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I think the University of Texas has the chance to become the finest public university in the country.

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Up The Country

I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went --
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast.
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town,
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

`Sunny plains'! Great Scott! -- those burning
wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep.
Stunted peak of granite gleaming, glaring like a molten mass
Turned from some infernal furnace on a plain devoid of grass.

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy water-holes
In the place of `shining rivers' -- `walled by cliffs and forest boles.'
Barren ridges, gullies, ridges! where the ever-madd'ning flies --
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes!
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees
Nothing -- Nothing! but the sameness of the ragged, stunted trees!
Lonely hut where drought's eternal, suffocating atmosphere
Where the God-forgotten hatter dreams of city life and beer.

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger,
endless roads that gleam and glare,
Dark and evil-looking gullies, hiding secrets here and there!
Dull dumb flats and stony rises, where the toiling bullocks bake,
And the sinister `gohanna', and the lizard, and the snake.
Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon,
When the great white sun in rising bringeth summer heat in June.
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall
From the sad heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum worst of all.

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift
O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift --
Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods, and, oh! the woosh
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush --
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are piled
In the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild.

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men,
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again:
Homes of men! if home had ever such a God-forgotten place,
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face.
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell,
Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell --
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the curlew's call --
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward through it all!

I am back from up the country, up the country where I went
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have shattered many idols out along the dusty track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back.
I believe the Southern poets' dream will not be realised
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.
I intend to stay at present, as I said before, in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

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Patrick White

I Don't Think The Wind Sings For Me Alone

I don't think the wind sings for me alone
even in this isolated space where it
silvers the leaves of the Russian olives
like musical scales. Or every thought and emotion,
every image, symbol, or insight
shares the same myth of origin that I do.
Nor all the words that I call my native language
weren't rooted first in someone else's garden.
As the air I breathe was, as the light that has entered
through many more eyes than mine. What I hear
doesn't belong to me, nor what I see,
my private vision. But when I don't grasp
at clouds and water, everything is my reflection
looking back at me as if there were no one there.

I disappear. And I feel my presence everywhere
as real as the sceptres of Queen Anne's Lace
growing old in the moonlight, or the blue fury
of the wild irises burning in their own fires
like the Pleiades. Who can understand
the circuitous wanderings of the mindstream
white water rafting its own axons in an empty lifeboat
when even the questions you raise about it are not your own?
I may well be that, but tonight, I'm not personally involved.
Things occur like spiritual events. The rat snake
strikes the frog, the shadow flash of a bird
transits the moon. Arcturus descends
before the Summer Triangle with the easy grace
of a light that doesn't realize it's being observed intensely.

And I wonder if we're actualizing each other
in some interdependently original way
that it knows as little about as I do.
Or the dead birch tree that's standing by both of us,
naked in its bones as a fan of coral.
Silly man, now you know how a fly
up against a window feels. Or how a mirror
that's deeper than either your eyes
or the light can see into, keeps its appeal.
Been wondering most of my life
in an aloof but wary mode of gratitude
about the great symphony of love and light and light,
like someone who's been hurt by someone they cherish
without knowing why. And whether to laugh or weep
at the absurd tragicomedies that keep appearing
like vulnerable mushrooms in my sleep.

But tonight, tonight, all I want to hear
is the whisper of a dropp of water running down the sluice
of a blade of stargrass. The eerie rustling of the leaves
as if the trees had something to say to me
about my presence among them that leaves me
half again as estranged as when I first came here
to enjoy a freedom that isn't just a matter of changing gates.

Sad man, but tonight I dance with thousands of waterlilies
under the chandeliers of the stars, in three four time,
as if I just remembered how to waltz with the bride
and bow to a flower like a lunar violin. My heart
doesn't look for its reflection in the fire pit
where I burnt all my life masks like straw dogs
when the sacred ritual was over. I denuded myself
basking in the clear light of the void, until
there was no one left, not even me, to notice.

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Some think the night

Some think the night's a transparent stranger,
Some think the night's an opaque friend;
And though some nights are fraught with danger,
Day to night, it's shadows lend.

Night gives day cold stars invisible,
Night gives day a moon half lit;
If night and day could trade their faces,
Each the others grey, befit.

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Sometimes I think the happiest of love's moments

Sometimes I think the happiest of love's moments
Is the blest moment of release from loving.
The world once more is all one's own to model
Upon one's own and not another's pattern.
And each poor heart imprisoned by the other's
Is suddenly set free for splendid action.
For no two lovers are a single person
And lovers' union means a soul's suppression.
Oh, happy then the moment of love's passing
When those strong souls we sought to slay recover.

