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What ripens quickly, rots quickly.

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What grows quickly, dies quickly.

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Whatever you teach, be brief; what is quickly said the mind readily receives and faithfully retains, while everything superfluous runs over as from a full container. Who knows much says least.

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Tale II

THE PARTING HOUR.

Minutely trace man's life; year after year,
Through all his days let all his deeds appear,
And then though some may in that life be strange,
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change:
The links that bind those various deeds are seen,
And no mysterious void is left between.
But let these binding links be all destroyed,
All that through years he suffer'd or enjoy'd,
Let that vast gap be made, and then behold -
This was the youth, and he is thus when old;
Then we at once the work of time survey,
And in an instant see a life's decay;
Pain mix'd with pity in our bosoms rise,
And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise.
Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair -
A sleeping man; a woman in her chair,
Watching his looks with kind and pensive air;
Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the name
Nor kindred of this friendly pair the same;
Yet so allied are they, that few can feel
Her constant, warm, unwearied, anxious zeal;
Their years and woes, although they long have

loved,
Keep their good name and conduct unreproved:
Thus life's small comforts they together share,
And while life lingers for the grave prepare.
No other subjects on their spirits press,
Nor gain such int'rest as the past distress:
Grievous events, that from the mem'ry drive
Life's common cares, and those alone survive,
Mix with each thought, in every action share,
Darken each dream, and blend with every prayer.
To David Booth, his fourth and last-born boy,
Allen his name, was more than common joy;
And as the child grew up, there seem'd in him
A more than common life in every limb;
A strong and handsome stripling he became,
And the gay spirit answer'd to the frame;
A lighter, happier lad was never seen,
For ever easy, cheerful, or serene;
His early love he fix'd upon a fair
And gentle maid--they were a handsome pair.
They at an infant-school together play'd,
Where the foundation of their love was laid:
The boyish champion would his choice attend
In every sport, in every fray defend.
As prospects open'd, and as life advanced,
They walk'd together, they together danced;
On all occasions, from their early years,
They mix'd their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;
Each heart was anxious, till it could impart
Its daily feelings to its kindred heart;
As years increased, unnumber'd petty wars
Broke out between them; jealousies and jars;
Causeless indeed, and follow'd by a peace,
That gave to love--growth, vigour, and increase.
Whilst yet a boy, when other minds are void,
Domestic thoughts young Alien's hours employ'd.
Judith in gaining hearts had no concern,
Rather intent the matron's part to learn;
Thus early prudent and sedate they grew,
While lovers, thoughtful--and though children,

true.
To either parents not a day appeard,
When with this love they might have interfered.
Childish at first, they cared not to restrain;
And strong at last, they saw restriction vain;
Nor knew they when that passion to reprove,
Now idle fondness, now resistless love.
So while the waters rise, the children tread
On the broad estuary's sandy bed;
But soon the channel fills, from side to side
Comes danger rolling with the deep'ning tide;
Yet none who saw the rapid current flow
Could the first instant of that danger know.
The lovers waited till the time should come
When they together could possess a home:
In either house were men and maids unwed,
Hopes to be soothed, and tempers to be led.
Then Allen's mother of his favourite maid
Spoke from the feelings of a mind afraid:
'Dress and amusements were her sole employ,'
She said--'entangling her deluded boy;'
And yet, in truth, a mother's jealous love
Had much imagined and could little prove;
Judith had beauty--and if vain, was kind,
Discreet and mild, and had a serious mind.
Dull was their prospect.--When the lovers met,
They said, 'We must not--dare not venture yet.'
'Oh! could I labour for thee,' Allen cried,
'Why should our friends be thus dissatisfied;
On my own arm I could depend, but they
Still urge obedience--must I yet obey?'
Poor Judith felt the grief, but grieving begg'd

