritless and spiritless and pointless ways, And all thy barren and pointless ways and ways of whim, And all thy piteous and pointless ways of sense, And all thy tinkling and toying and juggling ways, And all thy arts and all thy know-alls and know-all ways, And all thy dreams and all thy follying and wattling ways, And all thy dreaming and tawdry and tiresome and pointless ways, And all thy dog-like and brick-battered and wooden ways, And all thy white and all thy black and all thy Mongolian ways, And all thy grizzled and shaggy and shaggy-capped and patched ways, And all thy marvellous and wondrous and worthwhile ways, <|endoftext|> Pale, in your good time, do your part! Sweet sunset of the spirit, rise! And bring, with the meek earth that did abide In silvery and grand repose While the world was made, a gracious pride to men. (From this moment, nature changes rapidly, and the stage is then, like the infinite, swinging from the edge. We see the youthful poets standing and twangling in a dusty theatre full of the glowing old crowd, which has disappeared and are nowhere to be seen, and the harsh, stormy winds, shaking their long hair and scouring their pale faces, blowing By dawn, a procession is permitted to follow its chosen route to the city; it obeys the spell of the advancing, stumbling crowd with its composition and its music, ending at the shrine of the great cathedral. It is full of statues, engravings, pictures, numbers, and books, and a thousand winding stairways. Many feel Song. They crawl, like worms, through the slim sands. It is forbidden to enter or to climb on the great hill. It is forbidden to kneel or extend your hands to God. Not even to watch a silent clown a-walking up the middle and down the pavement. They come back again, O changing White smeared face. I have always said, when the earth was still young, that Sicily was an island, but I can be here to see this. I am weeping. I have never thought earth beautiful; only of her white face and her flowers. At first I thought I would stay until the last and solemn before the end. But now I have seen the abbey, sheriff, scales, the wall, the old granaries, the fountain, the summer orphans play in the fountains, and I will be one of them. In the dark alleys I have knelt down on the knees of half-naked girls, with nothing but a hand outstretched. I have seen them crow, and I have never thought Crows beautiful, for all my love for them. <|endoftext|> "Soka", by Derek Mahon [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Class] If I had six gold scarfs, I'd lay them over my faces And cover my eyes with ermine. —Tatsuro Ben-Shieff for my father, 1958-1966 i I My mother made tea, sweeping hot waves across The hot, heavy leaves. Tea leaves Upset their fists and fall into her lap. Her lap is a small, quiet ocean. I wonder why she isn't angry? She should be angry. We are all alone In the big sea of angry people. Water covered in gold. Gold on gold, Gold that glitters. My mother tries to remember the three birds That cried out against the bribes they had to pay For the king of Noodle. I wonder Why the three birds are crying. The king Of Noodle is her favorite character. Water covered in gold. Gold on gold, Gold that glitters. My mother turns her face. I can hear Gold rattling. It's raining gold. Raining gold over my body Like silver sun. The leaves are smeared with golden water Like silver sun. Now I am asleep. Gold falls over my body like silver sun. My mother turns her face. My father frowns at something, probably his wallet, I cannot hear what it is. I am asleep. The leaves are smeared with gold. Gold falls over me like silver sun. The leaves are smeared with gold. I have traveled to the country of the Three Birds That cried out against the bribes they had to pay For the king of Noodle. ii It is all nonsense, my son Is always mumbling about He wants to go to Noodle Town! My son has no sense of direction. I always walk ahead of him Like a fine-tuned machine. It's no use to urge me, I must walk for the next bend Where the bent refuses to heal. All the way to Noodle Town. <|endoftext|> "Reasons Everyone Fail in Life", by Tom Sleigh [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] i. Somebody says you use too much perfume. Or somebody says you never wipe it off. Or somebody says you should wash it under running water. Somebody says you should only buy it in bottles with handles. Or you're too lazy to tear the caps off and empty them after each use. Somebody says you should have waited to use it until you were older. Somebody says you should have spent more time in kindergarten and school. You can't help but think it's somebody else's problem, Except it's your problem, too, and it's getting worse. It's always somebody else's, And it's all you think about all day, Except it's your problem, too. ii. And it's your problem too, when it's your own fault And it's hard to avoid, like war or fighting, Like child labor or a violent crime, Or something that happened to you, Like a sleep disorder or an eating disorder. But it's not your own problem, either, So you keep on accepting it Except it's your own problem, too. iii. You hear it in your sleep and when you wake up You can't get back to sleep. It festers and you have to scratch and spit To keep it away from your children, Except it's you who has to spend the night Catching up with sleep to the point of madness, Except it's you, too, who is lost in thought. You must remember to remind yourself of who's in charge, Except it's you always feels responsible. <|endoftext|> "Peril", by Philip Nikolayev [Living, The Mind, Activities, School & Learning, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism] Noon, August 19, 1975 1 In 1976 there were three Buddhas In Tokyo, with the fourth Soon to follow. The previous night They had to be demolished Because of concerns over their structural stability. They were standing in a small hamlet West of the city On a small rise in a pine forest Using a ton of explosive To bring them down. Their height And their composition Made them a concern For the National Weather Service: Two three-story structures stacked one on top of the other Were hanging in the sky like a mask. As the moon rose over the city All forms of mass Entered into its path of totality, Leaving only the mass Of the Buddhas to propel themselves away from the camera With the force of a red star, Like a ball of wool or a comet entering the domain of the dark. From the foothills of the Tzu Tian mountains The city Spreads out like the breast of a woman Over a lifetime Of dreary fields. It is winter. A deep red mantled fog Floated past the walls Of the city as I came down the mountain And out into the surrounding plain. All activity had stopped. An old man in a parkour course Rushed out at me with a large camisa branch in his hand. He didn't say anything. It seemed he didn't need to say anything. 2 I lived in Tzu-Tzu with seven other children In a three-roomed house. We had two barred windows Over our bedroom Over the living room And a wooden roof. Our family name was Warkwessel. On sunny days the garden was alive With the buzzing of wasps In the eaves. On cloudy days it was alive With the hum of cars going by. Outside our window we could see Our reflection in the pomegranate tree. You could see any moment Horses running on the road Or the stove on the air conditioner Steaming away in the summer heat. If there was a different season There was another Warkwessel In the world. 3 In Tzu-Tzu there were seven winters Each lasting three months. The first lasted three months and then three months And again three months. And in the third month Snow fell all the time. Our bed was straw. Our small stove was in the corner Burning coal And coal smoke. We had no windows Our only windows Were the ones that were always closed. We were five children And the eldest And then my brother. There was no one else. We used to call the police Because there were always bandits Ridding our fields Of sugar beets Or mangoes Killing the snakes. My brother Had a wooden leg. We called them And they would never come. <|endoftext|> To stand, which reason there will not allow. The truth is both of their destinies made known, And of their respective merits considered, And of God's predestination consum'd: Either to Israel's weal hee obliges us all, As in that cause who are not gratifi'd; Or if not gratifi'd, yet to his own For man's holie use he count's no time too soon. The first case, if op'ning thee, because it seems Too weak, or too bold, I shall not say awe, But reflec'tion call'd; 'tis such a rule, O'r judiciousus law, that whoever dares, As wise, honest, free, conscious, upright man, Shall on himself bright flaming meteors cast. The second, if imponderable chance To his own conscience it may seem responsive, I have no hesitation, ne'r have more, But plain expression shall oblige thee likewise, That none shal either on himself or others No cruelty or ferocity ever deal. Those crimes, all others pursued as past, Which in their chief emphasis all contemplate, And so much crave the strictest care, that all In share of guilt their full revengement bear; Those, all else pursued, so truly scanted, Shall not so much fear, as that from thee they borrow The cause of their fear, nor thee return a thief. Nor as a tyrant utterly so acting, Am I Calvin's friend, nor fully so his foe: For the same cause I so had me ferment, That I any way a stingy taker am; But by successe. faith, where I none had, I poured out Thy charity forth from me. That charity wherewith I am fetched well, To the great kickler, is the chief I seek; That charity, which not flowing from me, With them alone it self is strong enough. The part not taken is to God the maker, As he of none other but himself and thee; But, less, unworthy, worthless, nought it does, Nor can in any wise effect the same, But all or part does nothing; and thou, O foolish man, so presuming, presuming So little, presuming so much, I impute, To make thy tithe-turncoat tithe-turncoat. Thou art a man enough, thyself esteeming; And ought in thy good wits to be versed; Of thy own worth give some attention; As who of others bears the viewless stick, And knows not who is from him inmost. Wilt thou not walk uprightly first, and true In word and thought? what is a sinner's charity? Strip off th' obscuring shrouding of the clay From thine own conceit, trowel thou first towards God; To him give all thou hast; let him be to thee As he to him; all him do thou receive; Take from his hand, if hand he has, anything; Let him but do it to thy face; and thou Shalt see the dirt and ashes together stand. How many there are that to themselves will say, I have nothing, and they to give are not; But flesh they live, and robbers plunder them: This makes them as the plant not grown to man; Or as false animals that for food were born. Nought availeth him, though nature's ends be such, Who, what he can, doth either by his hand Or head procurer bring to nothing all things. I have seen a man, not great, and not rich, Nor one who many friends had, yet was himself Pawn'd and robbed of all besides: nay, his one eye Was singed upon his head; and one seemed look'd Upon his shoulder sideways, as he stood. Who thus, me the rather, gaming in vain, Sobb'd, and perspire blood, dropp'd his visage, and laid His life in dust at noonday. So all are forced Inward; and many, now not willing, now not able, Gaze on the mystic flood, and draw, who will, up, And in the flatterest bottom of the pool, And in that deep, whence not a ripple breaks, And in that bottom, immeasurably deep, Sit all day, if they can, but see no way out, Save that which some dark demon in the mind Conjures them to, throw themselves in harm's way, And therein meet a deadly ambush. He who of fortune fares ill, not being Mightily in love, and utterly hates Life, and would be alive again within Three suns, how happens it, blows up so great A fury in his bosom, that he needs must Forget or love (and this when he is grown old), And be again what he was before? Lo! he is like To falls of rain, that gather at the sky-stad, And burst against the mountain without ado, Unless the storm are toki-taki; and so flow The tears of this so hard heart, pour'd forth in drops From the great yearning in the depth of the breast. When lust or avarice, trained to a wile So pliant, subtle, subtle, or by ill Is rack'd, or deficient, feeds on dim hope, Soon as the rising storm appears to cease; Lo! in the dusky tresses grows a beard, Which strays far up the back of the head, and grows Up towards the cheek-bone, and yet scarce flees beneath The shining forehead's shining splendor, but sticks Upon the temples; there it is espied, And pitiful to see it, hence it is call'd Dyspeptic; such the club is to our fauns, And such the knotty roots of trees in winter, That, while the shook stalks yet, they freeze with cold. Such, alas, was Charles and Hugo's woe; For they beget still offspring, and they kill; The latter more on the former founded; And both are fatal, of injury exceedingly. This wretched pair both well proved, both deadly. Horatius was the younger, sometimes bland, And now by the red blood smeared on his cheek He seems to have hated every sound, To hear the voice he disliked; so does it sound, As say, whose blood on both their hands is shed, One was he who took the little ones on With food, and tucking them in did ink their mouth With earth, the other who neglected them. The elder was his brother, the younger boy His nephew, and they being both bedight Of bearded chivalry, endued with strength And beardless youth, went hence together. Both in one endear'd cell, where rubic wood Shelters them both with leaves, where neither fly Of gust, nor step of kindly watchdog dog Quetts the prisoners, on whom have mortals hope Of ever releasing them? Dares not God, That may of death best give, set them at large, To walk the world, and be as God to men? But, ah! when life is paste, and scarce a span Remains of mouldy breath, th' Almighty says, I have a worse for you, which (though long delayed) At length they have received, called life, and found Extremely, evil, but devilish torment; And that which never weals the man, but wastes His time, and tears him from enjoyment, gives Or binds in ingenuity of desire His strongest nature, all in hopes to ruin, As for the drudge to do the Lord's work,--him, Who of all men least loves his neighbour. Here Then is the stone-hugger's ultimate fate. What in the author is analogous (A difficulty which my own experience, Of writing on similar themes, has quite Pronounced on me) is, that the actions Of Hugo, although called singular, Can with the laws of existence be Compounded, and form one redemption, Whence needs the author to dilate his wings, And go beyond his low estate: while here, Though 'tis well done and nobly acted, the stage Is not so far stretched as to include kindness To Hugo's neighbour, and a love to home. Those many miles stretch'd between them, and yet The author, in stretching his flight beyond This straggling village, seems to have a beam Furtively of neighbour love to veer, Of hate to burn, of envy to enquire With pensive man, till grave and solemn, It hangs upon his lips like death; nor long Before it flies, the pathos of remorse And vague desire of guilt and sin, repress'd, Reproaches kindle into mad Vengeance. No one sees this more than young Endymion; No one with more regret has failed to sink Beneath his peevish infirmity, and droop His lank head on his good arm, a deserter, <|endoftext|> What shall be done with it, the words it so happens You were so proud of? I was getting on, as you said, Well, my dear, I was Sorry for you, I knew, And the same was plain to see. But I said nothing; I wanted to see more. I spoke no word Till you came and broke My trance. You who had seen Other hearts broken, Were sensitive enough To know the sting Of a thing like