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Wang Wei

Pa Pass

At daybreak I head for Pa Pass.
Spring and I together leave Ch’ang-an.
A woman washes clothes in bright water.
The birds at dawn sing in the light.
River country. Boats here are markets.
Mountain bridges cling to treetops.
Climbing up, a hundred villages.
In the far sun the Two Rivers.
People here speak another language,
But the birdsong's just like my country's.
Understanding the depths of landscape,
Even here I am never lonely.

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Laking Marikina, Part 2

Isang paraiso no'n ang Ilog Marikina
Daming binubuhay, daming umaasa
Malinis na tubig, siya'ng pinagkukunan,
Inumin sa banga, panligo sa tapayan
Tumana sa baybay, daming binubuhay
Palakaya sa tubig, iba't-iba ang paraan
Sa inyo ko'y babanggitin, anu-ano ang pangalan

BINGWIT

Ang Bingwit ay isang panghuli ng isda
Na may tangkay, pisi, pabigat at taga
Sa Ingles siya ay rod, hook, line and sinker
Bingwit or Fishing Rod, parehong may pain
Pain namin no'n ay hipon at bulate
Sari-saring isda ang nangahuhuli
Biya, hito, kanduli, minsa'y bakule
Bingwit ay di pare-pareho ang gamit
Merong sa tubig lang ay inilalawit
Merong hinihila matapos ihagis
Para ng isda ang pain ay mapansin
Akala niya'y buhay, agad sasagpangin
Ang tawag namin sa ganitong paraan
Ay di namimingwit, kundi nanggagalay

PATUKBA

Patukba ay parang bingwit na maliit
Maikli ang pisi, ang tangkay ay siit
Tangkay ay matulis para maitusok
Pag iniuumang na sa tabi ng ilog
Sa dulo ng tangkay doon nakalawit
Ang pising sa dulo, taga'y nakakabit
Kung ito'y iumang ay sa dakong hapon
Pain ay palaka, kuliglig o suhong
IIwang magdamag hanggang sa umaga
ang oras na dapat sila'y pandawin na
Ang paing sa tubig ay kakawag-kawag
Ng bulig o dalag gustong sinisiyab
Ang aking patukba'y tatlumpu ang bilang
Di marami, di kaunti, lang ay katamtaman
Sa bilang na ito, bawat pag-uumang
Ang dalag kong huli'y naglalaro sa siyam
Ang paing kuliglig saan kinukuha?
Sa ilalim ng yagit sa bukid/tumana
Ang suhong naman ay sa mga putikan
Sa tabi ng ilog, kahit na nga saan
Ang palaka naman ay sa mga lawa, Sa bukid, sa ilog at lugar na basa

KITANG

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Kamatayan ng Isang Ilog

Simula pa noong aking kamusmusan
Ang ilog sa amin sa akin napamahal
Malaking bahagi ng kabataan ko
Ay dito nagugol hanggang maging tao

Malinaw ang tubig sa Batis at Layon
Sarap magtampisaw, kay sarap lumangoy
Sa kanyang Agos ay nagpapati-anod
Sa Uli-uli niya ay nagpapahigop
Sa Alimbukay na pumapaibabaw
Mula sa ilalim masarap sumakay

Siya ay Cornucopia ng likas na yaman
Ng isda sa tubig, halaman sa baybay
Sa kanyang aplaya'y kay inam mamasyal
Lunas sa isip na nagulumihanan
Ang singaw ng tubig at simoy ng hangin
Ng may karamdaman, mabuting langhapin

At do'n sa malalim, nasa dakong gitna
Ang mga tao ay nagsisipamangka
Ang gamit ay sagwan o mahabang tikin
Sa balsang kawayan o tiniban ng saging

Ilog na piknikan ng napakarami
Nilang kakainin di na binibili
Magdadala lamang ng posporo, bigas,
asin at lutuan, ayos na ang lahat
Di na kailangan ang mamalakaya
Mangangapa lamang, ay merong ulam na
Hipon, Bulig, Biya, kasama na Tulya,
Di ka kakapusin, meron nang gulay pa
Gulay na nagkalat lamang sa baybayin
O gulay na galing sa tubig na lalim
Ito'y Kalabuwa, katulad ay Pechay
Na sa kamatis ay masarap isigang

