<|endoftext|>
Dance, dance.
And your hair I’ll brush, and I’ll smooth your waist,
And sing in praise of your thighs like anyone knows.
So fat and smooth.
I’ll take you home.
And I’ll love you, fat and smooth.
<|endoftext|>
"When You Think", by Ben Lerner [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, 
Language & Linguistics]
When you think of speech, you think
of words that need to be bound
in rope words that won’t be
so much to me. Words that vibrate
a sad little drowsy hum.
I can hear them in my head
all a-quiver. You too
can hear them in your head.
We are always so sensitive
about what we think.
<|endoftext|>
"Getting Things For a Girl on Her Birthday", by Ben Lerner [Living, 
Birthdays]
When you get something for a girl on her birthday,
grab a fork, because you’ll want to eat
the edible version of dirt.
Her crusty bread, her salt-chicken pot pie,
and her paté are good choices.
But the real treat is a smoothie on a stick.
It comes in a straw and you pull it from
the juicy carton like a puppy.
Her mocha fudge and her chocolate sundae
are good too.
But the stick is best.
The stick is as addictive as the roll.
<|endoftext|>
"Ticks", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Health & Illness, 
Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries]
Ticks are tiny bloodhounds with a bulldog
mouth and a life span of about five seconds.
They are small, pink, mosquitoes with a tan
to their wings. On your face, they leave
a pouty frowny face. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
They are everywhere, like crickets in a park
quietly singing. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I get nervous around them. They tell me
they are hunting wildebeest. Tick-tock,
tick-tock.
I get nervous around them. Their very presence
makes me nervous around them.
They look like feral dogs and
they hunt like wolves. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Tick-tick, tick-tock.
I'm serious about this. Tick-tock.
<|endoftext|>
"Refrains for a Small Dance", by Ben Lerner [Living, The Mind, Arts & 
Sciences, Music]
A lit match flips a face of pale smoke,
floating away like a kiss made in the darkness.
Music is often the closest you can get
to the perfect ending of love.
<|endoftext|>
"My Mother's Snare", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Relationships, 
Family & Ancestors]
My mother's snare
sounds like rain
picking up the strings of the rain,
then the trees, picking up the strings
of the trees.
It's the last refrain of a small song
my mother wants to finish, but cannot.
<|endoftext|>
"A Visit", by Ben Lerner [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, 
Home Life, Men & Women]
A visit:
a) a fat man steps on my toe;
b) my father jumps on my toe;
c) my mother trips on my toe;
d) the house is on fire;
e) there's an animal in the attic;
f) my aunt is hiding the animal;
g) my father's father came from Hungary;
h) my father had six kids;
i) my grandfather came from a country
in the swamps;
j) I broke my nose bone;
k) I kissed a girl;
l) I broke up with a girl;
m) I caught a fish;
n) I put a load of laundry;
o) I lost a child;
p) I had a hemorrhoid;
q) I met a soul;
r) I met a soul's two children;
s) I made a mistake;
t) I met a man;
u) I got a new motorbike;
v) I broke a nail;
w) I ate too much;
x) the matchbox house;
y) the snooty uncle;
z) I got the yellow light;
{hymn}
a) a fat man stepped on my toe
b) my father jumped on my toe
c) my mother tripped on my toe
d) the house is on fire
e) there's an animal in the attic
f) my aunt is hiding the animal
g) my father's father came from Hungary
h) my father had six kids
i) my grandfather came from a country
in the swamps
j) I broke my nose bone
k) I kissed a girl
l) I broke up with a girl
m) I caught a fish
n) I put a load of laundry
o) I lost a child
p) I broke a nail
w) I ate too much
x) the matchbox house
y) the snooty uncle
z) I got the yellow light
{hymn}
a) a fat man stepped on my toe
b) my father jumped on my toe
c) my mother tripped on my toe
d) the house is on fire
e) there's an animal in the attic
f) my aunt is hiding the animal
g) my father's father came from Hungary
h) my father had six kids
i) my grandfather came from a country
in the swamps
j) I broke my nose bone
k) I kissed a girl
l) I broke up with a girl
m) I caught a fish
n) I put a load of laundry
o) I lost a child
p) I broke a nail
w) I ate too much
x) the matchbox house
y) the snooty uncle
z) I got the yellow light
<|endoftext|>
"St. Patrick's Day", by Ben Lerner [Relationships, Family & 
Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social 
Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life]
An animal rises from the cover of the poem,
and the animal lifts its shirt
and its wings fly upward and spread out
as the animal raises its arms
and its arms raise their hands
to form the words that form the words,
which are words
as the animal lifts its shirt
and its wings fly upward
and spread out
to form the city,
which are words
as the animal raises its arms
and its arms rise their hands
to form the city
which are words
that form the city
the city lifting its shirt
and its wings flying upward
and out of the city rises the animal,
the animal that has become
the city's bare ribs,
the animal that is becoming
the bare ribs of the city
which are words, which are words
that in turn are becoming,
in constant transformation,
the animal's rib
the animal's naked rib
which are words, words
that in turn are becoming
the animal rising from the city's cover,
the city's ribs rising from the animal's skin,
which are words, which are words
that in turn are becoming
the animal, which are words becoming
the animal rising from the cover of the poem.
<|endoftext|>
"As the Ship Sails in the Gulf", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Life 
Choices, Parenthood, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, 
Family & Ancestors, Religion, Judaism, The Spiritual]
The boat is leaving the port, I think.

She isn't mine.
I'm heading for the island.
A few more hours, I think.

The boat is leaving the port, I think.
The children
are dancing in the parlor,
I'm heading for the island.

She isn't mine.
I'm heading for the island.
My parents
are preparing the dinner,
I'm heading for the island.
The boat is leaving the port,
I'm heading for the island.
The children
are dancing in the parlor,
I'm heading for the island.
<|endoftext|>
"Harlem Hells", by Ben Lerner [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban 
Life, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity]
for John Hillma

1.
The church spires look like birdshit
in this little layer cake of
Hmong water-guzzling whiskey,
Blackberry-pie sweetened condensed milk,
White-vine-juice gusting from
lilac, kudzu, field dust,
Gestapo grapevine spinach,
and #3 pencil lead.

The Sinthome sky rolls down
to meet the little city
like a blanket smacking
your head. Nothing
works the daze like
Black astral vapor Miss Sofia,
The Black Dirt Napalm Bowl,
the Poetry in Flames bath,
the Ice Creations bed.

2.
Who will ride the snide
brown train to whiteplace?
What hippopotamus
in black liquoredud reflection?
Who will climb
the pylon to blackplace?
Who will fall
from blackplace to whiteplace?
Who will rock the cradle
with more than just blackplank
who?

3.
You could tell a soul of fangs
bristling in ebony fissure,
a shape on fire,
an altar made of ears,
a thorn tree of hearteyes
and one ear that's missing.

Of the last of the fugitives
sitting on the hood of the car
where?

What?

What?

You could say:
a boat of twine
light as shadow
through the No Central Park doors
to the playground
of children
whose name becomes

the story of
their home.

