category_1_x_poem.id,category_1.id,category_1.ts,category_1.title,poem.id,poem.ts,poem.title,poem.author,poem.content
1,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",1,"2018-02-27 21:04:41","Inferno (English)","Dante Alighieri","CANTO I ONE night, when half my life behind me lay, I wandered from the straight lost path afar. Through the great dark was no releasing way; Above that dark was no relieving star. If yet that terrored night I think or say, As death's cold hands its fears resuming are. Gladly the dreads I felt, too dire to tell, The hopeless, pathless, lightless hours forgot, I turn my tale to that which next befell, When the dawn opened, and the night was not. The hollowed blackness of that waste, God wot, Shrank, thinned, and ceased. A blinding splendour hot Flushed the great height toward which my footsteps fell, And though it kindled from the nether hell, Or from the Star that all men leads, alike It showed me where the great dawn-glories strike The wide east, and the utmost peaks of snow. How first I entered on that path astray, Beset with sleep, I know not. This I know. When gained my feet the upward, lighted way, I backward gazed, as one the drowning sea, The deep strong tides, has baffled, and panting lies, On the shelved shore, and turns his eyes to see The league-wide wastes that held him. So mine eyes Surveyed that fear, the while my wearied frame Rested, and ever my heart's tossed lake became More quiet. Then from that pass released, which yet With living feet had no man left, I set My forward steps aslant the steep, that so, My right foot still the lower, I climbed. Below No more I gazed. Around, a slope of sand Was sterile of all growth on either hand, Or moving life, a spotted pard except, That yawning rose, and stretched, and purred and leapt So closely round my feet, that scarce I kept The course I would. That sleek and lovely thing, The broadening light, the breath of morn and spring, The sun, that with his stars in Aries lay, As when Divine Love on Creation's day First gave these fair things motion, all at one Made lightsome hope; but lightsome hope was none When down the slope there came with lifted head And back-blown mane and caverned mouth and red, A lion, roaring, all the air ashake That heard his hunger. Upward flight to take No heart was mine, for where the further way Mine anxious eyes explored, a she-wolf lay, That licked lean flanks, and waited. Such was she In aspect ruthless that I quaked to see, And where she lay among her bones had brought So many to grief before, that all my thought Aghast turned backward to the sunless night I left. But while I plunged in headlong flight To that most feared before, a shade, or man (Either he seemed), obstructing where I ran, Called to me with a voice that few should know, Faint from forgetful silence, ""Where ye go, Take heed. Why turn ye from the upward way?"" I cried, ""Or come ye from warm earth, or they The grave hath taken, in my mortal need Have mercy thou!"" He answered, ""Shade am I, That once was man; beneath the Lombard sky, In the late years of Julius born, and bred In Mantua, till my youthful steps were led To Rome, where yet the false gods lied to man; And when the great Augustan age began, I wrote the tale of Ilium burnt, and how Anchises' son forth-pushed a venturous prow, Seeking unknown seas. But in what mood art thou To thus return to all the ills ye fled, The while the mountain of thy hope ahead Lifts into light, the source and cause of all Delectable things that may to man befall?"" I answered, ""Art thou then that Virgil, he From whom all grace of measured speech in me Derived? O glorious and far-guiding star! Now may the love-led studious hours and long In which I learnt how rich thy wonders are, Master and Author mine of Light and Song, Befriend me now, who knew thy voice, that few Yet hearken. All the name my work hath won Is thine of right, from whom I learned. To thee, Abashed, I grant it. . . Why the mounting sun No more I seek, ye scarce should ask, who see The beast that turned me, nor faint hope have I To force that passage if thine aid deny."" He answered, ""Would ye leave this wild and live, Strange road is ours, for where the she-wolf lies Shall no man pass, except the path he tries Her craft entangle. No way fugitive Avoids the seeking of her greeds, that give Insatiate hunger, and such vice perverse As makes her leaner while she feeds, and worse Her craving. And the beasts with which she breed The noisome numerous beasts her lusts require, Bare all the desirable lands in which she feeds; Nor shall lewd feasts and lewder matings tire Until she woos, in evil hour for her, The wolfhound that shall rend her. His desire Is not for rapine, as the promptings stir Of her base heart; but wisdoms, and devoirs Of manhood, and love's rule, his thoughts prefer. The Italian lowlands he shall reach and save, For which Camilla of old, the virgin brave, Turnus and Nisus died in strife. His chase He shall not cease, nor any cowering-place Her fear shall find her, till he drive her back, From city to city exiled, from wrack to wrack Slain out of life, to find the native hell Whence envy loosed her. For thyself were well To follow where I lead, and thou shalt see The spirits in pain, and hear the hopeless woe, The unending cries, of those whose only plea Is judgment, that the second death to be Fall quickly. Further shalt thou climb, and go To those who burn, but in their pain content With hope of pardon; still beyond, more high, Holier than opens to such souls as I, The Heavens uprear; but if thou wilt, is one Worthier, and she shall guide thee there, where none Who did the Lord of those fair realms deny May enter. There in his city He dwells, and there Rules and pervades in every part, and calls His chosen ever within the sacred walls. O happiest, they!"" I answered, ""By that Go Thou didst not know, I do thine aid entreat, And guidance, that beyond the ills I meet I safety find, within the Sacred Gate That Peter guards, and those sad souls to see Who look with longing for their end to be."" Then he moved forward, and behind I trod. Canto II THE day was falling, and the darkening air Released earth's creatures from their toils, while I, I only, faced the bitter road and bare My Master led. I only, must defy The powers of pity, and the night to be. So thought I, but the things I came to see, Which memory holds, could never thought forecast. O Muses high! O Genius, first and last! Memories intense! Your utmost powers combine To meet this need. For never theme as mine Strained vainly, where your loftiest nobleness Must fail to be sufficient. First I said, Fearing, to him who through the darkness led, ""O poet, ere the arduous path ye press Too far, look in me, if the worth there be To make this transit. &Aelig;neas once, I know, Went down in life, and crossed the infernal sea; And if the Lord of All Things Lost Below Allowed it, reason seems, to those who see The enduring greatness of his destiny, Who in the Empyrean Heaven elect was called Sire of the Eternal City, that throned and walled Made Empire of the world beyond, to be The Holy Place at last, by God's decree, Where the great Peter's follower rules. For he Learned there the causes of his victory. ""And later to the third great Heaven was caught The last Apostle, and thence returning brought The proofs of our salvation. But, for me, I am not &Aelig;neas, nay, nor Paul, to see Unspeakable things that depths or heights can show, And if this road for no sure end I go What folly is mine? But any words are weak. Thy wisdom further than the things I speak Can search the event that would be."" Here I stayed My steps amid the darkness, and the Shade That led me heard and turned, magnanimous, And saw me drained of purpose halting thus, And answered, ""If thy coward-born thoughts be clear, And all thy once intent, infirmed of fear, Broken, then art thou as scared beasts that shy From shadows, surely that they know not why Nor wherefore. . . Hearken, to confound thy fear, The things which first I heard, and brought me here. One came where, in the Outer Place, I dwell, Suspense from hope of Heaven or fear of Hell, Radiant in light that native round her clung, And cast her eyes our hopeless Shades among (Eyes with no earthly like but heaven's own blue), And called me to her in such voice as few In that grim place had heard, so low, so clear, So toned and cadenced from the Utmost Sphere, The Unattainable Heaven from which she came. 'O Mantuan Spirit,' she said, 'whose lasting fame Continues on the earth ye left, and still With Time shall stand, an earthly friend to me, - My friend, not fortune's - climbs a path so ill That all the night-bred fears he hastes to flee Were kindly to the thing he nears. The tale Moved through the peace of I leaven, and swift I sped Downward, to aid my friend in love's avail, With scanty time therefor, that half I dread Too late I came. But thou shalt haste, and go With golden wisdom of thy speech, that so For me be consolation. Thou shalt say, ""I come from Beatricл."" Downward far, From Heaven to I leaven I sank, from star to star, To find thee, and to point his rescuing way. Fain would I to my place of light return; Love moved me from it, and gave me power to learn Thy speech. When next before my Lord I stand I very oft shall praise thee.' Here she ceased, And I gave answer to that dear command, 'Lady, alone through whom the whole race of those The smallest Heaven the moon's short orbits hold Excels in its creation, not thy least, Thy lightest wish in this dark realm were told Vainly. But show me why the Heavens unclose To loose thee from them, and thyself content Couldst thus continue in such strange descent From that most Spacious Place for which ye burn, And while ye further left, would fain return.' "" 'That which thou wouldst,' she said, 'I briefly tell. There is no fear nor any hurt in Hell, Except that it be powerful. God in me Is gracious, that the piteous sights I see I share not, nor myself can shrink to feel The flame of all this burning. One there is In height among the Holiest placed, and she - Mercy her name - among God's mysteries Dwells in the midst, and hath the power to see His judgments, and to break them. This sharp I tell thee, when she saw, she called, that so Leaned Lucia toward her while she spake - and said, ""One that is faithful to thy name is sped, Except that now ye aid him."" She thereat, - Lucia, to all men's wrongs inimical - Left her High Place, and crossed to where I sat In speech with Rachel (of the first of all God saved). ""O Beatrice, Praise of God,"" - So said she to me - ""sitt'st thou here so slow To aid him, once on earth that loved thee so That all he left to serve thee? Hear'st thou not The anguish of his plaint? and dost not see, By that dark stream that never seeks a sea, The death that threats him?"" None, as thus she said, None ever was swift on earth his good to chase, None ever on earth was swift to leave his dread, As came I downward from that sacred place To find thee and invoke thee, confident Not vainly for his need the gold were spent Of thy word-wisdom.' Here she turned away, Her bright eyes clouded with their tears, and I, Who saw them, therefore made more haste to reach The place she told, and found thee. Canst thou say I failed thy rescue? Is the beast anigh From which ye quailed? When such dear saints beseech - Three from the Highest - that Heaven thy course allow Why halt ye fearful? In such guards as thou The faintest-hearted might be bold."" As flowers, Close-folded through the cold and lightless hours, Their bended stems erect, and opening fair Accept the white light and the warmer air Of morning, so my fainting heart anew Lifted, that heard his comfort. Swift I spake, ""O courteous thou, and she compassionate! Thy haste that saved me, and her warning true, Beyond my worth exalt me. Thine I make My will. In concord of one mind from now, O Master and my Guide, where leadest thou I follow."" And we, with no more words' delay, Went forward on that hard and dreadful way. Canto III THE gateway to the city of Doom. Through me The entrance to the Everlasting Pain. The Gateway of the Lost. The Eternal Three Justice impelled to build me. Here ye see Wisdom Supreme at work, and Primal Power, And Love Supernal in their dawnless day. Ere from their thought creation rose in flower Eternal first were all things fixed as they. Of Increate Power infinite formed am I That deathless as themselves I do not die. Justice divine has weighed: the doom is clear. All hope renounce, ye lost, who enter here. This scroll in gloom above the gate I read, And found it fearful. ""Master, hard,"" I said, ""This saying to me."" And he, as one that long Was customed, answered, ""No distrust must wrong Its Maker, nor thy cowarder mood resume If here ye enter. This the place of doom I told thee, where the lost in darkness dwell. Here, by themselves divorced from light, they fell, And are as ye shall see them."" Here he lent A hand to draw me through the gate, and bent A glance upon my fear so confident That I, too nearly to my former dread Returned, through all my heart was comforted, And downward to the secret things we went. Downward to night, but not of moon and cloud, Not night with all its stars, as night we know, But burdened with an ocean-weight of woe The darkness closed us. Sighs, and wailings loud, Outcries perpetual of recruited pain, Sounds of strange tongues, and angers that remain Vengeless for ever, the thick and clamorous crowd Of discords pressed, that needs I wept to hear, First hearing. There, with reach of hands anear, And voices passion-hoarse, or shrilled with fright, The tumult of the everlasting night, As sand that dances in continual wind, Turns on itself for ever. And I, my head Begirt with movements, and my ears bedinned With outcries round me, to my leader said, ""Master, what hear I? Who so overborne With woes are these?"" He answered, ""These be they That praiseless lived and blameless. Now the scorn Of Height and Depth alike, abortions drear; Cast with those abject angels whose delay To join rebellion, or their Lord defend, Waiting their proved advantage, flung them here. - Chased forth from Heaven, lest else its beauties end The pure perfection of their stainless claim, Out-herded from the shining gate they came, Where the deep hells refused them, lest the lost Boast something baser than themselves."" And I, ""Master, what grievance hath their failure cost, That through the lamentable dark they cry?"" He answered, ""Briefly at a thing not worth We glance, and pass forgetful. Hope in death They have not. Memory of them on the earth Where once they lived remains not. Nor the breath Of Justice shall condemn, nor Mercy plead, But all alike disdain them. That they know Themselves so mean beneath aught else constrains The envious outcries that too long ye heed. Move past, but speak not."" Then I looked, and lo, Were souls in ceaseless and unnumbered trains That past me whirled unending, vainly led Nowhither, in useless and unpausing haste. A fluttering ensign all their guide, they chased Themselves for ever. I had not thought the dead, The whole world's dead, so many as these. I saw The shadow of him elect to Peter's seat Who made the great refusal, and the law, The unswerving law that left them this retreat To seal the abortion of their lives, became Illumined to me, and themselves I knew, To God and all his foes the futile crew How hateful in their everlasting shame. I saw these victims of continued death - For lived they never - were naked all, and loud Around them closed a never-ceasing cloud Of hornets and great wasps, that buzzed and clung, - Weak pain for weaklings meet, - and where they stung, Blood from their faces streamed, with sobbing breath, And all the ground beneath with tears and blood Was drenched, and crawling in that loathsome mud There were great worms that drank it. Gladly thence I gazed far forward. Dark and wide the flood That flowed before us. On the nearer shore Were people waiting. ""Master, show me whence These came, and who they be, and passing hence Where go they? Wherefore wait they there content, - The faint light shows it, - for their transit o'er The unbridged abyss?"" He answered, ""When we stand Together, waiting on the joyless strand, In all it shall be told thee."" If he meant Reproof I know not, but with shame I bent My downward eyes, and no more spake until The bank we reached, and on the stream beheld A bark ply toward us. Of exceeding eld, And hoary showed the steersman, screaming shrill, With horrid glee the while he neared us, ""Woe To ye, depraved! - Is here no Heaven, but ill The place where I shall herd ye. Ice and fire And darkness are the wages of their hire Who serve unceasing here - But thou that there Dost wait though live, depart ye. Yea, forbear! A different passage and a lighter fare Is destined thine."" But here my guide replied, ""Nay, Charon, cease; or to thy grief ye chide. It There is willed, where that is willed shall be, That ye shall pass him to the further side, Nor question more."" The fleecy cheeks thereat, Blown with fierce speech before, were drawn and flat, And his flame-circled eyes subdued, to hear That mandate given. But those of whom he spake In bitter glee, with naked limbs ashake, And chattering teeth received it. Seemed that then They first were conscious where they came, and fear Abject and frightful shook them; curses burst In clamorous discords forth; the race of men, Their parents, and their God, the place, the time, Of their conceptions and their births, accursed Alike they called, blaspheming Heaven. But yet Slow steps toward the waiting bark they set, With terrible wailing while they moved. And so They came reluctant to the shore of woe That waits for all who fear not God, and not Them only. Then the demon Charon rose To herd them in, with eyes that furnace-hot Glowed at the task, and lifted oar to smite Who lingered. As the leaves, when autumn shows, One after one descending, leave the bough, Or doves come downward to the call, so now The evil seed of Adam to endless night, As Charon signalled, from the shore's bleak height, Cast themselves downward to the bark. The brown And bitter flood received them, and while they passed Were others gathering, patient as the last, Not conscious of their nearing doom. ""My son,"" - Replied my guide the unspoken thought - ""is none Beneath God's wrath who dies in field or town, Or earth's wide space, or whom the waters drown, But here he cometh at last, and that so spurred By Justice, that his fear, as those ye heard, Impels him forward like desire. Is not One spirit of all to reach the fatal spot That God's love holdeth, and hence, if Char chide, Ye well may take it. - Raise thy heart, for now, Constrained of Heaven, he must thy course allow."" Yet how I passed I know not. For the ground Trembled that heard him, and a fearful sound Of issuing wind arose, and blood-red light Broke from beneath our feet, and sense and sight Left me. The memory with cold sweat once more Reminds me of the sudden-crimsoned night, As sank I senseless by the dreadful shore. Canto IV ARISING thunder from the vast Abyss First roused me, not as he that rested wakes From slumbrous hours, but one rude fury shakes Untimely, and around I gazed to know The place of my confining. Deep, profound, Dark beyond sight, and choked with doleful sound, Sheer sank the Valley of the Lost Abyss, Beneath us. On the utmost brink we stood, And like the winds of some unresting wood The gathered murmur from those depths of woe Soughed upward into thunder. Out from this The unceasing sound comes ever. I might not tell How deep the Abyss down sank from hell to hell, It was so clouded and so dark no sight Could pierce it. ""Downward through the worlds of night We will descend together. I first, and thou My footsteps taking,"" spake my guide, and I Gave answer, ""Master, when thyself art pale, Fear-daunted, shall my weaker heart avail That on thy strength was rested?"" ""Nay,"" said he, ""Not fear, but anguish at the issuing cry So pales me. Come ye, for the path we tread Is long, and time requires it."" Here he led Through the first entrance of the ringed abyss, Inward, and I went after, and the woe Softened behind us, and around I heard Nor scream of torment, nor blaspheming word, But round us sighs so many and deep there came That all the air was motioned. I beheld Concourse of men and women and children there Countless. No pain was theirs of cold or flame, But sadness only. And my Master said, ""Art silent here? Before ye further go Among them wondering, it is meet ye know They are not sinful, nor the depths below Shall claim them. But their lives of righteousness Sufficed not to redeem. The gate decreed, Being born too soon, we did not pass ( for I, Dying unbaptized, am of them). More nor less Our doom is weighed, - to feel of Heaven the need, To long, and to be hopeless."" Grief was mine That heard him, thinking what great names must be In this suspense around me. ""Master, tell,"" I questioned, ""from this outer girth of Hell Pass any to the blessed spheres exalt, Through other's merits or their own the fault. Condoned?"" And he, my covert speech that read, - For surance sought I of my faith, - replied, ""Through the shrunk hells there came a Great One, crowned And garmented with conquest. Of the dead, He rescued from us him who earliest died, Abel, and our first parent. Here He found, Abraham, obedient to the Voice he heard; And Moses, first who wrote the Sacred Word; Isaac, and Israel and his sons, and she, Rachel, for whom he travailed; and David, king; And many beside unnumbered, whom he led Triumphant from the dark abodes, to be Among the blest for ever. Until this thing I witnessed, none, of all the countless dead, But hopeless through the somber gate he came."" Now while he spake he paused not, but pursued, Through the dense woods of thronging spirits, his aim Straight onward, nor was long our path until Before us rose a widening light, to fill One half of all the darkness, and I knew While yet some distance, that such Shades were there As nobler moved than others, and questioned, ""Who, Master, are those that in their aspect bear Such difference from the rest?"" ""All these,"" he said, ""Were named so glorious in thy earth above That Heaven allows their larger claim to be Select, as thus ye see them."" While he spake A voice rose near us: ""Hail!"" it cried, ""for he Returns, who was departed."" Scarce it ceased When four great spirits approached. They did not show Sadness nor joy, but tranquil-eyed as though Content in their dominion moved. My guide Before I questioned told, ""That first ye see, With hand that fits the swordhilt, mark, for he Is Homer, sovereign of the craft we tried, Leader and lord of even the following three, - Horace, and Ovid, and Lucan. The voice ye heard, That hailed me, caused them by one impulse stirred Approach to do me honour, for these agree In that one name we boast, and so do well Owning it in me."" There was I joyed to meet Those shades, who closest to his place belong, The eagle course of whose out-soaring song Is lonely in height. Some space apart (to tell, It may be, something of myself ), my guide Conversed, until they turned with grace to greet Me also, and my Master smiled to see They made me sixth and equal. Side by side We paced toward the widening light, and spake Such things as well were spoken there, and here Were something less than silence. Strong and wide Before us rose a castled height, beset With sevenfold-circling walls, unscalable, And girdled with a rivulet round, but yet We passed thereover, and the water clear As dry land bore me; and the walls ahead Their seven strong gates made open one by one, As each we neared, that where my Master led With ease I followed, although without were none But deep that stream beyond their wading spread, And closed those gates beyond their breach had been, Had they sought entry with us. Of coolest green Stretched the wide lawns we midmost found, for there, Intolerant of itself, was Hell made fair To accord with its containing. Grave, austere, Quiet-voiced and slow, of seldom words were they That walked that verdure. To a place aside Open, and light, and high, we passed, and here Looked downward on the lawns, in clear survey Of such great spirits as are my glory and pride That once I saw them. There, direct in view, Electra passed, among her sons. I knew Hector and &Aelig;neas there; and Cжsar too Was of them, armed and falcon-eyed; and there Camilla and Penthesilea. Near there sate Lavinia, with her sire the Latian king; Brutus, who drave the Tarquin; and Lucrece Julia, Cornelia, Marcia, and their kin; And, by himself apart, the Saladin. Somewhat beyond I looked. A place more high Than where these heroes moved I gazed, and knew The Master of reasoned thought, whose hand withdrew The curtain of the intellect, and bared The secret things of nature; while anigh, But lowlier, grouped the greatest names that shared His searchings. All regard and all revere They gave him. Plato there, and Socrates I marked, who closeliest reached his height; and near Democritus, who dreamed a world of chance Born blindly in the whirl of circumstance; And Anaxagoras, Diogenes, Thales, Heraclitus, Empedocles, Zeno, were there; and Dioscorides Who searched the healing powers of herbs and trees; And Orpheus, Tullius, Livius, Seneca, Euclid and Ptolemжus; Avicenna, Galen, Hippocrates; Averrhoлs, The Master's great interpreter, - but these Are few to those I saw, an endless dream Of shades before whom Hell quietened and cowered. My theme, With thronging recollections of mighty names That there I marked impedes me. All too long They chase me, envious that my burdened song Forgets. - But onward moves my guide anew: The light behind us fades: the six are two: Again the shuddering air, the cries of Hell Compassed, and where we walked the darkness fell. Canto V MOST like the spirals of a pointed shell, But separate each, go downward, hell from hell, The ninefold circles of the damned; but each Smaller, concentrate in its greater pain, Than that which overhangs it. Those who reach The second whorl, on entering, learn their bane Where Minos, hideous, sits and snarls. He hears, Decides, and as he girds himself they go. Before his seat each ill-born spirit appear, And tells its tale of evil, loath or no, While he, their judge, of all sins cognizant, Hears, and around himself his circling tail Twists to the number of the depths below To which they doom themselves in telling. Alway The crowding sinners: their turn they wait: they show Their guilt: the circles of his tail convey Their doom: and downward they are whirled away. ""O thou who callest at this doleful inn,"" Cried Minos to me, while the child of sin That stood confessing before him, trembling stayed, ""Heed where thou enterest in thy trust, nor say, I walk in safety, for the width of way Suffices."" But my guide the answer took, ""Why dost thou cry? or leave thine ordered trade For that which nought belongs thee? Hinder not His destined path. For where he goeth is willed, Where that is willed prevaileth."" Now was filled The darker air with wailing. Wailing shook My soul to hear it. Where we entered now No light attempted. Only sound arose, As ocean with the tortured air contends, What time intolerable tempest rends The darkness; so the shrieking winds oppose For ever, and bear they, as they swerve and sweep, The doomed disastrous spirits, and whirl aloft, Backward, and down, nor any rest allow, Nor pause of such contending wraths as oft Batter them against the precipitous sides, and there The shrieks and moanings quench the screaming air, The cries of their blaspheming. These are they That lust made sinful. As the starlings rise At autumn, darkening all the colder skies, In crowded troops their wings up-bear, so here These evil-doers on each contending blast Were lifted upward, whirled, and downward cast, And swept around unceasing. Striving airs Lift them, and hurl, nor ever hope is theirs Of rest or respite or decreasing pains, But like the long streaks of the calling cranes So came they wailing down the winds, to meet Upsweeping blasts that ever backward beat Or sideward flung them on their walls. And I - ""Master who are they next that drive anigh So scourged amidst the blackness?"" ""These,"" he said, ""So lashed and harried, by that queen are led, Empress of alien tongues, Semiramis, Who made her laws her lawless lusts to kiss, So was she broken by desire; and this Who comes behind, back-blown and beaten thus, Love's fool, who broke her faith to Sichжus, Dido; and bare of all her luxury, Nile's queen, who lost her realm for Antony."" And after these, amidst that windy train, Helen, who soaked in blood the Trojan plain, And great Achilles I saw, at last whose feet The same net trammelled; and Tristram, Paris, he showed; And thousand other along the fated road Whom love led deathward through disastrous things He pointed as they passed, until my mind Was wildered in this heavy pass to find Ladies so many, and cavaliers and kings Fallen, and pitying past restraint, I said, ""Poet, those next that on the wind appear So light, and constant as they drive or veer Are parted never, I fain would speak."" And he, - ""Conjure them by their love, and thou shalt see Their flight come hither."" And when the swerving blast Most nearly bent, I called them as they passed, ""O wearied souls, come downward, if the Power That drives allow ye, for one restful hour."" As doves, desirous of their nest at night, Cleave through the dusk with swift and open flight Of level-lifting wings, that love makes light, Will-borne, so downward through the murky air Came those sad spirits, that not deep Hell's despair Could sunder, parting from the faithless band That Dido led, and with one voice, as though One soul controlled them, spake, ""O Animate! Who comest through the black malignant air, Benign among us who this exile bear For earth ensanguined, if the King of All Heard those who from the outer darkness call Entreat him would we for thy peace, that thou Hast pitied us condemned, misfortunate. - Of that which please thee, if the winds allow, Gladly I tell. Ravenna, on that shore Where Po finds rest for all his streams, we knew; And there love conquered. Love, in gentle heart So quick to take dominion, overthrew Him with my own fair body, and overbore Me with delight to please him. Love, which gives No pardon to the loved, so strongly in me Was empired, that its rule, as here ye see, Endureth, nor the bitter blast contrives To part us. Love to one death led us. The mode Afflicts me, shrinking, still. The place of Cain Awaits our slayer."" They ceased, and I my head Bowed down, and made no answer, till my guide Questioned, ""What wouldst thou more?"" and replied, ""Alas my thought I what sweet keen longings led These spirits, woeful, to their dark abode!"" And then to them, - ""Francesca, all thy pain Is mine. With pity and grief I weep. But say How, in the time of sighing, and in what way, Love gave you of the dubious deeds to know."" And she to me, ""There is no greater woe In all Hell's depths than cometh when those who Look back to Eden. But if thou wouldst learn Our love's first root, I can but weep and tell. One day, and for delight in idleness, - Alone we were, without suspicion, - We read together, and chanced the page to turn Where Galahad tells the tale of Lancelot, How love constrained him. Oft our meeting eyes, Confessed the theme, and conscious cheeks were hot, Reading, but only when that instant came Where the surrendering lips were kissed, no less Desire beat in us, and whom, for all this pain, No hell shall sever (so great at least our gain), Trembling, he kissed my mouth, and all forgot, We read no more."" As thus did one confess Their happier days, the other wept, and I Grew faint with pity, and sank as those who die. Canto VI THE misery of that sight of souls in Hell Condemned, and constant in their loss, prevailed So greatly in me, that I may not tell How passed I from them, sense and memory failed So far. But here new torments I discern, And new tormented, wheresoe'er I turn. For sodden around me was the place of bane, The third doomed circle, where the culprits know The cold, unceasing, and relentless rain Pour down without mutation. Heavy with hail, With turbid waters mixed, and cold with snow, It streams from out the darkness, and below The soil is putrid, where the impious lie Grovelling, and howl like dogs, beneath the flail That flattens to the foul soaked ground, and try Vainly for ease by turning. And the while Above them roams and ravens the loathsome hound Cerberus, and feeds upon them. The swampy ground He ranges; with his long clawed hands he grips The sinners, and the fierce and hairy lips (Thrice-headed is he) tear, and the red blood drips From all his jaws. He clutches, and flays, and rends, And treads them, growling: and the flood descends Straight downward. When he saw us, the loathly worm Showed all his fangs, and eager trembling frame Nerved for the leap. But undeterred my guide. Stooped down, and gathered in full hands the soil, And cast it in the gaping gullets, to foil Gluttonous blind greed, and those fierce mouths and wide Closed on the filth, and as the craving cur Quietens, that strained and howled to reach his food, Biting the bone, those squalid mouths subdued And silenced, wont above the empty dead To bark insatiate, while they tore unfed The writhing shadows. The straight persistent rain, That altered never, had pressed the miry plain With flattened shades that in their emptiness Still showed as bodies. We might not here progress Except we trod them. Of them all, but one Made motion as we passed. Against the rain Rising, and resting on one hand, he said, ""O thou, who through the drenching murk art led, Recall me if thou canst. Thou wast begun Before I ended."" I, who looked in vain For human semblance in that bestial shade, Made answer, ""Misery here hath all unmade, It may be, that thou wast on earth, for nought Recalls thee to me. But thyself shalt tell The sins that scourged thee to this foul resort, That more displeasing not the scope of Hell Can likely yield, though greater pains may lie More deep."" And he to me, ""Thy city, so high With envious hates that swells, that now the sack Bursts, and pours out in ruin, and spreads its wrack Far outward, was mine alike, while clearer air Still breathed I. Citizens who knew me there Called me Ciacco. For the vice I fed At rich men's tables, in this filth I lie Drenched, beaten, hungered, cold, uncomforted, Mauled by that ravening greed; and these, as I, With gluttonous lives the like reward have won."" I answered, ""Piteous is thy state to one Who knew thee in thine old repute, but say, If yet persists thy previous mind, which way The feuds of our rent city shall end, and why These factions vex us, and if still there be One just man left among us."" ""Two,"" said he, ""Are just, but none regards them. Yet more high The strife, till bloodshed from their long contend Shall issue at last: the barbarous Cerchi clan Cast the Donati exiled out, and they Within three years return, and more offend Than they were erst offended, helped by him So long who palters with both parts. The fire Three sparks have lighted - Avarice, Envy, Pride, - And there is none may quench it."" Here he ceased His lamentable tale, and I replied, ""Of one thing more I ask thee. Great desire Is mine to learn it. Where are those who sought Our welfare earlier? Those whose names at least Are fragrant for the public good they wrought, Arrigo, Mosca, and the Tegghiaio Worthiest, and Farinata, and with these Jacopo Rusticucci. I would know If soft in Heaven or bitter-hard in Hell Their lives continue."" ""Cast in hells more low Than yet thou hast invaded, deep they lie, For different crimes from ours, and shouldst thou go So far, thou well mayst see them. If thou tread Again the sweet light land, and overhead Converse with those I knew there, then recall, I pray, my memory to my friends of yore. But ask no further, for I speak no more."" Thereon his eyes, that straight had gazed before Squinted and failed, and slowly sank his head, And blindly with his sodden mates he lay. And spake my guide, ""He shall not lift nor stir, Until the trumpet shrills that wakens Hell; And these, who must inimical Power obey, Shall each return to his sad grave, and there In carnal form the sinful spirit shall dwell Once more, and that time only, from the tomb Rising to hear the irrevocable doom Which shall reverberate through eternity."" So paced we slowly through the rain that fell Unchanging, over that foul ground, and trod The dismal spirits it held, and somewhat spake Of life beyond us, and the things of God; And asked I, ""Master, shall these torments cease, Continue as they are, or more increase, When calls the trumpet, and the graves shall break, And the great Sentence sound?"" And he to me, ""Recall thy learning, as thou canst. We know With more perfection, greater pain or bliss Resolves, and though perfection may not be To these accurs'd, yet nearer then than this It may be they shall reach it."" More to show He sought, as turned we to the fresh descent, But speaking all in such strange words as went Past me. - But ceased our downward path, and Plutus, of human weal the hateful foe. Canto VII HAH, strange! ho, Satan!"" such the sounds half-heard The thick voice gobbled, the while the foul, inflamed, Distended visage toward us turned, and cast Invective from its bestial throat, that slurred Articulate speech. But here the gentle sage, Who knew beforehand that we faced, to me Spake first, ""Regard not; for a threat misaimed Falls idle. Fear not to continue past. His power to us, however else it be, Is not to hinder."" Then, that bulk inflate Confronting, - ""Peace, thou greed! thy lusting rage Consume thee inward! Not thy word we wait The path to open. It is willed on high, - There, where the Angel of the Sword ye know Took ruin upon the proud adultery Of him thou callest as thy prince."" Thereat As sails, wind-rounded, when the mast gives way, Sink tangled to the deck, deflated so Collapsed that bulk that heard him, shrunk and flat; And we went downward till before us lay The fourth sad circle. Ah! what woes contain, Justice of God! what woes those narrowing deeps Contain; for all the universe down-heaps In this pressed space its continent of pain, So voiding all that mars its peace. But why This guilt that so degrades us? As the surge Above Charybdis meets contending surge, Breaks and is broken, and rages and recoils For ever, so here the sinners. More numerous Than in the circles past are these. They urge Huge weights before them. On, with straining breasts, They roll them, howling in their ceaseless toils. And those that to the further side belong l)o likewise, meeting in the midst, and thus Crash vainly, and recoil, reverse, and cry, ""Why dost thou hold?"" ""Why dost thou loose?"" No rest Their doom permits them. Backward course they bend; Continual crescents trace, at either end Meeting again in fresh rebound, and high Above their travail reproachful howlings rise Incessant at those who thwart their round. And I, Who felt my heart stung through with anguish, said, ""O Master, show me who these peoples be, And if those tonsured shades that left we see Held priestly office ere they joined the dead."" He answered, ""These, who with such squinting eyes Regarded God's providing, that they spent In waste immoderate, indicate their guilt In those loud barkings that ye hear. They spilt Their wealth distemperate; and those they meet Who cry 'Why loose ye?' avarice ruled: they bent Their minds on earth to seize and hoard. Of these Hairless, are priests, and popes, and cardinals, For greed makes empire in such hearts complete."" And I, ""Among them that these vices eat Are none that I have known on earth before?"" He answered, ""Vainly wouldst thou seek; a life So blind to bounties has obscured too far The souls once theirs, for that which once they wore Of mortal likeness in their shades to show. Waste was their choice, and this abortive strife And toil unmeaning is the end they are They butt for ever, until the last award Shall call them from their graves. Ill-holding those Ill-loosing these, alike have doomed to know This darkness, and the fairer world forgo. Behold what mockery doth their fate afford! It needs no fineness of spun words to tell. For this they did their subtle wits oppose, Contending for the gifts that Fortune straws So blindly, - for this blind contending hell. ""Beneath the moon there is not gold so great In worth, it could one moment's grief abate, Or rest one only of these weary souls."" ""Master, this Fortune that ye speak, whose claws Grasp all desirable things of earth,"" I said, ""What is she?"" ""O betrayed in foolishness I Blindness of creatures born of earth, whose goals Are folly and loss!"" he answered, ""I would make Thy mouth an opening for this truth I show. ""Transcendent Wisdom, when the spheres He built Gave each a guide to rule it: more nor less Their light distributes. For the earth he gave Like guide to rule its splendours. As we know The heavenly lights move round us, and is spilt Light here, and darkness yonder, so doth she From man to man, from race and kindred take Alternate wealth, or yield it. None may save The spoil that she depriveth: none may flee The bounty that she wills. No human wits May hinder, nor may human lore reject Her choice, that like a hidden snake is set To reach the feet unheeding. Where she sits In judgment, she resolves, and whom she wills Is havened, chased by petulant storms, or wreck ' Remedeless. Races cease, and men forget They were. Slaves rise to rule their lords. She And empties, godlike in her mood. No pause Her changes leave, so many are those who call About her gates, so many she dowers, and all Revile her after, and would crucify If words could reach her, but she heeds nor hears, Who dwells beyond the noise of human laws In the blest silence of the Primal Spheres. - But let us to the greater woes descend. The stars from their meridian fall, that rose When first these hells we entered. Long to stay Our right of path allows not."" While he spake We crossed the circle to the bank beyond, And found a hot spring boiling, and a way, Dark, narrow, and steep, that down beside it goes, By which we clambered. Purple-black the pond Beneath it, widening to a marsh that spreads Far out, and struggling in that slime malign Were muddied shades, that not with hands, heads, And teeth and feet besides, contending tore, And maimed each other in beast-like rage. My guide Expounded, ""Those whom anger overbore On earth, behold ye. Mark the further sign Of bubbles countless on the slime that show. These from the sobs of those immersed arise; For buried in the choking filth they cry, We once were sullen in the rain-sweet air, When waked the light, and all the earth was fair, How sullen in the murky swamp we lie Forbidden from the blessed light on high. This song they gurgle in their throats, that so The bubbles rising from the depths below Break all the surface of the slime."" Between The high bank and the putrid swamp was seen A narrow path, and this, a sweeping arc, We traversed; outward o'er the surface dark Still gazing, at the choking shades who took That diet for their wrath. Till livelier look Was forward drawn, for where at last we came A great tower fronted, and a beacon's flame. Canto VIII I SAY, while yet from that tower's base afar, We saw two flames of sudden signal rise, And further, like a small and distant star, A beacon answered. ""What before us lies? Who signals our approach, and who replies?"" I asked, and answered he who all things knew, ""Already, if the swamp's dank fumes permit, The outcome of their beacon shows in view, Severing the liquid filth."" No shaft can slit Impalpable air, from any corded bow, As came that craft towards us, cleaving so, And with incredible speed, the miry wave. To where we paused its meteor course it clave, A steersman rising in the stern, who cried, ""Behold thy doom, lost spirit!"" To whom my guide, ""Nay, Phlegyas, Phlegyas, here thy cries are We need thine aid the further shore to gain; But power thou hast not."" One amazed to meet With most unlooked and undeserved deceit So rages inly; yet no dared reply There came, as down my Leader stept, and I Deepened the skiff with earthly weight undue, Which while we seated swung its bows anew Outward, and onward once again it flew, Labouring more deep than wont, and slowlier now, So burdened. While that kennel of filth we clave, There rose among the bubbles a mud-soaked head. ""Who art thou, here before thy time?"" it said, And answer to the unfeatured mask I gave, ""I come, but stay not. Who art thou, so blind And blackened from the likeness of thy kind?"" ""I have no name, but only tears,"" said he. I answered, ""Nay, however caked thou be, I know thee through the muddied drench. For thee Be weeping ever, accursed spirit."" At that, He reached his hands to grasp the boat, whereat My watchful Master thrust him down, and cried, ""Away, among the dogs, thy fellows!"" and then To me with approbation, ""Blest art thou, Who wouldst not pity in thy heart allow For these, in arrogance of empty pride Who lived so vainly. In the minds of men Is no good thing of this one left to tell, And hence his rage. How many above that dwell, Now kinglike in their ways, at last shall lie Wallowing in these wide marshes, swine in sty, With all men's scorn to chase them down."" And I, ""Master, it were a seemly thing to see This boaster trampled in the putrid sea, Who dared approach us, knowing of all we know."" He answered, ""Well thy wish, and surely so It shall be, e'er the distant shore we view."" And I looked outward through the gloom, and lo! The envious eaters of that dirt combined Against him, leapt upon him, before, behind, Dragged in their fury, and rent, and tore him through, Screaming derisive, ""Philip! whose horse-hooves shine With silver,"" and the rageful Florentine Turned on himself his gnashing teeth and tore. But he deserveth, and I speak, no more. Now, as we neared the further beach, I heard The lamentable and unceasing wail By which the air of all the hells is stirred Increasing ever, which caused mine eyes unveil Their keenest vision to search what came, and he Who marked, indulgent, told. ""Ahead we see The city of Dis, with all its dolorous crew, Numerous, and burdened with reliefless pain, And guilt intolerable to think."" I said, ""Master, already through the night I view The mosques of that sad city, that fiery red As heated metal extend, and crowd the plain."" He answered, ""These the eternal fire contain, That pulsing through them sets their domes aglow."" At this we came those joyless walls below, - Of iron I thought them, - with a circling moat; But saw no entrance, and the burdened boat Traced the deep fosse for half its girth, before The steersman warned us. ""Get ye forth. The shore Is here, - and there the Entrance."" There, indeed, The entrance. On the barred and burning gate I gazed; a thousand of the fiends that rained From Heaven, to fill that place disconsolate, Looked downward, and derided. ""Who,"" they said, ""Before his time comes hither? As though the dead Arrive too slowly for the joys they would,"" And laughter rocked along their walls. My guide Their mockery with an equal mien withstood, Signalling their leaders he would speak aside, And somewhat closing their contempt they cried, ""Then come thou hither, and let him backward go, Who came so rashly. Let him find his way Through the five hells ye traversed, the best he may. He can but try it awhile! - But thou shalt stay, And learn the welcome of these halls of woe."" Ye well may think how I, discomforted By these accursed words, was moved. The dead, Nay, nor the living were ever placed as I, If this fiends' counsel triumphed. And who should try That backward path unaided? ""Lord,"" I said, ""Loved Master, who hast shared my steps so far, And rescued ever, if these our path would bar, Then lead me backward in most haste, nor let Their malice part us."" He with cheerful mien, Gave answer. ""Heed not that they boast. Forget The fear thou showest, and in good heart abide, While I go forward. Not these fiends obscene Shall thwart the mandate that the Power supplied By which we came, nor any force to do The things they threaten is theirs; nor think that I Should leave thee helpless here."" The gentle Sage At this went forward. Feared I? Half I knew Despair, and half contentment. Yes and no Denied each other; and of so great a woe Small doubt is anguish. In their orgulous rage The fiends out-crowded from the gates to meet My Master; what he spake I could not hear; But nothing his words availed to cool their heat, For inward thronged they with a jostling rear That clanged the gates before he reached, and he Turned backward slowly, muttering, ""Who to me Denies the woeful houses?"" This he said Sighing, with downcast aspect and disturbed Beyond concealment; yet some length he curbed His anxious thought to cheer me. ""Doubt ye nought Of power to hurt in these fiends insolent; For once the wider gate on which ye read The words of doom, with greater pride, they sought To close against the Highest. Already is bent A great One hereward, whose unhindered way Descends the steeps unaided. He shall say Such words as must the trembling hells obey."" Canto IX I THINK the paleness of the fear I showed When he, rejected from that conference, Rejoined me, caused him speak more confident Than felt he inly. For the glance he sent Through the dense darkness of the backward road Denied the valour of his words' pretence; And pausing there with anxious listening mien, While came no sound, nor any help was seen, He muttered, ""Yet we must this conflict win, For else - But whom her aid has pledged herein - How long before he cometh!"" And plain I knew His words turned sideward from the ending due They first portended. Faster beat my fear, Methinks, than had he framed in words more clear The meaning that his care withheld. I said, ""Do others of the hopeless, sinless, dead, Who with thee in the outmost circle dwell, Come ever downward to the narrowing hell That now we traverse?"" ""Once Erichtho fell,"" He answered, ""conjured to such end that I, - Who then short time had passed to those who die, - Came here, controlled by her discerning spell, And entered through these hostile gates, and drew A spirit from the darkest, deepest pit, The place of Judas named, that centres Hell. The path I learnt, and all its dangers well. Content thine heart. This foul-stretched marsh surrounds The dolorous city to its furthest bounds. Without, the dense mirk, and the bubbling mire: Within, the white-hot pulse of eating fire, Whence this fiend-anger thwarts. . .,"" and more he said, To save me doubtless from my thoughts, but I Heeded no more, for by the beacons red That on the lofty tower before us glowed, Three bloodstained and infernal furies showed, Erect, of female form in guise and limb, But clothed in coils of hydras green and grim; And with cerastes bound was every head, And for its crown of hair was serpented; And he, who followed my diverted gaze, The handmaids of the Queen of Woeful Days Well knowing, told me, ""These the Furies three. Megжra leftward: on the right is she Alecto, wailing: and Tisiphone Midmost."" These hateful, in their need of prey, Tore their own breasts with bloodied claws, and when They saw me, from the living world of men, Beneath them standing, with one purpose they Cried, and so loudly that I shrank for fear, ""Medusa! let her from her place appear, To change him into stone! Our first default That venged no wrath on Theseus' deep assault, So brings him."" ""Turn thou from their sight,"" my guide Enjoined, nor wholly on my fear relied, But placed his hands across mine eyes the while He told me further ""Risk no glance. The sight Of Gorgon, if she cometh, would bring thee night From which were no returning."" Ye that read With wisdom to discern, ye well may heed The hidden meaning of the truth that lies Beneath the shadow-words of mysteries That here I show ye. While I turned away, Across the blackness of the putrid bay, There crashed a thunder of most fearful sound, At which the opposing shores, from bound to bound, Trembled. As when an entering tempest rends The brooding heat, and nought its course can stay, That through the forest its dividing way Tears open, and tramples down, and strips, and bends, And levels. The wild things in the woods that be Cower down. The herdsmen from its trumpets flee. With clouds of dust to trace its course it goes, Superb, and leaving ruin. Such sound arose. And he that held me loosened mine eyes, and said, ""Look back, and see what foam the black waves bear."" As frogs, the while the serpent picks his prey, In panic scatter through the stream, and there Flatten themselves upon its bouldered bed, I saw a thousand ruined spirits that fled Before the coming of One who held his way Dry-shod across the water. His left hand He waved before him, and the stagnant air Retreated. Simple it were to understand A Messenger of Heaven he came. My guide Signed me to silence, and to reverence due, While to one stroke of his indignant wand The gate swung open. ""Outcast spawn!"" he cried, His voice heard vibrant through the aperture grim, ""Why spurn ye at the Will that, once defied, Here cast ye grovelling? Have ye felt from Him Aught ever for fresh revolt but harder pains? Has Cerberus' throat, skinned with the threefold chains, No meaning? Why, to fate most impotent, Contend ye vainly?"" Then he turned and went, Nor one glance gave us, but he seemed as one Whom larger issue than the instant done Engages wholly. By that Power compelled, The gates stood open, and our course we held Unhindered. As the threshold dread we crossed, My eager glances swept the scene to know, In those doomed walls imprisoned, how lived the lost. On either hand a wide plain stretched, to show A sight of torment, and most dismal woe. At Arles, where the stagnant Rhone extends, Or Pola, where the gulf Quarnero bends, As with old tombs the plains are ridged, so here, All sides, did rows of countless tombs appear, But in more bitter a guise, for everywhere Shone flames, that moved among them. Every tomb Stood open, white with heat. No craft requires More heated metal than the crawling fires Made hot the sides of those sad sepulchres; And cries of torture and most dire despair Came from them, as the spirits wailed their doom. I said, ""Who are they, in these chests that lie Confined, and join in this lamenting cry?"" My Master answered, ""These in life denied The faith that saves, and that resisting pride Here brought them. With their followers, like to like, Assorted are they, and the keen flames strike With differing anguish, to the same degree They reached in their rebellion."" While he spake Rightward he turned, a narrow path to take Between them and that high-walled boundary. Canto X FIRST went my Master, for the space was small Between the torments and the lofty wall, And I behind him. ""O controlling Will,"" I spake, ""who leadest through such hates, and still Prevailest for me, wilt thou speak, that who Within these tombs are held mine eyes may see? For lifted are they, and unwatched."" And he, - ""The lids stand open till the time arrive When to the valley of Jehoshaphat They each must wend, and earthly flesh resume, And back returning, as the swarming hive, From condemnation, each the doleful tomb Re-enter wailing, and the lids thereat Be bolted. Here in fitting torment lie The Epicurean horde, who dared deny That soul outlasts its mortal home. Is here Their leader, and his followers round him. Soon Shall all thy wish be granted, - and the boon Ye hold in secret."" ""Kind my guide,"" I said, ""I was not silent to conceal, but thou Didst teach, when in thy written words I read, That in brief speech is wisdom."" Here a voice Behind me, ""Tuscan, who canst walk at choice Untouched amidst the torments, wilt thou stay? For surely native of the noble land Where once I held my too-audacious way, Discreet of speech, thou comest."" The sudden cry So close behind me from the chests that came, First drove me closer to my guide, but he, - ""What dost thou? Turn thee!"" - and a kindly hand Impelled me, fearful, where the crawling flame Was all around me, - ""Lift thine eyes and see, For there is Farinata. Be thou short In speech, for time is failing."" Scorn of hell Was in the eyes that met me. Hard he wrought To raise himself, till girdle-deep I knew The greatest of the fierce Uberti crew, Who asked me, with contempt near-waiting, ""Tell Of whom thou art descended?"" I replied, Concealing nothing. With lifted brows he eyed My face in silence some brief while, and then, - ""Foes were they ever to my part, and me. It yet must linger in the minds of men How twice I broke them."" ""Twice ye learned them flee,"" - I answered boldly, - ""but they twice returned; And others fled more late who have not learned The mode of that returning."" Here a shade Arose beside him, only to the chin Revealed: I think it knelt. Beyond and round It rather looked than at me. Nought it found. Thereat it wept, and asked me, ""Ye that go Unhindered through these homes of gateless woe, - Is my son with thee? Hast thou nought to tell?"" I answered, ""Single through the gates of hell"