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Emily Dickinson

I think the Hemlock likes to stand

525

I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe

That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—
Lapland's—necessity—
The Hemlock's nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—

To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.

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Emily Dickinson

I think the longest Hour of all

635

I think the longest Hour of all
Is when the Cars have come—
And we are waiting for the Coach—
It seems as though the Time

Indignant—that the Joy was come—
Did block the Gilded Hands—
And would not let the Seconds by—
But slowest instant—ends—

The Pendulum begins to count—
Like little Scholars—loud—
The steps grow thicker—in the Hall—
The Heart begins to crowd—

Then I—my timid service done—
Tho' service 'twas, of Love—
Take up my little Violin—
And further North—remove.

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Rape Of The Young

Hey mister exxon
Wont you have pity
Wont you have pity on the guiltless ones
Hey mister chrysler
Wont you think about it
Wont you think about it? judgment day has begun
What will become of tomorrows children
Who gives a damn for tomorrows children
Pay no mind, you just keep on takin
Keep on takin til theres nothing at all
Sit on your hands and dont say nothin
Cover your eyes, you wont see nothin
Cry for the innocent sent to war
(dont tell a soul)
Shed a tear for the ones waiting at the door
(theyll never know)
Its the last generation of a world gone blind
(you better watch your tongue)
Its the violation of the unborn child
Its the rape of the young
Hey mister general
Cant you find something
Cant you find something else to do for a buck
Hey mister president
Nobody listens
Nobody listens til weve run out of luck
Nobody cares for unborn troubles
Why should you care, its too much trouble
You got yours so it just dont bug ya
It just dont bug ya cause you wont be around

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Boy From The Country

This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the an evening with john denver album as a live track, and has also been released on the some days are diamonds album as a studio versi
R
Because he called the forest brother
Because he called the earth his mother
They drove him out into the rain
Some people even said the boy from the country was insane
Because he spoke with fish in the creek
He tried to tell us that the animals could speak
Who knows, perhaps they do
How do you know they dont
Just because theyve never spoken to you
Boy from the country, he left his home when he was young
Boy from the country, he loves the sun
He tried to tell us that we should love the land
We turned our heads and laughed
And we did not understand
Sometimes I think that the boy from the country
Is the only one who sees
Because the boy from the country
Doesnt want to see the forest for the trees
Boy from the country, he left his home when he was young
Boy from the country, he loves the sun
Words and music by michael murphy

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The Country Girl

The Country Girl reflects at last –
And well in her young days –
For she is learning very fast,
The worth of City ways.
The emptiness of Tailors men
The women’s paltry strife
The Sham of ‘Smart Society’
Compared with Country Life.

The novelty wore off at length,
And flattered at the Ball,
She things of one who has the strength
And brains above them all.
She things of men who Live and Work
For sweetheart and for wife.
And though it be as far as Bourke’
Are true to Country Life

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Love Is Sweeping The Country

Why are people gay
All the night and day
Feeling as they never felt before
What is the thing
That makes them sing?
Rich man, poor man, thief
Doctor, lawyer, chief
Feel a feeling that they cant ignore
It plays a part in every heart
And every heart is shouting, encore
Love is sweeping the country,
Waves are hugging the shore,
All the sexes
From maine to texas
Have never known such love before!
See them billing and cooing
Like the birdies above
Each girl and boy alike
Sharing joy alike
Feels that passion ll
Soon be national!
Love is sweeping the country
There never was so much love
(bridge)
See them billing and cooing
Like the birdies above
Each girl and boy alike
Sharing joy alike
Feels that passion ll
Soon be national!
Love is sweeping the country
There never was so much love

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In The Country

Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!
Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!
When the world in which you live in,
Gets a bit too much to bear,
And you need someone to lean on,
When you look, there's no one there
You're gonna find me, out in the country,
Yeah, you're gonna find me, way out in the country,
Where the air is good, and the day is fine,
And the pretty girl, has a hand in mine,
And the silver stream, is a poor man's wine,
In the country, in the country
When you're walking in the city,
And you're feeling rather small,
And the people on the sidewalk,
Seem to form a solid wall
You're gonna find me, out in the country,
Hey, you're gonna find me, way out in the country,
Where the air is good, and the day is fine,
And the pretty girl, has a hand in mine,
And the silver stream, is a poor man's wine,
In the country, in the country
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
For the time is slipping by,
You don't need a ticket,
It belongs to you and I
Come on an join me, out in the country,
Where the air is good, and the day is fine,
And the pretty girl, has a hand in mine,
And the silver stream, is a poor man's wine,
In the country, in the country
Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!
Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah! Ba-ba-ba-Bah!