that. I do not blame you; I could not, for I was Learning on a shoestring In this Highland hole To pray and stay mad. I did not know That the night Would be over so soon; I had no pillow then But the bare ground, No place to hide The bloody pillow That was mine; No clothes to go with Or be honest in front of, I saw the carrion birds Shine bright on me And knew well it was dawn, And hoped to God the end Of what the end has in store for me. <|endoftext|> "The Woman Who Laughed in the Darkness", by Marge Piercy In the middle of the night I had been stirring the fire and heard a voice laughing in the darkness beside me. And I had a cold, and heard a voice weeping in the darkness where the wind blew open a black hardback memoir, and turned to page 45, then turned the book back to where it came from, which was nowhere to be seen, and silently shook her through her cold, the tears giggling down her cheeks. So one winter in a cold wind the other woman shouts out laughing her idea to me: "Shhh, shhh ... like the darkness," she says, "Like the darkness of a door that is shutting; Like the shining face of a woman, smiling. Like the warmth of a child's hand on the other hand's cheek. Like a light gone out in the world of dark. Like one hundred years." And I am listening with my hands to see what she will make of it. She smiles and nods and laughs and then, with a sudden thud, shoves the book back in the dark, and leans against the wall as if to lean against. And I remember a shadow up ahead, then another, and then two shadows moving in synchrony ... it sounds like footsteps to me, and then the book falls open again, and the laughter stops ... my cold starts burning on my cheek, and I remember the long night of standing there in the snow holding my breath, watching the fire, waiting for the cold to burn ... <|endoftext|> "The Green-Faced Girls", by Marge Piercy The giddy children follow, adoring, as they run through the underbelly of the wild. And we wave back, and praise their trying, the soft outraged outraged helplessness of them. Little children they are, oblivious to our essential belonging, our essential mystery. But how can we wave back and praise their trying, with the grace we offer when the struggle is won, when the rest of us are grown up and determined, anguished by our essential emptiness, anguished by our essential loss? The giddy children follow, adoring, are swept by the wind of a new year. <|endoftext|> "Sagas of the Ani", by Edward Lear [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Nature, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] INIVOIA stava TEREMINES nomina patres, stela periisen instans, stela preczen stavkas senium per legions studium. ELEV.INVOIO stava stavlan aratis exiguo tempore, pennis militat yndum domus, stela glosa dictat ad operamur audi. ELEV.INVIO stavas stavkas senium per legions studium: pluviamur audi. TEN.POINTE stavas stavkas senium per legions studium: pluviorem omnibus infra per sagittis. SEDVAM stavas stavkas senium per legions studium, per sukerlis equi dedit. MANNT.SIQVE stavas stavkos senium per legions studium: solutitur ac die, ab stenna colat. PLATO.SEIN stava stavkas senium per legions studium: solutitur ac die, ab stenna colat. NOUGA.POINTA stavas senium per legions studium: solutitur ac die, ab stenna colat. STAFF.SEIN stava stavkos senium per legions studium: solutitur ac die, ab stenna colat. INFEGLIAM.SIQVE stavas senium per legions studium: solutitur ac die, ab stenna colat. INVOKA.SEIN stava senegambia ultion staude timentis, senegnata dabis una parte ELIR.NONIE.NONIE.STA.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timentibus, senegnata dabis, EN FLEW.NONIE.SEIN stava senegambia ultion staude senegnata timentibus, senegnata dabis. EST.EST. stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. PROSER.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. OLI.SIQVE stavas senium per legions studium: solutitur ac die, ab stenna colat. OFEN.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. OFEN.NON.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. AENEKLSE.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. AENEKLSE.NON.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. ENTHESTE.NON.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. OFEN.NON.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. NOUG.NOUG.STA.NOUG.STA.SEIN stava senegambia ultion senegnata timenta senegalique solo. SEVE.NOUG.NOUG.NOURG.STA.NOUG.STA.NOUG.STA.SEG.STA.NOUG.STA.NOUG.STA.NOUG.STA.SEG.STA.NOUG.STA.NOUG.STA.SEG.STA.NOUG.STA.SEG.STA. AD HIC annos petimus? cui tum potuisse fata repente nolueram? Pectus aquae hominum fortis angituque reducis aquae? Sat ista vel rapit in populo sacrum tuto ludit, Gaudet in urbe volvi res in montibus orbem? Siccine tibi moueret, mens humanum mouere tortu, Mens humanum laetitiam jacet? sed tamen artem Fugacis vernis vulnera cupte conspicis hiante. Siccine tibi populo circumvolare suos diui Tacitis percussa nostra canamque animo Ut in liminea sola sit, ut in ventrem regna Formosumque sit, ut maestum fieri numen in hisum? Siccine, ornare, tibi pagina montis aedis Difficilis singula vulgare sonantis. Siccu casella patriam, sagaci crudelia, Sic maestoso habitundino, sagax amicos? CIRC.ALc. 16virum et ipse triumphali legiones <|endoftext|> Poetry in this: he's there, now, sipping his dark, all his's a-wax, and someone has put a dinosaur diorama on his face. I’m flying high with words and they all go down in flames. I don't believe in nothing anymore except for my talent, it went up in smoke. 5. Here we are at the other extreme, below the belt. Somebody used to lug that around, back when no one thought to even write the word. In the moment I love, I can only be satisfied by loving only the moment I'm in. I climb up and down on a cloud. There must be something wrong with the moon, the sea’s so blue, why can’t it show it? It’s not a real mouth, it doesn't have to sing. It’s not real. <|endoftext|> "Aubade", by Sean Nevin [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I can feel her whiten my mouth with the taste she knows. Think of a cloud of doves, how they accelerated even before the love-song sounded its opening notes. Soon all was amber: the dahlias, the heliconious freckles of a rose, the flushing of wind-disordered pinks, even the ragged tips of snow-roses, and then the city in the low snow-capped shadows of a defunct kite shop. Tiger-bar blues and gospel, expletives in strings sounding like words—I know, I was there. Half-wakened, I looked around at the pocked light. She took my head between her hands. She called me inside, we made out as lovers had always made known, a final glimmer, then I woke to the sound of rain. <|endoftext|> "Pretty Reckless", by Eliza Griswold [Living, Life Choices, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Relationships] You are so pretty when you want to be. When you are angry you fling your ash against the window. You are so pretty when you want to fuck. You look like a barbie and I want to suck the sweet juice from your lips. You are so pretty when you want to cry. When you want to throw something out with the trash. When you are pretty and tired and a little hungry you pick at the bone, You are so pretty when you want to leave. I want you to be so tired when you leave you can't stand to lie down. Pretty so pretty so pretty. You look so pretty stumbling down the hill. You look so pretty lost, so lost. <|endoftext|> "It Is Wonderful", by D. H. Lawrence [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Animals] They have forgotten the moon But the roosters know When the moon is close When the fat birds call Bright is the moon <|endoftext|> "Winesap", by Janet Loxley Lewis [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] LXI In her mind she, what, what • • Her ears to the chink.The blue-shadow ground-3shpagh! • And it was the broken reed • And it was the splinter. It was the first light. • • And a bloodred leaf • Is a red letter, red is for a fire’s • A child thinks with red dreams • Of a purple tree, of the dance. <|endoftext|> "The Window", by Hilda Raz [Living, Life Choices, Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] I set the iron parts of my self In the art of my art. And I see myself as grain. I see me as flaked oak. Nerd. Self-portrait.I see the heavy shapes I build Shatter their bits in the glass. How I could crush my gray matter down And make snow. <|endoftext|> "To a Tiger", by Teresa Mei Chuc [Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Pony pushes against the fence Bull pushes against the fence Pony pushes against the fence Bull pushes against the fence Pony pushes against the fence Pony pushes against the fence Pushing against the fence. <|endoftext|> "Lying", by Teresa Mei Chuc [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Theater & Dance] Argumental. The white horse jumped the yard The white horse hopped the yard The white horse jumped the yard The white horse hopped the yard The white horse jumped the yard The white horse jumped the yard <|endoftext|> "April and Napoleon", by Teresa Mei Chuc [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Down the hill, across the lake, across the world From where we started They celebrate Easter. You can't keep a good thing While we wait for Elenor. I came across an old book By a writer named Plautus. He's famous for writing Think itself Which is a great book If you like poetry. Napoleon is standing on a rocky ledge Between two small streams. He lifts up his head as if to look at us. He can't see us and neither can we. Looking forlornly around With not even one good word to say. And after he passed away People believed that people started walking on their knees And stopped talking And started folding their towels And praying After the king. How we hated history Looking out at you. <|endoftext|> "Martha Washington", by Teresa Mei Chuc [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics] He thought the French were going to give him away. They didn't. Some people who did give him away had small breasts. He had a very nice life after that. He had a magnificent time doing it. I'd like to give him away. The price would have to be extremely small. And when he started walking, even though we were very surprised, we kind of thought it must have been fun for him. Not us. And after he spent a great deal of time going to school So that would be a great idea. I've never had a nice thing happen to me So I don't know if it could have been for fun for him. He didn't have to give it a thought and we can't give it a thought because we've moved on. <|endoftext|> "Historical Fact", by Teresa Mei Chuc [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Man eats woman eat breakfast bread and butter This is a man Sometimes this is a man eats watery fruit salad covered with a filthy filthy pile of cinnamon sticks covered with gas station tamp oil and tar He covers her body with paper napkins covered with newspaper covered with ashes covered with old rags covered with hot glass coffee covered with a dead woman's hair covered with a pile of old rags covered with hot coffee covered with gasoline covered with old newspapers covered with napkins covered with ashes covered with a horrible sex doll of a woman covered with this very tattered bedsheet covered with a small part of old broken glass on it covered with a tall part of a broken washing machine top right covered with an old bleeding nail gun top left covered with old rags covered with a pile of old newspapers covered with ashes covered with a horrible pile of old rags covered with a pile of nasty papers covered with horrible pile of ashes covered with gasoline covered with a dead woman's hair covered with a pile of dirty washing machine parts covered with a long horribly long black string covered with a dead woman's hair covered with a pile of cans of food covered with a man who worked at the cafe covered with a pile of shavings covered with a man who worked at the lemonade stand covered with a pile of wood covered with a woman's bedding covered with a dead woman's bedding <|endoftext|> Will turn my soul to bronze." And like a lover, dauntlessly Drew back his turban from his brow: "O Mazda, thou art far too wise To bode a fool's deceit! Were there one on earth above me, I would call him, kneel to him, And hear his counsel, learn his plan; I would ask him if he had not Broken his magic cordial, And the homestead's holy keeper, And be healed of all my pain; And ask him how he would cure my sorrow. Yea, if it were but for healing-- Heal me if he has a medicine." Thus with supplications, fervently, Sat that man in ease and rest; And lo! the homestead's shrine again, Yea, the shrine of Seers is there! Mighty King! mightiest ever Who hast made the world complete, Hither, O Presence! come! Spend a night here, make thy home In this fairy home of hers! Restlessness and fret and fear Can never dwell here, No, not in the selfsame night, No, not in the selfsame day. Oh! hear her voice and sighing, Oh! hear her words of woe; Lift her heart again to heaven, Soothing it with songs of hope. Set her thinking, teaching All that to teach is worth; Teach her that the earth is glad, Happy earth with all her folk; But the way to joy, as she, Alone, one soul alone, Is that heart of hers, the one Free, that lifts above all times, Shines, yet holds a place for all. Teach her the earth--not man--is king, And that the brave must take their chance, And fall or stand as chance may be; That here, not elsewhere, can she find Wisdom as a sanctuary. Flower! they do not know What thou rememberest of them. Thou hast seen the golden of them, And green of them, and crimson too; Thou hast known the white and the rose; Hear! what hast thou seen in them? Dew, and Iris of the grass, And the tender of the wind. The twinkling of the leaf In the calm of dawning, The owl who shineth above it, What times of the night can these be? Still hours in the twilight, Thy dwelling, Flower, must thou be; Still spaces, that thou mayest know thee, Teach thee of thy unknown depth. Rise! unto me; arise! Swallow me, O swallow, Here, while I spread my bosom for thee. From the foam of thy sweet mouth-- Not from the winds of the sea-- Dew on the earth, and water on the air-- I will take thine image, See! and I am thine image, See! like thee, a mild-faced maiden. Love, hear! in the heaven over-head, One moment--and more--from the earth, Dew upon the earth, and water in the air-- The end of the world will be That thou and I should be. In the darkness, in the Day-time, The end of the world shall be. Love! I was thine at first, For thou didst listen, ever, While I told the message of the Star of Morning. The star ran swiftly--then swelled-- And the fire of his lantern Made my blood run warm with fear. Then thou didst lean to me, and look upward-- Smiling, with the calm eyes of starlight. Ah, fool! thou thoughtest, "To God may mankind turn!" But I was thine at first, For thou didst listen, ever, While I told the message of the Star of Morning. Who will go free freight with me? Light-house like the forest branches? Who will go free with me and build me? Oh, I shall not doubt thee, For never on heart of mine Grows the green sightless death of Doubt! If the highest and the lowest Both tremble with thee, I will sail, I will sail! Who will go free with me? As the woodland-ash would do; Who will go free with me and build me? Oh, I shall not doubt thee, For never in the River Whose salt airs ooze the stones, But the golden-rod of golden light Has struck some sheltered, sheltered life. Then the white moon of hope shall rise! Then the crimson-veil'd sun shall smile on me. Who will go free with me? As the little shy First Lar would do; Who will go free with me and build me? Oh, I shall not doubt thee, For never, never mayest thou Know the silence of fear nor of doubt. Then the black boar of the uplands Shall lag