2,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",2,"2018-02-27 21:04:44","Part 7 of Trout Fishing in America","Richard Brautigan","THE PUDDING MASTER OF STANLEY BASINTree, snow and rock beginnings, the mountain in back of thelake promised us eternity, but the lake itself was filled withthousands of silly minnows, swimming close to the shoreand busy putting in hours of Mack Sennett time. The minnows were an Idaho tourist attraction. Theyshould have been made into a National Monument. Swimmingclose to shore, like children they believed in their own im-mortality . A third-year student in engineering at the University ofMontana attempted to catch some of the minnows but he wentabout it all wrong. So did the children who came on theFourth of July weekend. The children waded out into the lake and tried to catch theminnows with their hands. They also used milk cartons andplastic bags. They presented the lake with hours of humaneffort. Their total catch was one minnow. It jumped out of acan full of water on their table and died under the table, gasp-ing for watery breath while their mother fried eggs on theColeman stove. The mother apologized. She was supposed to be watchingthe fish --THIS IS MY EARTHLY FAILURE-- holding thedead fish by the tail, the fish taking all the bows like a youngJewish comedian talking about Adlai Stevenson. The third-year student in engineering at the University ofMontana took a tin can and punched an elaborate design ofholes in the can, the design running around and around incircles, like a dog with a fire hydrant in its mouth. Then heattached some string to the can and put a huge salmon eggand a piece of Swiss cheese in the can. After two hours ofintimate and universal failure he went back to Missoula,Montana. The woman who travels with me discovered the best wayto catch the minnows. She used a large pan that had in itsbottom the dregs of a distant vanilla pudding. She put thepan in the shallow water along the shore and instantly, hun-dreds of minnows gathered around. Then, mesmerized bythe vanilla pudding, they swam like a children's crusadeinto the pan. She caught twenty fish with one dip. She putthe pan full of fish on the shore and the baby played withthe fish for an hour. We watched the baby to make sure she was just leaningon them a little. We didn't want her to kill any of them be-cause she was too young. Instead of making her furry sound, she adapted rapidlyto the difference between animals and fish, and was soonmaking a silver sound. She caught one of the fish with her hand and looked at itfor a while. We took the fish out of her hand and put it backinto the pan. After a while she was putting the fish back byherself. Then she grew tired of this. She tipped the pan over anda dozen fish flopped out onto the shore. The children's gameand the banker's game, she picked up those silver things,one at a time, and put them back in the pan. There was stilla little water in it. The fish liked this. You could tell. When she got tired of the fish, we put them back in thelake, and they were all quite alive, but nervous. I doubt ifthey will ever want vanilla pudding again. ROOM 208, HOTEL TROUT FISHING IN AMERICAHalf a block from Broadway and Columbus is Hotel TroutFishing in America, a cheap hotel. It is very old and run bysome Chinese. They are young and ambitious Chinese andthe lobby is filled with the smell of Lysol. The Lysol sits like another guest on the stuffed furniturereading a copy of the Chronicle, the Sports Section. It is theonly furniture I have ever seen in my life that looks like babyfood. And the Lysol sits asleep next to an old Italian pensionerwho listens to the heavy ticking of the clock and dreams ofeternity's golden pasta, sweet basil and Jesus Christ. The Chinese are always doing something to the hotel. Oneweek they paint a lower banister and the next week they putsome new wallpaper on part of the third floor. No matter how many times you pass that part of the thirdfloor, you cannot remember the color of the wallpaper orwhat the design is. All you know is that part of the wallpaperis new. It is different from the old wallpaper. But you can-not remember what that looks like either. One day the Chinese take a bed out of a room and lean itup against the wall. It stays there for a month. You get usedto seeing it and then you go by one day and it is gone. Youwonder where it went. I remember the first time I went inside Hotel Trout Fish-ing in America. It was with a friend to meet some people. ""I'11 tell you what's happening, "" he said. ""She's an ex-hustler who works for the telephone company. He went tomedical school for a while during the Great Depression andthen he went into show business. After that, he was an errandboy for an abortion mill in Los Angeles. He took a fall anddid some time in San Quentin. ""I think you'll like them. They're good people. ""He met her a couple of years ago in North Beach. Shewas hustling for a spade pimp. It's kind of weird. Mostwomen have the temperament to be a whore, but she's oneof these rare women who just don't have it--the whore tem-perament. She's Negro, too. ""She was a teenage girl living on a farm in Oklahoma. Thepimp drove by one afternoon and saw her playing in the frontyard. He stopped his car and got out and talked to her fatherfor a while. ""I guess he gave her father some money. He came upwith something good because her father told her to go andget her things. So she went with the pimp. Simple as that. ""He took her to San Francisco and turned her out and shehated it. He kept her in line by terrorizing her all the time.He was a real sweetheart. ""She had some brains, so he got her a job with the tele-phone company during the day, and he had her hustling atnight. ""When Art took her away from him, he got pretty mad. Agood thing and all that. He used to break into Art's hotelroom in the middle of the night and put a switchblade to Art'sthroat and rant and rave. Art kept putting bigger and biggerlocks on the door, but the pimp just kept breaking in--a hugefellow. ""So Art went out and got a .32 pistol, and the next timethe pimp broke in, Art pulled the gun out from underneaththe covers and jammed it into the pimp's mouth and said,'You'll be out of luck the next time you come through thatdoor, Jack.' This broke the pimp up. He never went back.The pimp certainly lost a good thing. ""He ran up a couple thousand dollars worth of bills in hername, charge accounts and the like. They're still payingthem off. ""The pistol's right there beside the bed, just in case thepimp has an attack of amnesia and wants to have his shoesshined in a funeral parlor. ""When we go up there, he'll drink the wine. She won't.She'Il'have a little bottle of brandy. She won't offer us anyof it. She drinks about four of them a day. Never buys a fifth.She always keeps going out and getting another half-pint.""That's the way she handles it. She doesn't talk very much,and she doesn't make any bad scenes. A good-looking woman, r My friend knocked on the door and we could hear some-body get up off the bed and come to the door. ""Who's there?"" said a man on the other side. ""Me,"" my friend said, in a voice deep and recognizableas any name. ""I'11 open the door. "" A simple declarative sentence. Heundid about a hundred locks, bolts and chains and anchorsand steel spikes and canes filled with acid, and then thedoor opened like the classroom of a great university andeverything was in its proper place: the gun beside the bedand a small bottle of brandy beside an attractive Negro woman, There were many flowers and plants growing in the room,some of them were on the dresser, surrounded by old photo-graphs. All of the photographs were of white people, includ-ing Art when he was young and handsome and looked just likethe 1930s. There were pictures of animals cut out of magazines andtacked to the wall, with crayola frames drawn around themand crayola picture wires drawn holding them to the wall.They were pictures of kittens and puppies. They looked justfine . There was a bowl of goldfish next to the bed, next to thegun. How religious and intimate the goldfish and the gunlooked together. They had a cat named 208. They covered the bathroomfloor with newspaper and the cat crapped on the newspaper.My friend said that 208 thought he was the only cat left in theworld, not having seen another cat since he was a tiny kitten.They never let him out of the room. He was a red cat andvery aggressive. When you played with that cat, he reallybit you. Stroke 208's fur and he'd try to disembowel yourhand as if it were a belly stuffed full of extra soft intestines. We sat there and drank and talked about books. Art hadowned a lot of books in Los Angeles, but they were all gonenow. He told us that he used to spend his spare time in sec-ondhand bookstores buying old and unusual books when hewas in show business, traveling from city to city acrossAmerica. Some of them were very rare autographed books,he told us, but he had bought them for very little and wasforced to sell them for very little.They'd be worth a lot of money now, "" he said. The Negro woman sat there very quietly studying herbrandy. A couple of times she said yes, in a sort of niceway. She used the word yes to its best advantage, when sur-rounded by no meaning and left alone from other words. They did their own cooking in the room and had a singlehot plate sitting on the floor, next to half a dozen plants, in-cluding a peach tree growing in a coffee can. Their closetwas stuffed with food. Along with shirts, suits and dresses,were canned goods, eggs and cooking oil. My friend told me that she was a very fine cook. Thatshe could really cook up a good meal, fancy dishes, too, onthat single hot plate, next to the peach tree. They had a good world going for them. He had such a softvoice and manner that he worked as a private nurse for richmental patients. He made good money when he worked, butsometimes he was sick himself. He was kind of run down.She was still working for the telephone company, but shewasn't doing that night work any more. They were still paying off the bills that pimp had run up.I mean, years had passed and they were still paying themoff: a Cadillac and a hi-fi set and expensive clothes and allthose things that Negro pimps do love to have. Z went back there half a dozen times after that first meet-ing. An interesting thing happened. I pretended that the cat,208, was named after their room number, though I knew thattheir number was in the three hundreds. The room was onthe third floor. It was that simple. I always went to their room following the geography ofHotel Trout Fishing in America, rather than its numericallayout. I never knew what the exact number of their roomwas. I knew secretly it was in the three hundreds and thatwas all. Anyway, it was easier for me to establish order in mymind by pretending that the cat was named after their roomnumber. It seemed like a good idea and the logical reasonfor a cat to have the name 208. It, of course, was not true.It was a fib. The cat's name was 208 and the room numberwas in the three hundreds. Where did the name 208 come from? What did it mean? Ithought about it for a while, hiding it from the rest of mymind. But I didn't ruin my birthday by secretly thinking aboutit too hard. A year later I found out the true significance of 208'sname, purely by accident. My telephone rang one Saturdaymorning when the sun was shining on the hills. It was aclose friend of mine and he said, ""I'm in the slammer. Comeand get me out. They're burning black candles around thedrunk tank. "" I went down to the Hall of Justice to bail my friend out,and discovered that 208 is the room number of the bail office,It was very simple. I paid ten dollars for my friend's lifeand found the original meaning of 208, how it runs like melt-ing snow all the way down the mountainside to a small catliving and playing in Hotel Trout Fishing in America, believ-ing itself to be the last cat in the world, not having seenanother cat in such a long time, totally unafraid, newspaperspread out all over the bathroom floor, and something goodcooking on the hot plate. THE SURGEONI watched my day begin on Little Redfish Lake as clearly asthe first light of dawn or the first ray of the sunrise, thoughthe dawn and the sunrise had long since passed and it wasnow late in the morning. The surgeon took a knife from the sheath at his belt andcut the throat of the chub with a very gentle motion, showingpoetically how sharp the knife was, and then he heaved thefish back out into the lake. The chub made an awkward dead splash and obeyed allthetraffic laws of this world SCHOOL ZONE SPEED 25 MILESand sank to the cold bottom of the lake. It lay there whitebelly up like a school bus covered with snow. A trout swamover and took a look, just putting in time, and swam away. The surgeon and I were talking about the AMA. I don'tknow how in the hell we got on the thing, but we were on it.Then he wiped the knife off and put it back in the sheath. Iactually don't know how we got on the AMA. The surgeon said that he had spent twenty-five years be-coming a doctor. His studies had been interrupted by theDepression and two wars. He told me that he would give upthe practice of medicine if it became socialized in America. ""I've never turned away a patient in my life, and I'venever known another doctor who has. Last year I wrote offsix thousand dollars worth of bad debts, "" he said. I was going to say that a sick person should never underany conditions be abad debt, but I decided to forget it. Noth-ing was going to be proved or changed on the shores of LittleRedfish Lake, and as that chub had discovered, it was not agood place to have cosmetic surgery done. ""I worked three years ago for a union in Southern Utahthat had a health plan, "" the surgeon said. ""I would not careto practice medicine under such conditions. The patientsthink they own you and your time. They think you're theirown personal garbage can. ""I'd be home eating dinner and the telephone would ring,'Help ! Doctor ! I'm dying! It's my stomach ! I've got horriblepains !' I would get up from my dinner and rush over there. ""The guy would meet me at the door with a can of beer inhis hand. 'Hi, dec, come on in. I'11 get you a beer. I'mwatching TV. The pain is all gone. Great, huh? I feel like amillion. Sit down. I'11 get you a beer, dec. The Ed SullivanShow's on.' ""No thank you, "" the surgeon said. ""I wouldn't care topractice medicine under such conditions. No thank you. Nothanks . ""I like to hunt and I like to fish, "" he said. ""That's why Imoved to Twin Falls. I'd heard so much about Idaho huntingand fishing. I've been very disappointed. I've given up mypractice, sold my home in Twin, and now I'm looking for anew place to settle down. ""I've written to Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexi-co, Arizona, California, Nevada, Oregon and Washington fortheir hunting and fishing regulations, and I'm studying themall, "" he said. ""I've got enough money to travel around for six months,looking for a place to settle down where the hunting and fish-ing is good. I'11 get twelve hundred dollars back in incometax returns by not working any more this year. That's twohundred a month for not working. I don't understand thiscountry, "" he said. The surgeon's wife and children were in a trailer nearby.The trailer had come in the night before, pulled by a brand-new Rambler station wagon. He had two children, a boy two-and-a-half years old and the other, an infant born premature-ly, but now almost up to normal weight. The surgeon told me that they'd come over from campingon Big Lost River where he had caught a fourteen-inch brooktrout. He was young looking, though he did not have muchhair on his head. I talked to the surgeon for a little while longer and saidgood-bye. We were leaving in the afternoon for Lake Josephuslocated at the edge of the Idaho Wilderness, and he was leav-ing for America, often only a place in the mind. A NOTE ON THE CAMPING CRAZE THAT IS CURRENTLY SWEEPING AMERICAAs much as anything else, the Coleman lantern is the sym-bol of the camping craze that is currently sweeping America,with its unholy white light burning in the forests of America. Last summer, a Mr. Norris was drinking at a bar in SanFrancisco. It was Sunday night and he'd had six or seven.Turning to the guy on the next stool, he said, ""What are youup to?"" ""Just having a few, "" the guy said. ""That's what I'm doing, "" Mr. Norris said. ""I like it. "" ""I know what you mean, "" the guy said. ""I had to lay offfor a couple years. I'm just starting up again. "" ""What was wrong?"" Mr. Norris said. ""I had a hole in my liver, "" the guy said. ""In your liver?"" ""Yeah, the doctor said it was big enough to wave a flagin. It's better now. I can have a couple once in a while. I'mnot supposed to, but it won't kill me. "" ""Well, I'm thirty-two years old, "" Mr. Norris said. ""I'vehad three wives and I can't remember the names of my child-ren. "" The guy on the next stool, like a bird on the next island,took a sip from his Scotch and soda. The guy liked the soundof the alcohol in his drink. He put the glass back on the bar. ""That's no problem, "" he said to Mr. Norris. ""The bestthing I know for remembering the names of children fromprevious marriages, is to go out camping, try a little troutfishing. Trout fishing is one of the best things in the worldfor remembering children's names."" ""Is that right?"" Mr. Norris said. ""Yeah, "" the guy said. ""That sounds like an idea, "" Mr. Norris said. ""I've got todo something. Sometimes I think one of them is named Carl, but that's impossible. My third-ex hated the name Carl. "" ""You try some camping and that trout fishing, "" the guy on the next stool said. ""And you'll remember the names of Your unborn children. "" ""Carl! Carl! Your mother wants you!"" Mr. Norris yelled as a kind of joke, then he realized that it wasn't very funny. He was getting there. He'd have a couple more and then his head would always fall forward and hit the bar like a gunshot. He'd always miss his glass, so he wouldn't cut his face. His head would always jump up and look startled around the bar, people staring at it. He'd get up then, and take it home. The next morning Mr. Norris went down to a sporting goods store and charged his equipment. He charged a 9 x 9 foot dry finish tent with an aluminum center pole. Then he charged an Arctic sleeping bag filled with eiderdown and an air mattress and an air pillow to go with the sleeping bag. He also charged an air alarm clock to go along with the idea of night and waking in the morning. He charged a two-burner Coleman stove and a Coleman lantern and a folding aluminum table and a big set of inter- locking aluminum cookware and a portable ice box. The last things he charged were his fishing tackle and a bottle of insect repellent. He left the next day for the mountains. Hours later, when he arrived in the mountains, the first sixteen campgrounds he stopped at were filled with people. He was a little surprised. He had no idea the mountains would be so crowded. At the seventeenth campground, a man had just died of a heart attack and the ambulance attendants were taking down his tent. They lowered the center pole and then pulled up the corner stakes. They folded the tent neatly and put it in the back of the ambulance, right beside the man's body. They drove off down the road, leaving behind them in the air, a cloud of brilliant white dust. The dust looked like the light from a Coleman lantern. Mr. Norris pitched his tent right there and set up all his equipment and soon had it all going at once. After he finished eating a dehydrated beef Stroganoff dinner, he turned off all his equipment with the master air switch and went to sleep, for it was now dark. It was about midnight when they brought the body andplaced it beside the tent, less than a foot away from whereMr. Norris was sleeping in his Arctic sleeping bag. He was awakened when they brought the body. They weren'texactly the quietest body bringers in the world. Mr. Norriscould see the bulge of the body against the side of the tent.The only thing that separated him from the dead body was athin layer of 6 oz. water resistant and mildew resistant DRYFINISH green AMERIFLEX poplin. Mr. Norris un-zipped his sleeping bag and went outsidewith a gigantic hound-like flashlight. He saw the body bring-ers walking down the path toward the creek. ""Hey, you guys !"" Mr. Norris shouted. ""Come back here.You forgot something. "" ""What do you mean?"" one of them said. They both lookedvery sheepish, caught in the teeth of the flashlight. ""You know what I mean,"" Mr. Norris said. ""Right now!"" The body bringers shrugged their shoulders, looked ateach other and then reluctantly went back, dragging theirfeet like children all the way. They picked up the body. Itwas heavy and one of them had trouble getting hold of the feet. That one said, kind of hopelessly to Mr. Norris, ""Youwon't change your mind?"" ""Goodnight and good-bye, "" Mr. Norris said. They went off down the path toward the creek, carryingthe body between them. Mr. Norris turned his flashlight offand he could hear them, stumbling over the rocks along thebank of the creek. He could hear them swearing at each other.He heard one of them say, ""Hold your end up.'' Then hecouldn't hear anything. About ten minutes later he saw all sorts of lights go on atanother campsite down along the creek. He heard a distantvoice shouting, ""The answer is no ! You already woke up thekids. They have to have their rest. We're going on a four-mile hike tomorrow up to Fish Konk Lake. Try someplaceelse. """
3,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",3,"2018-02-27 21:04:45","The Mother","Gwendolyn Brooks","Abortions will not let you forget.You remember the children you got that you did not get,The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,The singers and workers that never handled the air.You will never neglect or beatThem, or silence or buy with a sweet.You will never wind up the sucking-thumbOr scuttle off ghosts that come.You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killedchildren.I have contracted. I have easedMy dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seizedYour luckAnd your lives from your unfinished reach,If I stole your births and your names,Your straight baby tears and your games,Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,and your deaths,If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.Though why should I whine,Whine that the crime was other than mine?--Since anyhow you are dead.Or rather, or instead,You were never made.But that too, I am afraid,Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?You were born, you had body, you died.It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.Believe me, I loved you all.Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved youAll."
4,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",4,"2018-02-27 21:04:46","The Glove","Robert Browning","(PETER RONSARD _loquitur_.)``Heigho!'' yawned one day King Francis,``Distance all value enhances!``When a man's busy, why, leisure``Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:`` 'Faith, and at leisure once is he?``Straightway he wants to be busy.``Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm``Caught thinking war the true pastime.``Is there a reason in metre?``Give us your speech, master Peter!''I who, if mortal dare say so,Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,``Sire,'' I replied, ``joys prove cloudlets:``Men are the merest Ixions''---Here the King whistled aloud, ``Let's``---Heigho---go look at our lions!''Such are the sorrowful chancesIf you talk fine to King Francis.And so, to the courtyard proceeding,Our company, Francis was leading,Increased by new followers tenfoldBefore be arrived at the penfold;Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizenAt sunset the western horizon.And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremostWith the dame he professed to adore most.Oh, what a face! One by fits eyedHer, and the horrible pitside;For the penfold surrounded a hollowWhich led where the eye scarce dared follow,And shelved to the chamber secludedWhere Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.The King bailed his keeper, an ArabAs glossy and black as a scarab,*1And bade him make sport and at once stirUp and out of his den the old monster.They opened a hole in the wire-workAcross it, and dropped there a firework,And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,The blackness and silence so utter,By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;Then earth in a sudden contortionGave out to our gaze her abortion.Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,And whose faculties move in no small mistWhen he versifies David the Psalmist)I should study that brute to describe you_Illim Juda Leonem de Tribu_.One's whole blood grew curdling and creepyTo see the black mane, vast and heapy,The tail in the air stiff and straining,The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,As over the barrier which boundedHis platform, and us who surroundedThe barrier, they reached and they restedOn space that might stand him in best stead:For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,And if, in this minute of wonder,No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,The lion at last was delivered?Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!And you saw by the flash on his forehead,By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,He was leagues in the desert already,Driving the flocks up the mountain,Or catlike couched hard by the fountainTo waylay the date-gathering negress:So guarded he entrance or egress.``How he stands!'' quoth the King: ``we may well swear,(``No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere``And so can afford the confession,)``We exercise wholesome discretion``In keeping aloof from his threshold;``Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,``Their first would too pleasantly purloin``The visitor's brisket or surloin:``But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?``Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!''The sentence no sooner was uttered,Than over the rails a glove flattered,Fell close to the lion, and rested:The dame 'twas, who flung it and jestedWith life so, De Lorge had been wooingFor months past; he sat there pursuingHis suit, weighing out with nonchalanceFine speeches like gold from a balance.Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,Walked straight to the glove,---while the lionNeer moved, kept his far-reaching eye onThe palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,---Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,Leaped back where the lady was seated,And full in the face of its ownerFlung the glove.``Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?``So should I!''---cried the King---``'twas mere vanity,``Not love, set that task to humanity!''Lords and ladies alike turned with loathingFrom such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.Not so, I; for I caught an expressionIn her brow's undisturbed self-possessionAmid the Court's scoffing and merriment,---As if from no pleasing experimentShe rose, yet of pain not much heedfulSo long as the process was needful,---As if she had tried in a crucible,To what ``speeches like gold'' were reducible,And, finding the finest prove copper,Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;To know what she had _not_ to trust to,Was worth all the ashes and dust too.She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?``For I''---so I spoke---``am a poet:``Human nature,---behoves that I know it!''She told me, ``Too long had I heard``Of the deed proved alone by the word:``For my love---what De Lorge would not dare!``With my scorn---what De Lorge could compare!``And the endless descriptions of death``He would brave when my lip formed a breath,``I must reckon as braved, or, of course,``Doubt his word---and moreover, perforce,``For such gifts as no lady could spurn,``Must offer my love in return.``When I looked on your lion, it brought``All the dangers at once to my thought,``Encountered by all sorts of men,``Before he was lodged in his den,---``From the poor slave whose club or bare hands``Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,``With no King and no Court to applaud,``By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,``Yet to capture the creature made shift,``That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,``---To the page who last leaped o'er the fence``Of the pit, on no greater pretence``Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,``Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.``So, wiser I judged it to make``One trial what `death for my sake'``Really meant, while the power was yet mine,``Than to wait until time should define``Such a phrase not so simply as I,``Who took it to mean just `to die.'``The blow a glove gives is but weak:``Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?``But when the heart suffers a blow,``Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?''I looked, as away she was sweeping,And saw a youth eagerly keepingAs close as he dared to the doorway.No doubt that a noble should more weighHis life than befits a plebeian;And yet, had our brute been Nemean---(I judge by a certain calm fervourThe youth stepped with, forward to serve her)---He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turnIf you whispered ``Friend, what you'd get, first earn!''And when, shortly after, she carriedHer shame from the Court, and they married,To that marriage some happiness, maugreThe voice of the Court, I dared augur.For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;And in short stood so plain a head tallerThat he wooed and won ... how do you call her?The beauty, that rose in the sequelTo the King's love, who loved her a week well.And 'twas noticed he never would honourDe Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)With the easy commission of stretchingHis legs in the service, and fetchingHis wife, from her chamber, those strayingSad gloves she was always mislaying,While the King took the closet to chat in,---But of course this adventure came pat in.And never the King told the story,How bringing a glove brought such glory,But the wife smiled---``His nerves are grown firmer:``Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.''_Venienti occurrite morbo!_With which moral I drop my theorbo.*1 A beetle."
5,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",5,"2018-02-27 21:04:48","130. Nature’s Law: A Poem","Robert Burns","LET other heroes boast their scars, The marks of sturt and strife:And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life:Shame fa’ the fun, wi’ sword and gun To slap mankind like lumber!I sing his name, and nobler fame, Wha multiplies our number. Great Nature spoke, with air benign, “Go on, ye human race;This lower world I you resign; Be fruitful and increase.The liquid fire of strong desire I’ve pour’d it in each bosom;Here, on this had, does Mankind stand, And there is Beauty’s blossom.” The Hero of these artless strains, A lowly bard was he,Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plains, With meikle mirth an’glee;Kind Nature’s care had given his share Large, of the flaming current;And, all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent. He felt the powerful, high behest Thrill, vital, thro’ and thro’;And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due:Propitious Powers screen’d the young flow’rs, From mildews of abortion;And low! the bard—a great reward— Has got a double portion! Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns,The third of Libra’s equal sway, That gave another Burns,With future rhymes, an’ other times, To emulate his sire:To sing auld Coil in nobler style With more poetic fire. Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes;And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys;Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow’r of ancient nations;And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, To endless generations!"
6,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",6,"2018-02-27 21:04:53","Millenial Hymn to Lord Shiva","Kathleen Raine","Earth no longerhymns the Creator,the seven days of wonder,the Garden is over —all the stories are told,the seven seals brokenall that beginsmust have its ending,our striving, desiring,our living and dying,for Time, the bringerof abundant daysis Time the destroyer —In the Iron Agethe Kali YugaTo whom can we prayat the end of an erabut the Lord Shiva,the Liberator, the purifier?Our forests are felled,our mountains eroded,the wild placeswhere the beautiful animalsfound food and sanctuarywe have desolated,a third of our seas,a third of our riverswe have pollutedand the sea-creatures dying.Our civilization’sblind progressin wrong coursesthrough wrong choiceshas brought us to nightmarewhere what seems,is, to the dreamer,the collective mindof the twentieth century —this world of wondersnot divine creationbut a big bangof blind chance,purposeless accident,mother earth’s children,their living and loving,their delight in beingnot joy but chemistry,stimulus, reflex,valueless, meaningless,while to our machineswe impute intelligence,in computers and robotswe store informationand call it knowledge,we seek guidanceby dialling numbers,pressing buttons, throwing switches,in place of familyour companions are shadows,cast on a screen,bodiless voices, fleshless faces,where was the Gardena Disney-landof virtual reality,in place of angelsthe human imaginationis peopled with foot-ballersfilm-stars, media-men,experts, know-alltelevision personalities,animated puppetswith cartoon faces —To whom can we prayfor release from illusion,from the world-cave,but Time the destroyer,the liberator, the purifier?The curse of Midashas changed at a touch,a golden handshakeearthly paradiseto lifeless matter,where once was seed-time,summer and winter,food-chain, factory farming,monocrops for supermarkets,pesticides, weed-killersbirdless springs, endangered species,battery-hens, hormone injections,artificial insemination,implants, transplants, sterilization,surrogate births, contraception,cloning, genetic engineering, abortion,and our days shall be shortin the land we have sownwith the Dragon’s teethwhere our armies arisefully armed on our killing-fieldswith land-mines and missiles,tanks and artillery,gas-masks and body-bags,our air-craft rain downfire and destruction,our space-craft broadcastlies and corruption,our elected parliamentsparrot their rhetoricof peace and democracywhile the truth we denyreturns in our dreamsof Armageddon,the death-wish, the arms-trade,hatred and slaughterprofitable employmentof our thriving cities,the arms-raceto the end of the worldof our postmodern, post-Christian,post-human nations,progress to the nihilof our spent civilization.But cause and effect,just and inexorablelaw of the universeno fix of science,nor amenable godcan save from ourselvesthe selves we have become —At the end of historyto whom can we praybut to the destroyer,the liberator, the purifier?In the beginningthe stars sang togetherthe cosmic harmony,but Time, imperceptibletaker-awayof all that has been,all that will be,our heart-beat your drum,our dance of lifeyour dance of deathin the crematorium,our high-rise dreams,Valhalla, Utopia,Xanadu, Shangri-la, world revolutionTime has taken, and soon will be goneCambridge, Princeton and M.I.T.,Nalanda, Athens and Alexandriaall for the holocaustof civilization —To whom shall we praywhen our vision has fadedbut the world-destroyer,the liberator, the purifier?But great is the realmof the world-creator,the world-sustainerfrom whom we come,in whom we moveand have our being,about us, within usthe wonders of wisdom,the trees and the fountains,the stars and the mountains,all the children of joy,the loved and the known,the unknowable mysteryto whom we returnthrough the world-destroyer, —Holy, holyat the end of the worldthe purging fireof the purifier, the liberator!"
7,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",7,"2018-02-27 21:04:57",Commination,"Alec Derwent Hope","He that is filthy let him be filthy still. Rev. 22.11 Like John on Patmos, brooding on the Four Last Things, I meditate the ruin of friends Whose loss, Lord, brings this grand new curse to mind Now send me foes worth cursing, or send more - Since means should be proportionate to ends - For mine are few and of the piddling kind: Drivellers, snivellers, writers of bad verse, Backbiting bitches, snipers from a pew, Small turds from the great arse of self-esteem; On such as these I would not waste my curse. God send me soon the enemy or two Fit for the wrath of God, of whom I dream: Some Caliban of Culture, some absurd Messiah of the Paranoiac State, Some Educator wallowing in his slime, Some Prophet of the Uncreating Word Monsters a man might reasonably hate, Masters of Progress, Leaders of our Time; But chiefly the Suborners: Common Tout And Punk, the Advertiser, him I mean And his smooth hatchet-man, the Technocrat. Them let my malediction single out, These modern Dives with their talking screen Who lick the sores of Lazarus and grow fat, Licensed to pimp, solicit and procure Here in my house, to foul my feast, to bawl Their wares while I am talking with my friend, To pour into my ears a public sewer Of all the Strumpet Muses sell and all That prostituted science has to vend. In this great Sodom of a world, which turns The treasure of the Intellect to dust And every gift to some perverted use, What wonder if the human spirit learns Recourses of despair or of disgust, Abortion, suicide and self-abuse. But let me laugh, Lord; let me crack and strain The belly of this derision till it burst; For I have seen too much, have lived too long A citizen of Sodom to refrain, And in the stye of Science, from the first, Have watched the pearls of Circe drop on dung. Let me not curse my children, nor in rage Mock at the just, the helpless and the poor, Foot-fast in Sodom's rat-trap; make me bold To turn on the Despoilers all their age Invents: damnations never felt before And hells more horrible than hot and cold. And, since in Heaven creatures purified Rational, free, perfected in their kinds Contemplate God and see Him face to face In Hell, for sure, spirits transmogrified, Paralysed wills and parasitic minds Mirror their own corruption and disgrace. Now let this curse fall on my enemies My enemies, Lord, but all mankind's as well Prophets and panders of their golden calf; Let Justice fit them all in their degrees; Let them, still living, know that state of hell, And let me see them perish, Lord, and laugh. Let them be glued to television screens Till their minds fester and the trash they see Worm their dry hearts away to crackling shells; Let ends be so revenged upon their means That all that once was human grows to be A flaccid mass of phototropic cells; Let the dog love his vomit still, the swine Squelch in the slough; and let their only speech Be Babel; let the specious lies they bred Taste on their tongues like intellectual wine Let sung commercials surfeit them, till each Goggles with nausea in his nauseous bed. And, lest with them I learn to gibber and gloat, Lead me, for Sodom is my city still, To seek those hills in which the heart finds ease; Give Lot his leave; let Noah build his boat, And me and mine, when each has laughed his fill, View thy damnation and depart in peace."
8,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",8,"2018-02-27 21:04:58","The Commination","Alec Derwent Hope","He that is filthy let him be filthy still. Rev. 22.11 Like John on Patmos, brooding on the Four Last Things, I meditate the ruin of friends Whose loss, Lord, brings this grand new curse to mind Now send me foes worth cursing, or send more - Since means should be proportionate to ends - For mine are few and of the piddling kind: Drivellers, snivellers, writers of bad verse, Backbiting bitches, snipers from a pew, Small turds from the great arse of self-esteem; On such as these I would not waste my curse. God send me soon the enemy or two Fit for the wrath of God, of whom I dream: Some Caliban of Culture, some absurd Messiah of the Paranoiac State, Some Educator wallowing in his slime, Some Prophet of the Uncreating Word Monsters a man might reasonably hate, Masters of Progress, Leaders of our Time; But chiefly the Suborners: Common Tout And Punk, the Advertiser, him I mean And his smooth hatchet-man, the Technocrat. Them let my malediction single out, These modern Dives with their talking screen Who lick the sores of Lazarus and grow fat, Licensed to pimp, solicit and procure Here in my house, to foul my feast, to bawl Their wares while I am talking with my friend, To pour into my ears a public sewer Of all the Strumpet Muses sell and all That prostituted science has to vend. In this great Sodom of a world, which turns The treasure of the Intellect to dust And every gift to some perverted use, What wonder if the human spirit learns Recourses of despair or of disgust, Abortion, suicide and self-abuse. But let me laugh, Lord; let me crack and strain The belly of this derision till it burst; For I have seen too much, have lived too long A citizen of Sodom to refrain, And in the stye of Science, from the first, Have watched the pearls of Circe drop on dung. Let me not curse my children, nor in rage Mock at the just, the helpless and the poor, Foot-fast in Sodom's rat-trap; make me bold To turn on the Despoilers all their age Invents: damnations never felt before And hells more horrible than hot and cold. And, since in Heaven creatures purified Rational, free, perfected in their kinds Contemplate God and see Him face to face In Hell, for sure, spirits transmogrified, Paralysed wills and parasitic minds Mirror their own corruption and disgrace. Now let this curse fall on my enemies My enemies, Lord, but all mankind's as well Prophets and panders of their golden calf; Let Justice fit them all in their degrees; Let them, still living, know that state of hell, And let me see them perish, Lord, and laugh. Let them be glued to television screens Till their minds fester and the trash they see Worm their dry hearts away to crackling shells; Let ends be so revenged upon their means That all that once was human grows to be A flaccid mass of phototropic cells; Let the dog love his vomit still, the swine Squelch in the slough; and let their only speech Be Babel; let the specious lies they bred Taste on their tongues like intellectual wine Let sung commercials surfeit them, till each Goggles with nausea in his nauseous bed. And, lest with them I learn to gibber and gloat, Lead me, for Sodom is my city still, To seek those hills in which the heart finds ease; Give Lot his leave; let Noah build his boat, And me and mine, when each has laughed his fill, View thy damnation and depart in peace."