At sa kalaliman kay daming halaman
Kasama ng lumot, at sintas-sintasan
Digman at iba pa na gustong taguan
Ng Hipon, at Biya, saka Talibantan

Yaong aming ilog ay siya ring tahanan
Ng Sulib, ng Kuhol, ng Susong Tibagwang
Masarap ipangat, masarap subukan
Na pag ginataa'y lalong malinamnam

Ang Hipong Tagunton huli sa Talabog
Masarap na pritong muna'y hinalabos
Ang higanteng hipon, kung tawagi'y Ulang

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Hi Tech

Salamat na lamang sa high technology
Na kahit huli na'y umabot pa kami
Kaming 'pinanganak noong ninteeen thirty's
At swerteng narating ang idad seventies

Ang tula na ito nang aking sulatin
Sign pen ang ginamit, substitute ay ballpen
Final draft, tinapos sa aking computer
Malinis na kopya'y ginawa sa printer

Extra copy nito'y puwedeng ipadala
Attachment sa email, by fax at meron pa
Surface mail at airmail, kundi kuntento ka
By Fedex, LBC, hari ng padala

Ang maraming kopya, paano gagawin
Noon ay photostat, masyadong maitim
O kaya'y mimeograph, a very messy thing
Tinta'y kumakalat sa pag-i-stencil
Ngayon nama'y xerox, pagkopya'y matulin

Kung ang tulang ito'y noon ko sinulat
Ako'y mayayamot, at iyon ay tiyak
Kung kailan ako ay nagmamadali
Ang lapis na gamit, saka mababali
Gamit na fountain pen, tinta'y umaagas
Kundi nagtatae, penpoint ay matalas
Sa aking 'cocomband', kakamot, kakaskas

Noong bata kami, ay wala pang cellphone
Telepono'y mayaman lang ang mayroon
Lihim na pag-ibig, hindi maite-text
Tulay o messenger, kelangang gumamit
Resultang madalas, sulat maintercept
Ng tatay o nanay na napakahigpit
O kaya'y si darleng, sa 'tulay' kumabet

Kapag ang wagas na pag-ibig na iyo
Ay sa kaprasong papel pa isusulat mo
Sa post o koreo padadaanin pa
Bago ka masagot, kayo'y matanda na

Walang mega taksing kung tawagi'y FX
Magtitiyaga ka lang sa PUJ na dyip
'God Knows Hudas Not Pay', paskel, nakadikit
'Upong Diyes lamang po', laging sinasambit
Ng tsuper na kundi mabait-masungit

Mga bata noon, hilig ay mangisda
'Fighting fish' naman ang sa mga matanda

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The Loves of the Angels

'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.

Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!

One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!

Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest

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Byron

Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
Anever mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

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Ang Kanser Sa Totoy Sa Akong English Teacher

Dugay ra niyang nabati ang bukol sa w'a niya nga totoy.
Kapoy. Baliwala lang. Mora'g wala lang. Daghan pa siya'g
Gigastohan nga mga pag-umangkon. Busy pod sa World
Literature. Preoccupied sa Third World Poetry.

Napulo'g lima katuig nga gatudlo sa English ug World
Literature si Ma'am sa usa ka private religious school.
Usa ako sa iyang gipalayog sa verb, adverbs, ug adjectives.
Gipaharong kang Tolstoy. Nakig-tagay ni Omar.
Sa mga blithe spirits ni Shelly. Ug kang Lucasta sa dihang
Miasdang na siya sa gubat. Kang Emily, Pablo, Octavio.
Shakespeare.Neruda. Mistral.

Nagdugo, nagnana ang duha miya ka tutoy.
Daghang verbs, adverbs, adjectives. Aduna pa gayo'y
Mga prepositions and conjunctions nga nabalaka su'd
Sa 25 ka tuig. Natawo ang mga balak. Ug mga sugilanon.
Nanubo ang mga dahon sa laurel. Nangisog ang mga paminta.
Namaak ang kahalang sa sili sa akong mga ngabil
Mitubo ang mga pan. Mibukal ang mga tuba.
Pati ang lana sa mga hilo-anan ug mga wakwak.
Mikuyanap ang Magic Touch. Ang mga figments
Of imagination. Ang mga streams of consciousness.
Mikamang ang walay angay nga mokamang
sa ilalom sa katre ug panganod.

