======================================== SAMPLE 1 
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It is Nature, her pow'rs to trace
In fields of view diff'rently spied,
And with the buds of spring and nymphs be blest.
In vegetation art she decked her body hight,
Her softness sweated on each extremity;
On the soft beak her silky word she sign'd,
Or murm'ring from the throat approv'd the gust;
That gives a grain a man of nourishment.

Nor is it strange, if nature various be,
That there are arts which nature's likeness give,
As Goodley's bow arm to dispense,
Or Gifford's feet, or Earle's aelop,
So wide and wildly various are.
By modes of art, on meat or fruit,
Serv'd in one particular, we dine,
Do sickness from one, and pleasure from another.

Nature's state, though varied, is reason's mirror,
And the less given to gay ambition
By diff'rence of art, which yet reserves
Enough of weight, to bend the temperate.
Taste's one, by large concessions, but one,
To forgive all, and that with sincere content.
Good is right, and what you seek is what you get.

'Tis the mean, vain, and unworthy things,
The tasks, that yield no content, the treats
Of poor interactions and restrictions,
That really fill the heart and never stop;
That bring the sleep and crave the mess to help.

Like Massen made of magic mould, or grass
Grown to a elixir; the what, and the why,
That shames and perplex man's wild oscillations;
What from all extremes of life, and all their aspects,
Are known, or could be known to man, and known and done;
Worn, spent, burned out, old, new, tame, and thorny:
Thus 'tis the common lot and occasion of
The various gifts and labours of life,

I grant, in olden time, to angels watching high,
These she gives; but they with cold, calm eyes could see
Her faults, her vices, in a glance; while we,
In that foul air her failings rose and shames;
Even as the sick servant in his master's hall,
Who saw the chimney-corner turning, could not view
The chimney's flames, nor smell the burning com.

The censors on the prophets, and diviners old,
In the dark atom of their chestecque annihilated;
And their cold stones could show and spell, with the lightning's 
flash,
Where burns the hermetical Cuthite,

Bred in the fires of lamprey and of arsenical smutch,
With moly and myght, what private unhonours there are,
Sheds abundant blessing; but no bless'd man's focusing
Light on man; for God, according to his word,
Has made us simple, and considered us but mice,
And given us angels for guardians, like the showers of the blue

Or last, when liberty began her royal reign,
With sceptred hand, and royal honours on her brow,
She poured her words, and liberty her honour spread.
As when two blasts, atward drawn from deeps like thunder,
Smite unsuspecting minds, and are not seldome shaken;
But, wheresoe'er in womb or choirs they conspired,
They smash, and rent the valour of the young enchanter,
Smoothers and thuranders, lest none err'd in the fire,
Or quencht in the struggle of their arts, they stoop, and come,
Asleep, to dance in Eden's groves or wander Africaine,
And might have made perverts of Titan, and Mercury,
But that God's pity shielded Arthur, and denied

Passionate of crusading knights, at that heresies
Of wandering musicians, who on Israel's path,
Had strayed and ended there, so that one scarcely
Pursued the other; this is innocence, O ye saints,
For free bearers of your warrants 'tis your boast
Your forebears were unreluctant, and imputed
This guilt, alien to the bond of natural love.

An Indian tale, though much suspect in springs
A novelty, that, with a sprightlier accord,
Hears Michael's success, though seen with scruples not,
Though 't were heard by few; whence, ten to one,
This victor, upon his buckler blue,
Distrusts the Christian's sword, which is white,
And claims the weapon clear.
======================================== SAMPLE 2 
========================================
serious morning paper
so if you ask where I live it won't be a surprise

a road into a field

that sings
but soon forgot to apologize
the alligator-pond by the lake
at the edge of town I follow
my ear stuck in its ear
battleship hands in a blue void

there is no place I love more
than now the waterfront in its dock-heights
a walk from the Sub to the bridge where I board
a slower moving train of natives from China
where the clouds are made from my breath

my body's apparent statement
water's a phantasmagoria for my wife

when the stranger train arrives
it bows a hacienda in your honor
then winds its way around you

a barrier of notes
<|endoftext|>
"The First Flew", by Grace Cavalieri
For my ninth month,
I traveled by train from one side of the country to the other. I was 
feeling down and decided to fly instead of taking the subcompact. I 
had never taken off

my clothes or been inside

the airless vehicle. I was worried

I would get some kind of stupid injuries
or be killed
but I was anxious, glad and ecstatic to be there
in a bullet-like plane.

No fumesticks! The plane
looked like a giant toilet stall I saw

as I shook my fist in the face of its black and white shiny body.

They always open the doors for me, I tell them
I'm full of butterflies, to their amazement.
<|endoftext|>
"Small Pox", by Norma Cole [The Body, The Mind, Nature, Social 
Commentaries]
I forget what I was thinking
of the time I went to the fair with
a pink feather quill in my hair
and the shade of kind of green and
the level of moon.

You get a thought, you get a jump

On life, you get that hangover,
you don't forget—O my God!

Well, here's your jit—the ink, the blues,
the talents you have:

strike up, be jittery, be chumpy

If you keep a day-book close to you

There's bound to be times
when you think you'd
rather be doing that

There's so much misery in your life—
entering grade school
and still I'm getting good with the quill—
entering kindergarten and there's still more

Kindergarten's endless screaming
and in elementary school
a Ting ting

What is everybody laughing at you
and what is laughing
that grows underground

That life throws at you
could be an ache, a tiny drop of gibbous,
a tiny bead of warm water, a dime-store object
of rank and title and romance—
and sitting there staring back at you
is death.

To start a sentence with "a wonderful, wonderful,
..."

That's the shame of men:

they jump on before
anyone has said a thing
they already are jumping on,
jumping up and down.

A little death goes a long way
and some is good for everybody.

A little premature maybe,
some are too quick and more is

Talking about my face and where I'm from
I did think I was asleep.
I don't remember dreaming.
But was this girl our second class president
and did we ever win a club pie?

An earnest philosophical
discussion led to an odious
discussion:

the boy who filled our low small school
division had never heard
of spring, had never seen an
spring plant nor even any
spring plants,
Had never even seen a
ship sailing the world
around the world on the dark sea—

sail through the smoke of what, o the
half-named one with wonder,
is left to pull us through this life.
And if I'd ever loved you, oh boy
who read all of Cassandra, I'd be
blister on your hand.
There's not much of Theban or there's not much of the zone but if 
you're brave enough you should read up on the Therenee.

And if you have ever had one thought in your mind,
about, about, you ever have said it to youself or to another

take care of another, O if you ever find yourself on a
bus or walk in the park with a friend,
take care of your eardrums, take the time to think
of the next time you'll feel self-conscious about your hat and your 
bow tie or what you're saying about your
======================================== SAMPLE 3 
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After him the young combatants rush,
And young of beauty the fair Rose lead,
The fifth, and last, to fight in these remaining rows.

Next twenty shields in order are
Chalked with ages, and in figured plays
The picture looks glad and meditative;
The fable's feet they tread, and attend,
For ever wanders an invisible host
Who down the serpent walks, and all the beasts along.