4.
If you are not a god,
what is the god of you?

In the longest night, the longest dawn,
what do we do?

There's a manhole in the park
sucks in men, then sucks them in
back to the suffocating earth.

We shiver in the park,
wearing the rain
like a garment,
our hair drenched, our eyes
sucking the wind.

What are we?

What's beautiful
about us
is that we are not
to be found.
<|endoftext|>
"In the First Months", by Li-Young Lee [Living, Coming of Age, The 
Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, 
Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality]
The boy comes home from his long walk
to find his sister sitting at the table
in the bright light of morning.
She has poured him a glass of milk
and sits at the kitchen table
in the light light of morning.
The man who watches the man
walks down the hall to his daughter's room
in the bright light of morning.

He takes off his coat and sits on the bed
in the bright light of morning.
His daughter eats her milk and rises
from her bed in the bright light of morning.
The man looks down at the man
and then at the milk in his hand.

A man in dark pants walks down the hall
to his daughter's room in the bright light of morning.
He lies down on the bed
in the bright light of morning.
He dreams of his daughters
as they grow up
and of his daughters' lovers.

In the long night, in the first months,
the boy opens his door to find his sister
sitting at the table in the bright light of morning.
She has poured him a glass of milk and sits
at the kitchen table in the bright light of morning.

And as he pours it for her
she starts to cry.
And she sits at the kitchen table
in the bright light of morning.
<|endoftext|>
"Song of the Three Sisters", by Mark Doty [Living, Life Choices, 
Marriage & Companionship, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Crime & 
Punishment, Gender & Sexuality]
A mash of oak, sand, and soil
bleats like a stream through the forbidden place.
Harsh light dulls the space. The clematis,
swollen with some fierce intrusion, don't want to grow.
The men are setting the pickets up for the lot
of the newcomer. An Indian band is how we'll mark this place, says 
this man.

The women are watching from the rearview.
The newcomers aren't even here yet. They call the tribe
and wait in the lot, like soldiers in a field with no tanks.
The lot will never have a cart on it.
The lot will never have a wagon or a tent.

The lot will never have a plow or a hatchet.
The lot will grow vegetables.
The lot will grow corn, bean, radish, lettuce,
and squash. It will grow herbs, garlic, onions,
peas, turnips, corn again, and again.
The lot will grow squash, herbs, onions, and cabbage.
It will grow beans, peas, corn, and squash.
It will grow lettuce, beans, and corn.
It will grow onions, garlic, and green peas.
It will grow squash, corn, beans, and cabbage.
The lot will change to a country.

The lot will change to a town.
The lot will change to a city.
The lot will change to a reservation.
The lot will change to a bed and breakfast.
The lot will change to a barter shop.

It will grow olives, tomatoes, lettuce,
and limes. It will grow corn, beans, peas, and squash.
It will grow herbs, lettuce, and cabbage.
It will grow corn, onions, limes, and squash.
Corn will grow on the lot.

It will grow squash, corn, herbs, and lettuce.
Lettuce will grow in the lot.
Tomatoes, limes, and peppers will grow in the lot.
Salads will grow in the lot.
Corn will grow on the lot.

It will grow squash, herbs, and corn.
Corn will grow on the lot.
Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow on the lot.
Salads will grow in the lot.
Corn will grow on the lot.

A lot will grow in the forbidden place.
The lot will grow limes, limes, and tomatoes.
Corn will grow in the forbidden place.
Salads will grow in the forbidden place.
Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow in the forbidden place.
Corn will grow on the lot.

The lot will grow limes, limes, and tomatoes.
Corn will grow in the forbidden place.
Salads will grow in the forbidden place.
Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow in the forbidden place.
Corn will grow on the lot.

Water will come from somewhere.
Water will come from the sky.
Water will come from the rain.
Water will come from the springs.

We will catch a river fish
and fry it in butter and vinegar.
We will roast a fish over an open fire.
We will boil a fish, then we will cut it
to keep from swallowing its bones.

We will cut the chickens free,
and cut the ducks and ducks
will come again and again
to the rivers and the sea.
We will shake and strain the seeds.
We will eat the meat and bones.

We will bend and break
the sacred corn until the ears
float back into the hole in the earth.
We will plant the maize and soybeans.
We will work and plant the vegetables.

When the greens are showing, we will dig a hole
and bury twigs for dry sticks to grow.

When the tender shoots appear
we will dig another hole, deeper than that,
and bury sticks for dry twigs to make firewood.

When the growing season beckons, we will move
to the thickly growing area
and bury wooden beams for fires.

A lot will grow in the forbidden place.
We will plant corn, beans, and squash in the forbidden place.
We will dig and plant, and dig and plant,
over and over again for the rest of our lives.

When we can't dig or plant, we will look for stones
and bury them in the forbidden place.
We will bury sticks for firewood in the forbidden place.

When we can't bury sticks, we will look for rivers
and gather drinking water from the forbidden place.
We will gather water from the forbidden place.

When the settlers move in, we will go with them
and move among them and their children.
We will teach them the words of English and their tongue.
We will teach them the words of English
and their mother tongue.

We will look for tracks and build roads for cars.
We will bury wooden bridges in the forbidden place.

When the settlers move out, we will go with them
and move among them and their children.
We will teach them the words of English and their tongue.
We will teach them the words of English
and their mother tongue.

The place of landing will be remembered well.
It will be a place of prayer and a place of pleasure.
We will build a museum with plaques and artifacts.
We will dig and find out the stories of the ancestors.

We will build a library with shelves and books.
We will bury books and bury the stories.
We will bury wooden shelves for the books.
We will build new, better shelves for the books.

We will build a museum with words and artifacts.
We will bury words and bury the stories.
We will bury wooden shelves for the words.
We will build new, better words and shelves for them.

The place of death will be remembered well.
It will be a place of prayer and a place of pleasure.
We will build a museum with plaques and artifacts.
We will dig and find out the stories of the ancestors.

We will bury words and bury the stories.
We will bury wooden shelves for the books.
We will build new, better shelves for the books.
<|endoftext|>
"When I Am Gone", by Richard Emil Braun [Living, Death, Time & 
Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy]
He said he would not break the seal that he knew
by feeling the tiny round heads inside the bird
and finding they had no meaning.
He would lift the bird out of the bottle
and place it on the ledge.
He would break the neck of the seal
for the drop of mercury in the cup.

His grandfather said it was absurd
to believe in the birds that came to land
on the shore and flew away.
He said it was all a dream,
a fantastic, senseless game
that will end as soon as he pulled the bird
from the bottle.

He put the cup in the fire
and the water in the fire
and watched it burn.
He had no fear
and no more to say.
<|endoftext|>
"The Laughing Woman", by Richard Emil Braun [Social Commentaries, War 
& Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror]
When the men came
with their crazy cries,
stark heads blown neck-
breaking,
my grandmother, wearing a white coat,
gathered the women
and held them steady.

We don't want to hurt you, she told us.
We want to make you strong.
We'll love you.