9,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",9,"2018-02-27 21:05:00",Accordion,"Robert William Service","Some carol of the banjo, to its measure keeping time;Of viol or of lute some make a song.My battered old accordion, you're worthy of a rhyme,You've been my friend and comforter so long.Round half the world I've trotted you, a dozen years or more;You've given heaps of people lots of fun;You've set a host of happy feet a-tapping on the floor . . .Alas! your dancing days are nearly done.I've played you from the palm-belt to the suburbs of the Pole;From the silver-tipped sierras to the sea.The gay and gilded cabin and the grimy glory-holeHave echoed to your impish melody.I've hushed you in the dug-out when the trench was stiff with dead;I've lulled you by the coral-laced lagoon;I've packed you on a camel from the dung-fire on the bled,To the hell-for-breakfast Mountains of the Moon.I've ground you to the shanty men, a-whooping heel and toe,And the hula-hula graces in the glade.I've swung you in the igloo to the lousy Esquimau,And the Haussa at a hundred in the shade.The Nigger on the levee, and the Dinka by the Nilehave shuffled to your insolent appeal.I've rocked with glee the chimpanzee, and mocked the crocodile,And shocked the pompous penquin and the seal.I've set the yokels singing in a little Surrey pub,Apaches swinging in a Belville bar.I've played an obligato to the tom-tom's rub-a-dub,And the throb of Andalusian guitar.From the Horn to Honolulu, from the Cape to Kalamazoo,From Wick to Wicklow, Samarkand to Spain,You've roughed it with my kilt-bag like a comrade tried and true. . . .Old pal! We'll never hit the trail again.Oh I know you're cheap and vulgar, you're an instrumental crime.In drawing-rooms you haven't got a show.You're a musical abortion, you're the voice of grit and grime,You're the spokesman of the lowly and the low.You're a democratic devil, you're the darling of the mob;You're a wheezy, breezy blasted bit of glee.You're the headache of the high-bow, you're the horror of the snob,but you're worth your weight in ruddy gold to me.For you've chided me in weakness and you've cheered me in defeat;You've been an anodyne in hours of pain;And when the slugging jolts of life have jarred me off my feet,You've ragged me back into the ring again.I'll never go to Heaven, for I know I am not fit,The golden harps of harmony to swell;But with asbestos bellows, if the devil will permit,I'll swing you to the fork-tailed imps of Hell.Yes, I'll hank you, and I'll spank you,And I'll everlasting yank youTo the cinder-swinging satellites of Hell."
10,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",10,"2018-02-27 21:05:05","The Abortion","Anne Sexton","Somebody who should have been born is gone. Just as the earth puckered its mouth, each bud puffing out from its knot,I changed my shoes, and then drove south. Up past the Blue Mountains, where Pennsylvania humps on endlessly,wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair, its roads sunken in like a gray washboard; where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly, a dark socket from which the coal has poured,Somebody who should have been bornis gone. the grass as bristly and stout as chives,and me wondering when the ground would break, and me wondering how anything fragile survives; up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man,not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all... he took the fullness that love began. Returning north, even the sky grew thinlike a high window looking nowhere.The road was as flat as a sheet of tin. Somebody who should have been born is gone. Yes, woman, such logic will leadto loss without death. Or say what you meant, you coward...this baby that I bleed."
11,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",11,"2018-02-27 21:05:06","The Break Away","Anne Sexton","Your daisies have comeon the day of my divorce:the courtroom a cement box,a gas chamber for the infectious Jew in meand a perhaps land, a possibly promised landfor the Jew in me,but still a betrayal room for the till-death-do-us—and yet a death, as in the unlocking of scissorsthat makes the now separate parts useless,even to cut each other up as we did yearlyunder the crayoned-in sun.The courtroom keeps squashing our lives as they breakinto two cans ready for recycling,flattened tin humansand a tin law,even for my twenty-five years of hanging onby my teeth as I once saw at Ringling Brothers.The gray room:Judge, lawyer, witnessand me and invisible Skeezix,and all the other tornenduring the bewildermentsof their division.Your daisies have comeon the day of my divorce.They arrive like round yellow fish,sucking with love at the coral of our love.Yet they wait,in their short time,like little utero half-borns,half killed, thin and bone soft.They breathe the air that standsfor twenty-five illicit days,the sun crawling inside the sheets,the moon spinning like a tornadoin the washbowl,and we orchestrated them both,calling ourselves TWO CAMP DIRECTORS.There was a song, our song on your cassette,that played over and overand baptised the prodigals.It spoke the unspeakable,as the rain will on an attic roof,letting the animal join its soulas we kneeled before a miracle--forgetting its knife.The daisies conferin the old-married kitchenpapered with blue and green chefswho call out pies, cookies, yummy,at the charcoal and cigarette smokethey wear like a yellowy salve.The daisies absorb it all--the twenty-five-year-old sanctioned love(If one could call such handfuls of fistsand immobile arms that!)and on this day my world rips itself upwhile the country unfastens alongwith its perjuring king and his court.It unfastens into an abortion of belief,as in me--the legal rift--as on might do with the daisiesbut does notfor they stand for a loveundergoihng open heart surgerythat might takeif one prayed tough enough.And yet I demand,even in prayer,that I am not a thief,a mugger of need,and that your heart surviveon its own,belonging only to itself,whole, entirely whole,and workablein its dark cavern under your ribs.I pray it will know truth,if truth catches in its cupand yet I pray, as a child would,that the surgery take.I dream it is taking.Next I dream the love is swallowing itself.Next I dream the love is made of glass,glass coming through the telephonethat is breaking slowly,day by day, into my ear.Next I dream that I put on the lovelike a lifejacket and we float,jacket and I,we bounce on that priest-blue.We are as light as a cat's earand it is safe,safe far too long!And I awaken quickly and go to the opposite windowand peer down at the moon in the pondand know that beauty has walked over my head,into this bedroom and out,flowing out through the window screen,dropping deep into the waterto hide.I will observe the daisiesfade and dry upwuntil they become flour,snowing themselves onto the tablebeside the drone of the refrigerator,beside the radio playing Frankie(as often as FM will allow)snowing lightly, a tremor sinking from the ceiling--as twenty-five years split from my sidelike a growth that I sliced off like a melanoma.It is six P.M. as I water these tiny weedsand their little half-life,their numbered daysthat raged like a secret radio,recalling love that I picked up innocently,yet guiltily,as my five-year-old daughterpicked gum off the sidewalkand it became suddenly an elastic miracle.For me it was love foundlike a diamondwhere carrots grow--the glint of diamond on a plane wing,meaning: DANGER! THICK ICE!but the good crunch of that orange,the diamond, the carrot,both with four million years of resurrecting dirt,and the love,although Adam did not know the word,the love of Adamobeying his sudden gift.You, who sought me for nine years,in stories made up in front of your naked mirroror walking through rooms of fog women,you trying to forget the motherwho built guilt with the lumber of a locked dooras she sobbed her soured mild and fed you lossthrough the keyhole,you who wrote out your own birthand built it with your own poems,your own lumber, your own keyhole,into the trunk and leaves of your manhood,you, who fell into my words, yearsbefore you fell into me (the other,both the Camp Director and the camper),you who baited your hook with wide-awake dreams,and calls and letters and once a luncheon,and twice a reading by me for you.But I wouldn't!Yet this year,yanking off all past years,I took the baitand was pulled upward, upward,into the sky and was held by the sun--the quick wonder of its yellow lap--and became a woman who learned her own shinand dug into her soul and found it full,and you became a man who learned his won skinand dug into his manhood, his humanhoodand found you were as real as a bakeror a seerand we became a home,up into the elbows of each other's soul,without knowing--an invisible purchase--that inhabits our house forever.We wereblessed by the House-Dieby the altar of the color T.V.and somehow managed to make a tiny marriage,a tiny marriagecalled belief,as in the child's belief in the tooth fairy,so close to absolute,so daft within a year or two.The daisies have comefor the last time.And I who have,each year of my life,spoken to the tooth fairy,believing in her,even when I was her,am helpless to stop your daisies from dying,although your voice cries into the telephone:Marry me! Marry me!and my voice speaks onto these keys tonight:The love is in dark trouble!The love is starting to die,right now--we are in the process of it.The empty process of it.I see two deaths,and the two men plod toward the mortuary of my heart,and though I willed one away in court todayand I whisper dreams and birthdays into the other,they both die like waves breaking over meand I am drowning a little,but always swimmingamong the pillows and stones of the breakwater.And though your daisies are an unwanted death,I wade through the smell of their cancerand recognize the prognosis,its cartful of loss--I say now,you gave what you could.It was quite a ferris wheel to spin on!and the dead city of my marriageseems less importantthan the fact that the daisies came weekly,over and over,likes kisses that can't stop themselves.There sit two deaths on November 5th, 1973.Let one be forgotten--Bury it! Wall it up!But let me not forget the manof my child-like flowersthough he sinks into the fog of Lake Superior,he remains, his fingers the marvelof fourth of July sparklers,his furious ice cream cones of licking,remains to cool my forehead with a washclothwhen I sweat into the bathtub of his being.For the rest that is left:name it gentle,as gentle as radishes inhabitingtheir short life in the earth,name it gentle,gentle as old friends waving so long at the window,or in the drive,name it gentle as maple wings singingthemselves upon the pond outside,as sensuous as the mother-yellow in the pond,that night that it was ours,when our bodies floated and bumpedin moon water and the cicadascalled out like tongues.Let such as thisbe resurrected in all menwhenever they mold their days and nightsas when for twenty-five days and nights you molded mineand planted the seed that dives into my Godand will do so foreverno matter how often I sweep the floor."
12,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",12,"2018-02-27 21:05:10","Rembrandt to Rembrandt","Edwin Arlington Robinson","(AMSTERDAM, 1645)And there you are again, now as you are. Observe yourself as you discern yourself In your discredited ascendency; Without your velvet or your feathers now, Commend your new condition to your fate,And your conviction to the sieves of time. Meanwhile appraise yourself, Rembrandt van Ryn, Now as you are—formerly more or less Distinguished in the civil scenery, And once a painter. There you are again,Where you may see that you have on your shoulders No lovelier burden for an ornament Than one man’s head that’s yours. Praise be to God That you have that; for you are like enough To need it now, my friend, and from now on;For there are shadows and obscurities Immediate or impending on your view, That may be worse than you have ever painted For the bewildered and unhappy scorn Of injured Hollanders in AmsterdamWho cannot find their fifty florins’ worth Of Holland face where you have hidden it In your new golden shadow that excites them, Or see that when the Lord made color and light He made not one thing only, or believeThat shadows are not nothing. Saskia said, Before she died, how they would swear at you, And in commiseration at themselves. She laughed a little, too, to think of them— And then at me.… That was before she died.And I could wonder, as I look at you, There as I have you now, there as you are, Or nearly so as any skill of mine Has ever caught you in a bilious mirror,— Yes, I could wonder long, and with a reason,If all but everything achievable In me were not achieved and lost already, Like a fool’s gold. But you there in the glass, And you there on the canvas, have a sort Of solemn doubt about it; and that’s well For Rembrandt and for Titus. All that’s left Of all that was is here; and all that’s here Is one man who remembers, and one child Beginning to forget. One, two, and three, The others died, and then—then Saskia died;And then, so men believe, the painter died. So men believe. So it all comes at once. And here’s a fellow painting in the dark,— A loon who cannot see that he is dead Before God lets him die. He paints awayAt the impossible, so Holland has it, For venom or for spite, or for defection, Or else for God knows what. Well, if God knows, And Rembrandt knows, it matters not so much What Holland knows or cares. If Holland wantsIts heads all in a row, and all alike, There’s Franz to do them and to do them well— Rat-catchers, archers, or apothecaries, And one as like a rabbit as another. Value received, and every Dutchman happy.All’s one to Franz, and to the rest of them,— Their ways being theirs, are theirs.—But you, my friend, If I have made you something as you are, Will need those jaws and eyes and all the fight And fire that’s in them, and a little more,To take you on and the world after you; For now you fare alone, without the fashion To sing you back and fling a flower or two At your accusing feet. Poor Saskia saw This coming that has come, and with a guileOf kindliness that covered half her doubts Would give me gold, and laugh… before she died. And if I see the road that you are going, You that are not so jaunty as aforetime, God knows if she were not appointed wellTo die. She might have wearied of it all Before the worst was over, or begun. A woman waiting on a man’s avouch Of the invisible, may not wait always Without a word betweenwhiles, or a dashOf poison on his faith. Yes, even she. She might have come to see at last with others, And then to say with others, who say more, That you are groping on a phantom trail Determining a dusky way to nowhere;That errors unconfessed and obstinate Have teemed and cankered in you for so long That even your eyes are sick, and you see light Only because you dare not see the dark That is around you and ahead of you.She might have come, by ruinous estimation Of old applause and outworn vanities, To clothe you over in a shroud of dreams, And so be nearer to the counterfeit Of her invention than aware of yours.She might, as well as any, by this time, Unwillingly and eagerly have bitten Another devil’s-apple of unrest, And so, by some attendant artifice Or other, might anon have had you sharingA taste that would have tainted everything, And so had been for two, instead of one, The taste of death in life—which is the food Of art that has betrayed itself alive And is a food of hell. She might have heardUnhappily the temporary noise Of louder names than yours, and on frail urns That hardly will ensure a dwelling-place For even the dust that may be left of them, She might, and angrily, as like as not,Look soon to find your name, not finding it. She might, like many another born for joy And for sufficient fulness of the hour, Go famishing by now, and in the eyes Of pitying friends and dwindling satellitesBe told of no uncertain dereliction Touching the cold offence of my decline. And even if this were so, and she were here Again to make a fact of all my fancy, How should I ask of her to see with meThrough night where many a time I seem in vain To seek for new assurance of a gleam That comes at last, and then, so it appears, Only for you and me—and a few more, Perchance, albeit their faces are not manyAmong the ruins that are now around us. That was a fall, my friend, we had together— Or rather it was my house, mine alone, That fell, leaving you safe. Be glad for that. There’s life in you that shall outlive my clayThat’s for a time alive and will in time Be nothing—but not yet. You that are there Where I have painted you are safe enough, Though I see dragons. Verily, that was a fall— A dislocating fall, a blinding fall,A fall indeed. But there are no bones broken; And even the teeth and eyes that I make out Among the shadows, intermittently, Show not so firm in their accoutrement Of terror-laden unrealityAs you in your neglect of their performance,— Though for their season we must humor them For what they are: devils undoubtedly, But not so parlous and implacable In their undoing of poor human triumphAs easy fashion—or brief novelty That ails even while it grows, and like sick fruit Falls down anon to an indifferent earth To break with inward rot. I say all this, And I concede, in honor of your silence,A waste of innocent facility In tints of other colors than are mine. I cannot paint with words, but there’s a time For most of us when words are all we have To serve our stricken souls. And here you say,“Be careful, or you may commit your soul Soon to the very devil of your denial.” I might have wagered on you to say that, Knowing that I believe in you too surely To spoil you with a kick or paint you over.No, my good friend, Mynheer Rembrandt van Ryn— Sometime a personage in Amsterdam, But now not much—I shall not give myself To be the sport of any dragon-spawn Of Holland, or elsewhere. Holland was hellNot long ago, and there were dragons then More to be fought than any of these we see That we may foster now. They are not real, But not for that the less to be regarded; For there are slimy tyrants born of nothingThat harden slowly into seeming life And have the strength of madness. I confess, Accordingly, the wisdom of your care That I look out for them. Whether I would Or not, I must; and here we are as oneWith our necessity. For though you loom A little harsh in your respect of time And circumstance, and of ordained eclipse, We know together of a golden flood That with its overflow shall drown awayThe dikes that held it; and we know thereby That in its rising light there lives a fire No devils that are lodging here in Holland Shall put out wholly, or much agitate, Except in unofficial preparationThey put out first the sun. It’s well enough To think of them; wherefore I thank you, sir, Alike for your remembrance and attention. But there are demons that are longer-lived Than doubts that have a brief and evil termTo congregate among the futile shards And architraves of eminent collapse. They are a many-favored family, All told, with not a misbegotten dwarf Among the rest that I can love so littleAs one occult abortion in especial Who perches on a picture (when it’s done) And says, “What of it, Rembrandt, if you do?” This incubus would seem to be a sort Of chorus, indicating, for our good,The silence of the few friends that are left: “What of it, Rembrandt, even if you know?” It says again; “and you don’t know for certain. What if in fifty or a hundred years They find you out? You may have gone meanwhileSo greatly to the dogs that you’ll not care Much what they find. If this be all you are— This unaccountable aspiring insect— You’ll sleep as easy in oblivion As any sacred monk or parricide;And if, as you conceive, you are eternal, Your soul may laugh, remembering (if a soul Remembers) your befrenzied aspiration To smear with certain ochres and some oil A few more perishable ells of cloth,And once or twice, to square your vanity, Prove it was you alone that should achieve A mortal eye—that may, no less, tomorrow Show an immortal reason why today Men see no more. And what’s a mortal eyeMore than a mortal herring, who has eyes As well as you? Why not paint herrings, Rembrandt? Or if not herrings, why not a split beef? Perceive it only in its unalloyed Integrity, and you may find in itA beautified accomplishment no less Indigenous than one that appertains To gentlemen and ladies eating it. The same God planned and made you, beef and human; And one, but for His whim, might be the other.”That’s how he says it, Rembrandt, if you listen; He says it, and he goes. And then, sometimes, There comes another spirit in his place— One with a more engaging argument, And with a softer note for saying truthNot soft. Whether it be the truth or not, I name it so; for there’s a string in me Somewhere that answers—which is natural, Since I am but a living instrument Played on by powers that are invisible.“You might go faster, if not quite so far,” He says, “if in your vexed economy There lived a faculty for saying yes And meaning no, and then for doing neither; But since Apollo sees it otherwise,Your Dutchmen, who are swearing at you still For your pernicious filching of their florins, May likely curse you down their generation, Not having understood there was no malice Or grinning evil in a golden shadowThat shall outshine their slight identities And hold their faces when their names are nothing. But this, as you discern, or should by now Surmise, for you is neither here nor there: You made your picture as your demon willed it;That’s about all of that. Now make as many As may be to be made,—for so you will, Whatever the toll may be, and hold your light So that you see, without so much to blind you As even the cobweb-flash of a misgiving,Assured and certain that if you see right Others will have to see—albeit their seeing Shall irk them out of their serenity For such a time as umbrage may require. But there are many reptiles in the night That now is coming on, and they are hungry; And there’s a Rembrandt to be satisfied Who never will be, howsoever much He be assured of an ascendency That has not yet a shadow’s worth of soundWhere Holland has its ears. And what of that? Have you the weary leisure or sick wit That breeds of its indifference a false envy That is the vermin on accomplishment? Are you inaugurating your new serviceWith fasting for a food you would not eat? You are the servant, Rembrandt, not the master,— But you are not assigned with other slaves That in their freedom are the most in fear. One of the few that are so fortunateAs to be told their task and to be given A skill to do it with a tool too keen For timid safety, bow your elected head Under the stars tonight, and whip your devils Each to his nest in hell. Forget your days,And so forgive the years that may not be So many as to be more than you may need For your particular consistency In your peculiar folly. You are counting Some fewer years than forty at your heels;And they have not pursued your gait so fast As your oblivion—which has beaten them, And rides now on your neck like an old man With iron shins and fingers. Let him ride (You haven’t so much to say now about that),And in a proper season let him run. You may be dead then, even as you may now Anticipate some other mortal strokes Attending your felicity; and for that, Oblivion heretofore has done some runningAway from graves, and will do more of it.” That’s how it is your wiser spirit speaks, Rembrandt. If you believe him, why complain? If not, why paint? And why, in any event, Look back for the old joy and the old roses,Or the old fame? They are all gone together, And Saskia with them; and with her left out, They would avail no more now than one strand Of Samson’s hair wound round his little finger Before the temple fell. Nor more are youIn any sudden danger to forget That in Apollo’s house there are no clocks Or calendars to say for you in time How far you are away from Amsterdam, Or that the one same law that bids you seeWhere now you see alone forbids in turn Your light from Holland eyes till Holland ears Are told of it; for that way, my good fellow, Is one way more to death. If at the first Of your long turning, which may still be longerThan even your faith has measured it, you sigh For distant welcome that may not be seen, Or wayside shouting that will not be heard, You may as well accommodate your greatness To the convenience of an easy ditch,And, anchored there with all your widowed gold, Forget your darkness in the dark, and hear No longer the cold wash of Holland scorn."
13,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",13,"2018-02-27 21:05:11","Winter Trees","Sylvia Plath","Unfortunately this poem has been removed from our archives at the insistence of the copyright holder."
14,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",14,"2018-02-27 21:05:15","My Mother's Body","Marge Piercy","1. The dark socket of the year the pit, the cave where the sun lies down and threatens never to rise, when despair descends softly as the snow covering all paths and choking roads: then hawkfaced pain seized you threw you so you fell with a sharp cry, a knife tearing a bolt of silk. My father heard the crash but paid no mind, napping after lunch yet fifteen hundred miles north I heard and dropped a dish. Your pain sunk talons in my skull and crouched there cawing, heavy as a great vessel filled with water, oil or blood, till suddenly next day the weight lifted and I knew your mind had guttered out like the Chanukah candles that burn so fast, weeping veils of wax down the chanukiya. Those candles were laid out, friends invited, ingredients bought for latkes and apple pancakes, that holiday for liberation and the winter solstice when tops turn like little planets. Shall you have all or nothing take half or pass by untouched? Nothing you got, Nun said the dreydlas the room stopped spinning. The angel folded you up like laundry your body thin as an empty dress. Your clothes were curtains hanging on the window of what had been your flesh and now was glass. Outside in Florida shopping plazas loudspeakers blared Christmas carols and palm trees were decked with blinking lights. Except by the tourist hotels, the beaches were empty. Pelicans with pregnant pouches flapped overhead like pterodactyls. In my mind I felt you die. First the pain lifted and then you flickered and went out. 2.I walk through the rooms of memory. Sometimes everything is shrouded in dropcloths, every chair ghostly and muted. Other times memory lights up from within bustling scenes acted just the other side of a scrim through which surely I could reach my fingers tearing at the flimsy curtain of time which is and isn't and will be the stuff of which we're made and unmade. In sleep the other night I met you, seventeen your first nasty marriage just annulled, thin from your abortion, clutching a book against your cheek and trying to look older, trying to took middle class, trying for a job at Wanamaker's, dressing for parties in cast off stage costumes of your sisters. Your eyes were hazy with dreams. You did not notice me waving as you wandered past and I saw your slip was showing. You stood still while I fixed your clothes, as if I were your mother. Remember me combing your springy black hair, ringlets that seemed metallic, glittering; remember me dressing you, my seventy year old mother who was my last dollbaby, giving you too late what your youth had wanted. 3.What is this mask of skin we wear, what is this dress of flesh, this coat of few colors and little hair? This voluptuous seething heap of desires and fears, squeaking mice turned up in a steaming haystack with their babies? This coat has been handed down, an heirloom this coat of black hair and ample flesh,this coat of pale slightly ruddy skin.This set of hips and thighs, these buttocks they provided cushioning for my grandmother Hannah, for my mother Bert and for me and we all sat on them in turn, those major muscles on which we walk and walk and walk over the earth in search of peace and plenty. My mother is my mirror and I am hers. What do we see? Our face grown young again, our breasts grown firm, legs lean and elegant. Our arms quivering with fat, eyes set in the bark of wrinkles, hands puffy, our belly seamed with childbearing, Give me your dress that I might try it on. Oh it will not fit you mother, you are too fat. I will not fit you mother. I will not be the bride you can dress, the obedient dutiful daughter you would chew, a dog's leather bone to sharpen your teeth. You strike me sometimes just to hear the sound. Loneliness turns your fingers into hooks barbed and drawing blood with their caress. My twin, my sister, my lost love, I carry you in me like an embryo as once you carried me. 4. What is it we turn from, what is it we fear? Did I truly think you could put me back inside? Did I think I would fall into you as into a molten furnace and be recast, that I would become you? What did you fear in me, the child who wore your hair, the woman who let that black hair grow long as a banner of darkness, when youa proper flapper wore yours cropped?You pushed and you pulled on my rubberyflesh, you kneaded me like a ball of dough. Rise, rise, and then you pounded me flat. Secretly the bones formed in the bread.I became willful, private as a cat. You never knew what alleys I had wandered. You called me bad and I posed like a gutter queen in a dress sewn of knives. All I feared was being stuck in a box with a lid. A good woman appeared to me indistinguishable from a dead one except that she worked all the time. Your payday never came. Your dreams ran with bright colors like Mexican cottons that bled onto the drab sheets of the day and would not bleach with scrubbing. My dear, what you said was one thing but what you sang was another, sweetly subversive and dark as blackberries and I became the daughter of your dream. This body is your body, ashes now and roses, but alive in my eyes, my breasts, my throat, my thighs. You run in me a tang of salt in the creek waters of my blood, you sing in my mind like wine. What you did not dare in your life you dare in mine."
15,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",15,"2018-02-27 21:05:19","The End","Sharon Olds","We decided to have the abortion, becamekillers together. The period that camechanged nothing. They were dead, that young couplewho had been for life.As we talked of it in bed, the crashwas not a surprise. We went to the window,looked at the crushed cars and the gleamingcurved shears of glass as if we haddone it. Cops pulled the bodies outBloody as births from the small, smokingaperture of the door, laid themon the hill, covered them with blankets that soakedthrough. Bloodbegan to pourdown my legs into my slippers. I stoodwhere I was until they shot the boundform into the black holeof the ambulance and stood the other oneup, a bandage covering its head,stained where the eyes had been.The next morning I had to kneelan hour on that floor, to clean up my blood,rubbing with wet cloths at those glitteringtranslucent spots, as one has to soaka long time to deglaze the panwhen the feast is over."
16,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",16,"2018-02-27 21:05:21","Sword Blades and Poppy Seed","Amy Lowell","A drifting, April, twilight sky,A wind which blew the puddles dry,And slapped the river into wavesThat ran and hid among the stavesOf an old wharf. A watery lightTouched bleak the granite bridge, and whiteWithout the slightest tinge of gold,The city shivered in the cold.All day my thoughts had lain as dead,Unborn and bursting in my head.From time to time I wrote a wordWhich lines and circles overscored.My table seemed a graveyard, fullOf coffins waiting burial.I seized these vile abortions, toreThem into jagged bits, and sworeTo be the dupe of hope no more.Into the evening straight I went,Starved of a day's accomplishment.Unnoticing, I wandered whereThe city gave a space for air,And on the bridge's parapetI leant, while pallidly there setA dim, discouraged, worn-out sun.Behind me, where the tramways run,Blossomed bright lights, I turned to leave,When someone plucked me by the sleeve.""Your pardon, Sir, but I should beMost grateful could you lend to meA carfare, I have lost my purse.""The voice was clear, concise, and terse.I turned and met the quiet gazeOf strange eyes flashing through the haze.The man was old and slightly bent,Under his cloak some instrumentDisarranged its stately line,He rested on his cane a fineAnd nervous hand, an almandineSmouldered with dull-red flames, sanguineIt burned in twisted gold, uponHis finger. Like some Spanish don,Conferring favours even whenAsking an alms, he bowed againAnd waited. But my pockets provedEmpty, in vain I poked and shoved,No hidden penny lurking thereGreeted my search. ""Sir, I declareI have no money, pray forgive,But let me take you where you live.""And so we plodded through the mireWhere street lamps cast a wavering fire.I took no note of where we went,His talk became the elementWherein my being swam, content.It flashed like rapiers in the nightLit by uncertain candle-light,When on some moon-forsaken swardA quarrel dies upon a sword.It hacked and carved like a cutlass blade,And the noise in the air the broad words madeWas the cry of the wind at a window-paneOn an Autumn night of sobbing rain.Then it would run like a steady streamUnder pinnacled bridges where minarets gleam,Or lap the air like the lapping tideWhere a marble staircase lifts its wideGreen-spotted steps to a garden gate,And a waning moon is sinking straightDown to a black and ominous sea,While a nightingale sings in a lemon tree.I walked as though some opiateHad stung and dulled my brain, a stateAcute and slumbrous. It grew late.We stopped, a house stood silent, dark.The old man scratched a match, the sparkLit up the keyhole of a door,We entered straight upon a floorWhite with finest powdered sandCarefully sifted, one might standMuddy and dripping, and yet no traceWould stain the boards of this kitchen-place.From the chimney, red eyes sparked the gloom,And a cricket's chirp filled all the room.My host threw pine-cones on the fireAnd crimson and scarlet glowed the pyreWrapped in the golden flame's desire.The chamber opened like an eye,As a half-melted cloud in a Summer skyThe soul of the house stood guessed, and shyIt peered at the stranger warily.A little shop with its various wareSpread on shelves with nicest care.Pitchers, and jars, and jugs, and pots,Pipkins, and mugs, and many lotsOf lacquered canisters, black and gold,Like those in which Chinese tea is sold.Chests, and puncheons, kegs, and flasks,Goblets, chalices, firkins, and casks.In a corner three ancient amphorae leanedAgainst the wall, like ships careened.There was dusky blue of Wedgewood ware,The carved, white figures fluttering thereLike leaves adrift upon the air.Classic in touch, but emasculate,The Greek soul grown effeminate.The factory of Sevres had lentElegant boxes with ornamentCulled from gardens where fountains splashedAnd golden carp in the shadows flashed,Nuzzling for crumbs under lily-pads,Which ladies threw as the last of fads.Eggshell trays where gay beaux knelt,Hand on heart, and daintily speltTheir love in flowers, brittle and bright,Artificial and fragile, which told arightThe vows of an eighteenth-century knight.The cruder tones of old Dutch jugsGlared from one shelf, where Toby mugsEndlessly drank the foaming ale,Its froth grown dusty, awaiting sale.The glancing light of the burning woodPlayed over a group of jars which stoodOn a distant shelf, it seemed the skyHad lent the half-tones of his blazonryTo paint these porcelains with unknown huesOf reds dyed purple and greens turned blues,Of lustres with so evanescent a sheenTheir colours are felt, but never seen.Strange winged dragons writhe aboutThese vases, poisoned venoms spout,Impregnate with old Chinese charms;Sealed urns containing mortal harms,They fill the mind with thoughts impure,Pestilent drippings from the ureOf vicious thinkings. ""Ah, I see,""Said I, ""you deal in pottery.""The old man turned and looked at me.Shook his head gently. ""No,"" said he.Then from under his cloak he took the thingWhich I had wondered to see him bringGuarded so carefully from sight.As he laid it down it flashed in the light,A Toledo blade, with basket hilt,Damascened with arabesques of gilt,Or rather gold, and tempered soIt could cut a floating thread at a blow.The old man smiled, ""It has no sheath,'Twas a little careless to have it beneathMy cloak, for a jostle to my armWould have resulted in serious harm.But it was so fine, I could not wait,So I brought it with me despite its state.""""An amateur of arms,"" I thought,""Bringing home a prize which he has bought.""""You care for this sort of thing, Dear Sir?""""Not in the way which you infer.I need them in business, that is all.""And he pointed his finger at the wall.Then I saw what I had not noticed before.The walls were hung with at least five scoreOf swords and daggers of every sizeWhich nations of militant men could devise.Poisoned spears from tropic seas,That natives, under banana trees,Smear with the juice of some deadly snake.Blood-dipped arrows, which savages makeAnd tip with feathers, orange and green,A quivering death, in harlequin sheen.High up, a fan of glancing steelWas formed of claymores in a wheel.Jewelled swords worn at kings' leveesWere suspended next midshipmen's dirks, and theseElbowed stilettos come from Spain,Chased with some splendid Hidalgo's name.There were Samurai swords from old Japan,And scimitars from Hindoostan,While the blade of a Turkish yataghanMade a waving streak of vitreous whiteUpon the wall, in the firelight.Foils with buttons broken or lostLay heaped on a chair, among them tossedThe boarding-pike of a privateer.Against the chimney leaned a queerTwo-handed weapon, with edges dullAs though from hacking on a skull.The rusted blood corroded it still.My host took up a paper spillFrom a heap which lay in an earthen bowl,And lighted it at a burning coal.At either end of the table, tallWax candles were placed, each in a small,And slim, and burnished candlestickOf pewter. The old man lit each wick,And the room leapt more obviouslyUpon my mind, and I could seeWhat the flickering fire had hid from me.Above the chimney's yawning throat,Shoulder high, like the dark wainscote,Was a mantelshelf of polished oakBlackened with the pungent smokeOf firelit nights; a Cromwell clockOf tarnished brass stood like a rockIn the midst of a heaving, turbulent seaOf every sort of cutlery.There lay knives sharpened to any use,The keenest lancet, and the obtuseAnd blunted pruning bill-hook; bladesOf razors, scalpels, shears; cascadesOf penknives, with handles of mother-of-pearl,And scythes, and sickles, and scissors; a whirlOf points and edges, and underneathShot the gleam of a saw with bristling teeth.My head grew dizzy, I seemed to hearA battle-cry from somewhere near,The clash of arms, and the squeal of balls,And the echoless thud when a dead man falls.A smoky cloud had veiled the room,Shot through with lurid glares; the gloomPounded with shouts and dying groans,With the drip of blood on cold, hard stones.Sabres and lances in streaks of lightGleamed through the smoke, and at my rightA creese, like a licking serpent's tongue,Glittered an instant, while it stung.Streams, and points, and lines of fire!The livid steel, which man's desireHad forged and welded, burned white and cold.Every blade which man could mould,Which could cut, or slash, or cleave, or rip,Or pierce, or thrust, or carve, or strip,Or gash, or chop, or puncture, or tear,Or slice, or hack, they all were there.Nerveless and shaking, round and round,I stared at the walls and at the ground,Till the room spun like a whipping top,And a stern voice in my ear said, ""Stop!I sell no tools for murderers here.Of what are you thinking! Please clearYour mind of such imaginings.Sit down. I will tell you of these things.""He pushed me into a great chairOf russet leather, poked a flareOf tumbling flame, with the old long sword,Up the chimney; but said no word.Slowly he walked to a distant shelf,And brought back a crock of finest delf.He rested a moment a blue-veined handUpon the cover, then cut a bandOf paper, pasted neatly round,Opened and poured. A sliding soundCame from beneath his old white hands,And I saw a little heap of sands,Black and smooth. What could they be:""Pepper,"" I thought. He looked at me.""What you see is poppy seed.Lethean dreams for those in need.""He took up the grains with a gentle handAnd sifted them slowly like hour-glass sand.On his old white finger the almandineShot out its rays, incarnadine.""Visions for those too tired to sleep.These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.No single soul in the world could dwell,Without these poppy-seeds I sell.""For a moment he played with the shining stuff,Passing it through his fingers. EnoughAt last, he poured it back intoThe china jar of Holland blue,Which he carefully carried to its place.Then, with a smile on his aged face,He drew up a chair to the open space'Twixt table and chimney. ""Without preface,Young man, I will say that what you seeIs not the puzzle you take it to be.""""But surely, Sir, there is something strangeIn a shop with goods at so wide a rangeEach from the other, as swords and seeds.Your neighbours must have greatly differing needs.""""My neighbours,"" he said, and he stroked his chin,""Live everywhere from here to Pekin.But you are wrong, my sort of goodsIs but one thing in all its moods.""He took a shagreen letter caseFrom his pocket, and with charming graceOffered me a printed card.I read the legend, ""Ephraim Bard.Dealer in Words."" And that was all.I stared at the letters, whimsicalIndeed, or was it merely a jest.He answered my unasked request:""All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.My firm is a very ancient house,The entries on my books would rouseYour wonder, perhaps incredulity.I inherited from an ancestryStretching remotely back and far,This business, and my clients areAs were those of my grandfather's days,Writers of books, and poems, and plays.My swords are tempered for every speech,For fencing wit, or to carve a breachThrough old abuses the world condones.In another room are my grindstones and hones,For whetting razors and putting a pointOn daggers, sometimes I even anointThe blades with a subtle poison, soA twofold result may follow the blow.These are purchased by men who feelThe need of stabbing society's heel,Which egotism has brought them to thinkIs set on their necks. I have foils to pinkAn adversary to quaint reply,And I have customers who buyScalpels with which to dissect the brainsAnd hearts of men. UltramundanesEven demand some finer kindsTo open their own souls and minds.But the other half of my business dealsWith visions and fancies. Under seals,Sorted, and placed in vessels here,I keep the seeds of an atmosphere.Each jar contains a different kindOf poppy seed. From farthest IndCome the purple flowers, opium filled,From which the weirdest myths are distilled;My orient porcelains contain them all.Those Lowestoft pitchers against the wallHold a lighter kind of bright conceit;And those old Saxe vases, out of the heatOn that lowest shelf beside the door,Have a sort of Ideal, ""couleur d'or"".Every castle of the airSleeps in the fine black grains, and thereAre seeds for every romance, or lightWhiff of a dream for a summer night.I supply to every want and taste.""'Twas slowly said, in no great hasteHe seemed to push his wares, but IDumfounded listened. By and byA log on the fire broke in two.He looked up quickly, ""Sir, and you?""I groped for something I should say;Amazement held me numb. ""To-dayYou sweated at a fruitless task.""He spoke for me, ""What do you ask?How can I serve you?"" ""My kind host,My penniless state was not a boast;I have no money with me."" He smiled.""Not for that money I beguiledYou here; you paid me in advance.""Again I felt as though a tranceHad dimmed my faculties. AgainHe spoke, and this time to explain.""The money I demand is Life,Your nervous force, your joy, your strife!""What infamous proposal nowWas made me with so calm a brow?Bursting through my lethargy,Indignantly I hurled the cry:""Is this a nightmare, or am IDrunk with some infernal wine?I am no Faust, and what is mineIs what I call my soul! Old Man!Devil or Ghost! Your hellish planRevolts me. Let me go."" ""My child,""And the old tones were very mild,""I have no wish to barter souls;My traffic does not ask such tolls.I am no devil; is there one?Surely the age of fear is gone.We live within a daylight worldLit by the sun, where winds unfurledSweep clouds to scatter pattering rain,And then blow back the sun again.I sell my fancies, or my swords,To those who care far more for words,Ideas, of which they are the sign,Than any other life-design.Who buy of me must simply payTheir whole existence quite away:Their strength, their manhood, and their prime,Their hours from morning till the timeWhen evening comes on tiptoe feet,And losing life, think it complete;Must miss what other men count being,To gain the gift of deeper seeing;Must spurn all ease, all hindering love,All which could hold or bind; must proveThe farthest boundaries of thought,And shun no end which these have brought;Then die in satisfaction, knowingThat what was sown was worth the sowing.I claim for all the goods I sellThat they will serve their purpose well,And though you perish, they will live.Full measure for your pay I give.To-day you worked, you thought, in vain.What since has happened is the trainYour toiling brought. I spoke to youFor my share of the bargain, due.""""My life! And is that all you craveIn pay? What even childhood gave!I have been dedicate from youth.Before my God I speak the truth!""Fatigue, excitement of the pastFew hours broke me down at last.All day I had forgot to eat,My nerves betrayed me, lacking meat.I bowed my head and felt the stormPlough shattering through my prostrate form.The tearless sobs tore at my heart.My host withdrew himself apart;Busied among his crockery,He paid no farther heed to me.Exhausted, spent, I huddled there,Within the arms of the old carved chair.A long half-hour dragged away,And then I heard a kind voice say,""The day will soon be dawning, whenYou must begin to work again.Here are the things which you require.""By the fading light of the dying fire,And by the guttering candle's flare,I saw the old man standing there.He handed me a packet, tiedWith crimson tape, and sealed. ""InsideAre seeds of many differing flowers,To occupy your utmost powersOf storied vision, and these swordsAre the finest which my shop affords.Go home and use them; do not spareYourself; let that be all your care.Whatever you have means to buyBe very sure I can supply.""He slowly walked to the window, flungIt open, and in the grey air rungThe sound of distant matin bells.I took my parcels. Then, as tellsAn ancient mumbling monk his beads,I tried to thank for his courteous deedsMy strange old friend. ""Nay, do not talk,""He urged me, ""you have a long walkBefore you. Good-by and Good-day!""And gently sped upon my wayI stumbled out in the morning hush,As down the empty street a flushRan level from the rising sun.Another day was just begun."