The wonted images of arms proceed,
The bows and slings begin; the strokes begin,
The leaps and charges; the images grand
Of war in cowering hedges turn,
And gathering bliss send on the breezy quires.
The place of combat is a wheat field left;
A bit of red and white and green defy
That beauty to give nature's loveliness.

To be whole and entire, but still whole
To the taste of the beholder;
Never, as was the water, a fence
In hailing too briskly it flowed;
And though some rough places were here,
The gladness of it was enough to lave.

The fairest and coldest from each hand
The blossom and the fruit take, nor is this all,
For there is from the balm that made them there
Enough to wrap the lover and spoil them too.
And then, O in such manner as the stream
At spring-tides takes the fillings from the palms,
In short-charge there the troop on the mountain throws.

A great heritage in wisdom yields,
O fair wall and fair ship to encreas the measure;
And while the burden was lifted up,
And though all wasteness was spoiled on the spot,
O for that was more than any one thing was done
Against the craven Ind den to be flung,
That young Abel and the Prophet Zechariah called
Upon their task and took the whole, with ease!

Though when the youth flings salt against the raven's nest,
The slack is still in the sail and glee is high,
There is not breath enough to spare the feather,
Nor will the storm break with enough of eidle
To fry the care that clings about the ship.
The spirits will hold their counsel till the day,
And yet is the bargain hard, and the cliff to leap.

For the spirit is used in the old cast,
And the fox in his stubbornness, and is new
In the court of the lion as in the boar's cover;
While the passion canny canny is hard and tough;
And must be so, or he runs the danger of being shirked:
But some get along sure and well at the first dash,
And use good business and great scorn in their way.

The precept it has; in time and temper both instructed,
The craving aye to be satisfied:
For he lies the limb far from the bone, that is
To pleasure the merchant in court or the hall,
With heeding more of present than of future,
The miser who is traveling than dining.

Sometimes in singing we hear a good
Songs that are not seasons of themselves,
But out of some other life and more wise,
Which makes a mass of wisdom, rather, than song.
And as only happens to those who dare,
Nor to the few who never hope nor sing,
The one and the plain and common one
Is never remembered next but by the song,
Which seems to be but the rustling of the rain,
The general feather of the winds in the day,
The birds of the sky, and the waters' fall,
Which are the country and purpose of song.

It fills the gap that has been long forgot,
It is bright as a gold-cross in the rain,
And it bids the welkin go mad with light
And with peace, and with omnific cheer
It bids think hell to fill with forest and sail
To fill with noise and portent, while the tree
Breaks from its carrier, for the songs are sage,
And well they fall on for earliest sound
And sweetest meaning of the langour and wind,
As the cuckoo to the maiden's dream.

And this is the reason that songs will ever move
Those to whose ears is are natural, and come
Not as some surmise and some tinkling report,
But as fresh and as new the laps are blown,
And fresh as the grass when it is first felt.
For songs, O sing to your number, be not sparse,
And the full lull that we know in the grey days, and the grey of the 
low eblogtgèn.

The wattle shells, their tread so gentle and sweet,
======================================== SAMPLE 4 
========================================
Birds, again.

“Unhappy they!” I cried.
A man got splattered

Shrapnel through his eyebrows.
How to wash hair
Heads unbraced,
House of air,
Door to door
Eyes and ears
Out the window
Rings and roar.
*

*

*

This is the place of ash, the heart
You were close to loving, the iron
Thick in the skin of plums,
And the heat on your tongue and the dirt
Lives of spiders.
Out the window the sun
Flares and pokes its tongue.
And the roar of bikers
Fills the heat, and I breathe it in.
And I forget.
And I am reminded.
Shrapnel is everywhere.
Germline, maternal, and the rest
Are all (my pigeon
Chesters again)
Telling me:
This makes more noise.
That is the noise
You heard in the sound of the skin,
The spasms of the kale,
The scraps of flesh you lugged
Into this life,
While I drifted.
If you were there,
I'd have heard you.
We will leave it as it is.
We will not go back.
Just go from here.
<|endoftext|>
"On Being a Stranger in Naff (Poetry & Poets)", by Diane Kharlie 
[Living, The Body, Nature, Animals, Stars,  Planets,  Heavens, Arts & 
Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life]
One does not become a thing
to grub beneath its path
but one makes preparation
and miles of garden land
split lengthwise
like a road, city planning, architecture,
making exoduses, gateway events
to places with various intensities
of light that await you
like those long unsaid things
occurring in sleep
and medicine
and fate
and white windless days
the milky way
bright celestial rosettes
the unfathomable ambrosial park
of Westworld where Yashka and Etta
map the perimeter, angels
mounting and dropping
a granular map
of lights from which they pick
their chosen atoms
to construct their form, new world
and one anodyis for all, product
of being mappers′ heavy bodily
manipulation in order
to pick the kale from the rough,
to harvest from
a spectral farm that is born in water
to seem like
an immaterial landscape already
in the making, after the fact,
say one mounts the stairs to the roof
of this moment,  which one? I say the one who
had to go down it. The one who took it.  Because
going back is not possible, stay single,
cis-gender, never remembers her/himself
as such, walking in the present.
Its various details drawn from one's own life:
garden sun, the voices of children,
the stairs,
my two books, time, the big waves
of other bodies, purgatory
and the stars we make.
<|endoftext|>
"from Omen while Dying, in the Nonos, of June 1967", by Diane Sexton 
[Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Summer, 
Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality]
for Gertrude Ebert

Omar, this letter, coming from you
Omar, this August sunset,
O Omar, this message, I write you,
O my own, O my soul,
I knew you were here.
I knew a place was here.
I knew this soul,
O Omar, I knew it
wasn't real,
but the line of the lines it's
real, it's all true.
From the first,
I knew,
Omar,
something of who I am,
was here, but
I didn't know you were here.

I knew,
Omar,
a moment, and then I didn't.

To think that you are gone,
O Omar,
is to know the only proper way to die
Omar,
is when one has long and long thought
Omar, it's not this way, this is not death
Omar, so extreme and pure, this is not the death
of us, O this is only home.

There was so much oresata on the face of the other
person that I could not go on.
They had his murder made perfect, but all the trouble was,
Omar, when you were killed,
you lived, I mean it's not this,
======================================== SAMPLE 5 
========================================
'It's always been so.
Not what I did but what I heard
What others did and said or failed to say,
Where and how and what and who.'  No one in his accounts of life ever 
invents
a new book.  Time for ever changes the mind,
Mind changes the mind, and so, the best he will print
The old gold of his time.  Will print it now.

"We are not different kinds of men.
We are all human beings struggling
in the world with our own power
The noble, generous, and the brave,
Ours in the soul from infancy; and as we grow older,
We seek for a higher pitch and vie
With those who are higher still.  To prove it let me read
The present truth in this living truth."

"'We must not hesitate to say
Any deeper feeling of the heart
In time and language meets our view,
As through the morn we cleave to sleep,
Or as the gods who look upon the sun.
But hold your own peace whomsoever you meet,
And if you win, hold him who best may conquer,
And cleave to truth.  Every one who stands alone
Converts to some brother who is stronger,
Or is the stronger still.'

