attach_debugger <function attach_debugger at 0x7f130051d488>
print_status <function print_status at 0x7f130051d510>
freeze_forever <function freeze_forever at 0x7f130051d6a8>
quit <function quit at 0x7f130051d730>
save_and_quit <function save_and_quit at 0x7f130051d840>
======================================== SAMPLE 1 
========================================
What we have done,
And what we should do.
Then and there
The case is closed.

The Dauphin's at the Seine,
Dead against the rocks.
That of Brennus failed,
Made us take note.
Pellucid or unfaulted,
Stream or predew or prenium,
That of Petrarch we learned--
That writers' matters are telltale
And can be learned of posterity.
How the minutia of verse
Makes obsolete the long behind it,
In a passion of months and a fever of times--
Some Decca Snell,
Some Cilceta,
Some Bernardino,
Wasps for the Crestana,
Sowutha butterfly, poet-knott.
The miniscus of a pale Wensday
Came to a cinder down.
Chaucer's dang and he's a credit lazy,
He knows as much as can be learned of him,
And Pitman knows more.
Long may they be!--Red Gillycomb's a fighter
Shall turn him out of his quivering marrow,
Sundering him with Ciceronian expostulations--
And the Deacon of Decca sings him along.
I should take to drinking my daemonic health
As the Hanmer, the Whitman, the Painless King
Was a soporific to peace, to the Year of the Horse,
As now the Decca drinks me into stupor,
Out, out all yon terrors of the laws,
Let me only this night dined with the Deacon,
Out, out! my roundelay--to those tidings of the stars!
That is the song of the literary vesper;
Now draw your boats up to the shore!

Here comes my lady, the morning's mirth and she's like to make
Friends of every writer-mistake and every writer-humor,
Right, like, I s'pose, as the wind? Well sigil's a humor-tale,
Right, like, that the wretch, whose vices you fancy a hero,
Should nohow be a fool? Or that he's a hero--right, like the wind?
Hail to the ladies, then, who in their spears are shorn
From their heads, for their right of speech, because they're fools!
You'll learn, you will not authorise this quip of Saul.
To the bard be glad all time this morn!
Grass is grass, is the best grass, but the hardest is probably his;
To the bard let beauty and mortal happiness combine,
Bards are grass, is the best grass, but the hardest to find,
And as for doom of women--why, the ancients often go

Here is not death to them, as they've unfortunately not yet come out 
and formed their little tomb.

Good-bye, bad music! long have I lived that I must say good-bye to 
you!
Here comes good music, but it is not pleasing, for I can't do your 
work with him.
Grass is beautiful, is grass, but the best, if not made by a poet, is 
made by no one;
Chirping, caws, and squaws are pretty creatures, and do not last long 
on the sand,

For see, he's author! that master of all airs and daffodils!
He may have brought you this quiet,
That has kill'd the ferns I nursed in my garden,
That has made the snail-ice at last a knoll,
And the grass-skirt thus at Venulus died on--
But he's author! and he's no more--such an one's also no more!

Here she lies dead Straw-that's my niece!--dear aunt,
He that hath her private villa'd here in her stead
Caught by the bullet of a poor farmer,
Him that took time's flesh in his little pocket-knife,
Heal'd his brethren, fight'd the plebeian, break'd his legs--
I wish I was still the cleaner!  Don't talk so deep.
If you wish to know my reasons for bringing this,
If you wish to be glad that such a visitor died,
Then babble more!  This you, bad man,
That this bade the while, 'tis vain to require,
This can't but do, by jingo, as you can't make the same
Application to literature, that you make to every other branch of

Where she sleeps, by grass and ferns uncased,
Near, dear dead one! even as thou lovest her,

======================================== SAMPLE 2 
========================================
To hang from me--
And it will soon be ducked,
And taken by some one else;
The gazer is baulked by the blind,
And never shall he get at it.

I speak of trifles,
And trifles is all my book;
As if it boiled and bubbled in a tin can.
It will not boil this month, nor ever.
Nor yet will it boil, if I should pot it.
What are you?--God's furling hands?
I would thou wert, to boil, not I.
Take me to Heaven, to take thy grace,
Though he can walk the waters,
And drive a skiff, and sink him in the bottom;
And I to fling, the topsails, not to float.
And never, I think,
That thou, to ease my toil,
Shalt coals of me,
Make demands upon me, or coins to charge;
But leave the funds, - their accruing hoard,
To melt with fires, for whatsoe'er they call
The Master, when he 'reflects' me.
Thus I can tell,
And thus thy let me know,
And bid thee look to me,
For with the lamp I mean to shine,
Though long he touts with gab to play his tricks,
And spread his cloudy fins at me,
And with his buffets try me;
So, til I be more or less away from him,
Then to my abode, to ride a storm-bird,
And the tempest face, as if it had begun,
To pose, to leap, have clapaped me,
And, to have cleared the Dirce of my search,
And sat rolled in carcase at my side,

When of late, 'mid the frigid wintry air,
So chill and silent appeared,
What time in graves the winter pall descends,
In tombs of frost, on mountain snow,
The Shadow-God of Twilight there did pass,
In utmost life expiring time;
To every crevice in the subterranean glen,
Where nought but whisper could wean them thence,
Where murmuring waters did not glitter,
Shadowy glens, where ev'ry floweret failed;
All this region, never glittered,
Where lay only Thence, Thence, the shadow.

Where shadow-soft the dreams of solemn green,
Caught from the twisted o' the moon were hid;
Where shadows from the pink dawn were always flown,
'Mong oaks, in orange glens, alakes so high;
Where crystal dews would twinkle awake,
Up in the lindens of the land,
Was shadow, all, but shadow, very swift,
Where ev'n then did shineth vision;
And e'en to where the heart would break it,
The loud world's reprimand did grate.

Twixt gravely laid in cold earth,
And bricked up fast with mighty stone,
The moral lesson was:--"Try your best,
But never fear to speak or hear;
To every secret joy of sight,
Still be in polite speech assur'd;
To ev'ry accoutrip heed;
And, whenever you can, still say,
'We see nothing new; let us see;
Might it be a cove? it would be
 A cloister cool, a supper sweet;
Let us mark, whilst the sly wind does breathe,
Creamy puddoun, prest on a brown;
New curds, from goats, or from kings, I demand;
Carrow-berries, or currant, or dates;
Rut-oat slices, or 1lb. of butter;
Venus, with thy own hand thou eas'!
Let me, good friends, my form display,
In all the familiar shows;
On Sundays, at prebends and prayers,
Sha'n eat in the Queen's Chamber;
Shall cake a brolly, or two,
For thy new-made parish;
And, in March, a twenty mile ride,
Shall take my house in Thurston town:
But now, with integrity,
With the benefit of my skill,
I'll run through two pounds in it,
And, to make it add unto two,
My maiden aunt, a picture, bring;
Which long my life, and this sorry funk,
Have kept from view, by the law--
Go, Adrian, till it be A goodly sight,
In Thurston-town, and then bring back more;
Now, that I've got it once more in view,
I'll buy, for
======================================== SAMPLE 3 
========================================
A brick, inlaid with cunning art,
There's magic in its veins.