Dili siya magpa-opera. Dili niya gusto. Wa’y igong kwarta.
Dili nga dili makatabang ang chemotheraphy.
Giluwa na ang Iyang ATM. Nalubong siya sa utang.
Dugay ra. Nagmahay ang mga subordinate clauses.
Dili matonong ang mga direct objects. Naunay siya
Sa mga dreams nga nag-dream. Nagkulismaot
Ang mga dagway sa infinitives. Ug ang mga predicates
Mismo ang nagkutkot sa iyang lubnganan.
Nagpakaluoy ang Philippine Literature nga unta dili lang
Usa siya kuhaon ni Bathala.Time passes swiftly. Ang mga rosas
Nga mibukhad karon, pipila lang ka oras sa kilid sa bintana,
Kadali rang nangalaya. Ang mga buds na-nipped. Tight-lipped.
Dying. Dayag ang pagka-dying ni Daying.

Lubong niya karon. Ug tulo lang kami nga mitungha.
Usa lang ang miiyak. Ug ang duha, kadyot lang nga mitan-aw
Ug dayo'g biya kay dunay mga importanteng mga lakaw
Sa ilang kinabuhi.Walay gahom ang balak sa pagbanhaw kang
Ma'am. Ang mga prepositions ug conjunctions dili mga karo
Ug ligid mga mohatod kaniya sa menteryo. Nag-inusara lang
Intawon siya gihapon. Bisan pa sa iyang pagpangugat og pama-
Lak usab kaniadto. Dili ang iyang mga pag-umangkon
Ang miiyak. Ugma ablihon ko ang daan nga libro ni Pablo Neruda.

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Hari Ng Tondo

Kahit sa patalim kumapit
Isang tuka isang kahig
Ang mga kamay na may bahid ng galit
Kasama sa buhay na minana
Isang maling akala na ang taliwas kung minsan ay tama
Ang hari ng tondo, hari ng tondo
Baka mabansagan ka na hari ng tondo
Hari ng tondo, hari ng tondo-ohhh
Baka mabansagan ka na hari ng tondo

[Voice: 'May gatas ka pa sa labi, gusto mo nang mag-hari dito sa Tondo? ']

Minsan sa isang lugar sa Maynila
Maraming nangyayari
Ngunit takot ang dilang
Sabihin ang lahat
Animo'y kagat-kagat
Kahit itago'y 'di mo pwedeng pigilin ang alamat na umusbong
Kahit na madami ang ulupong
At halos hindi iba ang laya sa pagkakulong
Sa kamay ng iilan
Umaabusong kikilan
Ang lahat ng pumalag
Walang tanong
Ay kitilan ng buhay
Hukay, luha'y magpapatunay
Na kahit hindi makulay
Kailangang magbigay-pugay
Sa kung sino mang lamang
Mga bitukang halang
At kung wala kang alam
Ay yumuko ka nalang
Hanggang sa may nagpasya
Na sumalungat sa agos
Wasakin ang mga kadena na siyang gumagapos
Sa kwento na mas astig pa sa bagong-tahi na lonta
Sabay-sabay nating awitin ang tabing na tolda
[ Lyrics from:
Kahit sa patalim kumapit
Isang tuka isang kahig
Ang mga kamay na may bahid ng galit
Kasama sa buhay na minana
Isang maling akala na ang taliwas kung minsan ay tama
Ang hari ng tondo, hari ng tondo
Baka mabansagan ka na hari ng tondo
Hari ng tondo, hari ng tondo-ohhh
Baka mabansagan ka na hari ng tondo

[Voices: 'Sino ang may sabi sa inyo na pumasok kayo sa teritoryo ko? Amin ang lupang ito.' 'Hindi, kay Asiong! ']

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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

