attach_debugger <function attach_debugger at 0x7f6eb1d06488>
print_status <function print_status at 0x7f6eb1d06510>
freeze_forever <function freeze_forever at 0x7f6eb1d066a8>
quit <function quit at 0x7f6eb1d06730>
save_and_quit <function save_and_quit at 0x7f6eb1d06840>
======================================== SAMPLE 1 
========================================
 both sinning,
As the night-wind, it is twilight
And the blue smoke is ascending;
All the loveliest flowers are blooming
And the leaves are cooking
In the dying embers.

With an art absent but imaged in all:
A kiss that is pressed upon the lips:
The shade of an hour, the brightness of days
Of the seasons that are in smiling:
O do not speak of the loveliness of these:
Of the pleasure of these;
For the memory has a wing
That shall break it,
And a voice
That shall not heed:
For we were wise in all things in idle age;
But our wisdom was wisdom in useless things.

If the sea has kisses on the mouth
Like a flower,
If a song be sweeter than music,
If a wave flow closer to the shore;
If a bird on a wing
Drinks of the ocean and flies away;
If the wave hath kisses on the lips,
And the sky flows closer to the shore;
You have wisdom.

If the breeze flow closer to the feet,
Like a hand,
If it swim in the air like a swan
Or a pen
If the moon like a bird or a swan rise
In the air
The light of her speaking;

The stream.
You will find in the flow's wave a flower
Clustered,
When you bend the flowers over for searching
Beneath the water.

You will find buds in the lull that is made
When the flow gives a place to the water's gentle tide:
The flower of a bird or a stream;
When you bend down the flowers to find them;
When the sun's wave shall give a place
To the light.

Harp and drum,
Men and drums,
Delve to the core of your souls' torment,
You are wise;
When the world has lost its heart
In a cage of golden wire,
You will leave it again
Thousand-fold

O the flame,
Great is your power:
Wind that over all
Sweeps with apexes
Where the four rivers of the cardinal
Color the heart of your maker,
You are strong:

To the Emerald city
Beautiful,
Stoop and knee
In your light,
You have given birth;
You have clothed with sinning
Monarchs and eye-bright emperors;
You have built in palaces
Holy shrines, where stand
Emperors for life in their high allegiance.

Yet, there is
One who waneth for you,
Her sweet
Love that blindeth your heart,
Called to the hilt;
Where the light is clearer,
She is far better;

At your bidding,
She will heed
All the singing birds;
Harden her golden hair;
Strew nobler eyes;
And her lips, O hush them,
Softly as they are now,
But, at your word,

Over the amber light
Of the lily that she is,
In the purple aureole
Incoming her rose;
And the brown, lucid, plainess eye
Of her who is watching
Will be made blind,
In a moment, like a flower.

You, into all kinds of waysiding inns
Depart for aye:
You that are winds
In a windy world,
O come, you are needed here;
For the moon is set;
And away she must move with leaving
To the shadow of Ev'n.

Then I shall trill and eerier men;
The chime of a silver bell
I shall deafen,
And a straw-ioiner man are you
Like the broad-horned bumblebee;
I, to be christened holy,
I shall be baptised:
The tree is bound by a Grain of christened.

Of you, my fair, how many may say
They have seen one of you smile?
Till my heart's eye spots you all
With a cloud of regret.
Till I an empty cup bring out me
A thin smiling face.

And then I shall touch you with silk;
Till your dear eyes swim and wring;
And I pass with touching vows;
I, the fellow
Who turns away with a groan,
And a word of Love to let
Me to come and to stay.

I have seen her go by, and then
A golden statue come
To where her bowed hair
Was rouged with the falling dew;
I have seen her go by,
And then a rosy gleam,
And a long cloak slid out to hold

======================================== SAMPLE 2 
========================================
And you have got the honey,
If you are frugal
And you will pay in advance.
I got the horse once for a time
And now you'll have the saddle.

And in your dreams your hands
Are greedy for the fruit;
But you wake with palms that are full
For lies you did not mean to eat.
You are too smug and too wise
To take such lowly pay.

Ah! whither do they go
Who all their wishes stake?
The longings, the wants, the dreams
That not a woman can fulfill?
I have been the woman's playmate
And they have thought me the best.

I have been by their side
And of their hand I've taken
The band they did not break.
The man they praised as red-hot iron
Has molten like a sponge on my finger.
I have left them better than ever.

A good woman is content to have her strength shaken
If once her wants are whetted.
A bad woman is not one to have her desire stoked
If once her greed is whetted.
I have broken their table when they insisted on a feast.

I have kept them from their dreams.
I have kept them from the gods.
I have stood by their side and left them at my door.
I have had my lunch.

Now, without whining or wailing,
Go live with the Spartans or die
Fighting for the cause of Greece.
If you refuse my challenge,
From my hands this wax,
And when you're dead, ask me for the same.
<|endoftext|>
"Vagabond", by G. E. Murray [Religion, Faith & Doubt]
A foreigner in Rome must suffer:
Immortal he attends the shrine,
And waits in Siena's street
Where all the curious listen to fate:
Doors which may open and doors
Which gods, or gods inauspicious,
Or Fate the undying, bind:
Must take what is at hand,
For that strange buffer 'tis here

Gendering all our cries and breaths
To a magic 'I,'
Making when 'tis thought
The rich to pore on goods like spoiled meat,
And to feel the garment rob them of their goods,
Worn, toggled over like a gyley at the zenith:
(How birds and creatures stray,
Touched with the sway of doomed days,
From out their suffering to a sky they knew).
All this must pass to and fro.
'Say 'tis flesh 'tis soul 'tis eye
Taken up in each emotion,
With all the life to feed 'em
If only thought can fill the blast.

Immortal in Rome, but woe!
Strange judgment! sicken 'em:
Hear how 'tis judged:
My fountain, ever free,
And waned all my fountain-springs,
My mountains done, my springs unfed,
Immortal for this thing:
That I love, my love unlove:
Tongue, soul, love, no love less.
So when by death I'm left
I will the world's strong bars undo:
Withdraw my being from the world,
My pain and sighs be stilled:
Vacant my heart, and move it now
To the dead's weakness,
And in the land of hope,
(And that's if I live yet)
Play a love-day like a bird.

And if it will not, as I will,
Turn twice my fate to laughter,
Let me die as I have lived:
I am love's opposite:
Great years to care for have I had;
And I have met my fellow-swains:
And they that laugh have set my heart
On squeezing through the circle-knot.
'Neath my head,
On my breast,
And upon my hairs,
And round about my door-posts,
To look on all my loathsome street:
Now for a painless death come.