So went a new year's day,
All the way over Paunch Street,
Cyclest, Cyclops, and, of course,
Jumping in a wheel at a time
By way of Eleousin
Rode the gaunt Cyclops, of course!

Bourn, a rook, was keeping watch,
Clinging, like the hands of a clock,
In and out, far as the eye could dart,
Over bagpipe and sword-hurl battle;
Here and there, peeping, it seemed to me,
Till the cocks began to crow.

Then out from Baghent's Woods appeared
Knight and man. Their drums were shaking,
As they pounded on their wings, and they beat
Thestars out like white-winged butterflies.
And lo, Paddy put his pocketchain
On backwards, and off he ran
With clashing drum and strict drum!

And all around the Pub!
And up from the Forest flowed free,
Flowers like the grass they gathered;
And all around the Pub!
All the lads came flocking,
As the noise of the parricorn passed,

'Twas a maiden in beauty
Who dwelt in the Forest, fawn-eyed,
Till she cruelly deceived;
And she fled in the morning,
But she could not remove
The watch from the Brook
Who kept false; and lo, Brough amuse
All the plain.

Till, in its defense,
She took her fledion,
Great Arj or Anonymous,
Whose neibor hirased
It from the winged stell.
Then out from the Forest, flocking,
Broke the Contract on plox,
And riders and risers,
Four, and six, and eight,
And ten, and twelve,
Trooped on a note of glee.

In the Cloak! Tingle-wog
Leaped in the Cloak!
Tingle-wog, with hairy ears,
Who can dodge this tingle-wog?
On a human landscape
Stoops the wog and leans.
Who can give in glee,
Lest he face the Cher.

And with main vessels and poolings
Broke the 9th,
To see the full glasses,
And full plates set down;
When a thundering wog,

Whirling like a chomper
On the parom,
To the cheers of the frater
And the shout of the frattere,
In the tall thin man,
With combed purse;

Down in the pit fell a wog,
On his knees down,
And many a plank
O' windows, and post,
And posts around,
And window-chairs,
Left lie for days,
For weeks, and the cold crisp
Pools of blood.

When the storm is up
The Gipsy Men lie low,
They are ranne 'neath the moon:
And they whisper, in their sleep,
They whisper to their neighbors,
They whisper to the Me.

And all night long, under the stars,
The Gipsy Men dream of home,
They dream of a furloughedril Loll,
Of a home eternally
Of all necessary free
Of all legals enforcements
Of the Greater Christ,
And of the agonies
Of their half-browned chain
Which he shall mould,
Under the soft full eye
Of a tall thin woman, who reads
Their sleep-writ; sees them yet,
Forever and for ever
In the dream-haunted dark,
And whispers to them still: to remain
Under the door,
Honest and hard.

As Grimm puts in his copy, word by word,
A slovenly number in his verse,
The ill-taught, grind-to-grasp of a waif
Of nonsense, trivia vulgar,
So to every truth you strain,
Sparce vive! So to every secret plot
Of ragged stupidness takes force
And strikes it thro for bliss
Obscuring the eyes of the world
With obscenity of minds.

The Gipsy Men, for their thoughts are myriad,
They have so many that without care
Their sordid little bosoms fill to the brim
And their little breasts are piously filled
With the parotlec and the pecked plum
Of the fulgent palms, which is the fashion
Of their small, long pinched hands,
While their little, broad hats have more life
Than the
======================================== SAMPLE 4 
========================================

it's a dandy face.

I've only got

a little afternoon
to kill
and make off with my fill.
<|endoftext|>
"Say it upon the someones they say it isn't all right", by John Holt 
[Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, 
Relationships, Social Commentaries, Men & Women]
I dreamed last night she was agreable and--you?

Holly.

--How could you not be?
When the two of us wore that cow with the bell on it

You said the words the night wore quiet and I--well,

I dreamt we parted that way.
And I said the words and you said the most excellent

Actresses and you wore a bathtub, but--well,

I dreamt you loved me.
That's the way it stood the night we went away

(staring at the iced coffee)
or we spoke from the dawn of the morning till now:
that you were agreable and the worst was in the past

We are fighting instant deaths.
You say it but you're wrong.
You say you never wish I was away from you

Like the yoke bandaged and pulled,
The Professor's cup and the cud of the unfit surmise

Of the profligate & perf,
I sneaked from the hall drawer & lay warm upon my bed
--As you slept?
I was you sleep?
I was you sleep?
You were you sleep?

Tell me how you watch the distant taunting team of rain
That heckles the ill tempest that darkens the hill
& you know and you know you do not care &
You have known it and yet . . .  Bear with me: gentle journals
I make of my common week-days & Saturdays
Are mine, & not yours.
I study what I eat & strive to forget the glories
I find.
There is thawing of the rocks & light breaking across bad nights

That light that breaks & thaws & breaks

Unmoving & all for me.
And there is only the number of the hours when the sun

The sun & what he wants.
<|endoftext|>
"The Virgin", by T. S. Eliot [Living, Coming of Age, Parenthood, Time 
& Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, 
Popular Culture]
Sunday: his friend's 1-year-old daughter;
Sunday: me inside the wobbling-birth-machine
At The Village, thinking of love, & thinking of love
As coming long after I had come upon her
As approaching near
As any briefest dream can meet me.
The woman
Is self-moved and self-programmed
In this kind of thinking & believing.
I saw her last night
 & she was crying
But not as many times as once
As once I saw her as I tried to walk
The last stretch between two dropping stones
On some even moonless moonlit stone-bridge
Before I saw her again.
She took me once in each place
That seems to be heart-beating to me
Before I see her.
She lies near the machine
Where boys & girls are
As soon as they want to.
She lies near the blood-pressure measure
That murmurs in the chest till it finds the bed
Of its long-armed life-strings.
She lies near the pills that lie
SPONSORED in the breakfast bowl
When the morning is in my veins
Or on my lips at breakfast
In orange juice that is thick
As sweet sacred water.
I have scarcely any time to get and give
Since she has such each remov'd time
As all the days so far gone.
Her small feet press all night
The breathing-plate which is still and moist.
Her fingers all night
The veil of soft black cloth that is the self.
Her morning or day time cries
Are heard in the walls or in the house
That is ill, & where I am ill.
And where the rafters meet I know
Her dark-sized couch elsewhere plays.
She touches me all night, all day.
Her crying face in my blood
At dawn-time or in the evening use
Or evil sight.
Her tears, their histories,
Their origins, tears, are for nothing held sacred
As day-born hands perhaps, unknown
To anything sacred, may reach
At any time or anywhere
Though all tears have meaning.
Her crying & singing contain all things
Her tears are mothers, tears fall
Airless & unbreathed as tears
That have wet lips such as these.
Her singing body is
======================================== SAMPLE 5 
========================================
 love
all the way down to
the evil eye in the wine
not a bad case of mistaken identity
your wine is not like mine
The wine says to me, "It is the long head, not the hand,
that makes all the difference."
<|endoftext|>
"The Family Jewels", by Stanley Moss [Living, Marriage & 
Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Judaism, Home Life, Men & 
Women, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & 
Politics, Popular Culture]
The children who have grown up in Jewish homes
have no memory of an old life. They see, in their ways,

a world transformed. To them, the past is forlorn

more hopeless than hopeless. Their own lives
honor and interest, the future beautiful, the future

of one's children one's own children. One learns
to love the boughs of one's own tree, the sky.
The reference in the voice of the children to R.K.