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Larong Trumpo

Ang laro sa trumpo na inabutan ko
Sa barrio namin ang ngalan ay Pandiego
Ang tamang spelling at talagang tawag
Ay hindi ko alam, hindi ko matiyak
Ngunit aking alam ang alituntunin
Kung p'anong ang laro ay dapat na gawin
Sila sa inyo ko'y iisa-isahin

Sa lupa'y guguhit ng isang bilog muna
Na ang diametro'y mga isang yarda
Guguhit ng ekis sa gitna at loob
Ang crossing ng ekis ay siyang centerpoint
Ng mga player ay siyang patatamaan
Ang mano't ang taya saka malalaman

Sa rules ng manuhan, kami ay strikto
Di komo malapit ang tama ng pako
Ikaw na'y di taya, ikaw na ay mano
Dapat umiikot, buhay ang iyong trumpo
At kelangang ito pa ay masate mo
Dahil pag nalaglag, ikaw din ay talo

Mayroon kaming rules na taya ang kulelat
Ang lahat ay buhay at titirang lahat
Nagsosolong taya ng kotong ay tadtad
Pero di tatagal, taya'y dumadami
Namatay sa loob, hindi nakasikad'
Di nakamaniola, kaya'y di nasate

Para ang laro ay parehas at timbang
Hinahati namin ang patay at buhay
O dami ng taya at ng tumitira
Kung ito ay gawin, nami'y paano ba
Kung apat ang player 'taya' ang dalawang
pinakakulelat, dalawang mano'y 'tira'

Ang mga trumpo na taya at 'patay' na
Ng mga 'buhay' silay tinitira
Trumpong nakataya kapag napakuan
Ito'y 'nakotongan' kung aming bansagan
Pag ang tayang trumpo'y natuklap, natapyas
'Nasiklatan' naman naming tinatawag

Trumpong itinira, pag hindi umikot
Iyon na ay patay, taya na sa loob
Trumpong di umikot, pero me nagalaw
Na trumpo na taya, siya pa rin ay buhay
Puwedeng muli't ulit siya ay tumira
Iyon ang tinatawag namin na 'maniola'
Ang trumpong nabuhay sa labas ng guhit

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The Georgics

GEORGIC I

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom
Three hundred snow-white heifers browse the brakes,
The fertile brakes of Ceos; and clothed in power,
Thy native forest and Lycean lawns,
Pan, shepherd-god, forsaking, as the love
Of thine own Maenalus constrains thee, hear
And help, O lord of Tegea! And thou, too,
Minerva, from whose hand the olive sprung;
And boy-discoverer of the curved plough;
And, bearing a young cypress root-uptorn,
Silvanus, and Gods all and Goddesses,
Who make the fields your care, both ye who nurse
The tender unsown increase, and from heaven
Shed on man's sowing the riches of your rain:
And thou, even thou, of whom we know not yet
What mansion of the skies shall hold thee soon,
Whether to watch o'er cities be thy will,
Great Caesar, and to take the earth in charge,
That so the mighty world may welcome thee
Lord of her increase, master of her times,
Binding thy mother's myrtle round thy brow,
Or as the boundless ocean's God thou come,
Sole dread of seamen, till far Thule bow
Before thee, and Tethys win thee to her son
With all her waves for dower; or as a star
Lend thy fresh beams our lagging months to cheer,
Where 'twixt the Maid and those pursuing Claws
A space is opening; see! red Scorpio's self
His arms draws in, yea, and hath left thee more
Than thy full meed of heaven: be what thou wilt-
For neither Tartarus hopes to call thee king,

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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.


II.

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Tamar

I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.

The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,

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Kabahin Sa Halangdong Kritiko

Dili ka nako mabasol kay ako ang nag-aghat nimo
pagdayon sa akong balay karong adlawa ug sa umaabot pa.
Ari, saka sa akong hagdan nga karaan
nga wala pa gyod malampasohi ang mga ang-ang.

Palihog og tan-aw sa iyang mga hawiranan.
Kinahanglan pa bang silakan o pintalan ba hinuon?