17,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",17,"2018-02-27 21:05:24","Editor Whedon","Edgar Lee Masters","To be able to see every side of every question;To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,To use great feelings and passions of the human familyFor base designs, for cunning ends,To wear a mask like the Greek actors --Your eight-page paper -- behind which you huddle,Bawling through the megaphone of big type:""This is I, the giant.""Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,Poisoned with the anonymous wordsOf your clandestine soul.To scratch dirt over scandal for money,And exhume it to the winds for revenge,Or to sell papers,Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,To win at any cost, save your own life.To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization,As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the trackAnd derails the express train.To be an editor, as I was.Then to lie here close by the river over the placeWhere the sewage flows from the village,And the empty cans and garbage are dumped,And abortions are hidden."
18,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",18,"2018-02-27 21:05:24","And God Created Abortion","Sharon Esther Lampert","1. In the Beginning of God's Creating the Heavens and the Earth -2. When the Womb was Astonishingly Empty, Inside of Every Woman BeingGod Made Millions of Eggs That Lived a Fleeting Lifespan. And One byOne, Each Egg Cascaded to its Death. God Made Abortion for Womankind.And It Was So.And Inside of Every Man Being, God Made Billions of Sperm That Lived aFlittingLifespan, And Cascaded to Their Deaths, on the Upstream, Against Gravity.God Made Abortion for Mankind. And It Was So.3. God said, ""Let there be Abortion,"" And there was Abortion.4. God Saw that Abortion was Good, And God Separated the Eggs from theSperm.5. God Called to the Sperm: ""Male,"" And to the Eggs God Called: ""Female.""And There Were Men and There Were Women, One Day.6. God Said, ""Let There Be a Conception. And One Plummeting Sperm andOne Plunging Egg Melded into One, And Propagated the Human Species.And God Let the Lower Species Have a Greater Survival Ratio of Eggs toSperm.7. And God Said: ""Let There Be More Ants Per Square Inch Than HumanBeings Per Square Mile."" And It Was So.Sharon Esther LampertSexiest Creative Genius in Human History8th Prophetess of Israel: 22 Commandmentshttp://www.poetryjewels.com"
19,1,"2018-02-27 03:36:29","Abortion Poems",19,"2018-02-27 21:05:29","Drug Trial","Craig Erick Chaffin","IEveryone has their own peculiar price,not quantifiable in currency.When my hypodermic grazed your vein,you confessed yours.It was not exorbitantso I withheld the seruma moment longer before pushing the plunger. IIYou saw rattlesnakes mate in the arroyotangled like hoses, braided like black ropes for a day, utterly vulnerable in the grip of love or instinct. Indians say this sight grants second sight.You saw your victimhoodcupped like a cross of ironin the hollow above your sternum,cold, rusted from fear,dangling from a chain of misinterpreted coincidence. Self-knowledge is a dangerous thingand can't be granted by a single vision.III Spoke a prophet with his head on a platter: ""To stand for something, to protest abortion or the destruction of wetlands,to remember the Holocaust or the Alamo,to disagree with farm subsidiesor campaign against clear-cuttinghelps focus minds dulled by tolerance,not a virtue but a courtesy--like ignoring someone's body odor in an elevator-- which makes it perfectly moral to say,'I understand and accept what you are doingthough I find it utterly abhorrent.'Blessed are those who have found their cause:gun ownership, preservation of historic buildings,the fight against leukemia or for hemp: whatever we are righteously incensed aboutrestores our passion for goodness,however misguided."" Beneath the empty platter the world moves like ancient women gathering fuel in vacant lots.IVThe gut-ache of youth, super-caffeinated though socially melancholy, is beyond the generation previous, confirmed by body-piercing, black leather and ghostly skinas if in preparation, not for a prom but for a funeral.You must have cancer of the throatto sing for them.Pain sustains them.Blessed are the pure, if only driven by glands.VSeeking the river's calmyou stretched before the television, dreaming of a Winnebago and Palm Springs,when suddenly you heard: My sheep hear my voice and my voice is on TV.Was the sound inside or outside your head?No televangelist with cockatoo haircame to explain, so you wept like a sinner,fearing you were the Christ,everyone was their own Christ,and this was too much for youso I injected the antidote out of pity for all the lies you need to make life tolerable."
20,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",20,"2018-02-27 21:05:30","Touched by An Angel","Maya Angelou","We, unaccustomed to courageexiles from delightlive coiled in shells of lonelinessuntil love leaves its high holy templeand comes into our sightto liberate us into life.Love arrivesand in its train come ecstasiesold memories of pleasureancient histories of pain.Yet if we are bold,love strikes away the chains of fearfrom our souls.We are weaned from our timidityIn the flush of love's lightwe dare be braveAnd suddenly we seethat love costs all we areand will ever be.Yet it is only lovewhich sets us free."
21,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",21,"2018-02-27 21:05:35","The Angel","William Blake","I Dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?And that I was a maiden Queen:Guarded by an Angel mild;Witless woe, was neer beguil'd!And I wept both night and dayAnd he wip'd my tears awayAnd I wept both day and nightAnd hid from him my hearts delightSo he took his wings and fled:Then the morn blush'd rosy red:I dried my tears & armd my fears,With ten thousand shields and spears.Soon my Angel came again;I was arm'd, he came in vain:For the time of youth was fledAnd grey hairs were on my head"
22,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",22,"2018-02-27 21:05:35","I Heard an Angel","William Blake","I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing,'Mercy, Pity, PeaceIs the world's release.'Thus he sung all dayOver the new mown hay,Till the sun went downAnd haycocks looked brown.I heard a Devil curseOver the heath and the furze,'Mercy could be no more,If there was nobody poor,And pity no more could be,If all were as happy as we.'At his curse the sun went down,And the heavens gave a frown.Down pour'd the heavy rainOver the new reap'd grain ...And Miseries' increaseIs Mercy, Pity, Peace."
23,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",23,"2018-02-27 21:05:37","The Child-Angel","Rabindranath Tagore","They clamour and fight, they doubt and despair, they know no endto their wrangling.Let your life come amongst them like a flame of light, mychild, unflickering and pure, and delight them into silence.They are cruel in their greed and their envy, their words are likehidden knives thirsting for blood.Go and stand amidst their scowling hearts, my child, and letyour gentle eyes fall upon them like the forgiving peace of theevening over the strife of the day.Let them see your face, my child, and thus know the meaningof all things; let them love you and thus love each other.Come and take your seat in the bosom of the limitless, mychild. At sunrise open and raise your heart like a blossomingflower, and at sunset bend your head and in silence complete theworship of the day."
24,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",24,"2018-02-27 21:05:40","A Lost Angel","Ellis Parker Butler","When first we met she seemed so white I feared her;As one might near a spirit bright I neared her;An angel pure from heaven above I dreamed her,And far too good for human love I deemed her.A spirit free from mortal taint I thought her,And incense as unto a saint I brought her.Well, incense burning did not seem To please her,And insolence I feared she’d deem To squeeze her;Nor did I dare for that same why To kiss her,Lest, shocked, she’d cause my eager eye To miss her.I sickened thinking of some way To win her,When lo! she asked me, one fine day, To dinner!Twas thus that made of common flesh I found her,And in a mortal lover’s mesh I wound her.Embraces, kisses, loving looks I gave her,And buying bon-bons, flowers and books, I save her;For her few honest, human taints I love her,Nor would I change for all the saints Above herThose eyes, that little face, that so Endear her,And all the human joy I know When near her;And I am glad, when to my breast I press her,She’s just a woman, like the rest, God bless her!"
25,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",25,"2018-02-27 21:05:42","Vision Of The Archangels, The","Rupert Brooke","Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world,Trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky,Bearing, with quiet even steps, and great wings furled,A little dingy coffin; where a child must lie,It was so tiny. (Yet, you had fancied, God could neverHave bidden a child turn from the spring and the sunlight,And shut him in that lonely shell, to drop for everInto the emptiness and silence, into the night. . . .)They then from the sheer summit cast, and watched it fall,Through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin -- and thereinGod's little pitiful Body lying, worn and thin,And curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower-petal --Till it was no more visible; then turned againWith sorrowful quiet faces downward to the plain."
26,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",26,"2018-02-27 21:05:42","The Vision of the Archangels","Rupert Brooke","Slowly up silent peaks, the white edge of the world,Trod four archangels, clear against the unheeding sky, Bearing, with quiet even steps, and great wings furled, A little dingy coffin; where a child must lie, It was so tiny. (Yet, you had fancied, God could neverHave bidden a child turn from the spring and the sunlight,And shut him in that lonely shell, to drop for ever Into the emptiness and silence, into the night.…) They then from the sheer summit cast, and watched it fall, Through unknown glooms, that frail black coffin—and thereinGod’s little pitiful Body lying, worn and thin, And curled up like some crumpled, lonely flower petal— Till it was no more visible; then turned again With sorrowful quiet faces downward to the plain."
27,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",27,"2018-02-27 21:05:45","The Guardian-Angel","Robert Browning","A PICTURE AT FANO.I.Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leaveThat child, when thou hast done with him, for me!Let me sit all the day here, that when eveShall find performed thy special ministry,And time come for departure, thou, suspendingThy flight, mayst see another child for tending,Another still, to quiet and retrieve.II.Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,---And suddenly my head is covered o'erWith those wings, white above the child who praysNow on that tomb---and I shall feel thee guardingMe, out of all the world; for me, discardingYon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.III.I would not look up thither past thy headBecause the door opes, like that child, I know,For I should have thy gracious face instead,Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me lowLike him, and lay, like his, my hands together,And lift them up to pray, and gently tetherMe, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?IV.If this was ever granted, I would restMy bead beneath thine, while thy healing handsClose-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,Back to its proper size again, and smoothingDistortion down till every nerve had soothing,And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.V.How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!I think how I should view the earth and skiesAnd sea, when once again my brow was baredAfter thy healing, with such different eyes. O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.What further may be sought for or declared?VI.Guercino drew this angel I saw teach(Alfred, dear friend!)---that little child to pray,Holding the little hands up, each to eachPressed gently,---with his own head turned awayOver the earth where so much lay before himOf work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,And he was left at Fano by the beach.VII.We were at Fano, and three times we wentTo sit and see him in his chapel there,And drink his beauty to our soul's content---My angel with me too: and since I careFor dear Guercino's fame (to which in powerAnd glory comes this picture for a dower,Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)---VIII.And since he did not work thus earnestlyAt all times, and has else endured some wrong---I took one thought his picture struck from me,And spread it out, translating it to song.My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea."
28,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",28,"2018-02-27 21:05:48","The Boy And the Angel","Robert Browning","Morning, evening, noon and night,``Praise God!; sang Theocrite.Then to his poor trade he turned,Whereby the daily meal was earned.Hard he laboured, long and well;O'er his work the boy's curls fell.But ever, at each period,He stopped and sang, ``Praise God!''Then back again his curls he threw,And cheerful turned to work anew.Said Blaise, the listening monk, ``Well done;``I doubt not thou art heard, my son:``As well as if thy voice to-day``Were praising God, the Pope's great way.``This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome``Praises God from Peter's dome.''Said Theocrite, ``Would God that I``Might praise him, that great way, and die!''Night passed, day shone,And Theocrite was gone.With God a day endures alway,A thousand years are but a day.God said in heaven, ``Nor day nor night``Now brings the voice of my delight.''Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,Spread his wings and sank to earth;Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,Lived there, and played the craftsman well;And morning, evening, noon and night,Praised God in place of Theocrite.And from a boy, to youth he grew:The man put off the stripling's hue:The man matured and fell awayInto the season of decay:And ever o'er the trade he bent,And ever lived on earth content.(He did God's will; to him, all oneIf on the earth or in the sun.)God said, ``A praise is in mine ear;``There is no doubt in it, no fear:``So sing old worlds, and so``New worlds that from my footstool go.``Clearer loves sound other ways:``I miss my little human praise.''Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fellThe flesh disguise, remained the cell.'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,And paused above Saint Peter's dome.In the tiring-room close byThe great outer gallery,With his holy vestments dight,Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:And all his past careerCame back upon him clear,Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,Till on his life the sickness weighed;And in his cell, when death drew near,An angel in a dream brought cheer:And rising from the sickness drearHe grew a priest, and now stood here.To the East with praise he turned,And on his sight the angel burned.``I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell``And set thee here; I did not well.``Vainly I left my angel-sphere,``Vain was thy dream of many a year.``Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped---``Creation's chorus stopped!``Go back and praise again``The early way, while I remain.``With that weak voice of our disdain,``Take up creation's pausing strain.``Back to the cell and poor employ:``Resume the craftsman and the boy!''Theocrite grew old at home;A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.One vanished as the other died:They sought God side by side."
29,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",29,"2018-02-27 21:05:50","The Changeling ( From The Tent on the Beach )","John Greenleaf Whittier","FOR the fairest maid in HamptonThey needed not to search,Who saw young Anna favorCome walking into church,--Or bringing from the meadows,At set of harvest-day,The frolic of the blackbirds,The sweetness of the hay.Now the weariest of all mothers,The saddest two years' bride,She scowls in the face of her husband,And spurns her child aside.""Rake out the red coals, goodman,--For there the child shall lie,Till the black witch comes to fetch herAnd both up chimney fly.""It's never my own little daughter,It's never my own,"" she said;""The witches have stolen my Anna,And left me an imp instead.""Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,Blue eyes, and hair of gold;But this is ugly and wrinkled,Cross, and cunning, and old.""I hate the touch of her fingers,I hate the feel of her skin;It's not the milk from my bosom,But my blood, that she sucks in.""My face grows sharp with the torment;Look! my arms are skin and bone!Rake open the red coals, goodman,And the witch shall have her own.""She'll come when she hears it crying,In the shape of an owl or bat,And she'll bring us our darling AnnaIn place of her screeching brat.""Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,Laid his hand upon her head:Thy sorrow is great, O woman!I sorrow with thee,"" he said.""The paths to trouble are manyAnd never but one sure wayLeads out to the light beyond it:My poor wife, let us pray.""Then he said to the great All-Father,""Thy daughter is weak and blind;Let her sight come back, and clothe herOnce more in her right mind.""Lead her out of this evil shadow,Out of these fancies wild;Let the holy love of the motherTurn again to her child.""Make her lips like the lips of MaryKissing her blessed Son;Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,Rest on her little one.""Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,Open her prison-door,And thine shall be all the gloryAnd praise forevermore.""Then into the face of its motherThe baby looked up and smiled;And the cloud of her soul was lifted,And she knew her little child.A beam of the slant west sunshineMade the wan face almost fair,Lit the blue eyes' patient wonderAnd the rings of pale gold hair.She kissed it on lip and forehead,She kissed it on cheek and chinkAnd she bared her snow-white bosomTo the lips so pale and thin.Oh, fair on her bridal morningWas the maid who blushed and smiled,But fairer to Ezra DaltonLooked the mother of his child.With more than a lover's fondnessHe stooped to her worn young face,And the nursing child and the motherHe folded in one embrace.""Blessed be God!"" he murmured.""Blessed be God!"" she said;""For I see, who once was blinded,--I live, who once was dead.""Now mount and ride, my goodman,As thou lovest thy own soul!Woe's me, if my wicked fanciesBe the death of Goody Cole!""His horse he saddled and bridled,And into the night rode he,Now through the great black woodland,Now by the white-beached sea.He rode through the silent clearings,He came to the ferry wide,And thrice he called to the boatmanAsleep on the other side.He set his horse to the river,He swam to Newbury town,And he called up Justice SewallIn his nightcap and his gown.And the grave and worshipful justice(Upon whose soul be peace!)Set his name to the jailer's warrantFor Goodwife Cole's release.Then through the night the hoof-beatsWent sounding like a flail;And Goody Cole at cockcrowCame forth from Ipswich jail."
30,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",30,"2018-02-27 21:05:51","The Destroying Angel","William Topaz McGonagall","I dreamt a dream the other nightThat an Angel appeared to me, clothed in white.Oh! it was a beautiful sight,Such as filled my heart with delight. And in her hand she held a flaming brand,Which she waved above her head most grand;And on me she glared with love-beaming eyes,Then she commanded me from my bed to arise. And in a sweet voice she said, ""You must follow me,And in a short time you shall seeThe destruction of all the public-houses in the city,Which is, my friend, the God of Heaven's decree."" Then from my bed in fear I arose,And quickly donned on my clothes;And when that was done she said, "" Follow meDirect to the High Street, fearlessly."" So with the beautiful Angel away I did go,And when we arrived at the High Street, Oh! what a show,I suppose there were about five thousand men there,All vowing vengeance against the publicans, I do declare. Then the Angel cried with a solemn voice aloudTo that vast end Godly assembled crowd,""Gentlemen belonging the fair City of Dundee,Remember I have been sent here by God to warn ye. ""That by God's decree ye must take up arms and follow meAnd wreck all the public-houses in this fair City,Because God cannot countenance such dens of iniquity.Therefore, friends of God, come, follow me. ""Because God has said there's no use preaching against strong drink,Therefore, by taking up arms against it, God does think,That is the only and the effectual cureTo banish it from the land, He is quite sure. ""Besides, it has been denounced in Dundee for fifty yearsBy the friends of Temperance, while oft they have shed tears.Therefore, God thinks there's no use denouncing it any longer,Because the more that's said against it seemingly it grows stronger."" And while the Angel was thus addressing the people,The Devil seemed to be standing on the Townhouse Steeple,Foaming at the mouth with rage, and seemingly much annoyed,And kicking the Steeple because the public-houses wore going to be destroyed. Then the Angel cried, "" Satan, avaunt! begone!""Then he vanished in the flame, to the amazement of everyone;And waving aloft the flaming brand,That she carried in her right hand She cried, ""Now, friends of the Temperance cause, follow me:For remember if's God's high decreeTo destroy all the public-houses in this fair City;Therefore, friends of God, let's commence this war immediately."" Then from the High Street we all did retire,As the Angel, sent by God, did desire;And along the Perth Road we all did go,While the Angel set fire to the public-houses along that row. And when the Perth Road public-houses were fired, she cried, "" Follow me,And next I'll fire the Hawkhill public-houses instantly.""Then away we went with the Angel, without dread or woe,And she fired the IEawkhill public-houses as onward we did go. Then she cried, ""Let's on to the Scouringburn, in God's name.""And away to the Scouringburn we went, with our hearts aflame,As the destroying Angel did command.And when there she fired the public-houses, which looked very grand. And when the public-houses there were blazing like a kiln,She cried, "" Now, my friends, we'll march to the Bonnet Hill,And we'll fire the dens of iniquity without dismay,Therefore let's march on, my friends, without delay."" And when we arrived at the Bonnet Hill,The Angel fired the public-houses, as she did well.Then she cried, ""We'll leave them now to their fate,And march on to the Murraygate."" Then we marched on to the Murraygate,And the Angel fired the public-houses there, a most deserving fate.Then to the High Street we marched and fired them there,Which was a most beautiful blaze, I do declare. And on the High Street, old men and women were gathered there,And as the flames ascended upwards, in amazement they did stareWhen they saw the public-houses in a blaze,But they clapped their hands with joy and to God gave praise. Then the Angel cried, ""Thank God, Christ's Kingdom's near at hand,And there will soon be peace and plenty throughout the land,And the ravages of the demon Drink no more will be seen.""But, alas, I started up in bed, and behold it was a dream!"
31,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",31,"2018-02-27 21:05:56","Angels, in the early morning","Emily Dickinson","Angels, in the early morningMay be seen the Dews among,Stooping -- plucking -- smiling -- flying --Do the Buds to them belong?Angels, when the sun is hottestMay be seen the sands among,Stooping -- plucking -- sighing -- flying --Parched the flowers they bear along."
32,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",32,"2018-02-27 21:05:57",Angelus,"Duncan Campbell Scott","A deep bell that links the downsTo the drowsy air;Every loop of sound that swoons,Finds a circle fair,Whereon it doth rest and fade;Every stroke that dins is laidLike a node,Spinning out the quivering, fine,Vibrant tendrils of a vine:(Bim - bim - bim.)How they wreathe and run,Silvern as a filmy light,Filtered from the sun:The god of sound is out of sight,And the bell is like a cloud,Humming to the outer rim,Low and loud:(Bim - bim - bim.)Throwing down the tempered lull,Fragile, beautiful:Married drones and overtones,How we fancy them to swim,Spreading into shapes that shine,With the aura of the metals,Prisoned in the bell,Fulvous tinted as a shell,Dreamy, dim,Deep in amber hyaline:(Bim - bim - bim.)"
33,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",33,"2018-02-27 21:05:59","God permits industrious Angels","Emily Dickinson","God permits industrious Angels --Afternoons -- to play --I met one -- forgot my Schoolmates --All -- for Him -- straightway --God calls home -- the Angels -- promptly --At the Setting Sun --I missed mine -- how dreary -- Marbles --After playing Crown!"
34,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",34,"2018-02-27 21:06:02","Air And Angels","John Donne","Twice or thrice had I loved thee,Before I knew thy face or name,So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,Angels affect us oft, and worship'd be;Still when, to where thou wert, I came,Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.But since my soul, whose child love is,Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,More subtile than the parent is,Love must not be, but take a body too,And therefore what thou wert, and who,I bid Love ask, and nowThat it assume thy body, I allow,And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought,And so more steadily to have gone,With wares which would sink admiration,I saw, I had love's pinnace overfraught,Ev'ry thy hair for love to work uponIs much too much, some fitter must be sought;For, nor in nothing, nor in thingsExtreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;Then as an Angel, face, and wingsOf air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,So thy love may be my loves sphere;Just such disparityAs is twixt Air and Angels' purity,'Twixt women's love, and men's will ever be."
35,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",35,"2018-02-27 21:06:07","First Party At Ken Kesey's With Hell's Angels","Allen Ginsberg","Cool black night thru redwoodscars parked outside in shadebehind the gate, stars dim abovethe ravine, a fire burning by the sideporch and a few tired souls hunched overin black leather jackets. In the hugewooden house, a yellow chandelier at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakershi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles BeatlesJumping Joe Jackson and twenty youthsdancing to the vibration thru the floor,a little weed in the bathroom, girls in scarlettights, one muscular smooth skinned mansweating dancing for hours, beer cansbent littering the yard, a hanged mansculpture dangling from a high creek branch,children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.And 4 police cars parked outside the paintedgate, red lights revolving in the leaves. December 1965"
36,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",36,"2018-02-27 21:06:09","My Guardian Angel","Robert William Service","When looking back I dimly seeThe trails my feet have trod,Some hand divine, it seems to me,Has pulled the strings with God;Some angel form has lifeward leanedWhen hope for me was past;Some love sublime has intervenedTo save me at the last.For look you! I was born a fool,Damnation was my fate;My lot to drivel and to drool,Egregious and frutrate.But in the deep of my despair,When dark my doom was writ,Some saving hand was always thereto pull me from the Pit.A Guardian Angel - how absurd!I scoff at Power Divine.And yet . . . a someone spoke the wordThat willed me from the swine.And yet, despite my scorn of prayer,My lack of love or friend,I know a Presence will be there,To save me at the end."
37,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",37,"2018-02-27 21:06:09","The Woman And The Angel","Robert William Service","An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street;His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet;So the Master stooped in His pity, and gave him a pass to go,For the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below.He doffed his celestial garments, scarce waiting to lay them straight;He bade good by to Peter, who stood by the golden gate;The sexless singers of heaven chanted a fond farewell,And the imps looked up as they pattered on the red-hot flags of hell.Never was seen such an angel -- eyes of heavenly blue,Features that shamed Apollo, hair of a golden hue;The women simply adored him; his lips were like Cupid's bow;But he never ventured to use them -- and so they voted him slow.Till at last there came One Woman, a marvel of loveliness,And she whispered to him: ""Do you love me?"" And he answered that woman, ""Yes.""And she said: ""Put your arms around me, and kiss me, and hold me -- so --""But fiercely he drew back, saying: ""This thing is wrong, and I know.""Then sweetly she mocked his scruples, and softly she him beguiled:""You, who are verily man among men, speak with the tongue of a child.We have outlived the old standards; we have burst, like an over-tight thong,The ancient, outworn, Puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong.""Then the Master feared for His angel, and called him again to His side,For oh, the woman was wondrous, and oh, the angel was tried!And deep in his hell sang the Devil, and this was the strain of his song:""The ancient, outworn, Puritanic traditions of Right and Wrong."""
38,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",38,"2018-02-27 21:06:11","Two or three angels","Stephen Crane","Two or three angelsCame near to the earth.They saw a fat church.Little black streams of peopleCame and went in continually.And the angels were puzzledTo know why the people went thus,And why they stayed so long within."
39,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",39,"2018-02-27 21:06:12","""It was wrong to do this,"" said the angel","Stephen Crane","""It was wrong to do this,"" said the angel.""You should live like a flower,Holding malice like a puppy,Waging war like a lambkin.""""Not so,"" quoth the manWho had no fear of spirits;""It is only wrong for angelsWho can live like the flowers,Holding malice like the puppies,Waging war like the lambkins."""
40,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",40,"2018-02-27 21:06:14","An Angel in the House","James Henry Leigh Hunt","How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed,--as we shall know forever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths,--angels that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;-- A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings."
41,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",41,"2018-02-27 21:06:16","this evangelist... (XXIX)","E. E. Cummings","Unfortunately this poem has been removed from our archives at the insistence of the copyright holder."
42,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",42,"2018-02-27 21:06:18",Angels,"Russell Edson","They have little use. They are best as objects of torment.No government cares what you do with them.Like birds, and yet so human . . .They mate by briefly looking at the other.Their eggs are like white jellybeans.Sometimes they have been said to inspire a manto do more with his life than he might have.But what is there for a man to do with his life?. . . They burn beautifully with a blue flame.When they cry out it is like the screech of a tiny hinge; the cry of a bat. No one hears it . . ."
43,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",43,"2018-02-27 21:06:18","The Changeling","Russell Edson","A man had a son who was an anvil. And then sometimes he was an automobile tire. I do wish you would sit still, said the father. Sometimes his son was a rock. I realize that you have quite lost boundary, where no excess seems excessive, nor to where poverty roots hunger to need. But should you allow time to embrace you to its bosom of dust, that velvet sleep, then were you served even beyond your need; and desire in sate was properly spilling from its borders, said the father. Then his son became the corner of a room. Don't don't, cried the father. And then his son became a floorboard. Don't don't, the moon falls there and curdles your wits into the grain of the wood, cried the father. What shall I do? screamed his son. Sit until time embraces you into the bosom of its velvet quiet, cried the father. Like this? Cried his son as his son became dust. Ah, that is more pleasant, and speaks well of him, who having required much in his neglect of proper choice, turns now, on good advice, to a more advantageous social stance, said the father. But then his son became his father. Behold, the son is become as one of us, said the father. His son said, behold, the son is become as one of us. Will you stop repeating me, screamed the father. Will you stop repeating me, screamed his son. Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, sighed the father. Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, sighed his son."
44,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",44,"2018-02-27 21:06:23","On Angels","Czeslaw Milosz","All was taken away from you: white dresses,wings, even existence.Yet I believe you,messengers. There, where the world is turned inside out,a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seems. Shorts is your stay here:now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,in a melody repeated by a bird,or in the smell of apples at close of daywhen the light makes the orchards magic. They say somebody has invented youbut to me this does not sound convincingfor the humans invented themselves as well. The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof,as it can belong only to radiant creatures,weightless and winged (after all, why not?),girdled with the lightening. I have heard that voice many a time when asleepand, what is strange, I understood more or lessan order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue: day draw nearanother onedo what you can."
2976,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2976,"2018-02-27 22:45:39","The Angel's Kiss","Andrew Barton Paterson","An angel stood beside the bed Where lay the living and the dead. He gave the mother -- her who died -- A kiss that Christ the Crucified Had sent to greet the weary soul When, worn and faint, it reached its goal. He gave the infant kisses twain, One on the breast, one on the brain. ""Go forth into the world,"" he said, ""With blessings on your heart and head, ""For God, who ruleth righteously, Hath ordered that to such as be ""From birth deprived of mother's love, I bring His blessing from above; ""But if the mother's life he spare Then she is made God's messenger ""To kiss and pray that heart and brain May go through life without a stain."" The infant moved towards the light, The angel spread his wings in flight. But each man carries to his grave The kisses that in hopes to save The angel or his mother gave."
2977,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2977,"2018-02-27 22:45:42","The Man to the Angel","George William Russell","I HAVE wept a million tears:Pure and proud one, where are thine,What the gain though all thy yearsIn unbroken beauty shine? All your beauty cannot winTruth we learn in pain and sighs:You can never enter inTo the circle of the wise. They are but the slaves of lightWho have never known the gloom,And between the dark and brightWilled in freedom their own doom. Think not in your pureness there,That our pain but follows sin:There are fires for those who dareSeek the throne of might to win. Pure one, from your pride refrain:Dark and lost amid the strifeI am myriad years of painNearer to the fount of life. When defiance fierce is thrownAt the god to whom you bow,Rest the lips of the UnknownTenderest upon my brow."
2978,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2978,"2018-02-27 22:45:44","The Guardian Angel Of The Little Utopia","Jorie Graham","Shall I move the flowers again?Shall I put them further to the leftinto the light?Win that fix it, will that arrange thething?Yellow sky.Faint cricket in the dried-out bush.As I approach, my footfall in the leavesdrowns out the cricket-chirping I wascoming close to hear Yellow sky with black leaves rearranging it.Wind rearranging the black leaves in it.But anyway I am indoors, of course, and this is a pane, here,and I have arranged the flowers for youagain. Have taken the dead cordless ones, the yellow bits past apogee,the faded cloth, the pollen-free abandoned marriage-hymnback out, leaving the few crisp blooms to swagger, winglets, limpid debrisShall I arrange these few remaining flowers?Shall I rearrange these gossamer efficiencies?Please don't touch me with your skin.Please let the thing evaporate.Please tell me clearly what it is.The party is so loud downstairs, bristling with souvenirs.It's a philosophy of life, of course,drinks fluorescent, whips of syntax in the airabove the heads -- how small they seem from here,the bobbing universal heads, stuffing the void with eloquence,and also tiny merciless dartsof truth. It's pulled on tight, the air they breathe and rip.It's like a prize the way it's stretched on tightover the voices, keeping them intermingling, forcing the breaths to marry, marry,cunning little hermeneutic cupola,dome of occasion in which the thoughts re-group, the footprints stall and gnaw in tiny ruts,the napkins wave, are waved , the honeycombingthoughts are felt to dialogue, a form of self-congratulation, no?, or is it suffering? I'm a bitdizzy up here rearranging things,they will come up here soon, and need a setting for their fears,and loves, an architecture for their evolutionarymorphic needs -- what will they need if I don't make the place? --what will they know to miss?, what cry out for, what feel the bitter restless irritationsfor? A bit dizzy from the altitude of everlastingness,the tireless altitudes of the created place,in which to make a life -- a liberty -- the hollow, fetishized, and starry place,a bit gossamer with dream, a vortex of evaporations,oh little dream, invisible city, invisible hillI make here on the upper floors for you --down there, where you are entertained, where you are passingtime, there's glass and moss on air,there's the feeling of being numerous, mouths submitting to air, lips to protocol,and dreams of sense, tongues, hinges, forceps clickingin anticipation ofas if the moment, freeze-burned by accuracies--ofcould be thawed open into life againby gladnesses, by rectitude -- no, no -- by the sinewy efforts atsincerity -- can't you feel it gliding round you,mutating, yielding the effort-filled phrases of your talk to air,compounding, stemming them, honeying-open the sheerest innuendoes tillthe rightness seems to root, in the air, in the compact indoor sky,and the rest, all round, feels like desert, falls away,and you have the sensation of muscular timeliness,and you feel the calligraphic in you reach out like a soulinto the midst of others, in conversation,gloved by desire, into the tiny carnageof opinionsSo dizzy. Life buzzing beneath methough my feeling says the hive is gone, queen gone,the continuum continuing beneath, busy, earnest, in con-versation. Shall I prepare. Shall I put this furtherto the left, shall I move the light, the point-of-view, the shades aredrawn, to cast a glow resembling disappearance, slightly red,will that fix it, will that make clear the task, the trellised ongoingnessand all these tiny purposes, these parables, this marketplaceof tightening truths?Oh knit me that am crumpled dust,the heap is all dispersed. Knit me that am. Say therefore. Sayphilosophy and mean by that the pane.Let us look out again. The yellow sky.With black leaves rearranging it"
2979,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2979,"2018-02-27 22:45:45","The Guardian Angel Of The Private Life","Jorie Graham","All this was written on the next day's list.On which the busyness unfurled its cursive roots,pale but effective,and the long stem of the necessary, the sum of events,built-up its tiniest cathedral...(Or is it the sum of what takes place? )If I lean down, to whisper, to them,down into their gravitational field, there where they head busily oninto the woods, laying the gifts out one by one, onto the path,hoping to be on the air,hoping to please the children -- (and some gifts overwrapped and some not wrapped at all) -- ifI stir the wintered ground-leavesup from the paths, nimbly, into a sheet of sun,into an escape-route-width of sun, mildly gelatinous where wet, though mostlycrisp,fluffing them up a bit, and up, as if to choke the singularity of sunwith this jubilation of manyness, all through and round these passers-by -- just leaves, nothing that can vaporize into a thought,no, a burning bush's worth of spidery, up-ratcheting, tender-cling leaves,oh if -- the list gripped hard by the left hand of one,the busyness buried so deep into the puffed-up greenish mind of one,the hurried mind hovering over its rankings,the heart -- there at the core of the drafting leaves -- wet and warm at thezero ofthe bright mock-stairwaying-up of the posthumous leaves -- the heart,formulating its alleyways of discovery,fussing about the integrity of the whole,the heart trying to make time and place seem small,sliding its slim tears into the deep wallet of each new eventon the listthen checking it off -- oh the satisfaction -- each check a small kiss,an echo of the previous one, off off it goes the dry high-ceilingedobligation,checked-off by the fingertips, by the small gust called done that swipesthe unfinishable's gold hem aside, revealingwhat might have been, peeling away what should . . .There are flowerpots at their feet.There is fortune-telling in the air they breathe.It filters-in with its flashlight-beam, its holy-water-tinted air,down into the open eyes, the lampblack open mouth.Oh listen to these words I'm spitting out for you.My distance from you makes them louder.Are we all waiting for the phone to ring?Who should it be? What fountain is expected tothrash forth mysteries of morning joy? What quail-like giant tail of promises, pleiades, psalters, plane-trees,what parapets petalling-forth the invisibleinto the world of things,turning the list into its spatial-form at last,into its archival many-headed, many-legged colony . . .Oh look at you.What is it you hold back? What piece of time is it the listwon't cover? You down there, in the theater ofoperations -- you, throat of the world -- so diacritical -- (are we all waiting for the phone to ring?) -- (what will you say? are you home? are you expected soon?) -- oh wanderer back from break, all your attention focused -- as if the thinking were an oar, this ship the last of someoriginal fleet, the captains gone but some of uswho saw the plan drawn-outstill here -- who saw the thinking clot-up in the bodies of the greater men,who saw them sit in silence while the voices in the other roomlit-up with passion, itchings, dreams of landings,while the solitary ones,heads in their hands, so still,the idea barely formingat the base of that stillness,the idea like a homesickness starting just to fold and pleat and knot-itselfout of the manyness -- the plan -- before it's thought,before it's a done deal or the name-you're-known-by -- the men of x, the outcomes of y -- before -- the mind still gripped hard by the handsthat would hold the skull even stiller if they could,that nothing distract, that nothing but the possible be let to filterthrough,the possible and then the finely filamented hope, the filigree,without the distractions of wonder -- oh tiny golden spore just filtering-in to touch the good idea,which taking-form begins to twist,coursing for bottom-footing, palpating for edge-hold, limit,now finally about torise, about to go into the other room -- and yetnot having done so yet, not yet -- theintake -- before the credo, before the plan -- right at the homesickness -- before this list you hold in your exhausted hand. Oh put it down."
2980,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2980,"2018-02-27 22:45:47","Angel Or Demon","Ella Wheeler Wilcox","You call me an angel of love and of light,A being of goodness and heavenly fire,Sent out from God’s kingdom to guide you aright,In paths where your spirits may mount and aspire.You say that I glow like a star on its course,Like a ray from the alter, a spark from the source.Now list to my answer; let all the world hear it;I speak unafraid what I know to be true:A pure, faithful love is the creative spiritWhich makes women angels! I live in but you.We are bound soul to soul by life’s holiest laws;If I am an angel – why, you are the cause.As my ship skims the sea, I look up from the deck.Fair, firm at the wheel shines Love’s beautiful form,And shall I curse the barque that last night went to wreck,By the Pilot abandoned to darkness and storm?My craft is no stauncher, she too had been lost –Had the wheelman deserted, or slept at his post.I laid down the wealth of my soul at your feet(Some woman does this for some man every day) .No desperate creature who walks in the street,Has a wickeder heart that I might have, I say,Had you wantonly misused the treasures you woon,-As so many men with heart riches have done.This flame from God’s altar, this holy love flame,That burns like sweet incense for ever for you,Might now be a wild conflagration of shame,Had you tortured my heart, or been base or untrue.For angels and devils are cast in one mould,Till love guides them upward, or downward, I hold.I tell you the women who make fervent wivesAnd sweet tender mothers, had Fate been less fair,Are the women who might have abandoned their livesTo the madness that springs from and ends in despair.As the fire on the hearth which sheds brightness around,Neglected, may level the walls to the ground.The world makes grave errors in judging these things,Great good and great evil are born in one breast.Love horns us and hoofs us – or gives us our wings,And the best could be worst, as the worst could be best.You must thank your own worth for what I grew to be,For the demon lurked under the angel in me."
2981,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2981,"2018-02-27 22:45:48","Angels Of The Love Affair","Anne Sexton","""Angels of the love affair, do you know that other,the dark one, that other me?""1. ANGEL OF FIRE AND GENITALSAngel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,that green mama who first forced me to sing,who put me first in the latrine, that pantomimeof brown where I was beggar and she was king?I said, ""The devil is down that festering hole.""Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, youof the Bunsen burner, you of the candle,you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle,take some ice, take come snow, take a month of rainand you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gateas the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight.2. ANGEL OF CLEAN SHEETSAngel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs?Once in the madhouse they came like specks of cinnamonas I lay in a choral cave of drugs,as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton.Little bits of dried blood. One hundred marksupon the sheet. One hundred kisses in the dark.White sheets smelling of soap and Cloroxhave nothing to do with this night of soil,nothing to do with barred windows and multiple locksand all the webbing in the bed, the ultimate recoil.I have slept in silk and in red and in black.I have slept on sand and, on fall night, a haystack.I have known a crib. I have known the tuck-in of a childbut inside my hair waits the night I was defiled.3. ANGEL OF FLIGHT AND SLEIGH BELLSAngel of flight and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis,that ether house where your arms and legs are cement?You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss.The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident.I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke.A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke.In this fashion I have become a tree.I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will,inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My bodypassively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the kill.Angels of flight, you soarer, you flapper, you floater,you gull that grows out of my back in the drreams I prefer,stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eyewhere I stand in stone shoes as the world's bicycle goes by.4. ANGEL OF HOPE AND CALENDARSAngel of hope and calendars, do you know despair?That hole I crawl into with a box of Kleenex,that hole where the fire woman is tied to her chair,that hole where leather men are wringing their necks,where the sea has turned into a pond of urine.There is no place to wash and no marine beings to stir in.In this hole your mother is crying out each day.Your father is eating cake and digging her grave.In this hole your baby is strangling. Your mouth is clay.Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave.You are alone like a dog in a kennel. Your handsbreak out in boils. Your arms are cut and bound by bandsof wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange.There are no prayers here. Here there is no change.5. ANGEL OF BLIZZARDS AND BLACKOUTSAngle of blizzards and blackouts, do you know raspberries,those rubies that sat in the gree of my grandfather's garden?You of the snow tires, you of the sugary wings, you freezeme out. Leet me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten.Let me pick those sweet kisses, thief that I was,as the sea on my left slapped its applause.Only my grandfather was allowed there. Or the maidwho came with a scullery pan to pick for breakfast.She of the rols that floated in the air, she of the inlaidwoodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust,not I. Nonetheless I came sneaking across the salt lawnin bare feet and jumping-jack pajamas in the spongy dawn.Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face,take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.6. ANGEL OF BEACH HOUSES AND PICNICSAngel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire?Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myslef to blame.My blood buzzes like a hornet's nest. I sit in a kitchen chairat a table set for one. The silverware is the sameand the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and expelas in an operation. But I have no one left to tell.Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queenwith cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport.Once I sunbathed in the buff, all brown and lean,watching the toy sloops go by, holding courtfor busloads of tourists. Once I called breakfast the sexiestmeal of the day. Once I invited arrestat the peace march in Washington. Once I was young and boldand left hundreds of unmatched people out in the cold."
2982,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2982,"2018-02-27 22:45:51","Consorting With Angels","Anne Sexton","I was tired of being a woman,tired of the spoons and the post,tired of my mouth and my breasts,tired of the cosmetics and the silks.There were still men who sat at my table,circled around the bowl I offered up.The bowl was filled with purple grapesand the flies hovered in for the scentand even my father came with his white bone.But I was tired of the gender things.Last night I had a dreamand I said to it...""You are the answer.You will outlive my husband and my father.""In that dream there was a city made of chainswhere Joan was put to death in man's clothesand the nature of the angels went unexplained,no two made in the same species,one with a nose, one with an ear in its hand,one chewing a star and recording its orbit,each one like a poem obeying itself,performing God's functions,a people apart.""You are the answer,""I said, and entered,lying down on the gates of the city.Then the chains were fastened around meand I lost my common gender and my final aspect.Adam was on the left of meand Eve was on the right of me,both thoroughly inconsistent with the world of reason.We wove our arms togetherand rode under the sun.I was not a woman anymore,not one thing or the other.O daughters of Jerusalem,the king has brought me into his chamber.I am black and I am beautiful.I've been opened and undressed.I have no arms or legs.I'm all one skin like a fish.I'm no more a womanthan Christ was a man."