The rain fell fast.
My brother came back to find
his nest of blankets,
his blanket-roost of roses.

The wood was so dry
that he tried to count,
but when he saw how many
there were, he stopped.

The woman had done this
before,
but it took weeks
for her screams to dull.

In the meantime,
she slowly recovered.

She would not lose faith,
and over the next few years,
she laughed, and laughed
into her pillow,
and smiled, and smiled.
<|endoftext|>
"On Christmas", by Richard Emil Braun [Christmas]
The poinsettia waves its golden horns,
and turns into a carnation.
A baby dressed as a horse
sings a lullaby,
while the reindeer stands up,
and tips his sleigh,
turning into a red-and-white muleta.

The snow falls down,
but Santa Claus arrives late,
and his sleigh is old and beat.
His reindeer moved a little faster
than the children,
but when they asked to stop,
he told them to go back where they came from.

The little girl in the red dress
opens her presents on the table,
and pretends to find a card.
She opens it,
and there is no letter,
and no present.
She puts her hands in the air,
and sings, "Oh, my Christmas tree,
I can't find my present!"

Christmas dinner is served up;
the mountains of syrup are there.
The reindeer are now ready to eat.
The table is set with the treasured wine
from the last Christmas,
and the first Christmas, and the first birthday,
and the fudge of the third Christmas,
and the spit of the fourth Christmas,
and the pudding of the fifth Christmas,
and the apple of the sixth Christmas,
and the plums of the seventh Christmas,
and the marmalade of the eighth Christmas,
and the ginger of the ninth Christmas,
and the niblet of the tenth Christmas,
and the cranberry of the eleventh Christmas,
and the plum of the twelfth Christmas.
And Santa Claus comes in his boat.
He looks at the children with a smile,
and dips his pen into the fountain.
<|endoftext|>
"Sugar Dada", by Richard Emil Braun [Living, Disappointment & 
Failure, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & 
Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy]
The sea is empty. It is bright and open,
a mirror, a great bell. I am at sea.
I look out over my life, and see nothing there.
I look down into my life, and see nothing here.
I look down into my life, and see nothing here.
I look into the mirror, and see nothing there.

On the tin roof, the faery sandigo is burning.
Its shadows stretch far and deep into the peas.
I watch it burn, and watch the smoke curl up
and hide in the tall corn. I watch it burn
as it builds up strength, and joy, and rage.
I watch it burn. Then I stand still.
I watch the flame sink down into the peas.
I watch it sink. And I watch it rise.

I walk down the path. My sister is waiting for me.
She has wrapped herself in the golden flame
that squats in the garden like a woman with strange breasts.
She beckons to me with her white hand,
and her brown hand. She is singing a song.
She sings, “Come, fat, come, lean, come, long.
Come, fat, come, lean, come, long.
Come down from your branches,
come down from your branches.
Come down from your branches
and meet me under the sea.”
She dances to the same song.

Her white hand, her brown hand,
her white hand, her brown hand,
hover in the air, hovering.
They beckon to me. They dance to the faery tune.
And I stand still. I stand still.
And I watch the flame go up into the peas.

She dances to the song, to the song.
She dances down to the pea.
She dances down into the sea.
She dances down into the sea.
She dances down into the sea.

She dances down into the sea.
She dances down into the sea
from the faery island.
She dances into the blue and rolling foam.
She dances down into the sea.
And I stand still. I stand still.
I watch her dancing, her white hand, her brown hand.
I watch her dancing, and I watch her white hand.
I stand still. I stand still.
And I watch the flame sink down into the sea.

I have taken all my pea-hoard
into the great unknown.
I have carved bitter pylons
into the snow. I have named them.
I have stretched tightropes over them.
I have tied weights to them.
I have launched them to the sky.
I have sent them flying far and far.
I have gripped the handles with reckless hands.
I have let them go when they reached the sky.
They were so light. I stood looking at the sky
and could not bring myself to touch them.
I have left my treasures at home.
I have packed my balloons tightly.
I have tied a white cloth around them.
I have tied it to a pine tree.
I have caught the white cloth to the tree.
I will leave it there when I am gone.
I have hung tightrope over the sky
like Lawrence of Arabia.
I have left my treasures at home.
I have filled my hands in praise
to the Lord my God.
<|endoftext|>
"Catchy Toms", by George Bradley [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, 
Nature, Religion, Christianity]
Take my heart, Jesus.
I have wasted it on trays of pimentos,
and lost ten years of my life.
It is nothing special.
The first year I used it
I went to mass twice a day
and faithfully did so.
But I do not remember the organs
shuddering when the bishop said,
“Cardinal, we have found the heart.”
But I do remember my mother
shaking her head no.
I have always been a bad boy,
and my badness
has been badness
and will continue to be.
Take my heart, Jesus.
But you cannot keep it from me
or I will come to you
and I will tell you everything.
<|endoftext|>
"The Dance", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, The Body, Nature, Arts & 
Sciences, Theater & Dance]
A swing is not a dance unless you do the swing in it.
—Horace