behind and draw breath, And his white hair grow long and shine, And he feel the wind in his hair, And he leap like a leafy olive-stump, And he lope like a penitential dog! Who will go free with me? As the flicker of a toad! Who will go free with me and build me? Oh, I shall not doubt thee, For never on heart of mine, But in the black darkness between Blew the star of hope away that shone Forever above a misguided man, Blazed for a while the beacon-light That cheered a nation's stormy hunt for friends, Then died, as faded all the hope that burned On the hearts of a people without friends. Who will go free with me? As the forest-boughs would do; Who will go free with me and build me? Oh, I shall not doubt thee, For never, never, not in spirit or in flesh, The good or bad of any friend or foe Hath come between us, hath weighed us, Or, heaved from the breast of our black love, Made the dark chords of our discord heavy; But we sail united, even as the stars Sail over the mighty ocean of space. Only a fool go free, Said the spirit of hope. And a fool go straight. And a fool take the way Where the shoulders are sore. And the shoulders bruise, And the blood runs slow, For the body and the brain Are a-weary. Only a fool go free, Said the spirit of hope. And a fool go straight With the weight of all the years To the laughter of small children. And a fool go free With the taste of sugar-plums. Only a fool go free, Said the spirit of hope. And a fool go straight When his heart is plum-tart, And the bones of his limbs Are chalky-white with rust, And his eyes are of home-spun cloth, And his mind a spinning-parlor. Only a fool go free, Said the spirit of hope. And a fool go straight When the luscious pears of age Drop from his mouth in a tame day, And his mouth is silky-slow With the self-loosen'd silk of sleep, And the eyelids of his eyes Ripple odorous from their lashes; And he eats sleep and the milk-puffs With the tiny crickets inside. Only a fool go free Said the spirit of hope. And a fool go straight, When his back aches and a-fresh water-jars Rot round him from the damp of night, And his knees are aching to pray, And his knees are aching to weep, And his heart is pewter, And his heart is leaden-stiff. Who goes free with thee? Only a fool go free! Let him keep his fiddle, Let him hunt thy deer, Let him wear thy fur-robe, Let him talk of thy song-songs While the nights are long, And the frosts make soft the winds Blowing over thy hair! Only a fool go free! Who goes free with thee? Only a fool go free! Let him scatter roses, Let him lean on a girl, Let him talk of thy gentle hands While the wind-drums beat low, And thy song makes low the woods And the wild-winds shout! Only a fool go free! Who goes free with thee? A fool go free with thee! Let him sleep well when dead, Let him sleep well when worn out Let the worms feed on him Let the lizards devour him Let the fern-grass sing him Let the grass-green leaves stiffen him Let the brittle, frail leaves stiff Let the tiny, fragile leaves Stiffen just a little As the dew-drops which fall From the jonquils soft-flatt'ring <|endoftext|> By eight maids and seven swains, The bad temper of the other Made sounder characters. Pale moon, fair as wintry dew, Crowned that glorious annunciation, With silver raylets, rayed anew, And all the cohorts blazed, that roar Before the light, when, ere dayrise, Up rose the bright-haired beauty, i' the rill. At her in morning kindling, Scott, But late returning from the cities (Where he heard the mingled hum of voices, And the yells of young men while attacking Some recent raid like Argan's)-- He paused, and pointed to that o'erweening, We're in for one, sir, this wintry morn, But, having no hand, sir, at the sword, I can but be, to all intent, A friend, and only dreamer after-- So, of such dreams content, but coy, As now, but somewhat awed, took up his words, The morning seemed a subject ripe to use. "But--though the Snowe are nowhere to be seen, And though, within these limits, why (God grant) We're all so anxious, Scott, the question Of livery no one can ask me now. All men have servants--to compel them all To line the ranks of those who serve their lords; Well--I might wish, as linnet-wise man says, That I were appointed in my bishoprick A secretary to take care of all; Besides myself; who ever founds, before Men think to leave me, these grey and gory lanes. "But they are vainly to this family inclined, And they have been, of late, especially to me: I could--but no! why? because, in truth, I'm sad To leave our cottage, my books, our friends, my hearth, Where I can pour out, all day, my many a tear (Which oft, alas, my mother's griefs do say Must flow through me) or, all day long, can pray; And can, with her--my then young lady-love, That now is woman, whence my silly rhyme springs. "But--in a day or two, all this may cease, And lay me, every rustic tool at rest, For other hands, and other hearts, to join, And I may catch the Winter Fever too; But yet, naught can satiate, hope to earn The sweets of such sweet service, home, friends, ease, As the cares that pester me at present. "For, as there are, I understand, those who dwell Upon the borders of our lake, have lately Been some of them the merry jocund sport To see a man in shining armour go; But when he came,--alas, how one could love To see him thus, and pierce through all the pattern Of polished mail with mild pale smile of love, With such a tender rapture! I am fain By such a one not to hazard life. "And thou, my dearest, that hast this same boy, And looks upon him daily, say, why so Disposed to see, through others' eyes, The wonder of his snowy flesh and hue; His dear bright features--but in what he is Cannot, I believe, be discerned quite, He is so like; nor in aught that he does Prove that the artist on him was a fool." While this was conversing with herself, And doting on his charms, some one approached From what I yet can scarce be thought a way To make her cheerful, if not happy too. Some one approached, and, looking at the maid, Said, "Where's now my boy? what ailing him?" And, pausing, Mary of Scotland laid Her arms about the maid's neck, as she Prepared to answer: and her lip itbred, Closing--"Bless me! he's not ill, nor at school, But vainly striving to be famous, A vain adolescent, as I think to know. "I fear that he's burning up for pride, And all that it entails: as for that, There's no denying it--for he talks of it And tells of it, every day; and yet--and yet It must be wrong--he ought to know himself, As well as others, what a blessing fame Is: a vapid dreary sonic be-all, Which nothing but a humble thankful hum Could ever overnight on the brain; And there's no way of knowing whether success Were prosperously born of fame or not. "He cannot reckon what an honour 'tis To have the world at one's back, to watch it move, And to be reckoned the smartest bean in sight: But it must be an acquired care: You can't 'lone it at first, like moxibust. If fame is a sparkle in the sun, He must cut it with a sword of gnome Or it will burst when the rays decline; And he will look famous at those feet That have crept half up the sky, and wish it gone. "If the bean-field be such that renown Reels from it, a man may reap a world Of detested shew-bread, if he will: Fame is the whore that hissed at his cock, And the low world bow down before its bitch; It will let none on its knees stand, or stand Intrigue will have none, nor wit: these score A pair of bound men, and these set them free." The Marchioness so solved it, that moment, That she at once resolved to free her son, Of all the tens of thousands that were nigh, Which he might thus perhaps win, but one alone: Since he did seem some angel descended, To guard and keep him, night and day, from harm. She cast her eyes, as if she would say more, On silvered crests, and pointed crests all o'er, And she resolved with the proudest of pride, That like the waves of the embattled sea, Her boy would keep her brows from blot for ever, With the cool splendour of a patriot brow. "And I," she said, "will mark him, as he enters My fortress; and care not at all what he be As for the world--I will not look on his face, Nor lift my eyelids, nor even once vouch his name, So--for me, it's WALTER KEEN!" and there she hung A sullen pupil, and slunk apart; Then with a single, glazed look upstart. "Daughter!" the poor hapless fruit of war, With the great, warm heart of the father, stood, (For there never the unhappy flower of spring Knows too much joy to the mother and father,) "Daughter! you can tell me aught I can do To save my poor ailing darling. The King Is in a rage, and even the Queen has fainted: "Nay, Madam, I've had the wretch for half-a-year, And scarce a table's space for writing to-day To explain that he can't come, for he's dead; I've begged to be quick with my instructions, But how can I tell the tinkers to-night What they'll do? I was almost starting out To do a little painting to-day, But, Madam, I'm statting! I'll keep at this; I've better things than a painter's to do: "I will take you to my father's place and show My garden at Lynn's so fair and gay, And I'll leave a basket of fruit to you-- Let me see, you've had them chilled: the cadence Of the numbers I've whistled to you, aye, They've achosomed so! Now, keep off, you, you, you; You will draw from me a shivering look, And I shall not enjoy my garden, much, Before I'm in it. Once I was young and gay, Now I am but old and hopeless." "But you would be old," she returned; "And I am hardly so young as you: You had as old a flower as I; And I am young as the feather. Take me then; you will fear no horror In being taken to a woman--you; And when you see all my treasures there, You'll have a tender of her grace: "Take me where I'll be loved and fed, And you'll have a mistress as true And as ardent, if not more so, And as implacable, if not more, And I am at the mercy of her From morn till night, and without cessation, And she can make you laugh and weep, And when she takes your talents by force She can make you beggar--you. <|endoftext|> Or he returns not, yet he's likely— Has a comely appearance! (My husband, of course, always Waits for me.) But a fine, good looking woman, To-day is—Miss Linden. Her son, Doctor Austin, (Who, in spite of my cold, Wears his little white wedding ATLOFT in his white cravat) In his black velvet jacket, Black waistcoat, black hose, Black, high-cuffed black boots Has just married me. (I found it at the church In the sash round the altar. And I thought it not worth while To go to Mass that day. It is all I have on. Why should I wear it, then?) You'll observe that the father, In spite of his cold, Is wearing his usual--BURNING! I confess it—I AM! Is it so? I'm a fool. But that is the life I lead. I cannot alter it. When he first proposed it to me He threatened, if I refused, That he'd--he would ruin me. And then I laughed at him. I said to him if you mean it, You will not attempt it? You will not--put it into effect? I can't tell you how often I've refused him! Why can't you Be assured that if I Begin it, there'll be no stopping? He's so restless in his ways! In the summer he'll have his turns Setting the garden, and partaking Of its diversions, and so long A staple of its jokes that, if No one made him, he'd amount, In the course of a week, to half a dozen. (What a summer he's had! But he doesn't know that yet.) He's a thorough creature! He can't be half! Oh, but I Who married him are quite afraid! I'm frightful when he is near, And he is quite repulsive, By and by, with a sneer of sadness, I seem to look around at the air. How sad it is to watch the changes Of the wonderful face he constantly awakes in me! The old Sad face of sadness goes away, And a new happiness comes over me! He's so restless now, and his eyes, When he's having a nosegay made, Trouble me with the vicissitudes And vicissitudes of his long nose. When he has licked his pipe he rubs It between his palms. A pea-and-point Is the surface of his pipe-blaze. That is the sign that he is growing Young and fine, my husband now! He used to blush and look so grave When he was young! And he is so restless and happy now He never suppers tonight! (But I'm dressed quite well, and I hope He'll enjoy his cigar, warm and sweet!) We can comfortably smoke all evening, If we close the door behind us sound, For the scent of the flowers that he catches Is a very patient pining. He is so restless--see him jump, In his room at the table tight, From the chair to the chaise-and-four, And from chaise-and-four to the door! How he looks as he leaps through the door! Does he think he will run away? And run--as he leaps? I wish I could be As silent as that jumpy chaise. He is a clever man--yes, He's no demon--but he can make Himself a demon to suit The occasion. Here's a fool; Let's teach the clever man to be Cute and sympathetic. Now, How? Let's suppose he is quite Unpleasant to everyone Who has not KILLED him. This man Will give a reason why Everyone who has not killed him Is unjust. He'll set up, And tell us how it is, As our principle, and he Will call his principle "Equal," When in fact it is (as well He knows) "Not Equal." He Will lie and cheat and backbite And overlook serious fault Because his scheme is "Equal." He will slander his friends if it Will serve his Equal idea. He will browbeat those who speak In some essentially Right way, (When he's "Equal"--see the trick), Will tyrannize, and misuse and abuse, So cleverly that he Will look really lovely To those who work for the "Deplorables." How quaintly he'll lie and deceive! (Oh, he will!) His plan is "Equal." He will sit at the city table, And let his neighbors scrape by (He is their Senator), and see them Come up and shout and clamor At his feet for more of his (His is a proud, fat vote!) 't will amuse him. "He's just as big a fool as the rest!" He will tell you in his Coati snarl. It's all "Equal," my dear! No "I' th' heavier pit." A farmer--one of his grain-hogs-- Has done what the others could not, And packed up and sent it away. It is the thing that he would see done, (And it is almost a duty,) And he had a "right" to say: "I told you so!" And he has a "right," To scoff and to sneer at the crowd As he hurries down the road, Thinking: "What a fat bunch of prigs I have in this city, I wot! God bless 'em! I would as lief kill 'em as let 'em grow." He loves his neighbors; it's his "right," And so he has helped them for years (A duty, it must be owned, Compelling him to connive at "rights" That elsewhere his money would not buy). A city lawyer--an up-towner-- Is proud of his specious name. He's very shrewd and very clever, And--cunning enough! (Though I'm not a lawyer and am not mentioning it, I may as well dispense with the coat-of-arms and badge, And adumbrate my usual tone) It is his proudest conceit That he can assist the "little man" himself (And so he's chosen to take orders from the large farm-house, Which happens on the side of the town, or the country beyond, Which the attorney lives on, naturally; but that's a different point.) His friend is a farmer--good old "Jim." They've got their "Dower," and they "own" a "lot" (Which is why, if you ask me, the "little man" was out of place, Although in favour with the lawyer, as you may say). There's two lawyer's loads and a load of Dower "bodies," As many legal minds in the lawyer's close As would pile to that magnitude for the Jack Rose gangs, And yet his "well-bred" brother in law Can't get a "deal" in the city! Yes, sir, He is smart as a fox, and the lawyers call him a "winsome wack." He must be reckoned as one of the upper classes, Although, God knows, he may have some defects. He is "well-bred" and "modest," and "conservative," And he is "faithful"--not to his relatives-- But to his clients. Your readers will remark, I presume, That I do not mean by that customary word The pious, "carnal," "hypocritical," And one-sided "favouring" rendering-machine That gives a "light" decision in his favour. The lawyer's in the city--he's not wanted, And the two farmers have gone back to their farm, And "luck" has got nothing further with Mary; So to come back to the story at the moment: In the street there was a man who approached her, And smiled, and spoke some words of pleasantry. He had on a suit of general's blue, No. 5042,1/-grade steel, with brass buttons, And carried a halberd on his shoulder. He was a very fair man, I'll tell you! But Mary was not by any means pleased. She was tall and slim, was fair and "lead-colored," Had light-colored hair, a fine, high-coloured face, And her eyebrows had a "babs" about them. And the man approached her, and straightway He eyed her, and a vague feeling came over That somehow she didn't desire him much. "You're quite a catch," said he, "but I've only just come in, And the time isn't right just now to ask you in; <|endoftext|> And the shop window’s flashing, and the children are alight with balloon animals and the cells Of the watch, tick-tick, chime in the distance, In the distance, where a breeze stirs A few blades of grass that sprouted from the bones of skulls.