2983,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2983,"2018-02-27 22:45:54","The Fallen Angels","Anne Sexton","They come on to my cleansheet of paper and leave a Rorschach blot.They do not do this to be mean,they do it to give me a signthey want me, as Aubrey Beardsley once said,to shove it around till something comes.Clumsy as I am,I do it.For I am like them -both saved and lost,tumbling downward like Humpty Dumptyoff the alphabet.Each morning I push them off my bedand when they get in the saladrolling in it like a dog,I pick each one outjust the way my daughterpicks out the anchoives.In May they dance on the jonquils,wearing out their toes,laughing like fish.In November, the dread month,they suck the childhood out of the berriesand turn them sour and inedible.Yet they keep me company.They wiggle up life.They pass out their magiclike Assorted Lifesavers.They go with me to the dentistand protect me form the drill.At the same time,they go to class with meand lie to my students.O fallen angel,the companion within me,whisper something holybefore you pinch meinto the grave."
2984,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2984,"2018-02-27 22:45:58","The Angel Food Dogs","Anne Sexton","Leaping, leaping, leaping,down line by line,growling at the cadavers,filling the holy jugs with their piss,falling into windows and mauling the parents,but soft, kiss-soft,and sobbing sobbinginto their awful dog dish.No point? No twist for youin my white tunnel?Let me speak plainly,let me whisper it from the podium--Mother, may I use your pseudonym?May I take the dove named Maryand shove out Anne?May I take my check book, my holographs,my eight naked books,and sign it Mary, Mary, Maryfull of grace?I know my name is not offensivebut my feet hang in the noose.I want to be white.I want to be blue.I want to be a bee digging into an onion heart,as you did to me, dug and squattedlong after death and its fang.Hail Mary, full of me,Nibbling in the sitting room of my head.Mary, Mary, virgin forever,whore forever,give me your name,give me your mirror.Boils fester in my soul,so give me your name so I may kiss them,and they will fly off,namelessbut named,and they will fly off like angel food dogswith theeand with thy spirit.Let me climb the face of my kitchen dogand fly off into my terrified years."
2985,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2985,"2018-02-27 22:45:59","An Evangelist's Wife","Edwin Arlington Robinson","“Why am I not myself these many days,You ask? And have you nothing more to ask? I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise To God for giving you me to share your task? “Jealous—of Her? Because her cheeks are pink,And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven. If you should only steal an hour to think, Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven. “No, you are never cruel. If once or twice I found you so, I could applaud and sing.Jealous of—What? You are not very wise. Does not the good Book tell you anything? “In David’s time poor Michal had to go. Jealous of God? Well, if you like it so.”"
2986,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2986,"2018-02-27 22:46:03","St. Peter and the Angel","Denise Levertov","Delivered out of raw continual pain,smell of darkness, groans of those othersto whom he was chained--unchained, and ledpast the sleepers,door after door silently opening--out! And along a long street'smajestic emptiness under the moon:one hand on the angel's shoulder, onefeeling the air before him,eyes open but fixed...And not till he saw the angel had left him,alone and free to resumethe ecstatic, dangerous, wearisome roads ofwhat he had still to do,not till then did he recognizethis was no dream. More frighteningthan arrest, than being chained to his warders:he could hear his own footsteps suddenly.Had the angel's feetmade any sound? He could not recall.No one had missed him, no one was in pursuit.He himself must bethe key, now, to the next door,the next terrors of freedom and joy."
2987,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2987,"2018-02-27 22:46:03","The Angel and the Clown","Vachel Lindsay","I saw wild domes and bowers And smoking incense towers And mad exotic flowers In Illinois. Where ragged ditches ran Now springs of Heaven began Celestial drink for man In Illinois. There stood beside the town Beneath its incense-crown An angel and a clown In Illinois. He was as Clowns are: She was snow and star With eyes that looked afar In Illinois. I asked, ""How came this place Of antique Asian grace Amid our callow race In Illinois?"" Said Clown and Angel fair: ""By laughter and by prayer, By casting off all care In Illinois."""
2988,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2988,"2018-02-27 22:46:04","Our Guardian Angels and Their Children","Vachel Lindsay","Where a river roars in rapidsAnd doves in maples fret,Where peace has decked the pasturesOur guardian angels met.Long they had sought each otherIn God's mysterious name,Had climbed the solemn chaos tidesAlone, with hope aflame:Amid the demon deeps had woundBy many a fearful way.As they beheld each otherTheir shout made glad the day.No need of purse delayed them,No hand of friend or kin —Nor menace of the bell and book,Nor fear of mortal sin.You did not speak, my girl,At this, our parting hour.Long we held each otherAnd watched their deeds of power.They made a curious Eden.We saw that it was good.We thought with them in unison.We proudly understoodTheir amaranth eternal,Their roses strange and fair,The asphodels they scatteredUpon the living air.They built a house of cloudsWith skilled immortal hands.They entered through the silver doors.Their wings were wedded brands.I labored up the valleyTo granite mountains free.You hurried down the riverTo Zidon by the sea.But at their place of meetingThey keep a home and shrine.Your angel twists a purple flax,Then weaves a mantle fine.My angel, her defenderUpstanding, spreads the lightOn painted clouds of fancyAnd mists that touch the height.Their sturdy babes speak kindlyAnd fly and run with joy,Shepherding the helpless lambs —A Grecian girl and boy.These children visit HeavenEach year and make of worthAll we planned and wrought in youthAnd all our tears on earth.From books our God has writtenThey sing of high desire.They turn the leaves in gentleness.Their wings are folded fire."
2989,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2989,"2018-02-27 22:46:07",Michaelangelo,"Vachel Lindsay","Would I might wake in you the whirl-wind soul Of Michelangelo, who hewed the stone And Night and Day revealed, whose arm alone Could draw the face of God, the titan high Whose genius smote like lightning from the sky — And shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave? Nay he is in us! Let us dare and dare. God help us to be brave."
2990,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2990,"2018-02-27 22:46:11","Footsteps of Angels","Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","When the hours of Day are numbered,And the voices of the NightWake the better soul, that slumbered,To a holy, calm delight;Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlor wall;Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door;The beloved, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more;He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the roadside fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!And with them the Being Beauteous,Who unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.With a slow and noiseless footstepComes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine.And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!"
2991,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2991,"2018-02-27 22:46:15","Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie","Henry Wadsworth Longfellow","This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath itLeaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsmanWhere is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of OctoberSeize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the oceanNaught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.PART THE FIRSTIIn the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-PreLay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward,Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number.Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant,Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gatesOpened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfieldsSpreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the northwardBlomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountainsSea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty AtlanticLooked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station descendedThere, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock,Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries.Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables projectingOver the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunsetLighted the village street and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtlesScarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the goldenFlax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doorsMingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the maidens,Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the childrenPaused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun sankDown to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfrySoftly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the villageColumns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free fromFear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics.Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their owners;There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pre,Dwelt on his goodly acres: and with him, directing his household,Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows.When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontideFlagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden,Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turretSprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssopSprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal,Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmerStood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shadySycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it.Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpathLed through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow.Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse,Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside,Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss-grownBucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses.Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the farm-yard,There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the harrows;There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio,Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsameVoice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each oneFar o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase,Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmatesMurmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezesNumberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-PreLived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household.Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his missal,Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion;Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment!Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended,And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps,Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron;Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whisperedHurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome;Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith,Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men;For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from earliest childhoodGrew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician,Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their lettersOut of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain-song.But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed,Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith.There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold himTake in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything,Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheelLay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering darknessBursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and crevice,Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows,And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle,Down the hillside hounding, they glided away o'er the meadow.Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters,Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallowBrings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings;Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow!Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children.He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning,Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action.She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman.""Sunshine of Saint Eulalie"" was she called; for that was the sunshineWhich, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with applesShe, too, would bring to her husband's house delight and abundance,Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.IINow had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands,Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of SeptemberWrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honeyTill the hives overflowed; and the Indian bunters assertedCold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscapeLay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the oceanWas for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sunLooked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forestFlashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descendingBrought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead.Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar,Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superblyWaving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled.Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks,While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their uddersUnto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadenceInto the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmerSat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the smoke-wreathsStruggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him,Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic,Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness.Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chairLaughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresserCaught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before himSang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated,Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her.Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle,While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe,Followed the old man's songs and united the fragments together.As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases,Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar,So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked.Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted,Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges.Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith,And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him.""Welcome!"" the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused of the threshold.""Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settleClose by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee;Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco;Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curlingSmoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleamsRound and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes.""Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the blacksmith,Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside:--""Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled withGloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.""Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him,And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued:--""Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchorsRide in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon pointed against us.What their design may be is unknown; but all are commandedOn the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty's mandateWill be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean timeMany surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.""Then made answer the farmer:--""Perhaps some friendlier purposeBrings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in EnglandBy untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted,And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle and children.""""Not so thinketh the folk in the village,"" said, warmly, the blacksmith,Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued:--""Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor Port Royal.Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts,Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow.Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds;Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the scythe of the mower.""Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer:--""Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields,Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean,Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrowFall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract.Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the villageStrongly have built them and well; and, breaking the glebe round about them,Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth.Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn.Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?""As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover's,Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken,And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.IIIBent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hungOver his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bowsSat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundredChildren's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristenedDied, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,""Father Leblanc,"" he exclaimed, ""thou hast heard the talk in the village,And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their errand.""Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public,--""Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;And what their errand may be I know not better than others.Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intentionBrings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us?""""God's name!"" shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith;""Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the wherefore?Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest!""But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,--""Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justiceTriumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.""This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat itWhen his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.""Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of JusticeStood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presidedOver the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the mightyRuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palaceThat a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicionFell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunderSmote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left handDown on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.""Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmithStood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vaporsFreeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewedNut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Grand-Pre;While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the tableThree times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old menLaughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuver,Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king-rowMeanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon riseOver the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfryRang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightwayRose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-stepLingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-stone,And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed.Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-pressAmple and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully foldedLinen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in marriage,Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlightStreamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of the maidenSwelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood withNaked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her shadow.Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadnessPassed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlightFlitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon passForth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!IVPleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pre.Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor.Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous laborKnocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets,Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folkMade the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows,Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward,Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway.Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced.Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house-doorsSat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together.Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,All things were held in common, and what one had was another's.Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant:For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father;Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladnessFell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it.Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated;There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives,Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of hearts and of waistcoats.Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-whiteHair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddlerGlowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers.Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunkerque,And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the music.Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dancesUnder the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows;Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them.Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith!So passed the morning away. And lo! with a summons sonorousSounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat.Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the churchyard,Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the headstonesGarlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest.Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among themEntered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangorEchoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement,--Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portalClosed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers.Then uprose their commander, and spoke from the steps of the altar,Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.""You are convened this day,"" he said, ""by his Majesty's orders.Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness,Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temperPainful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous.Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch;Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kindsForfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this provinceBe transported to other lands. God grant you may dwell thereEver as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people!Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty's pleasure!""As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstonesBeats down the farmer's corn in the field and shatters his windows,Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house-roofs,Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures;So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker.Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then roseLouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger,And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-way.Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecationsRang through the house of prayer; and high o'er the heads of the othersRose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith,As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he shouted,--""Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them allegiance!Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our harvests!""More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldierSmote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement.In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention,Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father FelicianEntered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar.Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silenceAll that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people;Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournfulSpake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the clock strikes.""What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you?Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you,Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another!Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations?Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness?This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profaneitThus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred?Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you!See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion!Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father, forgive them!'Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us,Let us repeat it now, and say, 'O Father, forgive them!'""Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his peopleSank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak,While they repeated his prayer, and said, ""O Father, forgive them!""Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar.Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest and the people responded,Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave MariaSang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion translated,Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sidesWandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children.Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right handShielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending,Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed eachPeasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows.Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table;There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild-flowers;There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the dairy;And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer.Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunsetThrew the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows.Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen,And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,--Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience!Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village,Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women,As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed,Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children.Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vaporsVeiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered.All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windowsStood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion,""Gabriel!"" cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answerCame from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living.Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father.Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper untasted,Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of terror.Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber.In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fallLoud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window.Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the echoing thunderTold her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created!Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven;Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered tillmorning.VFour times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth dayCheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house.Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession,Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women,Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore,Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings,Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland.Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen,While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings.Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beachPiled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants.All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply;All day long the wains came laboring down from the village.Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting,Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard.Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doorsOpened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy processionFollowed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country,Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descendedDown from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters.Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices,Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--""Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain!Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!""Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the waysideJoined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above themMingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.Team then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whispered,--""Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one anotherNothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!""Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her fatherSaw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect!Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and his footstepHeavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom.But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and embraced him,Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not.Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession.There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusionWives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their childrenLeft on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilightDeepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent oceanFled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beachCovered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons,Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle,All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them,Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leavingInland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows.But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake notBut, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.""Benedicite!"" murmured the priest, in tones of compassion.More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accentsFaltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above themMoved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence.Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-redMoon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizonTitan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow,Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together.Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village,Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead.Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame wereThrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr.Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting,Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-topsStarted the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard.Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish,""We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pre!""Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards,Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattleCame on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted.Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampmentsFar in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska,When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind,Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horsesBroke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows.Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maidenGazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them;And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion,Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-shoreMotionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed.Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maidenKnelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber;And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her.Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her,Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her,And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses.Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people,--""Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier seasonBrings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.""Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side,Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches,But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre.And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow,Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation,Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges.'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward.Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor,Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village inruins.PART THE SECONDIMany a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre,When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed,Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile.Exile without an end, and without an example in story.Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed;Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the northeastStrikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland.Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city,From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas,--From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of WatersSeizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean,Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth.Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken,Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside.Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards.Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered,Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her extended,Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathwayMarked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her,Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked byCamp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine.Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished;As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine,Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descendedInto the east again, from whence it late had arisen.Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosomHe was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him,But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten.""Gabriel Lajeunesse!"" they said; yes! we have seen him.He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies;Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers.""""Gabriel Lajeunesse!"" said others; ""O yes! we have seen him.He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.""Then would they say, ""Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer?Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? othersWho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has loved theeMany a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy!Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses.""Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, ""I cannot!Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere.For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway,Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.""Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor,Said, with a smile, ""O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee!Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted;If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returningBack to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment;That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain.Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection!Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike,Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven!""Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored and waited.Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean,But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, ""Despair not?""Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfortBleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's footsteps;--Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence;But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the valley:Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its waterHere and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it,Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur;Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet.IIIt was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwreckedNation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune;Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay,Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmersOn the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas.With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician.Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests,Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river;Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders.Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelikeCotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current,Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-barsLay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin,Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded.Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river,Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens,Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer,Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron,Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward.They, too, swerved from their course; and, entering the Bayou of Plaquemine,Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypressMet in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-airWaved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the heronsHome to their roasts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset,Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water,Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches,Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin.Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness,--Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed.As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that faintlyFloated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight.It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom.Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her,And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer.Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen,And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventureSailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle.Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang,Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest.Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music.Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches;But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness;And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the midnight,Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs,Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the desert,Far off,--indistinct,--as of wave or wind in the forest,Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator.Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before themLay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulationsMade by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotusLifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen.Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms,And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands,Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses,Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber.Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended.Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin,Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward,Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar.Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevineHung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob,On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom.Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it.Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heavenLighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands,Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water,Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers.Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver.At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn.Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadnessSomewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written.Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless,Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow.Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island,But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos,So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows,All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers,Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden.Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie.After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance,As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maidenSaid with a sigh to the friendly priest, ""O Father Felician!Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders.Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition?Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit?""Then, with a blush, she added, ""Alas for my credulous fancy!Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.""But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered,--""Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning.Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surfaceIs as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden.Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions.Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward,On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin.There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom,There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold.Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees;Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavensBending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest.They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana.""With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey.Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizonLike a magician extended his golden wand o'er the landscape;Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forestSeemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water.Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetness.Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feelingGlowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her.Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers,Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music,That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soaring to madnessSeemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-topsShakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion,Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the green Opelousas,And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland,Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling;--Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle.IIINear to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks, from whose branchesGarlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide,Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A gardenGirded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms,Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbersHewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together.Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported,Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda,Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it.At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden,Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual symbol,Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals.Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow and sunshineRan near the tops of the trees; but the house itself was in shadow,And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expandingInto the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose.In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathwayThrough the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie,Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending.Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvasHanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics,Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines.Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin.Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombreroGazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master.Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazingQuietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshnessThat uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape.Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expandingFully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resoundedWildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening.Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattleRose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean.Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the prairie,And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance.Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the gardenSaw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him.Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forwardRushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder;When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith.Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden.There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answerGave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces,Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful.Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgivingsStole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,Broke the silence and said, ""If you came by the Atchafalaya,How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's boat on the bayous?""Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent,""Gone? is Gabriel gone?"" and, concealing her face on his shoulder,All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented.Then the good Basil said,--and his voice grew blithe as he said it,--""Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed.Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses.Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spiritCould no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles,He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens,Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent himUnto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards.Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains,Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover;He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against him.Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morningWe will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.""Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river,Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler.Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on Olympus,Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals.Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle.""Long live Michael,"" they cried, ""our brave Acadian minstrel!""As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightwayFather Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old manKindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured,Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters.Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the cidevant blacksmith,All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor;Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate,And of the prairie; whose numberless herds were his who would take them;Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise.Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy veranda,Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of BasilWaited his late return; and they rested and feasted together.Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver,Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors,Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamplight.Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsmanPoured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion.Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco,Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened:--""Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and homeless,Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old one!Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer.Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the water.All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass growsMore in a single night than a whole Canadian summer.Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies;Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timberWith a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses.After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests,No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads,Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your cattle.""Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils,While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table,So that the guests all started; and"
2992,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2992,"2018-02-27 22:46:19","St. John Baptist Painted by her self in the Wilderness, with Angels appearing to him, and with a Lamb by him","Anne Killigrew","THe Sun's my Fire, when it does shine, The hollow Spring's my Cave of Wine, The Rocks and Woods afford me Meat; This Lamb and I on one Dish eat: The neighbouring Herds my Garments send, My Pallet the kind Earth doth lend: Excess and Grandure I decline, M'Associates onely are Divine."
2993,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2993,"2018-02-27 22:46:23","An Angel, a Deacon, and a Eunuch","Raymond A. Foss","What was it that the daily reflection asked?Oh yeah, it was, “If you were set down besidethe carriage of the Ethiopian, what would you ask?”His response was priceless,“Hey buddy, could you stop that chariot,my feet are killing me!”Okay, so not the mental picturethe writer of Acts had in mindwith the strange story of Philipand the Ethiopian eunuch.A funny scene, a scholarwithout a clue,reading the prophetsof a people not his ownNeeding an interpreterfinding an agile deacon insteadsent by an angel on a different pathA vision, a sprint, a chat,a dunking, and poof,He’s goneteleported away,snatched up;an imponderable momentlike so many in Actsspreading the wordas the Spirit MOVES you…May 22, 2006 10:20pmBased on Acts 8:26-40 and my conversation with the Reverend Joel B. Guillemette on the questions in the Daily Reflections section on Alive Now for May 8, 2006 – “Read the account of Philip and the Ethiopian in Acts 8:26-40. What do you find most amazing about this story? If you were set down beside the carriage of the Ethiopian, what would you say?” He was the only other human in the bible besides Elijah to be moved by God directly as far as we knew."
2994,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2994,"2018-02-27 22:46:24","Los Angeles, 1954","David St. John","It was in the old days,When she used to hang out at a placeCalled Club Zombie,A black cabaret that the police likedTo raid now and then. As sheStepped through the door, the lightWould hit her platinum hair,And believe me, heads would turn. MaestroLoved it; he'd have her byThe arm as he led us through the packed crowdTo a private cornerWhere her secluded oak table always waited.She'd say, Jordan... And I'd order her usual,A champagne cocktail with a tall shot of bourbonOn the side. She'd let her eyesTrail the length of the sleek neckOf the old stand-up bass, asThe bass player knocked out the bottom line,His forehead glowing, glossyWith sweat in the blue lights;Her own face, smooth and shining, asThe liquor slowly blanketed the pillsShe'd slipped beneath her tongue.Maestro'd kick the shit out of anybodyWho tried to sneak up for an autograph;He'd say, Jordan, just let me know if Somebody gets too close....Then he'd turn to her and whisper, Here's Where you get to be Miss Nobody...And she'd smile as she let himKiss her hand. For a while, there was a singerAt the club, a guy named Louis--But Maestro'd change his name to ""Michael Champion"";Well, when this guy leaned forward,Cradling the microphone in his huge hands,All the legs went weak Underneath the ladies.He'd look over at her, letting his eyelidsDroop real low, singing, Oh Baby I... Oh Baby I Love... I Love You...And she'd be gone, those little mermaid tearsRunning down her cheeks. MaestroWas always cool. He'd let them use his room upstairs,Sometimes, because they couldn't go out--Black and white couldn't mix like that then.I mean, think about it--This kid star and a cool beauty who made King ColeSound raw? No, they had to keep itTo the club; though sometimes,Near the end, he'd come out to her placeAt the beach, always taking the iced whiskyI brought to him with a sly, sweet smile.Once, sweeping his arm out in a slowHalf-circle, the way at the club he'dShow the audience how far his endless loveHad grown, he markedThe circumference of the glare whitening the patioWhere her friends all sat, sunglassesMasking their eyes...And he said to me, Jordan, why do White people love the sun so?-- God's spotlight, my man?Leaning back, he looked over to where sheStood at one end of the patio, watchingThe breakers flatten along the beach below,Her body reflected and mirroredPerfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glassDoor. He stared at herReflection for a while, then looked up at meAnd said, Jordan, I think that I must be Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes She steps into...Later, as I drove him back into the city,He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd singFor her, but he didn't say a word untilWe stopped at last back at the club. He steppedslowly out of the backOf the Cadillac, and reaching to shake my handThrough the open driver's window, said,My man, Jordan... Goodbye."
2995,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2995,"2018-02-27 22:46:26","the wounded angel","Rg Gregory","(from a painting by hugo simberg)those who bear the wounded angelare they honoured or destroyedfar beyond their comprehensionare the warfares of the voidangels have a sheen to lift themwell above the bloody battleshuman beings give their hurts todivines don't need such tittle-tattlesyet this angel has been woundedhere on earth its presence istwo young boys (the stretcher bearers)are flung immensely into crisiswhere to take a wounded angelwait till we can tell our friendsis this something one is dreaming- both are terrified of endsare we martyrs heroes villainsshould we drop the thing and runwill we be decorated or scolded - something new beneath the sunweightless stretcher far too heavysweating fingers burn like icelegs revolve in all directionsthoughts race into paralysisahead the village breathes as normalinnocent of the eternal bloomabout to bleed its hope-fear petalsinto each mortal living room"
2996,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2996,"2018-02-27 22:46:27","Sleeping Angel","Raymond A. Foss","So peaceful, so stillshe lies there, napping on our bedcommandeering the sanctuaryfor her own devicesbut so sweetlyso angelic in sleepso much a blessingwhen awakeas are the other twoSeptember 6, 2006 23:54"
2997,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2997,"2018-02-27 22:46:28","Angel Love","Gary R. Ferris","There once was an angel,All lonely and blue;Hard times and trouble,Were all that he knew.*****Hurting and drinking,He did every night;Searching for answers,For wrong and for right.*****Then one day,In the bright morning sun;An angel appeared,And his worries were done.*****Happy together,Everywhere they went;And the angel was happy,For the angel God sent.*****Loving and caring,Until the day was new;A young angel was born,Who looked like them too.*****The three angels cherished,All that they had;Until life’s winds shifted,And they became sad.*****Fighting and fussing,They hurt each other;And soon began wandering,In search of another.*****Sooner than later,Things fell apart;And left the two angels,With broken hearts.*****Apart they looked,Near and far;Searching for answers,In every star.*****The young angel hurt,And grew very cold;While the two angels fought,And only grew old.*****The young angel tried,To bring them together;By giving her love,She could make things better.*****Separate roads they took,Soon all crossed;When anger and pain,Had long been tossed.*****The story ends,With them parting never;For who would have guessed,“Angel Love” lasts forever.*****Written 4-23-90"
2998,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2998,"2018-02-27 22:46:30","My Guiding Angel","Gary R. Ferris","Unfortunately this poem has been removed from our archives at the insistence of the copyright holder."
2999,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",2999,"2018-02-27 22:46:33","Do You Hear The Angel Speaking?","Faye Diane Kilday","Do you hear the angel speaking?Do you hear her heavenly voice?Do you hear the song she's singing?Will you help her to rejoice?Do you hear her when you're wearyand find it hard to cope?Do you hear her inspiration and her messages of hope?Do you hear her voice of wisdom...as timeless as the sun,The messages she speaks todayshe's spoken since time begun.Angels are more than fairy tales,They're messengers from above,Sent by our creator to guide uswith their love... And although I've never seen one,I hear them all the time...Within each poem I write...withineach verse and rhyme;Because you see, I'm just a channelthat they use to speak to youTo give you inspiration and to give you guidance too... For angels really do exist and theyare always near, And if you read these poems aloudthen you will truly hear...Messages from heaven...messagesfrom above... The beautiful voices of angelsguiding you with love!© Faye Kilday 2000"
3000,2,"2018-02-27 20:10:26","Angel Poems",3000,"2018-02-27 22:46:34","Guardian Angel","Raymond A. Foss","A warm feeling filled meon reading the words she wrotefor me, written in her prison cell,sent to me with love, with thanksTouching me in ways ways I cannot really explainFor coming into her life,the life of her mother, her childrengoing before the courts, the agencythose who would stand in judgmentwag fingers, look down on them allTake up her cause, fight for themfind a way through, to sanctuarya new home with herwith her loving armsready and able to hold themJanuary 5, 2007 20:49, edited 22:13"
45,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",45,"2018-02-27 21:06:24","Essay on Man","Alexander Pope","The First EpistleAwake, my ST. JOHN!(1) leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of Kings. Let us (since Life can little more supply Than just to look about us and to die) Expatiate(2) free o'er all this scene of Man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A Wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot, Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; The latent tracts(3), the giddy heights explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies, And catch the Manners living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate(4) the ways of God to Man. 1. Say first, of God above, or Man below, What can we reason, but from what we know? Of Man what see we, but his station here, From which to reason, or to which refer? Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce, See worlds on worlds compose one universe, Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns, What vary'd being peoples ev'ry star, May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings, and the ties, The strong connections, nice dependencies, Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole? Is the great chain, that draws all to agree, And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?II. Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find, Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind! First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less! Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? Or ask of yonder argent fields(5) above, Why JOVE'S Satellites are less than JOVE?(6) Of Systems possible, if 'tis confest That Wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain There must be, somewhere, such rank as Man; And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call, Nay, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second too some other use. So Man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull Ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt's God:(7) Then shall Man's pride and dullness comprehend His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault; Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought; His knowledge measur'd to his state and place, His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere, What matter, soon or late, or here or there? The blest today is as completely so, As who began a thousand years ago.III. Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer Being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy Reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death, and God adore! What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, Some happier island in the watry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold! To Be, contents his natural desire, He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's(8) fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.IV. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy Opinion against Providence; Call Imperfection what thou fancy'st such, Say, here he gives too little, there too much; Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,(9) Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust; If Man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance(10) and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the GOD of GOD! In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods. Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell, Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel; And who but wishes to invert the laws Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause.V. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? Pride answers, ""Tis for mine: For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow'r, Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r; Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew; For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies."" But errs not Nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? ""No ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; Th' exceptions few; some change since all began, And what created perfect?"" -- Why then Man? If the great end be human Happiness, Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less? As much that end a constant course requires Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design, Why then a Borgia,(11) or a Catiline?(12) Who knows but he, whose hand the light'ning forms, Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms, Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's(13) mind, Or turns young Ammon(14) loose to scourge mankind? From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral as for nat'ral things: Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right is to submit. Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind; That never passion discompos'd the mind: But ALL subsists by elemental strife; and Passions are the elements of Life. The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began, Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.VI. What would this Man? Now upward will he soar, And little less than Angel,(15) would be more; Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all creatures if he call, Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all? Nature to these, without profusion kind, The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own; Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone? Shall he alone, whom rational we call, Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all? The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite,(16) not comprehend the heav'n? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, To smart and agonize at ev'ry pore? Or quick effluvia(17) darting thro' the brain, Die of a rose in aromatic pain? If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring Zephyr,(18) and the purling rill?(19) Who finds not Providence all good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies?VII. Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the people grass: What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between, And hound sagacious(20) on the tainted(21) green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,(22) To that which warbles thro' the vernal(23) wood: The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew:(24) How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine: 'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier; For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd; What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide: And Middle natures,(25) how they long to join, Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected these to those, or all to thee? The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one?VIII. See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of being, which from God began, Natures ethereal,(26) human, angel, man Beast, bird, fish, insect! what no eye can see, No glass can reach! from Infinite to thee, From thee to Nothing! -- On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours: Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's destoy'd: From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And if each system in gradation roll, Alike essential to th' amazing whole; The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky, Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world, Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, And Nature tremble to the throne of God: All this dread ORDER break -- for whom? for thee? Vile worm! -- oh, Madness, Pride, Impiety!IX. What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand to toil, aspir'd to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd(27) To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind? Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing MIND of ALL ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body, Nature is, and God the soul; That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent, Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal parts, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns, As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns; To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.X. Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. Submit -- In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; All Discord, Harmony, not understood; All partial Evil, universal Good: And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear, ""Whatever IS, is RIGHT.""Argument of the Second Epistle:Of the Nature and State of Man, with respect to Himself, as an Individual. The business of Man not to pry into God, butto study himself.Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state,(28) A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest, In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast; In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer, Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much: Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!ENDNOTES: 1[His friend, Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke] 2[to wander] 3[hidden areas] 4[explain or defend] 5[silvery fields, i.e., the heavens] 6[the planet Jupiter] 7[ancient Egyptians sometimes worshipped oxen] 8[the highest level of angels] 9[pleasure] 10[the balance used to weigh justice] 11[Caesar Borgia (1476-1507) who used any cruelty to achieve his ends] 12[Lucious Sergius Catilina (108-62 B.C.) who was a traitor to Rome] 13[Julius Caesar (100-44 B.C.) who was thought to be overly ambitious Roman] 14[Alexander the Great (356-323 B.C.)] 15[Psalm 8:5--""Thou hast made him [man] a little lower than the angels....""] 16[small insect] 17[vapors which were believed to pass odors to the brain] 18[the West Wind] 19[stream] 20[able to pick up a scent] 21[having the odor of an animal] 22[ocean] 23[green] 24[honey was thought to have medicinal properties] 25[Animals slightly below humans on the chain of being] 26[heavenly] 27[complained] 28[i.e., on the chain of being between angels and animals]"
46,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",46,"2018-02-27 21:06:26","The Animals","Edwin Muir","They do not live in the world, Are not in time and space. From birth to death hurled No word do they have, not one To plant a foot upon, Were never in any place. For with names the world was called Out of the empty air, With names was built and walled, Line and circle and square, Dust and emerald; Snatched from deceiving death By the articulate breath. But these have never trod Twice the familiar track, Never never turned back Into the memoried day. All is new and near In the unchanging Here Of the fifth great day of God, That shall remain the same, Never shall pass away."
47,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",47,"2018-02-27 21:06:31","Part 10 of Trout Fishing in America","Richard Brautigan","WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA PEACEIn San Francisco around Easter time last year, they had atrout fishing in America peace parade. They had thousandsof red stickers printed and they pasted them on their smallforeign cars, and on means of national communication liketelephone poles. The stickers had WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AM-ERICA PEACE printed on them. Then this group of college- and high-school-trained Com-munists, along with some Communist clergymen and theirMarxist-taught children, marched to San Francisco fromSunnyvale, a Communist nerve center about forty miles away. It took them four days to walk to San Francisco. Theystopped overnight at various towns along the way, and slepton the lawns of fellow travelers. They carried with them Communist trout fishing in Ameri-ca peace propaganda posters:""DON'T DROP AN H-BOMB ON THE OLD FISHING HOLE I"" ""ISAAC WALTON WOULD'VE HATED THE BOMB!"" ""ROYAL COACHMAN, SI! ICBM, NO!"" They carried with them many other trout fishing in Amer-ica peace inducements, all following the Communist worldconquest line: the Gandhian nonviolence Trojan horse. When these young, hard-core brainwashed members ofthe Communist conspiracy reached the ""Panhandle, "" theemigre Oklahoma Communist sector of San Francisco, thou-sands of other Communists were waiting for them. Thesewere Communists who couldn't walk very far. They barelyhad enough strength to make it downtown. Thousands of Communists, protected by the police, marcheddown to Union Square, located in the very heart of San Fran-cisco. The Communist City Hall riots in 1960 had presentedevidence of it, the police let hundreds of Communists escape,but the trout fishing in America peace parade was the finalindictment: police protection. Thousands of Communists marched right into the heart ofSan Francisco, and Communist speakers incited them forhours and the young people wanted to blow up Colt Tower, butthe Communist clergy told them to put away their plasticbombs. ""Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men shoulddo to you, do ye even so to them . . . There will be no needfor explosives, "" they said. America needs no other proof. The Red shadow of theGandhian nonviolence Trojan horse has fallen across Ameri-ca, and San Francisco is its stable. Obsolete is the mad rapist's legendary piece of candy. Atthis very moment, Communist agents are handing out Witnessfor trout fishing in America peace tracts to innocent childrenriding the cable cars. FOOTNOTE CHAPTER TO ""RED LIP""Living in the California bush we had no garbage service. Ourgarbage was never greeted in the early morning by a manwith a big smile on his face and a kind word or two. Wecouldn't burn any of the garbage because it was the dry seas-on and everything was ready to catch on fire anyway, includ-ing ourselves. The garbage was a problem for a little whileand then we discovered a way to get rid of it. We took the garbage down to where there were three aban-doned houses in a row. We carried sacks full of tin cans,papers, peelings, bottles and Popeyes. We stopped at the last abandoned house where there werethousands of old receipts to the San Francisco Chroniclethrown all over the bed and the children's toothbrushes werestill in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Behind the place was an old outhouse and to get down to it,you had to follow the path down past some apple trees and apatch of strange plants that we thought were either a goodspice that would certainly enhance our cooking or the plantswere deadly nightshade that would cause our cooking to beless. We carried the garbage down to the outhouse and alwaysopened the door slowly because that was the only way youcould open it, and on the wall there was a roll of toilet paper,so old it looked like a relative, perhaps a cousin, to the Mag-na Carta. We lifted up the lid of the toilet and dropped the garbagedown into the darkness. This went on for weeks and weeksuntil it became very funny to lift the lid of the toilet and in-stead of seeing darkness below or maybe the murky abstractoutline of garbage, we saw bright, definite and lusty garbageheaped up almost to the top. If you were a stranger and went down there to take an in-nocent crap, you would've had quite a surprise when you lift-ed up the lid. We left the California bush just before it became necessaryto stand on the toilet seat and step into that hole, crushingthe garbage down like an accordion into the abyss. THE CLEVELAND WRECKING YARDUntil recently my knowledge about the Cleveland WreckingYard had come from a couple of friends who'd bought thingsthere. One of them bought a huge window: the frame, glassand everything for just a few dollars. It was a fine-lookingwindow. Then he chopped a hole in the side of his house up onPotrero Hill and put the window in. Now he has a panoramicview of the San Francisco County Hospital. He can practically look right down into the wards and seeold magazines eroded like the Grand Canyon from endlessreadings. He can practically hear the patients thinking aboutbreakfast: I hate milk and thinking about dinner: I hate peas,and then he can watch the hospital slowly drown at night,hopelessly entangled in huge bunches of brick seaweed. He bought that window at the Cleveland Wrecking Yard. My other friend bought an iron roof at the Cleveland Wreck-ing Yard and took the roof down to Big Sur in an old stationwagon and then he carried the iron roof on his back up theside of a mountain. He carried up half the roof on his back.It was no picnic. Then he bought a mule, George, from Pleas-anton. George carried up the other half of the roof. The mule didn't like what was happening at all. He lost alot of weight because of the ticks, and the smell of the wild-cats up on the plateau made him too nervous to graze there.My friend said jokingly that George had lost around two hun-dred pounds. The good wine country around Pleasanton in theLivermore Valley probably had looked a lot better to Georgethan the wild side of the Santa Lucia Mountains. My friend's place was a shack right beside a huge fire-place where there had once been a great mansion during the1920s, built by a famous movie actor. The mansion was builtbefore there was even a road down at Big Sur. The mansionhad been brought over the mountains on the backs of mules,strung out like ants, bringing visions of the good life to thepoison oak, the ticks, and the salmon. The mansion was on a promontory, high over the Pacific.Money could see farther in the 1920s and one could look outand see whales and the Hawaiian Islands and the Kuomintangin China. The mansion burned down years ago. The actor died. His mules were made into soap. His mistresses became bird nests of wrinkles. Now only the fireplace remains as a sort of Carthaginianhomage to Hollywood. I was down there a few weeks ago to see my friend's roof.I wouldn't have passed up the chance for a million dollars,as they say. The roof looked like a colander to me. If thatroof and the rain were running against each other at BayMeadows, I'd bet on the rain and plan to spend my winningsat the World's Fair in Seattle. My own experience with the Cleveland Wrecking Yard be-gan two days ago when I heard about a used trout streamthey had on sale out at the Yard. So I caught the Number 15bus on Columbus Avenue and went out there for the first time. There were two Negro boys sitting behind me on the bus.They were talking about Chubby Checker and the Twist. Theythought that Chubby Checker was only fifteen years old be-cause he didn't have a mustache. Then they talked about someother guy who did the twist forty-four hours in a row untilhe saw George Washington crossing the Delaware. ""Man, that's what I call twisting, "" one of the kids said. ""I don't think I could twist no forty-four hours in a row, ""the other kid said. ""That's a lot of twisting. "" I got off the bus right next to an abandoned Time Gasolinefilling station and an abandoned fifty-cent self-service carwash. There was a long field on one side of the filling station.The field had once been covered with a housing project dur-ing the war, put there for the shipyard workers. On the other side of the Time filling station was the Cleve-land Wrecking Yard. I walked down there to have a look atthe used trout stream. The Cleveland Wrecking Yard has avery long front window filled with signs and merchandise. There was a sign in the window advertising a laundry marking machine for $65. 00. The original cost of the mach- ine was $175. 00. Quite a saving. There was another sign advertising new and used two and three ton hoists. I wondered how many hoists it would take to move a trout stream. There was another sign that said: THE FAMILY GIFT CENTER, GIFT SUGGESTIONS FOR THE ENTIRE FAMILY The window was filled with hundreds of items for the en- tire family. Daddy, do you know what I want for Christmas? son? A bathroom. Mommy do you know what I want for Christmas? What, Patricia? Some roofing material There were jungle hammocks in the window for distant relatives and dollar-ten-cent gallons of earth-brown enamel paint for other loved ones. There was also a big sign that said: USED TROUT STREAM FOR SALE. MUST BE SEEN TO BE APPRECIATED, I went inside and looked at some ship's lanterns that were for sale next to the door. Then a salesman came up to me and said in a pleasant voice, ""Can I help you?"" ""Yes, "" I said. ""I'm curious about the trout stream you have for sale. Can you tell me something about it? How are you selling it?"" ""We're selling it by the foot length. You can buy as little as you want or you can buy all we've got left. A man came in here this morning and bought 563 feet. He's going to give it to his niece for a birthday present, "" the salesman said. ""We're selling the waterfalls separately of course, and the trees and birds, flowers grass and ferns we're also sell- ing extra. The insects we're giving away free with a mini- mum purchase of ten feet of stream. "" ""How much are you selling the stream for?"" I asked. ""Six dollars and fifty-cents a foot, "" he said. ""That's for the first hundred feet. After that it's five dollars a foot."" ""How much are the birds?"" I asked. ""Thirty-five cents apiece, "" he said. ""But of course they're used. We can't guarantee anything."" ""How wide is the stream?"" I asked. ""You said you wereselling it by the length, didn't you?"" ""Yes, "" he said. ""We're selling it by the length. Its widthruns between five and eleven feet. You don't have to pay any-thing extra for width. It's not a big stream, but it's verypleasant. "" ""What kinds of animals do you have 7"" I asked. ""We only have three deer left, "" he said. ""Oh What about flowers 7"" ""By the dozen, "" he said. ""Is the stream clear?"" I asked. ""Sir, "" the salesman said. ""I wouldn't want you to thinkthat we would ever sell a murky trout stream here. We al-ways make sure they're running crystal clear before we eventhink about moving them. "" ""Where did the stream come from?"" I asked. ""Colorado, "" he said. ""We moved it with loving care. We'venever damaged a trout stream yet. We treat them all as ifthey were china. "" ""You're probably asked this all the time, but how's fish-ing in the stream?"" I asked. ""Very good, "" he said. ""Mostly German browns, but thereare a few rainbows. "" ""What do the trout cost?"" I asked. ""They come with the stream, "" he said. ""Of course it's allluck. You never know how many you're going to get or howbig they are. But the fishing's very good, you might say it'sexcellent. Both bait and dry fly, "" he said smiling. ""Where's the stream at?"" I asked. ""I'd like to take a lookat it. "" ""It's around in back, "" he said. ""You go straight throughthat door and then turn right until you're outside. It's stackedin lengths. You can't miss it. The waterfalls are upstairs inthe used plumbing department. "" ""What about the animals?"" ""Well, what's left of the animals are straight back fromthe stream. You'll see a bunch of our trucks parked on aroad by the railroad tracks. Turn right on the road and fol-low it down past the piles of lumber. The animal shed's rightat the end of the lot. "" ""Thanks, "" I said. ""I think I'11 look at the waterfalls first.You don't have to come with me. Just tell me how to get thereand I'11 find my own way. ""All right, "" he said. ""Go up those stairs. You'll see abunch of doors and windows, turn left and you'll find theused plumbing department. Here's my card if you need anyhelp. "" ""Okay, "" I said. ""You've been a great help already. Thanksa lot. I'11 take a look around."" ""Good luck, "" he said. I went upstairs and there were thousands of doors there.I'd never seen so many doors before in my life. You couldhave built an entire city out of those doors. Doorstown. Andthere were enough windows up there to build a little suburbentirely out of windows. Windowville. I turned left and went back and saw the faint glow of pearl-colored light. The light got stronger and stronger as I wentfarther back, and then I was in the used plumbing department,surrounded by hundreds of toilets. The toilets were stacked on shelves. They were stackedfive toilets high. There was a skylight above the toilets thatmade them glow like the Great Taboo Pearl of the South Seamovies. Stacked over against the wall were the waterfalls. Therewere about a dozen of them, ranging from a drop of a fewfeet to a drop of ten or fifteen feet. There was one waterfall that was over sixty feet long.There were tags on the pieces of the big falls describing thecorrect order for putting the falls back together again. The waterfalls all had price tags on them. They weremore expensive than the stream. The waterfalls were sellingfor $19.00 a foot. I went into another room where there were piles of sweet-smelling lumber, glowing a soft yellow from a different colorskylight above the lumber. In the shadows at the edge of theroom under the sloping roof of the building were many sinksand urinals covered with dust, and there was also anotherwaterfall about seventeen feet long, lying there in two lengthsand already beginning to gather dust. I had seen all I wanted of the waterfalls, and now I wasvery curious about the trout stream, so I followed the sales-man's directions and ended up outside the building. O I had never in my life seen anything like that troutstream. It was stacked in piles of various lengths: ten, fif-teen, twenty feet, etc. There was one pile of hundred-footlengths. There was also a box of scraps. The scraps werein odd sizes ranging from six inches to a couple of feet. There was a loudspeaker on the side of the building andsoft music was coming out. It was a cloudy day and seagullswere circling high overhead. Behind the stream were big bundles of trees and bushes.They were covered with sheets of patched canvas. You couldsee the tops and roots sticking out the ends of the bundles. I went up close and looked at the lengths of stream. Icould see some trout in them. I saw one good fish. I sawsome crawdads crawling around the rocks at the bottom. It looked like a fine stream. I put my hand in the water.It was cold and felt good. I decided to go around to the side and look at the animals.I saw where the trucks were parked beside the railroadtracks. I followed the road down past the piles of lumber,back to the shed where the animals were. The salesman had been right. They were practically outof animals. About the only thing they had left in any abun-dance were mice. There were hundreds of mice. Beside the shed was a huge wire birdcage, maybe fiftyfeet high, filled with many kinds of birds. The top of the cagehad a piece of canvas over it, so the birds wouldn't get wetwhen it rained. There were woodpeckers and wild canariesand sparrows. On my way back to where the trout stream was piled, Ifound the insects. They were inside a prefabricated steelbuilding that was selling for eighty-cents a square foot. Therewas a sign over the door. It said INSECTS A HALF-SUNDAY HOMAGE TO A WHOLE LEONARDO DA VINCIOn this funky winter day in rainy San Francisco I've had avision of Leonardo da Vinci. My woman's out slaving away,no day off, working on Sunday. She left here at eight o'clockthis morning for Powell and California. I've been sitting hereever since like a toad on a log dreaming about Leonardo daVinci. I dreamt he was on the South Bend Tackle Company pay-roll, but of course, he was wearing different clothes andspeaking with a different accent and possessor of a differentchildhood, perhaps an American childhood spent in a townlike Lordsburg, New Mexico, or Winchester, Virginia. I saw him inventing a new spinning lure for trout fishingin America. I saw him first of all working with his imagina-tion, then with metal and color and hooks, trying a little ofthis and a little of that, and then adding motion and then tak-ing it away and then coming back again with a different motion,and in the end the lure was invented. He called his bosses in. They looked at the lure and allfainted. Alone, standing over their bodies, he held the lurein his hand and gave it a name. He called it ""The Last Supper.""Then he went about waking up his bosses. In a matter of months that trout fishing lure was the sen-sation of the twentieth century, far outstripping such shallowaccomplishments as Hiroshima or Mahatma Gandhi. Millionsof ""The Last Supper"" were sold in America. The Vatican or-dered ten thousand and they didn't even have any trout there. Testimonials poured in. Thirty-four ex-presidents of theUnited States all said, ''I caught my limit on 'The Last Supper.''' TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA NIBHe went up to Chemault, that's in Eastern Oregon, to cutChristmas trees. He was working for a very small enter-prise. He cut the trees, did the cooking and slept on thekitchen floor. It was cold and there was snow on the ground.The floor was hard. Somewhere along the line, he found anold Air Force flight jacket. That was a big help in the cold. The only woman he could find up there was a three-hundred-pound Indian squaw. She had twin fifteen-year-old daughtersand he wanted to get into them. But the squaw worked it sohe only got into her. She was clever that way. The people he was working for wouldn't pay him up there.They said he'd get it all in one sum when they got back toSan Francisco. He'd taken the job because he was broke,really broke. He waited and cut trees in the snow, laid the squaw,cooked bad food--they were on a tight budget--and hewashed the dishes. Afterwards, he slept on the kitchen floorin his Air Force flight jacket. When they finally got back to town with the trees, thoseguys didn't have any money to pay him off. He had to waitaround the lot in Oakland until they sold enough trees to payhim off. ""Here's a lovely tree, ma'am. "" ""How much7"" ""Ten dollars. "" ""That's too much. "" ""I have a lovely two-dollar tree here, ma'am. Actually,it's only half a tree, but you can stand it up right next to awall and it'll look great, ma'am. "" ""I'11 take it. I can put it right next to my weather clock.This tree is the same color as the queen's dress. I'11 take it.You said two dollars?"" ""That's right, ma'am."" ""Hello, sir. Yes . . . Uh-huh . . . Yes . . . You saythat you want to bury your aunt with a Christmas tree in hercoffin? Uh-huh . . . She wanted it that way . . . I'11 seewhat I can do for you, sir. Oh, you have the measurementsof the coffin with you? Very good . . . We have our coffin-sized Christmas trees right over here, sir. "" Finally he was paid off and he came over to San Francis-co and had a good meal, a steak dinner at Le Boeuf and somegood booze, Jack Daniels, and then went out to the Fillmoreand picked up a good-looking, young, Negro whore, and hegot laid in the Albert Bacon Fall Hotel. The next day he went down to a fancy stationery store onMarket Street and bought himself a thirty-dollar fountain pen,one with a gold nib. He showed it to me and said, ""Write with this, but don'twrite hard because this pen has got a gold nib, and a goldnib is very impressionable. After a while it takes on the per-sonality of the writer. Nobody else can write with it. Thispen becomes just like a person's shadow. It's the only pento have. But be careful. "" I thought to myself what a lovely nib trout fishing in Am-erica would make with a stroke of cool green trees along theriver's shore, wild flowers and dark fins pressed againstthe paper. PRELUDE TO THE MAYONNAISE CHAPTER""The Eskimos live among ice all their lives but havesingle word for ice. "" --Man: His First Million YearsM. F. Ashley Montagu ""Human language is in some ways similar to, but in otherways vastly different from, other kinds of animal communi-cation. We simply have no idea about its evolutionary history,though many people have speculated about its possible origins.There is, for instance, the 'bow-bow' theory, that languagestarted from attempts to imitate animal sounds. Or the 'ding-dong' theory, that it arose from natural sound-producingresponses. Or the 'pooh-pooh' theory, that it began with vio-lent outcries and exclamations . . . We have no way ofknow-ing whether the kinds of men represented by the earliestfos-sils could talk or not . . . Language does not leave fossils,at least not until it has become written . . ."" --Man inNature, by Marston Bates ""But no animal up a tree can initiate a culture. "" -""TheSimian Basis of Human Mechanics,"" in Twilight of Man, byEarnest Albert Hooton Expressing a human need, I always wanted to write abookthat ended with the word Mayonnaise. THE MAYONNAISE CHAPTER Feb 3-1952 Dearest Florence and Harv. I just heard from Edith about the passing of Mr. Good. Our heart goes out to you in deepest sympathy Gods will be done. He has lived a good long life and he has gone to a better place. You were expecting it and it was nice you could see him yesterday even if he did not know you. You have our prayers and love and we will see you soon. God bless you both. Love Mother and Nancy. P.S. Sorry I forgot to give you the mayonaise."