A man that is high in your society,
I may or I may not act in accord
With the same motives, dispositions, and views.
I am a lover and nothing more,
Or I may be, and therefore shall be public.
Take heed to this.  A word and use of an image
May be forgiven and withdrew.  For what is said
Is known to be our only power.  In danger of wrongs
Or in danger of ourselves through jealousy,
I may be moved to break a word long copiously
Writ with Quattrone.  Again and yet again
If any shall insinuate and urge the case,
Let your excuse be thus:  The accusation has neither hurt nor fear,
Nor has the times of just confidence given excusance.'

"Be prompt to give in your consent, and use
All due expedients to compel them hence.
The houses of the ancient, place of seats,
Are fast disappearing and dwindling fast,
Leaving outposts of themselves behind,
And even their names are passing.  But further still
Their use in the fabric is gradually ceasing,
And we are moving from a country of ruins,
A waste of old iron and ruins,
And stone coverts, like piled upProfessions, or some large ship
Coverted with bark, and stored with men.
We have no use for the long held out shore,
Its old positions or its old stations,
And so far off, where is no prying
Through the may through haze of danger sees it.
Its storied past and mor heights are empty,
And far, where is the place of all its being.
But sit down and take them up again.
And listen to the bell over the yonder tower
Or the signal, the lost opportunity
Of the time when the slaver's engine reared
Its ponderous boom,
And a passenger afloat, a tramp;
Or the roadstead over which
A drifter, half drunk, his loads carried,
Drew up his few threads
And climbed the mountain.  Not otherwise
Is the ebb and flow of men and things.
There is an army of them and of them
There are departments, and they keep their accounts
Through a variety of channels;
And we make them freely use the night.
Some men in league with kings and mobs
Be patient, and do come off hardly at all.
Others, promoted through the circuit,
Have the walls cut through, and to others are given
Uncovered entrances, and the fronts of points,
And the doors are all barred up, and the buildings
Uplifted in their folds, to make them stable
In genial weather, more fit for final digs.

"That first of all our shipwrecks we chart
And note down with careful notes.  Men
Do their departure in several ways,
Some safe, some not so safe.
A few of us had guns, and each gun
Had a keeper, while the decks they cleared,
And the deckle stalked, the main deck heeled up,
To a waterline that was fifty feet up.
We had the strength to stand the unendearing
Play of two big teeth, and climb out again,
And swim off, to heaven, for breathing space.
But even so, the water and air were gashed up,
And half the ship is submerged half above it.

"A large man was poor Jack Newbroak,
A
======================================== SAMPLE 6 
========================================
By Zebedee's youngest child, a grandson of the morning's child.

Like words of goddess Amaryllis pale
Upon the pure airs of sounds now flown,
On the warm air of summer dusk and dawn,
Diana's voice, to thy deep bosom stirred,
On rosy wing from thy ecstasy's thrall,
It stirs to beauty like to summer flowers,
When each dew-drop, glittering from its source, swims clear
On wings from the ripe hour's heart for ever dear.

Or clasping hands with Spring;
With Summer's breath
The earth a perfect place to breathe and range;
With Winter's wanton feet
Stiffening all to shape and measure sweet
The serpent's stroke, whose throat that is,
Whom love oft bequeaths to tuteliness,
And bondage's chains
For ever bound.
But thee, O feng shui,
I love thee still;
When all of life
Fails one pure elixir's quest,
Of soul and body made one;
And pain and pleasure tamed
To gentleness,--and very mild,
--To thee.

Never so wild-witted in the world's stern,
Never so sad a poet of a king,
Never so sad the moan of a tear,
I sighed and sobbed
When Yehuda brought the story of his fall.
Beneath the date of his sorrow
Ya'arim says it was not vain:
He hung there in the twilight drear,
The Dark Prince, lamenting his past's rule.

"And in my sleep I wept when I learned
That I should lose my King,--
Dear life and man, that from my arm
The Evil one should come and fall;
The man I loved, and had confidence in,
Of my poor courage and fondness--died."

One of the threads which the Maacrobian sends
Is this, that Israel's youth were both preserved and given
To go in heaps each to his fellow; the last,
Staining the patterns and vesture of the first;
Nor did the Sanhedrin spare to weep
When their youth fell by hands of stranger than a King.

"I was the great Sanhedrim of Israel,
Which was at first a fringe of a single spear,
Wide open on the face of the world.
Thus in my soul I watched the tide of our wars,
And knew me wraught of the world, as a map,
I knew me and I knew Israel."

What a memory
That single life in the things of the world,
When all the fires of Hell and general drizzle
Are set by His own fingers and the fever's touch!
When the soul rests in a trance the which Him awakes,
And drops him in time that he feels is endless,
The time to sing hath found him, and the time to weep
It is, and the twang hath found him and the swoon,
And the hope laid up in the nightingale's shade,
And the better thought and the fear in the bloom,
That haply within a disheveled shirt
May shine;--
Oh, that it is so!

What strings of phrases to a monarch may mean
When God is worshipped at sole, or in twain, or three;
When His divinity a country's pride
And purpose yield, whose eyes "Awake, O nation!"
Are more than all the chattering diction
And phrases that in-nense brecklers repeat,
When scowling craft and facts of a fineless Mudran
With polishing raiment might take specimen!
How nobly owe their glory to that man!
Who, in the furnace of ages a workman,
Did at his duty, and for it wholely,
Though he strove with dearly-bought victory
To choke two it Edition: current; Page: [xxiii] not confutes
His body, but the spirit raised, to doubt and foil
A relapse the selfsame way, for so it worked;
And shall that power and excellence hold those
As forked lamina untuned in false discipline?
They to be just are not deluded ones, the state
Reflects duty;—she hath not reason that believes
Her power is great because she acts, which acts,
But because the deed doneed is great. Oftsooth,
That deed is great which the will lifted as such
By kindly State itself in him that wills it.
Shall every drop of Jeezer's horn be meant?
In fear lest Edition: current; Page: [xxv] Edition: current; Page: [xx
======================================== SAMPLE 7 
========================================
Zabrazúa thinks in this fashion he shall win
Ráma's consort, nor remain undone.
And Ráma's son with Ráma borne
From Daśaratha's side has reached his own
City in the lands which birds abhor.
Then, trusting all to Ráma, in his heart
Gave the glorious invitation.
But as he in the Bráhman's hall
Him kept in honour, and his love,
He, blinded by rash desire, espies
Where his love's lord abode and lay
Makched with the good and wise—
For often he could hear the words
Of the holy serpents, bright of eye,
Resounding in the council-room.

Thus in the woods the Bráhmans burned
Theri Muchi, that the king might lead
The hermitage his son possessed,
And said: "Great Hermit, by the grace
Of thy great father vouchsafed
Strive to keep him from danger, pack
With thy own warriors to his side.
Thou, best of men, above these here,
His lordly life defend.
And, O thou holy sage, I think
To great Daśaratha's town, lead then
Thy own ascetic son to lead
For safe and glad absolution, though
Him to confess his sin should call
And high Praughda too and thus
Pronounce the Bráhman impure."

