======================================== SAMPLE 1 
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Nec tell me what the Maid is?"
But she who knew, asked me not a Word.

All-sweet and tall, and frail of limb,
Lay there in raiment new begun;
Her moveless-rest were never seen,
She ever so much as bent her knee.
Thither came I, Pilot of thy boat,
And, turning, saw this silent Girl
Who, like to pray, with lifted face
Besought the mist-ringed air to sing
Her Vespers far away off,

And by her hair and veiled head
Her wistful eye she caused to stare.
It seemed to twinkle between the branches high,
And on her shoulder lean by piece and piece
Of glimmering spangles that lightly floated down.
I saw, or fancied I did,
Her lovely head recline
Upon her humble robe's narrow shaggy hood,
That, like the light of day,
Was moon-fringe dark and dim;
Her pale mouth, that evermore
Spread smiles in damp and drizzle;
Her gleaming teeth, whose polished white
Seemed mouldering honey of the midnight blep
Of the dry, dusty pass!
And in one hand, all rippled with
A silken flute of gold,
She played a hushing pipe,
Dora's toy, to play or sing.

Deep through the wintry sky there sped
Through golden vapours as of shape
A dawn that never had a dawn,
A sudden dawn, with breath
Of mist and with a smile to kill.
'Look!' the wind whispered, 'here's
Our Lady of the Skies, from her bright throne,
Like to the smiling of a summer sea
To-night in the lost wind's dark retreat,
Hailed with the deep, seething, dour, wild
Midnight: who have wept for her
The heaving of the waiting years,
Who have wept for her
In wild harangues of the foggy fen
And hollow monotone of the fen.
She shines and smiles to see the tears
Of all the rain-stricken towns and ships
And all the rainy days and nights
On all the hard, the ragged places
That wind had beaten hard, and night
Nigh ready to close, to close, to close
Against the brain of all the face
Of all the over-ill-gotten men,
She shines and laughs to feel the cold
Of all the tears of all the brave men killed
And mad as they.
"Now, under heaven's dome, where no man might
Torn by the jagged cliffs alone,
But many a high beautiful river, many a glade
Of dearest woodland, dearest sun, through blood
Of golden-fleshed the sun to flame:
Under night to his last slumbering place
We gave him water from the river,
And, as he slept, we gave to him the green
Of beds of skrunk crops and sunk noose
Of stray horn-beetles over jack-boots;
And, when he waked, he grinned for joy to know
He was a man; but now we are not so sure
That man shall be, in a little while, again.
He holds a branch of asphodel like
This which he is touching with his poise
And breath, a vision half dream, yet sweet:
'Are not my limbs the limbs of those I knew
Who went to great heights in their sleep?'
'What was it that made you weep to see
The open grave? when my rest is open, too,
That sleep which was my death is indeed my death.'
'Perchance,' I said, 'you think your cheer
To be the same as ours.'
'I will not think it,' she said, 'nor your dream,
Because a woman dreameth not.'
She placed her hand to her mouth and pursed
Her brow: and then her eyes
Tinged as a splash of pale musk at first,
Toured like a grayer shade of blue.
'Ah, woman, forget you were ever child
Ere you were shapely as this lovely thing;
We come into our great lives the next
But when we bend us down to feel the hollow
Of the hollow to find what force life is,
The woman's dream is like a different shape
From what she saw in her dream. I will tuck
My head between my arms and murmur,
In my dream a lady from the world gone by,
Missing her child, for these are we, the next.
Not so I, I ween. I knew her smile,
I knew the peculiar
======================================== SAMPLE 2 
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Democrats who received eight quarter-cent. per week for bill-paying,
Republican contributors who received one-quarter cent. for demurely 
voicing an opinion,
other contributors who paid nothing at all for their objections--yet 
inspired
themselves with meritorious indignation--contributors who paid for 
themselves
eight and one-half cents on every dollar they had in their
pocket--and all of them, Republican and Democratic, whose names are 
listed,
then and now, in the pages of the Solidarity, cause quite satisfactory
results.

And why should the Democrats suppose that they could get their popular
division and jurisdiction--still more, that they could win control of
the Solidarity? My reasons for believing this are
cognate: they have interpenetrated myself and this
unions-first republicanism of this Government. Democrats,
for instance, paid the Civic League eight and one-half cents
per each man-dollar for political propaganda. Such
paysoule is simply murdered $100,000,000.00 to the Democrats
this fall. The Solidarity has a letter which is sent to
each named member of the House and Senate, addressed
And I've
subscribed to a Fraternal Labor Party;
My first one in Solidarity was my 'humanitarian'
subscription, because, I did not see the slightest chance of me
ever becoming a member of any organization, whether reform,
or reformer, or radical. The Dohs are a
great family to this
country.

As a patron of labor, myself, I had always believed
the subsidies of Democracy to be enormously small, and
kept positively off from the bosom of the soil, in
principal because of my convictions of divine
importance, and indispensably so, on the human side.
However, recently I've become at last convinced that all
elected are as God to the eyes of God, both here
and on this planet. I've studied all I can, and have
as by divine RIGHT.
I've told the Democrats this, for I want them to know
that I fully expect them to do something with my
information. I'm practically begging them, in the hope they will
do something about it. They'll find it a lot to do,
for I'm the R----GY of Democracy.

Now the Duke has placed himself at the head of a group
of Reform rabbis which he proposes to lead, calling himself
'The Duke's Answerer,' because of his office and position and
peerless place in American jurisprudence he is to use the
Great Name. I read that this Duke thinks it an exceedingly
good thingment; the only human right. It's quite something
favorable; for his doctrine of Answertfulness has no
expectation of a hearing; the worst case it gives the
electoral vote of citizenship.

Well, now, I've a right to complain. I've made a
ridiculous application to them--
I'm one of the least eligible bachelors in the
country--they have turned their club 'round me, and
don't give a damn whether I get a hall whoopin
or not. If I don't keep off in a class with the
rich wretched folks who have tickets to the marriage
robot there, the Democratic party will certainly
lose a lot of public support; and I'll receive the
contempt of the human being and disgust of
the intelligencia.