48,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",48,"2018-02-27 21:06:32","The Rebel Surprise Near Tamai","William Topaz McGonagall","'Twas on the 22nd of March, in the year 1885,That the Arabs rushed like a mountain torrent in full drive,And quickly attacked General M'Neill's transport-zereba,But in a short time they were forced to withdraw. And in the suddenness of surprise the men were carried away,Also camels, mules, and horses were thrown into wild disarray,By thousands of the Arabs that in ambush lay,But our brave British heroes held the enemy at bay. There was a multitude of camels heaped upon one another,Kicking and screaming, while many of them did smother,Owing to the heavy pressure of the entangled mass,That were tramping o'er one another as they lay on the grass. The scene was indescribable, and sickening to behold,To see the mass of innocent brutes lying stiff and cold,And the moaning cries of them were pitiful to hear,Likewise the cries of the dying men that lay wounded in the rear. Then General McNeill ordered his men to form in solid square,Whilst deafening shouts and shrieks of animals did tend the air,And the rush of stampeded camels made a fearful din,While the Arabs they did yell, and fiendishly did grin. Then the gallant Marines formed the east side of the square,While clouds of dust and smoke did darken the air,And on the west side the Berkshire were engaged in the fight,Firing steadily and cooly with all their might. Still camp followers were carried along by the huge animal mass,And along the face of the zereba 'twas difficult to pass,Because the mass of brutes swept on in wild dismay,Which caused the troops to be thrown into disorderly array. Then Indians and Bluejackets were all mixed together back to back,And for half-an-hour the fire and din didn't slack;And none but steady troops could have stood that fearful shock,Because against overwhelming numbers they stood as firm as a rock. The Arabs crept among the legs of the animals without any dread,But by the British bullets many were killed dead,And left dead on the field and weltering in their gore,Whilst the dying moans of the camels made a hideous roar. Then General McNeill to his men did say,Forward! my lads, and keep them at bay!Come, make ready, my men, and stand to your arms,And don't be afraid of war's alarms So forward! and charge them in front and rear,And remember you are fighting for your Queen and country dear,Therefore, charge them with your bayonets, left and right,And we'll soon put this rebel horde to flight. Then forward at the bayonet-charge they did rush,And the rebel horde they soon did crush;And by the charge of the bayonet they kept them at bay,And in confusion and terror they all fled away. The Marines held their own while engaged hand-to-hand,And the courage they displayed was really very grand;But it would be unfair to praise one corps more than another,Because each man fought as if he'd been avenging the death of a brother. The Berkshire men and the Naval Brigade fought with might and main,And, thank God! the British have defeated the Arabs again,And have added fresh laurels to their name,Which will be enrolled in the book of fame. 'Tis lamentable to think of the horrors of war,That men must leave their homes and go abroad afar,To fight for their Queen and country in a foreign land,Beneath the whirlwind's drifting scorching sand. But whatsoever God wills must come to pass,The fall of a sparrow, or a tiny blade of grass;Also, man must fall at home by His command,Just equally the same as in a foreign land."
49,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",49,"2018-02-27 21:06:34",Howl,"Allen Ginsberg","For Carl Solomon I I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machin- ery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge, lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy- ment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam whistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time--and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years. II What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- nation? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- ned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni- bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street! IIICarl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland where you're madder than I am I'm with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange I'm with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother I'm with you in Rockland where you've murdered your twelve secretaries I'm with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor I'm with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter I'm with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses I'm with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica I'm with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx I'm with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss I'm with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse I'm with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void I'm with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha I'm with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb I'm with you in Rockland where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale I'm with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep I'm with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free I'm with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night San Francisco 1955-56"
50,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",50,"2018-02-27 21:06:37","The Circus Animals' Desertion","William Butler Yeats","II sought a theme and sought for it in vain,I sought it daily for six weeks or so.Maybe at last, being but a broken man,I must be satisfied with my heart, althoughWinter and summer till old age beganMy circus animals were all on show,Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,Lion and woman and the Lord knows what. IIWhat can I but enumerate old themes?First that sea-rider Oisin led by the noseThrough three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;But what cared I that set him on to ride,I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?And then a counter-truth filled out its play,'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,But masterful Heaven had intetvened to save it.I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,And this brought forth a dream and soon enoughThis dream itself had all my thought and love.And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the breadCuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is saidIt was the dream itself enchanted me:Character isolated by a deedTo engross the present and dominate memory.players and painted stage took all my love,And not those things that they were emblems of. IIIThose masterful images because completeGrew in pure mind, but out of what began?A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slutWho keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,I must lie down where all the ladders startIn the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart."
51,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",51,"2018-02-27 21:06:38","How Shall My Animal","Dylan Thomas","How shall my animalWhose wizard shape I trace in the cavernous skull,Vessel of abscesses and exultation's shell,Endure burial under the spelling wall,The invoked, shrouding veil at the cap of the face,Who should be furious,Drunk as a vineyard snail, flailed like an octopus,Roaring, crawling, quarrelWith the outside weathers,The natural circle of the discovered skiesDraw down to its weird eyes?How shall it magnetize,Towards the studded male in a bent, midnight blazeThat melts the lionhead's heel and horseshoe of the heartA brute land in the cool top of the country daysTo trot with a loud mate the haybeds of a mile,Love and labour and killIn quick, sweet, cruel light till the locked ground sproutThe black, burst sea rejoice,The bowels turn turtle,Claw of the crabbed veins squeeze from each red particleThe parched and raging voice?Fishermen of mermenCreep and harp on the tide, sinking their charmed, bent pinWith bridebait of gold bread, I with a living skein,Tongue and ear in the thread, angle the temple-boundCurl-locked and animal cavepools of spells and bone,Trace out a tentacle,Nailed with an open eye, in the bowl of wounds and weedTo clasp my fury on groundAnd clap its great blood down;Never shall beast be born to atlas the few seasOr poise the day on a horn.Sigh long, clay cold, lie shorn,Cast high, stunned on gilled stone; sly scissors ground in frostClack through the thicket of strength, love hewn in pillars dropsWith carved bird, saint, and suns the wrackspiked maiden mouthLops, as a bush plumed with flames, the rant of the fierce eye,Clips short the gesture of breath.Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut,And roll with the knocked earth:Lie dry, rest robbed, my beast.You have kicked from a dark den, leaped up the whinnying light,And dug your grave in my breast."
52,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",52,"2018-02-27 21:06:40","The Pangolin","Marianne Moore","Another armored animal--scale lapping scale with spruce-cone regularity until theyform the uninterrupted central tail-row! This near artichoke with head and legs and grit-equipped gizzard,the night miniature artist engineer is, yes, Leonardo da Vinci's replica-- impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear. Armor seems extra. But for him, the closing ear-ridge-- or bare ear lacking even this small eminence and similarly safecontracting nose and eye apertures impenetrably closable, are not; a true ant-eater,not cockroach eater, who endures exhausting solitary trips through unfamiliar ground at night, returning before sunrise, stepping in the moonlight, on the moonlight peculiarly, that the outside edges of his hands may bear the weight and save the claws for digging. Serpentined about the tree, he draws away from danger unpugnaciously, with no sound but a harmless hiss; keepingthe fragile grace of the Thomas- of-Leighton Buzzard Westminster Abbey wrought-iron vine, orrolls himself into a ball that has power to defy all effort to unroll it; strongly intailed, neat head for core, on neck not breaking off, with curled-in-feet. Nevertheless he has sting-proof scales; and nest of rocks closed with earth from inside, which can thus darken. Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast each with a splendor which man in all his vileness cannot set aside; each with an excellence!""Fearfull yet to be feared,"" the armored ant-eater met by the driver-ant does not turn back, butengulfs what he can, the flattened sword- edged leafpoints on the tail and artichoke set leg- and body-plates quivering violently when it retaliates and swarms on him. Compact like the furled fringed frill on the hat-brim of Gargallo's hollow iron head of a matador, he will drop and will then walk away unhurt, although if unintruded on, he cautiously works down the tree, helpedby his tail. The giant-pangolin- tail, graceful tool, as a prop or hand or broom or ax, tipped likean elephant's trunkwith special skin, is not lost on this ant- and stone-swallowing uninjurable artichoke which simpletons thought a living fable whom the stones had nourished, whereas ants had done so. Pangolins are not aggressive animals; between dusk and day they have not unchain-like machine-like form and frictionless creep of a thing made graceful by adversities, con-versities. To explain grace requires a curious hand. If that which is at all were not forever,why would those who graced the spires with animals and gathered there to rest, on cold luxurious low stone seats--a monk and monk and monk--between the thus ingenious roof supports, have slaved to confuse grace with a kindly manner, time in which to pay a debt, the cure for sins, a graceful use of what are yet approved stone mullions branching out across the perpendiculars? A sailboatwas the first machine. Pangolins, made for moving quietly also, are models of exactness,on four legs; on hind feet plantigrade, with certain postures of a man. Beneath sun and moon, man slaving to make his life more sweet, leaves half the flowers worth having, needing to choose wisely how to use his strength; a paper-maker like the wasp; a tractor of foodstuffs, like the ant; spidering a length of web from bluffs above a stream; in fighting, mechanicked like the pangolin; capsizing indisheartenment. Bedizened or stark naked, man, the self, the being we call human, writing-masters to this world, griffons a dark ""Like does not like like that is abnoxious""; and writes error with four r's. Among animals, one has sense of humor. Humor saves a few steps, it saves years. Unignorant, modest and unemotional, and all emotion, he has everlasting vigor, power to grow, though there are few creatures who can make one breathe faster and make one erecter. Not afraid of anything is he, and then goes cowering forth, tread paced to meet an obstacleat every step. Consistent with the formula--warm blood, no gills, two pairs of hands and a few hairs-- that is a mammal; there he sits on his own habitat, serge-clad, strong-shod. The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, ""Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."""
53,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",53,"2018-02-27 21:06:44","As I Sat Alone by Blue Ontario’s Shores.","Walt Whitman","1AS I sat alone, by blue Ontario’s shore, As I mused of these mighty days, and of peace return’d, and the dead that return no more, A Phantom, gigantic, superb, with stern visage, accosted me; Chant me the poem, it said, that comes from the soul of America—chant me the carol of victory; And strike up the marches of Libertad—marches more powerful yet;And sing me before you go, the song of the throes of Democracy. (Democracy—the destin’d conqueror—yet treacherous lip-smiles everywhere, And Death and infidelity at every step.) 2A Nation announcing itself, I myself make the only growth by which I can be appreciated,I reject none, accept all, then reproduce all in my own forms. A breed whose proof is in time and deeds; What we are, we are—nativity is answer enough to objections; We wield ourselves as a weapon is wielded, We are powerful and tremendous in ourselves,We are executive in ourselves—We are sufficient in the variety of ourselves, We are the most beautiful to ourselves, and in ourselves; We stand self-pois’d in the middle, branching thence over the world; From Missouri, Nebraska, or Kansas, laughing attacks to scorn. Nothing is sinful to us outside of ourselves,Whatever appears, whatever does not appear, we are beautiful or sinful in ourselves only. (O mother! O sisters dear! If we are lost, no victor else has destroy’d us; It is by ourselves we go down to eternal night.) 3Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme?There can be any number of Supremes—One does not countervail another, any more than one eyesight countervails another, or one life countervails another. All is eligible to all, All is for individuals—All is for you, No condition is prohibited—not God’s, or any. All comes by the body—only health puts you rapport with the universe. Produce great persons, the rest follows. 4America isolated I sing; I say that works made here in the spirit of other lands, are so much poison in The States. (How dare such insects as we see assume to write poems for America? For our victorious armies, and the offspring following the armies?) Piety and conformity to them that like! Peace, obesity, allegiance, to them that like! I am he who tauntingly compels men, women, nations, Crying, Leap from your seats, and contend for your lives! I am he who walks the States with a barb’d tongue, questioning every one I meet;Who are you, that wanted only to be told what you knew before? Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense? (With pangs and cries, as thine own, O bearer of many children! These clamors wild, to a race of pride I give.) O lands! would you be freer than all that has ever been before?If you would be freer than all that has been before, come listen to me. Fear grace—Fear elegance, civilization, delicatesse, Fear the mellow sweet, the sucking of honey-juice; Beware the advancing mortal ripening of nature, Beware what precedes the decay of the ruggedness of states and men. Ages, precedents, have long been accumulating undirected materials, America brings builders, and brings its own styles. The immortal poets of Asia and Europe have done their work, and pass’d to other spheres, A work remains, the work of surpassing all they have done. America, curious toward foreign characters, stands by its own at all hazards,Stands removed, spacious, composite, sound—initiates the true use of precedents, Does not repel them, or the past, or what they have produced under their forms, Takes the lesson with calmness, perceives the corpse slowly borne from the house, Perceives that it waits a little while in the door—that it was fittest for its days, That its life has descended to the stalwart and well-shaped heir who approaches,And that he shall be fittest for his days. Any period, one nation must lead, One land must be the promise and reliance of the future. These States are the amplest poem, Here is not merely a nation, but a teeming nation of nations,Here the doings of men correspond with the broadcast doings of the day and night, Here is what moves in magnificent masses, careless of particulars, Here are the roughs, beards, friendliness, combativeness, the Soul loves, Here the flowing trains—here the crowds, equality, diversity, the Soul loves. 6Land of lands, and bards to corroborate!Of them, standing among them, one lifts to the light his west-bred face, To him the hereditary countenance bequeath’d, both mother’s and father’s, His first parts substances, earth, water, animals, trees, Built of the common stock, having room for far and near, Used to dispense with other lands, incarnating this land,Attracting it Body and Soul to himself, hanging on its neck with incomparable love, Plunging his seminal muscle into its merits and demerits, Making its cities, beginnings, events, diversities, wars, vocal in him, Making its rivers, lakes, bays, embouchure in him, Mississippi with yearly freshets and changing chutes—Columbia, Niagara, Hudson, spending themselves lovingly in him,If the Atlantic coast stretch, or the Pacific coast stretch, he stretching with them north or south, Spanning between them, east and west, and touching whatever is between them, Growths growing from him to offset the growth of pine, cedar, hemlock, live-oak, locust, chestnut, hickory, cottonwood, orange, magnolia, Tangles as tangled in him as any cane-brake or swamp, He likening sides and peaks of mountains, forests coated with northern transparent ice,Off him pasturage, sweet and natural as savanna, upland, prairie, Through him flights, whirls, screams, answering those of the fish-hawk, mocking-bird, night-heron, and eagle; His spirit surrounding his country’s spirit, unclosed to good and evil, Surrounding the essences of real things, old times and present times, Surrounding just found shores, islands, tribes of red aborigines,Weather-beaten vessels, landings, settlements, embryo stature and muscle, The haughty defiance of the Year 1—war, peace, the formation of the Constitution, The separate States, the simple, elastic scheme, the immigrants, The Union, always swarming with blatherers, and always sure and impregnable, The unsurvey’d interior, log-houses, clearings, wild animals, hunters, trappers;Surrounding the multiform agriculture, mines, temperature, the gestation of new States, Congress convening every Twelfth-month, the members duly coming up from the uttermost parts; Surrounding the noble character of mechanics and farmers, especially the young men, Responding their manners, speech, dress, friendships—the gait they have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the presence of superiors, The freshness and candor of their physiognomy, the copiousness and decision of their phrenology,The picturesque looseness of their carriage, their fierceness when wrong’d, The fluency of their speech, their delight in music, their curiosity, good temper, and open-handedness—the whole composite make, The prevailing ardor and enterprise, the large amativeness, The perfect equality of the female with the male, the fluid movement of the population, The superior marine, free commerce, fisheries, whaling, gold-digging,Wharf-hemm’d cities, railroad and steamboat lines, intersecting all points, Factories, mercantile life, labor-saving machinery, the north-east, north-west, south-west, Manhattan firemen, the Yankee swap, southern plantation life, Slavery—the murderous, treacherous conspiracy to raise it upon the ruins of all the rest; On and on to the grapple with it—Assassin! then your life or ours be the stake—and respite no more. 7(Lo! high toward heaven, this day, Libertad! from the conqueress’ field return’d, I mark the new aureola around your head; No more of soft astral, but dazzling and fierce, With war’s flames, and the lambent lightnings playing,And your port immovable where you stand; With still the inextinguishable glance, and the clench’d and lifted fist, And your foot on the neck of the menacing one, the scorner, utterly crush’d beneath you; The menacing, arrogant one, that strode and advanced with his senseless scorn, bearing the murderous knife; —Lo! the wide swelling one, the braggart, that would yesterday do so much!To-day a carrion dead and damn’d, the despised of all the earth! An offal rank, to the dunghill maggots spurn’d.) 8Others take finish, but the Republic is ever constructive, and ever keeps vista; Others adorn the past—but you, O days of the present, I adorn you! O days of the future, I believe in you! I isolate myself for your sake;O America, because you build for mankind, I build for you! O well-beloved stone-cutters! I lead them who plan with decision and science, I lead the present with friendly hand toward the future. Bravas to all impulses sending sane children to the next age! But damn that which spends itself, with no thought of the stain, pains, dismay, feebleness it is bequeathing. 9I listened to the Phantom by Ontario’s shore, I heard the voice arising, demanding bards; By them, all native and grand—by them alone can The States be fused into the compact organism of a Nation. To hold men together by paper and seal, or by compulsion, is no account; That only holds men together which aggregates all in a living principle, as the hold of the limbs of the body, or the fibres of plants. Of all races and eras, These States, with veins full of poetical stuff, most need poets, and are to have the greatest, and use them the greatest; Their Presidents shall not be their common referee so much as their poets shall. (Soul of love, and tongue of fire! Eye to pierce the deepest deeps, and sweep the world! —Ah, mother! prolific and full in all besides—yet how long barren, barren?) 10Of These States, the poet is the equable man, Not in him, but off from him, things are grotesque, eccentric, fail of their full returns, Nothing out of its place is good, nothing in its place is bad, He bestows on every object or quality its fit proportion, neither more nor less, He is the arbiter of the diverse, he is the key,He is the equalizer of his age and land, He supplies what wants supplying—he checks what wants checking, In peace, out of him speaks the spirit of peace, large, rich, thrifty, building populous towns, encouraging agriculture, arts, commerce, lighting the study of man, the Soul, health, immortality, government; In war, he is the best backer of the war—he fetches artillery as good as the engineer’s—he can make every word he speaks draw blood; The years straying toward infidelity, he withholds by his steady faith,He is no argurer, he is judgment—(Nature accepts him absolutely;) He judges not as the judge judges, but as the sun falling round a helpless thing; As he sees the farthest, he has the most faith, His thoughts are the hymns of the praise of things, In the dispute on God and eternity he is silent,He sees eternity less like a play with a prologue and denouement, He sees eternity in men and women—he does not see men and women as dreams or dots. For the great Idea, the idea of perfect and free individuals, For that idea the bard walks in advance, leader of leaders, The attitude of him cheers up slaves and horrifies foreign despots. Without extinction is Liberty! without retrograde is Equality! They live in the feelings of young men, and the best women; Not for nothing have the indomitable heads of the earth been always ready to fall for Liberty. 11For the great Idea! That, O my brethren—that is the mission of Poets. Songs of stern defiance, ever ready, Songs of the rapid arming, and the march, The flag of peace quick-folded, and instead, the flag we know, Warlike flag of the great Idea. (Angry cloth I saw there leaping!I stand again in leaden rain, your flapping folds saluting; I sing you over all, flying, beckoning through the fight—O the hard-contested fight! O the cannons ope their rosy-flashing muzzles! the hurtled balls scream! The battle-front forms amid the smoke—the volleys pour incessant from the line; Hark! the ringing word, Charge!—now the tussle, and the furious maddening yells;Now the corpses tumble curl’d upon the ground, Cold, cold in death, for precious life of you, Angry cloth I saw there leaping.) 12Are you he who would assume a place to teach, or be a poet here in The States? The place is august—the terms obdurate. Who would assume to teach here, may well prepare himself, body and mind, He may well survey, ponder, arm, fortify, harden, make lithe, himself, He shall surely be question’d beforehand by me with many and stern questions. Who are you, indeed, who would talk or sing to America? Have you studied out the land, its idioms and men?Have you learn’d the physiology, phrenology, politics, geography, pride, freedom, friendship, of the land? its substratums and objects? Have you consider’d the organic compact of the first day of the first year of Independence, sign’d by the Commissioners, ratified by The States, and read by Washington at the head of the army? Have you possess’d yourself of the Federal Constitution? Do you see who have left all feudal processes and poems behind them, and assumed the poems and processes of Democracy? Are you faithful to things? do you teach as the land and sea, the bodies of men, womanhood, amativeness, angers, teach?Have you sped through fleeting customs, popularities? Can you hold your hand against all seductions, follies, whirls, fierce contentions? are you very strong? are you really of the whole people? Are you not of some coterie? some school or mere religion? Are you done with reviews and criticisms of life? animating now to life itself? Have you vivified yourself from the maternity of These States?Have you too the old, ever-fresh forbearance and impartiality? Do you hold the like love for those hardening to maturity; for the last-born? little and big? and for the errant? What is this you bring my America? Is it uniform with my country? Is it not something that has been better told or done before?Have you not imported this, or the spirit of it, in some ship? Is it not a mere tale? a rhyme? a prettiness? is the good old cause in it? Has it not dangled long at the heels of the poets, politicians, literats, of enemies’ lands? Does it not assume that what is notoriously gone is still here? Does it answer universal needs? will it improve manners?Does it sound, with trumpet-voice, the proud victory of the Union, in that secession war? Can your performance face the open fields and the seaside? Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air—to appear again in my strength, gait, face? Have real employments contributed to it? original makers—not mere amanuenses? Does it meet modern discoveries, calibers, facts face to face?What does it mean to me? to American persons, progresses, cities? Chicago, Kanada, Arkansas? the planter, Yankee, Georgian, native, immigrant, sailors, squatters, old States, new States? Does it encompass all The States, and the unexceptional rights of all the men and women of the earth? (the genital impulse of These States;) Does it see behind the apparent custodians, the real custodians, standing, menacing, silent—the mechanics, Manhattanese, western men, southerners, significant alike in their apathy, and in the promptness of their love? Does it see what finally befalls, and has always finally befallen, each temporizer, patcher, outsider, partialist, alarmist, infidel, who has ever ask’d anything of America? What mocking and scornful negligence?The track strew’d with the dust of skeletons; By the roadside others disdainfully toss’d. 13Rhymes and rhymers pass away—poems distill’d from foreign poems pass away, The swarms of reflectors and the polite pass, and leave ashes; Admirers, importers, obedient persons, make but the soul of literature;America justifies itself, give it time—no disguise can deceive it, or conceal from it—it is impassive enough, Only toward the likes of itself will it advance to meet them, If its poets appear, it will in due time advance to meet them—there is no fear of mistake, (The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferr’d, till his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorb’d it.) He masters whose spirit masters—he tastes sweetest who results sweetest in the long run;The blood of the brawn beloved of time is unconstraint; In the need of poems, philosophy, politics, manners, engineering, an appropriate native grand-opera, shipcraft, any craft, he or she is greatest who contributes the greatest original practical example. Already a nonchalant breed, silently emerging, appears on the streets, People’s lips salute only doers, lovers, satisfiers, positive knowers; There will shortly be no more priests—I say their work is done,Death is without emergencies here, but life is perpetual emergencies here, Are your body, days, manners, superb? after death you shall be superb; Justice, health, self-esteem, clear the way with irresistible power; How dare you place anything before a man? 14Fall behind me, States!A man before all—myself, typical before all. Give me the pay I have served for! Give me to sing the song of the great Idea! take all the rest; I have loved the earth, sun, animals—I have despised riches, I have given alms to every one that ask’d, stood up for the stupid and crazy, devoted my income and labor to others,I have hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence toward the people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, I have gone freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with the mothers of families, I have read these leaves to myself in the open air—I have tried them by trees, stars, rivers, I have dismiss’d whatever insulted my own Soul or defiled my Body, I have claim’d nothing to myself which I have not carefully claim’d for others on the same terms,I have sped to the camps, and comrades found and accepted from every State; (In war of you, as well as peace, my suit is good, America—sadly I boast; Upon this breast has many a dying soldier lean’d, to breathe his last; This arm, this hand, this voice, have nourish’d, rais’d, restored, To life recalling many a prostrate form:)—I am willing to wait to be understood by the growth of the taste of myself, I reject none, I permit all. (Say, O mother! have I not to your thought been faithful? Have I not, through life, kept you and yours before me?) 15I swear I begin to see the meaning of these things!It is not the earth, it is not America, who is so great, It is I who am great, or to be great—it is you up there, or any one; It is to walk rapidly through civilizations, governments, theories, Through poems, pageants, shows, to form great individuals. Underneath all, individuals!I swear nothing is good to me now that ignores individuals, The American compact is altogether with individuals, The only government is that which makes minute of individuals, The whole theory of the universe is directed to one single individual—namely, to You. (Mother! with subtle sense severe—with the naked sword in your hand,I saw you at last refuse to treat but directly with individuals.) 16Underneath all, nativity, I swear I will stand by my own nativity—pious or impious, so be it; I swear I am charm’d with nothing except nativity, Men, women, cities, nations, are only beautiful from nativity. Underneath all is the need of the expression of love for men and women, I swear I have seen enough of mean and impotent modes of expressing love for men and women, After this day I take my own modes of expressing love for men and women. I swear I will have each quality of my race in myself, (Talk as you like, he only suits These States whose manners favor the audacity and sublime turbulence of The States.) Underneath the lessons of things, spirits, Nature, governments, ownerships, I swear I perceive other lessons, Underneath all, to me is myself—to you, yourself—(the same monotonous old song.) 17O I see now, flashing, that this America is only you and me, Its power, weapons, testimony, are you and me, Its crimes, lies, thefts, defections, slavery, are you and me,Its Congress is you and me—the officers, capitols, armies, ships, are you and me, Its endless gestations of new States are you and me, The war—that war so bloody and grim—the war I will henceforth forget—was you and me, Natural and artificial are you and me, Freedom, language, poems, employments, are you and me,Past, present, future, are you and me. 18I swear I dare not shirk any part of myself, Not any part of America, good or bad, Not the promulgation of Liberty—not to cheer up slaves and horrify foreign despots, Not to build for that which builds for mankind,Not to balance ranks, complexions, creeds, and the sexes, Not to justify science, nor the march of equality, Nor to feed the arrogant blood of the brawn beloved of time. I swear I am for those that have never been master’d! For men and women whose tempers have never been master’d,For those whom laws, theories, conventions, can never master. I swear I am for those who walk abreast with the whole earth! Who inaugurate one, to inaugurate all. I swear I will not be outfaced by irrational things! I will penetrate what it is in them that is sarcastic upon me!I will make cities and civilizations defer to me! This is what I have learnt from America—it is the amount—and it I teach again. (Democracy! while weapons were everywhere aim’d at your breast, I saw you serenely give birth to immortal children—saw in dreams your dilating form; Saw you with spreading mantle covering the world.) 19I will confront these shows of the day and night! I will know if I am to be less than they! I will see if I am not as majestic as they! I will see if I am not as subtle and real as they! I will see if I am to be less generous than they!I will see if I have no meaning, while the houses and ships have meaning! I will see if the fishes and birds are to be enough for themselves, and I am not to be enough for myself. 20I match my spirit against yours, you orbs, growths, mountains, brutes, Copious as you are, I absorb you all in myself, and become the master myself. America isolated, yet embodying all, what is it finally except myself?These States—what are they except myself? I know now why the earth is gross, tantalizing, wicked—it is for my sake, I take you to be mine, you beautiful, terrible, rude forms. (Mother! bend down, bend close to me your face! I know not what these plots and wars, and deferments are for;I know not fruition’s success—but I know that through war and peace your work goes on, and must yet go on.) 21.... Thus, by blue Ontario’s shore, While the winds fann’d me, and the waves came trooping toward me, I thrill’d with the Power’s pulsations—and the charm of my theme was upon me, Till the tissues that held me, parted their ties upon me. And I saw the free Souls of poets; The loftiest bards of past ages strode before me, Strange, large men, long unwaked, undisclosed, were disclosed to me. 22O my rapt verse, my call—mock me not! Not for the bards of the past—not to invoke them have I launch’d you forth,Not to call even those lofty bards here by Ontario’s shores, Have I sung so capricious and loud, my savage song. Bards for my own land, only, I invoke; (For the war, the war is over—the field is clear’d,) Till they strike up marches henceforth triumphant and onward,To cheer, O mother, your boundless, expectant soul. Bards grand as these days so grand! Bards of the great Idea! Bards of the peaceful inventions! (for the war, the war is over!) Yet Bards of the latent armies—a million soldiers waiting, ever-ready, Bards towering like hills—(no more these dots, these pigmies, these little piping straws, these gnats, that fill the hour, to pass for poets;)Bards with songs as from burning coals, or the lightning’s fork’d stripes! Ample Ohio’s bards—bards for California! inland bards—bards of the war;) (As a wheel turns on its axle, so I find my chants turning finally on the war;) Bards of pride! Bards tallying the ocean’s roar, and the swooping eagle’s scream! You, by my charm, I invoke!"
54,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",54,"2018-02-27 21:06:49","Spontaneous Me.","Walt Whitman","SPONTANEOUS me, Nature, The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder, The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash, The same, late in autumn—the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark green,The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—the private untrimm’d bank—the primitive apples—the pebble-stones, Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to call them to me, or think of them, The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,) The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me, This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry,(Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty, lurking, masculine poems;) Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap, Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb of love—breasts of love—bellies press’d and glued together with love, Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love, The body of my love—the body of the woman I love—the body of the man—the body of the earth,Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west, The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down—that gripes the full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and tight till he is satisfied, The wet of woods through the early hours, Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other, The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark,The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming, The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and content to the ground, The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with, The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any one, The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged feelers may be intimate where they are,The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body—the bashful withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and edge themselves, The limpid liquid within the young man, The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful, The torment—the irritable tide that will not be at rest, The like of the same I feel—the like of the same in others,The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that flushes and flushes, The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master him; The mystic amorous night—the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats, The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers—the young man all color’d, red, ashamed, angry; The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun, the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them, The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-round walnuts; The continence of vegetables, birds, animals, The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent, while birds and animals never once skulk or find themselves indecent; The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity,The oath of procreation I have sworn—my Adamic and fresh daughters, The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to fill my place when I am through, The wholesome relief, repose, content; And this bunch, pluck’d at random from myself; It has done its work—I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may."
55,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",55,"2018-02-27 21:06:51","O Love, Sweet Animal","Delmore Schwartz","O Love, dark animal,With your strangeness goLike any freak or clown:Appease tee child in herBecause she is aloneMany years agoTerrified by a lookWhich was not meant for her.Brush your heavy furAgainst her, long and slowStare at her like a book,Her interests being suchNo one can look too much.Tell her how you knowNothing can be takenWhich has not been given:For you time is forgiven:Informed by hell and heavenYou are not mistaken"
56,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",56,"2018-02-27 21:06:54","Animals Are Passing From Our Lives","Philip Levine","It's wonderful how I jogon four honed-down ivory toesmy massive buttocks slippinglike oiled parts with each light step.I'm to market. I can smellthe sour, grooved block, I can smellthe blade that opens the holeand the pudgy white fingersthat shake out the intestineslike a hankie. In my dreams the snouts drool on the marble,suffering children, suffering flies,suffering the consumerswho won't meet their steady eyesfor fear they could see. The boywho drives me along believesthat any moment I'll fallon my side and drum my toeslike a typewriter or squealand shit like a new housewifediscovering television,or that I'll turn like a beastcleverly to hook his teethwith my teeth. No. Not this pig."
57,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",57,"2018-02-27 21:06:56","I VENT MY WRATH ON ANIMALS","Jerome Rothenberg","I came alivewhen things wentcrazy.I pulled the plug onthe reports of sturm & drangWhen someonesignaled I left openwhat I could not close.I broke a covenant thatwas more fiercethan murder.I vent my wrathon animalspretending they will turndivine.I open uprare certaintiesthat test free will.I take from animalsa place in whichthe taste of deathpours from their mouths& drowns them.I support a lesser surface.I draw comfort fromthe knowledgeof their being."
58,3,"2018-02-27 20:10:28","Animal Poems",58,"2018-02-27 21:06:59","What do animals dream?","Yahia Lababidi","Do they dream of past lives and unlived dreamsunspeakably human or unimaginably bestial?Do they struggle to catch in their slumberwhat is too slippery for the fingers of day?Are there subtle nocturnal intimationsto illuminate their undreaming hours?Are they haunted by specters of regretdo they visit their dead in drowsy gratitude?Or are they revisited by their crimestranscribed in tantalizing hieroglyphs?Do they retrace the outline of their woundsor dream of transformation, instead?Do they tug at obstinate knotsinassimilable longings and thwarted strivings?Are there agitations, upheavals or mutiniesagainst their perceived selves or fate? Are they free of strengths and weaknesses peculiarto horse, deer, bird, goat, snake, lamb or lion?Are they ever neither animal nor humanbut creature and Being?Do they have holy moments of understandingdeep in the seat of their entity?Do they experience their existence more fullyrelieved of the burden of wakefulness? Do they suspect, with poets, that all we see or seemis but a dream within a dream? Or is it merely a small dying a little taste of nothingness that gathers in their mouths?"