delay.
At length a prospect came that seem'd to smile,
And faintly woo them, from a Western Isle;
A kinsman there a widow's hand had gain'd,
'Was old, was rich, and childless yet remain'd;
Would some young Booth to his affairs attend,
And wait awhile, he might expect a friend.'
The elder brothers, who were not in love,
Fear'd the false seas, unwilling to remove;
But the young Allen, an enamour'd boy,
Eager an independence to enjoy,
Would through all perils seek it,--by the sea, -
Through labour, danger, pain, or slavery.
The faithful Judith his design approved,
For both were sanguine, they were young, and loved.
The mother's slow consent was then obtain'd;
The time arrived, to part alone remain'd:
All things prepared, on the expected day
Was seen the vessel anchor'd in the bay.
From her would seamen in the evening come,
To take th' adventurous Allen from his home;
With his own friends the final day he pass'd,
And every painful hour, except the last.
The grieving father urged the cheerful glass,
To make the moments with less sorrow pass;
Intent the mother look'd upon her son,
And wish'd th' assent withdrawn, the deed undone;
The younger sister, as he took his way,
Hung on his coat, and begg'd for more delay:
But his own Judith call'd him to the shore,
Whom he must meet, for they might meet no more; -
And there he found her--faithful, mournful, true,
Weeping, and waiting for a last adieu!
The ebbing tide had left the sand, and there
Moved with slow steps the melancholy pair:
Sweet were the painful moments--but, how sweet,
And without pain, when they again should meet!
Now either spoke as hope and fear impress'd
Each their alternate triumph in the breast.
Distance alarm'd the maid--she cried, ''Tis far

!'
And danger too--'it is a time of war:
Then in those countries are diseases strange,
And women gay, and men are prone to change:
What then may happen in a year, when things
Of vast importance every moment brings!
But hark! an oar!' she cried, yet none appear'd -
'Twas love's mistake, who fancied what it fear'd;
And she continued--'Do, my Allen, keep
Thy heart from evil, let thy passions sleep;
Believe it good, nay glorious, to prevail,
And stand in safety where so many fail;
And do not, Allen, or for shame, or pride,
Thy faith abjure, or thy profession hide;
Can I believe his love will lasting prove,
Who has no rev'rence for the God I love?
I know thee well! how good thou art and kind;
But strong the passions that invade thy mind -
Now, what to me hath Allen, to commend?'
'Upon my mother,' said the youth,' attend;
Forget her spleen, and, in my place appear,
Her love to me will make my Judith dear,
Oft I shall think (such comforts lovers seek),
Who speaks of me, and fancy what they speak;
Then write on all occasions, always dwell
On hope's fair prospects, and be kind and well,
And ever choose the fondest, tenderest style.'
She answer'd, 'No,' but answer'd with a smile.
'And now, my Judith, at so sad a time,
Forgive my fear, and call it not my crime;
When with our youthful neighbours 'tis thy chance
To meet in walks, the visit, or the dance,
When every lad would on my lass attend,
Choose not a smooth designer for a friend:
That fawning Philip!--nay, be not severe,
A rival's hope must cause a lover's fear.'
Displeased she felt, and might in her reply
Have mix'd some anger, but the boat was nigh,
Now truly heard!--it soon was full in sight; -
Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;
For see!--his friends come hast'ning to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach:
'Adieu!--farewell!--remember!'--and what more
Affection taught, was utter'd from the shore.
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart.
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!--for the youth she pray'd,
And softly then return'd the weeping maid.
They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith's hours in pensive pleasure fled;
But when return'd the youth?--the youth no more
Return'd exulting to his native shore;
But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man with wither'd limbs and lame,
His mind oppress'd with woes, and bent with age his

frame.
Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,
Willing his breathless form should blend with