There is one relative and one only and she is constantly
coming to my room, and there's not one to attend to my
ferucity, and who can seem to be so intolerable
as that Flying dirk of the Republic which once made
Hitler notorious. I can't give a constant service, I
have to go. At least I hope I can give a
bringsupp--

deplorable. The North Atlantic Naval Federations
have recommended that we make the naval engine
themselves our work, for it can be engineered so that
the Germans can't use their capital and they can't
capture us. It is long past the time of our great
re-formation, and I would lie awake each night
for the reform of the divine speech; for I'm certain
that if the Reformation takes place it will have something to
do with machines; and the tremendous matter-a-mole
consumption of the German Empire, by means of the
Great Deformation, makes the Republic a thing of the
pale past; and I'm afraid that the wet smoke-stream
from the German Central Stations and depots,
together with the great well-nigh lethal racket
of their discs, jacks, flappers, track-wing craft, and
C
======================================== SAMPLE 3 
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on his shoulders, were stymied.The conversation was bitter in

thereafter.Yet Fischer’s plight showed that even in those

blessed times, when the hostility of his
countrymen no longer mattered, the avarice of
great men did not prevent the great chess from
becoming great.

Carlsen wins, but just as if by
magic, Boris Nikolic scores!The Frenchman with rook and pieces gone 
wild scores

now in the middle of the game!
<|endoftext|>
"by way of  a migratory fish in the[f] Swimmula of  the Rat 
(Private Dossier)", by James Galvin [Living, Marriage & 
Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women]
The first thing that did it was the astral
Motion of her feet to come and lightly
Bend twice the neck and privilege of sex.
The tide is apt to do that,
The Water's moods and goings, driven by breath.
The next thing that did it was the astral
Motion of her hands to give him lips.
Threatening as the sheep do when they see danger
Of wolves wetting snow.
The pendulum does that, its swinging.
That came to do, if not to do,
With care, when the heart’s red warning went  head.
In fact he knew a girl. Her name was Anne.
And when they were enough, she sent
The chance of her coming back to him
Bid he get past the point of courtesy.
“What did she do?” he says to himself.
“The  rails of the train” and looks at his watch.
The clocks go off by the hour, the lights go green.
That is till what for her she saw the worst.
“Listen,” she said, the smaller reason  for his staying,
“This is Anne of Denmark and she does for you.”
He asked “How was your watch?” and she  explained,
“The hour that stands to quadruple
Its length if you put off meeting up.
Not taking her up. Not taking it
To Denmark. Now tell me.” She told him.
“We broke up. I’m sorry,” he said,  like he did.
They bid the friends a glad farewell
With modest whispers and then left together.
Fruit of their knowledge came to Denmark,
A girl on eyes long moist and blood
Made for a kiss on the lips, the side
Of her mouth we’ll not say. Denmark had milk

And one could drink it standing.
But Denmark offered just the milk,
Not the other, which is the worst
Bidding, if you ask what they mean
By giving. So they have milk and did not
Share, were always no mess, had no house
And no corners for a bed.
Nor did they go to the races, the father kept
Hours earlier than the mother.
<|endoftext|>
"A Knowledge of the Dead", by Mary Wiencki [Living, Death, Life 
Choices, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Religion, The Spiritual, Social 
Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Popular Culture]
I see you there, Stu, striding half a mile down the road, arms raised 
up over your head, head bent slightly. I imagine you hold both those 
in your inmost heart, and that you must learn, along with anything 
else, how to turn off a brain that has somehow learned to hold 
whatever memory is stored in it. For the mind, like any organ, is 
where the trouble is; an organ can fail with its stored knowledge, or 
if the memory be great, so great that it will bring the brain to its 
knees. And then the knee is a joint only partly conscious; if the 
heart should stop pumping, we are thrown off balance as if it had 
been only the legs that moved you. So I ask you, were you looking at 
your watch when you left for that solitary walk? Or waiting for the 
medicine you wanted to take with you before starting on your way? A 
look of mild impatience conveys a point as surely as humor, though 
somewhat dead. It is painful, this wait, I am sure. You have worked 
long and hard for your knowledge of time and of this place. And now 
you have it. And time, and all the woe it took to give that power. 
You have so much of this world left to discover, paths to retrace. 
You find your way into a park, its benches occupied and visible and 
free of talk of the day’s events, at its center a girl of
======================================== SAMPLE 4 
========================================
All must be blotted out.
No other ox she sees,
Dirt for my shroud, bear away:
Dear friend, I pray you, sit
In your gloomy tomb.

My hounds! my hounds, do you know
What hunters are, and what they have to do?
I am a hunter myself, I would seem
If I played the hunter I should know well
What it is to stand for days in brave men's fields;
They lie all day in the forest deep;
Tally their points, and when the hunt's done,
When the killing done, and he that goes the way
Has no more points to tally, and not one yet,
A plague is in his bowels, and death has come
To him that goes out, and not to him that stays.

We play the killers of the point,
The deep ones that carry breath,
Deadly ploughsmen, and we hold the silk,
If the coat you wear be bright.
Thick-plaistered by coachwork,
Exquisite lord- Ars orator,
Literature of the sword,
You must know 'er all, and aye the tale,
To o'erpower in a turn-mill.

For you and me, indeed,
There is a lot to bear:
I do repent it;
I'm being what you would think it fair
To bear the name and the luck of the game,
And what not the best.

A shilling and a pinch,
A living year's labour,
An old kiss that lasts a day,
A single gold coin,
An honest wife, and a precious bit
Of yellow sand,
Which, though it be at home,
They hope their sand is cheaper

For God knows
And I am sorry
I'm no freer and bolder
Than I'd be if I had the rest
Of life to take my fun;
I might drive my modest play
A little on the plain

To walk abroad,
Where nobody
Is, with a sham to sing,
For me
It would be better if not.
The hidden sand of it
Shall stay with me, and

Not much's my comfort,
Where never a foot
Smiles and nobody is
And nobody pays,
I fear
If the fates would part us
In this pretty town
Which now seems to me
Half a nearer scene.

I'd rather stalk about
When the time is spent
With something to say,
Or 'mid the sights that pass
Smile once again.

I'm bemoaning in my sleep
Over knowledge obtained
From the sort of education
Which the Chancellor's wife
Had,
And I've begun,
Jumping up and down,

Hushedly she lies,
Breathing on the town,
Though there's nobody near,
Just as she, quiet,
Knows by her watch what's coming.

Once I loved, when I was young,
The droll straight gate
Betwixt the soft hill and the sea;
The bush and the nip
Were in the garden where the gate
Was; and the curve
Of the canal
And the pretty street,
And the whittled trees and how the dames talked
On the fire-side, and so did I.

But the night before yesterday,
I wandered through the fire-side,
And there the cocks crowed,
And the lights came on,
And there all the dames talked,
All in the pleasant back-page
Where everybody can get him kept.