59,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",59,"2018-02-27 21:06:59",Celebrate,"Anna Akhmatova","Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you seetonight the snowy night of our first wintercomes back again in every road and tree -that winter night of diamantine splendour.Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,the Moika river’s sinking under snow,the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,and where we are heading – I don’t know.There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art.....Whose soul can compare with my soul,if joy and fear are in my heart? - And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s,quivers at my shoulder, in the night,and the snow shines with a silver light,warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?"
60,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",60,"2018-02-27 21:07:03","On a Young Lady's Sixth Anniversary","Katherine Mansfield","Baby Babbles--only one,Now to sit up has begun.Little Babbles quite turned twoWalks as well as I and you.And Miss Babbles one, two, three,Has a teaspoon at her tea.But her Highness at fourLearns to open the front door.And her Majesty--now six,Can her shoestrings neatly fix.Babbles, babbles, have a care,You will soon put up your hair!"
61,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",61,"2018-02-27 21:07:06","75. Halloween","Robert Burns","UPON that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans 2 dance,Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance;Or for Colean the rout is ta’en, Beneath the moon’s pale beams;There, up the Cove, 3 to stray an’ rove, Amang the rocks and streams To sport that night; Amang the bonie winding banks, Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear;Where Bruce 4 ance rul’d the martial ranks, An’ shook his Carrick spear;Some merry, friendly, countra-folks Together did convene,To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks, An’ haud their Halloween Fu’ blythe that night. The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they’re fine;Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’:The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs Weel-knotted on their garten;Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin Whiles fast at night. Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail, Their stocks 5 maun a’ be sought ance;They steek their een, and grape an’ wale For muckle anes, an’ straught anes.Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift, An’ wandered thro’ the bow-kail,An’ pou’t for want o’ better shift A runt was like a sow-tail Sae bow’t that night. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther;The vera wee-things, toddlin, rin, Wi’ stocks out owre their shouther:An’ gif the custock’s sweet or sour, Wi’ joctelegs they taste them;Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d them To lie that night. The lassies staw frae ’mang them a’, To pou their stalks o’ corn; 6But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn:He grippit Nelly hard and fast: Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses;But her tap-pickle maist was lost, Whan kiutlin in the fause-house 7 Wi’ him that night. The auld guid-wife’s weel-hoordit nits 8 Are round an’ round dividend,An’ mony lads an’ lasses’ fates Are there that night decided:Some kindle couthie side by side, And burn thegither trimly;Some start awa wi’ saucy pride, An’ jump out owre the chimlie Fu’ high that night. Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e; Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;But this is Jock, an’ this is me, She says in to hersel’:He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him, As they wad never mair part:Till fuff! he started up the lum, An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart To see’t that night. Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie;An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compar’d to Willie:Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling, An’ her ain fit, it brunt it;While Willie lap, and swore by jing, ’Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. Nell had the fause-house in her min’, She pits hersel an’ Rob in;In loving bleeze they sweetly join, Till white in ase they’re sobbin:Nell’s heart was dancin at the view; She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t:Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonie mou’, Fu’ cozie in the neuk for’t, Unseen that night. But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell:She lea’es them gashin at their cracks, An’ slips out-by hersel’;She thro’ the yard the nearest taks, An’ for the kiln she goes then,An’ darklins grapit for the bauks, And in the blue-clue 9 throws then, Right fear’t that night. An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat— I wat she made nae jaukin;Till something held within the pat, Good L—d! but she was quaukin!But whether ’twas the deil himsel, Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin To spier that night. Wee Jenny to her graunie says, “Will ye go wi’ me, graunie?I’ll eat the apple at the glass, 10 I gat frae uncle Johnie:”She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap’rin,She notic’t na an aizle brunt Her braw, new, worset apron Out thro’ that night. “Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face! I daur you try sic sportin,As seek the foul thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune:Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it;For mony a ane has gotten a fright, An’ liv’d an’ died deleerit, On sic a night. “Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind’t as weel’s yestreen—I was a gilpey then, I’m sure I was na past fyfteen:The simmer had been cauld an’ wat, An’ stuff was unco green;An’ eye a rantin kirn we gat, An’ just on Halloween It fell that night. “Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen, A clever, sturdy fallow;His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean, That lived in Achmacalla:He gat hemp-seed, 11 I mind it weel, An’he made unco light o’t;But mony a day was by himsel’, He was sae sairly frighted That vera night.” Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, An’ he swoor by his conscience,That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; For it was a’ but nonsense:The auld guidman raught down the pock, An’ out a handfu’ gied him;Syne bad him slip frae’ mang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see’d him, An’ try’t that night. He marches thro’ amang the stacks, Tho’ he was something sturtin;The graip he for a harrow taks, An’ haurls at his curpin:And ev’ry now an’ then, he says, “Hemp-seed I saw thee,An’ her that is to be my lass Come after me, an’ draw thee As fast this night.” He wistl’d up Lord Lennox’ March To keep his courage cherry;Altho’ his hair began to arch, He was sae fley’d an’ eerie:Till presently he hears a squeak, An’ then a grane an’ gruntle;He by his shouther gae a keek, An’ tumbled wi’ a wintle Out-owre that night. He roar’d a horrid murder-shout, In dreadfu’ desperation!An’ young an’ auld come rinnin out, An’ hear the sad narration:He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie—Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’; And wha was it but grumphie Asteer that night! Meg fain wad to the barn gaen, To winn three wechts o’ naething; 12But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in:She gies the herd a pickle nits, An’ twa red cheekit apples,To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tam Kipples That vera night. She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw, An’owre the threshold ventures;But first on Sawnie gies a ca’, Syne baudly in she enters:A ratton rattl’d up the wa’, An’ she cry’d Lord preserve her!An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’, An’ pray’d wi’ zeal and fervour, Fu’ fast that night. They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice; They hecht him some fine braw ane;It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice 13 Was timmer-propt for thrawin:He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak For some black, grousome carlin;An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke, Till skin in blypes cam haurlin Aff’s nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was, As cantie as a kittlen;But och! that night, amang the shaws, She gat a fearfu’ settlin!She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn, An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin;Whare three lairds’ lan’s met at a burn, 14 To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. Whiles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t;Whiles round a rocky scar it strays, Whiles in a wiel it dimpl’t;Whiles glitter’d to the nightly rays, Wi’ bickerin’, dancin’ dazzle;Whiles cookit undeneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel Unseen that night. Amang the brachens, on the brae, Between her an’ the moon,The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up an’ ga’e a croon:Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool; Near lav’rock-height she jumpit,But mist a fit, an’ in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi’ a plunge that night. In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies 15 three are ranged;An’ ev’ry time great care is ta’en To see them duly changed:Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire,Because he gat the toom dish thrice, He heav’d them on the fire In wrath that night. Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary;And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes— Their sports were cheap an’ cheery:Till butter’d sowens, 16 wi’ fragrant lunt, Set a’ their gabs a-steerin;Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt, They parted aff careerin Fu’ blythe that night. Note 1. Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.—R. B. [back]Note 2. Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.—R.B. [back]Note 3. A noted cavern near Colean house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of fairies.—R. B. [back]Note 4. The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.—R. B. [back]Note 5. The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a “stock,” or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells-the husband or wife. If any “yird,” or earth, stick to the root, that is “tocher,” or fortune; and the taste of the “custock,” that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the “runts,” are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the “runts,” the names in question.—R. B. [back]Note 6. They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the “top-pickle,” that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.—R. B. [back]Note 7. When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a “fause-house.”—R. B. [back]Note 8. Burning the nuts is a favorite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.—R. B. [back]Note 9. Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the “pot” a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and, toward the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, “Wha hauds?” i. e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.—R. B. [back]Note 10. Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjungal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.—R. B. [back]Note 11. Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then: “Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, “Come after me and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say: “Come after me and harrow thee.”—R. B. [back]Note 12. This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a “wecht,” and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.—R. B. [back]Note 13. Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a “bear-stack,” and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.—R. B. [back]Note 14. Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a “bear-stack,” and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.—R. B. [back]Note 15. Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.—R. B. [back]Note 16. Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.—R. B. [back]"
62,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",62,"2018-02-27 21:07:07","One Year ago -- jots what?","Emily Dickinson","One Year ago -- jots what?God -- spell the word! I -- can't --Was't Grace? Not that --Was't Glory? That -- will do --Spell slower -- Glory --Such Anniversary shall be --"
63,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",63,"2018-02-27 21:07:11","The delectable ballad of the waller lot","Eugene Field","Up yonder in Buena ParkThere is a famous spot,In legend and in historyYclept the Waller Lot.There children play in daytimeAnd lovers stroll by dark,For 't is the goodliest trysting-placeIn all Buena Park.Once on a time that beauteous maid,Sweet little Sissy Knott,Took out her pretty doll to walkWithin the Waller Lot.While thus she fared, from RavenswoodCame Injuns o'er the plain,And seized upon that beauteous maidAnd rent her doll in twain.Oh, 't was a piteous thing to hearHer lamentations wild;She tore her golden curls and cried:""My child! My child! My child!""Alas, what cared those Injun chiefsHow bitterly wailed she?They never had been mothers,And they could not hope to be!""Have done with tears,"" they rudely quoth,And then they bound her hands;For they proposed to take her offTo distant border lands.But, joy! from Mr. Eddy's barnDoth Willie Clow beholdThe sight that makes his hair rise upAnd all his blood run cold.He put his fingers in his mouthAnd whistled long and clear,And presently a goodly hordeOf cow-boys did appear.Cried Willie Clow: ""My comrades bold,Haste to the Waller Lot,And rescue from that Injun bandOur charming Sissy Knott!""""Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw,But smite them hide and hair!Spare neither sex nor age nor size,And no condition spare!""Then sped that cow-boy band away,Full of revengeful wrath,And Kendall Evans rode aheadUpon a hickory lath.And next came gallant Dady FieldAnd Willie's brother Kent,The Eddy boys and Robbie James,On murderous purpose bent.For they were much beholden toThat maid - in sooth, the lotWere very, very much in loveWith charming Sissy Knott.What wonder? She was beauty's queen,And good beyond compare;Moreover, it was known she wasHer wealthy father's heir!Now when the Injuns saw that bandThey trembled with affright,And yet they thought the cheapest thingTo do was stay and fight.So sturdily they stood their ground,Nor would their prisoner yield,Despite the wrath of Willie ClowAnd gallant Dady Field.Oh, never fiercer battle ragedUpon the Waller Lot,And never blood more freely flowedThan flowed for Sissy Knott!An Injun chief of monstrous sizeGot Kendall Evans down,And Robbie James was soon o'erthrownBy one of great renown.And Dady Field was sorely done,And Willie Clow was hurt,And all that gallant cow-boy bandLay wallowing in the dirt.But still they strove with might and mainTill all the Waller LotWas strewn with hair and gouts of gore -All, all for Sissy Knott!Then cried the maiden in despair:""Alas, I sadly fearThe battle and my hopes are lost,Unless some help appear!""Lo, as she spoke, she saw afarThe rescuer looming up -The pride of all Buena Park,Clow's famous yellow pup!""Now, sick'em, Don,"" the maiden cried,""Now, sick'em, Don!"" cried she;Obedient Don at once complied -As ordered, so did he.He sicked'em all so passing wellThat, overcome by fright,The Indian horde gave up the frayAnd safety sought in flight.They ran and ran and ran and ranO'er valley, plain, and hill;And if they are not walking now,Why, then, they're running still.The cow-boys rose up from the dustWith faces black and blue;""Remember, beauteous maid,"" said they,""We've bled and died for you!""""And though we suffer grievously,We gladly hail the lotThat brings us toils and pains and woundsFor charming Sissy Knott!""But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept,And still her fate reviled;For who could patch her dolly up -Who, who could mend her child?Then out her doting mother came,And soothed her daughter then;""Grieve not, my darling, I will sewYour dolly up again!""Joy soon succeeded unto grief,And tears were soon dried up,And dignities were heaped uponClow's noble yellow pup.Him all that goodly companyDid as deliverer hail -They tied a ribbon round his neck,Another round his tail.And every anniversary dayUpon the Waller LotThey celebrate the victory wonFor charming Sissy Knott.And I, the poet of these folk,Am ordered to compileThis truly famous historyIn good old ballad style.Which having done as to have earnedThe sweet rewards of fame,In what same style I did beginI now shall end the same.So let us sing: Long live the King,Long live the Queen and Jack,Long live the ten-spot and the ace,And also all the pack."
64,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",64,"2018-02-27 21:07:13","ANNIVERSARY SONG.","Johann Wolfgang von Goethe","[This little song describes the different members of the party just spoken of.]WHY pacest thou, my neighbour fair,The garden all alone?If house and land thou seek'st to guard,I'd thee as mistress own.My brother sought the cellar-maid,And suffered her no rest;She gave him a refreshing draught,A kiss, too, she impress'd.My cousin is a prudent wight,The cook's by him ador'd;He turns the spit round ceaselessly,To gain love's sweet reward.We six together then beganA banquet to consume,When lo! a fourth pair singing came,And danced into the room.Welcome were they,--and welcome tooWas a fifth jovial pair.Brimful of news, and stored with talesAnd jests both new and rare.For riddles, spirit, raillery,And wit, a place remain'd;A sixth pair then our circle join'd,And so that prize was gain'd.And yet to make us truly blest,One miss'd we, and full sore;A true and tender couple came,--We needed them no more.The social banquet now goes on,Unchequer'd by alloy;The sacred double-numbers thenLet us at once enjoy!1802."
65,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",65,"2018-02-27 21:07:14","Supernatural Songs","William Butler Yeats","I. Ribh at the Tomb of Baile and AillinnBecause you have found me in the pitch-dark nightWith open book you ask me what I do.Mark and digest my tale, carry it afarTo those that never saw this tonsured headNor heard this voice that ninety years have cracked.Of Baile and Aillinn you need not speak,All know their tale, all know what leaf and twig,What juncture of the apple and the yew,Surmount their bones; but speak what none have heard.The miracle that gave them such a deathTransfigured to pure substance what had onceBeen bone and sinew; when such bodies joinThere is no touching here, nor touching there,Nor straining joy, but whole is joined to whole;For the intercourse of angels is a lightWhere for its moment both seem lost, consumed.Here in the pitch-dark atmosphere aboveThe trembling of the apple and the yew,Here on the anniversary of their death,The anniversary of their first embrace,Those lovers, purified by tragedy,Hurry into each other's arms; these eyes,By water, herb and solitary prayerMade aquiline, are open to that light.Though somewhat broken by the leaves, that lightLies in a circle on the grass; thereinI turn the pages of my holy book.II. Ribh denounces PatrickAn abstract Greek absurdity has crazed the man -Recall that masculine Trinity. Man, woman, child (daughter or son),That's how all natural or supernatural stories run.Natural and supernatural with the self-same ring are wed.As man, as beast, as an ephemeral fly begets, Godhead begets Godhead,For things below are copies, the Great Smaragdine Tablet said.Yet all must copy copies, all increase their kind;When the conflagration of their passion sinks, damped by the body or the mind,That juggling nature mounts, her coil in their embraces twined.The mirror-scaled serpent is multiplicity,But all that run in couples, on earth, in flood or air, share God that is but three,And could beget or bear themselves could they but love as He.III. Ribh in EcstasyWhat matter that you understood no word!Doubtless I spoke or sang what I had heardIn broken sentences. My soul had foundAll happiness in its own cause or ground.Godhead on Godhead in sexual spasm begotGodhead. Some shadow fell. My soul forgotThose amorous cries that out of quiet comeAnd must the common round of day resume.IV. ThereThere all the barrel-hoops are knit,There all the serpent-tails are bit,There all the gyres converge in one,There all the planets drop in the Sun.V. Ribh considers Christian Love insufficientWhy should I seek for love or study it?It is of God and passes human wit.I study hatred with great diligence,For that's a passion in my own control,A sort of besom that can clear the soulOf everything that is not mind or sense.Why do I hate man, woman or event?That is a light my jealous soul has sent.From terror and deception freed it canDiscover impurities, can show at lastHow soul may walk when all such things are past,How soul could walk before such things began.Then my delivered soul herself shall learnA darker knowledge and in hatred turnFrom every thought of God mankind has had.Thought is a garment and the soul's a brideThat cannot in that trash and tinsel hide:Hatred of God may bring the soul to God.At stroke of midnight soul cannot endureA bodily or mental furniture.What can she take until her Master give!Where can she look until He make the show!What can she know until He bid her know!How can she live till in her blood He live!VI. He and SheAs the moon sidles upMust she sidle up,As trips the scared moonAway must she trip:'His light had struck me blindDared I stop"".She sings as the moon sings:'I am I, am I;The greater grows my lightThe further that I fly.'All creation shiversWith that sweet cry.VII. What Magic Drum?He holds him from desire, all but stops his breathing lestprimordial Motherhood forsake his limbs, the child no longer rest,Drinking joy as it were milk upon his breast.Through light-obliterating garden foliage what magic drum?Down limb and breast or down that glimmering belly move his mouth and sinewy tongue.What from the forest came? What beast has licked its young?VIII. Whence had they come?Eternity is passion, girl or boyCry at the onset of their sexual joy'For ever and for ever'; then awakeIgnorant what Dramatis personae spake;A passion-driven exultant man sings outSentences that he has never thought;The Flagellant lashes those submissive loinsIgnorant what that dramatist enjoins,What master made the lash. Whence had they come,The hand and lash that beat down frigid Rome?What sacred drama through her body heavedWhen world-transforming Charlemagne was conceived?IX. The Four Ages of ManHe with body waged a fight,But body won; it walks upright.Then he struggled with the heart;Innocence and peace depart.Then he struggled with the mind;His proud heart he left behind.Now his wars on God begin;At stroke of midnight God shall win.X. ConjunctionsIf Jupiter and Saturn meet,What a cop of mummy wheat!The sword's a cross; thereon He died:On breast of Mars the goddess sighed.XI. A Needle's EyeAll the stream that's roaring byCame out of a needle's eye;Things unborn, things that are gone,From needle's eye still goad it on.XII. MeruCivilisation is hooped together, broughtUnder a mle, under the semblance of peaceBy manifold illusion; but man's life is thought,And he, despite his terror, cannot ceaseRavening through century after century,Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may comeInto the desolation of reality:Egypt and Greece, good-bye, and good-bye, Rome!Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest,Caverned in night under the drifted snow,Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blastBeat down upon their naked bodies, knowThat day brings round the night, that before dawnHis glory and his monuments are gone."
66,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",66,"2018-02-27 21:07:16","Her Immortality","Thomas Hardy","UPON a noon I pilgrimed throughA pasture, mile by mile,Unto the place where I last sawMy dead Love's living smile.And sorrowing I lay me downUpon the heated sod:It seemed as if my body pressedThe very ground she trod.I lay, and thought; and in a tranceShe came and stood me by--The same, even to the marvellous rayThat used to light her eye.""You draw me, and I come to you,My faithful one,"" she said,In voice that had the moving toneIt bore in maidenhead.She said: ""'Tis seven years since I died:Few now remember me;My husband clasps another bride;My children mothers she.My brethren, sisters, and my friendsCare not to meet my sprite:Who prized me most I did not knowTill I passed down from sight.""I said: ""My days are lonely here;I need thy smile alway:I'll use this night my ball or blade,And join thee ere the day.""A tremor stirred her tender lips,Which parted to dissuade:""That cannot be, O friend,"" she cried;""Think, I am but a Shade!""A Shade but in its mindful onesHas immortality;By living, me you keep alive,By dying you slay me.""In you resides my single powerOf sweet continuance here;On your fidelity I countThrough many a coming year.""--I started through me at her plight,So suddenly confessed:Dismissing late distaste for life,I craved its bleak unrest.""I will not die, my One of all!--To lengthen out thy daysI'll guard me from minutest harmsThat may invest my ways!""She smiled and went. Since then she comesOft when her birth-moon climbs,Or at the seasons' ingressesOr anniversary times;But grows my grief. When I surcease,Through whom alone lives she,Ceases my Love, her words, her ways,Never again to be!"
67,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",67,"2018-02-27 21:07:16","Lausanne, In Gibbon's Old Garden: 11-12 p.m.","Thomas Hardy","(The 110th anniversary of the completion of the ""Decline and Fall"" at the same hour and place) A spirit seems to pass, Formal in pose, but grave and grand withal: He contemplates a volume stout and tall, And far lamps fleck him through the thin acacias. Anon the book is closed, With ""It is finished!"" And at the alley's end He turns, and soon on me his glances bend; And, as from earth, comes speech--small, muted, yet composed. ""How fares the Truth now?--Ill? --Do pens but slily further her advance? May one not speed her but in phrase askance? Do scribes aver the Comic to be Reverend still? ""Still rule those minds on earth At whom sage Milton's wormwood words were hurled: 'Truth like a bastard comes into the world Never without ill-fame to him who gives her birth'?"""
68,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",68,"2018-02-27 21:07:17","On A Wedding Anniversary","Dylan Thomas","The sky is torn acrossThis ragged anniversary of twoWho moved for three years in tuneDown the long walks of their vows.Now their love lies a lossAnd Love and his patients roar on a chain;From every tune or craterCarrying cloud, Death strikes their house.Too late in the wrong rainThey come together whom their love parted:The windows pour into their heartAnd the doors burn in their brain."
69,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",69,"2018-02-27 21:07:17","Mentana : First Anniversary","Algernon Charles Swinburne","At the time when the stars are grey,And the gold of the molten moonFades, and the twilight is thinned,And the sun leaps up, and the wind,A light rose, not of the day,A stronger light than of noon.As the light of a face much lovedWas the face of the light that clomb;As a mother's whitened with woesHer adorable head that arose;As the sound of a God that is moved,Her voice went forth upon Rome.At her lips it fluttered and failedTwice, and sobbed into song,And sank as a flame sinks under;Then spake, and the speech was thunder,And the cheek as he heard it paledOf the wrongdoer grown grey with the wrong.""Is it time, is it time appointed,Angel of time, is it near?For the spent night aches into dayWhen the kings shall slay not or pray,And the high-priest, accursed and anointed,Sickens to deathward with fear.""For the bones of my slain are stirred,And the seed of my earth in her wombMoves as the heart of a budBeating with odorous bloodTo the tune of the loud first birdBurns and yearns into bloom.""I lay my hand on her bosom,My hand on the heart of my earth,And I feel as with shiver and sobThe triumphant heart in her throb,The dead petals dilate into blossom,The divine blood beat into birth.""O my earth, are the springs in thee dry?O sweet, is thy body a tomb?Nay, springs out of springs derive,And summers from summers alive,And the living from them that die;No tomb is here, but a womb.""O manifold womb and divine,Give me fruit of my children, give!I have given thee my dew for thy root,Give thou me for my mouth of thy fruit;Thine are the dead that are mine,And mine are thy sons that live.""O goodly children, O strongItalian spirits, that wearMy glories as garments about you,Could time or the world misdoubt you,Behold, in disproof of the wrong,The field of the grave-pits there.""And ye that fell upon sleep,We have you too with us yet.Fairer than life or than youthIs this, to die for the truth:No death can sink you so deepAs their graves whom their brethren forget.""Were not your pains as my pains?As my name are your names not divine?Was not the light in your eyesMine, the light of my skies,And the sweet shed blood of your veins,O my beautiful martyrs, mine?""Of mine earth were your dear limbs made,Of mine air was your sweet life's breath;At the breasts of my love ye were fed,O my children, my chosen, my dead,At my breasts where again ye are laid,At the old mother's bosom, in death.""But ye that live, O their brothers,Be ye to me as they were;Give me, my children that live,What these dead grudged not to give,Who alive were sons of your mother's,Whose lips drew breath of your air.""Till darkness by dawn be cloven,Let youth's self mourn and abstain;And love's self find not an hour,And spring's self wear not a flower,And Lycoris, with hair unenwoven,Hail back to the banquet in vain.""So sooner and surer the gloryThat is not with us shall be,And stronger the hands that smiteThe heads of the sons of night,And the sound throughout earth of our storyGive all men heart to be free."""
70,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",70,"2018-02-27 21:07:22","Jubilate Agno: Fragment D","Christopher Smart","Let Dew, house of Dew rejoice with Xanthenes a precious stone of an amber colour. Let Round, house of Round rejoice with Myrmecites a gern having an Emmet in it. Let New, house of New rejoice with Nasamonites a gem of a sanguine colour with black veins. Let Hook, house of Hook rejoice with Sarda a Cornelian -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus by hook. Let Crook, house of Crook rejoice with Ophites black spotted marble -- Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus by crook. The Lord enable me to shift. Let Lime, house of Lime rejoice with Sandareses a kind of gem in Pliny's list. Let Linnet, house of Linnet rejoice with Tanos, which is a mean sort of Emerald. Let Hind, house of Hind rejoice with Paederos Opal -- God be gracious to Mrs Hind, that lived at Canbury. Let Tyrrel, house of Tyrrel rejoice with Sardius Lapis an Onyx of a black colour. God speed Hawke's Fleet. Let Moss, house of Moss rejoice with the Pearl-Oyster behold how God has consider'd for him that lacketh. Let Ross, house of Ross rejoice with the Great Flabber Dabber Flat Clapping Fish with hands. Vide Anson's Voyage and Psalm 98th ix. Let Fisher, house of Fisher rejoice with Sandastros kind of burning stone with gold drops in the body of it. God be gracious to Fisher of Cambridge and to all of his name and kindred. Let Fuller, house of Fuller rejoice with Perileucos a precious stone with a white thread descending from its face to the bottom. Let Thorpe, house of Thorpe rejoice with Xystios an ordinary stone of the Jasper-kind. Let Alban, house of Alban rejoice with Scorpites a precious stone in some degree of the creatures. Let Wand, house of Wand rejoice with Synochitis a gem supposed by Pliny to have certain magical effects. Let Freeman, house of Freeman rejoice with Carcinias a precious stone the colour of a sea-crab. The Lord raise the landed interest. Let Quince, house of Quince rejoice with Onychipuncta a gem of the jasper kind. Let Manly, house of Manly rejoice with the Booby a tropical bird. Let Fage, house of Fage rejoice with the Fiddlefish -- Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus in the fish's mouth. Let Benning, house of Benning rejoice with the Sea-Egg. Lord have mercy on the soul of Benning's wife. Let Singleton, house of Singleton rejoice with the Hog-Plumb. Lord have mercy on the soul of Lord Vane. Let Thickness, house of Thickness rejoice with The Papah a fruit found at Chequetan. Let Heartly, house of Heartly rejoice with the Drummer-Fish. God be gracious to Heartly of Christ, to Marsh, Hingeston and Bill. Let Sizer, house of Sizer rejoice with Trichros a precious stone black at bottom, white atop and blood-red in the middle. Let Chetwind, house of Chetwind rejoice with Hammocrysos, a gem with gold sands on it. Let Branch, house of Branch rejoice with Hæmatites -- Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus THE BRANCH. Let Dongworth, house of Dongworth rejoice with Rhymay the Bread-fruit. God be gracious to the immortal soul of Richard Dongworth. Let Randall, house of Randall rejoice with Guavoes. God give Randall success. Let Osborne, house of Osborne rejoice with Lithizontes a sort of carbuncle. God be gracious to the Duke of Leeds and his family. Let Oldcastle, house of Oldcastle rejoice with Leucopthalmos. God put it in heart of king to repair and beautify Dover Castle. Let Beeson, house of Beeson rejoice with Pyropus, carbuncle opal. God be gracious to Masters of Yoke's Place. Let Salmon, house of Salmon rejoice with Sapinos a kind of Amethyst. Let Crutenden, house of Crutenden rejoice with Veneris Gemma a kind of amethyst. Let Bridges, house of Bridges rejoice with Jasponyx, which is the Jasper-Onyx. Let Lane, house of Lane rejoice with Myrmecias a precious stone with little knots in it. Let Cope, house of Cope rejoice with Centipedes. God give me strength to cope with all my adversaries. Let Sutton, house of Sutton rejoice with Cholos a gem of the Emerald kind. Let Pelham, house of Pelham rejoice with Callimus in Taphiusio one stone in the body of another. God bless the Duke of Newcastle. Let Holies, house of Holies rejoice with Pyriasis a black stone that burns by friction. The Lord kindle amongst Englishmen a sense of their name. Let Lister, house of Lister rejoice with Craterites a very hard stone. The Lord hear my prayer even as I attend unto his commandments. Let Ash, house of Ash rejoice with Callaica a green gem. God be gracious to Miss Leroche my fellow traveler from Calais. Let Baily, house of Baily rejoice with Catopyrites of Cappadocia. God be gracious to the immortal soul of Lewes Baily author of the Practice of Piety. Let Glover, house of Glover rejoice with Capnites a kind of Jasper -- blessed be the memory of Glover the martyr. Let Egerton, house of Egerton rejoice with Sphragis green but not pellucid. Let Reading, house of Reading rejoice with Synodontites found in the fish Synodontes. 27th July N.S. 1762 Lord Jesus have mercy on my soul. Let Bolton, house of Bolton rejoice with Polygrammos, a kind of Jasper with white streaks. Let Paulet, house of Paulet rejoice with Chalcites, a precious stone of the colour of Brass. Let Stapleton, house of Stapleton rejoice with Scythis a precious stone -- the Lord rebuild the old houses of England. Let Newdigate, house of Newdigate rejoice with Sandaserion a stone in India like Green Oil. Let Knightly, house of Knightly rejoice with Zoronysios a gem supposed by the ancients to have magical effects. Star -- word -- herb -- gem. Let Fellows, house of Fellows rejoice with Syrites a gem found in a Wolf's bladder. Let Ascham, house of Ascham rejoice with Thyitis a precious stone remarkably hard. God be gracious to Bennet. Let Mowbray, house of Mowbray rejoice with The Black and Blue Creeper a beautiful small bird of Brazil. Let Aldrich, house of Aldrich rejoice with the Trincalo or Tricolor, a leaf without a flower or the flower of a leaf. Let Culmer, house of Culmer rejoice with Phloginos a gem of a fire-colour. Let Catesby, house of Catesby rejoice with Cerites a precious stone like wax. Let Atterbury, house of Atterbury rejoice with Eurotias a black stone with the appearance of mould on it. Let Hoare, house of Hoare rejoice with Crysopis a precious stone of a gold-colour. God be gracious to John Rust. Let Fane, house of Fane rejoice with Chalcedonius Lapis a sort of onyx called a Chalcedony. Let Lorman, house of Lorman rejoice with Cheramites, a sort of precious stone. Let Flexney, house of Flexney rejoice with Triopthalmos -- God be gracious to Churchill, Loyd and especially to Sheels. Let Gavel, house of Gavel rejoice with Phlogites a precious stone of a various flame-colour. Let Hederick, house of Hederick rejoice with Pyritis a precious stone which held in the hand will burn it; this is fixed fire. Let Pleasant, house of Pleasant rejoice with The Carrier Fish -- God be gracious to Dame Fysh. Let Tayler, house of Tayler rejoice with the Flying Mole -- God keep him from the poor man's garden. God be gracious to William Tayler Sen and Junr. Let Grieve, house of Grieve rejoice with Orites a precious stone perfectly round. Blessed be the name of the Man of Melancholy, for Jacob Grieve. Let Bowes, house of Bowes rejoice with the Dog Fly. Lord have mercy upon me and support me in all my plagues and temptations. Let Alberton, house of Alberton rejoice with Paneros a precious stone good against barrenness. Let Morgan, house of Morgan rejoice with Prasius Lapis of a Leek-green colour. Let Powell, house of Powell rejoice with Synochitis a precious stone abused by the ancient sorcerers. Let Howell, house of Howell rejoice with Ostracias a gem like an oyster. Let Close, house of Close rejoice with Chalcophonos a gem sounding like brass. O all ye gems of the mine bless ye the Lord, praise him and magnify him for ever. Let Johnson, house of Johnson rejoice with Omphalocarpa a kind of bur. God be gracious to Samuel Johnson. Let Hopgood, house of Hopgood rejoice with Nepenthes an herb which infused in wine drives away sadness -- very likely. Let Hopwood, house of Hopwood rejoice with Aspalathus the Rose of Jerusalem. Let Benson, house of Benson rejoice with Sea-Ragwort or Powder'd Bean. Lord have mercy on the soul of Dr Benson Bsp. of Gloucester. Let Marvel, house of Marvel rejoice with Brya a little shrub like birch. Let Hull, house of Hull rejoice with Subis a bird called the Spight which breaks the Eagle's eggs. Let Mason, house of Mason rejoice with Suberies the Capitol Cork Tree. Lord be merciful to William Mason. Let Fountain, house of Fountain rejoice with Syriacus Rephanus a sweet kind of Radish. Let Scroop, house of Scroop rejoice with Fig-Wine -- Palmi primarium vinum. Not so -- Palmi-primum is the word. Let Hollingstead, house of Hollingstead rejoice with Sissitietaeris herb of good fellowship. Praise the name of the Lord September 1762. Let Moyle, house of Moyle rejoice with Phlox a flame-colour'd flower without smell, tentanda via est. Via, veritas, vita sunt Christus. Let Mount, house of Mount rejoice with Anthera a flowering herb. The Lord lift me up. Let Dowers, house of Dowers rejoice with The American Nonpareil a beautiful small-bird. Let Cudworth, house of Cudworth rejoice with the Indian Jaca Tree, which bears large clusters of fruit like apples. Let Cuthbert, house of Cuthbert rejoice with Phyllandrian a good herb growing in marshes -- Lord have mercy on the soul of Cornelius Harrison. Let Chillingworth, house of Chillingworth rejoice with Polygonoides an herb with leaves like laurel long and thick good against serpents. Let Conworth, house of Conworth rejoice with Nenuphar a kind of Water Lily. Let Ransom, house of Ransom rejoice with Isidos Plocamos a sea shrub of the Coral kind, or rather like Coral. Let Ponder, house of Ponder rejoice with Polion an herb, whose leaves are white in the morning, purple at noon, and blue in the evening. Let Woodward, house of Woodward rejoice with Nerium the Rose-Laurel -- God make the professorship of fossils in Cambridge a useful thing. Let Spincks, house of Spinks rejoice with Struthiomela a little sort of Quinces -- The Lord Jesus pray for me. Let Peacock, house of Peacock rejoice with Engalacton an herb good to breed milk. Let Nason, house of Nason rejoice with Errhinum a medicine to clear the nose. Let Bold, house of Bold rejoice with the Hop-Hornbeam. God send me a neighbour this September. Let Spriggings, house of Spriggings rejoice with Eon the Tree of which Argo was built. Let Bear, house of Bear rejoice with Gelotophyllis an herb which drank in wine and myrrh causes excess of laughter. Let Sloper, house of Sloper rejoice with Gelotophye another laughing plant. Let Tollfree, house of Tollfree rejoice with Fern of Trees -- Lord stave off evil this day. Let Clare, house of Clare rejoice with Galeotes a kind of Lizard at enmity with serpents. Lord receive the soul of Dr Wilcox Master of Clare Hall. Let Wilmot, house of Wilmot rejoice with Epipetros an herb coming up spontaneous (of the seed of the earth) but never flowers. Let Anstey, house of Anstey rejoice with Eumeces a kind of balm. Lord have mercy on Christopher Anstey and his kinswoman. Let Ruston, house of Ruston rejoice with Fulviana Herba, ab inventore good to provoke urine. Lord have mercy upon Roger Pratt and his family. Let Atwood, house of Atwood rejoice with Rhodora with leaves like a nettle and flower like a rose. God bless all benefactors of Pembroke Hall. Let Shield, house of Shield rejoice with Reseda herb dissolving swelling, and imposthumes. Let Atkins, house of Atkins rejoice with Salicastrum Wild Wine upon willows and osiers. Let Pearson, house of Pearson rejoice with the American Aloe. I pray for the soul of Frances Burton. Let Hough, house of Hough rejoice with Pegasus The Flying Horse there be millions of them in the air. God bless the memories of Bsp. Hough and of Peter. Let Evelyn, house of Evelyn rejoice with Phu a Plinian shrub sweet-scented. I pray God for trees enough in the posterities. Let Wing, house of Wing rejoice with Phlomos a sort of Rush. I give the glory to God, thro Christ, for taking the Havannah. Septr 30th 1762. Let Chace, house of Chace rejoice with Papyrus. God be gracious to Sr Richard and family. Let Pulteney, house of Pulteney rejoice with Tragion a shrub like Juniper. Let Abdy, house of Abdy rejoice with Ecbolia a medicine to fetch a dead child out of the womb. God give me to bless for Gulstone and Halford. Let Hoadley, house of Hoadley rejoice with Dryos Hyphear which is the Oak-Missletoe. Let Free, house of Free rejoice with Thya a kind of Wild Cypress. Let Pink, house of Pink rejoice with Trigonum herb used in garlands -- the Lord succeed my pink borders. Let Somner, house of Somner rejoice with the Blue Daisie -- God be gracious to my neighbour and his family this day, 7th Octr 1762. Let Race, house of Race rejoice with Osiritis Dogshead. God be praised for the eighth of October 1762. Let Trowell, house of Trowell rejoice with Teuchites kind of sweet rush. Let Tilson, house of Tilson rejoice with Teramnos a kind of weed. Lord have mercy on the soul of Tilson, Fellow of Pembroke Hall. Let Loom, house of Loom rejoice with Colocasia, an Egyptian Bean of whose leaves they made cups and pots. Let Knock, house of Knock rejoice with Condurdon which bears red flowers in July and worn about the neck is good for scrophulous cases. Let Case, house of Case rejoice with Coctanum a Syrian Fig. The Lord cure my cough. Let Tomlyn, house of Tomlyn rejoice with Tetralyx a kind of herb. Let Bason, house of Bason rejoice with Thelypteris which is Sea-Fern. Let Joslyn, house of Joslyn rejoice with Cotonea a Venetian herb. Let Mace, house of Mace rejoice with Adipsos a kind of Green Palm with the smell of a quince. Let Potts, house of Potts rejoice with Ulex an herb like rosemary with a quality of attracting gold. Let Bedingfield, house of Bedingfield rejoice with Zygia, which is a kind of maple. Let Tough, house of Tough rejoice with Accipitrina. N.B. The hawk beat the raven St Luke's day 1762. Let Balsam, house of Balsam rejoice with Chenomycon an herb the sight of which terrifies a goose. Lord have mercy on William Hunter his family. Let Graves, house of Graves rejoice with Cinnaris the Stag's antidote -- the persecuted Christian is as the hunted stag. Let Tombs, house of Tombs rejoice with Acesis Water Sage -- God be gracious to Christopher Charles Tombs. Let Addy, house of Addy rejoice with Crysippea a kind of herb so called from the discoverer. Let Jump, house of Jump rejoice with Zoster a Sea-Shrub. Blessed be the name of Christ for the Anniversary of the Battle of Agincourt 1762. Let Bracegirdle, house of Bracegirdle rejoice with Xiris a kind of herb with sharp leaves. Let Girdlestone, house of Girdlestone rejoice with Crysocarpum a kind of Ivy. Let Homer, house of Homer rejoice with Cinnabar which makes a red colour. Let Lenox, house of Lenox rejoice with Achnas the Wild Pear Tree. God be gracious to the Duke of Richmond. Let Altham, house of Altham rejoice with the Everlasting Apple-Tree. Let Travell, house of Travell rejoice with Ciborium The Egyptian Bean. Let Tyers, house of Tyers rejoice with Ægilops a kind of bulbous root. God give good will to Jonathan Tyers and his family this day. All Saints. N.S. 1762. Let Clever, house of Clever rejoice with Calathiana a sort of Autumnal flower. Let Bones, house of Bones rejoice with The Red-Crested Black and Blue Bird of Surinam. Let Pownall, house of Pownall rejoice with the Murrion a creature of the Beaver kind. Let Fig, house of Fig rejoice with Fleawort. The Lord magnify the idea of Smart singing hymns on this day in the eyes of the whole University of Cambridge. Novr 5th 1762. N.S. Let Codrington, house of Codrington rejoice with Thelyphonon an herb whose root kills scorpions. Let Butler, house of Butler rejoice with Theombrotios a Persian herb. God be gracious to the immortal Soul of the Duke of Ormond. Let Bodley, house of Bodley rejoice with Tetragnathius a creature of the Spider kind. Let Acton, house of Acton rejoice with Theangelis an herb used by the Ancients for magical purposes. Let Peckwater, house of Peckwater rejoice with Tettigonia a small kind of Grashopper. Let Sheldon, house of Sheldon rejoice with Teucrion an herb like Germander. Let Breckock, house of Brecknock rejoice with Thalassegle an herb. God be merciful to Timothy Brecknock. Let Plank, house of Plank rejoice with the Sea Purslain -- God be gracious to Thomas Rosoman and family. Let Goosetree, house of Goosetree rejoice with Hippophaes a kind of teazle used in the dressing of cloth. God exalt the Soul of Captain Goosetree. Let Baimbridge, house of Baimbridge rejoice with Hippophæstum of the same kind. Horses shou'd be dock'd in winter. -- Bambridge praise the name of the Lord. Let Metcalf, house of Metcalf rejoice with Holcus Wall-Barley -- God give grace to my adversaries to ask council of Abel. Let Graner, house of Graner rejoice with Hircules Bastard Nard. The Lord English Granier and his family. Let Cape, house of Cape rejoice with Orgament an herb. Let Oram, house of Oram rejoice with Halus an herb like unto Orgament. Let Sykes, house of Skyes rejoice with Hadrobolum a kind of sweet gum. Let Plumer, house of Plumer rejoice with Hastula Regia an herb resembling a spear. Let Digby, house of Digby rejoice with Glycryhiza Sweetroot. God be gracious to Sr Digby Legard his Son and family. Let Otway, house of Otway rejoice with Hippice an herb which being held in an horse's mouth keeps him from hunger. Let Cecil, house of Cecil rejoice with Gnaphalium an herb bleached by nature white and soft for the purpose of flax. God bless Lord Salisbury. Let Rogers, house of Rogers rejoice with Hypelates a kind of Laurel -- God be gracious to Rogers and Spilsbury with their families. Let Cambden, house of Cambden rejoice with Glischromargos a kind of white marl. Let Conduit, house of Conduit rejoice with Greecula a kind of Rose. God be gracious to the immortal soul of Sr Isaac Newton. Let Hands, house of Hands rejoice with Hadrosphserum kind of Spikenard with broad leaves. Let Snipe, house of Snipe rejoice with Hæmotimon a kind of red glass. Blessed be the name of Jesus for the 29th of Novr. Let Aylesworth, house of Aylesworth rejoice with Glinon which is a kind of Maple. Let Aisley, house of Aisley rejoice with Halicastrum which is a kind of bread corn. Let Ready, house of Ready rejoice with Junco The Reed Sparrow. Blessed be the name of Christ Jesus Voice and Instrument. Let Bland, house of Bland rejoice with Lacta a kind of Cassia. God be gracious to Bland of Durham and the Widow George. Let Abington, house of Abington rejoice with Lea a kind of Colewort praise him upon the sound of the trumpet. Let Adcock, house of Adcock rejoice with Lada a shrub, which has gummy leaves. Let Snow, house of Snow rejoice with Hysginum a plant dying Scarlet. Let Wardell, house of Wardell rejoice with Leiostreum a smooth oyster. God give grace to the black trumpeter and have mercy on the soul of Scipio. Let Herring, house of Herring rejoice with Iberica a kind of herb. Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for Miss Herring. Let Dolben, house of Dolben rejoice with Irio Winter Cresses, Rock Gentle or Rock Gallant. Let Oakley, house of Oakley rejoice with the Skink a little amphibious creature found upon Nile. Let Owen, house of Owen rejoice with the Shag-green a beast from which the skin so called is taken. Let Twist, house of Twist rejoice with Neottophora a little creature that carries its young upon its back. Let Constant, house of Constant rejoice with the Musk-Goat -- I bless God for two visions of Anne Hope's being in charity with me. Let Amos, house of Amos rejoice with The Avosetta a bird found at Rome. Let Humphreys, house of Humphreys rejoice with The Beardmanica a curious bird. Let Busby, house of Busby rejoice with The Ganser a bird. God prosper Westminster-School. Let Alured, house of Alured rejoice with the Book-Spider -- I refer the people of both Universitys to the Bible for their morality. Let Lidgate, house of Lidgate rejoice with The Flammant a curious large bird on the coast of Cuba. God make us amends for the restoration of the Havannah. Let Cunningham, house of Cunningham rejoice with The Bohemian Jay. I pray for Peace between the K. of Prussia and Empress Queen. Let Thornhill, house of Thornhill rejoice with The Albicore a Sea Bird. God be gracious to Hogarth his wife. Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus at Adgecomb. Let Dawn, house of Dawn rejoice with The Frigate Bird which is found upon the coasts of India. Let Horton, house of Horton rejoice with Birdlime -- Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus against the destruction of Small Birds. Let Arne, house of Arne rejoice with The Jay of Bengal. God be gracious to Arne his wife to Michael and Charles Burney. Let Westbrooke, house of Westbrooke rejoice with the Quail of Bengal. God be gracious to the people of Maidstone. Let Allcock, house of Allcock rejoice with The King of the Wavows a strange fowl. I pray for the whose University of Cambridge especially Jesus College this blessed day. Let Audley, house of Audley rejoice with The Green Crown Bird. The Lord help on with the hymns. Let Bloom, house of Bloom rejoice with Hecatompus a fish with an hundred feet. Let Beacon, house of Beacon rejoice with Amadavad a fine bird in the East Indies. Let Blomer, house of Blomer rejoice with Halimus a Shrub to hedge with. Lord have mercy upon poor labourers this bitter frost Deer 29 N.S. 1762. Let Merrick, house of Merrick rejoice with Lageus a kind of Grape. God all-sufficient bless and forward the Psalmist in the Lord Jesus. Let Appleby, house of Appleby rejoice with Laburnum a shrub whose blossom is disliked by bees. Let Waite, house of Waite rejoice with the Shittah-Tree -- blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus for the musicians and dancers this holiday-time. Let Stedman, house of Stedman rejoice with Jacobasa St James's Wort. God be merciful to the house of Stuart. Let Poet, house of Poet rejoice with Hedrychum a kind of ointment of a sweet smelling savour. God speed the New Year thro' Christ 1763. Let Jesse, house of Jesse rejoice with the Lawrey a kind of bird. God forward my version of the psalms thro' Jesus Christ our Lord. Let Clemison, house of Clemison rejoice with Helix a kind of Ivy. God be praised for the vision of the Redcap and packet. Let Crockatt, house of Crockatt rejoice with Emboline an Asiatic Shrub with small leaves an antidote. I pray for the soul of Crockatt the bookseller the first to put me upon a version of the Psalms. Let Oakley, house of Oakley rejoice with Haliphasus a tree with such bitter fruit that nothing but swine will touch it. Let Preacher, house of Preacher rejoice with Helvella a small sort of cabbage. God be merciful to the immortal soul of Stephen Preacher. Let Heron, house of Heron rejoice with the Tunal-Tree on which the Cochineal feeds. Let Kitcat, house of Kitcat rejoice with Copec the Pitch-Stone. Janry 8th 1763 Hallelujah. Let Gisbourne, house of Gisbourne rejoice with Isocinnamon an herb of a sweet smelling savour. Let Poor, house of Poor rejoice with Jasione a kind of Withwind -- Lord have mercy on the poor this hard weather. Jan: 10th 1763. Let Eccles, house of Eccles rejoice with Heptapleuros a kind of Plantain. I pray for a musician or musicians to set the new psalms. Let Moseley, house of Moseley rejoice with Spruce -- I bless God for Old Foundation Day at Pemb. Hall. Let Pass, house of Pass rejoice with Salt -- The Lord pass the last year's accounts in my conscience thro' the merits of Jesus Christ. New Year by Old Stile 1763. Let Forward, house of Forward rejoice with Immussulus a kind of bird -- the Lord forward my translation of the psalms this year. Let Quarme, house of Quarme rejoice with Thyosiris yellow Succory -- I pray God bless all my Subscribers. Let Larkin, house of Larkin rejoice with Long-wort or Torch-herb -- God give me good riddance of my present grievances. Let Halford, house of Halford rejoice with Siren a musical bird. God considered thou me for the baseness of those I have served very highly. Let Ayerst, house of Ayerst rejoice with the Wild Beet -- God be gracious to Smith, Cousins, Austin, Cam and Kingsley and Kinleside. Let Decker, house of Decker rejoice with Sirpe a Cyrenian plant yielding an odoriferous juice. Let Cust, house of Cust rejoice with Margaris a date like unto a pearl. Let Usher, house of Usher rejoice with Condurdon an herb with a red flower worn about the neck for the scurvy. Let Slingsby, house of Slingsby rejoice with Midas a little worm breeding in beans. Let Farmer, house of Farmer rejoice with Merois an herb growing at Meroe leaf like lettuce and good for dropsy. Let Affleck, house of Affleck rejoice with The Box-thorn. Blessed be the name of the Lord Jesus Emanuel. Let Arnold, house of Arnold rejoice with Leucographis a simple good against spitting of blood. Let Morris, house of Morris rejoice with Lepidium a Simple of the Cress kind. Let Crane, house of Crane rejoice with Libanotis an herb that smells like Frankinsense. Let Arden, house of Arden rejoice with Mew an herb with the stalk and leaves like Anise. Let Joram, house of Joram rejoice with Meliphylla Balm Gentle God be gracious to John Sherrat. Let Odwell, house of Odwell rejoice with Lappago Maiden Lips. Blessed be the name of Jesus in singularities and singular mercies. Let Odney, house of Odney rejoice with Canaria a simple called Hound's-grass."