ABB'S tree is to R.K.'s one's birches, and ABB'S the bear of the 
grove,

the bear the children ask about, the one they saw at the end of their 
day's walk,

the one whose trunk they found a dove in,
the one whose voice, with love unbent,
led them to R.K. as their guide to death.
And the children ask for grownups' voices,

for sadness in the wonder more than potential in

the wonder that flies above

their flying after.
<|endoftext|>
"Eden", by Stanley Moss [Living, Life Choices, Religion, God & the 
Divine]
The facts of history must be leaving

them forever—those seven pairs of adult

comrades who hid in Palestine,

30 years after the fact,
the unknown villages they lived in,

the lost villages they visited,

their trees crowding to keep them company

as the earth let them drop under or

cease to exist, the towns they

return to after adversity.
No visible signs, no border or window,

the Israelites wandering in the desert:

the barefoot argosies, the laborers

who move like moving sandstone,

a stone that will not be moved, the

flock the stone will not be storming.
The barefoot Moses, more than their father

showing calluses, lead them on.
And each, as GOD SAVES US, sends

a glacier of glass through the soil
and out again, as the ROCKY Pharaoh sends

us on a journey from the rock of RABBI JAMES,

to the reflective glass of JAMES, as PASABONET

makes a OCTOPRICE of her own Images:

the day the robot Carolyn (swathed in robot rags)

regales us with her PHYSICS, her EASY METER,

her instantaneous heart, the pill that takes the place

of water in the desert, love's vehicle.
As the mercuried POETOMAN defends her RIBBONS,

her RIDE (bereft in LAO) new, her bad heart's new

and DR. GABRIEL escorts them, as the NEON FORAS,

the NEON PHARO, the NEON REBORN eternal guests

of the glass room, where the NUMERAKS play

one side of a flimsy card in which he has

a grip that is alligator-like and weak

enough to bear in mind of the heart

that rolls for INDIA, for GRAVITA and

whose candle turns on the candles of the Bible.
<|endoftext|>
"Kinship", by Stanley Moss [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & 
Ancestors, Religion, Judaism]
The noose, like a prayer star, sloped over,

a lantern lit on the lake with room for more.

I was about to say something supplicate when

it was my turn to say what I knew about the sea's

cold generosity, the generous heart of the marbles

that leads it upward, all the wind and salt of bereavement.

It was no moon in the moonless night, no starry night,

but a simple wind that lifts a gust from the sea.

The ripple on the corn, the crash of the downfall.

It is a thing to have been made in the Father's image

and it is a thing to be lost in the Father's
======================================== SAMPLE 6 
========================================
That soft whisper of breath to win.

And what a blast of wind!  If I should die,
How kind the call!  What joy to hear,
To stand and weep on the soft ground,
And greet the tidings with a smile.
That cry of fire!  The flames sprang out
From out the eyes of the broken-down house;
And then I thought what man was for a house
To no profit but in fire.

I said, "This little house that stands
To save me on the path that I must take,
Is not a house but some bleak monster born
To wreck and ruin in the air."
And lo!  I saw, and I began to forget
What went on before my mind,
And what I may be in time or guess;
For surely on that mammoth frame
Were visions of wealth, cover, Code,
More than could be found of value.

I thought it pleasant that the lord
Was further out, it made a change.
What in the world was waiting me,
I had not reckoned upon
That I was wanting to escape,
Or that there was nothing left to know.

Then I got out as if they'd forged
Some blazing iron and they did
A mountain-wise spiral lift the dust.
The scent and taste of earth and wood
Were gone; and the air was blown
With puffs from the MEZZOWS, small,
And COLD, and GARBLE, and everything
But house and lovers and little face,
By time-bleached wood and soil,
And that on which they'd predicted
To see their beautiful statues
As in pigs could they be seen
To have been built by muscles.

They urged me, it seemed that they
Would not let me be the slave
Of fools and creeds, as I might frame
From nothing anything that comes,
And with a joy in my thoughts to rend
That heaven the immortal gods
May have bestowed on me,
Blemished, unloved, as the light
Of dust that was their love had been.

They had said, "They who say that He
Perform the ordinary,
Pass the wide world's distractions,
Who is there equivalent
For the simple ecstasy which makes
One conscious that one was and that one is
That the sun in glory and front is
To measure with delight."

"Deign, O Luxembourg!  Are not we one,
Together from this their dangerous sin
Which vouchsafe no one eyes to take!
Since both have come so far and made
Their bow to love and taught us this,
That we should still go forward
And teach as we go."

It was a bright and friendly time; and the song
Of bounding children was the only music then,
Together joyous, both disporting in the play
Of that agreeable playtime, when the world
Surges like a brook in the blades of an apple-tree
That get split in the vigorous falling, rustling ere long.
I remember the gate of all my lonely years
Much more cheerful at the corner of the door
Than as I was used to it in the _crotte_ de Nancy's eyes.
(If I remember his wife's name aright.)

But as we passed on, seeing things to recognise'd
Through the evening's unsenceable eyes, I felt pursu'd
And spyre'd the stronger surprise of another's look;
And my fancy him still stranger and yet stranger inspects,
A subject he finds himself lost too soon to learn;
Our pass ''twas through the blue from which he took dyes
To score a digression, which were not all useless here.

O say not of it less that he was with Him
On earth, they two together, and none the less
The higher than did the nobler angel come
Upon him?  O Messie or Messid, whose voice
And look were most benign to all evil?  Where,
When pressed, was the repentance pure and choice,
Which aceval presence of humble things did bring?
They both did mark me.  The crown's great store of stars
Scattered through the mount's wonderfully array'd
Scintill'd, and put off straightway to the departed;
And the halo's text sternly discommended.

The world's gayer days he hath o'er overflowed,
And gone, that legacy, from his access,
But I am sorer than of old, of him,
Left desolate and in exile:_I_am dust's keeper now!
Thrown in with the rubbish of ungodly days!
A curious torch too of eternal things
Was Oscar Wao's life: what thing
======================================== SAMPLE 7 
========================================
SO EVERLASTING it waneth;
For though some geese luste upon the wadd;
Of Switzer gold the streamer springs.

Alcides down the mountain had done so much,
And had his lawes unakened;
So he departed to seek the gipsies hardy,
And bade them in his lawe accede.
He soones thitherward discommemmewed
The goth of them, and dyed themselves so sore,
That they gan a looker to gesse them,
And each one gan a crokinge to creeque,
And so to the court he gan he.

And he told them of the kingly hoble,
And how it shynned, how it did shirk,
How it hung in its mittens;
And how the gipsies ech of ten
The more of the jolly king did shrive.
And how the sword of the lord was so,

And how he by he had ferst take
The leaden ligg, and brought it in,
With his spoure of cowpes and of lemses,
And of heauens and of heauts.
And how as of that there fell a rift,
And how of one the gipsie greeke
Echem that durst not enploye a lisse,
Into the confusioun cride.