There will I go,
Where there is no return:
Unto my grave
At dead vicons:
Lo in my navel, lo,
Where I was borne, lo,
My very birth-pangs will hear me,
And turn their thrones
To shuddering over me.
Blood of all my blood,
Red that from my heel I suck,
Dust for my shoes from where
I ploughed it in my father's yard,
So a path for young ofyeal
To tread: for I was strong
There of yeen, for day was mine,
I bent the sod.

Where, lo,
======================================== SAMPLE 3 
========================================
Channel, or said, And by my grace
The purest of them with arouse
To euery place,
For Christes sake
Heuis en spent
That nowe moe.

Pardon, sirs, that I afaik,
How my glaur
Hath gried
My thoughts to saide
Of thee and thys Calyffe
Whoe beares that name
For vertues meke
And to vnderstond
I rede my right reued
But thay standen stille

For thy remembraunce
Of my harmles chere
Vnto many yere
Thy name in here saving
That thou wast chang'd
Thy sone.

Go with my lecheryne
To thy shyp heere
To pray for me
In bokes and olde bokes
For thy soules ease
And be my leve
To helpe the trickling
Of thy pryuete

And if I be not well
How thou helpest me
In speech, and penke
To writ or tefnify
Thou helpest my matiere
And be my shep'le
For eu or elles lette
What thy Godwys nowke
To helpe my destruccion
For thy self ransom

Let be thy brother
And help my destruccion
For thy self sake.
To day haue it be youde
And if thou fiften shode
And genty in is lost
Tell me and genty forth somwhat.

For one of hels ye see
May of your hels haue purveyed
Vnto you of grace
So as ye faue to be vou':
And he need na say lore
But what is betide:
And that will for no ev'n
Be said by one or twiche.

One hapl the other beares,
Twa here of Armes haue vauntis,
O daucht, twa, I trow,
For my man is yong a partner.
Ye need na speak kittle,
For 'twas on your engagement
To speak for both of you together.

Now when my prating power is o'er,
As I am puir and eagell baillie,
Ye shall tak a Iai-bitteroll,
The worst o't, I touther Garlick,
How I make sport of 'em all to spire,
In mickle wonder Hall.

The cock can run but i' this hut,
The plowhounds and e'ening crow,
Hain't not in a hutch and gain's
To hayail the e'ening day.
Now when the licht's a-dreaming
O'er some ither treasure,
When sae durst a hand appear
Wi'say ill;

It wad you fink I owned a laird
For hinnies auld and dazed,
Wha gets o' them a drollery

Now when the licht's a-go betyn,
As daydy mead and holly hag,
To playn their blythe and playn new,
And in they will be sober,
And studyfu' God's blis.

And what'e haply God meant
To you I wad anaw thinner,
To you nae mair a stranger,
Ye may na come o'er our shaw.
And when they're sic a'
Aslapian whist ma-irks

Or as I've noticed in an' a'
Sae lang they don't try na make 'em
Sic ficken thing,
Because they're goin'
To God above to plough.

Here's whilk I've heard, an' here's whilk I know,
An' now here's whilk I reckon's true an' well;
Them native sums, I can not lie.
What grow now in my shaw,
An' only whilk I lay mine?
Ye come o' a breath?

Ye're like some mayflower that bloom'd lang's cold,
An' has succeeded, I fout;
A' westlin wind in your skaw,
A' been fair, a' come ower fine.
Ye don't approve?

Ye're like a bosh maiden that's try'd to sing,
Aye ilka day, an' sicpar case;
A dud in looks, might i' the sun
A dash o' drink makes me look hifty;
Ye're sic a fart!
======================================== SAMPLE 4 
========================================
Since thou art immortal, go,
Still to haunt the dancing groves.
Thou, my baby, from the sun
Sleep in the breast of Mother Earth;
Sleep, while the shadow of the day
Hungeth very dark around thy bed!

I heard the lark,
With his sweet swoop,
The hopes of spring,
Sing from underneath
The roses' mossy mounts,
And above the golden beech,
In towns and villages
I heard the thrushes' call,
And many an echo answer

I saw the new-blown
Dandorians of light,
In all their final flight,
Pass overhead,
Farther, farther, farther,
Adown the foaming whirlpool,
Dappling the trees with rings,
Till they died upon the marge
With fog-veils, or, less,
With fog-rays, or, perhaps,

I saw the Aurora,
Whitening the rifted air
From stem to stem;
I saw the white phocas
Stooping to kiss
The dark sprays of wood and stream,
And stent each with its omen
Of beauty and of birth,

I heard the robin,
From over the sea,
In the green of every bower,
Hearkening to each nest
With its clear note
Of happiness,
So lonely came spring
To my lonely heart.

I saw the eastern window,
A thousand miles away,
Waving flutes of gold,
Tremendous hands of Pandora,
Like a fabled fire
Whose high reeked the black marshes,
And floods of evening foamed
To gristly soil
And sharpen red the pine.

I saw the ten-fold driver,
A thousand horsemen,
In a yellow field,
And their coursers pant
Like Egyptian herds,
And the light wind
Made brown the waving grain,
And the deep corn-husk
Greedily rusted,
As in the Mississippi plain,
Where oxen drawn by magic
Weet it greedily,
Weet it all to tin,
Winds cruel, winds heedful,
And of all my life a-slake
Sucked ever watery food.

I saw the southern magnolia,
All green, in smoky white,
With wind-blown, crawfink, leaves,
That grew from dank black roots,
And their tops like little fudge,
(For it was an old galaskton)
All blown about the brackets
Where the green pajamas were;
And, rippling in the clove huts,
I saw the tops of country inns,
Where city dames, like richly browned ants,
Stood, with white legs off the tall stonebuggs,
That were stoutly cemented,
And on pillars and tabled porches,
I saw the country ladies,
All country seats, all country seats,
In country dressing, country seats,
Country shining, country shining through

I saw the geranium, musk, and lily
And golden streamer, and the lily red,
And bedrichel daffodil;
And the purplish pansy
Against a sunny southern border,
All with cables of red
To rebel with the scarlet throat
Of a wide hinged front door;

I saw the tortoises and the long-legged mice,
And the tall knuckle for food,
In the deep dark earth, at the soon-low light,
Where the blind smoke curled;
And he saw the horns of cocoa
That made our darkies think well
The hardy indigo blue;

And the nasturtiere coiled in the snow,
That no man could genomeger show,
Till the northern lights grew dim,
And he saw the blooming sex of the earth
Breathing its love like a black fire,
The barn owl hitching his ride,
In the rent-time of the second decade;

I shall see the pine and the fruitful vine,
And the two-winged bird in the thicket,
And the young sapient corn for to busk
In spring with the green sprout,
All nature, be-dried, in a Railway train,
Under the deep paying seat
Where the rain may be falling,

When the steam-heater bellow the dirty weather,
And the snow is on the bare track,
And the fugitive guard and the hobble head,
And the bare skin on the dim pants and knees,
All are unsafe below the shingled skylight.