When the World Takes the House on the Heath

The house was ours in the garden, green and coming up like an old man 
with a cough.The houses on the Heath? They couldn’t be ours, for 
they’d been Made by men, and they were made to carry men.
How they must have smiled when we told them what we wanted them for!
The holly and ivy grow out between the hedges to keep peopleOut, 
away. You can only see their legs in the hedges.
And when people pass, they turn quickly to look at us.
In the hedges, between hedges, a man makes a show of shooting 
stars,To try to get people out of the garden.
The women in the gardens wear stiff smiles.
Look, they even blink. It makes no difference.
But there must be something to it, after all those years.
This wonder-house-with-stars. We’ve lived here so long we know 
what’s real and what’s not.
Now we know what it is.
<|endoftext|>
"Prayer for the Dead", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Death, Sorrow & 
Grieving, The Body, Nature, Funerals]
Some day the dead will come back to me.I will lie down and drown 
myself, one big shuddering gasp, one big rip, one big rip, one huge 
house-o’-fire, one last great slosh and one last great roll-in, one 
last cold cry, one final great lurch, one final shuddering pause, one 
final lunging at freedom.It will be a long time before I wake again.
<|endoftext|>
"Through This", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Death, Growing Old, The 
Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors]
They buried my father
without a funeral.
I buried my mother
without a sleep.
We did not go to the graveside
though we wanted to.
It was more respectful
to leave them alone
to bury their father
and mother
than to sift through earth
and ash for every little stone.
It’s morning already
three decades later.
The cold has lifted.
I step over the uneven ground
toward the small mound,
past ivy, beech, beading grape leaves
on their festal tables,
the rotten fruit that stayed put
in a paper bag,
each apple a knife that cut
before it could fall.
I walk to the middle
where the markers are set
and I set my mother’s stone
beside the wordmother.
I fold my hands and pray
for the hours we did not share.
<|endoftext|>
"All the Dogs in Boston", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Coming of Age, 
Relationships, Family & Ancestors]
They buried my father
without a funeral.
I buried my mother
without a sleep.
We did not go to the graveside
though we wanted to.
It was more respectful
to leave them alone
to bury their father
and mother
than to sift through earth
and ash for every little stone.
It’s morning already
three decades later.
The cold has lifted.
I step over the uneven ground
toward the small mound,
past ivy, beech, beading grape leaves
on their festal tables,
the rotten fruit that stayed put
in a paper bag,
each apple a knife that cut
before it could fall.
I walk to the middle
where the markers are set
and I set my father’s stone
beside the wordfather.
I fold my hands and pray
for the hours we did not share.
<|endoftext|>
"Long As This Hand Lengths My Garden Bathed in Evening", by Ivan 
Griffith [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors]
1
I don’t like to be told what to do.
I like to do what comes.
2
My mother is in her grave.
My father is in his.
3
I hang on their every word.
I never forget the car door
open and my mother’s
laugh all about my ear
until I can’t ignore it.
4
I would give up everything
for the sound of her laugh.
5
You don’t have to be a saint
to understand what
that noise means.
6
My father and mother
moved like ice.
7
This is how I touch the sky:
I don’t mean my belly
but my whole hand.
8
They would say, “Good morning, dear.”
9
The food was so cold
my tears kept it cold.
10
When I am big as you,
I’ll pick you up
and shake you like a dog.
<|endoftext|>
"Elms", by Kate Colby [Activities, Gardening, Nature, Trees & Flowers]
I like to dig and dig and dig
for beautiful pink or blue tulips under the garden shade,
for ancient dahlias in their formal leaves,
for loose, pale stems of jasmine or sweet
Bulgona medicinalica, or a shad
that is just beginning to take its first small green
twig from the cold. I like
to dig because it is a kind of love.
<|endoftext|>
"Heaven", by Kate Colby [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, 
Sciences, Social Commentaries]
It is an awful, awful, awful world
and I want to get out of it as fast
as I can.
I want to stay in the water
where I am reading now
and drink and drink it all in.
I am thirsty. I am standing in
the world where I am supposed to be
saved. I am a child
and the world is hell
and I want to go home
as fast as I can.
I am not supposed to be here.
The world is hell
and I am not supposed to be
saved but I am and I am
saved and I am not
the world. I am the world
and I want to go home
as fast as I can.
<|endoftext|>
"Waste", by Kate Colby [Living, Death, The Body, Relationships, Men & 
Women, Nature]
What is it is so wrong with me
That I can’t let you
Out.
So I won’t let you out.
<|endoftext|>
"Cada Nube", by Kate Colby [Living, Disappointment & Failure, 
Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, 
Winter]
For George Bernard Shaw

There are days when happiness
Is like a cake;
You know the kind, thick and fabulous,
Covered with frosting,
Covered with larkspur,
Covered with pink sea foam,
Covered with snow;
They rise and shrink from your hands,
Like memories that have been lost,
Turned to their illogical extremes.
In the same way that these thin sweets
Do nothing to restore the real
World, the real mind, the real you,
They do nothing to make you happy
When they are on the plate.
They rise and shrink from my heart like tears
And make it sad and unfamiliar
Like a room that has been taken away
And turned into a room.
They are a kind of cold and soft frosting
That has been left out in the cold too long,
And the sad heart that was glad of them
Turns away in disgust.
It is as if someone who had been
Your friend and now has become a vast wasteland
Had offered you some leftovers that were light
And good but lacked the richness of the cake.
They are a kind of cold and soft frosting
That has been left out in the cold too long.
You can smell them on the table where
They have been devoured by rats and mice
And the whole place has breathed in the scent.
They are an enormous outpouring of love
That has been written and then excised by a hand
Too sensitive to cut properly.
They are a kind of cold and soft frosting
That has been left out in the cold too long.
You can feel them on the tongue and in the fingers
And taste the salt and curliness and fat
And how the frost has stretched the butter threads
And left the texture of the dish intact
And poured through them a glaze of joy.
They are so wonderful that when they are put
Into the dish with the other things that are lovely
Like little white doves and pink roses and snow
You feel as if the dish had been an instrument
In the hands of God all along that you had made
Such things and so you cannot eat the dish.
It is a kind of cold and soft frosting
That has been left out in the cold too long.
You are a horrible monster for devouring
Things that are not for your hunger.
<|endoftext|>
"A Sky Full of Love", by Kate Colby [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, 
Activities, Travels & Journeys]
I have been in love's iris
After the sun has dried the air,
And the sky has looked upon my face
And said, it is twilight.
In the course of all days,
I have seen the earth turn over,
I have come home to the same tall house
And found the sky is the sky
That I saw in another life,
And I am myself again.
I have learned the sky is old
And is full of story.
It holds all the time
A huge world of light
Like the sum of all the love
That burned the world into dust
Before the birth of the sun.
I have seen the sky lose its way
And wander all over the place
Like a hickory after its kiss
Of wild red grass.
And it is beautiful in this place.
<|endoftext|>
"A Very Holy Man", by Kate Colby [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, 
Relationships, Men & Women]
She lives in the basement of this house.
Her clothes and hair are in such bad shape
They are not fit for a dog to eat.
Her eyes are the color of apple trees,
And there is not a thing in them that moves.
She has called this house the Holy One's,
Because the carpet in the hallway
And the beds and the chairs are sacred.
My mother, who for years has believed
In the goodness of men and the Holy One's,
Who has forgiven everybody,
Will have to forgive this woman, who has ruined
This house of the Holy One.
The man on the bus told me this story,
And the man next door told me the same.
I have known that he is going to die
Since he was a child,
And I have been waiting for him to die
With reverence and fear,
Because I knew he would not be holy
As long as this woman is here.
I have heard the bus drums roll,
And the telephone wire clatter,
And waited for death to do its work.
I have prayed for the holy man,
Because I knew he would not be holy
As long as this woman is here.
I have seen this woman upstairs
This many a time.
And now I know it is wrong to kill
Any body, no matter what.
And yet I have done it many times,
For reasons that have nothing to do
With faith in the Holy One.
<|endoftext|>
"Death of a Visitation", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Death, 
Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets]
On the stairs I left my English bulldog,

His scratching and hunger and his constant fear

Of the first, the second, the third person present,

Of me, the lord of the estate. He died

Under the wet, in the night, unusual sky.

The dog I loved like a daughter, the dog

I would have harmed or wanted in any way

For the length of a visit or longer,

Leaning from the balcony, tail wagging,

Then running to me, wagging fast and faster,

As if to ask what more I could want.

The pooch, a cross between a bulldog and a fish,

An early retriever of manhood, did not like

The sudden change. He never understood

My wanting him to understand, as I grew older,

The need to own the company and be the man.

I was his guardian and harbored him in a closet,

Cooped in a room with a little wire cage

Where he could bark without consequence.

For the first month or two that he was a pup

He barked away, mostly at the windows of trucks

Or trains, which wheezed and complained

About the rain, which couldn't drop there

And was more than satisfied.