kindred clay.
In an autumnal eve he left the beach,
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach:
He was alone; he press'd the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many years, his mind
Turn'd mournful back, half sinking, half resign'd.
No one was present; of its crew bereft,
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor'd vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away.
O'er the black stern the moonlight softly play'd,
The loosen'd foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down:
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite:
'There,' he observed, and new emotions felt,
'Was my first home--and yonder Judith dwelt;
Dead! dead are all! I long--I fear to know,'
He said, and walk'd impatient, and yet slow.
Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys:
Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix'd, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory: --'Man! what cheer?'
A sailor cried; 'Art thou at anchor here?'
Faintly he answer'd, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face:
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought:
Confused and trembling, he the dame address'd:
'The Booths! yet live they?' pausing and oppress'd;
Then spake again: --'Is there no ancient man,
David his name?--assist me, if you can. -
Flemings there were--and Judith, doth she live?'
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give,'
Yet wond'ring stood, and all were silent by,
Feeling a strange and solemn sympathy.
The woman musing said--'She knew full well
Where the old people came at last to dwell;
They had a married daughter, and a son,
But they were dead, and now remain'd not one.'
'Yes,' said an elder, who had paused intent
On days long past, 'there was a sad event; -
One of these Booths--it was my mother's tale -
Here left his lass, I know not where to sail:
She saw their parting, and observed the pain;
But never came th' unhappy man again:'
'The ship was captured'--Allen meekly said,
'And what became of the forsaken maid?'
The woman answer'd: 'I remember now,
She used to tell the lasses of her vow,
And of her lover's loss, and I have seen
The gayest hearts grow sad where she bas been;
Yet in her grief she married, and was made
Slave to a wretch, whom meekly she obey'd,
And early buried--but I know no more:
And hark! our friends are hast'ning to the shore.'
Allen soon found a lodging in the town,
And walk'd a man unnoticed up and down,
This house, and this, he knew, and thought a face
He sometimes could among a number trace:
Of names remember'd there remain'd a few,
But of no favourites, and the rest were new:
A merchant's wealth, when Allen went to sea,
Was reckon'd boundless.--Could he living be?
Or lived his son? for one he had, the heir
To a vast business, and a fortune fair.
No! but that heir's poor widow, from her shed,
With crutches went to take her dole of bread:
There was a friend whom he had left a boy,
With hope to sail the master of a hoy;
Him, after many a stormy day, he found
With his great wish, his life's whole purpose,