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To A Lady, Who Invited The Author Into The Country.

How gladly, Madam, would I go,
To see your Gardens, and Chateau;
From thence the fine Improvements view,
Or walk your verdant Avenue;
Delighted, hear the Thrushes sing,
Or listen to some bubbling Spring;
If Fate had giv'n me Leave to roam!
But Citizens must stay at Home.

We're lonesome since you went away,
And should be dead--but for our Tea;
That Helicon of female Wits,
Which fills their Heads with rhyming Fits!
This Liquor seldom heats the Brain,
But turns it oft, and makes us vain;
With Fumes supplies Imagination,
Which we mistake for Inspiration.
This makes us cramp our Sense in Fetters,
And teaze our Friends with chiming Letters.

I grieve your Brother has the Gout;
Tho' he's so stoically stout,
I've heard him mourn his Loss of Pain,
And wish it in his Feet again.
What Woe poor Mortals must endure,
When Anguish is their only Cure!

STREPHON is ill; and I perceive
His lov'd Elvira grows so grave,
I fear, like Niobe, her Moan
Will turn herself and me to Stone.
Have I not cause to dread this Fate,
Who scarce so much as smile of late?

Whilst lovely Landscapes you survey,
And peaceful pass your Hours away,
Refresh'd with various blooming Sweets;
I'm sick of Smells and dirty Streets,
Stiflcd with Smoke, and stunn'd with Noise
Of ev'ry Thing--but my own Boys;
Thro' Rounds of plodding doom'd to run,
And very seldom see the Sun:
Yet sometimes pow'rful Fancy reigns,
And glads my Eyes with sylvan Scenes;
Where Time, enamour'd, slacks his Pace,
Enchanted by the warbling Race;
And, in Atonement for his Stay,
Thro' Cities hurries on the Day.

O! would kind Heav'n reverse my Fate,
Give me to quit a Life I hate,
To flow'ry Fields I soon would fly:
Let others stay--to cheat and lye.
There, in fome blissful Solitude,
Where eating Care should ne'er intrude,
The Muse should do the Country Right,
And paint the glorious Scenes you slight.

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Written From Dublin, To A Lady In The Country.

A wretch, in smoaky Dublin pent,
Who rarely sees the Firmament,
You graciously invite, to view
The Sun's enliv'ning Rays with you;
To change the Town for flow'ry Meads,
And sing beneath the sylvan Shades.

You're kind in vain -- It will not be --
Retirement was deny'd to me;
Doom'd by inexorable Fate,
To pass thro' crouded Scenes I hate.
O with what Joy could I survey
The rising, glorious Source of Day!

Attend the Shepherd's fleecy Care,
Transported with the vernal Air;
Behold the Meadow's painted Pride,
Or see the limpid Waters glide;
Survey the distant, shaded Hills,
And, pensive, hear the murm'ring Rills.

Thro' your Versailles with Pleasure rove,
Admire the Gardens, and the Grove;
See Nature's bounteous Hand adorn
The blushing Peach, and blooming Thorn;
Beheld the Birds distend their Throats,
And hear their wild, melodious Notes.

Delighted, thro' your Pastures roam,
Or see the Kine come lowing home;
Whose od'rous Breaths a Joy impart,
That sooths the Sense, and glads the Heart;
With Pleasure view the frothing Pails,
And silent hear the creaking Rails;
See whistling Hinds attend their Ploughs,
Who never hear of broken Vows;
Where no Ambition to be great,
E'er taught the Nymph, or Swain, Deccit.

Thus thro' the Day, delighted, run;
Then raptur'd view the setting Sun;
The rich, diffufive God behold,
On distant Mountains pouring Gold,
Gilding the beauteous, rising Spire,
While Crystal Windows glow with Fire;
Gaze, till he quit the Western Skies,
And long to see his Sister rise;
Prefer the silent, Silver Moon
To the too radiant, noisy Noon.

Or Northward turn, with new Delight,
To mark what Triumphs wait the Night;
When Shepherds think the Heav'ns foreshow
Some dire Commotions here below;
When Light the human Form assumes,
And Champions meet with nodding Plumes,
With Silver Streamers, wide unfurl'd,
And gleaming Spears amaze the World.