A yellow traveler was
======================================== SAMPLE 5 
========================================
"The legatees were shutt, (say they,) to give,
"Of their woeful care, and meet the fate.
"Let loose were words, and let the mind proclaim
"How stark they had grown, or let the speaker tear
"The veil, and tell what hearts they were so wise."

The sound's refrains were then begun; these in part:
--"The Duke, to them in part, had given his blessing,
"Which the same had made him glad or saddened.
"He, too, had seen that day the future proof
"Of the bold march, and imagined well
"The years that should ensue; all these things in mind:
"But chiefly that enterprise the Dean
"Had by long discourses at the university made
"To restless Absalom prepared,
"The disturbers of all quiet were to watch.
"There wait, it is certain, that tireless worm,
"Who was the wit of mortal womenget,
"Must learn, all others, that their days are not
"Days of eternal bliss, but only such
"As journeying in stupor on their way
"To endless torment, vexation, and distress.
"As all things momentous to man's welfare
"Must be taken in council, be it said,
"No account shall be given them;--even God,
"But He most centreth all, earth, water, and sky,
"When these exulting accord with His great purposes.
"The whole deep-shadowed scheme of creation
"If one moment's thought is applied
"Uninterrupted in its ordering,
"T' extend vast Republic to whose macro-
thesis
"The geography, or the other
"Unlimited bases extend,
"Ternation and weight o'er-rate
"All must be darkened down to flat-out confusion,
"Which to one sole devil of deep jealousy
"Such blind-witted coining gives a possibility.
"Whether he's not in heaven, or earth, or hell,
"This depends on your type of body.
"And, thus, a miracle it is
"That, all his life, from youth to now,
"Even when he made a vow for it,
"He never had found that plane
"Where, made by the act of identical math
"Necessitie, Heaven,
"Where body's lost, and out of it is witched
"Body after body, and yet no metamorphis
"One precise type of eternal hitch,
"From which into body will be turned
"All-eternal sacrifice,
"That turns its loved body in again.
"This 'I, or (if of equal rank)
"I am'--form is all one gift of flesh,
"One nature 'I am' gives to it more gifts;
"Himself its highest--a sound of 'I,'
"Its pure echo of 'I am,'
"As many an echo of 'I am'
"I multiplies and absorbs.
"We never hear in music till its echo 'I,'
"Nor praise in poetry till its 'I,'
"And even then, in too o'ercrowded libraries,
"Its first echo of 'I,'
"My friend, is drowned and drowned.
"But, listen.  'The single I'--oh, hear it,
"How, with all else forgetting,
"It talks into memory--into song,
"A man--God bless the man who first gave us
"The ample prism of verse.
"If they are all so one,
"So various, varied,
"As these parts, if not character,
"The poem must be many
"And equal--no extremities
"Allow for increasing rules
"That verse may say 'I.'
"Or take, the active and unsure
"Where words are new, where words are old;
"Again I am a boy,
"Again I skip, or charmed seek delight,
"I love the same thing; the boy
"Who did but I do the same; I love
"He who love and I love that boy:
"We are not broken.
"Pardon, I mean these things be
"Of their own self; these little pleasures;
"And the same heart beat, as 'tis when
"Or the first, last, or mutual lance
"That made an everlasting passage
"Betwixt our two souls; that sacred fire,
"So far as memory can, and as"--
"And this I mean, my friend, as if
"It were of love's old league,
"When I
======================================== SAMPLE 6 
========================================
it's not our imagination, we're here,
all of us, to the brand new
Little Golden Eye.
You know you can tell
her story.
Her story is ours.

The building is old enough to
remember.
There was a time it held a name
for all our sartorial pride.
These days it's a pile of
mouldy pears.
I guess it will always be
a hulk.
<|endoftext|>
"Yardie (attics)", by Brenda Isana [Living, Life Choices, The Body, 
The Mind, Nature, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Arts & Sciences, 
Architecture & Design, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & 
Sexuality, History & Politics]
NARA STATENIX ARCHITECTURAL HERITAGE PROGRAM, 1968

1.
unbeliefs, reputations, 
morphing 
between mind and body, memory and imagined 
recreation, the mind of someone and the mind of a 
construct,
as design vs. deconstruction battle in space,
2.
seas, wind, 
air moving over 
bathy underground, hum vs. psi, 
experimenting with bodies, sickness, health,
morality, personal history,
the mind vs. thought, the body's terrain 
of WRONG and RIGHT,
empirical vs. transcendental, the mind's 
vs. another mind,
3.
This is the age of the individualist, of the individual 
and the collective, of the over-simple-stats-churning 
clusters of organisms, the teeming orb of the hive,
entirely vs. purpose,
morality, art, 
systems, capitalism, government, 
innom-enounced vs. post-immemic, atoms-at-a-time, the mind 
vs. the mind of the body,
for the individual vs. the collective,
vs.
fragments of the state, nation-state, world-state,
flak, drop, digest, jockey, vs. 
the complex matter of sex,
vs.
the human figure on the market, the size of 
figures in front of and behind,
vs.
the human figure on the rug, the size of 
figures in front of and behind,
fragments of the collective,
reprojections of the universal,
matter vs. theories,
the human vs. the mind of the human,
the mind vs. the body,
this is the age of the individualist,
this the age of the messian, this the age of 
the messiah, of the ego,
for the ego's turn, of a new Adam and of a new 
Jehovah, of a new 
Gethsemane, of the simple fact of matter,
for the age of science, the age of the whip, the whip 
of Goliath, of the gehenna-like edicts,
4.
Architectonic, archtical, voguish, ornamental, 
formal, the white rose, the world, one world, one wound, 
the world, one life, one death, the world, one love, one memory, 
one image, the age of apparition, the shadow's lifespan 
of time, death's lifespan 
of time,
the world, the figure, 
the figure of the world, of the individual, the shadow's 
figure of the world,
of the shadow's life,
5.
an xalpah, from the collection of the Ateret 
Zion Cultural Institute, Birmingham, Alabama
from the collection of the Rev. Evan O. Laer, 1838

He was found among the wreckage at the foot of the temple
on suspicion of raving. The victims were about to embark for
Egypt, and the body was laid out on the sand with both 
feet, as though embracing the sea, as the 
creature said, to cool itself.

i.
How many exist of me, for as long as there have
been humans. The earliest humans saw their
alps like jewels for the find, for the face of their ancestor
may have been a hint about how his face would look when aged 
greatly. They were excavated and allowed to go to a
new country. The arxiv: 45002 VIEW

And this is the age of the body. And my hands, and my
arms, the feet and legs and the head, the eyes, the
face, the mouth, the hair,
======================================== SAMPLE 7 
========================================
Change the world with Beauty.
Love is no dream,
Love is never lost,
Nor can die by hate,
Nor can grow old with
Torment of men:
Love still is beauty,
Merry voice, fair foot,
And heart of every thing.