Now I'm at that gate again
And I feel that I'm wasted;
My fortune's low, but I know
That a whole year's rent,
One week's, I've lost,
Is a little thing to keep
For my men in the muck,
Who are thumping me at the gate.

Because of this, I've had a nap
And the cares that have fallen on me,
And I'll be glad to see you again.
I'm sure it was wrong of me,
And I'll have to bear it, John,
And apologize, and be dumb,
And be as queer as can,

When at home my wife has been, I've had
There sweet and pure delight;
And a girl there has perched her light
And a man there has sang to me
The heave and hoke of his part
In the barnyard, and the shove on the plough,
And the foxglove and the cherry;
Or I've gorged on home-brewed pantry joy,
And I've ridden the lively wheels,
And I've roared
======================================== SAMPLE 5 
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 and turning the blade she nodded
And called the wanderer to her feet
Who wondered if, in some far-flung land
Of dream, he was permitted to depart
With honour or dishonour or death or life
As God supposed. On a strange earth he had fared
Like some old lion which strange manners taught,
Thinking himself a hunter and a prey
For each low beast of the field, when man was low
In savagery, having forgotten the kind
And saintly heart of that bright animal,
Who taught him how to feel, not treat, man,
In his natural integrity of love,
With vengeance or secular hate, if even that
Should have twisted human hearts that bent
To the manifestation of divine love.

Little he cared: he was not man,
And yet his mighty soul was filled with awe
Of what God in the heart of man discerns,
More than with power to move and to control
When pure, divine in man, and his own
Was as the swift mist which made clear, revealed,
Unfathomable, godlike, its own light.
For still he was at heart a poet
Who formed his own inward vision from sight,
Even in the ancient faith, and far apart
From anything poet ever wrote, took his
And all his ideas from this Waverley
Who left these words behind him everywhere
Upon the churchyard wreath: "O precious youth!
A careless letter might beheard, this much at least--
My happiness for to give you thus,
Though dark the world, the quick message of the foam
Dancing upon the temple ruins, and naught
But time, the slow-winged fish, the ghost of ship,
The pulse of midnight, and the penny whaler,
Must sap your spirit if ye fail to see
On vision full, and dawn impotent to stay
The rede set out by spirit in your own.
For love is lord of all things, and hath taken
His share, nor hath his authority
From any creature under the skies
To manipulate, as in old times, with storms
And lustre, all things that make up the world.
Wherefore, though godlike wisdom has been given,
And light for light's sake, and flesh to man,
Nor has the power to smite, to cherish, sicken,
Give beauty only to the pleasurable eye,
Nor now the power to save, or noble heart
Nor now the power to serve, nor power to go--
Yet, knowing these things, loving human beauty
And loving divine love, and in those gazes
Kinder than heaven and human sympathy,
Ye are deemed worthy, --ye are deemed worthy
To have stood up every hour of life,
For me--ye are deemed worthy--
Who unto all ages shall be known!

Yet, content it may be therewith,
For him the full-cressed autumn
Will draw his bold serpent's wing
To shake against the matted vines,
And his smitten glove will leave to show
Where hell-griped lyons clasped man.

This is not love,
This is not love, nor lies it low
In such wise with reverence;
And yet it breathes as high
As beauty, so, nor ever so far
Down was cast the holy light.

You have fallen, me with sorrow know,
In him to love,
Without whose sacred light
You cannot move nor sleep, -- not that you long
In shame to mourn
Lest he should set half-diamonds heavenward
To crown your burning palm
Nor look up to the noonday hour.

For me he falls
Now with death, now with years;
With sunlight at his back
Behind him now,
I do not think, though decelerate
And bruised under cold-foot,
Not that I should fail to bear
His work in hand.

"I have had enough of living," he told me,
And drew me over yonder hill
As though it were a spear;
And thereupon he plucked,
In presence white and steadfast
Like a dove,
And dragged me to the marvellous town,
From which, awhile stunned, I ebbingly drifted.

He told me then the ways of death
And the young and dreadful love
(So great a bluerway!)
Of the cunning, nor would yield
So suddenly that I did not, till
'Twere well deserved, say, a full reward:
-- Then, having her to nurse, he swung
His great sail about and out she flew
From the city's rosy ports.

Then I caught up all my clothes
And shoes, and I swam at last
With him, to such a
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More happy we, men, and therefore kings;
As you, and so far superior too!

'When eyes my senses stray,
And their antiquated furniture
I find,
Then rung an excited welcome,
And sweetly replied:
The devils thus agreed,
To each his favorite,
Made me their study,

Infernal creatures,
Look at the passions!
The demons are descried.
See the ruffian horde
Blend their dang'rous mien,
In the highest fury
How they come rushing up!

A torch by art and luck was heard;
Each in its kind, and good or bad,
Seemed to feel its wrath,
And in various tunes, so fit,
That a human heart stood reeling,
And all felt its ravaging.

And O'er all, O! surely at their call
The help of friends and family,
Away to ask from buds the roots
Of faction, greed, and emulation;
While the dales and, plains
Swam purple in the deaths of kings,
And scalded kings drank tea in cups.

"And so," quoth he, "I've find,"
(The grave answered quoth he) "the reason,
A remedy, and, if you like,
I'll tell you where to get it:

The gnome retreats,
And turned him back to find
His pleasant tomb, where naught could tell
Of how his black ornament
Made hideous this his mirth,
Nor told if yet that that was his day,
Or if he night shall tell that tale
To young and roaring miller, Jack!

"A mess
Was read, and in the choir arose
One who hummed with metal gauntlet
A dumb song: and to my mind
That moment's mute
Of man in battle grovel,
The cry of another age,
Appears.

And thou,
In open space, wilt woo
Mother with the peddling hour,
When she grants thy need to see
A platform for the wear
Of gaud and burden, borne upon her breast;
And there shalt thou meet

And through this time shall be,
That sad eventful be,
That for those whom it befall,
Shall lose what days they wore
In upward dreaming pastime,
And bid their lighter ghosts hold fire,
While deep in ashes they unfold
The strong and meek
Wisdom in the pure,
The middle age shall be,
Ended, and break in two,
The day of virtue queens,
Till earth be a den of fouling worms,
And sere dares preach of rain;
And R--d come in his preaching cap
To call a lark
With shamed and crying words;
And give to a whale the king
Shall show the gods' disdain,
With more than herk and breath.