Thence to the higher Heav'ns I soar,
And the great Architect adore;
Behold what Worlds are hung in Air,
And view ten thousand Empires there;
Then prostrate to Jehovah fall,
Who into Being spake them all.

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Praise for the Country

At the very beginning praise the liberated Bangladesh
Sufferings of the liberated land were not deported yet.
Then I salute motherly homeland
Blood stained mother, mine destitute mother land.

Praising Bangabandhu Mujib who
Sacrificed life to free motherland,
Begging pardon from him and
Start crossing the mighty ocean by remembering him.

Keeping his name in mind raising voice, "Badar, Badar"
I steer the boat, sail boat by his name
His name is known all over the world
Whenever recollect him I cry silently

I will write an epic on them who
Had sacrificed life in freedom fight
Those who sacrificed lives for Bangla Vasa
Singing the songs of life by remembering them

Rafique Salam, Barkat, Jabbar, the lovers of mother tongue
Protect the value at the cost of their lives.
Pitched road were washed away by Matiur's blood.
We have not forgotten ‘69 yet.

The nation has not forgotten November '70,
Lacs of people had died on the beach by cyclone.
Bangalees had won the election in '70,
Then Pakistani rulers got frightened.

History of 1971 is known to all,
How can we forget the pains?
Bangla got victory after a blood shed war
Let us say Joy Banglar Joy.

Freedom's flower bloomed in the courtyard,
After lives of lacs of people had sacrificed.
Bangla was liberated by the spiritual spell of Bangabandhu,
Named Bangladesh which is immeasurable significant.

Autocrats established terrorism in that Sonar Bangla
After floods of blood country was not develop by eras.
Good people are still lament for mental agony
And fundamental elements cried in the trap.

Bangabandhu was killed by local attackers,
Yet today Sonar Bangla is in howling.
I hate that gang of killers,
Countrymen have not forgotten that occurrence.

Where do we get such a patriot of the country?
Everything is in the country except the father.
Who told he is not, he is in our mind,
Crazy Rabin will remember him forever.

Who told he is not, he is in every house,
He is in the mind of everybody.
Let say Mujib, Mujib, let say Joy Bangla,
Let say Joy Bangla, let say Mujib Mujib…

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An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford, to Hasten him into the Country

1 Come, spur away!
2 I have no patience for a longer stay;
3 But must go down,
4 And leave the chargeable noise of this great town.
5 I will the country see,
6 Where old simplicity,
7 Though hid in gray,
8 Doth look more gay
9 Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.
10 Farewell, you city-wits that are
11 Almost at civil war;
12 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

13 More of my days
14 I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;
15 Or to make sport
16 For some slight puny of the Inns of Court.
17 Then, worthy Stafford, say,
18 How shall we spend the day?
19 With what delights
20 Shorten the nights?
21 When from this tumult we are got secure,
22 Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
23 Yet shall no finger lose;
24 Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

25 There from the tree
26 We'll cherries pluck; and pick the strawberry;
27 And every day
28 Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
29 Whose brown hath lovelier grace
30 Than any painted face
31 That I do know
32 Hyde Park can show.
33 Where I had rather gain a kiss, than meet
34 (Though some of them in greater state
35 Might court my love with plate)
36 The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

37 But think upon
38 Some other pleasures; these to me are none.
39 Why do I prate
40 Of women, that are things against my fate?
41 I never mean to wed,
42 That torture to my bed:
43 My Muse is she
44 My Love shall be.
45 Let clowns get wealth, and heirs; when I am gone,
46 And the great bugbear, grisly Death,
47 Shall take this idle breath,
48 If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

49 Of this, no more;
50 We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.
51 No fruit shall 'scape
52 Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
53 Then, full, we'll seek a shade,
54 And hear what music's made:
55 How Philomel
56 Her tale doth tell;
57 And how the other birds do fill the quire;
58 The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
59 Warbling melodious notes;
60 We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire.

61 Ours is the sky,
62 Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly;
63 Nor will we spare
64 To hunt the crafty fox, or timorous hare;
65 But let our hounds run loose
66 In any ground they'll choose;
67 The buck shall fall,
68 The stag, and all.
69 Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
70 For to my Muse, if not to me,
71 I'm sure all game is free;
72 Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

73 And when we mean
74 To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
75 And drink by stealth
76 A cup or two to noble Berkeley's health:
77 I'll take my pipe and try
78 The Phrygian melody,
79 Which he that hears,
80 Lets through his ears
81 A madness to distemper all the brain.
82 Then I another pipe will take
83 And Doric music make,
84 To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

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The Country Of Marriage

I.