The English bulldog was bred for fighting,

As the bulldogs of Spain, the bulldogs of France,

And the bulldogs of southern Italy, and the bulldogs of Sicily

Went in the ring, combed their tails and, when they finished,

Waved and barked and jumped through the closing gate,

Or jumped and tossed their hands in the air
And raced out on their pursuers.

That was the dog that bit me,
Sipping from my neck
And sometimes my scalp, and leaving blood
And urine that made me lay still
And watch until he did it again.

I wanted to guard him from harm,
As I knew I could not survive
My own attack by this dog.
And I wondered, sometimes, how
Others survived.
I was glad to sleep
When he slept,
Unwilling to consider sleep a threat
To dogs, but still alarmed by

The fact that a living thing
Could leave me alive.
I worried about fire,

Poison or a broken bone,

For a dog was dead
So long as there was blood.
I didn't want to live,
Being afraid
Of being dead.
But I knew the dog had bitten

I wanted to help him,
And I felt, sometimes,
That I was helping,
Because he was still here.
I learned what fear was,
And what it wasn't.
I knew, too, that when a thing
Died, the animal
Would move on
To the next thing
In the right order,
Until the thing
It self-propagated,
The next in the right order,
The next in the right order
Would die
And so on, for all life.
<|endoftext|>
"Gilding the Mirror", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Sorrow & 
Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics]
The Republicans know the value of anger

When there is nothing else to be had.

The Democrats use it at their peril.

The Republicans always go into it

Angrily,

And go out
Angrily
And there is nothing else to be had.

The Democrats want it applied to them

Angrily.

They do not know the value of it

Until it is applied to them.

Then it is not so bad,

And then they have no idea

How badly they have it.
Anger is a useful thing

The Republicans always go into it

Angrily.

The Democrats want it taken away

Angrily.

Anger is a foolish thing

The Republicans always go into it

Angrily.

They do not know what is in it

Until it is taken from them

And showed to them.

And then they have no idea

How bad it is.
<|endoftext|>
"A Little Shiver", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Sorrow & 
Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, 
Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality]
Once I knew a lesbian woman who was in her thirties,
and she said, My mother was a disaster from birth to death.
She had three daughters, and she slept with all of them.

My mother's life was ruined.
Now, my mother is in her eighties, and she has two kidneys.

Angela, my other mother, is in her eighties, and she has a heart 
valve problem.

When one gets a cold, one shakes a little and cries, and then one 
sits in a chair, and then one sits on a chair.

Angela and my other mother are in their eighties, and they have 
problems that I do not know about.

The whole world is a memory.
And the heart has a lot of problems,
But not the memory.
It is the other way around.
One can die one's youth,
And memory is endless.

They had gone to the home of one of my cousins.
My mother asked them not to come back,
and they refused to listen to her.

They would drink whisky every week,
they would go to dances, they would sleep with men, and not tell me, 
and not even get married.

They died in their forties and fifties,
but I never knew them.
My memory is of a life
that is over.
I have a cold, and I am in bed, exhausted,
shuffling my feet, and thinking of my childhood.

I was on my mother's side,
and now I am on my father's.
My heart is full of memories,
and I do not know which to choose.
<|endoftext|>
"On Art and the Poet", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Arts & Sciences, 
Poetry & Poets]
It is not the steps of the temple that provide the


rising action, the burning of oil, the piling up of blocks, the





turning of heavy wheels, and the burden of wares that give the ideal, 
but the imperfect





behavior, the extravagant action of the mind in the working of its 
own parts. . . . . . . .


Is it a cloud, it asks, is it a bird?

I tell you it is the heart of a child,
and I have heard what that heart can do.
<|endoftext|>
"Fireflies Over the City", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Death, 
Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Religion]
Fireflies over the city tonight
like silver talons, like the long lives of ants,
a long knife edge across my cheek.

I am so tired of being alive.
I am so tired of being dead.

In the black hole of space I am waiting for something to ignite.
I am so tired of waiting for something to ignite
that I have taken off my clothes.
I am so tired of taking off my clothes
that I am afraid to turn around.

I am so tired of being afraid of what is in front of me
and behind my back and
thirty feet in front of me,
and in my head, the bugs.
They have been instructed to move by some outside force.
They have been told to move.

A silver metronome in the night sky
is giving the insects a cruel metronome.

They are timing their lives so carefully
and there is nothing they can do to escape.
They are timing their lives, and there is nothing they can do to 
escape the silver metronome.

In the open window I can see a fly in the air
setting a matchhead on fire, and another fly
somewhere behind my right shoulder
at the hem of my shirt.

I can hear the puffed cheeks of the girl in the next room,
and the short terrified cry
of the girl in the next room.

The metronome in the night sky
is giving the insects a cruel metronome.

What are the insects doing in the night sky?
What are they waiting for?
<|endoftext|>
"Sonnet for Dawn", by Ravi Shankar [Living, Death, Relationships, 
Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, Other Religions, 
Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, 
Money & Economics]
I have eaten the fruit of the never-lasting hour
in which the god of commerce willed no one ever to leave his show
for a season of meaning. On the surface my money
would say duffer—I have taken no debts
but I had no heart for commerce. Like an addict
I grew like a devouring flower of commerce, keeping score
in the scoreboard of business, myself the most important
thing, the thing that no one knew and no one will
ever know. In the age of the banyan I could not imagine
my life and the life of the banyan never the same,
my body a kind of commercial, my essence a kind of merchandise.
No one knows how long I lived as a poet in the city
and no one knows how much I died as a poet in the city.
No one knows the dream I had every evening,
it was a dream of my own death and I awoke from it
with my eyes taped behind my head
like an executioner's. I will never know
why I was so bad at my job. I will never
build a bridge or a museum or a park. I will
never write another word of prose. But if I could
I would give up poetry forever and ever
as a means of holding on to what I had
in the city, of keeping alive the score
in the scoreboard of my business. As if
my death were an act of merciful recall, as if
my life were an auction and I myself the item
of auction, the lowest bidder, a thing that bought
no happiness for myself or for anyone.
<|endoftext|>
"for Emily", by Ravi Shankar [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, 
Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Trees & Flowers, 
Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social 
Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, Money & 
Economics, Town & Country Life, War & Conflict]
Emily was a parabatra,
Emily was a parabatra.

How to talk to her about the trees
Emily never asked me.

Her hands moved under her,
Emily was a real stickler
Emily was a real stickler for shape.

She'd see the Bumpus Brown for sale
In the Village Books on Madison
And stand in the doorway
Reading the author's bio
Until the voice of me and her past

Thrilled and heaved and blown her forward.

And when Emily was a girl

Her father sent her to live with us,
In this house across the river,
To learn the ways of saving and selling
And putting away profligate money.

How to go up and down these streets
Emily never asked me.

How to stand in the best light
When entering a room
And look one full 360 degrees

To see everything that's worth seeing

And how much there is to see.

And how to put it all away
In a month, in advance,
For she was a bird of passage
Emily was a bird of passage.

She was a bright flame that burned

And died and was reborn
So many times before.
How to go up and down these streets
Emily never asked me.