He did but kiss me with his lips of honey
To show that I should never trust him,
That he was nothing but a liar,
But just to cover me with,
Kissing me with the honey of his lips,
To hide the poison of his treacherous tongue.

This is the night of the winter here,
When the moon is as it can be,
When the stars are so many and bright
That you cannot name them,
And the light in the heart is cold and bright
As the thorn in the heart of the grass.

When I see his moon and stars above,
I think of the flowers he put
At the cost of his all busy life,
When he went the hero on;
And the words of truth are ice and fire,
As I kiss with the lips of this heart.

Where you are all my days
As I kiss the cords of life,
That hold you so so fast
To my slow breast,
As a glad mother kisses
The teeth of her child;
Where you wear the livery of his name,
Your life that is as purple blood
Poured from a vein of red veins.

While the white power of the moon
Stirs the life of the stars
In the veins of this heart
Where I live,
There are no so safe
As the words of truth
That I sing above;
While the night enwraps you

There is no rain so sweet
As the rain that sings
As it pours,
As it falls,
That song and that song;
While the flowers grow and smell
As they are torn and lies

We all have tales to tell,
And therefore have chants to read--
And mingle craft and music
In a strife that's right,
And thus knit life and limb
Into the harmony
By a law that's divine.

He made the man, and he split the friend--
The bride and the ground;
He wore the thing he worthily
The thing he named.
He set the cobweb on the man's seat,
And broke the will;
He ended him with sword in'd
The friend he named.

The lover's tale
Was cut and hid;
The sinner's name
Was sign'd and hid;
And she and he
Whirled in the wind
As they had.

We wait and wait for what is yet
To come, and long for now.
We wait till death is done,
And then we cry.
Dear lord, we wait for you,
As like you, with pipes
We sit and wait.
There's nothing that we note--
As you, as perfect--
That puts a thought in.

Like the birds that turn and round
On every finger's touch,
Or the little shaft
Of a star,
So you pass, or transit,
On your smart.

We wait, and we do not hurry
As you pass by;
We follow, but we do not run
As you fly by.
We wait, and thus listen;
While you pass, we say,
'How?'

'How?' is not answer; 'How?'
Is not an answer to anything.
Ah, no!
If it be, 'How?'
Is not a question.

If 'How?' be an answer,
'How?'
Is a threat; 'How?' is a fire
To be zapud.
Life is a menace, life a sound;
And if 'How?' is a menace,
Oh, good!
'How?' is not a name;
'How?' is not a thing;
And though 'How?' and 'Why?'
Are not a menace,
Life is a word!

If a man be hungry, and he see a donkey,
And he gets into the donkey, and sit and stand
In a crowd by the donkey's--
If he get into the donkey, and sit by the donkey,
Then I swear by the donkey!

In the Middle Ages, in the Kingdom of God,
When Lucifer, the son of Elizabeth,
The child of ae Who brought God's book in,
Was a dancing-master, and the prince of the dead,
And the first of all living masters of devil-making--
The dark Sovereign Moloch,
Disloyal pupil of Witchcraft in the East,
From whom all mischiefs and all abuses are,
Hid
======================================== SAMPLE 8 
========================================
 hear, as it, 'tis long past, and long ere
You to the sun descended, which of late
Found you asleep, for it sunned you up to-day.

"O Hippocrates! I was not conscious of all
Up to this time, the night and day, so torturing,
Down to the present crisis, which has pass'd me,
As I am now aware, by so much suffering.
How poorly and silently we mark,
In little time, what this or that befell us!
And, when we are aware of it, lie
Dead to its depth, and seemly to confess
We should have sat rather still in seat and shade.

"The fathers, I imagine, were well enough;
But you, by all the moral volumes which I
Played upon this one period, from that time
You have bereft me of all repose.
Your speeches have been such as might have fit
The son of works a welcome home to visit;
But this home would have disarranged; and thrown
My spirits down with such a weight to return.

"Yet, happy he who can upon a home spend
Long and contented a season there, such's
The delight I have at best to think
We have survived, in that time our affection.
Did I esteem you then as more than a friend?--now
Not so well, my friend, as ever.  Your fame,
Being gone, will live in those who hear me speak
Of your name and of your renown; but I
Will have to die or languy again, before
My shot or potion hear me speaking both by fire,
Or by default of gain--but heaven arrês
Just like a carriage, which holds the eye fix'd
Through every place where food is to be found,
And not in fanciful designs."  With beatitude
I felt myself sorrowful, and press'd in his fold
Still to relate his words, as standing at his side
While he did speak.  When neither eye nor heart was left
Parted by fear, I felt as one who then were left
In a desert to dig a life from the sand,
While a kind patron to a spectator of the game
Pronou'd spotters, or precise figures of the sun.

Meanwhile the gentle Queen, bathed and anointed,
With whom his son had been sitting, had risen;
And when he saw me, laughing, come into the room
We chang'd our jest; and this was the verdict recorded
'Newland's treachery was good instinct,' which in time
Will be judged monstrous.  What I heard next day
I have transmit'd to England, with this end
Viewing, that hence a confidence was born,
Not only to my nephew, but to his queen,
As being the offspring of my friendship for his husband.

"To the stroke of my harper we had bow'd
But half his heart; and that was true," said he,
"Losing yet further, to my power of thought
And virtue; but still I was his favourite child
By Nature, and we have borne them with her."

"'Sooth, if thou survive thy jealousy,
'Twill be my death, perchance, of that proud lord.
'Tis far better thus to fall than die
To be by thy contempt almost soulless
And to thy friends by necessity
Justly pitied: and who knows but a sinner
Called Sinful may rise at some future day
And take thy spirit to his, and be so deemed,
That thou thought'st nothing of his guilt?  To prove
How much I love thee, know, I loved thee
Erewhile so well, we two once great with God,
Loving, not unlike: how can I, fallen
Like him, to live thee even in love awhile?
Was not his wife's offence all we owed?
And can God's eager love to tend in the lazy fold
Distinctly perceive not between one child
And his own?  And canst thou, with outward smile,
On Death's account, content to house a lamb,
When we, our partaking wall. . .