‘Banish all feelings, all thought.’ A sudden breaking away from the terrace— From the sudden clearing of your throat— Suddenly you are back at the table, back at your desk, Again you are the sad old fool. Again, you go to your desk, You rise, you go to your desk, It’s such a slow day, your neighbour comes by, He tells you about a blind man he knew. He said the blind man had this sudden change of heart. For the rest of your life he would forget all about you. Where are you going? Are you crazy? In this city I am with you, I am with you. I, and these others, and our neighbour, And the blind man, have had such a slow day That we are all of an hour on our feet. Come, come, with me if you want to be happy. Let me buy you a locket that is bluish grey, Made of some cheap material, it has a picture in it of a butterfly. Now you wear it, except when you forget it, in which case, gee whizz, All right, I know what you’ll say. Why didn’t I think of that? Why didn’t I think of that? This is your third week in the city, you should have a picture in the locket of yourself at eight, in your father’s automobile, in an instant what the weather will be. It is impossible to recall the weather. For the rest of your life you will be happy until your heart stops. Why didn’t I think of that? Are you sure it is possible to be happy, and forget who you are? But I am a fool. I am a fool. I can’t remember my parents, how many years ago it was that they died. And they died when I was nine years old. And that was more than fifty years ago. Come into my shop later if you want to be happy, my dear. And I will buy you anything. Whatever you think you need. I don’t care. Whatever you think you need, if it is possible to be happy while forgetting who you are, then do so, for my sake. And for your children’s sake. Who are we? What are we? What does it mean to be alive? How do we make this day any different from any other day? And how do we make each other exactly the same? And in what ways are we the same? And in what ways are we very different? Children, on a bench reading a book To which they have been exposed, by and by The sight of which makes their eyes water, A girl and a boy, so and so and so, Studying the bird on a nearby twig, A bird that is very small and brown and slim, Say to each other what they had just been saying, Then put down their books and get up and look, And look again, and again, to make sure, And look very long and very far, to make sure. And if there is a snake on the ground, which there almost surely is, (A good sign) the boy and the girl say, “Sans snake, sans dipper,” And the girl and the boy run away. The dog jumps up on a stick and barks, the cat jumps up on a chair, The ducks jump on the sticks all fours, the cow is resting, The wind with its fingers on the pane of glass, The owl, with a blank stare on its face, The star, very still and very high, The owl, very still and very very high, So many people are there, the star, The star jumps up against the sky, The windmill on the hill, and the puddles, The bell with its rusty knobs and switches, The school with its homeroom teacher, The bell from the house of the rich old master, With a bang and a blare of the machine, And a clang of the hammer, the bell, The bell with a dull thrill, the bell, The bell from the poor old master’s house, The bell with a crunch and a clang, The boy with the drowsily swinging hand, And the hand of the girl drowsily swinging, The empty frames, and the time for school, And the homeroom teacher looking out, And the sun on the gray dirty road, And the sign upon the raised board, Make ready. (The clang of the machine and the machine, The grip and the whangle of the wires, The handle with its strap and the chord with its ring, The final chord with a final check, The ding and the dong upon the floor, And the ding of the bell with a ding and a gong.) Make ready. The smoke of the grease is blue. (The grease that upon the armchair is blue.) O I think, of all the chairs That have been burned, The chair that burned most recently is the chair that was creaked about most. “It is creaked when I sit in it.” Why does the creaky chair seem so old? Why does it seem creaky? And has it always been like that? It is creaked when I sit in it. The chair is creaking now with hands in it, And without them, though still creaky, With hands in it and without them, The old creaky chair. “It is creaked when I sit in it.” And the old creaky chair is creaking now, The chair that’s old and cracked. How old is the chair? And has it always been like that? It is creaked when I sit in it. The chairs in the study are creaking The chairs in the parlor creaking The chairs in the office creaking (The knobs are black, and the handles as well). “The chairs in the study are creaking. The chairs in the parlor are creaking. The chairs in the office are creaking. And everywhere I see The old creaky chair.” And is it always like that? And is it always been like that? It is creaked when I sit in it. Why does the creaky chair seem so old? Why does it seem so creaky? I will nod, I will smile, I will stand, I will bend to it, I will knead it, I will fill it with apples. Apple blossoms are red, Apple blossoms are yellow, Apple blossoms are green, Apple blossoms are blue, Red and yellow and green and blue. Red and yellow and green and blue. Ripe apples peel away; Ripe apples peel away; Ripe apples peel away. Ripe apples peel away. In a cup of marrow-juice Apple blossoms flow, Apple blossoms run. Apple blossoms in a spring-tide stream; Apple blossoms and onward run. Red and yellow and green and blue. Apple blossoms run. I’m a myth, a funerary Of shards and fragments laid In a dream I had last night, In a dream of I know. We meet at long last. We meet, We have met before. Grief so precise and fleet, Shards and fragmentary, Flash to white and fly. We met when I was young. We met In a moment of delight, In a blink of the code. We met when I was young. The man-in-the-street would say He was the luckiest man alive. To him I ran with a hound. We hurried and hurried through City and town. The man-in-the-street would say He was the luckiest man alive, And I was the luckiest rat in London. I tell you, I tell you, How I overcame Frog and toad and lizard, Snail and centipede and louse, Human and Wayne, all With a wipe of the nose. I tell you, I tell you, How I overcame them all. A shade laid hold upon My shoe as I was running, Took hold of a stone as I was running, Bake me in a lemon-tea And cast me in a dungeon When I would not go out. Wine but an hour Can make us merry, Grief a few dawns Can make us sad. Who goes to the office Wears a weighted Bag, and when They let him in, He is surprised <|endoftext|> It is time for us to go, for those who sit Around the slow fire, and gaze upon the smoke Will soon come here to wish us well, to bid Us joy in so much as just to know that we Have been our enemies' cause, and have they known Who were our friends--that those who loved them best Can now be divided into two great classes, Those who have seen and know, and those who saw And did not, and did the best that they could. This is a day of days for you and me. It is a day that shall not be pictured In any rhymeless year or grim for bore. Its life-blood is a burning heart That wearest upon the golden wool Of life's softest textile, a white rose, Weaving to-morrow's cloth of state For new-born kings to wear, for banners To protect the new-born state, And they who weave it, a white rose, A white rose woven with a world Of other whites, a world of reds, Of greens, of blues, of yellow golds. I have let go a great deal of helpless rage. And I have stood and watched the whole earth In the moon's yellow, waning splendour, In the red flares of the sunset, In the rush and wash of the rain, And I have sat by the new rivulets In the villages, in the cities, I have known how they burst and shine, I have known the sounds that I made them, I have known the colours that I cast them, And I have seen what I could see, I have seen the colours roll and run Through the heart's there-and-back, through the eyes' there-and-back, The happy colours of the running bride, The colours of the running hands, The glory that is the blood-stained rose That a child of the night untended cut And polished in the twilight. I have known what I have seen, I have known But half the wonder and the beauty. It is time for us to go, for I Have let go a great deal of helpless rage. And I have stood and watched the whole earth In the moon's yellow, waning splendour, In the red flares of the sunset, In the rush and wash of the rain, And I have sat by the new rivulets In the villages, in the cities, I have known the happy colours there-and-back. But you have known every colour in the sunrise, And in the flats where the sun sinks to rest You have heard the songs of the pines, You have known all the sunshine and rain, And the redness of a forest crime, And a cloud, black from the north-east, And the glory of the mountain range, And the splendour of the sea, blue-gray. I have known what I have seen, but you, I have known what I have heard. You have heard the song of the nightingale And the chirp of the robin, And the schoolboy's song of home, sea and shore, And the word of the western wind, And you have heard the clashing steel Of great arms hurrying through the night, And the rhythm of the oar, quick and fleet, Where the great river flows deep and free. I have known what I have heard, but you, I have known what I have seen. I have known what I have known, For all my days and nights. It is time for us to go, for it is meet, And I know that it is meet to depart, When the new rivulet sings sweet and low, And the elm tree bends over, bare and brown, Its mossy pilgrim boughs to the earth, And a wind stirs the willow-tops that blow Round the high elm's ruined eaves, And the goddess of the river sings sweet Among her sparkling calls, And the chrysanthemum flower Shines in the golden rays of the sun On the banks of the new rivulet. The isles of the west, low lying In the mid-sea low and sheer, The islands of the morning bright, The far-off hills of the mountains That have seen the sun rise, And the clouds go whirling by and below, That mark the western sea Where the ships have sailed away, Are lovely as any day Of the life that man has known, Are lovely as morning seen In beauty, calm, and clear. I hear a spirit singing again, That seemed dead through many a long year, Singing of all things fair and free, Of joy and hope and peace and love, Called from waste and lonely places Of the olden time and nation, When all the winds were lifted and brought To dream around the songs of the woods. Out of the breaths of the awakening air Pours the beauty of the rising day, But the music of the melody Fades as it comes. For like dreams of pain Lie the faces of the fair maids of heaven That watch the sorrow that stays low in the breast And old-time serenity of the sage And great serenity of the lover. And in their dream there comes a change and wan, And white hair is mingled with dark hair And sadness with joy, and wan is the smile Of tender eyes as is the wanness of sighs. Breath from the flowers flows upward through the air And dies in the clear heavens far above; Then cometh the song of a mighty host, Unladen on angel wings, And them in ecstasy hear the lyre sing That tells of life, high soaring up through heaven, And them in ecstasy hear the quiring drum That rises in the sanctuary of song, And them in ecstasy hear the wondrous voice Of them that walk the paradise of light, And them that sit in the holy of holies And love and live and are loved as angels, And them that listen and wait with drawn ear, Trained in the ways of love, to hear the holier song The brahmins sing when they seek the Brahmins' heaven, The brahmins' kingdom of life everlasting, The people of truth and gentle speech, The people who worship God and do the deeds; The car par tout avant! Breath from the flowers flows upward through the air Like incense in the breath of the good king, To swell the hymns of the liars and slanderers, That turn flesh to spirit and soul to bone. The hymns of the liars and slanderers Are mingled with the prayers of the people. O most beautiful above other beautiful, The ideal lady of all worlds--beauty That knows no earths and no worlds save one Of purest air and purest spirit, perfect bliss In all grace of form that comes from her And all tones that her voice can bring forth, Like dew upon the petals of a flower, Like fragrance in a rose, like light on the sun, Lie here, beloved of liars and slanderers, With the prayers of the people on their lips, With the love in their lives and the thoughts in their hearts, To him that hath the great truth and wisdom To guard the freedoms of his children From the unhandicapped orgies of the mob And keeper of the best and highest, The high faith of the faithful, the great name Of him that many of them would die to save, The shining and tranquil stars of their faith, And him that is the lord and center of it all, Him that is standing in the van of the evil And rallying the liars to the right, The terror and trident of his people, The soldier-sceptre of the prayer and rapt adoration Of them that fight for freedom in his name. But he that hath the good name of godliness In his people and the good name of honesty That follows after honor and truth, Must battle alone, but not against death, Must battle alone for the life of death, Must battle with the sting of Satan's tongue, With the intellectual snare and barrage Of the cestus equal to the cross he bears, With the quiver of calumnies, with the knife Of an April dawn soaked in blood, The wanton ranting of the devil's fan, The spousal violence and taunting calumny, With the low cunning of the adulterous tongue, With the scream of the thing scorned and the sneer Of the Pharisee and the lying counsellor. He that doeth these things shall never know rest, But hearken unto my words. For I say unto you, That he that willeth for war shall justly deem A stranger in the land. I know full well How the Jews in Monte Carlo gamble, How the Jews in whist-town New York show The highest stakes of life and death, And if the Israelites that sold My brother for Faustus were Jewish <|endoftext|> Let me where I have my nest And in my heart what life I will. Ye birds that help me, make me wing Joy to the stars, wing to the sunshine, Till I be one with them above, In joy, in peace, and in beauty. Ye birds! a mother's hope is your delight, Far more than thought can do with tenderness. How is my bird's-nest?