71,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",71,"2018-02-27 21:07:23",Birthdays,"Robert William Service","Let us have birthdays every day,(I had the thought while I was shaving)Because a birthday should be gay,And full of grace and good behaving.We can't have cakes and candles bright,And presents are beyond our giving,But let lt us cherish with delightThe birthday way of lovely living.For I have passed three-score and tenAnd I can count upon my fingersThe years I hope to bide with men,(Though by God's grace one often lingers.)So in the summers left to me,Because I'm blest beyond my merit,I hope with gratitude and gleeTo sparkle with the birthday spirit.Let me inform myself each dayWho's proudmost on the natal roster;If Washington or Henry Clay,Or Eugene Field or Stephen Foster.oh lots of famous folks I'll findWho more than measure to my rating,And so thanksgivingly inclinedTheir birthdays I'll be celebrating.For Oh I know the cheery glow|Of Anniversary rejoicing;Let me reflect its radiance soMy daily gladness I'll be voicing.And though I'm stooped and silver-haired,Let me with laughter make the hearth gay,So by the gods I may be sparedEach year to hear: ""Pop, Happy Birthday."""
72,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",72,"2018-02-27 21:07:25","The Anniversary","Robert William Service","""This bunch of violets,"" he said, ""Is for my daughter dear.Since that glad morn when she was wed It is today a year.She lives atop this flight of stairs-- Please give an arm to me:If we can take her unawares How glad she'll be!"" We climbed the stairs; the flight was four, Our steps were stiff and slow;But as he reached his daughter's door His eyes were all aglow.Joylike he raised his hand to knock, Then sore distressed was I,For from the silence like a shock I heard a cry.A drunken curse, a sob of woe . . . His withered face grew grey.""I think,"" said he, ""we'd better go And come another day.""And as he went a block with me, Walking with weary feet,His violets, I sighed to see, Bestrewed the street."
73,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",73,"2018-02-27 21:07:26","First Anniversary","Andrew Marvell","Like the vain curlings of the watery maze, Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise, So Man, declining always, disappears In the weak circles of increasing years; And his short tumults of themselves compose, While flowing Time above his head does close. Cromwell alone with greater vigour runs, (Sun-like) the stages of succeeding suns: And still the day which he doth next restore, Is the just wonder of the day before. Cromwell alone doth with new lustre spring, And shines the jewel of the yearly ring. 'Tis he the force of scattered time contracts, And in one year the work of ages acts: While heavy monarchs make a wide return, Longer, and more malignant than Saturn: And though they all Platonic years should reign, In the same posture would be found again. Their earthy projects under ground they lay, More slow and brittle than the China clay: Well may they strive to leave them to their son, For one thing never was by one king done. Yet some more active for a frontier town, Taken by proxy, beg a false renown; Another triumphs at the public cost, And will have won, if he no more have lost; They fight by others, but in person wrong, And only are against their subjects strong; Their other wars seem but a feigned contиst, This common enemy is still oppressed; If conquerors, on them they turn their might; If conquered, on them they wreak their spite: They neither build the temple in their days, Nor matter for succeeding founders raise; Nor sacred prophecies consult within, Much less themself to pиfect them begin; No other care they bear of things above, But with astrologers divine of Jove To know how long their planet yet reprieves From the deservйd fate their guilty lives: Thus (image-like) an useless time they tell, And with vain sceptre strike the hourly bell, Nor more contribute to the state of things, Than wooden heads unto the viol's strings. While indefatigable Cromwell hies, And cuts his way still nearer to the skies, Learning a music in the region clear, To tune this lower to that higher sphere. So when Amphion did the lute command, Which the god gave him, with his gentle hand, The rougher stones, unto his measures hewed, Danced up in order from the quarries rude; This took a lower, that an higher place, As he the treble altered, or the bass: No note he struck, but a new stone was laid, And the great work ascended while he played. The listening structures he with wonder eyed, And still new stops to various time applied: Now through the strings a martial rage he throws, And joining straight the Theban tower arose; Then as he strokes them with a touch more sweet, The flocking marbles in a palace meet; But for the most the graver notes did try, Therefore the temples reared their columns high: Thus, ere he ceased, his sacred lute creates Th' harmonious city of the seven gates. Such was that wondrous order and consent, When Cromwell tuned the ruling Instrument, While tedious statesmen many years did hack, Framing a liberty that still went back, Whose numerous gorge could swallow in an hour That island, which the sea cannot devour: Then our Amphion issued out and sings, And once he struck, and twice, the powerful strings. The Commonwealth then first together came, And each one entered in the willing frame; All other matter yields, and may be ruled; But who the minds of stubborn men can build? No quarry bears a stone so hardly wrought, Nor with such labour from its centre brought; None to be sunk in the foundation bends, Each in the house the highest place contends, And each the hand that lays him will direct, And some fall back upon the architect; Yet all composed by his attractive song, Into the animated city throng. The Commonwealth does through their centres all Draw the circumference of the public wall; The crossest spirits here do take their part, Fastening the contignation which they thwart; And they, whose nature leads them to divide, Uphold this one, and that the other side; But the most equal still sustain the height, And they as pillars keep the work upright, While the resistance of opposиd minds, The fabric (as with arches) stronger binds, Which on the basis of a senate free, Knit by the roof's protecting weight, agree. When for his foot he thus a place had found, He hurls e'er since the world about him round, And in his several aspects, like a star, Here shines in peace, and thither shoots in war, While by his beams observing princes steer, And wisely court the influence they fear. O would they rather by his pattern won Kiss the approaching, not yet angry Son; And in their numbered footsteps humbly tread The path where holy oracles do lead; How might they under such a captain raise The great designs kept for the latter days! But mad with reason (so miscalled) of state They know them not, and what they know not, hate. Hence still they sing hosanna to the whore, And her, whom they should massacre, adore: But Indians, whom they would convert, subdue; Nor teach, but traffic with, or burn the Jew. Unhappy princes, ignorantly bred, By malice some, by error more misled, If gracious heaven to my life give length, Leisure to time, and to my weaknes strength, Then shall I once with graver accents shake Your regal sloth, and your long slumbers wake: Like the shrill huntsman that prevents the east, Winding his horn to kings that chase the beast. Till then my muse shall hollo far behind Angelic Cromwell who outwings the wind, And in dark nights, and in cold days alone Pursues the monster through every throne: Which shrinking to her Roman den impure, Gnashes her gory teeth; nor there secure. Hence oft I think if in some happy hour High grace should meet in one with highest power, And then a seasonable people still Should bend to his, as he to heaven's will, What we might hope, what wonderful effect From such a wished conjuncture might reflect. Sure, the mysterious work, where none withstand, Would forthwith finish under such a hand: Foreshortened time its useless course would stay, And soon precipitate the latest day. But a thick cloud about that morning lies, And intercepts the beams of mortal eyes, That 'tis the most which we determine can, If these the times, then this must be the man. And well he therefore does, and well has guessed, Who in his age has always forward pressed: And knowing not where heaven's choice may light, Girds yet his sword, and ready stand to fight; But men, alas, as if they nothing cared, Look on, all unconcerned, or unprepared; And stars still fall, and still the dragon's tail Swinges the volumes of its horrid flail. For the great justice that did first suspend The world by sin, does by the same extend. Hence that blest day still counterposиd wastes, The ill delaying what the elected hastes; Hence landing nature to new seas is tossed, And good designs still with their authors lost. And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birth A mould was chosen out of better earth; Whose saint-like mother we did lately see Live out an age, long as a pedigree; That she might seem (could we the Fall dispute), T' have smelled the blossom, and not eat the fruit; Though none does of more lasting parents grow, Yet never any did them honour so, Though thou thine heart from evil still unstained, And always hast thy tongue from fraud refrained; Thou, who so oft through storms of thundering lead Hast born securely thine undaunted head, Thy breast through poniarding conspiracies, Drawn from the sheath of lying prophecies; Thee proof behond all other force or skill, Our sins endanger, and shall one day kill. How near they failed, and in thy sudden fall At once assayed to overturn us all. Our brutish fury struggling to be free, Hurried thy horses while they hurried thee, When thou hadst almost quit thy mortal cares, And soiled in dust thy crown of silver hairs. Let this one sorrow interweave among The other glories of our yearly song. Like skilful looms, which through the costly thread Of purling ore, a shining wave do shed: So shall the tears we on past grief employ, Still as they trickle, glitter in our joy. So with more modesty we may be true, And speak, as of the dead, the praises due: While impious men deceived with pleasure short, On their own hopes shall find the fall retort. But the poor beasts, wanting their noble guide, (What could they more?) shrunk guiltily aside. First wingиd fear transports them far away, And leaden sorrow then their flight did stay. See how they each his towering crest abate, And the green grass, and their known mangers hate, Nor through wide nostrils snuff the wanton air, Nor their round hoofs, or curlиd manes compare; With wandering eyes, and restless ears they stood, And with shrill neighings asked him of the wood. Thou, Cromwell, falling, not a stupid tree, Or rock so savage, but it mourned for thee: And all about was heard a panic groan, As if that Nature's self were overthrown. It seemed the earth did from the centre tear; It seemed the sun was fall'n out of the sphere: Justice obstructed lay, and reason fooled; Courage disheartened, and religion cooled. A dismal silence through the palace went, And then loud shrieks the vaulted marbles rent, Such as the dying chorus sings by turns, And to deaf seas, and ruthless tempests mourns, When now they sink, and now the plundering streams Break up each deck, and rip the oaken seams. But thee triumphant hence the fiery car, And fiery steeds had borne out of the war, From the low world, and thankless men above, Unto the kingdom blest of peace and love: We only mourned ourselves, in thine ascent, Whom thou hadst left beneath with mantle rent. For all delight of life thou then didst lose, When to command, thou didst thyself dispose; Resigning up thy privacy so dear, To turn the headstrong people's charioteer; For to be Cromwell was a greater thing, Then ought below, or yet above a king: Therefore thou rather didst thyself depress, Yielding to rule, because it made thee less. For neither didst thou from the first apply Thy sober spirit unto things too high, But in thine own fields exercised'st long, An healthful mind within a body strong; Till at the seventh time thou in the skies, As a small cloud, like a man's hand, didst rise; Then did thick mists and winds the air deform, And down at last thou poured'st the fertile storm, Which to the thirsty land did plenty bring, But, though forewarned, o'ertook and wet the King. What since he did, an higher force him pushed Still from behind, and yet before him rushed, Though undiscerned among the tumult blind, Who think those high decrees by man designed. 'Twas heaven would not that his power should cease, But walk still middle betwixt war and peace: Choosing each stone, and poising every weight, Trying the measures of the breadth and height; Here pulling down, and there erecting new, Founding a firm state by proportions true. When Gideon so did from the war retreat, Yet by the conquest of two kings grown great, He on the peace extends a warlike power, And Israel silent saw him raze the tower; And how he Succorth's Elders durst suppress, With thorns and briars of the wilderness. No king might ever such a force have done; Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his son. Thou with the same strength, and an heart as plain, Didst (like thine olive) still refuse to reign, Though why should others all thy labour spoil, And brambles be anointed with thine oil, Whose climbing flame, without a timely stop, Had quickly levelled every cedar's top? Therefore first growing to thyself a law, Th' ambitious shrubs thou in just time didst awe. So have I seen at sea, when whirling winds, Hurry the bark, but more the seamen's minds, Who with mistaken course salute the sand, And threatening rocks misapprehend for land, While baleful Tritons to the shipwreck guide, And corposants along the tackling slide, The passengers all wearied out before, Giddy, and wishing for the fatal shore, Some lusty mate, who with more careful eye Counted the hours, and every star did spy, The help does from the artless steersman strain, And doubles back unto the safer main. What though a while they grumble discontent, Saving himself, he does their loss prevent. 'Tis not a freedom, that where all command; Nor tyranny, where one does them withstand: But who of both the bounder knows to lay Him as their father must the state obey. Thou, and thine house (like Noah's eight) did rest, Left by the wars' flood on the mountains' crest: And the large vale lay subject to thy will Which thou but as an husbandman wouldst till: And only didst for others plant the vine Of liberty, not drunken with its wine. That sober liberty which men may have, That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave: And such as to their parents' tents do press, May show their own, not see his nakedness. Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage, The shame and plague both of the land and age, Who watched thy halting, and thy fall deride, Rejoicing when thy foot had slipped aside, That their new king might the fifth sceptre shake, And make the world, by his example, quake: Whose frantic army should they want for men Might muster heresies, so one were ten. What thy misfortune, they the spirit call, And their religion only is to fall. Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again, Thy falling-sickness should have made thee reign, While Feake and Simpson would in many a tome, Have writ the comments of thy sacred foam: For soon thou mightst have passed among their rant Were't but for thine unmovиd tulipant; As thou must needs have owned them of thy band For prophecies fit to be Alcoraned. Accursиd locusts, whom your king does spit Out of the centre of the unbottomed pit; Wanderers, adulterers, liars, Munster's rest, Sorcerers, athiests, jesuits possessed; You who the scriptures and the laws deface With the same liberty as points and lace; Oh race most hypocritically strict! Bent to reduce us to the ancient Pict; Well may you act the Adam and the Eve; Ay, and the serpent too that did deceive. But the great captain, now the danger's o'er, Makes you for his sake tremble one fit more; And, to your spite, returning yet alive Does with himself all that is good revive. So when first man did through the morning new See the bright sun his shining race pursue, All day he followed with unwearied sight, Pleased with that other world of moving light; But thought him when he missed his setting beams, Sunk in the hills, or plunged below the streams. While dismal blacks hung round the universe, And stars (like tapers) burned upon his hearse: And owls and ravens with their screeching noise Did make the funerals sadder by their joys. His weeping eyes the doleful vigils keep, Not knowing yet the night was made for sleep; Still to the west, where he him lost, he turned, And with such accents as despairing mourned: `Why did mine eyes once see so bright a ray; Or why day last no longer than a day?' When straight the sun behind him he descried, Smiling serenely from the further side. So while our star that gives us light and heat, Seemed now a long and gloomy night to threat, Up from the other world his flame he darts, And princes (shining through their windows) starts, Who their suspected counsellors refuse, And credulous ambassadors accuse. `Is this', saith one, `the nation that we read Spent with both wars, under a captain dead, Yet rig a navy while we dress us late, And ere we dine, raze and rebuild their state? What oaken forests, and what golden mines! What mints of men, what union of designs! (Unless their ships, do, as their fowl proceed Of shedding leaves, that with their ocean breed). Theirs are not ships, but rather arks of war And beakиd promontories sailed from far; Of floating islands a new hatchиd nest; A fleet of worlds, of other worlds in quest; An hideous shoal of wood-leviathans, Armed with three tier of brazen hurricanes, That through the centre shoot their thundering side And sink the earth that does at anchor ride. What refuge to escape them can be found, Whose watery leaguers all the world surround? Needs must we all their tributaries be, Whose navies hold the sluices of the sea. The ocean is the fountain of command, But that once took, we captives are on land. And those that have the waters for their share, Can quickly leave us neither earth nor air. Yet if through these our fears could find a pass, Through double oak, and lined with treble brass, That one man still, although but named, alarms More than all men, all navies, and all arms. Him, in the day, him, in late night I dread, And still his sword seems hanging o'er my head. The nation had been ours, but his one soul Moves the great bulk, and animates the whole. He secrecy with number hath enchased, Courage with age, maturity with haste: The valiant's terror, riddle of the wise, And still his falchion all our knots unties. Where did he learn those arts that cost us dear? Where below earth, or where above the sphere? He seems a king by long succession born, And yet the same to be a king does scorn. Abroad a king he seems, and something more, At home a subject on the equal floor. O could I once him with our title see, So should I hope that he might die as we. But let them write is praise that love him best, It grieves me sore to have thus much confessed.' Pardon, great Prince, if thus their fear of spite More than our love and duty do thee right. I yield, nor further will the prize contend, So that we both alike may miss our end: While thou thy venerable head dost raise As far above their malice as my praise, And as the Angel of our commonweal, Troubling the waters, yearly mak'st them heal."
74,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",74,"2018-02-27 21:07:27","The First Anniversary Of The Government Under O.C.","Andrew Marvell","Like the vain Curlings of the Watry maze,Which in smooth streams a sinking Weight does raise;So Man, declining alwayes, disappears.In the Weak Circles of increasing Years;And his short Tumults of themselves Compose,While flowing Time above his Head does close.Cromwell alone with greater Vigour runs,(Sun-like) the Stages of succeeding Suns:And still the Day which he doth next restore,Is the just Wonder of the Day before.Cromwell alone doth with new Lustre spring,And shines the Jewel of the yearly Ring.'Tis he the force of scatter'd Time contracts,And in one Year the Work of Ages acts:While heavy Monarchs make a wide Return,Longer, and more Malignant then Saturn:And though they all Platonique years should raign,In the same Posture would be found again.Their earthly Projects under ground they lay,More slow and brittle then the China clay:Well may they strive to leave them to their Son,For one Thing never was by one King don.Yet some more active for a Frontier TownTook in by Proxie, beggs a false Renown;Another triumphs at the publick Cost,And will have Wonn, if he no more have Lost;They fight by Others, but in Person wrong,And only are against their Subjects strong;Their other Wars seem but a feign'd contest,This Common Enemy is still opprest;If Conquerors, on them they turn their might;If Conquered, on them they wreak their Spight:They neither build the Temple in their dayes,Nor Matter for succeeding Founders raise;Nor Sacred Prophecies consult within,Much less themselves to perfect them begin,No other care they bear of things above,But with Astrologers divine, and Jove,To know how long their Planet yet ReprivesFrom the deserved Fate their guilty lives:Thus (Image-like) and useless time they tell,And with vain Scepter strike the hourly Bell;Nor more contribute to the state of Things,Then wooden Heads unto the Viols strings,While indefatigable Cromwell hyes,And cuts his way still nearer to the Skyes,Learning a Musique in the Region clear,To tune this lower to that higher Sphere.So when Amphion did the Lute command,Which the God gave him, with his gentle hand,The rougher Stones, unto his Measures hew'd,Dans'd up in order from the Quarreys rude;This took a Lower, that an Higher place,As he the Treble alter'd, or the Base:No Note he struck, but a new Story lay'd,And the great Work ascended while he play'd.The listning Structures he with Wonder ey'd,And still new Stopps to various Time apply'd:Now through the Strings a Martial rage he throws,And joyng streight the Theban Tow'r arose;Then as he strokes them with a Touch more sweet,The flocking Marbles in a Palace meet;But, for he most the graver Notes did try,Therefore the Temples rear'd their Columns high:Thus, ere he ceas'd, his sacred Lute createsTh'harmonious City of the seven Gates.Such was that wondrous Order and Consent,When Cromwell tun'd the ruling Instrument;While tedious Statesmen many years did hack,Framing a Liberty that still went back;Whose num'rous Gorge could swallow in an hourThat Island, which the Sea cannot devour:Then our Amphion issues out and sings,And once he struck, and twice, the pow'rful Strings.The Commonwealth then first together came,And each one enter'd in the willing Frame;All other Matter yields, and may be rul'd;But who the Minds of stubborn Men can build?No Quarry bears a Stone so hardly wrought,Nor with such labour from its Center brought;None to be sunk in the Foundation bends,Each in the House the highest Place contends,And each the Hand that lays him will direct,And some fall back upon the Architect;Yet all compos'd by his attractive Song,Into the Animated City throng.The Common-wealth does through their Centers allDraw the Circumf'rence of the publique Wall;The crossest Spirits here do take their part,Fast'ning the Contignation which they thwart;And they, whose Nature leads them to divide,Uphold, this one, and that the other Side;But the most Equal still sustein the Height,And they as Pillars keep the Work upright;While the resistance of opposed Minds,The Fabrick as with Arches stronger binds,Which on the Basis of a Senate free,Knit by the Roofs Protecting weight agree.When for his foot he thus a place had found,He hurles e'r since the World about him round,And in his sev'ral Aspects, like a Star,Here shines in Peace, and thither shoots a War.While by his Beams observing Princes steer,And wisely court the Influence they fear,O would they rather by his Pattern won.Kiss the approaching, nor yet angry Son;And in their numbred Footsteps humbly treadThe path where holy Oracles do lead;How might they under such a Captain raiseThe great Designs kept for the latter Dayes!But mad with reason, so miscall'd, of StateThey know them not, and what they know not, hateHence still they sing Hosanna to the Whore,And her whom they should Massacre adore:But Indians whom they should convert, subdue;Nor teach, but traffique with, or burn the Jew.Unhappy Princes, ignorantly bred,By Malice some, by Errour more misled;If gracious Heaven to my Life give length,Leisure to Times, and to my Weakness Strength,Then shall I once with graver Accents shakeYour Regal sloth, and your long Slumbers wake:Like the shrill Huntsman that prevents the East,Winding his Horn to Kings that chase the Beast.Till then my Muse shall hollow far behindAngelique Cromwell who outwings the wind;And in dark Nights, and in cold Dayes alonePursues the Monster thorough every Throne:Which shrinking to her Roman Den impure,Gnashes her Goary teeth; nor there secure.Hence oft I think, if in some happy HourHigh Grace should meet in one with highest Pow'r,And then a seasonable People stillShould bend to his, as he to Heavens will,What we might hope, what wonderful EffectFrom such a wish'd Conjuncture might reflect.Sure, the mysterious Work, where none withstand,Would forthwith finish under such a Hand:Fore-shortned Time its useless Course would stay,And soon precipitate the latest Day.But a thick Cloud about that Morning lyes,And intercepts the Beams of Mortal eyes,That 'tis the most which we deteremine can,If these the Times, then this must be the Man.And well he therefore does, and well has guest,Who in his Age has always forward prest:And knowing not where Heavens choice may light,Girds yet his Sword, and ready stands to fight;But Men alas, as if they nothing car'd,Look on, all unconcern'd, or unprepar'd;And Stars still fall, and still the Dragons TailSwinges the Volumes of its horrid Flail.For the great Justice that did first suspendThe World by Sin, does by the same extend.Hence that blest Day still counterpoysed wastes,The ill delaying, what th'Elected hastes;Hence landing Nature to new Seas it tost,And good Designes still with their Authors lost.And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birthA Mold was chosen out of better Earth;Whose Saint-like Mother we did lately seeLive out an Age, long as a Pedigree;That she might seem, could we the Fall dispute,T'have smelt the Blossome, and not eat the Fruit;Though none does of more lasting Parents grow,But never any did them Honor so;Though thou thine Heart from Evil still unstain'd,And always hast thy Tongue from fraud refrain'd,Thou, who so oft through Storms of thundring LeadHast born securely thine undaunted Head,Thy Brest through ponyarding Conspiracies,Drawn from the Sheath of lying Prophecies;Thee proof beyond all other Force or Skill,Our Sins endanger, and shall one day kill.How near they fail'd, and in thy sudden FallAt once assay'd to overturn us all.Our brutish fury strugling to be Free,Hurry'd thy Horses while they hurry'd thee.When thou hadst almost quit thy Mortal cares,And soyl'd in Dust thy Crown of silver Hairs.Let this one Sorrow interweave amongThe other Glories of our yearly Song.Like skilful Looms which through the costly threedOf purling Ore, a shining wave do shed:So shall the Tears we on past Grief employ,Still as they trickle, glitter in our Joy.So with more Modesty we may be True,And speak as of the Dead the Praises due:While impious Men deceiv'd with pleasure short,On their own Hopes shall find the Fall retort.But the poor Beasts wanting their noble Guide,What could they move? shrunk guiltily aside.First winged Fear transports them far away,And leaden Sorrow then their flight did stay.See how they each his towring Crest abate,And the green Grass, and their known Mangers hate,Nor through wide Nostrils snuffe the wanton air,Nor their round Hoofs, or curled Mane'scompare;With wandring Eyes, and restless Ears theystood,And with shrill Neighings ask'd him of the Wood.Thou Cromwell falling, not a stupid Tree,Or Rock so savage, but it mourn'd for thee:And all about was heard a Panique groan,As if that Natures self were overthrown.It seem'd the Earth did from the Center tear;It seem'd the Sun was faln out of the Sphere:Justice obstructed lay, and Reason fool'd;Courage disheartned, and Religion cool'd.A dismal Silence through the Palace went,And then loud Shreeks the vaulted Marbles rent.Such as the dying Chorus sings by turns,And to deaf Seas, and ruthless Tempests mourns,When now they sink, and now the plundring StreamsBreak up each Deck, and rip the Oaken seams.But thee triumphant hence the firy Carr,And firy Steeds had born out of the Warr,From the low World, and thankless Men above,Unto the Kingdom blest of Peace and Love:We only mourn'd our selves, in thine Ascent,Whom thou hadst lest beneath with Mantle rent.For all delight of Life thou then didst lose,When to Command, thou didst thy self Depose;Resigning up thy Privacy so dear,To turn the headstrong Peoples Charioteer;For to be Cromwell was a greater thing,Then ought below, or yet above a King:Therefore thou rather didst thy Self depress,Yielding to Rule, because it made thee Less.For, neither didst thou from the first applyThy sober Spirit unto things too High,But in thine own Fields exercisedst long,An Healthful Mind within a Body strong;Till at the Seventh time thou in the Skyes,As a small Cloud, like a Mans hand didst rise;Then did thick Mists and Winds the air deform,And down at last thou pow'rdst the fertile Storm;Which to the thirsty Land did plenty bring,But though forewarn'd, o'r-took and wet the King.What since he did, an higher Force him push'dStill from behind, and it before him rush'd,Though undiscern'd among the tumult blind,Who think those high Decrees by Man design'd.'Twas Heav'n would not that his Pow'r should cease,But walk still middle betwixt War and Peace;Choosing each Stone, and poysing every weight,Trying the Measures of the Bredth and Height;Here pulling down, and there erecting New,Founding a firm State by Proportions true.When Gideon so did from the War retreat,Yet by Conquest of two Kings grown great,He on the Peace extends a Warlike power,And Is'rel silent saw him rase the Tow'r;And how he Succoths Elders durst suppress,With Thorns and Briars of the Wilderness.No King might ever such a Force have done;Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his Son.Thou with the same strength, and an Heart as plain,Didst (like thine Olive) still refuse to Reign;Though why should others all thy Labor spoil,And Brambles be anointed with thine Oyl,Whose climbing Flame, without a timely stop,Had quickly Levell'd every Cedar's top.Therefore first growing to thy self a Law,Th'ambitious Shrubs thou in just time didst aw.So have I seen at Sea, when whirling Winds,Hurry the Bark, but more the Seamens minds,Who with mistaken Course salute the Sand,And threat'ning Rocks misapprehend for Land;While baleful Tritons to the shipwrack guide.And Corposants along the Tacklings slide.The Passengers all wearyed out before,Giddy, and wishing for the fatal Shore;Some lusty Mate, who with more careful EyeCounted the Hours, and ev'ry Star did spy,The Helm does from the artless Steersman strain,And doubles back unto the safer Main.What though a while they grumble discontent,Saving himself he does their loss prevent.'Tis not a Freedome, that where All command;Nor Tyranny, where One does them withstand:But who of both the Bounders knows to layHim as their Father must the State obey.Thou, and thine House, like Noah's Eight did rest,Left by the Wars Flood on the Mountains crest:And the large Vale lay subject to thy Will,Which thou but as an Husbandman would Till:And only didst for others plant the VineOf Liberty, not drunken with its Wine.That sober Liberty which men may have,That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave:And such as to their Parents Tents do press,May shew their own, not see his Nakedness.Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage,The Shame and Plague both of the Land and Age,Who watch'd thy halting, and thy Fall deride,Rejoycing when thy Foot had slipt aside;that their new King might the fifth Scepter shake,And make the World, by his Example, Quake:Whose frantique Army should they want for MenMight muster Heresies, so one were ten.What thy Misfortune, they the Spirit call,And their Religion only is to Fall.Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again,Thy Falling-sickness should have made thee Reign,While Feake and Simpson would in many a Tome,Have writ the Comments of thy sacred Foame:For soon thou mightst have past among their RantWer't but for thine unmoved Tulipant;As thou must needs have own'd them of thy bandFor prophecies fit to be Alcorand.Accursed Locusts, whom your King does spitOut of the Center of th'unbottom'd Pit;Wand'rers, Adult'rers, Lyers, Munser's rest,Sorcerers, Atheists, Jesuites, Possest;You who the Scriptures and the Laws defaceWith the same liberty as Points and Lace;Oh Race most hypocritically strict!Bent to reduce us to the ancient Pict;Well may you act the Adam and the Eve;Ay, and the Serpent too that did deceive.But the great Captain, now the danger's ore,Makes you for his sake Tremble one fit more;And, to your spight, returning yet aliveDoes with himself all that is good revive.So when first Man did through the Morning newSee the bright Sun his shining Race pursue,All day he follow'd with unwearied sight,Pleas'd with that other World of moving Light;But thought him when he miss'd his setting beams,Sunk in the Hills, or plung'd below the Streams.While dismal blacks hung round the Universe,And Stars (like Tapers) burn'd upon his Herse:And Owls and Ravens with their screeching noyseDid make the Fun'rals sadder by their Joyes.His weeping Eyes the doleful Vigils keep,Not knowing yet the Night was made for sleep:Still to the West, where he him lost, he turn'd,And with such accents, as Despairing, mourn'd:Why did mine Eyes once see so bright a Ray;Or why Day last no longer than a Day?When streight the Sun behind him he descry'd,Smiling serenely from the further side.So while our Star that gives us Light and Heat,Seem'd now a long and gloomy Night to threat,Up from the other World his Flame he darts,And Princes shining through their windows starts;Who their suspected Counsellors refuse,And credulous Ambassadors accuse.""Is this, saith one, the Nation that we read""Spent with both Wars, under a Captain dead?""Yet rig a Navy while we dress us late;""And ere we Dine, rase and rebuild our State.""What Oaken Forrests, and what golden Mines!""What Mints of Men, what Union of Designes!""Unless their Ships, do, as their Fowle proceed""Of shedding Leaves, that with their Ocean breed.""Theirs are not Ships, but rather Arks of War,""And beaked Promontories sail'd from far;""Of floting Islands a new Hatched Nest;""A Fleet of Worlds, of other Worlds in quest;""An hideous shole of wood Leviathans,""Arm'd with three Tire of brazen Hurricans;""That through the Center shoot their thundring side""And sink the Earth that does at Anchor ride.'What refuge to escape them can be found,""Whose watry Leaguers all the world surround?""Needs must we all their Tributaries be,""Whose Navies hold the Sluces of the Sea.""The Ocean is the Fountain of Command,""But that once took, we Captives are on Land:""And those that have the Waters for their share,""Can quickly leave us neither Earth nor Air.""Yet if through these our Fears could find a pass;""Through double Oak, & lin'd with treble Brass;""That one Man still, although but nam'd, alarms""More then all Men, all Navies, and all Arms.""Him, all the Day, Him, in late Nights I dread,""And still his Sword seems hanging o're my head.""The Nation had been ours, but his one Soul""Moves the great Bulk, and animates the whole.""He Secrecy with Number hath inchas'd,""Courage with Age, Maturity with Hast:""The Valiants Terror, Riddle of the Wise;""And still his Fauchion all our Knots unties.""Where did he learn those Arts that cost us dear?""Where below Earth, or where above the Sphere?""He seems a King by long Succession born,""And yet the same to be a King does scorn.""Abroad a King he seems, and something more,""At Home a Subject on the equal Floor.""O could I once him with our Title see,""So should I hope yet he might Dye as wee.""But let them write his Praise that love him best,""It grieves me sore to have thus much confest.""Pardon, great Prince, if thus their Fear or Spight""More then our Love and Duty do thee Right.""I yield, nor further will the Prize contend;""So that we both alike may miss our End:""While thou thy venerable Head dost raise""As far above their Malice as my Praise.""And as the Angel of our Commonweal,""Troubling the Waters, yearly mak'st them Heal."
75,4,"2018-02-27 20:10:31","Anniversary Poems",75,"2018-02-27 21:07:31","The Wooden Toy","Charles Simic","1The brightly-painted horseHad a boy's face,And four small wheelsUnder his feet,Plus a long stringTo pull him by this way and thatAcross the floor,Should you care to.A string in-waitingThat slipped awayIn many wilesFrom each and every try. 2Knock and they'll answer,Mother told me.So I climbed four flights of stairsAnd went in unannounced.And found a small wooden toyFor the takingIn the ensuing emptinessAnd the fading daylightThat still gives me a shudderAs if I held the key to mysteries in my hand. 3Where's the Lost and Found Department,And the quiet entry,The undeveloped filmOf the few clear momentsOf our blurred lives?Where's the drop of bloodAnd the teeny nailThat pricked my fingerAs I bent down to touch the toyAnd caught its eye? 4Evening light,Make me a SundayGo-to meeting shadowFor my toy.My dearest memories areSteep stair-wellsIn dusty buildingsOn dead-end streets,Where I talk to the wallsAnd closed doorsAs if they understood me. 5The wooden toy sitting pretty.No, quieter than that.Like the sound of eyebrowsRaised by a villainIn a silent movie.Psst, someone said behind my back.------------------------------------PoetryVolume CLXXI, Number 1Eighty-Fifth AnniversarySpecial Double IssueOctober-November 1997"