crown'd.
This hoy's proud captain look'd in Allen's face, -
'Yours is, my friend,' said he, 'a woeful case;
We cannot all succeed: I now command
The Betsy sloop, and am not much at land:
But when we meet, you shall your story tell
Of foreign parts--I bid you now farewell!'
Allen so long had left his native shore,
He saw but few whom he had seen before;
The older people, as they met him, cast
A pitying look, oft speaking as they pass'd -
'The man is Allen Booth, and it appears
He dwelt among us in his early years:
We see the name engraved upon the stones,
Where this poor wanderer means to lay his bones,'
Thus where he lived and loved--unhappy change! -
He seems a stranger, and finds all are strange.
But now a widow, in a village near,
Chanced of the melancholy man to hear;
Old as she was, to Judith's bosom came
Some strong emotions at the well-known name;
He was her much-loved Allen, she had stay'd
Ten troubled years, a sad afflicted maid;
Then was she wedded, of his death assured.
And much of mis'ry in her lot endured;
Her husband died; her children sought their bread
In various places, and to her were dead.
The once fond lovers met; not grief nor age,
Sickness nor pain, their hearts could disengage:
Each had immediate confidence; a friend
Both now beheld, on whom they might depend:
'Now is there one to whom I can express
My nature's weakness, and my soul's distress.'
Allen look'd up, and with impatient heart -
'Let me not lose thee--never let us part:
So heaven this comfort to my sufferings give,
It is not all distress to think and live.'
Thus Allen spoke--for time had not removed
The charms attach'd to one so fondly loved;
Who with more health, the mistress of their cot,
Labours to soothe the evils of his lot.
To her, to her alone, his various fate,
At various times, 'tis comfort to relate;
And yet his sorrow--she too loves to hear
What wrings her bosom, and compels the tear.
First he related how he left the shore,
Alarm'd with fears that they should meet no more.
Then, ere the ship had reach'd her purposed course,
They met and yielded to the Spanish force;
Then 'cross th' Atlantic seas they bore their prey,
Who grieving landed from their sultry bay:
And marching many a burning league, he found
Himself a slave upon a miner's ground:
There a good priest his native language spoke,
And gave some ease to his tormenting yoke;
Kindly advanced him in his master's grace,
And he was station'd in an easier place;
There, hopeless ever to escape the land,
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand;
In cottage shelter'd from the blaze of day,
He saw his happy infants round him play;
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees,
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries;
E'en then he thought of England, nor could sigh,
But his fond Isabel demanded, 'Why?'
Grieved by the story, she the sigh repaid,
And wept in pity for the English maid:
Thus twenty years were pass d, and pass'd his views
Of further bliss, for he had wealth to lose:
His friend now dead, some foe had dared to paint
'His faith as tainted: he his spouse would taint;
Make all his children infidels, and found
An English heresy on Christian ground.'
'Whilst I was poor,' said Allen, 'none would care
What my poor notions of religion were;
None ask'd me whom I worshipp'd, how I pray'd,
If due obedience to the laws were paid:
My good adviser taught me to be still,
Nor to make converts had I power or will.
I preach'd no foreign doctrine to my wife,
And never mention'd Luther in my life;
I, all they said, say what they would, allow'd,
And when the fathers bade me bow, I bow'd;
Their forms I follow'd, whether well or sick,
And was a most obedient Catholic.
But I had money, and these pastors found
My notions vague, heretical, unsound:
A wicked book they seized; the very Turk
Could not have read a more pernicious work;
To me pernicious, who if it were good
Or evil question'd not, nor understood:
Oh! had I little but the book possess'd,
I might have read it, and enjoy'd my rest.'
Alas! poor Allen--through his wealth was seen
Crimes that by poverty conceal'd had been:
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown,
Are in an instant through the varnish shown.
He told their cruel mercy; how at last,
In Christian kindness for the merits past,
They spared his forfeit life, but bade him fly,
Or for his crime and contumacy die;
Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight:
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight,
All urging him to flee, he fled, and cursed his

flight.
He next related how he found a way,
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy-Bay:
There in the woods he wrought, and there, among
Some lab'ring seamen, heard his native tongue:
The sound, one moment, broke upon his pain
With joyful force; he long'd to hear again:
Again he heard; he seized an offer'd hand,
'And when beheld you last our native land!'
He cried, 'and in what country? quickly say.'
The seamen answer'd--strangers all were they;
Only one at his native port had been;
He, landing once, the quay and church had seen,
For that esteem'd; but nothing more he knew.
Still more to know, would Allen join the crew,
Sail where they sail'd, and, many a peril past,
They at his kinsman's isle their anchor cast;
But him they found not, nor could one relate
Aught of his will, his wish, or his estate.
This grieved not Allen; then again he sail'd
For England's coast, again his fate prevailed:
War raged, and he, an active man and strong,
Was soon impress'd, and served his country long.
By various shores he pass'd, on various seas,
Never so happy as when void of ease. -
And then he told how in a calm distress'd,
Day after day his soul was sick of rest;
When, as a log upon the deep they stood,
Then roved his spirit to the inland wood;
Till, while awake, he dream'd, that on the seas
Were his loved home, the hill, the stream, the