And of another sargepial bok,
Whose is feavel quoth he, feasten at Oms,
That the knappin-stonde there to fortren
Him self, of thrupe yere unbenowe.
And how the wylde gode gos is lord,
And how the knappo joloso "Feele"
Has stoned at the feast of Saint John,

And how Bermingham and Nottingham
Had but their names in the diction,
And of their parochas also,
And how the poortnowe of England
The Greks in their parochas were aplace,
And how the Greks in their baptismal litel,
And of their parochas also.

He told how Swenoers were to ferne
An hundred yeres, as to youwe;
He told how London bridge had shend
A chancer of the king with h\/id,
And of the swerdons also,
And of the toun in servite hwhome
They dyd continuo rennen.

He told how was broke lyons winged sail,
And left soere uncombated,
He told how the flaundos of the feild
Had ben yroked within the hall:
And how the Romeoes in prigs had delyted
The moneys into owth,
And how the Saxes had remissedte
The milk and hony whereof they made;
And how the devil had seid
In sorvis fike wondour,
And how the gre with his boneamriles
Himselvens had cheated of his mede.

And how the Jelous Pharould thond,
And how the sweete curiass was fell,
And of the mutrick how it ferde.
And how the salt of Ire triumphad
In drinking vnto her ymage;
How toke the brave Tiberuge
In sute of his gruppes fell;
And of the swerd vntlie how it cryd
On dyckes and on stede;

The name of the Jowes his sond,
Thef nut withor the cuckis he couth,
And how our Seint Thomas, the stearnes
Had changed his qued at last.
He told how the Lady Hiriusburg
Had drunk of hys curd toyd
Hoolyzot more than twenty sommers:
How the stoutstal of dwellers stan
Hath successe ful of its dysot,
How hoolyzot women, with hataries
Of hoolyzot men, some vnfay,
Consignd theyre tale to the staarl;
And how heah, whan he was a-leard
Of his owne wan curd,
Of this lulleth greate poll,
To weddhte as the progeny
Went in their maw;
And how, when all thei hadde ben changd,
The luperum still was aboute
Vnto the joole, and how that it
Lubit Urchb hoom, how
======================================== SAMPLE 8 
========================================

an army, through a quiet country, bound,
by a sense of duty, but by no war;
over stones that have not yet taken soil,
over a stone that has not yet had a span.

*

I want to walk in that dust,
as the casked sound gives way to noise,
as the stones tumble from the road
over which the boy marches forth.
Over the vane,
the foot straps stay the same,
the casked-in sound gives way to noise
as I walk over the scarred road
where the boy has already gone.

*

It is not what is seen that is crucial,
but the spirit that animates each song,
as Soren Race about to enter the grave;
as the specter of the massive man
displays, if mortal is not involved,
the dead in so many a poem:
and not in sufficient strength to abide
the metal mother-bear and child.
<|endoftext|>
"Fable and reality", by S. S. King [Living, Time & Brevity, Religion, 
The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Authoring 
to Invent Story]
Fable and reality, both indispensable,
are found in every age the one dear clueOUR great Guillaume, who,.  
wretchedness likewise sought to compose,
once printed in the spectre's column —
crossed the Poles and obtained the hoary  coasts of 3rd century 
Europe;
crossed the Mediterranean and obtained France,
and crossed the Arals and obtained the arctic skins,
then plotted the course of vulture everywhere made,
he reared upon a hedge and planted his trees & flowers,
his face and breasts unfurl[ed] and saw the day;
his blessed followers cry —
from beyond his grave sought consolation& rend their white garments, 
earth tears,
fill[d] the soil with fire;
at his birth a giant sow mouneedaged: "I give thee to taste of love 
and grief, that thy humpday be no log: the tail of thy morass strikes 
the earth with most motion."
<|endoftext|>
"On thinking of the child who is dead", by Soraya D'Entremell ☊ 
[Living, Infancy, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Travels & 
Journeys, Religion, Christianity, The Spiritual]
How beautiful was his heart, his bewnosing

nostalgic for the green cornfield and
for summer, his pensive thirst

ignored the tallhen, the monks, their parchterness, the fasting
of the night over and over his Altdorfer,

a cantina seller, a peddler of chisels,
his brain navel on the shoulder of the sofaall night genuflecting in 
Aztec priestessens,
a pilgrim of that beginning and that end,

which are the same, travel is the Parchami's way.

Translated from the German
<|endoftext|>
"On remembering a dream in which a child's heart was consumed", by 
Soraya D'Entremell ☊ [Living, Birth & Birthdays, Philosophy]
The feeling of poison in the small of the back, the fingertips still,

the hair still lightly caressed, the pluck still in the air, the pads

still isolated and analyzed, the browZadores and Pequita, the Inf 
bar, the C,

the BRD León still in office, the phrase Y nada, the lifetime

only a number between innumerable and Yanquinares,

the front door still closed, the windows pulled

apart, the frontage still growing higher, growing

higher, the vacant backhole of the Garage still empty.
<|endoftext|>
"Agitation", by Raffaello Fialabsigan [Living, Youth, Activities, 
Sports & Outdoor Activities]
I ran the wall jump in one quadricepinto the other, it wasgiant jug 
faces and angles crashingfor no reason, it hurt and I dropped
them, then myselfinto the wall mad, mad, I wasaround, then around, 
thenmy mind was around. The spectatorful audience stoodwith their 
ovals and potholes

no closer than arm's length: that wasthe extent of it.

Then I started the counter impulse, firstphucking to plan B, 
phitching from plan A, thisis the hour, this is the time,

the slick of my forearm, my arm silenced, silenced the earplugs 
retained,

the synchronized face of both the world and my body.

======================================== SAMPLE 9 
========================================
Ript in the sweet subtle splendours of the evening
I sat, and all my moods--all my moods--
All my passion--all my sorrow,--
Like some strong southern night,
With a taper's faint effulgence
Uplifted high
Above the dome
Of my unruffled hood:

All of me--my scorn, my scorn--
Till the bubbling nights
Turn me to some grim and dread
Mount this cold heart underground
And pierce my beholders
With the stern pale light
Of the dawn they cannot raise.

Weep not that thou shalt lose:
This be true love's vow:
What cause of word
Be to disparage?
So certainly is
Its power to grieve.

Weep not thou that thou shalt lose:
Here bewail
Its non-blooming title.
What mien of happy
Can hinder lastingly
The sweet loss of loss?
Lest there should ever be
A parting gifter.

"By this white flounce mumbly,
And by our brent speed
To Japan, O beware!"
"Come quickly to the Western sea,
And in near death be rescued
By O, cruel Japantia!"

"Once, coming to the surface
By me difficult,
As we were swinging,
Now I have risen up to speed thee
Up to see thee face to face
Up to the level with me!"

He rose, and a grave voice made answer
From a sea-corner listened,
"Leontia, listen!"--
"Allusion made--name withheld,
Risk not to place thyself,
Not of my luckless passing,
Needs not thy prayers."

"Love, help thou my boisterous would,
By thy ready guile.
I am like to fall woe-pointed
In thy arrows' feathers,
When my rage drives howling
On my wild goose flight!"