"It is well," the hermit made answer,
"I the noblest of men am,
In power and might equal sent."
Then, like the earth before the blast
Of the tempest, from his breast
He threw the hand in air, and rose
And went in scorn and anger away.
And soon his toils at one blow reduced
To working of the power of all
Creatures of earth or elf or man,
For all men labor, day and night,
Even I alone of ye
Have health for ever and a day.
This is the Lord of thunder, this,

This is Kum. This is the Great Sage,
Who, breathing forth in fragrant line
From the city's gates bright-robed,
Is ever present to declare
The form and measure of all soul.
For he that has nothing here
Of his heavenly form, but dreams
Illusions false as it plies,
May sleep secure: come he or bark,
Or lightning, in the distance wall;
His soul he knows is form and shadow.
How then will you, that possess
The truth eternal, gaze and see
The God beyond the dreaming, known?
His form on your own bosom drawn
Hangs for a moment as you breathe.
Oh! be content and look and see
The soul through all its bodies swim
Beneath Him, who assumes a fleshly form
To take delight in, long since by me
The astray faculties returned.
You here can bear an eternal form
On your own energies live and move,
And, throughout, each limb, each sense be true.

Krishna calls him from the wild, and bids
That Bráhman meditate with care,
Whose aged forehead, gray and white
Like the young moon, is full of thought.
Then he, he said to Ráma, spake,
Then he, with torch in hand he came
His legs and arms entangled with books.
As in the deep blue ocean plunged
Like a mass of crystal scum,
The mass moved round on south and north,
Slowly the rocks it showed and moved.

Karma-Lord, whose heaven with minstrelsy glowed,
Here 'mid the forests Ráma sought
To see that pillar of his land.
Oh, how his spirit was stirred, what he
In all his face of tenderness delighted,
Till, as the night of clouds, that played
The god, in front he drew his throne.
The maid and king were there to see, they saw,
For well he knewed both their form and face.
All eyes were trained on him: but he, the while,
Could but but his own reputation claim.
He held the doors, he checked their glee,
He checked the joy of maiden necks,
And stayed the soft-straining of glad breasts.
Withlaid were not the two, the eyes
On soothe one another: how could come
To mutual understanding, how
Could he, if blame should be his part,
Dare to say that kindling was by sight?
How could he look upon the face he loved
And smote herself with transports faint
Because she changed not for him
======================================== SAMPLE 8 
========================================
Behind them, swiftly building in swift sensuous hollows, he sank so 
swift
That earth was shaken and the cliffs rang aloud.
The din of that single shock was a tempest of warring
Swift-approaching armies.  Driven back, a moment more
A miracle was wrought that no man could trace
In stone, in dark or chant,
From that huge shock.
Then, on its barren edge,
There came the calm,
And hid its face for a moment and then glowed in a rush
Of shapely tendrils;
Then, as though she could not know
That it had ever been,
The radiance of her own fair face
Was lost in blind, white pomp
The smile grew wide, the light passed out,
The silence muffled like a loud sea.

With my thimble for a staff, a quiet fellow life began;
And though I labour ever to the day of distress
I did not dread that ill would succeed,
For I made my own simple music.
With a hammer's turn and a plumber's blur, with a janitor's job,
My music all the living did not death prevent.
And I'll tell you the secret of all our success.

Our music; when once content the matter began,
There our last hope was found.
We only had to to watch the door a moment and people,
And then we were in.
But none can go home to their old music if once he's off duty,
So all are on the go,
Searching in vain for what they come upon.

What is the secret of our winning?
And what is "searching,"
To which all look desperately?
It is to persevere until you're given the key,
At any cost, to find that "it isn't so."
It is to hang on ever so long
Until you hear the bell toll for you,
And find you are never quite free.
It is to remain in your purpose through thick and thin,
While keeping your mouth the eternal closed,
And to go mad in the search;
And to perish by your labours and your debts,
And to feel that you'll not pay.
You must go mad in your search;
And if you fail in the end,
It's a failure like nothing else.

What is the secret of our success?
The prize itself must government prove
That is won by our joint endeavour.
The "it" of our game.
We set it!  It is not a government we fought for,
Nor worked for, nor meddled for,
But ours alone.
Why do they call us not "common" folk?
And what do we stand for?
They stand for ten.
We fifty.
We are right.
We are strong.

He's no poet.
All his songs are leftovers.
He is all covered with cheats,
His language is English only.
He never writes a line in Chaucer's key,
And yet there's many a line in Chaucer's rhyme.

His melody is rather difficult,
And close attention wears thin.
He writes bountifully but fain would not,
And as a lover of better health
Proves wholly against all burdens.

There's little charm in his tale,
His plot is capricious and unchaste;
His humour is sombre and profound;
His morality none can appreciate.
And that's saying something!
There is nought in art (this he denies)
That may not apply to Robert Burns.

When by and by she yields,
When by and by she yields,
She giveth up her nook
For an allotment to man's convenience.
The keys are given,
The lonely dame's booth
Is opened wide and spread
In all her branches bright
Of lace and of silver.

The solitary wag is seized
By nurses in their care,
And, and made ornaments
And a new pride,
She is all over beauty,
And 't is joy to see her.

And when their time is through,
When by and by they yield,
They take the book of their crime,
And, roundly branded,
On Timbuct's grave they fall.
The keys are given,
The deserted dame
Is let down, and, lo,

There is a night, when all must give
Their lives;
There is a final moment,
There comes a last breath;
And in that hour,
As God's wheeling thunder fills
The universal world,
There falls the key
Of Nature's Barnacle-cave.

There, in the dark, as if with hand
Creeping
======================================== SAMPLE 9 
========================================
Chant me a song of the temple, a hymn,
A mystic song, a hymn to the god,
Came in the waves of the blue Virgin;
I broke to it wild grapes of the Sun,
That poured from the Sun his light before,
Stilled through the fruit a golden sound.
There sang I aloud, kneeling with stars;
I sang to the Sun, and to the god,
What songs make them, and what dreams make
Light fill the fruit in Eden now,
As then in the chant of the temple?
I wonder, though the gentle spring will know
What things the stars fill with delight
On the foggy ways of this mirk den,
Where wandering stars pour light at the door,
Here, through the leafy briar, I love
To sit and pray for us and land,
How came they hence--they bring not joy?
And wherefore are the fruits so sad?
The groves are dumb, the leaves are mute,
And dost thou here thy singing? what, my friend,
Sweetly with thee would hushed be my world!
Speak, listening to my moan! I lie
In front of the open, with Mylah
Bending to listen."

"The groves are mute and dumb," Yann said;
"Look, to your island-palace. Are they mute
To hear a song of birds that peck and pass,
A song that of yandre sounds like a fate,
A song of the sanctuary, of God's name?
They have no knowledge of what you sing,
How sweet, how mournful, what to teach
From the light's perfection and perfection's mate;
To what a pitch man's brain will reach, what point
Is heaven--and what hell. Man's knowledge is not
Part of God's: a point of his knowledge springs
Where yower than air, than water his voice;
They are dumb, in the temple of the stars.
Not so that ears may know, what you should hear.
Deeper is not than those depths; nor fools,
More stupid than the parrots, from their shell.
Speaks my bird?"  The sea, the rock, the earth
Were better tongues for men to curse.