trees:
He gazed, he pointed to the scenes: --'There stand
My wife, my children, 'tis my lovely land.
See! there my dwelling--oh! delicious scene
Of my best life: --unhand me--are ye men?'
And thus the frenzy ruled him, till the wind
Brush'd the fond pictures from the stagnant mind.
He told of bloody fights, and how at length
The rage of battle gave his spirits strength:
'Twas in the Indian seas his limb he lost,
And he was left half-dead upon the coast;
But living gain'd, 'mid rich aspiring men,
A fair subsistence by his ready pen.
'Thus,' he continued, 'pass'd unvaried years,
Without events producing hopes or fears.'
Augmented pay procured him decent wealth,
But years advancing undermined his health;
Then oft-times in delightful dream he flew
To England's shore, and scenes his childhood knew:
He saw his parents, saw his fav'rite maid,
No feature wrinkled, not a charm decay'd;
And thus excited, in his bosom rose
A wish so strong, it baffled his repose:
Anxious he felt on English earth to lie;
To view his native soil, and there to die.
He then described the gloom, the dread he found,
When first he landed on the chosen ground,
Where undefined was all he hoped and fear'd,
And how confused and troubled all appear'd;
His thoughts in past and present scenes employ'd,
All views in future blighted and destroy'd:
His were a medley of be wild'ring themes,
Sad as realities, and wild as dreams.
Here his relation closes, but his mind
Flies back again some resting-place to find;
Thus silent, musing through the day, he sees
His children sporting by those lofty trees,
Their mother singing in the shady scene,
Where the fresh springs burst o'er the lively

green; -
So strong his eager fancy, he affrights
The faithful widow by its powerful flights;
For what disturbs him he aloud will tell,
And cry--''Tis she, my wife! my Isabel!
Where are my children?'--Judith grieves to hear
How the soul works in sorrows so severe;
Assiduous all his wishes to attend,
Deprived of much, he yet may boast a friend;
Watch'd by her care, in sleep, his spirit takes
Its flight, and watchful finds her when he wakes.
'Tis now her office; her attention see!
While her friend sleeps beneath that shading tree,
Careful, she guards him from the glowing heat,
And pensive muses at her Allen's feet.
And where is he? Ah! doubtless in those scenes
Of his best days, amid the vivid greens.
Fresh with unnumber'd rills, where ev'ry gale
Breathes the rich fragrance of the neighb'ring

vale.
Smiles not his wife, and listens as there comes
The night-bird's music from the thick'ning glooms?
And as he sits with all these treasures nigh,
Blaze not with fairy-light the phosphor-fly,
When like a sparkling gem it wheels illumined by?
This is the joy that now so plainly speaks
In the warm transient flushing of his cheeks;
For he is list'ning to the fancied noise
Of his own children, eager in their joys:
All this he feels, a dream's delusive bliss
Gives the expression, and the glow like this.
And now his Judith lays her knitting by,
These strong emotions in her friend to spy
For she can fully of their nature deem -
But see! he breaks the long protracted theme,
And wakes, and cries--'My God! 'twas but a dream.'

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What ripens fast does not last.

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What you keep rots; what you give flourishes.

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Time passes too quickly

I feel winter’s first cold fingers touching
and time flash by to quickly
as if the last years are waiting on me
and I button my jacket tighter
and know I really need a proper coat
that can rid me of the cold.

I feel winter’s first cold fingers touching
and time passes too quickly
and I wonder where I fit into it all
and everything is different from what it once was
and things have gotten other and new meanings
and I am tired of struggling against life
and I feel my winter’s first cold fingers touching me.

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To Quickly Review, To Quickly Dissect

There is an ease perceived in the doing,
When one's consistency is taken for granted.
There is a rush to critique,
What one dependable does to do.
As if a choice to be abused is wished.

Yet few or anyone considers one's sacrifice,
In the delivering of expectations...
To quickly review, to quickly dissect,
And...
With speed done to disapprove one's efforts.

Although an anticipation is awaiting for that one,
By those prepared...
Choosing first to dispute to then disregard,
The time it has taken to present what is there...
Detailed 'and' with caring for others to share regardless.

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Embarrassments Can Be Quickly Erased

If a declaration is made,
Of having amnesia...
'After' a violent act of atrocities,
Against others have been committed...
'That' is acceptable.
In any court where laws are aborted,
Tom distort.

And if one's amnesia can be connected,
To a childhood deprived of attention given...
Senseless attacks upon others are warranted.
No matter how innocent those who are defenseless.
Or a decision one makes,
To premeditate...
A conscious doing that takes place.

'So what is it that you are saying? '

Embarrassments can be quickly erased,
Depending upon...
Who passes the judgement.
And the quality of the statements heard to be taken.