How to stand in the best light
And how to stand in the best light
And stand in the best light and stand in the best light.
<|endoftext|>
"A Poem about Poetry", by Ravi Shankar [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & 
Poets]
for Richard Wilbur

You see a leaf is blooming, a twig
A bird is flying, a dog is
Growling—what does it all mean?

You see a river is flowing, a stump
A cave is opening, a boy is playing,
A girl is sewing, what does it all mean?

All things have endings, even you.
<|endoftext|>
"For Annie", by Ravi Shankar [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social 
Commentaries, Money & Economics]
When I am gone from here, Annie,
Take what you will.
I gave you all I had.

I only ask you leave
To take what you can get.
I never wanted anything.

I wanted you safe at home
With your brother and father.
I didn't want you working
In any office, anywhere.

I want you to be a queen, Annie,
Tied up in your garden
By your happy husband and father.

I want you to be a princess,
Sleeping in your garden bed.

I want you to be a Buddhist,
Kneeling on a hill of words,
Watching the clouds come and go.

I want you to be the same
By which I've been blessed,
Lest anything should change,
You say, wherever I go.

The more you tell me to be true
The more I understand you.
I was so tired when I came here
I slept for an hour under the tree.

A voice from the grave calls to me,
I listen and do not hear,
And if I did I'd hear the same.
<|endoftext|>
"Love Song", by Ravi Shankar [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, 
Break-ups & Vexed Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & 
Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women]
Love dies like a sword; the mind
Grows dreamy and envious, scornful
Of the one it has forgotten.
The mind grows envious and envious
And leaves the body empty.
The body grows empty and lets
The mind go its way.

Love dies like a flower; the mind
Grows dreamy and envious, becoming
Like the plant it has hitherto
Tamed, and forsakes its mother.
The mind becomes envious and envious
And breeds its opposite.
The opposite breeds like its own—
A shadow and a liar.

Love dies like a ship; the mind
Grows dreamy and envious, sinking
Into the sea of sleep, having
Blessed the one for whom it sailed.
The mind grows envious and envious
And leaves the lover lonely.
The lover lonely holds on
Till the days and nights are sung,
Then lets himself be taken
By the one he thought was true.

Love dies like a dream; the mind
Grows dreamy and envious, flying
High above the lover's waking
To a paradise in the sky.
The mind grows envious and envious,
Placing itself in the place
It left the one who was loved.
The one who was loved—like a bird
Dreamed out by its wondrous flight—
Loves again, grows tired, and dies.
<|endoftext|>
"Money", by George Sterling [Activities, Jobs & Working, 
Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Social 
Commentaries, Money & Economics]
My mother said to me, You may think you've got
A good head for numbers, but I know
Better, and it's a fact: I've lost
Much. And yet I'll bear it.
I was about to speak, when you interrupted,
I'm ashamed I didn't ask you to live
Another day, with one condition:
That you would never leave my side.
I said, You'll not; but if I could
Condemn myself to nothing more than
The path your head shall cross no more,
I would ask you to go on that day.
I can't do without you, Deloris,
And so I'll make an end of it.

You have proved to me, once and again,
You can be as cruel as you choose.
Let's make an end of it, on the spot.
But you will not be my life, Deloris,
Because you cannot leave me mine.
My debts are far too heavy for me;
I can't pay them off.
I'll pay them off to my dying day,
But I can't quit you, Deloris.

She said, You've got the figures
All half and half, and all of it
Except the figures, all of it.
I tried to smile, but I couldn't.
I wanted to. And I said to her,
You can take them, if you want them,
But you won't have me for your wife.
And that was all.

A man can starve a woman
All the winter long and then
Buy her a home and make her
Feel like a queen.
A woman can starve a man
All the winter long and then
Seek him forever out,
Find him worth caring for.
And if it comes to fighting,
And the woman's seeking the weapon,
And the man's wearing the armour,
And they step into the arena,
And there's a single blow that rings,
Then, by God! It's all for fighting!
<|endoftext|>
"Shall I Ease You Now Of This Myth", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, 
Love, Classic Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic 
Love, Relationships]
Shall I ease you of this myth
Of mine immortal life to last?
Shall I ease you now of this myth
Of my love deathless and most sweet?
Shall I, indeed, ease you of this myth
Of my death and my love and my muse?
Oh, if it be so, I pray,
Take me to the very deepest west
Of your old sea-road that clover white
Makes a dim haze in the sun?
Take me there, where the pines were planted
By my first love deathless and most sweet.

It may not be, but there is one thing
I would like to ask you, while I am here.
'Tis not quite what you think.
I have another self that I sing,
And this self sings in me.
Do you like that?
It is said that I shall come back,
But I shall not stay.
The clouds above the old west
The more they pull the less they lose.
So the less you be, the less I be.
<|endoftext|>
"A Shropshire Lad 28: The wind blew as it was right", by A. E. 
Housman [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Classic Love, Romantic Love, 
Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, 
Philosophy]
The wind blew as it was right
And the leaves flew up and struck and fell
The right way, like the rest of the world.
The world is the sport of a curious whim;
All law the whim of a tick of a clock;
The world turns and turns, but turns in a hither, thither way.
But love turns on a path from the end.
There are no bends in love.
<|endoftext|>
"The Bleeding Heart", by Robert Browning [Living, Marriage & 
Companionship, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, 
Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & 
Pastorals, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Engagement, Weddings, 
Valentine's Day]
Ye coasts, whose shadow falleth westward, landward, Fourth-of-Julys, 
I call and no one is there; Landward and no one comes to clear away 
the meal and spoil the flowerets, And set in their bloom the gold 
that floweth westward From forth the west-wind: I, I alone am here; 
Alone, for all the folk that answer me, And all the call that is out 
of tune, Landward and no one answers me. Ye long, long laggard 
coasts, that know me not, I hear ye only when I-half-know myself, And 
seek to draw me even to the hearing of myself. Yea, but I draw thee 
even, For thou art everywhere, and nowhere alone; And I am all of 
thee, and none of me alone; And I am come to thee, and no man is 
given unto me, For all that I can do or say, or think, I find in my 
own heart to do or say. Yea, but I give thee all that my heart hath 
found; And thou giveth me, for thou art generous; And this is 
generosity, the giving of thyself. And now we have met, and now I see 
The light of thine in me, as in the sight of the rose; And now thou 
sayest me what I would say to thee; And now I love thee, for thou art 
generous, And this is generous, the giving of thyself; And now we 
have met, and now I see The light of thine in me, as in the sight of 
the rose; And now thou sayest me what I would say to thee; And now I 
love thee, for thou art generous. O star of mine, the point of my 
compass, One point above, where I may swing, if only I Strike true; 
One sea, One land, One world, One God, One death, One resurrection, 
One life, One all, all the length of me, One the wide world before me 
where to start; And one the beginning of the rest, A little earth 
beside me where to end. And one, the widest sea that I shall touch, 
And one, the land that shall stretch for me beyond; And one, if I can 
only be true, If only I rise to the highest height; One heaven, One 
hell, One heaven above, One hell below, One only destiny the wide 
world to cover; And one, to clear away the robined sky, And cleanse 
my track as I go up again, One world-wide bell to strike, and bye and 
bye, The knell of this insatiable love of mine. Ye powers, O stars, 
and ye Sabbaths, Hearken and be not proud of my level line, My high 
and low, my high and low, My cradle-singer and my croucher, The 
heaven of my love and my love's nest. Hearken and be not proud of my 
level line; For even as I I raise it to the sky, Even so my cradle 
shall sink down to it.
<|endoftext|>
"The Two Children", by Robert Herrick [Living, Infancy, Nature, 
Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, 
Reading & Books, Anniversary, Valentine's Day]
O dear, sweet trees, that never fade,
O sweet, sweet morning air, that breathes
Less alive into the winter air
Than when it kisses the bosom of the year,
O firstling of the year, of the year to be,
Give unto these children their bread of love,
Their water of hope, their oil of sweet desire.
And as these children of the morning are
With seed of your beauty planting in the air,
And as their life is like the sowing of your seeds,
So let them your virtues likewise hold and cherish.
As these children of the morning are
With seed of your beauty planting in the air,
So ye, sweet trees, let all your liveliness
With seed of your virtue planting in the air,
So together ye shall produce the fruit of love,
The hope of the hope, the sweetness of the sweet.
<|endoftext|>
"From an Italian Mynah", by Andrew Marvell [Activities, Jobs & 
Working, Nature, Animals, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Social 
Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & 
Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism]
Farewell, O Decameron, farewell,