And that shall come to the tomb,
Not strewn with Palladio's roses,
Not cased in silver,
Not broidered in charities,
It shall not be,
Not in the crown above
Of a sad, naked chain,
Shaped like a sheaf of grass,
Or as Mary's body.
But in the tomb shall be
Of flowers, and leaves that have leaned
To know what summer strikes;
And these shall dawn a stronger fragrance,
And these endure like grave spoils;
And men shall think more of what flowers
Than what fadeth.

Then shall be seen
The symbols, heavy and great,
Furnish the idol-scaffold,
With day's immortal candles
Shall blaze and wax;
The sacred fruit, whereon
Zion's sins shall burn,
In bowls of precious scarlet dye
From heavens of blue,
In maddening magians,
And sprinkled far and near,
Where men shall think of Him
Whose eyes doth shake
For Zion's pillars now,
Whose head
Is one of deep and holy stars.

The Life that none shall live
But he who bears a sword,
That he may kindle wonders
As long as Life may burn;
Whose gospel is an axe,
An axe hard refined,
A diamond rod of pure might,
A lamp of strangeness
Of night to fair men;
The knife that healeth
Is holy, because
The sickle of the Life
Is golden-rayed;
And that is holy, be
It, angel-chewing, angel-cheering,
Or strange unto dimness
Or strange to high.

Like blessed lamps from open houses
Each moving air with iron wings
As throbs to horns
======================================== SAMPLE 7 
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 24 From light and shade they are--
The thought of memory!
But ah, there is a place
Above the year and its moon--
Where years of small things are--
A quiet whippoorwill
Gleams thro' the dim blue.

And oft, thro' the blue-gray skies
That shake for the worlds of dream
When, thro' the graining grey
Of low-built thoughts that stay,
Softly and slow,
And slowly, the stars come out--
Whippoorwill!

At darkly bright, at fierce
With a red scarlet flare,
The sky holds, thro' the jet
Of lightning overhead,
The sign and cry:
The night holds death too
Of a flaming wrath--
Whippoorwill!

When the glow of the buffets' glare
Taints the spark of a brooding day,
From the yellow of a garden-home,
He loiters, asleep,
Between roofs with bare walls,
He watches the new moon come up,
Whippoorwill!

The windows blaze, and fill with din
The walls of each cell;
The man, bent at his dull task,
Creeps to dreamless sleep again.
The night holds death too--
Whippoorwill!

With a wail of sorrow he goes by,
The wind his woes to say;
No man can tell as he goes,
Of mortal care and pain.
He sees he cannot go
To face God's Judgment yet--
Whippoorwill!

At last in his dream
The window blazes bright;
A thousand eyes, hot on his face,
Live on, and glare at him still;
It's at his back that the cry
Sings thro' the gallows-tree,
Whippoorwill!

The fool goes past,
The fool goes home to bed;
I know that there is No More,
For fuck and milk.
Ya cull the bells and observances
From the fold, and its linnet praise;
But round that horse's thigh,
That cut from the rush side,
She's still the voice--somehow
Whippoorweeds!

The flies fly about
In the chill of the eucalyptus;
And he moans like a linnet
In the night and the dew.
At that same place
A little lisper
With her chum 'll join her;
The jingler of the gully
Sits in the pew where
He will sigh and perish
In the auld wame.

Sometimes the heart is a-tellin'
From an o' the whirlwinds that blows;
And there a-pleadin' to pore
On auld mistress' stories;
And the muckle puir falls
Gleams by the pond.
And a lassie lees she clasps
'Bout the glass for glove
As she hangs her neeb in the reet
Wi' an auld e learninge joy.
'Ss a ruddy summ;
But, thanks to make,
She bares her mittens to her een
Whistling pippins round.

'Tis meuch, but I trust my een
She'll learn to clás and mak ilka iween
Hane five year's mair!
My dear, a-choosin' homewel,
My apron's quite awa.
For, alas, she's his ain sister;

When the wrey walks in her weivver
As a pliver wind up the firth,
In a kind caulk she stoops
Frae the lime-trees thru-on the dale.
And then--there's the kirkyaird;
And I could forgive her had I not
That auld sibling.

O waly waly, when I dine,
And they're fa' syne!
It's Gawd's own day, an' it's Sha'n En's
In my coat!
I'll bet my hinney that you sall
Go' kape yare efter a fleechin'
Wi' snoring noise!

When I've bought a wee blinkin' cider,
It's gude weather gude weather!
'Tis bailyan weather, and ha' na
Cases my fien'!
It's saft an' sweet--I swear,
In gleg an' waly weather,
I hardly say it's fit to mention,
Though it's like a sentence!

My fiddle's low kittle to kess
The de
======================================== SAMPLE 8 
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--My mother hears it clear;
And as her love is so dear to me,
I'll come when your evening hour is come.
And when I'm there, I know the gifts that I
From you shall take away with me:
Your image on my endless wall;
Your letter seal.

HOW, thou village blacksmith's devil-may,
Hast thoughts half human, half Lucifer--
A flash of omnipotence,
An unfathomable will, that smites
(In pitier than thy two worlds )
Imaginary worlds of value,
Where thy blacksmithy whirls the sparks
Whose fires consume eternal;
A power whose tyrant hand,
Is as a snare for God's eternal,
The search whereof doth take
Thy master, whose content
Is found,
Thy vengeance and thy mighty rod
Spurning and quenching
Thou didst not.

He'll hear thee, but thy promise
Of marvellous wings and glistering
Of cutting-edged winglets crowned
With gleams of internal light,
That smile [infernal] where they kiss
Not on thy street, nor in the sun;
A dream not of the true--
A shadow by the dog
That once a bird
Trailing on a branch,
A mortal thing
Caught at the haw
That maketh fire of an image,
And them who bring with them
The testimony
Of purity,
To cut with such a pith
As thou wast not.

Where thy evening crosses the river
There a carnelian
Is left, the coral strand
Of thy absent warp.
Its pines are in the dark
That mark the stars so high,
A pedlar trots below;
The circling eagle cries,
The heron, numbing sight,
Salutes with his cry.

Those, when the patriarch roused,
Went by the rescue-flag,
Which like an argent hall
Once beat on Jerusalem,
Now only blots the moon's beam
In the light of its white feathers,
The angels strike again
The shape that Samaria named
The Apostle's tree,
That was by them seen,

Then as o'er heaven bent his way,
To drink of the other's cup
That is not of earth,
What witchery entranced
Beliezed
The hours, and made them first and last
In black oblivion
A kind of heaven's silv'ry snuff.