"The groves are dark, the oak more so,
Not as doom'd, but as foretasted, death;
And the taint in every bough hinders the birth
Of the tamer smoke that brings his bird
Out of the shrubs and swarms and breathes
Nature's most potent secret to new births.
If birds have flight not then they are not fleet,
Nor so in bringing of themselves away,
Nor use the power the more to help themselves.
Thou art as good a candidate for heaven
As any other being here, but able better now
Thou haply wilt than thou hast yet in full to weep,
Pour thy tears and worst among the rest,
With that loud cry that wrought nothing wrong,
And that long dead, to awake the ancient pain
And, as birds will, fold wing, and sing in the air.

Yea, 'so to sing as birds of their singing,
Over and over shall make it less,
For the song-birds have a fated song
That one may, if truly hearing it,
Heare ten, if he be not sick, nor kill.
See how a manly voice lifts stronger
His song into nobler time

Which, as a musician, did in part
Give charge to woman's breast
That her touch was healer of his wound;
And, as the chorister, his song to heal,
Shows all the pain and sickness in one
By the strength of his own hest, and moves
The group in light among their leader.

So, when a little brook with living rill,
Ris't from the ground, and ran deep in every shape,
Made even the stars to quaff its water so
The scattered stars show'd up his magic to me,
Again, as a peddler, well spent, reappears,
Rises to rise, and proud of his worthiness
Lends to a mountain rise the spring again.

So when the Bard, and the Language he spake,
Did from his tongue and from his lyre set free
A mightied Race, was known to general love;
A lovely and a powerful flooding down
Came through the parted portholes of the sea;
That mighty pebbled rock, that our side of it,
The earnest batterer, who to every Thing
Learns things from Memory, lives in heart and tongue,
In-dysent, and loves them for their own,
======================================== SAMPLE 10 
========================================
Police and new-hooled doctors! it is
suspicuous how a man just twenty-three can testify

in court as to the odds that, come shoot-out day,
he is going to perish, yet by a studious
cravenant of omerta
drops dead anyway,
just in time to see the jest be up.
And only last night, I chanced to listen to
some village elects officer, one Krol,
as he bemoaned his hoof-grinding co-mates
undressed as the corpses, or their decomposing
flesh to the bog-swept ditch,
shouted out coolly, "Shoot!"
turning on his heel,
he seemed to ache for, all alone,
a human bunker, a human dam,
and some living in a town
where no one else ever sees them,
unless he sees them first
through even the smallest paling light
in the far-off dawn,
in a well-opened trap that up at midnight
crawled with serpent-toothed night,
and which, when their inhabitants crept in with

the spring moon between
<|endoftext|>
"Poems Written with an Egg Corrupting Cyanide", by Edward Thomas 
[Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature]
I wonder what it is

they see when they go to the siftingtonie
those brown flour dust-pute tar-blue grays
don't do the trick

to pick up as in color
the grays
this onness my blue nectar from the mountain
straying over grayed out quadratic
multivariate of gummy line

the words it grays
so it it grays again on

into grays

—I imagine grit as a gray
or gray-white gray
the grays it has
the hue
—in meaning I deal
the grays the meaning

the grays its deep
grans with meaning—
I don't go to siftingtonie
I go
to the poppies in vats of resin

of beautiful grays
I go to poppies

the white grays
white grays
white grays—
some heaves dark
but the color

darkens to white grays
this visual noise
the dregs of the resin canker burn
I do not go to the siftingtonie
I go to the grape presses

themselves foul them

transpute them
<|endoftext|>
"Siren", by Henry David Thoreau [Relationships, Men & Women]
Woman
You are always singing at me!
Pushing and yelling and struggling
to get me to listen to you!
Yet what sacred thing are you telling?
Surely I know the whole story—
your childhood, your youth,
the nest of liars you grew
over—yet you whisper
in your mother's voice;
still you stand so many voices,
all of the worlds' squalling
over my head-strong boy;
still, you creep and follow
my child's soul and body,
not my own;
you hurt me into healing,
yet all I need to see is
word by word,
you have out-medaled me
some vast thing;
yet it is you
not the thing
that gives me most trouble,
yet you are still
the irritating herald of
all that unfinished business
of the world,
the pulsing onward and onward
of the pressure to be done!
Yet if I let you go you will be—
see, Mother, you have not stayed,
there is no way—
un-wed, un-wifeable!
a lily, a rose
enticing the world with grace,
yet you want to go,
leave me the unforgetful meal,
scatter the crumbs,
scatter the crumbs everywhere,
unyoke the day-dew
from my loins, unbound the day-flow,
refrain from creation;
so I let you go.
Un-wedded,
my thoughts run riot
among the irreconcilable,
lily and rose;
a son, a son,
the blemisher of creation,
ah, the love, the very love of it,
to cleave with iron quivering
every atom, every last moving thing;
a rose, a lily,
ill-meaningly given,
a stain, a thorn,
a nightingale, ungratefully given!
<|endoftext|>
"Rigrpomment", by Henry David Thoau [Relationships
======================================== SAMPLE 11 
========================================
"And our feeble pow'rs are despised,
"You rouse our brethren to risque."

Echoed each cypher-soul where light,
"Frot' in Cumon' is kenn'd," they sang,
"For few athors the strong,
"They hev lamb'd with bows between,
"And hoss'd them in the strands."

The starry music lent them aid,
And every land around
Moved as the inton'd shades grew purer,
And in the soften'd hour
When souls are most akin,
They wak'd the spirit of
To the secret love that hid
'Mungrill's flay'd stream;

"There be little space,
"Where light long hid, now breaks in,
"What once so great can now be nothing."
The Vulture could not covet
More than his own sad rookery;
In the span of life where he reigns
All his pride is in the gravest.
The halls of Solomon
Had but a bed, and a little room
Where death must enter with the night.
For Moers the sceptre comes,

A little while they paused thereat;
"A MULHOLE!"
Again their trusty cry:
"There's nothin' more sure than that;
"They that reach the head
"He kenned in glory,
"A flat serf they'll all be to make.

"A hell of a load of wo
"To day we mourn for among us is
"For all that's precious sure
"Such as must most be forgot,
"As if now it were but a name."
From dust then form the casket he,
But naught am I, May I not claim
The chain, or the clasp, I wot,
Of him who spells my name.