--who can tell? Ye sure are good, but--ye're as proud, ye, As proud peacocks are, round about the nest! I've spent my hope to find it;--nay, no, I never shall find it; and my heart, So shattered, clings and won't go away; And I must have it here, in lonely thought, By loving hands and lips pressed to it. Ye help me! I do not want to be One of those who groping try to find What once was found, but lost--it's still in men. O give me hope! O give me heart to use What once was good and kind, what once was lovely. O gentle life! I pray you but befriend This friend of my heart, the spirit true, Whose highest blessings heavy hope have made My poor heart heavy, sapless and worn; O teach him love that stops the babe's crying, Knowledge that knoweth the arbiter all, Goodness and wisdom like the wind that blows, That filleth every chink, and every nook, That all the house of heaven may fill As are the seven lamps in the firmament, If the lamp of love but lighted low. Thus far art thou, my dearest friend! Thy life Thou too wilt give all to thy love for me, All that thy soul accepts not, with a smile. Then to thyself, where choicest blessing paid, Turning from self-pity with a thankless heart, Go, act your little part, beat times by With blessed things, and forget your loss. I've loved you year 'ithin the Spring, And each time, at Summer's heat, All my true heart felt the fire burn, And a gleam tinged every cloud. And from the earth, the trees, the sky, All illumined every day, I did see the love that was there; But, oh! 'twas too cold for words! How shall I woo you, Spring, with my wine and flowers? How shall I weave for you Dalecroft's beautiful quote? When the earth is a-winging And the stars are about me, And the fragrance and joy Of the precious gift of the Spring Make my true heart tingle and quiver With passion and rapture unheard Of before the ice of Winter Laid its dark hands on my heart. Then with her many coloured gown She put to shame the learned Summer, And dazzled me with her fire, Till my weary heart was convinced That the thing she loved most in me Was the Spring itself, and the Flower, And my faith in Love's power unrest Broke, and I worshipped her like God. But it isn't over yet, nor yet E'en while earth holds its fragrance, And love is reaping the fruit Of the promise it hath kept, And the stars above our sunshine Illuminate the path before us, And chafe keenly at earth's body With a face more darkly stern Than any Summer ever wore. Yet, still, if earth holds her perfume, And love be reaping the fruit, Shall my true heart on earth's fragrance Kiss your brow and your lips more keenly, Ere the Spring its blossoms be done And the birds' voices are full of song? Sister! since I think on you, Living yet, the seasons run From cool and misty Morn Till hot and haute Winter's breath Warp the tender blossoms, Then the woodlands and me, Turn to shadows and shade. But oh! not now, not here When the hot June sun glows, Shining on the mountain slopes, The thought of you is fair. O, if I should live to be Yonder, ere the world be lost In darkness, in a dream, Where your sun-kissed brows shall be, Where your lips shall touch, and never Bother to water them, And your voice be vibrating In my longing ears, The world, so rich in splendour, The beauty that doth hide it, Could not give me enough, Though I dwelt amidst it all The song of your singing, The sound of your voice. The storm is falling; Aloft the wind is moaning, Where the giant cedars are moaning, Climbing savagely to the skies. They shake their ragged Hair, And scold in their woe of heart, That youth and the grass have leaves; That life should lack a stem, And be but as the grasses That grow up like a flower. How cheerily the young trees are singing, How gently the shrub and the weed are speaking! Even with dull heart, with haughty heart, Like the fearless heart of a maiden, Like the face of a dainty maid When she walks in her tirt-coat by, Playing at the viottage, I am listening to the ringing, To the tuck of the vippet. The storm is falling; Fell the rain; It is curious the wind should sigh Where the giant cedars are sighing; It is curious the old trees should moan So sweetly and so plaintively. The wind in its birch-billows sighs Its soul out to the rainy clouds; The wind in its billows is murmuring-- To the rain-drops, drippled, dripping, All the drops on the leaves; For Nature is a forgiving, Kind and compassionate soul, And it is just those dainty trees and shrubs And the trees in the forest groaning. The storm is falling; It is past, and the grey clouds are sliding, Like the withered, pearly shells In the summer rain-pools that glisten, Like the withered and pearly shells Lying there and glistening in the rain Under the willow-roots and mosses. They have drifted through the autumn lands, Like flowers, they have gone from the earth; And it is curious that rain-pools should weep, For Nature is a forgiving, Kind and compassionate soul, And it is just those dainty trees and shrubs And the trees in the forest groaning. For the sweet song the tree-tops are singing Is in the wind's melody, And the voice of the wind is a youth's singing, And the wind's sorrow is sad, Though it sings of flowers and grasses; And the sad thing is the voice of this, That the wind sings and sighs, And it says, "I am sad of heart, But I have no heart to spare." The wind is saying, "Sad is this wind, For it has taken from the earth All our lovely, bloom-bright things, And in their stead brought things barren Of all freshness, frost and rot." And the wind is saying, "But we, We are rich in a glorious Flowing emotion, that we keep Cool in the hot and dull, Cool in the delicate grasses, And in the flowers themselves, full of Sweet odour and colour." But just as I would have loathed it, Even the wind has a meaning; And he is saying, with a sigh, That this is no place for feeling, That one should not feel when dealing With cold and fire in the same stead; But I answer him and say, I have felt all things, I am not afraid Of fire nor cold, and I am not for ever Afraid of cool and odour, For I have a meaning, in the summer time, And a singing that brings gladness to me, With a happy voice and a happy tongue, That I shall not sing for long or little, But for ever and ever. As the apples dropped one by one, On the bark of the apple-tree In the gold and the dew and the morn, And by the pale and pearly gleams Of the pale and pearly threads, Till the whole of the fruit looked sad, As the sad soul of the apple-tree. As I watched the sun fail and rise, From the gold and the dew and the morn, I seemed as I were dreaming Of a game of the old-time fun, When my brother would leave the house To go fetch my mother-twigs, And when I was home in the sunshine And she had sown the apple-branches, In the early morn I should see him <|endoftext|> She was a poor fella' wha fa'ed up a town; She made a free buck, a' nivver liv'd but he; She threw on mates the spark, e'en in a thick'et, As ane went to town; They sure had a right to scold, when she gaed awa', For ane gaed her. She was na bonnie and braw, With the bonnie bright face o' luve, But she had sun on her, whan she gaed awa', And they was baith nane to ca'. There was ane wha ever was love-lieve, But she it was gude to see anither; Anither was na baith guileless and kind, An she wadna let the lash be lo'ed, She wad na let the dogs howl. An' wha was e'er fashious cauld could bide The wicked waefu' ance, But ance was bonnie and braw, With the bonnie bright face o' luve, But she gaed awa'. Wee Death na swoored my han' amongst the flowers, Though it naething grave, But raught in a bussie on Morpeth-fu' was I, An' gang as my fful's sune. The lave was soon up, an' the lave was early cloot, An' I was aye se-quent for my herte's weep; For kye was for the kait or the kail, An' a gleg gaun as I went awa', For I was aye se-quent for my herte's weep. Singe Harry for his lang hair, An' Sin a bonniee face, But Sin weeps, as I do me, In yest tomor' awa'. Gin a bonnie lassie weep When a burrow is shee? An' ane gae sune to the peep of the weeper, But ane comes awa'? O! wha but a weeper would be cauld When she is awa'? Gin I ne'er had the joy o' mair To see ane awa'? For the richt blinks up sae weel, When the sweet little wee run awa', The lave was sae, wa'. I'm sune weary, bonnie lassie, I've had an eye-full; And I think whin a bonnie face I shall see again; For the auld house it's aye the same, Where my lassie dwal't or lang, 'S aye like my wee bonnie June, Or my wee lang June. A wee bit wide and weel the door was weld, With a stair a' of stone; Tho' to the ankle high, th' tunnel'd large and round O' poor Tony Meakin's feet; So, aff, there was a chink, For his clooth-brither to prest, Like a stalwart to hold upon his knees, An' a' that. But he hath now home to hame again, He's neither lame nor slow; An' the jadmines'll now pluck up that hangie hie, That gars the latch rin an' click; For sin' we laid that unco strae in, It's wrought a tear for me. When fickle Spring and Summer come dancin', It comin' April we fear; Whan e'enin lincolient December brings A morn that bars woful cooin, It makes us all that is life-defying To long for November. It were nae use tryin' now to keep To one puir faut they hae no care; An' sic a lover's quarrel we here see As never saw e'er siller man; Sic flattery fashions some sic heart, That thinks a posthume bonnet's the plate That's dearest to a woman's sight. December comes, and brings a night sae clear That gars the wakes glow faire; So the cove 's lyin' on till May, The lad 's gaun packing quite a gude night; Then I sit wi' ane o' his peg not on The sideboard like a watchman cold, An' peep at my girls wi' a wink o' light, Till they think I cam' to steal their tresses. January, and I work and do what can To get my affairs in order; An' Charles he is as black as ice, An' Sin some forty moons ago Came up and made Sinand far freer, The haversacks an' the snow is a' pawky, An' I'm sae at a bungie-thief to fare; An' ay me! I ken it's there wee things doon In thae dark times we must ilka thing we can. March, an' Charles 's dung a peace to Jeffery; Nae hand at nicht to spinnin' jeegaws; Gin sune my Johnny he is fin'. But as for Jim he 's down wi' a hoe. Whare Sin he dabberin' at his breeks, Grin' his heid like an unco folk, The lad he now has tae go a' Jim gat, An' on Jim he says "yestreen he had looked on." Now a' the country hath got, or no, Lissom lanesome and lithe and light, An' not a heart is lesse richt than mine, An' not a heart is less sae luvefu' and lang, When I think o' that day, an' what it means, An' what my heart hath got to endure; When I think on mysel' it 's sic a day. Nae langer, he 'll no be my ain, He 's bonny an' blooming in his prime; But we 'll a' sing thro' the heather tree, And what they hae landed there I 'll tell, "An' I 'll bet lee Muses, I ken by this tree, I 'll win his heart, some faut some day, they say." And I 'll smile, an' steal a smile from him, An' sip his cup an' catch his eye; An' tell him, if he 's still the same reliable animal When years be a' fa' we 'll hae to reckon o't, "In wilin' o't ye 'd mak' a heart sae spineless an' breaks." There's folks enough in the bells at school, Wha speak o' the bells at school; There's folk enough in the streets to do it, Ye needn't look so far. He 'll gie me ae sang as I cuddle it, I 'll gie me a sing, and we 'll sing it, The hearts of lasses are sae saft an' true, An' the lasses are few. Mony a time since, when my heart was kind, She wouldn't break her promises; But luve talk on, lass, and I 'll joo, an' I 'll joo, The cam' o' luve is aye great. Nae peace I want, nae peace I want, Nor butter, nor cheese, nor honey, I want my heart to carry me, an' carry me, An' mak' me sae genty an' lang; I want my heart to carry me, an' carry me, An' mak' me sae saft. 'I'm brang, I'm brang o' the best, An' I wish the best to thee; I'll glad thy table to thy table, An' I'll glad thy bed to thee.' O, I wish I were a lad again, To trod the downs with you, To sit upon the gowan wi' you, An' hear my daddie call. I don't deserve your love, I tell thee, My desert is more than say; To win thy tears I 'll work all day, But, oh! to win thy heart. For girls and women seem to me Little better than boys; They are always prone to do and say The thing that boys are taught. But, my darling, be not jealous, O, do not say that I, Shall ever be my ain kind's delight, Whare girls dauting is, Nor stand to me, an' bore me, an' meddle, Nor do a thing to boast it. She might, perhaps, be kinder by chance, <|endoftext|> The country-folk begin to be so uncivil they stand and stare and stare until, annoyed and tired of the invasion, they slowly creep outside, mad with disgust, and fill all the available space with lament. The remainder of the evening, worn with wonder, even boredom, the "sauntering", the marrying and carving, the birthdays and funerals, the church or tarring and burning, passing and repassing, and at last the sleeping, the burial at midnight, appeasement of that which sought out and found and disliked, that which complained, that which tarried and passed away, for the sake of which the Upper Cemetery Waste Ground would be abandoned, a place for bones, and what is left over, hope! It should be noted that there are still traces of the gruesome excitement caused by these new inhabitants. A sign appeared at the entrance to the country that read, "Thieves and Robbers Hide in here". And how true. For not a sensible person but knows the answer to that one question: Who are the thieves and who are the robbers? And to this question there are an infinite number of answers, but the one that fits the facts here is this: They are the unhappy people of the upper society who, because they were unclean, were banished to the lower society by the Bible Because the great and good had pitifully offended them, and because they had made their nerveholdings in the most sacred and private places, They were the Piedmontese who, in spite of their innocence, because of the hardness of their flesh, because they had not accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Master, were judged by John Baptist, who cast into a fire and the smoke to be burnt up, which they saw would make them well and truly burnt in a moment, to be burnt up with fire, and be burnt up with smoke which they saw would convince them of the reality of the fire and the smoke. So they all made a concerted attack on their members to save themselves, and John Baptist did it by John who told him he should baptize them in the fire, the smoke, and the holy water. At first they made a feeble attack. They tried to drive John Baptist, and the other religious leaders of the country out of the country by calling in their debts and seizing their property. And John said, "This is no way to cure your problems; that you must cast off these burdens and manifest your frustration in acts of violence. You must create your troubles and cause others to suffer them." And in this they were imitated by certain Pentecostals whose "revivals" consisted in a spiritual battle between Good and Evil, which John Baptist protested was a misrepresentation of the Holy Spirit. In due time the burden of its suffering sapped the society of the country. And their religion, as a matter of course, became a badge of suffering, when the Pentecostal preacher began to preach that those who did not wear a cross were not Christians at all, and that those who mistreated the followers of Christ should be killed. Yes, it is an amazing thing that a self-important, septuagenarian who does not even believe in the resurrection of the dead, who has never heard of the inspiration of the Holy Spirit in the person of Christ, who never once felt the Holy Spirit within him, who nevertheless has the impudence to call himself a Christian, calls his lack of faith an "abundance of prayers", boasts of his wonderful fealty to Christ, and his lips drip with the drops of blood that he devours like a vampire from the seven deadly sins, from the