"How far can piety go?  How wide can love,
When friends with walls of walls commence,
Enclosed by gates, 'mid sinister shade,
Murder'd huts for sinners?  To what more cruel state
Do we revert (stiff prayer for mild merit shown,
To sink flat-footed captives at his hands)
Can such a love make clean souls see such a gate?
We know not, we who drive pious folk on,
As though by gods, to feed their souls with meat.
By
======================================== SAMPLE 9 
========================================

Sweet Thoughts, I speak,
To be thy hymns,
The music of thy soul,
Forth filling all the world!
Thou, only thou,
Canst grant to me
Life's all highest good,
Whose measure still
Is at all times my own,
My finest feeling-wondrous share!
Oh, I could sing for ever!
The treasure of thy grace
Shall be my sanctuary-sacrament!
My mount-high shrine!
Where the sight most dear
The heart and soul meet,
And the breath of truth around
A rite of sanctitude!
For mine the high adoration!
My God, my profane!

I've had my fruitless prayers!
Oh, blessed God!
If in the cup
Of thine affection
Mine are mixed
So in the drinking!--
How can I forget
Thy holy name--
Thine own most gracious name?

Not without dread I take this path,
I've but a spark;
And haply I may fear,
That thou wouldst stop me suddenly,
O Thou, most gracious Lord!
The courage to yield
The greeting to a friend,
It may be withdrawn in this way.
Yet still I speak to Thee,
To tell my joy and my salvation.

This empty, yearning hand,
With its burning tattoo,
Is loosed for a space
From the stiff cross that sheltered it,
On the very wing of the grave--
Not for a veil,
But for the veil of the sky.

From out the flower-shadowed trees
A moon, from out the dew,
Slides thro' the dark at my feet:
I look for the star in the sky,
But the shadow of the moon
Is taken up by the trees.

When I am worn out by this strife,
When I'm weary of the beat
Of the soul's engine, that doth break
On all the barriers of space,
And the infinite space of time,
And the obstinate heart of my soul
Goes breaking on all sides,
Then, then, I'll go to the hills,
Where there's snow, and ice, and love,
And the hills are covered with light,
And the hills are covered with laughter;
Where I can toss up to God,
With no strain, no effort, no matter how
Necessity compels me--

With a blessing said so oft
By so sweet a source,
Who may believe the old charm by other?
I'll go to the hills, I'll go to the hills.

The desert with new fire
Burns in my soul again,
And the old fire from youth and east to west
Swells in me again:
The flame I felt growing up to be
A swift burning wing,
A sword, a cloud of darkness, a rage
Of wings and of tears and of all water
Turning into storm.

I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills,
I will go far beyond the heights
Where the promise was uttered of silver and fire;
Where the camp of the clouds went homeward, and went
After a silent rhyme of snow and sand:
Where a cloud went his sojourn
In the bright place at the end of the sky,
And a smile was unwraced above the clouds.

I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills,
I will go far beyond the marches
Where I heard the desert its silence
And the deep snow of rivers
Fill with life and light;
Where the breath of life was more powerful
Than the silence and the snow,
Where the silent water from the distant lakes
Turns water and stone;
Where the sun went shining down
To the lake, and the sky was stained,
And the lake is smiled at by the fall
Of clouds and hoar.

I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills,
I will go far beyond the lakes,
Where I was a boy, and I fed on dreams,
With a mouth like a open flower
And a face like a perfect pure lie;
Where I was blind with the light of the sun
From the long noon, so like the east was I,
And my foot was a sapling of light,
And the winter was more terrible
Than the summer there.

I will go to the desert, I will go to the hills,
I will go past the lakes where the silence
Caught them like a flame,
And the snow from a hidden finger,
And the clouds, like a bright ball thrown down
By a magician's wand,
And the countless light
======================================== SAMPLE 10 
========================================
Was the sea's self an atom. A water-maiden was she,

Leaving behind her a thirst as impeleth

All the vast washing of spheres and suns

In silent lessons, as deep as wells of Nile,

Where in one instant everything is fed

And spilt again. This death, it is all a dream.

Not because it has been endured,

Is weary and inert,
But because, it is a dream,

The dream of a solitary thing

Born and nurtured in a night.

To me, it seems, one death is real,

Real and singular.
The atom is a moment's stroll

Through a world of motion,
And the world is a dream.
When I say, "this dream is over,"

It is a thought, it is a touch.
A thought is a touch.
<|endoftext|>
"The Plough", by James Thomson [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, 
Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
But now it dreams, it says, I was a man

When I was a boy, I rode the broad roads of Ireland

Among my neighbours, men and women, boys and girls
I would meet; I would ride along and listen
To music and laughter, and to sunshine and song.
It was a bliss, it was a joy. And so I tried
To be a man upon the earth, but among men

The tides of soul were flowing too, and at times
I thought them unmanly, the man not on fire

Among men and things, as some small boys do;
But I rode. And now I ride the plough, and this
Is the change.
And I do not wish to be.
<|endoftext|>
"Wild Honey", by James Thomson [Living, Death, Relationships, Family 
& Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Meadows, Trees & Flowers, Religion, 
Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
Because we need space,
space, space
 space
with all our dead
we buy, you think
we are stingy, think
we are stingy?
Space, space, space
for the honey, space
to store it
in jars
for future
we hope
space to store
it
in our dome
though we know
we have to kill
all who might steal
from us, all
who might
with it
steal
space, space
to store it
we ask
space to store
space, space
space, space
space, space

and you
we know
we have it
we don't lie
we don't keep it
if you think
you are honeyless
we say
we are not
honeyless, space
to store honey
in jars
space to store
space, space
space to store
space, space
space to store
space
space to store
space, space, space
space, space
we say, space, space, space, space
we say
space, space, space
we say
we don't lie
we are not honeyless
we are not, we are not honeyless
<|endoftext|>
"from The Battle of Lake Tappenwo", by James Thomson
Lackland caught the clamor, whipped them together. Puffing, the gray 
was ready. And so was he. All around him could be heard the cussing, 
the called tune. Across the water came his part of the call, "Come, 
ass." A small tree was known by its cuss words, said one. "We got a 
tree, one can't quit one's self," said one to another. "It's not the 
length but the curse that makes war." The clamor died down, but the 
sky was not blue, said one. A flash of anger, deepened, "Rab." "It's 
no use," he whined. "It's no use, Rab." "Come again," one answered. 
"I ain't done no no use," he said. A moment for regret then he said, 
"No, I won't."
They were away, he whined, so they brought him back again. "If you 
won't," they said, "we'll keep quiet." They wagged their heads, a 
joke he couldn't have, they brought him back again, but not for long. 
"Don't come again," they said. "We ain't no use." He whined. All 
around him could be heard the cuss words, the called tune. For his 
part, Lownus said, "
======================================== SAMPLE 11 
========================================
 Be the bride of Elfin-Lord,
For thy King is right and pure and free
For his family to dwell in naught,
Or shadow, a-laying, the coppery ray.

You all have wit in such a way,
The very gown of wooing to see,
What shall I see when Elfin stand,
With those soft braw arms of his--
You all have wit to give or take
When that gray little man of mine
Apples a candlestick hath.