Ere would deceive thee, O Saint!
Whilst yet, howe'er it be,
Those heroes who
Are slain in thine aid
Live in eternity
Borne by a speck of snow.

When the earth beneath him yawns,
Dark that black abyss,
Yet along his path
Drops the dazzling snow
To grace his path,
In the battle-shock,
When the upland is fain
To sink beneath him,

Then towards the orient sky,
As there he stoopeth slow
In the sweep of his wan wing,
Down sinks the sun to sky;
Then slowly up, as when
A hand to his hat
Up goes the working dandy,

To catch a clap of thunder
By the galled promontory,
Rocked in a cloud
By the shuddering roof
The castle rises,
Or round the roof
Of a snow-white hall,

The Bishop has here a general mess
In the Storm that hoards his pulpits,
To please the Gods' imperial bowl;
For on him high prest,
While here he solemnly stands,
Tapping the hammer-hand,
He has folly put in his prate.

Poor sun! the before Thee
Are nought but blasphemous lies;
Whilst He beside him shines
Grim-visaged Desolation,
Lo, this his day,

Dost feel as when in days of youth
The world is all one's grace,
A real friend and not a name,
Loving so justly
Loving so ever more?

Dost thou pale at his great gold-lock?
And laugh at his bluntness in that?
And are the moth-darts unuttered
At his low wit's uncloying?
O he is the years behind,
A-hey-hyacinth ane-ana!

Nay, Saint! that is too deep for thee,
Too stern for thy black psalter,
Too fraught with bitter sense
For utterance e'er.
Leave, leave the old, sweet Latin,
Leave-leav'd tongue
For psalms and p
======================================== SAMPLE 9 
========================================
Delight the chas'n, and alane the dee;
Where the lambes are wise, and maidens be dreigh,
For they may live, and subsist by their wit:
In the sacred chambers of the bower,
Whenas they loath to fare on the earth,
Then when they liv'd not, then let them die;
Richer memory, and sweeter pen,
Doe now awaken, and, alluring strain,
Bring back the past, and draw the future tour;
And when the star that of life's life makes decline
Shall disappear, then ye'll have the key
Of life's heart, and open arms; and then
Ye'll see the howling of the waves of woe.
When life or death were in the gizzard thereof,
When ravens raved, and vultures haunted them;
When care and folly fretting were the staff of woe,
And love's eternal dancing;
When fate and Change defied, and folly fought;
Then they, who in the twilights of affliction,
Might as a trusty captain lookt on rock and wave,
Should every earl and knight in french costume bow;
Would God that men might that pilgrimage navigate,
Who for perspicuity in math are deemed
Of right the better in debate:

Ye, whose prescience o'ertakes you to deny,
How soon time melts in ocean! shall we sail
For that our fathers gain'd! and be quit
By Fate's hours well spent!--'tis an error wide
To deem success in any man's chance,
To measure by degrees: ye may lead astray
In man's affairs, or be the cause of loss,
Once, twice, and three; to which error I surrender
Almost my life.  'Twere best to persuade
Each within the breast: some coldness now may raise,
Some warmth, and balance, till the scale be made
More true, less true.  How is this with me?--
Since good on evil was created,
What need to otherwise attend
To scale or to shift!  Will and skill
In might, in awful grandeur once beat
To see the glories of the sky,
Once was a gallant tale, and true
Were lower ages of the earth.
In secret caverns of the earth,
With lives that early die, we dwell,
Free from lapse and from the king's sway;
We hear there is no earth, and go there none:
Loose from his chain 'twixt paradise and hell,
O'erclasped in Love, sunken apace,
Our human hearts are rapt with celestial wine,
Controlling rare ill, whereby to see
The grandest majesty, our own divine.
O lords of woe, totters then the dome
Of your great world, and fast all are fast,
While some in that world begin to turn,
The earliest flock of the Apocalypse!

Remember, remember,
How on the night before the funeral
Of my lady, your fair hands grasps
All my heart! forgive my flattery,
It was not meant to cause offence;
'Twas but to give you just
The edge of that modesty
Your wonder would tell me;
You were not there,
Nor were the neighbours there
When in all Rome the Lombard did spoil
And burn every impious book:
I had not lov'd you so long,
You had not know'd me before.
In what eager haste,
Without a blush, you leave me?
Did you, that I so whitely saw
Should sink,
Or was this breath that came?
Or was that word?

O, by your life,
And by the truth of your eyes,
My life!
O count the heaps of words,
Which I just at the last
Faught with all my might to get,
As I did speak them then,
And to you so warn me,
So make me know
The time at last,
So strike your finger to it!

Ah, you'll strike your finger to it,
And pluck off with one stroke,
An eaglet which the falcon
Will fly away with, whose wings are full
Of wild horses, that he brings!
But for my swiftness, could you see
A mare which in the race she ran,
She should have won, and I--I thus--
Could never have got a sight of you!

As for one, I pray you, which may--
If any one, 'tis one; for this
Is what the poets sing about.
I, who have lain a whole week awake,
And struggled with
======================================== SAMPLE 10 
========================================
At which he stood, and gazed while his back was turned
More than the bones he stood upon.

When he his dry eyes once more set on her,
And that near question, if his jaw would ever
Ask aught more, as the blood refused,
He said, "Is there any thought in your mind to pry
For the love wherewith I fed my meat and drink,
Or rather fish and game?

"O Jehoshapa! I did not come to spy
On any chink that may not yet have opened;
What had better use been, I have had none."
But a red leaf he saw grow for a while,
And, on its down, fell die of a red, like flower,
'Twas cried by their own name by many a name
'Tween woods and deserts, where the trees were tall,
And yet we have never named with any accent
Fostering guesses as to its proper smell.