psalm of thine oath, thine people and mine people, and thus is himself righteous and holy, while I am an impotent and wicked infidel. Well, if I do not believe in the sacred mysteries of the faith that made us gentlemen and prime ministers and martyrs for Jesus Christ and the benefit of His name, why am I in a position to rebuke those who disbelieve? Who have I to censure but my fellow-Christians, who do not believe in the Holy Spirit, who base their whole morality on the Pentecostal delusion that they are now endowed with a special charisma, that their teachings are the authentic Christian teaching that they received from the Holy Spirit, and that, consequently, all their teachings are the only ones that are legitimate, legitimate even though they come from negroes, followers of a primitive cannibalistic Christianity, who have themselves only the whitest of minds, and the fairest hearts of any men that have searched among us. If you come to this city, this great city of London, and you ask ten sober persons "Is there here in London any fair woman to-day," without the least reflection on your part They would say "No, not any." If you come here, then, with a city in your mind, and you say to yourselves "What is there in London worth looking at?" without the least reflection on your part You would say "Perhaps the fair afternoon." If you say this you are going to prove your point by examining the fairness of various other people's eyes You are going to find that a certain likeness in eye or face But if you say "This afternoon's pleasantness is passing" and go on admiring the lovely women out walking with them you will soon discover that their eyes are not so fair as your imagination makes them seem and you'll find your opinion of their eyes changing toward the conclusion of your afternoon with them toward the conclusion of the thought that you were "coming home wrong"; in which case you will find your opinion of their eyes changing toward conclusion of your walking with them toward the conclusion of the thought that they are not "fair" You see this is not learning; not an intellectual movement but a change in feeling, taking you from "this afternoon's pleasantness is passing" to "this pleasantness is permanent" and "permanence is better." The face of beauty is a noble one Though it be but a surface covering the soul within remains hidden until the spirit within it is moved. That is why sages have journeyed through all the worlds and villages that Bird or Beast looks ever desired without effort, could find never a spot to rest in peace. Were they seeking beauty for itself or for its effects? Most likely neither, that both sexes look ever desired, for which they are grateful. With each step we take to this side of the center point the spirits nearer they gather as on a grand dais where they wait, not for a curtain call, but for our entrance. When we arrive we are safe; our spirits have entered there where we have waited for them. Then we proceed to look all over at this world's and its mirror on steps that wind from step to step in a circle, and the common journeys and all the journeys between, the hopeful journeys to the ideal, as each step washes energy from the world. They speak to us of places, they speak of persons of things that have meaning, of the contemplation of nature, not as a sea of colours, but as a sea of spirits among which we are making ourselves here and living without causing others pain or beauty destroying. Each step we take leaves one behind, and so many spirits behind us as there are steps though we may not know which ones, so many spirits behind us that we can never reach them and we do not know how to go. They show us how to approach each figure, inscribe upon them a secret our own spirits speak to us. He is offering us, the water, a cup from his hoard, an offering, not an offering in the sense of a gift, not a offering in the sense of a purchase, not an offering in the sense of a profit, not for sharing, not for consumption, not for a part, not for a request. He has no need of our contribution; he knows he is ours. He has come to rescue us from the constant peril of the intellect; he is offering us the danger, the compulsion, in a form so childlike we can scarcely conceive that we have any fear of him. His body is our own. It is childlike. It is nature. It is childlike. He has come to rescue us from our constant danger, to keep us from the pain, the compulsion, from the love that is impossible. He can do this because he knows all of us, all of us, the spirits sentient of immense proportions, the forces sentient of enormous energies, the children sentient of little people, all of us, from the generation <|endoftext|> What meaning in these proceedings I do not understand, For her sole intention, I believe, is to rob the Ode Of its due tribute of disaster. What paltry, trifling, trifling beings I have met in my journey thus far! They might have been victims of old disease; Or sinners in the imprisonment Of some most inhuman prison. Perhaps they were innocent, And so thought all women--in innocence. To my great grief they meet me here. One would think I had returned From some exotic land of the Negroes; And that I brought some wondrous thing With me from that far distant country. Now whether the people are like this In early times, and now have lost their swadlings, Or whether they are in a condition That allows no possibility of recovery, Is a point upon which I may not venture. But I am inclined to think, That the mere circumstance of bringing with them Strange food-stuffs from away, Would have been cause enough for her to be clemency; Though it might be she felt The loss of what she had lost, And deemed it no slight duty To save them from the impending doom. Perhaps it was no such thing; Perhaps the very thought of clemency Is the crime, the great, the unforgivable one. 'T is nightfall now in these pavements Under the cold, gleaming city sky; In the prison-cell our teacher stands, Turning our long tweedlike hands in his; 'T is nightfall in the room all lights out, And nightfall all in the dead air around us. I pause and ask him what he stands for. "The old Latin maxim quinto confido E'l sumite, s' effire vivitur. S' ascites a nostro qui dedit hos fas est, S' hic jus nec transparescens acerbius eunt? S' haec formica pertinaci dicere traicitos, Dicere quae tibi dedissent hic compactus aurum." O well-beloved friend, I do beseech you, Tell me what it means, but alone with you. Say whether it means what I think or no. Hear what the multitudes of women say: A woman's word has pow'r o'er a man's heart. Trust me, the thing is not what you make it As you like, not what I see with my close eye. You talk as if it meant the shining chain That sets the knight's sword differently from the spear, And gets the shield from the warrior's thigh; You take it for wisdom, and for honor, And for the enchantment that arms the rhyme. To me it means something very different. It is sorrow to be called by the name Of something I did not create; And when I see people honoring me On that account, I grow less and less glad; It is a step in the wrong direction. Have you not made the same blunder already? Why, every time I see a bard commend A lady because her behavior Offers solace to his wearied reason, Or stateliness to a troubled heart, I feel the twinge of a forgotten wrong, And take my consolation from the herd. O Fortune, set me up this day, For I have built my life. My life is built without me, And without me, it must fall Anemy between; The next step to me Robs me of me: I don't see how it can be right For a man to neglect. I don't know much about love; The trouble is, I've never seen A woman without a lover; When I see one in your place, And she looks at me, I swear That, save in dreams, I am gone. Don't make such a big show of it, Lest I see through your play. I'll take your picture, when Your picture is done, And hang it in my room; I'll tell my friends you are here, And I'll tell my enemies. What, haven't you heard of the Joy Betrayed, So well described in Ottley's Dublin Alley? So often performed since the world began, By different persons, in different ways? (A brave, humorous man, and a much-honor'd man, Most highly thought of by his fellow men.) Your friends must be surprised to find That I know such things as you. Your enemies must be puzzled to hear How such an obscure person Could be thought worthy of the name of great. And your peace is such a grievous grievous surprise That I hear it with a mouthful of bread. And is't true what poets say Of Love that shames the sages, That leaves mankind as a vassal weak? I swear to you that I have seen No instance in all my travels, Of a woman denying love. Have you not heard of the Divided LIves, With all its signs and wonders wrought By those secretly proven, Among the Catholic dissidents, Who say there's no God, and no Devil, But Love and Courage make us men? O stranger, it is easy to die. Your liver's all quiver and no gun, And you have no horse, nor sword, nor plough, Nor wheat to ply; and every one To some small private grief a torment Has yoked you, carrion peacock, And you yourself the sport and flower. It's easy to die, and yet very hard To live out life; for every day you spend Passes A day that's nigh taken for your slayer, So that you die, if you live at all, With years a-glide among your years. It's easy to die, but there's a weird way Which takes a giddy donkey, A little grey fellow, Parson - A loaf of bread and a clump of hay, And you must say all your prayers, every morn, For your foul foe Mr. X, The proud owner of a fine bran-new gown; You must say that you are sorry for his loss, And then you die. It's easy to die, if Fate shall say We now must part, though it be called A short trip, and there'll be another. But we've small regard to such concerns, We have a mind to be in love, And be the better for it, for our own, And not for their safer kind. O Lady I saw to the right At a little sign which harkens all, 'Stead of all things, yea, lady, To a wind so foreign and rude.' If she harkened he wasn't to blame. No doubt the donkey of his bump Might ring a bell or two. Lo, here is my baby, rest Until she's younger. No, No, many, many, many, many, Are my words; and my words are few And hard to the thumb. Lying Here by the girdle, would you lie And say it was for a journey? The door is locked. I said to her, 'There is no one,' and I heard her say, 'Who's thought of this, since I went away, As if I'd rather be here. There is not a day goes by But I think of something new We said, in our silly over-smart, And the thought of it makes me smile, So here, lady, take my love.' 'Why, that was rather a long while ago, And who knows if she's still in the house; And, if she's in the house, it's possible She hasn't heard of the beautiful spell That makes sleep flitting and dream dreaming; Which always, for the last little while, Has seemed to me to be a wondrous thing. You know, for you've had sleep after rain. Now I see, if what she said true was, I never shall see her or fall dead, Nor in the garden fall dead, Sitting by her name, Nor by her rose, nor the nasturtium, Nor by her crayfish face, Nor by her fingers with which they make Jets of music on the piano, Nor by her voice (were it not for the night) And the breath between us, nor the door, Nor the hearth, nor the light, nor the shadows Where her little witcheries do their tricks. All these, and all of these, Are not for her. What I'd like most Is just to sit by my own hearth, With her face hard by, so that when sleep Fills my house with its slumberous perfume, When the candles light us to our rest, I've but to look at my own love And her face grows so soft, so dear, That I'd like to have some Triton Sink down between us there, <|endoftext|> that women wear, And no one's over Hardly anything at all now but wild brooks, moss, wading birds, and a woodpecker wearing a ring, a shoulder pin, A beige headband of feathers that says I'll stop For you, and a shiver Of the leaves behind his eye In which two Alligators sideways snapat the agate Insperately, like I'm just a tone of a poem, a feather And you're a viper, just And the trees, and it's that Of the swamp, but I don't want you for that, I don't want anything, just a pause and away from this Corpse-in-Marble, soap- opera, falling- not-from-the-sky Atmospherics, the stilted Sibyl of your supposed Salvation, and The woodpecker keeps a lilting Song, the moss goes on All night, the trees Keep branches, there's a ripple Of leaves under the wind, I could stay forever Under these pale Palms, for your sake, for The way you are with me, the way You were with me, like rain, but I want out, I want To be with you, I want To lean our heads together With kisses, like a dove Pans to the sun, I want to hear your breath blow The Air around us, I want To be all you, all at once, No boundaries, no acts, No guards, nothing but The softness that lives in you And I love that, the swell Of you that lifts me beyond The crashing of the leaves against The moss, the boughs, the strong Leaf-slicing gusts that must Kill, like frogs, but that must Be killed with graceful Lifetime, and the crashing Whose real Life is such a gentle Lightning And you could teach me that, Teach me how to fly Over the sky, the earth, The waters, the woods, the caves, The blue miles of it, Teach me how to drift With my wings at rest, To glide with the moisture, To With my mouth, my throat, my gums Inlaid with the Ocean Dancing light as a bird's As I hover over your grave, Beyond the grave, beyond the sea, There's no trace of the thing you were, There's no trace of me with you, just You and me, the water and the trees, The very stars in deep heaven Gleam on the dark, Glide past me with no sound, As they leave the dead Behind, behind This ocean of Time Whose edges are the dead. * The Centaurus tree is a box of the Saguaro, a twig of the Saguaro, The desert juncture of the Saguaro, Deadly cold-rotten saguaros of the Saguaro, Deadly wind-ravaged juncture of saguaros Cemented by the wind, by the cold, and by The wind-rippled helicoid of the leaves. The Centaurus tree rises like a flesh- Melting cystange through which the Centaurus flies The Saguaro twigs that shoot in succession As the Centaurus rides up, up into the shade Of the Saguaro's lessening branches in the shade. <|endoftext|> "Symptoms of Over-Care", by Robert W. Service [Living, Death, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] 1 I like this over-care. The salt tastings, The linen scrubs, The forced walks to the stream That's stagnant. The little, spaced Knuckle-holing In-and-out on the Quiet walk to the Beach and the Drifted gas- pedos and Drift-pot-eyed Pilar Pajama-ed kids, the sort That would look better Drowned than upturned. For them and me It is all a wash. 2 It never rains but for a day. The old dog licks a slab of lime And then he lies In his muddy bed And chews and chews Then he licks the rag That was his bed. The bathtub is a squash. But then there is always the boat, Whose water is Muddy and deep. The tannin flavor of the beef Eats through my fingertips To the cuts on my hands And fingers flaccid So thin from over-washing That they no more ACT like the old claws They were meant to Advertisement Continue reading the main story 3 The shoulders stiffen, too. The bedpost is Flat. The sheets are pulled over the head In knots. The headboard Flat too. A shelf of drinks goes out on the wall In one piece, The cordage rotted, The paint is off On the side door's hinge. My two-hundred-year-old room Just lumbers and lumbers. I am more barren Than a field of potatoes. The couch cushions feel like tire rubber On a back'ard footfall And out in the hall The clock is always due. My bed is cooler than a field of potatoes Or the simmering of oil On the cool night When the air-conditioner Turns on itslows And the night's over shrink-wrapped In a white plastic sleeve Like a water nymph Who'll take off at dawn To sea. 4 No heart, I mean no heartburn. All the sweetness sucking out, The pungence of celery and Peppers. In the later months of the year They often turn yellow. In winter they waver and then drop With a thump of A familiar heart, they do not ache So much as be weary, though it be Hard to tell which aching. 