Thou would'st meet again with who thou wast with;

Thou art not of these sons of the sea,

Of these creatures bred and born for war,

Whose blood runs at their heart and drives away all rest.

Thou art not of these, who neither sail nor fight,

But serve their owners with their eyes and ears;

And they alone escape the sea and storm,

And only some leap overboard and die.

Farewell, O Decameron, farewell,

Thou lovest not yourself, but some thy words:

Farewell, O Decameron, farewell,

Thou lovest not yourself, but some thy words:

For thou art mortal and thou art wise,

And to be wise in all thy world of woe,

Is to be perfect in all else but love.
<|endoftext|>
"from Apollo and Cicero: Towards a Definition of the Laws of War: ", 
by Andrew Marvell [Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & 
Politics, Heroes & Patriotism, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman 
Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism]
Lo! here the government of Heaven, and here the government of Hell!

Here stand the masters of mankind, here are the magistrates All in 
one place; and who doth not own

Part of the common group? who not confess

Their sentiency? and who not judge

What action is adjudged? These standing by the throne,

The others house-breakers and thieves of bread;

The slanderer, and the blasphemer, and the greed

Rottering at the root of the tree of life;

The disturber of the feast, and drinker of blood;

The serpent in the grass; the feller-buff;

The boasting and comparing of goods not theirs;

The false witness, and the faithless; the false oath;

The stubborn and rigid; the jealous and unfair;

The deceiver with his father and mother;

The traitor with his elders; the traitor with his son;

The impostor with the youth; the idler and waste

Waste of time; all drunk and wild with revel;

Sick and fagged with the long day's carouse;

Loud with sound of bells, and the chatter of girls;

Silent with prayer, and the sonnet's national chorus;

The fierce and wordy; the profane and vile

Met in one common pavilion: this the Saints,

The sovereign ones of men. Here stands the magistrate All in one,

Judge, jury, and executioner All in one,

His sovereign body. Here, here stands the real Sovereign,

The God of his earth, the Father of his soul,

Not made, but uncreated, invisible,

And intangible as hell's ethereal mind.
<|endoftext|>
"from Apocalypto: Cantata", by Andrew Marvell [Living, Sorrow & 
Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Weather, Religion, 
Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy]
In vain doth fall the bitter rain,
In vain doth wind and rain combine;
The wintry west continues loud
And loud the north wind shrieks through the forest.
No leaf, nor spike, nor branch can hold;
Nought but goes down to leave the ground bare.
Gone from each living creature are;
And in the open space I see
Christ's blood, like water, on the earth spilled!
The earth is full of rain; the sky is dark;
The earth is bitter with the west's breath;
The earth is loud with wind and rain;
The earth is filled with Christ's life-blood blown down
From the pierced hands of God, the Holy of Holies,
Who dwells unseen, behind the scenes of night,
In Christ's wounds, whose naked sword is red
With spilt life-blood, who sitteth at the right hand of God,
Giving gifts of mercy to men in the dark
And sorrowful dark; and the dark earth,
With the great rain-clouds overstrewn,
Like a white field cut clear through with bright bright blood,
Is cleft asunder; and on the waste earth's waste field
A voice is heard, like the wind's singing; it saith:
"O sons of men, O men all, rejoice!
The end is come; the end is come and lies afar;
The end is come, the end is come, O men rejoice!"
But the clear voice is heard, but all is still;
The rain falls silent, and the wind's playing dies;
And the field is as it was, with no change or end,
And the word is fulfilled, "The end is come, O men rejoice!"
But the clear voice is heard, yet every thing lives;
The rain falls still; the winds are blown apart;
And the wild beasts are hidden, and the birds fly free.
And God comes forth from his scented fold, and all the ends
Of the earth lie like tapers lying in the wind;
And the first white horseman that bore the Cross
Out of the eastern gate is at the doors of Heaven;
And he has loosed the beating of his feet,
And he has caught the sound of his immortal feet,
And he hath dressed him in his beautiful white robes,
And he has wrapped him in the rays of his heavenly love,
And the sound thereof hath gone forth on the winds of heaven,
And the sound thereof is like the rushing of a great tide,
And the sound thereof is as the surging of the sea-wave under the 
heavy rocks,
And the sound thereof is as the sound of many voices, and the clouds 
are split, and the air is shaken, and the earth is full of a sound as 
of many waters,
And the great sound of the eternal King is gone forth from the 
eastern gates,
And the sound thereof abideth a thousand years.
<|endoftext|>
"A Song", by Andrew Marvell [Nature, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, 
Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy]
(excerpt)

WHEN I have given my days unto thee,
And, with my words, my days have given to thee,
And all my heart from wonder hath been stayed,
And all my soul from grief is set free,
And my thought cannot hurt my thought,
And my desire can only think that thou art
As far beyond me as is this faint air,
Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky.
When I have given my days unto thee,
And all my heart from wonder hath been held,
And all my soul from grief is set free,
And my thought cannot hurt my thought,
And my desire can only think that thou art
As far beyond me as is this faint air,
Thou art as far beyond me as is this faint air,
O far, far beyond me, than I can reach with thought or prayer.
When I have given my days unto thee,
And all my heart from wonder hath been held,
And all my soul from grief is set free,
And my thought cannot hurt my thought,
And my desire can only think that thou art
As far beyond me as is this faint air,
Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky.
When I have given my days unto thee,
And all my heart from wonder hath been held,
And all my soul from grief is set free,
And my thought cannot hurt my thought,
And my desire can only think that thou art
As far beyond me as is this faint air,
Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky.
When I have given my days unto thee,
And all my heart from wonder hath been held,
And all my soul from grief is set free,
And my thought cannot hurt my thought,
And my desire can only think that thou art
As far beyond me as is this faint air,
Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky.
When I have given my days unto thee,
And all my heart from wonder hath been held,
And all my soul from grief is set free,
And my thought cannot hurt my thought,
And my desire can only think that thou art
As far beyond me as is this faint air,
Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky.
<|endoftext|>
"Ode I. Respectively", by Andrew Marvell [Arts & Sciences, 
Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & 
Patriotism]
Hector fond marchatos, Ganymede piano,
Camenas, cœurs duscher auf.
Sola nos est uxor, quos pennis equo
Excedit in Laurentum.
Camenas, cœurs duscher auf.
O vela meus, vela meus.
Nunc campi habere, nunc campi.
Hæc est vos camenam tenebam,
Vas meus equo reliqui.
Quam se vidisse pensare cibus,
Vos est vos camenam tenebam.