I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.

II.

This comes after silence. Was it something I said
that bound me to you, some mere promise
or, worse, the fear of loneliness and death?
A man lost in the woods in the dark, I stood
still and said nothing. And then there rose in me,
like the earth's empowering brew rising
in root and branch, the words of a dream of you
I did not know I had dreamed. I was a wanderer
who feels the solace of his native land
under his feet again and moving in his blood.
I went on, blind and faithful. Where I stepped
my track was there to steady me. It was no abyss
that lay before me, but only the level ground.

III.

Sometimes our life reminds me
of a forest in which there is a graceful clearing
and in that opening a house,
an orchard and garden,
comfortable shades, and flowers
red and yellow in the sun, a pattern
made in the light for the light to return to.
The forest is mostly dark, its ways
to be made anew day after day, the dark
richer than the light and more blessed,
provided we stay brave
enough to keep on going in.

IV.

How many times have I come to you out of my head
with joy, if ever a man was,
for to approach you I have given up the light
and all directions. I come to you
lost, wholly trusting as a man who goes
into the forest unarmed. It is as though I descend
slowly earthward out of the air. I rest in peace
in you, when I arrive at last.

V.

Our bond is no little economy based on the exchange
of my love and work for yours, so much for so much
of an expendable fund. We don't know what its limits are--
that puts us in the dark. We are more together
than we know, how else could we keep on discovering
we are more together than we thought?
You are the known way leading always to the unknown,
and you are the known place to which the unknown is always
leading me back. More blessed in you than I know,
I possess nothing worthy to give you, nothing
not belittled by my saying that I possess it.
Even an hour of love is a moral predicament, a blessing
a man may be hard up to be worthy of. He can only
accept it, as a plant accepts from all the bounty of the light
enough to live, and then accepts the dark,
passing unencumbered back to the earth, as I
have fallen tine and again from the great strength
of my desire, helpless, into your arms.

VI.

What I am learning to give you is my death
to set you free of me, and me from myself
into the dark and the new light. Like the water
of a deep stream, love is always too much. We
did not make it. Though we drink till we burst
we cannot have it all, or want it all.
In its abundance it survives our thirst.
In the evening we come down to the shore
to drink our fill, and sleep, while it
flows through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us, except we keep returning
to its rich waters thirsty. We enter,
willing to die, into the commonwealth of its joy.

VII.

I give you what is unbounded, passing from dark to dark,
containing darkness: a night of rain, an early morning.
I give you the life I have let live for the love of you:
a clump of orange-blooming weeds beside the road,
the young orchard waiting in the snow, our own life
that we have planted in the ground, as I
have planted mine in you. I give you my love for all
beautiful and honest women that you gather to yourself
again and again, and satisfy--and this poem,
no more mine than any man's who has loved a woman.

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Elegy XXI. Taking a View of the Country From His Retirement

Thus Damon sung-What though unknown to praise,
Umbrageous coverts hide my Muse and me,
Or mid the rural shepherds flow my days?
Amid the rural shepherds, I am free.

To view sleek vassals crowd a stately hall,
Say, should I grow myself a solemn slave?
To find thy tints, O Titian! grace my wall,
Forego the flowery fields my fortune gave?

Lord of my time, my devious path I bend
Through fringy woodland, or smooth-shaven lawn,
Or pensile grove, or airy cliff ascend,
And hail the scene by Nature's pencil drawn.

Thanks be to Fate-though nor the racy vine,
Nor fattening olive, clothe the fields I rove,
Sequester'd shades and gurgling founts are mine,
And every sylvan grot the Muses love.

Here if my vista point the mouldering pile,
Where hood and cowl Devotion's aspect wore,
I trace the tottering relics with a smile,
To think the mental bondage is no more.

Pleased if the glowing landscape wave with corn,
Or the tall oaks, my country's bulwark, rise;
Pleased if mine eye, o'er thousand valleys borne,
Discern the Cambrian hills support the skies.

And see Plinlimmon! even the youthful sight
Scales the proud hill's ethereal cliffs with pain!
Such, Caer-Caradoc! thy stupendous height,
Whose ample shade obscures th' Iernian main.

Bleak, joyless regions! where, by Science fired,
Some prying sage his lonely step may bend;
There, by the love of novel plants inspired,
Invidious view the clambering goats ascend.

Yet for those mountains, clad with lasting snow,
The freeborn Briton left his greenest mead,
Receding sullen from his mightier foe,
For here he saw fair Liberty recede.