The owl that hooted at dawn
To be awak'd at dawn, the wren
That pined for the morn upon
The window-sweeper, chimney, crane,
The toad that digs the grass, the toad
That lingers at the expiring fire,
They all were at one in the tbo case
Of rank aud dignity;
They'll follow'd the barber
When he moves on in pomp from one seat
To a higher:
We'll note his entry,
Our hearts to declare it true,

When fortune smiles or if we 'werve,
There'll be some blind demagogue
A-proching the air;
And how will ye stand, for or against,
If Ne'er helps to the private case?
And he that feels for the whole shall see,
In a vale of blind we've a vision clear;
That we owed, that friends were plead in his aid,
And Ne'er made to turn aside.
What his cause would have been, what we felt,
It far expell'll the present foul day;
Then Dick will tell
In what readiness we are to bear with him;
And we'll talk of Scotland's crown,
And sponsor him, may it be for a time,
For others, apraised be in age or middle ways,
And ever to come to be in!
Nay, he that speechless doth not speak
Shall hear his epitaph,
We'll trust, in Ever's tide,
The worthy of Low [see note: e.g. E.D.]
That's one of our own tribe.

"Johnnie on Jack!"
She said, but Johnnie on her list,
Then started a-well
Till the child that clung to Johnnie's left
Just whisper'd "Lucky the son!
"Lucky the son!
"Lucky the father!

Such things they said; but no one vouchsafed
How Johnnie on her fingers, Johnnie on her hand,
Was Clasp-All-Through to her trust that person on the whole.
"Not ill-luck'd;" she said, but nothing more;
And though in life's total sum to add
There was ne'er a friend or child less prone
Than Johnnie, in her faithlessness, to tear her wing
She's one of his, and of his here a child,
He dead and yet she alive--
Her only guardian a heart-broken baby,
She, alone, herself, her child.
This is her story; Johnnie, the child to Johnnie's child.

Lucky the child, lucky the mother!
What should we gather to attribute
To folk with wishes that might be lucky?
Poor Jack Kelso by Mallowna came;
Saw
======================================== SAMPLE 12 
========================================

She said, “Come meet me here, Sir Francis,”
(I wondered what the lady meant by that)
And the gallant knight said, “The then,”
And they went forth together hand in hand,
And reached the tall stately dwelling place,
Where stood a stately cottage hard by,
Like a stately queen who dowits
With a royal fear
The wiles of fortune.
She placed a pouch with her hand
A glove, and arose,
And twirled her glove,
And from the cottage she flew,
To the lady's at ev'ry whiel,
As a hungry bird flies,
With her beaded eyes
And smooth lily cheeks,
And pearl-white hand,
Bearing presents.
As when a regal host,
Rich in prospect, on his stately seat
An excellent prospect hills o'er Trophylax,
At Admiralty, or the More's Nest, would sit,
Yet his principal honour lies
In a kilt he doffs,
As blood must to the Pope justly prove,
Or scorn of women with their wand'ring Coates,
A cash-diversion to obtain.
Then, to avoid all distrust,
All fears of treason 'gainst a like humour,
She would my Lord Creelman tick,
And in the woocel with that money cast,
Which on your curst recreant
Was in the said kilt.
Then after all were quite contented;
At his Queer that touched,
He maund and revenge all,
As that Royal auld wife would certainly say,
The good man also fry.

Such is th' irresponsible mare,
Which sometimes prowls the roads;
Such my Gay Old Knight who,
With heart-companions winking,
Cad no their anes.
Tik-tik- Tike
Softly Cans my Street,
When to gallop away
He stretches his ears.

Both ride as tall as young men:
Their faces gleam with lowness;
Thus when you see them grafer
You not repeat to-night
A look, which, like their faces,
E'en before the sun be flowing,
Your wanton mind portrays.

For joy it's the spring time,
Frogging over
With old Marechal the dawn,
I love to see her come,
Hood-bib and spectacles in hand,
In her brassy cloak, all brac'd
And outer-wear,
Now going by the name of
Peeping ever to her,
From the stinking waab-couver,
The shore kite, or kingcuit.

With which she changes her disguise;
And then returneth
With all her usual speed,
Her blush returning
As warm as morning.

In vain do my peeping glasses
Give truly true judgement
Of the steps that range our page,
Through which I these words verbatim
And shorthand have pair'd:

Shall not I have, I said, a new
And king-sized mattress,
To bestow it on which I lie
For this life orbed,
Who hope to find there
A carpet if some balms may be,
Or any I may hear,

Now to the King's Mound
Their colours I have brought.
And there your heavenly ways
I now in turn all my pence
Bestow.

A few years back, I've tried in vain
My childhood's childhood to describe:
Mine unseen hand the unholy system
Built a cathedral on a dung-hill.
My mine hand the slow mechanism
That supplied light music in the dark.
My mine hand the electric light
That lit the anthem of the dearth.
A mine-keen pencil I drew me
Linking separate pencil'd strings to
The sounds of strings, that proportion'd well
To sound a fifes note from twelve.
But these designs are now for future
Pastors and musicians will treasure;
For I have demonstrated in a simple
And child-like diagram
That skilled hands can go about
With needle, and thread, and beads.

If the great earth on which we wander,
Were but a grass-grown plain,
A million rabbits would thrive
As there, and so would mice.
The air we meet in we would classify
As poisonous, sweet, or sour.
And with that cannon o'erhead we'd rank
The breezes from that fenced fen;
The birds we see in derision
Of those creatures finer far,
And whither in their flight we named the hawk,
Whence we saw the heavenly show
======================================== SAMPLE 13 
========================================
As I smote at the lips
With a blazing weapon:
But a meek devil caught me
And bore me out to bed.

Beside me in my repose,
Dangled the grass and flowers,
And he sat up in a tree;
He would his hands embroil,
And he'd wet his nose
If a key were to him given
To open the door of sleep.

'You little work-other devils, too,
With an eye sharp as your oss


Slipped and fell into tea with you.
And sat on a bench and plied you
With solicitations to sleep.
You call me to the place of playing,
You call me to the place of giving,
And you believe that your eyes can cut and wound me,

And his hat, though it is hot and heavy
On my head from the neck of his fellow,
Rolled off at the crown of my head,
Cleaving the whole of the foliage,

Scarcely bent and softened the earth,
And went tumbling, like a whale
Slender and flat and long,
And you rise in the moonlight,
And you pluck it from his hair.
And my soul began to sing.

And my soul began to sing,

 "Oh, thou maiden and child, oh,
Oh, thou sister and mother! you have
No part in this and cannot guar:
No counsel, no noblest plan in war,
In the perishing world, and yet thou
Dost devise it and bring it to me.
Oh, joy and omen, you have thy will:
You have endured thy load and still lingered,
Taking thy share in life and in the hearth
Of thy husband, standing at his side,
Who shall avenge thee and curb thy power.
Oh, woman and mother, now I speak to thee.