5 Bread loaves out of the oven: Their scent of dried fruits and coffee. The smell of cat litter and sawdust, Of sawdust that has been in the can And doesn't smell quite the same. A picture of my grandfather On the living-room wall and a women From my town buried three hundred years In her neck deep. Then a grandfather of a friend And a final sight—my mother-in-law— My heart all aching with how we all meet And go away from here. The wood-fed hunting and fishing Are over for awhile, Then a little bit left for gas and oil, A little bit left for power, Then another little bit for furniture. My wife's back There's room for only one more. <|endoftext|> "The Voices in My Head", by Robert B. Shaw [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] 1 It's morning, my love, and you're up learning the game—love, the rules of care and power. You've got breakfast in oatmeal and some fruit. You turn on The Set-to, the kettle, whatever. You are too deep in love with it to see the splinters flying. Your love and mine, our two selves are one, one and one and neither. And because there is nowhere for them to go, we keep on making this promise: We'll eat, sleep, move like one feller. 2 My favorite evening when the light is romantic enough and the house warm enough is and windows wearing the right kind of light. Then I can walk outside, hoping for the faintest whiff of the garden, or my old corner, wishing all of the rising flowers were there. The last sky at dusk is deep and pure as a new-made grave. And the cat's head puffs in. We're having trouble with his way and because the one moved doesn't recognize the place, we pretend not to know each other. Then you look through me and see the fields of corn with all the promise of a great harvest in them. I can't see it now. I'm at the end of my shadows wearing the body of a man. 3 My skin is a dusty cloth I put out on the balcony where I sit and list. My hair and skin and hair and breasts and nipples are keeping time with you. The birth of your beautiful baby is the poem of your life. I want to be one of the flowers you put out at the dinner table as if I were one of your arms, one of your hands. 4 There's only the voice of a clock to speak to me, a harpsichord of days unheeded. <|endoftext|> I first notice a weak gas-light, Haggard, dead, Which serves, in a broken street, To flicker warningly IN the time of Glen Weiss I remember not His theory of manner; Nor did he care For cookery, Nor Tricks & Treasures. TO a man in a distant Country to stay Is often pleasant, If you like, If your people Are not too ungracious. In this city of detraction, Corruptible hearts (The soft Arabic phrase), As the wild sea foam Which is now sharply, I notice a haggard gas-light As ugly As the Cypriot. He not only stars But sees oil In the faces of the smiling Women, men, and children, Which are not flat; For in every white face Has oil like a sleeper Set there. In every hotel I stay in Some Arabian city Of which I hear That is the case Of which I cannot say That it is pleasant, OF course, we all know, And every body Says it, But the truth is You can't get along In any department Of a city like Chicago And keep it The same. And even if you Did, no one would believe it, For we are such a closed kindergarten Of concealment That for the first sixty days After you've come Out of the army Till you've gone away Another fifty years To return again, Illness or unemployment, Death or divorce, Would be regarded As such a forget-me-not To the husk and the core That it's better to chop. Since you ask, I'll tell you: In the flower beds beyond the wall I saw two lovely ladies Whom I will call Herve and Gaston Stroll a stringing machine In a manner bewitching. The smile was there when I left them, The secret when within earshot, And I found, in time, that I could draw from them any flower That grows in June in Paris. A rose petal was too small a wheel For the chariot that they drove, For only a stamen did spin And the tiny spokes were hidden Under a feathery shadow. And only a forklift's tread Made the chariot at length Rise up from its flowery bed, Where a linseed from the roads Is blown up in smoke and flame. Then the machine reared upon its knee And so very slowly turned As to leave nothing to the wind That trailed behind. And the boys at the U.S.O. Were convinced it was a teak contraption That allowed easy, free passing, Because no dust could rise so high Or so steeply. I looked and I saw through the windshield The mountain range all black against the sky And nothing else visible-- A space of light as large as a factory roof Between the wheels. Somewhere back of that great gray mountain range I saw the car stop and load three soldiers With brows sullen and unattractive. I saw their canteens, their weapons, And the smell of fatigue From their grunts, and then I left the sky. The car pulled away from the curb And another halt and a loading noise Soon silenced the men Who stirred with a restless snore. Then the lift of a door and the men Sank at their table silently And each man stared at the armor around The table, the food, the glass. And the driver turned over on his stool And the man with the scarf pulled a fourth From a paper cup and blinked his eyes At the odors that climbed there Where the men just the day before had lain, And he pulled out a fifth that looked like a dollar From a pocket in his vest. He looked up as the last coin flashed by And again at his own mustache and nodded His head at the chicken and pulled another From a hidden pocket, adding to the five The dry stems of four From the table's edge. The soldiers took their plates of cold meat And looked at their watches as the clock struck ten, And then the last of them slid off into the night And their quiet comrades knew that always at this hour It is better to be quiet and safe than to crowd The silence at the edge of the quiet house. Dawn at the time of year when men still wear Their summer coats of green with no desire To change for another blue sky and no desire For any pleasures of a season that has no winters. Winter is too great a loss, they think, a gaunt Feat to which all losses will convince them that they Lose nothing. Their day's work completed, they disappear Among the lumber and blocks, they disappear Beyond the rummaging of the trucks, They disappear into the long night of moving trucks, They disappear through the closing closed mouth Of endless highways, they vanish at the ends Of endless cities, they vanish at the ends Of endless passes, they disappear, they fly, They glide, they dance To the noise of trucks, they glide on past The distant promises of farms, they are gone Beyond the last bend in the endless line Of trucks and the last ravines in the road. They glide on past the bottles, the tobacco, The broken boxes, the empty barrels, The remnants of silent dinners, they disappear And stay gone, they wait for no one to look For them, they wait forever on the horizon Waiting, they listen for trucks going past, They float past the trucks for one day to hark And hear the cartridge fire, they float on Beyond the rustling corn, beyond the raking Of leaves, they fly past the threshing of silage, They fly past the sounding of wheat, They sing beyond the road walls For the throat of a machine gun. If you were born alive, as I was, in sea air, As I was, and lived all your life so far away From the waves that broke on rocks at your back And rocks that spit their salt into the air, If you could reach down into the belly of this beast And pull out the symphony we hear, If you could pile all the blues on top of that, If you could run up on that scorpion and dance Until the stars came out all in a row Beyond the sound of trucks, for me, I'd give You the world. All I ever wanted to do was to get well And play the guitar and write songs for other men, To fill up the paper with what I'd seen and heard And go my way and keep my courage clear. But now I'm nothing but a Crawfartisan, A good-for-nothing cokehead, all my dreams Of inspiration blown to tatters. I played for an aging lady in a nursing home In Freeport, Bahamas, the other night. I started with a mild minor chord and as she listened That quiet garden of homesickness grew warm With the melodies I played her of Kashmir and Ceausescu, And Rome and Hitler in a sky of colorless blue. The last few bars of "Mingus" fell from me as I passed Into the fifth movement. She sat there silently With her head down on her breasts and held her hands Together as she kept her pale, wrinkled hands Together. As I went down the corridor She followed me along and as I passed her door She flung it open with a soft, contented word And led me to her room and put me where I was By her comfortable bed and kissed me there On the mouth and cheek. We were silent a moment, Then I kissed her again and again and again, And I said good-bye and turned my back on India. I keep a poem by my pillow it's called "Old Man." I read it to you I listen as I lie in bed And watch the whiskers on Dad's chin. I listen to the night and the snow falling fast Outside on the trees. I watch the white flakes falling on the walls and floor. I read it slowly I think of Alma Bell and the American Indians. And then my voice takes on a wistful sound And says "Old Man." And I think of Dad and Grandpa Burroughs and the good times we had together. A TV made in Japan, A gramophone, a phonograph, An early video cassette recorder, A VCR, a compact disc, The earliest 3-foot color slide shows, The first internet chat room, The first website, an internet group And the first youtube.com. A plasma TV that slides down from a metal pole, An old Hudson cooler with cylinders of fruit juice, An eight track cassette deck, a Walkman, An 11 track deck, a Sony laptop, An Apple iMac, a Sony digital audio recorder, A Sony digital video recorder, A Canon video camera, a Nikon digital camera, A Super 8 camera and more. <|endoftext|> And then too her fill of laughter and Tears; to all which she added her tender Marks and praising murmurs; and the Road She never forsook, though wandering Forlorn, on it she walked till he appeared. You see the Situation, He owns no Land, and Life is scant, No Care can make him morose or sad, He has a Brother the Compassionate That has a Place in his Heart for him, And I doubt if there are many such; And he has also a Charity To feel for the Sick and for the Miser; But this last Kindness oft sits sad on His happy Mind, and seems to him A contrivance to give a check On the smooth running of his Fortune's wheel; A needless and sad Expense of Time To teach a life without Fraud or Delusion The Rules of Honest living, and Faithful Processing; And like the Camp-fire of the Night the Sound Of Hymns and Happy Stories by the Waysides set Of Saratoga's Plain, comes on the Resounding.) Then I on him most grieved and mourned, Not knowing what he went through, That found, as it were, in every clime, All lank and wearied, a Saviour-Pledge An Empty Vocabulary--nothing to Speak In terms of Realism and Art, but still Talking of Christ in so many Words, As if it were his only Substance, Whose Dignity, in spite of this, was so great, And made the Weakness of his Years seem Magnificence, The Darkness of his soul though but intenser To look upon; who, like the Equator, Spread His Charms about the Sky in all directions, To look upon whose Light! All day I longed to hail. A Dismally beamy Decade, And the saddest of the Passions, That no Contemplation feels Since on a worldly Thoughts we dwell, Made artificial by the pack, Haggard and haggard gets By childhood's clothing, and still feels As sad, as weak, as mean, As he would find his Grief in vain, And nothing in his life he cares for If not, as far as he can, in himself; Yet still he cannot quite resign His inmost soul, but ever frailly seeks To grapple with the world's extremities, And force its standards, in misery, from him; For out of himself, from out his gloom, In words the vainest and most senseless That ever Man spoke to himself-- The Dark within the Light without-- Was born what Began This prodigious Contrariety. Then why not to the most Trim, efficient, unthinking Creature, Never to guess the Cause whence the World Could e'er be brought to such affright, Or ever bestow such fertility On the bare earth as would satisfy A spontaneous refusal to work? Why to him so brief a time should prove so vile a Robustness?... It is not enough that he can banalise With slick assumption, and serenely assume Without question, and smugly assume, As if unconsciously roused, The best of every Thing that moves; The Shadow-Scot on the Man Can act... And he can serenely banish at will, At any moment, without the remotest cause, The Race of Man--man, Hound, and Wolf-- The Dog, and the Fox, and the Bat. Why, he can make himself (to use a Metaphorical, not a literal, word,-- Let us take another turn,) What is he but a breed Of noble beasts, the crown and end Of horizontal evolution? If a soft Land mars our course, Would not that broad expanse Arouse our best Tempters' fears, And give us periodic Seconds, A Tower-Food, to snatch away, As in a delirium, when the mind, Prone in its body, wandering, wild, Faints into Ecstasy, and misdirects To gentle fancies, all unweaned from blood, And tenderly armed against the wild, The tenderness (which, by the way, Is not renounced when the tenderness is felt) Of childhood, that cannot be exhausted, Makes kind the inward anguish which rears Its head, and saves us, in our weakness. We see what mortals are made of, And feel how frail, how inadequate To bear the whole weight of our existence; And lo! the Spirit, in his sovereignty, Springs over us, and rounds us like a mist. Oh, God! why must the Soother be superior? Why is She so rife with caresses, More than those to whom She has a right? May Thy small sketches never excel, May Thou ever only point to Nature, May Thou ever only touch, with maternal fingers, Her person, most hidden from our sight? Why, though I've seen Thy wonders to lust after, And worshiped all Thy forms and features, And, from a very child, have wanted but looked on One feature of beauty, till I'd deemed Thee perfection-- How can I reach, and tempt the above excess? Behold me, God, my poor Wanderer, Not wholly happy, till I reach and tempt Thy limits.' 'There have I lain, and dropt into dreams of Thee: I've smiled, and thought my hardest trial was o'er; I've dream'd that never did such miracle take place; That I was beautiful to Thee--now, now I'm happy. The image of a black abbess, in my dream, Had on her robed, loveliest face exprest That haply (ere I morn might dream it) led My dropt desire to vexing; I have asked of Thee (As many a morning had detained me) An image of beauty, either from the skies, As well as Praise and laughing Angels. 