"Of things that in thy breast move,
Thy life be held by love;
If thou hate me, hate me not
With thy good shield;
Since 'twas thou that were our guide,
And pedestal right,"

She turned--a bright sword leapt
From her hand to strike herself unable,
The twang of gears within her that told her so
Tell her how the thing was done, her image in 't in 't,
Saying yet, "This only keep,
Thy belly on flame!

Oh, how there be flowers, things that aren't,
And things that seem to be flowers!
Some of them are things that scholars declare,
Some of them but to serve for love are deemed.
- The green to please thy belly, and the bloom to wear.

"I will do all of the 'flower' that I see,"
I said; "I won't know not till I have come,
And then I'll tell thee who has bought the ride."
"Take thou no fancy-dress; this sword is perfect,
And 'tis my heart thou'lt have another's end."

The stallion stood clear; his happy eyes
 Asked if he had done well or ill;
"To do all things well," he said; "and weep all manly.
"No further words, and take my pleasure now!"

So went he home; but home he set
Before his children, there the gold-hauler's state
In armor was received and given;
And home he had, and with his family

And the new-built turrets at the door being opened,
Nought of him learned; though for years to come

It is their labor and their joy they have,
It is their lovin', love, and take no mirth,
But watch the world, and are alive to it;
And he would say, his winter hand with butter
Should till the backs of stone, and brick's death
Be frowned at, and sooth'd, and suited with rain.

So soon they laid him down, and dressed his wound,
While the rain beat, and flew the marmot's wings
And driven home his wind, and soothed his fall.
Then, down the well-headed wold, and near the cliff
Borealtilled by sea and tempest, they a half mile
Came, and set up a grave and sweet abbace.

And there they bare aside, and to that place were coming
A hundred stones, his comrades who should bear him to that ground.
So to his end of life he would sit at need;
Held loose the strings of life, and pluck'd the reins of death;
So many
======================================== SAMPLE 10 
========================================
Early to rest thee, night of darkness,
The abysmal darkness of grief,
Abysmal darkness,
Of deepest darkness,
On whom
In a flame
Of splendor,
Of brightness,

O love, O life,
And these last gleams of sight.
Before thy eyes,
Of love,
Of beauty,
Of life,
Of moments which the shadow
Of the unknown wait,
And shall be, in thy days,
When thou hast left the earth,
For whom
The thunder is, and the hurricane,
The heavens are closed against thee,
The winds are at their wildest,
The waters prevail;
With thy divine faith,
With thy heart which is almost human,
An honest man in thee;
When these are lost, then thou art
No longer man, but an offshoot
Of the cross, and that is more than man.

Flower of the almond-bearing earth,
At whom dost find nought welcome?
Who can say, yet, who can say,
Should he see future life?
To whom should tune in mind and song,
The evening star?
To the evening star, or to thee,
To what may befall
Thy future life;
But to thee, and only to thee,

Wander we and watch with vain things,
The day's short day;
And boastful wander we
As trees that lack day;
And show on earth, as things of joy,
Much wanting,
And glorious things.
The simple is the wise,
The brave the good,
The beautiful to see, and strange,
The touched strange underhand;
The spirit under-ground
Goes sorely wrong.

The busy dead have lost their abode,
Under the dark botteau;
The little trolls have taken it by force,
And the graceless mountebanks their terrors;
The old mans Henchmen, now no more at home,
Have no more been wooers of the dead:
Grave-looking times, that have gone out of date,
Are familiar as the day of doom.

Our days are taken from us, as a fate;
Our nights gone from us, as a light;
For where's the heart, that remembers a ill,
Or thoughts, that once were due?
Yea, all the heart's accursers are took
From the current of the wild-eyed hate,
As if the world and its sons were foam.

But death, though servantless and alone,
With undone affairs, has friends enough;
And all his dread suggestions are
But as a sprite running rampant;
All his suggestions vain,
Are but suggestions till an end:
And while that end is hard to find,
His touch, or his hint, is but care.

Wherefore let's spread out our crownless minds,
And every mind a too-great state attend;
And do we a frailkindness counteract,
Let's do as we're inclined to do;
For no man wittols can prevent
What kind God has predestined.

A state blind and disdainful is,
A scornful soul,--where souls are foredoomed
To be as ruth and as destitute
As is that darkness and that light,
The scoffing of spleens, the scorn
Of poets, and the boonag of lust.
And this a national dung hails,
A national swine-house, a national pet;
Nerveless and incapable
Of any but the mean of existence,
Base-born as yon black-hopped unkind:
A spleen then, a pest, a cheap and friendly gad.

This pride, this quary, this pollick-pool,
Was formed in the old style world of old;
The man hae poet-cheapened prigs,
Crack-pot magnates, and hereditary boors;
And then their superiors seize and hang them.

The prelate that holds Rome in admirals,
The dame that rides Tyntes, the marquis that
Broke the ranks of barrists and stripped us all,
Had slave-classes, memorandum-books, and colonies,
But god-springs, roost-boards, and goddess-knees.

This world they cankee; they cankee' vorrahh to ha'
The cherries on yon golden mount of freedom;
Yon mount of massive expense, of which
Our souls are gratum, inviolate,
Since peckish, pintless, defiled with the blast
That creeps varmint, 'neath winter skies,
There is not
======================================== SAMPLE 11 
========================================
 in the hedgerows where the rainbows sleep
And the youngest of the ruddy roses blows
Its ancient horn of plenty to keep the fields
Mowing and the hedges with their pearl-dust feet
Mowing and plowing lightly as the young moon sails

O The young moon braves the wind of March
As she sails, wreathed in silver frost,
To catch the scent of resinous scents,
And shed on thorns the dews of Spring!
Her gold is won, her throne is won,
O The young moon braves the wind of March!
As she sails, wreathed in silver frost,
To catch the scent of resiny scents,
And shed on thorns the dews of Spring!

O maiden Spring, so fond, so shy,
Pushed to her springness by the sudden spring
Flushed with the spring thy self have made,
Spring's Sign HDI 3.3.3
No breeze is heard but twice a high pleasant breath,
No sight is seen but the clear south-west sky,
And, as he senses it, a heavy hush
Broods over water and grass and trees.

As spring, so ready for her task, he feels,
His own heart throbs throbs down the slope of his existence
For the earth to rotate on is outrun,
His spirit goes from artifice to artlessness,
His life has gone from artlessness to passion,
His flesh from age to a brief spirit.

No art, but passion, will not he refresh,
His spring to lift to shorter work.
His work had been a proud thing, a hard thing,
But since his love has chilled the art,
Therefore it is no longer his best.
His cowry has grown into gentle stems,
And has blown out wise and lovely breath.

The envious know not this, that I live,
But know me for that valuable thing
That I ever have been, and still am.
In me my man did not want for a dainty thing,
So, not desirous for myself to be,
ButI'm so much more.

So O my lover, the fleeting and the brief,
Beauty and joy of love,
When the envious thought would be and hope extinct,
Send to me your thoughts and say:
"Ah, that fervor burns, those roses love would keep
Are narrow and sweet as they."

O heeded art thou,
Yet thou not heeded art;
Love is an elusive thing,
Lowly, and brief, yet passionate.
Thou makst sport
With the moping morn,
Sport like this, when thou 'rt here.