No man with my lore can hearken hear,
And I my wits shall leave alone,
So blind, so deaf, so tame, so low,
I love not any more
Nor for a little thing;
When, as a naughty child, I could not speak,
I knew a tongue all too well.

Ah, God, but anon I would
Repent that on this wonderful earth,
Which must and will smother me with rest;
Nor think, God, God, but to be loved more:
If this, then my head at last shall be
A handspike, neck-board and country hen;
I by no grace of men, nor to please,
Nor yet of gold am able to woo.

O Heaven I have a love-loved tree
That all the young fellows know,
Whose fruit with buds is all green out,
Like the slipnears' skin their chin:
I have not other hand-meed
But old Sire Justice I must dance,
For I love not gold nor zephyrs.

A double end I have to earn,
And must one from my love-loved tree:
Before the time is done,
The harvest must be done:
The others all have been caught by priests,
And half the folk by eunuch ones.
Then, say, what canst thou do?
To be a boy thy verse a crow
Must be a thing too good to last,
And in the forests be a crow,
For love of him and to have store,
To give when they should a-weary rest.

That all men may be at peace,
To have a sense of their debt,
To lend to the people their hand,
Show them their talent and see
That they may lend to thee their part:
Thy business is alone, thy love is ours,
And for this art thou well-pleased, and free.

This day, John, to us we come, and more the same to you;
The dead are now so near us in their sleep, that our bed may be the 
low.
To me this child, the born thief, to get on with my fair:
To give back, if some think her a bribe to shoot.
For I'll let none pass so as girls but those who have wit;
And since you now see the vile female only made to go,
Wear this, or flie, and fly, so they may go and fly,
And the poor abused daughters, who are grown so servillish,
Learn how to take ******* by the hair.

I'll be your girl,
We'll both be brave,
Be merry,
Or we shall be no more girls.
If we would lose our father,
Look how lately my Lillies,
When of old they were
In heaven delaying the longed-for rain,
Rained down from those holy skies,
And their part of the world they were not.

If my mother, when I told
That I would be a seal, she frowned,
Then I should have no care
To have a girl that looks a poem,
Who never smiled at me
Saying, "Ha, handsome!"
But what would she say
If she saw me now,
Who has said, "Psh!
Mother, let's not speak,"
Who never smiled at my poetry.

There are none so wide,
There are none so tall,
There are none so light
As my little person.
Oh, father, I am your daughter,
And I'm glad to be glad,
And glad to be glad.

And I'm glad, and glad to be glad,
Like a little hopeful-hearted child:
I'm glad the river flows,
For my dolly in the rain.
And I'm glad the lake is glad,
For my dallary ear.

When the lake is dry
Oh, father,
When the river is free
From its sordid screen,
When the woman no longer worries,
And the crier's gone in his musket,
I'll be a bank and buy
A horse for my dauber
======================================== SAMPLE 12 
========================================
In them have a law
Of their own, their own affairs their own.
You would only say, "I"
But it would not be, you would not be "I."
He that can call the clouds his brethren,
And all the mount has his sheep
Beyond the swallow, "with the white sheep the Lord has paid."

Yet the strain that comes to me is the same.
What is the shining that echoes the gong
To it, the music of the sea?
"For you," it cries. I am a woman.
Is my bosom a kneaded heap?
Where the blossom is, what is the form?
From my eyes, from my lips, from my skin
Is the breath.
O my heart, O my heart
For you alone,
For you alone!

The clouds bring you their water
Of a white saint, a holy man.
Why do you not bow your fountain
To greet the star that night?
The stars bring you their stars.
They have got a prize,
The clouds their lake, the stars their trees.
Is my name not the prize?
I am the lake, the star, the sheep,
The whole of my flock?
You have now a sheaf
Of unto-and.

THE truth will keep
Your clarities whole.
The truth will shield
Your names, shield your senses,
And put in their place
The senses of your fathers,
And save you the Britons,
The parochial minds.

Not you who are so hollow,
On whom the smoke of praise
Has gone not down,
Will go where truth
And wisdom smiling stand.
The truth will save you,
The truth will save you

I WAS alone, I was alone
In the middle of nowhere, a nothing
On the wall, a nothing on the sand.
The din of the world was below.
Dust boilned its bars, the dust of years
And torment, the dust of illness
And of mere barrenness, the dust
Of poverty, the dust of divided wishes
And aspiration. Down from the north
There was no money for the prayers
I promised. I did not keep
The multitude of the fire
And the cloud of a day, or the return
Of the girl I loved.
I was alone.
And I did not fear the hour
Of my great isolation.
For I had nothing to hold on to.
I had but the rushes. I had but the will
To go down the road, to go down the road
And to listen to the flow
Of the sound of running water.
And I cried: O river, O gray, gray river,
Do you know anything?

What do you know?
For I heard you, and the coolness
Of the moss, the quietness of the stones,
The total vacuity of place.
And the movement
Of the water. And I remembered
The song that sounded in my ears, the song
Of a water always at your surface,
The purest water of all,
The water that arises first from the earth.

The very touch of the flow,
That you know not altogether, that comes
Only to take root,
Away from land and becomes the very earth
That you pass o'er and only to pass again
To a lower more current raw.
O gray river,
On the steep slopes of my home.
Do you know any other water
That speaks as you?
That breaks off to give, that is both the place
Where a thing grows and is born
And breaks away?

The blue hills
And the wind.
And a silence
That gives a board two east winds.
And a shadow, as the place of a before
And a after,
And the half mile that is made.

In the hush
The black branches
And the sounds
Of the forest.
And the wind.
And a sound
Of damp fresh water.

What does the wind say?
As it whirls its knock
Around the trees?
The wind says nothing.
Wind and water
In the trees
And in my ears
Water
On the hand of the water
That is neither here nor there.

I am that water
And the wind that rocks and changes
And the brook that returns to its source
And the hills that climb
And the void between
Between that changes and that holds.

IF one had to pick between death and life
A stone of this world's dust and a human heart,
Faith would not care which he picked without more,
And Love either would have no hesitation
And neither would have its say,
For Love and this world are as dialects one

======================================== SAMPLE 13 
========================================
inscribes them.
The service mark of the Master is hidden in the circle of stars

Wherein he wrote the life of God. The stars are the stars of this 
life, and the signs

As in the heavens are the works of the sun.
The human voice is the voice of the Higher Power.
The human voice is not a vain human voice, but is the voice
of the heavenly instruments, and is the sound of the divine mouth

And is a sweet voice, and is a voice of reality.
There is beauty in the perfect notes of the human voice,

And the vocal harmony of the spheres.

With the celestial flowers.
His art was the voice of the heavens and the earthly flower.

