Life as a Book That Has Been Put Down We have erased each letter And the statement still remains vaguely, Like an inscription over the door of a bank With hard-to-figure-out Roman numerals That say perhaps too much, in their way. Can I take your number? Hosts of regrets come and find me empty. Grey birds obsess my heart, Mouth-ash, ash of eye. You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. And the poem Has set me softely down beside you. Now deep In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought, Or each other. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still. And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride – His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified. But the juice there of is bitter, We have not such in our gardens, And you should go up into knowledge With this careless sarcasm and be told there For once, it is not here. I certainly don’t think I’ll last much longer. One dark night, my Tudor Ford climbed the hill’s skull; I watched for love-cars. I put my eye to the grid. One must make a distinction however:
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow, Or those glittery fictions dora spilt water That glide ahead of the very thirsty. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine. O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer?
It is a heart, This holocaust I walk in, O golden child the world will kill and eat. I have my own business http: Joshua – le 10 mai Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
Let these content you and be gone again; For they are at their old tricks yet. That’s the kind of thing that’s being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson; They’re always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison, And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm. There is only a little grid, no exit. But there’s another knowledge that my heart destroys, As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy’s Because it proves that things both can and cannot be; That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company, Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound, That I am still their setvant though all are underground.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I turn and burn. And I have seen her there within her house, With six great sapphires hung along the wall, Low, panel-shaped, a-level with her knees, All her robe was woven of pale gold.
Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove Over tedious riddles of years ago; And some words played between us to and fro On which lost the more by our love.
That girls at puberty may find The first Adam in their thought, Shut the door of the Pope’s chapel, Keep those children out. Kaden – le 10 mai So he who strongly feels, behaves. Frankly I think it is very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say, at the very most, Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host. What was left was like a field. I cannot touch you. Administratorem Twoich danych osobowych jest GoldenLine Sp.
Happy men have died earlier. Could you endure such pain At any hand but hers?
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The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. We have come so far, it is over. The Lake Isle of Innisfree I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Something there is that doesn’t love a wall That wants it down.
Epictetus is in some ways my favourite philosopher. Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wold on the fold? With no more sound than the mice make His hand moves to and fro. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly – A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxide, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street, blossoms on our magnolia ignite the morning with their murderous five day’s white. My manners are tearing off heads – The allotment of death.
But here there are no cows.
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I put my hands among the flames. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering. I rocked shut As a seashell.
That afternoon a man squat’ on the shore Tearing a square of shining cellophane. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. The very bird, grown taller as he sings, steels his form straight up. This is the end of them, three-quarters fools, Snatching at straws to sail Seaward and seaward on the matma whale, Spouting out blood and water as it rolls, Sick as a dog to these Atlantic shoals: Where do you live?
To us too they come. Like a long-legged fly upon the stream His mind moves upon silence. Smilingly, blue lightning Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts. Light Flashed from his matted head and marble feet, He grappled at the net With the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs: Abel was finished; death is not dim, a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic, his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire, his baby glaszow all night like a new machine.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top, reserved as their contours, saying nothing; repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea; the do, is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
Our ease, our thrift, our honour, mayka our day, Shall we for this vain bubble’s shadow pay? Happening to stand by an ant-hill, I have seen a fastidious ant carrying a stick north, south, east, west, till it turned on itself, struck out from the flower bed into the lawn, and returned to the point from which it had started.
Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars, The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.