"None of these things!" he said: "but how
Is aught of them brought, or hence preserved?
I know what these eyes have seen of these
For they have said of these, which the mouth
Profanes, being common, fashions. The books
Tastily do but excuse me that I look
On them not, as thou wilt, who wilt attend,
Which is my sentence to stand henceforward."
He shut the book, "for shame!" and on his feet
Drew his red roses, then upbore his head,
And faired upon the ancient man at which he had
Looked last. He wore a rich kirtle, brown,
And round his brows a blue kirtle threaded,
Which a black ostrich down entwined in place
Fringed with white; his gilty scrip did beam
Round about, and he held in his hands, say,
A white steed's head with black hoofs and tail.
Omphale's ear touched with the odor bore
As very much did the eastern wind that flew
The best of the day; the white sun flamed
With lustre so great that the goddess, at sight,
Made as if it would have shared in the blaze
Hers to bend over.
The boy had drawled his rasher all
Through the smocks, and when he drew his head
To her, she flung her eye from side to side
As after answer to observe if it bade her stay,
Seeming to say that it would not share her stay,
But blossom by the conversation too soon,
And flout the power of it by dint of his fan.
He looked and she for all that she said no more,
And when he turned from them illimitable place
Dropped an ashen hand upon his shoulder, then fled
In a huff, while he, the other, strode fast
Amidst his people, bearing thence his task
A gilt-flowered vase, most like to drop its maiden,
All its life gone out of it, yet saved its juice.
Then at the rumour of the little adventure
He looked about, and spoke to them, "So I find,
The gentlefolks give no sop for a song
Such as I am now songless; but they reward
The song with most every journey, with a taste
Of herbs that bring them more than a look of joy,
With sign of entrance, and with opportune words
Of sweet farewell; and with portentious words
Of counsel."
Wearied with these
Had they not found him weal or woe in his song?
He sang them back to them again, but why
He said no more, nor ever can, the same fail
To those who had half grown weary of his try;
Yet with a pasteboard vaunt he will try again.

The huntress by the stream
Went in the forest safe and happy,
And there she heard a bird with love on his wing
Sing of his joy with one true heart, not three.
Ay me! she said, the wise and honest truth,
I heard the whole with me, alack, alack,
I am not comforted, I shall certainly die!

The poet's task is a hard and proud one
That takes deep knowledge, fire and ardent thought,
To break a far-parched plateau, that holds the season,
And lift a weary wandering world in his hand;
For a true poet's task is a mystery drear,
And will not be accomplished by theliest sated
With his own petty work of rhyme and of prose;
Tho' he may drink of all the sweet international beer
And admire Zeno
======================================== SAMPLE 11 
========================================
 killer reptile,
Now your venom's dulled; your fatlings gone;
And the cormorants swoop in again,
Spying for food the lightsome minnows,
The glass-strewn reflection of the lake.
The summer's weather turned; and on I set,
Within the pale-green, weather beaten sphere
That many a century's weather doth resemble.

Troubled I am not, if, where my being stirs,
I do not feel the pressure of the sky;
Yet see I not the sun with firm dry eye,
Because a molten lustre bright appears:
The sun, the morning, the sunset, I know,
Because they move, for ever and are born;
For weather change or measure does not these
Show different days, or different nights?  I believe
That all these progenies of the air
Draw from the sun, and cast a body of light,
Made of the clouds, as bubbles from the stream.

Therefore to this heaven I deem that these,
So jocund and abundant, therefore seen
Together should unite, and with them
Uncapable of other motion drive
Back the bright production of the day,
And bury it in the sun-quake's centre:
So should it live, like fire in the sun,
Unmixed with black cloud or longer shade.

Thou my move.
Lest therefore this then have chance to turn
As I conjecture it to other use,
Move thou to this, and it shall seem I did
Thy bidding, O my step to make
Just fulness in a happy concord;
E'en as the stirring of the stream,
By which all things make agree that show
The very cause they are, as thou wilt.

Let not the sun
From hence in anger looking on
Return the fire, that he among
The radiant streams be found
No heat have not,
No fire have I;
And all the loveliness
I was of in my prime,
I am not now, nor ever was.

The moon's light
For other uses is made,
As bathes the purple wave;
It from the silent ocean
In moistened-zoned earthen cup,
To wend her merry ways
With sooty pilots skaue her cost,
And now, besmear'd with thatwash
And drizzling weariness, doth stray,
As abandoned and as unsatisfied
As torrents, that from valley hence
Fling back rocks' hard pebbles and bronze,
So dryned by seasons many a fall
From there to here.

But let them sweep, o'er-curl'd
Their light fingers through the air,
To be the land's great hosts of men.
T. trees, those right-easing sages, saith,
May be the first sent from heaven,
I read them with an eye esteem'd
Among the first, and first, out of Time,
That are the first, and foremost in Fame:

And men and things shall say of me,
"In that day he stood alone;
A devil, yet of such a grace
Was never seen, nor will be seen,
To shake the throne of a few;
To whisper delight,
And turn men's snares with a word."

Sorrow,--but how little!
What body can recall
So great a gift as the word?
The wit of the best
Hath got thee such art as this,
Since first I teach'd thee
The sound of the accents sweet,
That made me the way pursue,
Whither I know not, nor care to,
My search begun!  The tones
That broke upon the lone glade,
Were a cool-spoken direction,
Pursuing not the cavernous goal,
But shadows of aimless sound
That made the thoughtless heart to thrill
In dance with the fading field.

Then first a cool-piped tune
Startled like faint water falls
From steep aisles in old arches,
Flowing a pace that fast well grew
Under the brazen liquid wan
That shadowed o'er the fount; and aghast,
In terror of what might leap amain,
Cancelling reason's tyranny,
I faced the steep lest what appeared
Should dash me headlong from the cliff,
I moved as in a storm that strokes
His flapping wings when upon the blast
He stoops some rock 'round whose stately pile
Has sliced the exceeding hulk.

But now like slow drops of tears
Fall smooth the low notes that fall,
And nipped with venom then for sore

======================================== SAMPLE 12 
========================================
First of the Seven is the Serpent.
After him the succession holds
Sons of God the Father as far as sea.
Then after these the family of God
Moves on from the effulgence of the fire
Till the great stretching of the body.
And last
The vast marsh, having upon its face
A compass and a limitation,
Formed from the effulgence of the fire,
By bonds of its own substance draws
To the sundering of a towred earth.

Where, then, the system ends, there begins
Other systems, where the spirits cease
And farther struggles struggle with the powers
Of the primeval beasts and fishes,
Which struggle till they change the form of man.
And, still proceeding, where again our cycle
Seasons, as it stretches from point to point,
New spirits, the long life of the oaks,
And the giant trees, the many-armed rales,
And the river, with the cataracts and rivers
In its mud-wallowing ferry throng
With their many blades, and their many pines.
And those divinations which the elements
Draw through airs, and the subterranean fires
And earth's core, and the great molten earth
Conducting the elements--
All these work the more in concord then
When the human spirit tries to find
Or the eternal mote's aim to attain.
So we, beholding this strange plan unfold
Like a second day unrolled before our eyes,
Had been quite sure, until we heard
What is the nature of the thing we see?
'Tis neither flesh, nor the elements,
Nor (as we see them), a fragment of the soul,
Nor the centre of all power on earth,
But a great plan, which yet untouched is
By the ebbing of power, or the flow of blood;
But a great moral movement through all things.
And thus it is, since first the rebellious flame
Called itself by its own name, and threw
All its strength against the powers, it must be,
That its life is the life of the fire,
But, as we see, an atom in the will
Diluted to the size of a great compass,
Which then, with moral force upwrung,
Seizes the opposing world, or shuts the outer
Entrance from the centre, and confines the fate
Of all that within it--not withstanding
All moral force, which, it will be said, must
Be as the strongest to cheer the weak.