Dali saka sa akong sala, ug palihog pahimutang
sa akong mga lingkoranan nga ginama sa mga kawayan
nga gipaslotan ang batakan sa mga gabaga nga puthaw
aron ipatik ang ilhanan: ang akong ngalan.

Mangadto ta sa akong katulganan
sa katre nga tugas nga akong sinunod sa akong mga ginikanan.
Dunay mga tinagoan nakong mga gilumotan sa tumang kadaan.
Patay na ang mga isda sa gamay nakong aquarium,
ug ang mga suga sa kilid nangaponder na.
Wala ko’y plano nga alisdan kay ganahan ko sa dulom.

Mangadto nya ta sa akong talad kan-anan.
Wala’y basiyo sa beer o Tanduay, apan daghang garapa
sa mga tambal nga wala nay mga sulod.
Ang mga resita sa doktor gihapnig sa kilid sa lamesa
diin anaa ang akong antipara.

Dinhi niining lugara masilip mo ang akong gamay kaayo
nga kusina, ug sa kilid naa ang akong kasilyas. Ayaw katingala
nganong busloton ang atop. Kay kon ako malibang,
maglantaw dayon ko sa mga nanglabay nga mga bituon.

Dali dayon ta sa akong veranda.
Sultihi ko samtang manglingkod ta.
Unsa ba ang imong nakita?

Dili puti ang sanina sa akong mga damgo.
Dili pod itom, dili hapsay ang mga sidsid sa akong mga saad.
Dili sab hinoon kaayo kum-ot, wala nay kwelyo
ang akong mga paglaom.
Dili na long pants ang akong mga pangandoy.
Wala na ang singsing og kwentas sa akong ambisyon.
Mibaga ang antipara sa akong mga pangutana,
ug nawala ang mga butones sa akong mga tubag
nga unta mohulip sa nagnganga nakong mga ohales.

Kon mobiya ka na niining akong balay nga karaan,
sultihi silang tanan sa mga hagdan nga dili na sinaw,
sa mga haligi nga nangaharag,
sa mga bungbong nga nangabuslot,
sa mga bintana, pultahan ug atop

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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.


Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.


Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.


1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.


Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,

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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

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Thurso’s Landing

I
The coast-road was being straightened and repaired again,
A group of men labored at the steep curve
Where it falls from the north to Mill Creek. They scattered and hid
Behind cut banks, except one blond young man
Who stooped over the rock and strolled away smiling
As if he shared a secret joke with the dynamite;
It waited until he had passed back of a boulder,
Then split its rock cage; a yellowish torrent
Of fragments rose up the air and the echoes bumped
From mountain to mountain. The men returned slowly
And took up their dropped tools, while a banner of dust
Waved over the gorge on the northwest wind, very high
Above the heads of the forest.
Some distance west of the road,
On the promontory above the triangle
Of glittering ocean that fills the gorge-mouth,
A woman and a lame man from the farm below
Had been watching, and turned to go down the hill. The young
woman looked back,
Widening her violet eyes under the shade of her hand. 'I think
they'll blast again in a minute.'
And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't
like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring in the world;
We're well without it.' His lameness gave him some look of age
but he was young too; tall and thin-faced,
With a high wavering nose. 'Isn't he amusing,' she said, 'that
boy Rick Armstrong, the dynamite man,
How slowly he walks away after he lights the fuse. He loves to
show off. Reave likes him, too,'
She added; and they clambered down the path in the rock-face,
little dark specks
Between the great headland rock and the bright blue sea.

II
The road-workers had made their camp
North of this headland, where the sea-cliff was broken down and
sloped to a cove. The violet-eyed woman's husband,
Reave Thurso, rode down the slope to the camp in the gorgeous
autumn sundown, his hired man Johnny Luna
Riding behind him. The road-men had just quit work and four
or five were bathing in the purple surf-edge,
The others talked by the tents; blue smoke fragrant with food
and oak-wood drifted from the cabin stove-pipe
And slowly went fainting up the vast hill.
Thurso drew rein by
a group of men at a tent door
And frowned at them without speaking, square-shouldered and
heavy-jawed, too heavy with strength for so young a man,
He chose one of the men with his eyes. 'You're Danny Woodruff,

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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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