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Some Choose to Dye Quickly

It gets a little bit harder,
To expand upon one's tolerance...
As the hair begins to gray.

Growing older,
Sometimes isn't done with patience.
And the thrill of each day,
Comes when staying as far away...
From the sounds of nonsense.
Arriving at this stage of one's life,
Needs no definition...
Of what peace is like.

It gets a little bit harder,
To expand upon one's tolerance...
As the hair begins to gray.

Some choose to dye quickly,
Every sign of getting older.
With a permanence wished to sustain.
Hair, eyebrows, moustaches and beards.
Expecting Mother Nature from them to disappear.
As if no one recognizes...
Every movement done they do is slower.
And a once proud vision...
Is not as clear.

'Hey Pops!
Hold up your head.
Don't dropp that toupee.'

~Is that suppose to be funny?
Well,
It isn't.
You, you, you...
Whatever! ~

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Time That's Given To You Quickly Goes

Speeding up to catch on fast,
What has long slipped from your grasp...
Is like playing ping pong,
In those yesterdays gone.

You left your saddle to collect upon it dust.
And that boat you use to paddle has rust.
Now...
You believe that you can just float.
And...
You believe that you can just mope.
But...
Time that's given to you isn't slowed,
No...
Time that's given to you quickly goes.
So...
There's no boat for you to slow row.
No!
Time that's given to you quickly goes.

You left your saddle to collect upon it dust.
And that boat you use to paddle has rust.
So...
There's no boat for you to slow row.
No!
Time that's given to you quickly goes.
And...
You believe that you can just mope.
But...
Time that's given to you isn't slowed.

Speeding up to catch on fast,
What has long slipped from your grasp...
Is like playing ping pong,
In those yesterdays gone.
And...
You believe that you can just mope.
But...
Time that's given to you isn't slowed.
No!
Time that's given to you quickly goes.
So...
Bloating hesitators oughta doze.
So...
They wont noticed that the time goes.

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Forgive Me Quickly

If I showed you what you don't know,
Would I suffer...
If I listened to your life of misfortune?

If I showed you what you don't know,
Would you show me what I thought I knew?

If I showed you what you don't know,
Would I suffer...
If I listened to your life of misfortune?

Would I stop myself and realize...
Your life aint easy breezy.
Would you find it in your mind you'd be assessing me?
Or would you find it in your mind the need to forgive me,
Quickly!

Would I stop myself and realize...
Your life aint easy breezy.
Would you find it in your mind you'd be assessing me?
Or would you find it in your mind the need to forgive me,
Quickly!

Forgive me quickly!
Would you find it in your mind the need to forgive me,
Quickly!
Forgive me quickly!
Would you find it in your mind,
The need...
To forgive me,
Quickly!

Would you find it in your mind you'd be assessing me?
Or would you find it in your mind the need to forgive me,
Quickly!

Forgive me quickly!
Would you find it in your mind the need to forgive me,
Quickly!
Forgive me quickly!
Would you find it in your mind,
The need...
To forgive me,
Quickly!

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Love Comes Quickly

Sooner or later, this happens to everyone
To everyone
You can live your life lonely
Heavy as stone
Live your life learning
And working alone
Say this is all you want
But I dont believe that its true
cause when you least expect it
Waiting round the corner for you
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
You can live a life of luxury
If thats what you want
Taste forbidden pleasures
Whatever you want
You can fly away to the end of the world
But where does it get you to?
cause just when you least expect it
Just what you least expect
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
I know it sounds ridiculous, but speaking from experience
It may seem romantic, and thats no defense
Love will always get to you
Sooner or later, sooner or later, this happens to everyone
To everyone
You can fly away to the end of the world
But where does it get you?
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
(oooh)
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)
Love comes quickly, whatever you do
You cant stop falling (ooh ooh)