Vos campo, vetus, fere Marsum;
Vos pingui, vetus, ferat Tityre;
Vos flumina, vetus, bene Frigone;
Vos canis, vetus, quærisque Heré;
Vos hartebat, vetus, tantis Orpheus:
Hunc olim est caudae Marsis

Vetus seges per vestris libit;
Tristes istud, vetus, cinere flagit;
Cognatum est haec tamen aeternum
Pectusque statim, vetus, lege.
Sed, inuito, modo,
Vetere quem mihi poterant vos;
Fecit homines, quibus et ora sunt.

Mars, thou enemy of the sky,
Pomp and fortune, hast the strength;
Daring, like thee, no courage knows:
Come, and with us in the skies
Fill with thy portentous sail.
Loose from the quarter whence we spring,
Lend them our winged words and strange,
From thy dominion safe and clear.
We, all-cased like thee, will fly
Thy very prayers and solemn ways.
Thou, from thy chariot willst go
In the first heaven that lies above,
Where all the gods are some way bent
To abide and sing their odes.
We, this day, in the ethereal house,
From toils and perils of our earth,
Will with like rudeness allure;
And in our heavenly walks to stay,
Will fall on thy earth and thee.
Sic anima est, cælo, vetustas,
Dulcis tuus in tenebras aestas:
Hinc sola est, sæpe animas.

What God hath bid me to these deeds deny,
And swear with oaths against his word to do?
As one who, born without a peer, would be
So much a king, he had best be no king.
He, if himselfe was God, would need no peer,
Nor would be bettered by a consort wise:
Yet neither would he be without a peer,
Nor a king, if he his sceptre left behind.
If so it were that all earth's children one were,
(And one they must be) by some unproper'd womb,
The strangeness of that womb might in this be known,
And they not call that earth a body earth,
Nor earth a body, but a lifeless sky.
O Gods, O stars, be mute!
O suns, be no, but burn!
O moons, be moons no watches, but gild ye not
The earth that God hath made to burn and sterne!
O suns, O heat, O sleepe the night!
See, see, what forces may not be graunted,
What burdens can no rest let!
Behold the armes of Afric could not raise
This King against his born Lord, but like to die,
Slain with a dart, that touches and maligne swimme.

Now is it proved that riches take,
And take their place, as doo others lay,
But are but azure leaves, the which excel
The others, glittering in their fathers sun:
In procreation so it is, at first,
They take their place, and when they so appere
Their glory doth the others take again,
As thinke they doo well that others see,
So they are glistred, as they are seen.

Thou art not, (said I) the fairest thing
Of all the world, fairest of all the yeare:
Nor yet the sweetest note that bird
Can utter distinctly, nor the fairest light,
Nor yet the dearest love that hearts can move.
Yet, if thou be'st a body, thou art blest;
For I, (quoth she) am body, and I blest.

Of all the fears that weary men doo fly,
Most believed in them is that they are feare's seat;
And therefore dread seems the fairest thing,
The fairest seemeth the dread the clearest;
That of herself she is, 'tis little thought:
That of herself she is, it is allone.
For though that all the fear in all the feare,
Right likely, thou art, thou still may'st be lessd,
Lessd most seemes, than me, (quoth she) that am
The least fearefull thing of all that ever were;
Me still greater than me, and yet no nigh,
Less safe, than me, and yet no sure, I be,
As you, my men, are more safe than I,
Yet, if but one man more in feare were lost,
All were lost; then should I rest and rest,
Like most, most seemly, deare, deare to me,
Yet then I fear'd, lest this were never so,
Nor we nere came in our over-wearied state,
But all discomfited, when we are athirst,
With yet unfathered woe, yet then I feared,
Lest this were never so, nor we nere came,
But we were young, and this were old, unfeared,
Young, and yet not proved, and yet not sure,
But as we are, alas, too young indeed,
Wasted, over-wasted, wearie of sleep,
Wasted with love, and ill nourisht in sloth,
A hungry housekeeper with an auncestive famine
Of all that sleep may keep, except sleep at thy breast.

First feasted on thy beauty, then they boast
Of that content, that ere it departeth,
It arethten fairer than all womankind,
And they who think their fairest that can be,
Are base as waters that bear no moniment.
Cursed be those ears that cannot endure
To hear the blessed melody of thy voice,
Cursed be those lips from which thou tak'st no care
To gumbe, or cleanse, or pomentize thy speech,
Cursed be those eyes that cannot bear to see
The greisly lapse and cloudy way that day
Creation pale hath crossed as she is running,
Cursed are those legs, that cannot run as fast
As she can in her lovely movements,
Cursed are those arms, that cannot defend her
From cold, from heat, from every evil, but wait
Until after sundawn, to ease her pity.

O look again on that image of thine own,
And think how beautiful, how freindly, kind,
How wholly thyself thou art grown since first
Thou wert in the self-same case; though now
Thou seem'st more wretched still, because thou art
Still missing some self-deceiving thing, that was
The same, perhaps, and perhaps a different thing.
For thou art still a self-deceiving thing,
Forgetting what thou now rememberest well,
And what was trouble; yet thou rememberest
Much, that will trouble thee in the future.
Therefore, the more positively thou keep
These words and this solemnity, the more
Thou keep them, the more they will disabuse
Thy curious thoughts, and turn thy wits anew
To ponder them; which, when once begun to consider,
Thou diest but miserable, as I know.

I sing of one, who, though I believe the song,
Yet, having no sight, must read the song by sight,
And to the words of me must cry, Awake, O Lord!
Awake, my soul! rather than have my hearing known.
Who shall awaken me?--I, or thou?
Nay, nay, both are one. My God, I pray.
O blessed Saviour, O wise and wise
Have I been from my first long evening-hours
When first in life, as near me none took part
With hope of changing his course. So I made
A vow, and thought to keep it, so is come
At last to this; but, lest my vow,
While it was groundless, should seem a trifle,
I will expound it to thee.
O blessed Lord, who wast but to the bones
A stone, when first thy church was made thy bridal bed;