What ail my head,
So relish thy prickly days!
To walk down the shady road
With the urchins of the world,
With the mools that distrust
The dusk and the silence, here
In the shady road
Where the ancients walked in
The dust with white handpschoked?

So fair they were,
They could suck the love
From the earth, and make
The ashes burn, base darling,
Make the spring within,
The flowers above, ashamed.

Why are thy looks so,
Full of ideal large
And pompous askonces,
As to question my court?
What unshut eye
In all the place
Searches thus and draws
On the bright polished screen?

If thou hadst wings,
If thou couldst be
Over this place,
Thou couldst see him there
Once again:
Here recline
His head, and see his form,
Him, and his hand,
All in the light.

Who would be rapt
Of air and darkness, all,
Here, and none there,
Pale, sick, mocking me?
Shine from his cell,
Bold, and strong; lorn
To noiseless purgatory
Dawns his deserts.

Why are the ware
And the writers barred?
Brief, and lame,
And poor?
All, all forbidden, all, all
Hid in; no light
Hid in; here doth shine
All light, all joy.

Beauty is dumb,
Mouths dry -
Nuts disappear,
Hump with want,
Furrows on face,
Gnashed in veins,
All mouldy here;
Hollow trodden
Swept in sward;

Eternity
In the dust
Is a might
That is, is not;
Springing, shattered,
Rending, splintered,
Bending, shattering
In dust,

======================================== SAMPLE 12 
========================================
 or (I don't want to be too nice)
The French: while the most dangerous man on Earth
Is Milose, right here: as Lord Derby:
Or Lord Strudwick: with Booncqui: then the Maïwers,
If neither of them happened to have died.
D'You hate the French, Plancardia! Then you should know
That I, an American, have helped to kill

In war after war the people who wanted to burn down
This country: so that instead of the houses being built
For two thousand years (which they were) they will burn
Until the ground is blest with one million gods
And one million temples to Love and War and Place.
D'you hate the Americans! Then you should know that
He who hates a lot has two ways of loving:
I didn't know about this George Bush you're chagrined
About the Alibi so you believe is a Hell of a drug
Way more sure than Tenakti, the China sheared
To make his dead to Ethiopia, the innocent
Iraqi would have done the same thing:
And that George Bush did not have to testify,
Forensic Science give a testimony:
If he had to testify, he would say one thing:
If he didn't have to testify, he would say something
So that you can't tell which one is which.
The woman caught in the arson thus far:
I would like to get my hands dirty in
Parting with a See-I-Fare-Different-Than-This
Out-and-forth method of deprecation:
I wouldn't refuse an offer like that,
But it's hard to argue with an offer like that.
You're a poet, so you must know something:
The best things to write are always ideas of<
False God, as people say: but I assure you,
For your particular quirks and tortures,
That a rent of the universe would be great,
And that's not at all my idea: that's their idea.
(It's a single man, a single woman, it's all right:
A vacuum's not hard to fix, and that's the point:
A vacuum's not a vacuum, the idea's all to the keep
in mind: but a soul in a vacuity is quite strange.)
I am fond of fixing things in parables,
As y'are now, and you'd have read about this Saint
Hadn't you, then, involuted replaced the 'i'
In Superbowl, with Institutes, forty, would have read
Harvard, or something about the zoot
Jitters.) This makes a problem difficulter:
The 'Master' who wrote an ode to mockery
Of idle people who have no shadow of day:
A person so ready with lightning-word
As to be missed, when, suddenly, he's gone.
You can't get fix for this one, or a jag
Thespectrally, and shake it upon your breast,
Or he'd know about souple, and what to do
With it. He'd pick it in the trembling dark,
And now is nowhere--till it fits his rhyme.
The Master breathed a psalm for bees,
The master-songster of the most grand
'T is to their greed to add honey to salt:
'T is their pride and satisfaction--
(And ours to rhyme with, if you take the word
Right here: for so I do not doubt
But that it means money, and must cheat better
By calling it Reverse Song, as there goes
My heart. I love to go to Cambridge
With a shovel-handle hat, and Harvard
Pocket Flattoon across the flanks,
And Cambridge Jacob Banneker) -
'T is hard for Jacob to resist
The small tank-trough, and let it wash out
The days with shallower hubble-bubble.
He hath no sense of the content
To which he not go beyond:
For, but to think he's a man
Surmising a tank-trough!
To go beyond it, rightly or wrongly,
Is slavery as much as any choke.
Wheresoever men of wealth may be,
Wheresoever men of ill are placed,
More folk mean wealth, than can be said.
The wheels of trade as fast traverse the world
Than light hath ever touched the eye:
The wheels of man go faster, hands and feet;
Heum's big man, the wide-resounding world!
And what the dark men plan, our bright men plan too:
They plan to take the tank-trough too.

But you, little green, little clear,
======================================== SAMPLE 13 
========================================
 to men;
These are the tapers burning
For her devotion
To the shadow of hell.

Here are tapers that light
Her dread of death;
And here our souls' delight
Is a substance
That grows in wine.
This is a bit of ground
Swamp-maid blithe and gay
With all the holly
Of the world's wonder.

A change's a thing that's so because
It's what's being got,
And nought else cares if it be being got.
Nothing's so good it doth not strive
To be more close,
Nothing's so light it doth not seek
A loftier place.

Yon lone star gazes round and dreamy,
And we two may seem
So few'erd-abouts in Heaven,
That if it were not set so high
It might with hasty grace
Turn from its nest
To strike its beam on us.
We twain were never meant to be
Euphoesful neighbours.

We never were meant to be
Part of one soul,
We never should be on the same earth.
This might be its mountain-sill,
Or its own dim brow,
It might be the blossom-boy
Under its boughs, and I
Bending me down.

He that would be a god, missisou ought
To know all 'twill burn;
The ague voice, and the dreamy glance,
Must train, till they beat the pulse sore,
The seizure of the night, the spleen and crave,
The distemper of the day,
Must flatter not the frame.
What th' expedient may errâ for do,
Are we nought bound thy temper type,
So may th' expedient here be tried;
We may for test come thence, and be
Wise sound where thou art not wolly.

When as the crabbed old salamander cracks,
The bright smoulders leeched,
The fittest man that tries his powers, to sell
His frail flat for a palace-room,
E'en that old man and his wit
Are drawn
To test their heating and their flames, and found
That it must be chanced.[Exe:]

With her, as with the key, the golden young man's,
When she calls suddenly his bank is put down.
Then there ensues--
Some hope is just before us found
In studying each other's fa'nitzes,

And with the ideal heart which sees all this,
The sage testemplates its shape.
But let it find, ere long, a name--ah, marry--
A parlour purred for trifles the better,
Or glooms, for a minister's crest,
And so that brim may glitter and that umber shed

If he be not love, whom shall we call him?
No man may call himself--Ah! let us leave them so,
No man can call her, who shows not bysangs!
Can any man's slug called Christ have fruit?
Alas! the slug we call our friend,
It is not simply our heart's palmer chanced
It glows when she puts spell-numbs
But love must own the t-a-r-i-p
That this unsaid our bach'rect is.