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Patrick White

Better To Flash A Sharp Knife Quickly

Better to flash a sharp knife quickly across someone's throat
as the last remaining mercy
than bludgeon them to death retroactively as you do.
The first is just another big city workaday murder on the nightshift
but the way your offended sense of righteous indignation
has turned to hate
as you sit there sliding needles into your arm
like loveletters into a bruised envelope
you've addressed in blood to yourself
I can tell you're sticking pins into the eyes
of black madonna voodoo dolls
deep inside a secret hiding place in your childhood
where you indoctrinate them into genocide.
You're a beautiful woman with lots to hide
and I don't want to know where the corpses are
as if the only intimacies worth caring about
were all long buried in this desert of stars.
And twice before I've tasted the blood of the black widow
and yes it may be sweetened
by all the butterflies it's eaten
but then your heart goes numb as an ice-cube
in the fix at the end
that comes on like an eclipse
of the light at the end of the tunnel
where all your dead relatives
are dying to greet you again.
I wear my heart on my sleeve
like the colours of the ghetto I was born into
to watch my mother die of overwork for nothing
of any estimable value including me
when I look at it from her point of view.
And I like the sexy West Coast sixties look
of those black Stevie Nicks Gothic spider webs
you wear more like skin
than the net of Indra
with jewels at every intersection.
And I've always been tempted and still am
by dangerous pariahs on the lamb
from the witch-hunts of medieval men
who fear a female messiah
that can cast her nets wider
than any constellation
among the fishers of men.
And o sweetness don't doubt yourself.
It's still a cheap thrill to feel so sublimely vulnerable
daring the taboo event horizons of your powers
like a firefly going eye to eye with a blackhole
even as I bend space to stay clear as a gravitational lens.
But you're hooked on your own elixirs
like a dealer who wants to get out of it
on his own product
and in my world magic shoots the stars
like whitewater in the Ottawa River
in the spring run off in May
when the toxins wear off like cataracts
and you get high on the risk for free
in the name of sick children
waiting for heart transplants.
And yes, yes, yes, there's still a Neanderthal in me
that wants to paint your face
in carbon and red ochre
on the inside of my witchdoctor's mask
to make all this space seem
a lot less lonely in here
since I killed off the last cave bear.
I could so easily encrypt my starmaps
on the mystic enigmas of the dice
I've carved like small Kaabas
and Rubik's cubes out of my own bones
to see if the nightbird calling out to you
in this mutual darkness of ours
were worth taking the chance
if it should happen to come up snake eyes.
Or if I could learn to be hypnotized
without turning to stone
by a Pythian priestess
with a Medusan hairdo
with oracular highlights that bite
and you could learn to dance
to the picture-music
of a different kind of flute
like Salome for Herod
and John the Baptist's head.
Love doesn't begin where lust leaves off.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame.
I think that's only true for those who are no good at it.
Or dominated by a spiritual Gestapo
that makes the body wear a yellow star.
Three phases of the moon.
Maiden. Mother. Crone.
I've seen the spider with its crescent fangs.
And I've hung from my own spine more than once
like a mummified fly on a trophy line
waiting for my next afterlife
assuming I had one
and Merlin I may seem to you
but I still fear a starless power darker than my own.
And there's the maiden like Morgana la Fay
beguiling as lunar waterlilies and deadly nightshade
renewing her virginity in a snake pit.
The urge to possess you overwhelms
the certainty of being bit.
One fang kills you.
The other fang cures it.
But even death eventually wears out its welcome
and the spring isn't enough to make up for it.
But where's the middle extreme
defined by the other two?
Where's the mother?
Where's the summer
that warms the bloodstreams of the garden snakes
like water in a basking hose?
Spring and winter
but where's the harvest moon
that shines down on the fullness of life
and adds her mother lode to the gold of the grain
like Demeter in the Eleusinian Mysteries
adding little mushrooms of gratified desire
to the wine you only need to drink once
out of your own skull
to stay intoxicated forever?
Prosperpine may have gone down into the underworld
to shoot jewels with the dead
when a serpent bit her in the heel
like a dirty syringe
but when is she going to live up
to the rest of her myth
and drive the snakes out of her garden
long enough for a rose bush or two to take root again?
You leave two kids at home alone
with a couch-surfing crackhead
you met in a bar last weekend
and you expect me to trust you?
Lady I can look through you
like a broken windowpane
and still appreciate the beauty of the view
without cutting myself on the flint knapped glass
and yes you can still cast a spell
that can turn seasoned sailors into swine
and I could so easily
buy into any delusion you wanted me to
just to sleep with you.
But I'm standing at that window with your kids
and there's a crackhead behind us
flipping channels like cards in a game of solitaire
and we're looking out at the view together
pretending none of us are there
because we're all scared
of the cranky stranger with the tarantula tattoo
and all we can see as far as we can look to get away
is this mindscape of you
salting the flesh of the good earth
like Carthage on crystal meth
when you should be planting seeds
in the hearts and minds of those
who look to you for love
like a chance to flower
even on long starless nights
to live without fear
unmenaced by shadows
swarming the night light
like a seance of anti-matter.
You belong to those who love you in life
and blood may be thicker than water
but without water
it coagulates like a rose that's lost its colour.
It makes raisins of the grapes on the vine
long before their time
as if someone cancelled summer
and no one gets to taste the wine.
And it's probably wise
to pour both into the cauldron of your heart
until they're both so intermingled
the rain doesn't put
the scarlet desires
and phoenix fires
of the passionate poppies out
and the hot-blooded gypsy witches
don't turn the rain to steam
on first contact with their skin.
We're standing at a broken window
and we're looking in
and what we see is that in you
there is no summer
and where blood should be thicker than water
the water's turned to ice
and the two rosebuds
standing like your daughters at this window
like two cut flowers in a shattered vase
are haemorrhaging like too much turpentine
on two brushes loaded with red paint
too thin to bloom.
Because the ladybug
is too busy playing with matches
trying to get a rise out of the fire-hydrants
to see if she's still the arsonist she used to be
to know when her own house is on fire
her kids are alone
and it's time to fly away home.