Then if a chief perform'd a patriot's part,
Sustain'd her drooping sons, repell'd her foes,
Above all Persian luxe or Attic art
The rude majestic monument arose.

Progressive ages caroll'd forth his fame,
Sires, to his praise, attuned their children's tongue;
The hoary Druid fed the generous flame,
While in such strains the reverend wizard sung:

'Go forth, my Sons!-for what is vital breath,
Your gods expell'd, your liberty resign'd?
Go forth, my Sons!-for what is instant death
To souls secure perennial joys to find?

'For scenes there are, unknown to war or pain,
Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound;
Where patriots, bless'd with boundless freedom, reign,
With misletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd.

'Such are the names that grace your mystic songs;
Your solemn woods resound their martial fire;
To you, my Sons, the ritual meed belongs,
If in the cause you vanquish or expire.

'Hark! from the sacred oak, that crowns the groves,
What awful voice my raptured bosom warms!
This is the favour'd moment Heaven approves,
Sound the shrill trump; this instant sound, to arms.'

Theirs was the science of a martial race,
To shape the lance, or decorate the shield
Even the fair virgin stain'd her native grace
To give new horrors to the tented field.

Now, for some cheek where guilty blushes glow,
For some false Florimel's impure disguise,
The listed youth nor War's loud signal know,
Nor Virtue's call, nor Fame's imperial prize.

Then, if soft concord lull'd their fears to sleep,
Inert and silent slept the manly car,
But rush'd horrific o'er the fearful steep,
If Freedom's awful clarion breathed to war.

Now the sleek courtier, indolent and vain,
Throned in the splendid carriage, glides supine,
To taint his virtue with a foreign stain,
Or at a favourite board his faith resign.

Leave then, O Luxury! this happy soil;
Chase her, Britannia! to some hostile shore
Or fleece the baneful pest with annual spoil,
And let thy virtuous offspring weep no more.

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An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford to hasten Him into the Country

COME, spur away,
   I have no patience for a longer stay,
   But must go down
   And leave the chargeable noise of this great town:
   I will the country see,
   Where old simplicity,
   Though hid in gray,
   Doth look more gay
   Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.
   Farewell, you city wits, that are
   Almost at civil war--
'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

   More of my days
   I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;
   Or to make sport
   For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.
   Then, worthy Stafford, say,
   How shall we spend the day?
   With what delights
   Shorten the nights?
   When from this tumult we are got secure,
   Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
   Yet shall no finger lose;
Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?

   There from the tree
   We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;
   And every day
   Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
   Whose brown hath lovelier grace
   Than any painted face
   That I do know
   Hyde Park can show:
   Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet
   (Though some of them in greater state
   Might court my love with plate)
The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

   But think upon
   Some other pleasures: these to me are none.
   Why do I prate
   Of women, that are things against my fate!
   I never mean to wed
   That torture to my bed:
   My Muse is she
   My love shall be.
   Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone
   And that great bugbear, grisly Death,
   Shall take this idle breath,
If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

   Of this no more!
   We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.
   No fruit shall 'scape
   Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
   Then, full, we'll seek a shade,
   And hear what music 's made;
   How Philomel
   Her tale doth tell,
   And how the other birds do fill the quire;
   The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
   Warbling melodious notes;
We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

   Ours is the sky,
   Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:
   Nor will we spare
   To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;
   But let our hounds run loose
   In any ground they'll choose;
   The buck shall fall,
   The stag, and all.
   Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
   For to my Muse, if not to me,
   I'm sure all game is free:
Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

   And when we mean
   To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
   And drink by stealth
   A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,
   I'll take my pipe and try
   The Phrygian melody;
   Which he that hears,
   Lets through his ears
   A madness to distemper all the brain:
   Then I another pipe will take
   And Doric music make,
To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

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The Country Faith

HERE in the country’s heart
Where the grass is green,
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been.

Trust in a God still lives,
And the bell at morn
Floats with a thought of God
O’er the rising corn.

God comes down in the rain,
And the crop grows tall—
This is the country faith,
And the best of all!

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Wild In The Country

(words & music by george wise - hugo peretti - luigi creatore)
A rose grows wild in the country
A tree grows tall as the sky
The wind blows wild in the country
And part of the wild, wild country, am i
Wild, wild, like the deer and the dove
Wild and free is this land that I love
A dream grows wild in the country
A love grows tall as the sky
A heart beats wild in the country
And here with a dream in my heart
Part of the wild, wild country, am i

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