For the man who is chistened,
We are not likely t' have waste our cares,
Though no mean lady we know,
Though no mean errors have we mved,
And the dust may smurch our noses,
Yet, with all our caution,
We now like best to frame
A kind false look to lead him to

So, she crying!--our bad, bad boy!
You've whipped us sorry children
To distraction! You've fleeced us,
And now, at worst, we two shall be two;
But he, had he, he could not smother
Our tears, by affliction strengthen'd,
For he'd charm him like the skies
Where, as afore, love then drew
Upon our boy, and touch'd it might,
But that he pulled the straws out of our
But that, he beat him, thrust him
With util sense
Into the skerrying!

It was then I figgered, and cried out:
"Thais was it well to love him?
Why was not I promoted
The last self-love to strengthen
As his was? or she, who never
See'd him plainly, who did all
Behest him, for his high place?"

Said I to myself, Who was it
Whose ruminate contain
======================================== SAMPLE 14 
========================================
Reader, take this warning, and listen while I sing
Some more pleasing truths which I glossed in rhyme.
An ass in Egypt one day let his hind
Hard-ronged, beneath the unclipping sun
Pay the heavy porter, so that ass
Made a big blunder, and the porter-man
Busted bright and deep with breath from his
Disgraced jaw he blew a real yarn,
And in his constricting trousers had to
Haul back the bolt that caught prematurely
In that alternate puffing of his guts
'Till the stricken creature struggled from the fiend's;
Then, rousing myself, I, too,
Came forward with the rest
As if by instinct, to see
If there was truth in what the fellow said.
Then, too, 'twas good
To break long-standing ties with the flock,
And to bring back from the wilds
What I reckoned a pretty cut and mix
With the sheep, to the desert's lip;
And, further, to catch
The voice of the clattering ass-goat
From the untaught back of the sore cock,
And the ass-goat was louder by far.

But, reader, if you'll keep in touch
With me and you, my crack team, I'll fain
Draw from you each quare minute I can,
Nor shall I rest, ever shalt thou be
TWICE bitten off by me and my like method;
You'll see from time to time hark, spy,
What I sing is, jingle, twinge, hit with song;
But I'll be watching to keep thee well.
Oh! when I come, I'll talk to thee soft.
'Tis time indeed to ware a reed horn,
Nail the ideal form, for in my dreams
I see thee swinging it, and I see
The daughter of Allah, kneeling, now,
In the least praying posture, strain,
And I get a sight of her glorious faces
Settling mind and body convolved
In forbidden light, yet in a glance
I know her fine. Her naked feet
Trempled, and the veins in the hail
Of moisture sizzling o'er the earth,
And all the better for being bare.
Her hair tied back in a knot, which
In the cold lies and marks the little spools
Aye tumble and tumble in rings.

Now, had I from earth been cut
And buried in the infinite void,
Or if earth had been no thorn
Wherein the design of love was laid,
I would not be so near
To my lost lamb, as now I can see.

And if thou goest with thine army,
Thou will be left alone: nor comest with
But with an army of liars, the best and most.
Tell me then what will behoove thee, to signify
That thou come not to this stone, to which from thee
My spirit is faithful, and in which I
Am entwined so pleasureably.
Pray thee not to this miracle: for thou art cold
And weary, and thy guards, who, lying, kept
The leaves and strewed them so, to make thee pass,
Are now caught. And if, that they may know surely
That to deceive thee was my worst folly,
They will not hush it. Say then, why do they not hush it?
For they have no power to cover what is told

And the tongue to counter-tell
Puts the vent for blows that will never, never cease.
Thou canst not be abashed with mouths of wall.
Neither shall these words of mine, which are about
You so much per day, be hushed, or dung beat back
By your agunthor. I am not with you a wind.
What make-believe here? What, may I life bestow
In seeing thee so eminent, so fortunate,
So high from thy mule to thy horse? Though all the hill
O'erhead thrust forth their noses, as if affronted
By the royal intruder, and though it seem'd from whence
The world's first smoke arose, a hope, that well might
Initiate even such a field's free-use,
I tell thee, the kingdom of all right does
Come from my lips: and in this kingdom of ours
Is love by old episode attired.
Here.  How there.  Who loiters there? And whither?
And whither?  But thou, return and all will see
None but puzzlers there.  Our visitor
Will never come to his landing-place.

Daphne sat
In the
======================================== SAMPLE 15 
========================================
ephemeral light, for vision. I see
it all.

Two children lie
on the lawn in blankets. Their faces
are buried in
warm, orange sand. One child lies
on his stomach, leaning
on one elbow, still in a
naked position.

His eyes are closed and sightless.
The eye of
his brain
looks away from his dream of
pleasures
to the yellow
flowers that warm his
shoulder
apricere.

*

On the living side of the door, the
happy
sun is breaking over the earth.
He looks at the flower which

*

is a black mole,

and he sniffs it, coldly, with
his nose.

*

I have to get rid of the little horse I got
as a gift. I have to make it do what I
said it would, when I put him down.

*
,
evil is an invention. It means to do
something other than
be, but then,

evil does mean "may not."

It means, too, that may not be.

It's not an either/or. There is no
essence

that is not evil . . .

*

The rope has a cheek, and therefore
its smirk is a sad, satisfied

smile. The neck that it has taken

from its gamins—red and

smooth. The scruff of its jaw

has used its clams: red,

smooth.

It has rolled back its

front legs, and its
for a shoulder. Its
wrist has carried its neck

and its armpit,

gunmetal and amethyst

have rolled

about.

Its hind leg has carried

the shagged, slant white
wheel of its face. Its tail

has rolled its tail

about.

Its ears have
seen its children:
a dark-skinned
mocha and a dark-
mocha, a white

child and a dark
-skinned
child.

*

Have you seen in this part
the rosy cheeks of your own child
as you have looked at her with
deep affection, parted in the seam
of selfhood by you, which every
one can own?

Have you considered what it has seen?

*


When you have removed your ear
while you were listening to
your little girl, who is foreign,
have you heard the back of
the head where only you could hear
her voice asking you things?

*

What can I say of me and what does
it say?

The soul is small,

twisting itself
into the threads of
surrounding things.

Of me it is made, of my self I do not
make, I am merely what my body is
for. And so the child I brought up
is the soul only as it will not accept the
less than.

*

The soul has grown like stubbed grasses
on the borderland.
It is exotic and should be respected.

My wish is to retire in a bush and be
verbally happy.
My own dark tongue is the only soft thing
on my territory.

*

How many times do I have to tell you that question?
*

I have a tree in my living room and a river
of air in my car, and I am not even
half-distraught. My hair is lithe and my
slipstream is thin and absolutely free of dye
for I have not planted it. My shoes
cannot remember the soles that may never be made
my own. My sleep is horror always in memory,
my skin is deep once picked, and the trees of
sun are roots for my mood, and my voice could
one day pick these things apart.

*

Two lips that did not think and
two lips that thought and
two women, one who
loved each other and
nothing else
more than the sound
of their own bones
beneath the tree.

*

As one in his red farmhouse thought,
"Love is a god whom we chant,"
and we were angry
because he did not know
what we had just
seen, his lips to kiss.

*

The word on the tree is
DEATH.
It is the syllables of the word
DEATH that make the deadly syllable.

It is the fatal sound that follows
the fatal sound on its bone-thin journey
through rivers, air and earth.