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Love Quickly Is Pall'd

Love quickly is pall'd,
Tho' with labour 'tis gain'd;
Wine never does cloy
Tho' with ease 'tis obtain'd.
We sing while you sigh,
We laugh while you weep;
Love robs you of rest,
Wine lulls us asleep.

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Too Quickly (Cavatina)

Too quickly you are gone like a wilting
small daffodil
that will never again rise up in spring,
that on a hill
faded quite slowly in its sheer beauty,
that never will
come to life again, as its life is spent,
far too quickly from me away you went.

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My life passes so quickly

My life passes so quickly
like a stream passing in flood
with water rushing against every thing

My life passes so quickly
that every deed and every word
frolic whirling together and are corded.

My life passes so quickly
like a stream passing in flood.

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Quickly

quickly they did it
under the shady
tree and nimbly
they left

in a hurry they forget
they rush
to a flat edge and fall away
like broken glasses
from the tiled sink

now they want to remember
but there is
nothing more left
everything rushed
to the wind
of the oblivious.

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Allowed To Prick As It Grows

Not to settle quickly,
What should have long been nipped...
From a blooming bud of nonsense,
And allowed to prick as it grows...
Rots the remnants of a significance,
Thought to be left of any relationship.
With a bitterness that smothers,
The ease of a simple forgiveness dismissed.

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Quickly Delivered

It's not polite to slam the door,
On the face of one who aggravates!
Invite them in...
And push them out the window instead!
Your point will be quickly delivered,
When they discover you serving hors d'oeuvres
To the attending ambulance crew!
Leaving everyone with a taste of your graciousness!

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Avoidance of what 'Is

An avoidance of what 'is'...
Does not make what 'is',
Disappear to go away.

A determined wish to understand,
A what 'is' that exist...
Increases one's awareness.

And an appreciation for an is that 'is',
One learns to accept not to quickly dismiss.
With a customary disregarding of its differences.

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