That the sun sets in a silver car of silver,
Round about you with golden wheels trod,
That the stars in eyeless vests strew not low,
That the wind returns in an icy vest,
On you their beams go droving,
And the swallow seeks not food but wings;
And the dove is no sceptred contagion,
That should circle on the lily;
That my blackest blood is but a mannish seed,
Sweet-smoothed and polite, that bears the meed of grace;
And that my soul (crown'd Rose!) love has but kissed
From a kiss of dust, pure pellucid streams,
And flutters and flutters but finds not rest,
In the soul that ripples as peals the glass;
--Ah, no man has been as God, touching the earth,
Though he loveth every holy thing,
He loveth not this earth which bears humanity.
Have we e'er heard the voice of the monarch who speaks for God,
How he loveth and how he chasteneth whom he winneth?
Beside the natal and the destin'd nights
He ordain'd the grief of original sin,
When he lov'd us; then as now he guideth us,
He loveth us as we are his fellows; but he compasseth
And lifteth up his sovereign sickle no more,
He layeth up wealth in plain seasons of abundance;
The Godhead walketh not, and treadeth in sight of the sun;
Yet for secret work he writeeth in passions of men;
Ah, on the peopled earth inhears the voice of the palace;
The years all thither bend and swoon and hold their course.

As set in place, that looks one moment from the door,
Then veers aside and is Monsieur's blue pebble,
And seems devoutly sure to answer if you ask it,
Then veers off and faces you in Father Fox's way,
While with faint pulse and sinking shiver, the dying day
Is dim-bisected and the sun falls coldly cold,
A wax-black-walking-trot, slow-vault and halt,
A great blue-jumping, air-falls-out smooth puff of air.

A distance is living, and noise is silence,
Sound's kill-sound; light is darkness; air's cold-gong;
But darkness is lord; a hush's guard, clear and deep,
Of cities. -- Speak; 't is best to be explicit.
Where am I? how was I? who and what am I?
Wherever any river ploughs the restless deep
From peak to peak, till it stops, flat, with nothing to be,
Save the peopled Void;
======================================== SAMPLE 14 
========================================
fret.
‘Caught him!’ said Sally, not meaning mischief.
A perishable universal, cotton cot,
tweed the stems show at floor nozzles, forks,
and windows. How much death stands between
a finality and Sally? A door, she thought,
with something to say. A slit to the skylight.
‘And I have the windows locked, door stowed.
The name is Dennis. I don't wanna know what
in hell it would do to Dennis.
In every green nickel. The last one bought.
I'm through with him. I'll buy a hundred more.
I'm through with him. Come on. Say his name.
Little Dennis. Come on now.

Richard, Biddy, and Cissy fly to Alaska

to get their coats from the tailor
and bring back

Molly, the last child

the staff still waits for her

Sally the last chick

the last crumb-of-moisture

floats down the vat of snipe

the last swan

the last widge

the last plover
the last gulp of mare

the last pip (if ever)

of cod (if ever)

their last straw.

On the farm the most children suffer. On the farm

one third of all children lives where

no one lives,

where no one lives more than once

and every year of life lived

down by misery, hopelessness, despair,

by fire and in snow and

down.

all along. On the farm nobody owns a car. On the farm everybody owns 
a horse

and rides him squat in the snow.

down.

Downhill skate, dasheron, marepower the mare, deer on the edge like a 
gypsy
ship from the East over Andes to the coast.

We've been better.

In the store
they bicker and argue

and let their clothes hang in the

disappiness.

The chickens they stomp and smash.

No clothes.

We've been better.

The laundrymen say We're getting off to a bad infelix. Fits in, this

thing.


And our most valiant hatters we've built

monuments to join and lose.

Down the room of bones with their toes, I keep track of each of their

legs. But we're all a short email call away from the imaginary

conversation we've abandoned.

As much as anything there's

worse than being a lone

reverend in a small old town.

That and playing badminton with locals, the bright disgusting

people.

To see through what we say and mean.

To have an outside in you like the old centuries stopped. That's why

we went to bed with animals, then moved onto the comforts of food

and, every now and again, a bench to sit on,

then started the long talk that's a
talk around water, a walk.

Ever the locals in oldy England
the olde towns of Ocūs in the novel, the coming of
the storm, a nation raving to have some agreement,

talk about the future. The coming of the storm it's this horrid love 
of
water.

It was thinking of the coming storm that caused my father to
work so hard on the yobs control.

In the novel Parramatta the natives ride every five minutes.

Ride every five minutes makes a woman susceptible to war.

And to have a nation row after.

In the novel Rab Ma Shan the local fire brigade saves the
residents by slipping between the flues.

And talking of which they drive the girls into the sea

The Grays, from grampa's bird bath, hurl themselves into the light

Everyone is besieged with patriotic fervor
The future for the Doctor's sanctuary, that and a

horrible evening, down near

where they fed seven and eight year old boys

not in the right paddock, in the totally inhumane way
but by the bright light of their own creativity,

fever pitch.

The novel Arnhem too is set in a time

when most Europeans had died off

the novel of feeling at the request of
their dying

And in general whenever the time has come for

there's no one left to ask or blame or agree with

if it's the rule or whether or not they can.

The old man fiddles a silver reel for the
======================================== SAMPLE 15 
========================================
Tis white with the first scheme
That love laid down in the virgin's room
In the great tragedy of life.

In whose queenliest chambers under proud arches,
As the night fell, by the long-forgot River,
Do the clouds loom, and the wind wins his way
And where gloom everywhere eterne;
There in the cool far outreaches of the city,
Far off over the earth and heaven,
Above the hill and under the sea,
And the bale rising on every hand
And the night-hook overhead.

I say where the night stood still.
Now the pavane's spattering;
They're coming through the woods and hills;
Weary with the stars he plunges;
Still he heads their droning,
And he plunges, still they shout;
And the blasts he showers,
Are no more than their hearts.
His Paphian kingly hugs
Are no more than their lungs.
And the nodding stars too,
That last night on the lake's shore,

Made the old gods new men.
This the world's eternal shake.
Hurry, snap, kiss; the race is good.
Give the kiss, snap, kiss;
Away with the lights and horns.
Now good-night, lights, and horns, and sighs;
Turn astride and ride.
Sing, roll your wheels, swing your wheels,
Play the way to "castle green."
And the rings and the clock, my boy;
And the mails and the sentries too, my boy;
To the king of the forest, my boy.
Now good-night, games, games, rides, and kisses,
Lips that are tingling, eyes that are falling.
More than up to-night they'd set your heart;
Now no more than that.   But say, oh say, come Socrates,
(Skep! skep!) what dost thou say
To thy newly found laurels?   It's time for thee
To blossom, and the rose of dawn
Must still be treble, and doubly green,
And a prism in every line;
And in his cap exalted,
He must a tower complete."
But the poet laughed, and died
Beneath the music of the viol.
And anon the sunbeam's ruddy grace
Moved the poet with a furtive care,
Where the dark tree's berries ill-got fell
That Apuleius in his woods knew,
Whose dark-eyed parent brought the bard to birth.
It was Neamus they took in charge
To make their Apuleius real:
He was to learn, for his own bliss's reward,
How players did, how they did not.
For the sun-flower is betrothed
To the sun's loosening.   (Not that old silly youth:
He bided the clutch of the wind, and returned
After tempests and wars of destruction.)
There was Varronomus to be scanned;
He the bravest but later than Cain,
Safest of towns, without crime or wise;
It made the poets uneasy
To know him with his hair unshorn.
And too there was great Aunus, not bad
At fight or sport; who, when from arms retired,
Relied on no arm, and never manned his shield.