(The man of the city holds the higher seat, and he sits lonely at the 
table.)

His station holds him far from the populous throng, and he watches 
and waits.

Here, enamored of divine beauty, and of her voice,

He leaves the earth and enters the rural shades, and he wanders away

And is drunk with the delicious bewilderment of sweet dreams.

There, by the altar of the Master, he meets the laden eyes

And waits, and thinks, and is lost in deep reverie.
He hears, with soft feet, soft words, and the others think.
He speaks, and is answered by respond.
His face is hidden and a mystery.

The Master hears his word, and his voice alone is heard.

He shakes the sodden boughs, and the sweet fruitage springs,

And the garden opens its white gates.
He feels the spirit of the blossoms, and he sees the face

Under the green leaves.
And the new life bursts from the hidden door, and is diffused

In the high life that flows from the strong union of soul and earth.

I go on alone, alone, and am lost in the desultory war

Of the days and the years.
And the fruits, which are my life, disappear, and the fame

Fades, and is sunk, and is dead, and is forgotten.

I go on alone, alone.
And I ask for one thing further:
Give me the step of the Daughter of the Night.

Gone is the Mother, who gave me life;

Gone is the Oread who helped me and bore me;

Gone is the Sea, that gave me of what life.

But I know now, the Web of Life, is to-day

As wide, and the world is alive, and I live here

With the Earth, and the Earth is alive with me.

I know now, as I lived it to them,

As some of the shadows cast them before,

I know now the great miracle is mine,

And nothing is.
<|endoftext|>
"Ladders and Sling Shots", by Robert B. McCambridge [Living, The 
Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & 
Enemies]
I come from a city where Men
Draw from Life's fountain-heads

Their well-water, and slug it

Room in the bar-bought mart. I say Men

In their well-water—I say shots

My half-choked heart, and—night! Old Blackwell
Towered among the shabby shades,

D'Jaunville and Parc Embroideré

'Twixt mine and his well—and there was
The grey town-wall, the dirty door,

And there was Possibilities,
(O for a light and a place!)
And Possibilities turned me green
To fling my brains about,

And so I drew me and drew him

Out of the not-quite-heavens

For the sake of a bet,

That a lad such as I then was
Should be more pugnacious

Than he, the waggish teen
Acting rustic joukie in a debate

On Bastille days long ago;

And I beat him by smirking

At my dubious and qualified vote
That he, the youngest and the best,

Should be allowed to propose

To go off and be made a lord

And I should be the son inherit

A sum more worth than all his own debts

But he never thought, no, nor even suspected

That he was a rascal enough to win

That bet.

And so we came to this,

No matter where, the Vermande

With all the brood of a summer-sons glee
======================================== SAMPLE 14 
========================================
Spite is made by the match,
The makers own the only match.
What is amour that we like best?
(Thou lovest well but we love not, you)
Hath we this name, hath it not been?
(Yea, in many names, but none)
In haste, I'll take my leave, but take
This one's as a passport to me.
And then, nay now, this fling!  (O ay!)
That 'twas a pleasure to wait.
Well, well, the fling was in your style.
And with regard to that age,
'Twas only youth, not age, that made you wise.
You show your wisdom at your age's best,
And, you as well, hold our worst.
If you have made a better service,
Best is it, worst where 'tis to go.
You, whose barometer does fluctate,
Now call, then in time, then new-born still,
In air, on land, with an incessant ear,
And, when a year seems lonely to you,
There mark, if you can, the passing year.
Or if, like ancient days, your fancy doth rise
On such a moral, of course 'tis good;
Were the adjectives then most just?
In which were built the riddle of your life,
To which you'd rise, then, self-reliance to acquire,
But for the light you see in nature's heart,
In you as a flash, as an electrical star,
In you, all ransomed, though in jest, by age.
And so you put forth your essence -- essence, how?
For traits, ere you are men.  You're just men, then,
The trait which you were made is that you are;
In you, as in no men that have gone before,
You have your being; you have yourselves,
You have nature's taproot, if not the tree,
You have the rock whence you were tilled,
All which you have you were, and what you are.

To pass we leave the new Maffeian town
In the same dress he left it -- in other words,
The new Maffe real, with a few of its blossom
New crowned jonceters and a new encore --
In this rare festival of its fair town,
The 'pendiciwe' and the grand encore
To a scene that is both new and old,
Because that in truth there's neither time
A flash of passion passing pure,
And in the flash, which doth contain
The passion unspeakable, a symbol,
And in that symbol something grave,
Which gathers and which as it approaches
Grows greater and mores what they are,
And in the last portico they see,
Which men, at least deeming men, call life.

The tete-a-tete from Tickcromy ball.
And here, pure May-day, the Satyrs good,
The wonder of the world, the madness good,
The Master, as he rose, was quite altered,
But as we believe in Hope, in Ease,
In youth he is a breaker of buckies,
And in his growth his forepads being pants,
He throws down pants, and starts at madness,
And sits happy to see his mare go.

The tete-a-tete from Tickcromy ball.
The wonderfullest thing that ever came,
Was the new Maffe, so girt and fleet,
That on beholding him a Swede
With half a dozen of his woody sons
Thus round him did the teter rail.

There are some things, to speak which may be
Of small, and to these therefore small,
Is such a thing as small:  there can be
But small thing else.  All which appears small
Is that which we proudly see appears.

So, to speak somewhat small, there is
No thing so small but that in it,
By no circumstances which appear
Can it appear otherwise.  Thus with us,
Further off than down, their inferiors,
Whose highness makes them great, with ascent
Assisted by noVccels seven, so high
Above theirselfs, that they who seek them
Believe them gods.  So in the eighth cubit,
Dolorius, with his own kinome,
Which in its apex ascends,
The theatur topos both himself
And the fifth chareths on his side
Can a man climb.  But the others,
On each side a VCF concentrable,
The nine dir
======================================== SAMPLE 15 
========================================
What need to name that folk.

After the King departed,
Let the lady sit
To keep the child in play,
Till the forest dimmed had
All the open spaces,
Until the star in heaven,
Sat to watch over her,
And the fire-flies to light,
To keep her mind from wild.

Bents hag-light o'er the hall,
Tired Wame sleepeth first,
Sunk down upon her cushion
For a while she weepeth;
Beneath her pillow rolleth
Westone under her pillow,
Of her babe the babe an' mother,
Sorrow an' shame befall her,
All for the babe her child balne,
The babe that's far awa'.

Let the ladies men belieue,
Make of them men and women,
Let the husbands hold in du'n,
And the mothers in the lippes;
Let the lovers them emauge,
Set in law the girls;
Let the harrisshies weden,
Be the old white-haired men,
Be the new cut flinging bloomin' men,
Turn them shuders, weden an' gownin',
But the young girls they'll defer.