The Father may be designated
The personified sun, who all the powers
draw to his raising hill. The sun was
The first to rise, and stand on Israel's hill.
Bred to a chariot, he first traveled
From Judah's field to Greece. When first the

In the full height of his growth, God gave him over
To kings and high priests, who bore him about
With pomp and blood upon their spears, to tempt
The people with the serpent to eat of fruit
In their own blood. There is a height in the sky,
Not too far down, where light above thaws at last,
And we shall see the world's great leaders descend
From heaven, their time appointed--they shall find
Their strength less than that which the world has now
Until the conflict shall be turned upon
When Adam and his chosen vessel stand up
Against their foe, and defeat his attack.

Thus He who hides in his infinite frame
The form and mind and language of man,
Said to Isaiah, "I will cause thee to speak."
When the choral voice and wind were extinctbrought the prompt answer, 
"Revelate to men

Their final overthrow, and make an end.
Gods, what thing shall then be theirs? They have spent
Their glory. Let them show the trophies they have won.
The conqueror's glory shall not be a thing
To make an end of, but shall be an end.
They feel that they are superior. They know
That when God gave, he gave the reins to their hands;
Their works are their grace, not merely what earns.
Are not the wrought garments like to flesh
Which they have leaped with, and through which they have walked,
Not garments out of soul, which God and man may dress
To grace God's burial?

The shame of it is,
They live too long. Earth is their sepulchre,
And works of theirs cannot bring their end.
The serpent with the apple in his mouth,
And the beast which was reared up by his side,
Put on the appetite which their own cries have taught
And conquered. They are gone; they go to their place;
They fall like blo
======================================== SAMPLE 13 
========================================
Don't go taking more of a swag,
But take fewer of the swag,
And be of an ekst-and weel-full ay;
Don't go knockin' over folk,
And kind er ruth, an' then revin' off.
It's care at the start that's the thing that's the thing!

The thing is--give out the place,
An' have the chance,
To do your own tricks, an' don't be afraid
To make a few;
But care's the only pan for gain,
An' then a little joy,
If you're ready to call your own
An' have your say.

Then get some kind o' capital land
An' winter suits it;
Ain't 'fool' no doubt yer tellin'
These folks I know,
Yer just as keen as me an' me
On this the land!

There's land an' time an' money an' will
A-crack withal,
An' yer the man to pay the bills
An' look like home.

It's knowin' those things 'ere an' that
Will make a charmin'!
Then look forward an' thank the Lord
That all the while you do
Your part, an' more the more you're found
To take ye on.

We're a-suisan, let's state the case:--
We've wasted the youth o' man,
An' the wits around us brood;
The workin'-clerk has come, an' we
Sha' to live.

Our sales has not kept pace
With our spending strength, an' the trade
Is a bust, a failure an' a disgrace;
An' we've got a-cryin' for food,
An' naiz did we gie
From hand to hand.

The lads o' 'Feed the Hungry' have gane
The fancy o' the malicious nation,
An' we can't get no credit for wine
An' gie an' gude o' barley;
Gude ale is sa-od-lured, like Water's
Pure of o' life.

It's talk o' plunder, its speakers called,
An' nothin' else, for we've become a people
Wair-ached an' lunchless as yan's ain't!
An' we're tired o' 'gainstions high an' low,
An' the devils in charge.

Our seed time again, I'm stickin' by
The farm that I trowed
When an' I wos kitch--altho' now
It ain't such.
But as time an' fortune changin',
I like to think
We'd niver thought a song would come
O' sung, schön an' given in faith,
While the warld was ours.

There's times when I sit down, an' wrench
The wirkin-reels, an' rar
Considerin' that it's turn for me
To watch the horse that's brung you;
An' glimmer pale, an' in darkness sleep,
An' then--what's to be done?

We gae. Grow plump, chaps, o' glee!
What's pub stah, an' thirty pence a ton,
A quarter-audible
Establisht folk to wind a spark;
When wine is price-ed kimboory
Some of the meekest pigs gets praise.

Gin a hass her een so mon an' plen,
An' don't fak a word
'Bout a windy sort o' face, an' swear
That's enow to talk, an' simple, plain,
I wus ta'en, Mishe dung!

"Good sorter's waitin' on the roph, lad,"
An' wi' hands ben a keer
An' eyes like in the kintra-yard;
Ye look on, but there's space a-frenchin'
To see your lads, an' you're sakkin
Strauto-like, Mishe dung!

That ink was dipped in som'al;
An' shak it did dun it leg;
On thykin the kintra-rubber shudders
T'ow'rd me in its tin-mouth teat,
An' mak' a gal like a sytherdock
A cinder-knot a roond o' hair!

Out, soul! i' the crowd, an' hoi! hey
======================================== SAMPLE 14 
========================================
whiskered and rain-soaked
only a pale reflection,
not much of one, a missing
ring on the finger, a slit
from a heaven
too small for death and
glarfurious pleasure.
I’ll read one book. I have loads.
They say a life is wasted
unwanted tears,
a glass of lemon
with the first twist of lemon
pinned to the tongue, only
never had I
tears.
I’ll read one book.
I have loads.
I’ve the entire collection.
Of course I have to be honest.
I take it out on you.
I say everything is
passe, that I can’t
make distinctions
or put you on a shelf
in a different room.
I had a dog, said
the one time
I felt from the cold
the sound of his feet.
I thought maybe
something was wrong,
that he would go away.
I used to get hard
and stare at you across
the table from the seat
in the corner. I’ve
no more to say, I
told myself.
I used to get ugly
with you, but now
no tears,
no mouth.
I’m never going to
say more.
<|endoftext|>
"Sticky Little Book of Verse", by Jane Kenyon [Love, Realistic & 
Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Reading & 
Books, Valentine's Day]
He’ll sweep me off my feet

and hold me tight

until the mid 
camel, the

nipply drizzle,

drops from the sky

into the teacup,
the one I pour me tea in.
And, he said,
in the teacup, very pink,

it would be his
money,
the one I spurned at his

fake brick-fire,
at his hubris
to purchase me in

for his wife. I will wring

my foot! I will wade
through the teacup,
the perfect size,
into the tealike bed

of water and fire

and spill him there.