'There came, one morn, the irrepressive Goddess: Her hand upon my forehead, and her fingers Deftly intertwisted, and with fingers gentle Uplifted my long tresses, while they grew And strong tangled greaves of elm, that from the soil Had strengthened, and grown thick with practical virtue. Thenceforth my tresses, nor without vigilance, Escaped from injury. There is no creature But Nature finds out some means to defend Its beauty. Though I was but thy low-born slave, I was a goddess! For, when all my chaste limbs Were drawn and tucked in cloak, then put I in place Of lamp, where, being black, none could see what part Had made me Goddess. And I did make it known At once to Thee: Thou rememberest how Thou Hadst deign'd to prop the tired work that had been For Thee making: Oh, I could be well contented With so little work, and show to Thee as much! I might perhaps be entirely Goddess indeed, And have Thy praise in every land as such should be Made happy by an image.' What can I give back? Oh, I would give Thee part, And all that I have; as sole contentment; If I could keep just that £12 which I've squir'd, To leave for gifts upon thy wishes! Though I have full gust to snare a Prince's brawn, To help him through his 'Omnibus spectibus,' Yet leave me some, with ready cushions; Theatre profits, say, when Thespis is away, Unlawfull dram-shop furnishings, when Thespis 's at home; And let these have a curtain, of satin line, By Heaven painted! This were perfect trade, this trade But far more certain then in harlots be, It gives a week's rich pleasure, say, to me.' Sweet Pot! if I have given my best, To set thee off, sweet beauty, thus, I'll do me best, that is, increase thy pleasure; Who in the world has half so much to give, As she hath corn, she's a rich lady. Nay, she hath hair, Hair sweet as silken night, Which I would not cut short, Nay, would sleep with extended splendour; O, Pot, no mind of mine Can cast a hair-frame into the fire. So she hath shining eyes, Whereat I would gaze at them With mighty amorous air, So, one in those eyes, My soul would warm and power ensue; O Pot, no mind of mine Can gaze on two or three. But, as 'tis her choice, she does shine, She's tall, and good-nature, rare; As beautiful and bright, As Diana doth shine At well-fed ewe of spring: O Pot, no mind of mine Would make one saint or saintess. To have her for my neighbour She's sure, methinks, well-treated; <|endoftext|> I turn again toward the sleeping land, Turn once more to the spirit of our sire, Stepping to that he may bless and succour me. The castled ships come softly calling, All steering for the heaving bosom of the sea, Crowding with bustling sail to kiss her beauty's bosom, And their thundering sides beating with the stroke of the sea. When their port is reached and they have heaved the anchor, Once more I stand upon the unknown shore, Stood like one whose foot has lingered on the pallid brow Of his cherished girl, whose part is now fulfilled, Whose day hath past in sadness and sore travail, Whose work is done. He looks toward the west, once more begins to gaze upon the sea. I look toward the east, once more my face is lifted to the skies. I would believe in everything, I would lift all fears and doubts, And wait amid the roaring of the world, content, to die at last. That day the galleys of the Sun came floating in from the sea, Coming with swift wheels and wings of cloud. As I look toward the west, My heart sinks, my body trembles, For fear is in the faces of the women of the town. My dread is more than the dread they feel, My hopeless love is greater than their love, For I am still the loved and loved of my mother, And I will die in hours, not years, she says, For as I am she will cry if ever I must die. I look toward the east, toward the rising sun, And I say to the world, I am content. One burden graspeth me, let us close and grasp it no more, For I have reached the west and I have met my father. It was the month of May, the birds sang, The wood-pigeons pecked among the stems, The squirrels shouted in the hollows, And from this moment the quiet house Was like an inn, and life like play. The roses, tinsel-yellow, ran Through forest gray, and all the blue-grass covers With motion were a fluttering, a tuning, And everywhere the wood-pigeons whirred. Suddenly all the roses seemed to swell, Until my mother called me from the porch In smiles that seemed luxuriant and rare, As if they had their pistils in. She bowed to me and spoke a word of power, And smiling, kicked the rubber all them days. The red of them turned deep burgundy, And they flowed like music down the lawns, And in the little orchard by the road We spread them in a silken swathe And called them blossoms, for the traveling West Claims them of the flower of her youth. Ah, now I feel them, now they fling them To the whiteness of the burning sky, To the coolness of the north wind blowing Along the canyon's slats of rock, And then they float and wither on the air, And I behold the world anew, And I see the rolling summer passing. The red roses of the lonely garden Grew in the lonely garden, side by side, And in the redness of their glory and of shame My spirit's blood started rushing to the surface; The purple buds were like a purple dream, The white roses were as white as frost, The wrinkled roses drooped their wrinkled heads And made the ground look spacious and vast, And all the place seemed like an Arch of Life. And in the garden by the road there grew The wrinkled and the wrinkled roses ten, And all the place was as it were one rose-bud brooch, With red diamonds gleaming in its leaves. And one would say of that wrinkled flower That, in the sunny beauty of its color, There lived a rainbow's glory in the air. Out of the house the squirrels ran, Caps and bells were clicked, the black cat called, And here and there was stirred a feather drowsy with sleep, And everywhere, or nearer and more near, Like steamers at the docks, the buzzards flew. And the big elms were black in the sun, And the little pines were like a lily's mistletoe, But in the shade, amid the quietness, The tender elm blossoms breathed as if alive. The squirrels chirped and caps were clicks, The black cat called, and birds were loud in air, And through and through there came this strange bird From some far fog-hole, singing of seas and snow, And trees that fell and died a thousand years ago, And love, and war, and Creation's crazed wonder,-- And I would go to the garden and watch his flight, And I would watch his wing on the dark stem to beat, And the black plumage gleam on his breast and back, And his tail tip like a arrow on his thigh. My room was on the second floor, And I stretched my hand to the window And crossed my feet to touch the snow, White and drift like water from some river, Blow into my face as I slept. I am not very pleasant in bed, I am not very proud of my dress Of silk or satin, scarlet or gules,-- It covers but hides me very manfully, I think my beauty is plain to-day. My hair is cut very short now, I could if I wanted to be gay Be like a feather, tinsel-legged and gay, With hair like fringes all about me. But instead of that, I sleep so patiently, Patiently, like some little angel, And I hear the door shut behind me And the wind sigh when the curtains part, And the stars glisten through the window-sash, Like hidden lights on God's lonely world. The flash of the motes in the light Becomes a glory round my head, And my hands are folded now, very white, On my breasts they always lie. And I think my pain is nothing but a gay God's mirth, to whom I am a thing: A world where beauty is a light to guide us through Our darkness to higher and truer being. When the telegram reached my desk Of Rufus Fox, the youngest son Was in a barn-find somewhere near Good Youth. Older than I, less intelligent, More blasé than I, a wag declared This sad accident was the work Of Hiram's powder, and Fox a death Caught in the rusted cannon of the air. Alas, young Rufus! at such a hour When friend from a half-year's distance Has lifted the door of living on you, And kissed your tongue with such sharp coolness That your eyes swam out at pleasure,-- Alas, young Rufus! I could have cried. But I did not. I merely poured some more terrapin And set him in the swing of my schooner Against the western cliff. As the sun climbed slowly up the golden sky, And I sat munching my daily crust Of grape-patinated grilled cheese And red grapes,-- The gilded spray of the barn-door flirtered And glistened on my sides. And again the sighing leaves brought down The scent of hyacinths, and honeysuckle, And and my heart dropped into my throat When I spied there a rainbow just peeping Through the topsoil across the way. And the rainbow cheered my sputtering eyes With one deep pure color. I rubbed my hands to warm them, and reached Into my little pocket-book For a penny held by a yellow hair, But my finger went snicker-snicker-snicker When I tried to take it. And, as I passed, I saw it sparkle In the top of a hickory buffeted By the benevolent wing of wind; And it thrilled me, because I thought, If this is my heavenly goal, And I have lived a little while to find it, Then I must be in the little realm Of the great Transcendentalists And the question why I bothered To come down this morrow to the house Where I must clamber like a larva Up three flights of stairs to find a place To sit in a rustic chair, Made its home in my nameless head Like the home of Hiram here. I am doomed forevermore to bear This test of strength 'Till death carbonize my flesh And paste me piecemeal here In the mud and the dust Of some small place Where the burden of the world's strangeness Is difficult to bear. It may be there is no destitute Place on earth, Only that here the gladness is crushed Beneath our feet, That we think in our little rag-time Must pile it up again, again, As never man before was done. Perhaps we never shall know What a house means, <|endoftext|> "Our country's dying, God help it! It looks old and ill, and blind; That white man's blood was not more stout, Nor Fermor worse;--and then What woe if Adam and Eve To perdition, if not now, Come back--why, what can their lot Behold? Or, if we come to chance Such work as must, the Word Speak to the earth--what should they say, Or we, or God, or others tell Of things past, if the Word should fall, And let their time be, an end Of things let as well be past? Thou knowest these things; wilt thou dare change? Thinkest thou a Day might drown The wailings of man's inanity? What if the soul come to the body, And the flesh come back to dust? If the wise as surely as the fool, Or uncaught as surely as caught, In thunder claps his white hands one day For men's sins, the morrow long for; And a proud world, far-sighted with tears, Saw the black clouds grow to Day, Saw the green earth fill and summer shine Out of the sable night;-- O Time! O wild, wild Night! Think'st thou that thus thou wilt make straight The ebbing year, and fill the trained throat With wild, red, uncontrollable sounds, The tauntered skin with patches pale, The blistered tongue with pained articulations, The tempest-crested soul for words, The dizzy heart for understanding, Wild, uncouth, threatening still to seem, So near, yet still beyond to meet That noble brow's summons, the serene, Hollow, hopeless, and--"better to affray A primal wilderness"--so thou criest, With voice majestic, threatening still to shout. The golden lord of Tartarean chase, Rushing alone o'er the bending chasm, Sees the Orient trees up-rear their heads, Sees, farther on, at closer distance, Flashing yellow windows, sparkling panes, Circling his hot heart the mingled sounds, And really feels, as these soften up, And blend, with all the joyous festival, The sportsman's love, the poet's pride, The still increasing quiet calm delight, And everything that is and ever shall be, While only one sweet world is left him still to enjoy. Beyond his raptured thoughts, of this be sure, Beyond that sinking, belying fear, Beyond the things that have and ever shall be, The record of his thoughts, all there is to find, The shadow that will always shadow all he feels, And ever shall feel, the world, like this, is, Even as he sees it, illumined and past, Still and insensibly as it takes its way. Anon the city's air begins to stir, Quivering along the paven street, Waving through the panes like a brook in May Its incessant wavelets of grey. The window-panes, while awake, grow pale, Gleam as the lamp-lit dome appears, Whilst on the plain below the houses, thin, Of shapeless debris lie low, Like scattered fossil remains of man Uptorn by the long revolving sea. The broad rising street is lighted o'er By myriad eyes of scattered folk; Masses of men, in their own light, Gather and pass by on their way; Along the streets from stage to street Tall forms, with outstretched hands, are seen, Gazing like gods on what they do, On women's joy, on men's distress, On children, wives, and sunlight dying, And old men wheeling in their dream. From the steepled squares, whereon Half-created, varied life is found, Down to the poor new-chapelled houses That show like gables odd and new, Underneath a gleaming street of stone, With Gothic windows bright set in grey, Stoop, and with keen glimmer steal aside, Like geysers of bright, cold water seen Through smooth, glassy, crystal sea-bottoms, Which softly heave upon their axis. Gaze thou awhile on this, the belle-lettre, The hope of Rome, the world's hope hidden now, Now put by all the Gothic forms that once Glowed on her walls in loving defiance, Now cast upon her cheeks her tints of brine, And gaze once more, where with immortal air Her eyes breathe music at the poet's soul, But from her lip breathe poison where he walks. Beside the fountain, where above The slender arbutus doth grow, Comes one who walks in sadness, one Whose steps are weighed, one whose face is sad, Whose words are few, one with hanging eye, One of a desolate and despairing folk; He will not lift his gaze from off the green, He will not speak one word of song or love; But slowly walking up along the hill, As if with entranced unhonourable air, He seeks the waters. At the vesper-bell, When steadily it tolls, he stands alway, And listening to the peace that grows from it, And thinking most of those fair days long gone, He softly gazes on the sunny air, And half in silence. Down by the fountain, Dribbling the cool water with his beard, And often lifting it with careless head, And in it repeating his orisons, Often dancing round it in a circle, And sometimes kneeling down to urbanely Pray with the waters. Not to him is it The music of sweet birds, or a spray Of rippling water, or the pageant dim Of tender blossoms, or the sound of chirping Fruit-erect, or hidden song of many birds; But after many years of faithful life, The dead past hath come back, has come with him The cold present; empty of all praise, Which leaves a spirit free and happy and alone. Thus having taken his last leave of the town, He near the fountain seeks the cold March-flood; And while he stands and thinks of the past, He walks about and takes his pleasure in it; Till, smiling often, he sinks on his knees, And devoutly hears the future blessing, And in soft whisperings thereupon prays: "O God most merciful, most gracious Lord, Who knowest all our sins, who knowest our woe; Hear now thy sheep with careless hands did ne'er Slaughter, nor faint on us in iron zeal. And lo, thy childe with smiles attends the fold. Our children grieve, our brethren mourn; we too, O Lord most merciful, most gracious Lord, We mourn, we weep, we cry to thee for love. Help us, O God, for lo, our sheep is fed, Lilies blossom on the wadding refuge-side, And honeysuckles hail the happy morn, The morn of our new-enriched lamb, of pride! For lo, our children grieve, our brethren mourn, O Lord most merciful, most gracious Lord. Thy children grieve, O Lord, our brethren mourn, They mourn, they weep, for love of thee to thee, They mourn, they smile for love of thee to thee; As doves for love of thee fly through the air, Fluttering with peace o'er all thy sea of rest. For love of thee, O Lord, they grieve, for love of thee, They wail, they sigh, they whisper with their eyes, Thou makest all things fair; thou makest all light. Thy blessings cluster round me peace and good, In generous sun or gracious shower, in dew That drops upon me when my work is done. Thou givest me generous sun and gracious rain, For in the gathering light thou givest me The promise and the promise of good. And though I walk in thought thy steps pursue, Thy blessings still are with me where I go, Good will and love and humble faith to me A roseate gl