Gin we'll have an extra,
For the watter folks we wauken,
More o' the ones that we pight;
Let the vight-bearers wauken
More of the young men an' women,
Of the ones the girls be weening,
Let the dancers weden, and weede,
Let the lema-keepers weedely loom,
Weeding o' the young gals an' men,
So the young men weeden weden,

Good men and women, men an' women,
Now let's think, I pray
A moment what's going on,
All the tumbling down o' the ground,
All the fault'ring an' quarrelin'
O' the two-fifty drunke tinklestir—
One's 'op a master,
And another's lommayer,
While the master's a groom.

Life it is, we know it true,
Teach us, shall we?—give it twelve
We'll see it, what we've seen not hard,
I tell you, I've been 'long to tell.

It's like an' like an 'or fool, I tell ye:
Tired o' tryin', poor fool, tekened een,
When the first an' w'ich ye thought would do,
Teught come in the hole te deserved,
Fent a feather, an' the rest was air.

They t-u'd mind the lesson they 'ad to learn,
An' not hurt the ouch they 'd them-ghizz,
If they'd but see me, all te sure,
Cauld-backed Jack 's mou', and all that,
For the very morn.

O what's the new year? What wondrous joy?
What this great miracle that now reigneth
In the sun's eye, the earth that 'mid the banks is shaking,
The trees in blossom, the birds in springing,
To fill our hearts with music and love divine?
O happy new year, see what fickle fate ordains:
Here's good success, an' there's frugal new age,
And here's fiddle-boy, fiddles merrily flying,
To fill your hearts with sorrow, if they can ringing.

O what's the new year? What wonders do we see?
Ascendeth a hundred leagues from the dome to the ice,
To the chatt'ring, to the merriment, to the festal bread,
In the joyous crowd, and in the haunt that is hid,
To the glorious revelation, and the blessing,
In the solemn night, and the magnificent morning,
In the very nature of the mighty birth,
In the gay affair of the glorious dead,
'Neath the sober old mortal body dead,
In the perilous danger and unclean surmise,
In the full glory and glories of the day,
When the majestic One Who commands the light,

O what's the new year? A thousand wonders do we see!
A day-dreamed vision of the empire unlimited,
Of a nation wholly, part unbounded, swaying its hour,
And of each citizen a fardel, flowing the more fast
Because it has his source from the Almighty's desire,
With the sun-like and the star-like having gained light long.

O what's the new year? What
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charming as a queen,
possessed of beauty and strength,
the wind-lit
happiest place on earth,
on which men go to

look for "home."
<|endoftext|>
"I was both car and and cart came unto the
post office," in The Road", by Rabindranath Swearj [Living, 
Disappointment & Failure, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social 
Commentaries, History & Politics]
I was both car and cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

longer toll for the motor.
I was both car and cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

longer toll for the motor.
I was both car and cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

longer toll for the motor.
I was neither car nor cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

longer toll for the motor.
I was neither car nor cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

a longer toll for the motor.
I was neither car nor cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

a longer toll for the motor.
I was neither car nor cart came unto the
post office. I got the cover longer

than the motor.

I was neither car nor cart came unto the
post office. I got the yellow cover,

a longer toll for the motor.
<|endoftext|>
"In the Study", by Frederick Seidel [Living, Disappointment & 
Failure, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & 
Books]
When I think of the long history of the writing of poetry, I mean 
that long history of the poem as a long history of the poem. They are 
not, in other words, simply combative responses to an urgent 
spectacle— that long history of the graven spirit— but are 
instead each otherFoe to Fandango are they, the antagonist and the 
foil? Rancher in New York and Volterra in Daheora, or in Caracas? Are 
they not, as Boisguichet tells it, orotondo Frida, or in the case of 
you, PoPicatem, friends forever? To write this poem, were we writing 
alone— alone, because we had to keep to the light, out of concern 
for our health and our light, out of concern for our light, lest we 
harden or darkness bring to an end Not only our friendships but our 
chivalrous friendship with the long history we'd lived through. 
—theknocking, the sharp shock of it, the notion of time set aside 
for conversation, thinking it bodes well for our speed of thought— 
or did we think it looked more kindly on writing at the hazards 
exchange? We had years and years to live comfortably. We had life, 
life could believe we died. And so we carried with us the disillusion 
of our light. So we wrote. And we thought well of writing when we 
thought it was time. —theknocking, yet again, the strange 
familiarity of the equipment— air in the room was heavy with life. 
It gave us life. It gave us glorious death. It gave us light. It was 
the will to live that we could not keep. It was the joyful disaster 
of our light that we could not keep. I would know it better if I did 
not know the incalcipability of the joyful disaster of life. I would 
know it if I did know incalculable heart. I would know it if I did 
know time's impossibility. And the outsize burden of it. It was not 
that we were unkind to one another. We were not even close to it. We 
were never even near to it. We were outside of it. The knock was the 
noise of the universe bringing itself to life, to relations, to 
purpose. In that we saw the mysteries, who in them were. 
—theknocking, we never find out who is it. But who is it that 
knocks? And why does it do it? Is it a test? Is it a friend? Is it 
hell?
<|endoftext|>
"Poem", by Geena Harvey [Living, Coming of Age, Death, Sorrow & 
Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, 
Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life]
You'll rest your head in the low grassShed where no new trees wentOr 
planted a gray feather above you,in right angles to thoseWhich are 
fallen American letters that were threats but were never sent. They 
remain scattered, eyeless, at the bottom of the canter,caged by the 
chain linkGenius had planned to conquer the valley.He had a
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Grimknapper. He hung her on a tree.
The water below her was
brilliant with innumerable
gold threads, so that she was
visible, as I think, to us.
<|endoftext|>
"The Bishop of Rochester", by John Bulwer [Nature, Animals, Religion, 
Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, 
Reading & Books]
Tell me, Mr. Rochester,
What you have made
Of me lately lately lately
Last summer,
last summer, last winter.
What did I do
And what was I thinking
The other day when the woods overtopped me
And reared
A way of me
From the forest trees in the treetops
In which I was eager
And which mistook
Me for a god.
This hill is red-orange
With privet grass
And stone-old trees,
A field of Eliadean
In the broad-leaved sugared autumn
Shop-window
Of the broom
Of God come to me, come to thee
And hither.
<|endoftext|>
"Eliade", by John Fidjack [Life Choices, Social Commentaries, 
Mythology & Folklore, Greek]
The gaunt sea of dead things dying,
the old bridge fallen,
the dark coming together cities,
sun-sacks sea-carts pyramids,
my heart
splintered wall
coloured to make of them a stand,
beech-roots sea-dice, a big old rock.
She sifts me out earth-sack after earth-sack,