Tick, tick, tick,
in the teacup,
the foam would tickle my

burned thumb. Tick, tick,

I’ll curl my toe into place,
and ho-hum, I will slip

onto her fluttering

forearm. Tick, tick, tickle my

anvil. Laughter
as I read means I

can dance,
I am a happy bunny.
<|endoftext|>
"Poetry is a Hoax", by Jane Kenyon [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, 
Poetry & Poets]
We are in the midst of the greatest creative
era in our nation’s history,
but poets who deserve
record invitations to appear

at next month’s Folio can’t get paid,
or even printed for that matter.
Poetry books are selling at a discount

to the fool’s silver match.
The poets need not rely
on the marketplace for their bread,
the wait is too long and the market is

too crowded.
The much needed restorations

are held up by Kodak,
the restorations are held up
by the identical tissue
known as persistence,
the tissue is held up by

believe in me,
what I believe is more interesting,

be more like me, my technical review indicates

you cannot hold me, I am never alone,
if you attempt to duplicate
your ideas you will

confuse the issue. The ideas will

diffuse through the atmosphere

in direct ratio to any gas.
Each idea that is conceived and

all but carried to fruition, will


be accounted in the calculator as 1% of

total, I did not hold you

in such high regard. I apologize

for being so alarming.
<|endoftext|>
"Poem, 100 Tears", by Jane Kenyon [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & 
Grieving, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Home Life]
100 tears are a tearful drop
from the moon
and we have we
lost love
for somewhere
every body
that birthed a mongolian stone,
every hand that touched a snowflake

in the air
that silver and gold
send the same way
the same way that the first
metals of heaven
behold and greet, us
======================================== SAMPLE 15 
========================================
do not admit, must listen
to the song of the region of vines, which is wound
through the world, as its universe is.
But though there are countless names, even
for the most familiar one, we must
even as children learn to speak it.
<|endoftext|>
"The Name of the Rose", by Paul Violi [Living, Time & Brevity, 
Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Fall, Stars,  Planets,  
Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy]
It is the last rose
lost in the last rose
passed to earth, which is
its single spotless blossom.

Its green, as I look at it
from this high terrace in late June,
is as bright as the sky’s colors
are.

Even now, late August,
the topmost foliage is a silver
ghost in white blossoms.

I have eaten of its light.

The delicate leaves open as if for
expression:

What can I say?
They are the spectre of an hour:

transparent, white, so fair!
In my lap, I fold it.

And, still,
the petals, still the same as they
went out with their blossoming,
stay in place:

were in the spiral of space
the way we kept the sun
on our faces, hands,
eyes.

But that’s not what
the leaves are for.

Their leaves are perfect
for what they are:

ranks in rail,
rosebuds, small and few,
red as fire.

At our rose’s table,
unlike the roses, not quite
there yet, but in
a sense
there, we fall in line, and our
arms cross and meet, as of old
the poet’s dream of heaven,
table, eyes,
and so holding the heart of the rose,
each of us in line, that
each of us has made of flower
our own rose,

and yet the rose inside
of me stands still:
as sure of place in the world,
as when it opened
the first time, fifty years,
and it closed behind me:

no agitation,
no twisting and twisting.
I hold the rose
closed: and if the rose
open, nothing can take place
without the opening,

and the color,
as the rose-smell comes through it,
to help people recognize me.

For there is one who can open it:

now that I look
at it, can see it:

and she speaks to me of my
own mother’s life in my face, of the

heart inside.

Just so: I have seen

what the red roses will bring,

if the rose-colored

doors are open.

I could not look
in the place
where my mother was

were there not also
the hand of me
coming in.
<|endoftext|>
"In the Dark", by Paul Violi [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic 
& Complicated, Relationships]
The words for
love are taken.

The words for
light are taken.

The words are everywhere.

The words are what is
going on.

The words have
spoken.

The dark
is the place

I am in.

The words are my

own color,

the words are the

colors

I have made
of words.

And there

are more of

the dark, too.

When you put
the right word

in the right

place,

words grow into

more of the dark

and more of the

dark grows into

the words.

So all
the word-
time
turns:

WILL

go and be there

for you.

NOW
is to

listen.
<|endoftext|>
"I, Too", by Paul Violi [Activities, School & Learning]
I, too,

gave up on school.

I, too,

didn't want to go to

the back of the class

or the lunch

room.

I, too,

was, was, was

missed.

I, too,

found myself.

It was the end of

the day;

it was the end of

me.

Then I, too,

gave up


the
======================================== SAMPLE 16 
========================================
Nestleson said,
What's a Sunday
Chronicle?

This table? I've no
use for that.
Well, yes,
'E's quite as
Dear to my eye
As Lady dioria
Is
To yours.

She's always
Right, Lillie, and to
work, I ever
won.
You're always
Wrinkled by
a new ball.
Well, yes,
'E's a
Love, yes, I
want that.

Yet when I think
In
sight of all
I might
have done
for you
Had I
never met
you,
I grow
Wistful for
you,
Lilly.

Polly!  Gritty, white, white,
pure sugar and
peanut, white.
"Mo'ney" hor roasted...
Sort of... runty, wrinkly, white, white,
just plain
fuzzy with
mines of


so much less than
two bags
of leg of me.
Each little cave has its idol, Lilly
And who doesn't.
Well, yes,
'E's
so much less
than
Lilly.

Fine hard poetry.
Porridge and
whisky... what a
Dervish
life we lead...
Try it, it's
fun, it's fun,
it's
fun it's
fun it's
fun
for the soul,

When Lilly met
Polly in the bar, her eyes had light
showers falling from them, and her
whisper was
"Shane,
You're my goody, so I'll
bow to
That is
me."
Polly also meeting the carousal

Yeah,
Polly.  Gritty white and pure.
My
husband's gone
all toines,
and for my purse
I'll
have to
go,
so...
Do I
Go
home?
or...

Father's gone now.
So I'll
go home,

and...
Not the same
Of course not.
You know?
What is
so lucky

anyway
I don't

Should
I