All were men of meaner stuff than these,
And sprung from the wood, they excelled it still.
But the horse-tail did through the air.
For we marvel how the Grecian tongue
Moved the sun from his course, and neck, and hair
(Each girdle of the mouth was damaged)
So many woods over which he did not pass;
And we beheld the high-souled Spartan
Outrunning his father's character.
And we beheld great Learchus,
Of nocturnal discovery quickest,
Come as a comet from the Pole;
No human flesh he touched, but three-fourths
Of the vault of the Roman Empire.

Across the corners of the churches, the
retreaters are kneeling,
As the sparrow from its nest
With a plaintive call for bunkum pou-
tured the landscape,
The home-spuns, the parrots, the hare-bells,
The lichens of graves and walls;
The tremendous sea-troughs at the
bottom of
The high green Capitol.
And the eyes of the Angelic Militia
Burn dim, and fester, the malice
Of the rich and the decadent,
Of the envy-scarred and the harsh,
Sc
======================================== SAMPLE 16 
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Miming and listening to his voice;
With ears pricked up she trembled
And trembled to the weary song,
"God will be gracious, soon my lover."

The low cat slept on the lawn;
The little dog cat ran by my side;
And I stole a kiss and pet the cat,
And went down into the dark alley
To answer my lover's calls.

There was a nest of mice, there was a nest,
And there was a mouse tap-tapping the cage
Of golden-breasted children asleep
In bed, and of red and white kittens,
And sprawled in the kitchen a big mouse,
Not in less than life and glee.

The dishes were left clattering and sputtering,
The glassware all round looked dirty and dusty;
No host, it uster beclare to look,
Had entered into my room
(Of which the courtier's finger was shining).
(And my signet seal was glancing).

The clock strike five and six, the clock is striking,
Shall I go to bed and slumber and besleave
Of my lover all night and never awakening?
For my heart says yes, of a certainty.
(And the table mirror, nodding assent).

An ear of corn sizzled on the lofty stile,
And I saw the faces steal out of the tree and enter,
And a smothered cry of "Dear he will come home."
A coop of ptarmigan swept by,
And I saw the faces of home-loving women,
Softening the cheeks of lives bereft and bereaving,
Married men, mourning their fate-beset sons.

A blackbird warbled in my corn, to the tight
Ears of the frightened woman and her giggling child,
A noisome clatter of un-sounding word,
Till I entered with their serious faces,
Where the innocent food by the life-blood was cooking;
And I ate and drank, and thought, "If this were heard
By any man but God, who is come unto me,
"The dog would bark, and the woman would weep,
And God would hear the things that I would shirk;
And devils would picture me a criminal, fit to rage,
And fit worse than any man that Satan would curse."

The tree on the step cracked and withered,
And autumn's ghost began to creep and shudder
From the cool, cool darkness of night's turn
To the burn of sunlight under the stars
And the scent of irises, and a sound of blossoms,
And the wail and warbling of the dark night
At last subsided--

The word, the letter,
To me

The world is no comfort,
The solitude no ease,
And the love so steadfast
Is ruthless, if it meets
A single mortal
With its ecstasy of power.

O, the world's steeps
Of passion steep
In its ecstasy
For its precious product,
Are to angels
More pitiless
Than the fated things
Of the human soul.

Thrill me, thrill me, thrill me,
With the thought
Of my love for thee!
Where the soft Angel-foot
Floods the barren waste of space,
Find thee a limb of hers.
O, make my pulses thrill!
O, make my blood flow!

Shiver through my bones
The thrill of it, through my veins,
For the tenderness of thy face;
Even from thy silences,
And thine own security
It calls up its tenebrations;
And for the riches of thy breast
In the rapture of thy face!
O, my own Berold,

Make haste to be in, for she will come,
With her passion and her memory,
And when she walks by lone, by moon,
Or when she walks at tele with heaven,
She will speak, she will sigh and look
And shiver in those alabaster halls
That are such fevered irritations.
Set her to her task, dear Heart, nor sen't;
But in her bench position sit,
And let the old woman make no scene.
Let the boy work--but he may have his rage.

No longer can his neck the-
Hangs of so long a strain.
His good time is spent
With watching and hasting here,
And yet he does but little here.
And when he runs, I fear,
The rugged path to tread
And hear him pant and sigh
And think--think once more
How he would stop short
And censure
The long way he takes.

Let him
======================================== SAMPLE 17 
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The heart-strings quickened and the blood.
Oedip of his soul they are.

I saw thee once, more brightly bright,
In yonder May-edition,
When the legs of sunlight glowed
'Mid the garden of my heart.
The holly on the branch is wound,
And foxgloves nod, and fennels grow,
The light winds gaily rustle,
The honey-gold types bloom.

How sweet 'tis to muse in woodland places,
And dream in sunshine there and love and
Come to no harm through love of wildness!
Here sycamore trees would blow their balm:
The skies o'er-open are motionless,
Yet in their stillness music goes
Like that of the quickening brewhound.

I saw the hazels in their beauty stand
In the bower of the night's warm day.
Their scent sweet as the -green bough
That with fresh-woke narcotic fills
When the last sleeping draught is drunk,
And our dread hearts start in an ecstacy
For the quiet breath of things
In the heavy air that dies away,
To us is bliss as we take ease
For the dusk of heaven in the trees.

I dreamed, as I watched them up-lift
In the sunny noon and give back bloom
In a drifty concord of silver,
That each leaf is a silver being,
When it sets into the breeze
To drop hearts of silver hearts.

I saw the softest leaves of all
Set all day in their blissful sleep,
And after I had read the lines
That hold within their self-same book,
They would cast their dust to breeze of gale
For the golden flocks to drink their wax.

I dreamed, in pensive mood, to stand
Within the Forest's holy of day,
My forehead drowsing on the oaken casque,
Pale felt skin, and gaze upon the sky,
And crooning the whole night through,
And my lorn heart o'er and o'er in sighs,
In my hand a golden syllable,
And breaths of some unmeasured song
That to my heart is unceasing flow;
And then I wake, and all the day's
Hanging and beholding seem to lie
A dream of what I dreamt and did.

The white moons of Love, when time is fair,
Shine all around. The woods, that teem with flower,
Seem to take delight and seem to know
Their every leaf that sheds and bear is Christmas:
"I am and am not here! I am
All the morning and all the even."
<|endoftext|>

And little George, his face all lit with fire,
For nothing did I longer than answer,
And I believe he knew I loved him well;
But oh, 'tis a fearful thing
To know you have ducked a base-enter!
Though round and round I trod on that year,
You scarce a jot;
I well believe you saw the Plaisters' wood,
When through the lovely drifts and mildew scaulds
They strewed the turf.

I had a cozy seat upon the dyke,
'Tis not to be denied.
Through all the winters of my long ago
I never heard the sturgeon leap or bite.
Heedless I walkt the gleespurt landscape,
Hedging my frontiers along.

But looking back, I gather how men woo
As now I sat upon the pebbles,
Two blithe bodkins dance,
Whilst we hobble homeward, bean-cloth and all;
And I see them away with a swing,