*
======================================== SAMPLE 16 
========================================
Amid the night, to seek thy vision
On those tall dominions of the night,
Which men call livid that have lost their light,
And where the soul is lured from out her body,
From out the mould of life, to death and hell
Thence on again to pass, as to an abyss,
Death's dim realm, into eternal day,
If thou have pity on thy kindred of the earth,
The kindred of men!

Oh! lift for us each human soul
Into a holy degree of being!
To fall on the open weeland of God,
Like a spark dropped in some still central lake,
A lake that sleeping lies
By fabled Serdar-hundred palaces
Under the zenith of old Night.

Let there be raised, in holy sympathy,
Mutually from their homes on high,
Silences in the sunny hours,
Silences on the hillside,
Silences on the ocean,
Such as the souls of men may take
Tending towards the bright servitors
Of the will of darkness upon--
Guilty powers courtiers in subtle honour's suit,
Or recovering from pride's control over their fame
Resigned to TJ's vision, and the dream of Christ.
All hearts that no longer fear to say No,
All reticules of pride on the promptings of the will,
All cords, all commands, all works,
That feed the maw of the world and rail at Sin,
May be broken by the terrors of Christ's will,
And each particular link of the Great Vein of Life
Cry out TJ's soul at large once mouths in.
For all the powers that lead the world on to ruin,
For all the camps of hell and their envious Rounds,
For all good things under heaven,
For all the spirits that groan under the sky,
Toward whom comes my hand, AH! arise and bring,

"But if that last hope (fiftyfold true)
Which called you all in One for salvation
Should falter, or fall asleep, or come to you
In vain, as uncertain,--even from your hand:
- Consider then forthwith your faith alive,
To one sole union, above, beyond,
Full trust, then multiply."
Faith, the one element that made him, is alive
Than an thou could'st tell: the spring of moves
In one sole power each single cube of love,
One man may not; but, if it were but one,
One man it would not need.
Give us the power to imitate
Thine unerring thoughts, said I.
Faith, the living force that adds or detracts
To human happiness or human good,
Thine is the source, the test, both are to thee,
Life itself, nor death, nor oldness, nor age.
True vision of the one true God, tho' men see
No colour but perfection, red some greyer hue
On the mind of them, as in a glass a sun.
Their drafts give off tinted water, in which are seen
No dendrogramms, triliths, or superstrain on course,
But only rough trails of oils, anemones,
Teredoa, Nympha, associations of weeds
Left on the earth by some rebandaged fen.

A fairer form of Vision long continued
Of the futilities of lit men and of winds
Supine, in mundasineness, at ease and at war
In environs small, but, as an envious shade
Should, ever more attain, more fain should fall down
At length from his old supine anabasis
And dip again to breathe some new-found delphic drop,
So might a soul, with lunges wide and high and long,
See more of the Life it should, not must I say
The life of bodies, take a grave above the waves
In which all winds no longer sup, nor wet nor wise,
The poles of earth and earth's convolving groaning team
Bearers of the stars, of the planet trundled down
To dust before them and their world a labourer
Again at large, and all at once to find its place.

To whom of AEA may BIOWA turn? Not she,
Yet her affections feebly speak her trust.
She feels the inmost nerve of these things struggles
With inmost groans. Revolve: and to that mute catholic
Heart of all that's good, may Christ perchance receive
Whoso bore the cross, who becometrides Life's Christ,
From nugatory gush. Remember, Lord, the fifth
Onutazzi di Luccheseo
======================================== SAMPLE 17 
========================================
Ulysses shall bless thee and restore thee. So thou hast not heard it 
said, or ever will prove the power

of gods. Now tell me this, and swear to swear,

for I do not too cherish life, that I am
of raven-blood too, an inhabitant of Ægæ. Nay, tell me also
declare, O father, is thy son an acorn, or a goodly pebble-stone, or
of some other tongue indeed? For surely he was not wont to have this
blue-hair; for never anything of his own command we did
not swiftly give him back again to Homerus, even to his
father, save only that it might be long ere he could do
witeny the like ourselves to devowar; for of all men men upon

That men are waxen subtle, and of steady saying, and well-enticed
whips, or they unto the sign of Asercs and their
thanes who watch over them, and over their chiefs who shine on
earth, and over the gods who have not came unto a man. But they
follow well the sun-light and these my hands did ever,
and I was a mighty one over the Æolian ships. But after my
death, as for that pilot whom I tell all this even to
this effect, as the book itself says, he made me a god in
his own spirit, who sang to the end the song of the son of
Hades--how he fell from heaven, and was thrown by his own
grace, and then raised again and doomed to eternal darkness.

For nine whole days we sailed not hither but thereaft; but on the
eve of the tenth day we came to a people and a country on
which they had sprung up like cacti in order in a narrow
place, and are now called from neighboring tribes into their own
language. And now even in their own land they are slow of speech,
not knowing how to order their own life; but they tower well in
their dealings with us, and bad well answer any of their
words: for when any of our learned sayings you studied well
by rote they would praise your honor which, by true words unproper 
Meant
eward, should have been conferred with thee in an evil
day. And true words were indeed disallowed, had all been
worthy by their own honor, such as suits well with altered
chars. But now I tell thee, that there is such a thing in the world
happening every moment, as I will show it, and the initiative
is ever the same, though the time for its coming be secret. So
bow thyself now to the Lord, before I tell it, and pray
the Eternal on whose favor rolleth with the nations the fortune
that is yet to be.

And I did believe that Judas was a highwayman, and that
he alone was sent by God laying the gifts here described,
but perhaps upon some other matter too. But when I saw
them so plainly myself I thought them the necessary
onds of the greatest love that I should vow for them,
so from that faith I was not stayed, but it be that, my
heart by its self-unfolding mysteries. And a more marvel also
falls away, if it be not that the eternal keys that
they announce are of invisible space and heavy, but the
mind that reads them not counters moving them. And
this new will is so great that, the more that it is
light, the more it shines and wilt. And the power that
I did make them as a two-edged sword, both and added
another edge to the blade, and wrought their indeed with
perjuries, and accused them falsely, and I did bind
them in bonds that can be broken and yet unbroken, and I did
wraft them to the church with gifts that can be taken away. O
And some there were among them, and some that about her were
named as fallen, who, praying for the people, said, "You were
deceived by Satan--fore feared he may have up and taken";
and the like, through the hundred also who came not to beg. And
they who had let slip here and there that which they did
attend themselves, and made them a dream about the rest to

And I, firm and steadfast in Faith, was in the midst of all, and
there was dispute among and cunning plot to up-grade,
but so far only as the weighty reasons that had come to
the depth of a man's courtesy could apply. And this was the
main cause of the test of Faith, the prince of the faithful
Towlimannus, that this people and this work
======================================== SAMPLE 18 
========================================
 the boundless sky.
The good and evil, both fright,
Weigh, weigh, weigh in the scales,
And doom us both to lies,
Because no other way
To prove our part of tithing.

I will not say it plain, I know;
I fear God's wrath and cannot pray:
For if the betters know the thing's
Likely you'll like my measure cry:
The world knows me a roaring chap,
A piper full of pence and rage;
And being known as good and true
I stand alone."