The Final Say: April
As Mother Goose says,
'April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.'
As Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote,
'April cold with dripping rain
Willows and lilacs brings again.'
poem by Monty Gilmer
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The Gift
(reed, cale, morrison, tucker)
Waldo jeffers had reached his limit. it was now mid-august which meant that he had been separated from marsha for more than two months. two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared let
And two very expensive long-distance phone calls. true, when school had ended and shed returned to wisconsin, and he to locust, pennsylvania. she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity, she w
Date occasionally, but merely as amusement. she would remain faithful.
But lately waldo had begun to worry. he had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. he lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector,
Welling in his eyes. as he pictured marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. it was mo
An the human mind could bear.
Visions of marshas faithlessness haunted him. daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. and the thing was they wouldnt understand how she really was. he, waldo, alone, unders
This. he had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. he had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasnt there (aaahh..). the idea came to him on the thursday before the mu
Parade was scheduled to appear. he had just finished mowing and etching the edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from marsha. there w
Thing more than a circular form the amalgamated aluminum company of america inquiring into his awing needs. at least they cared enough to write.
It was a new york company. you could go anywhere in the mail. then it struck him, he didnt have enough money to go to wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? it was a
Ly simple. he would ship himself parcel post special delivery. the next day waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. he bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium s
Cardboard box, just right for a person of his built. he judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. a few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks and it wo
Robably be as good as going tourist.
By friday afternoon, waldo was set. he was packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three oclock. hed marked the package fragile, and as he sat curled up inside, res
The foam rubber cushioning hed thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on marshas face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then o
It to see her waldo finally there in person. she would kiss him, then, maybe they could see a movie. if hed only thought of this before. suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt hi
Barne up. he landed with a thud in a truck and then he was off.
Marsha bronson had just finished setting her hair. it had been a very rough weekend. she had to remember not to drink like that. bill had been nice about it though. after it was over hed said t
E still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didnt love her, he did feel an affection for her. and, after all, they were grown adults. oh, wh
Lly could teach waldo - but that seemed like years ago. sheila klein, her very, very best friend walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. oh, its absolutely maudlin o
E. ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky! marsha tightened her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, lick
R fingers and made a face. Im supposed to take these salt pills, but she wrinkled her nose, they make me feel like throwing up. marsha started to pat herself under the c
An exercise shed seen on television. g-d, dont even talk about tha
T. she got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. want one? supposed to be better than steak. and attempted to touch her
S. I dont think Ill ever touch a daiquiri again. she gave up and sat down, this time nearer the table that supported the telephone. maybe hell call. she said to sheila
Ance. sheila nibbled on a cuticle. after last night, I thought maybe youd be through with him. I know what you mean, my g-d, he was like an octopus. hands all over the place.&
She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. the thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all he didnt really do anything friday and saturday
Kind of owed it to him, you know what I mean. she started to scratch. sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. Ill tell you, I feel the same way, and even after a while,&q
Here she bend forward in a whisper, wanted to, and now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that mr. jameison of the clarence darrow post office rang the door bell of the large colored stucco frame house. when marsha bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the
Age in. he had his yellow and green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that marsha had gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in the den. what do you think i
Sheila asked. marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. she stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room: I dont know.
Inside the package waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. why dont yo
K at the return address and see who it is from? waldo felt his heart beating. he could feel the vibrating footsteps. it would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. its from waldo. that schmuck! said sheila. waldo trembled with expecta- tion. you might as well o
T, said sheila. both of them tried to flip the stable flap. ah, said marsha groaning. he must have nailed it shut. they tagged at the flap again. my god, you
A power drill to get this thing opened. they pulled again. you cant get a grip! they both stood still, breathing heavily. why dont you get the scissors, said shei
Arsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissors. then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. she ran downstairs and when she c
Ack, she had a large metal cutter in her hand. this is the best I could find. she was out of breath. here, you do it. Im gonna die. she sank into a large fluffy couch an
Aled noisily. sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too big and th
Ere was not enough room. g-ddamn this thing! she said feeling very exaspe- rated. then smiling I got an idea. what? said marsha. just watch, said
A touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, waldo was transfixed with excitement that he could hardly breathe. his skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. it would be soon. sh
Stood upright and walked around to the other side of the package. then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both hands, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade through the mid
F the package, through the middle of the masking tape, through the card- board through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of waldo jeffers head, which split slightly and caused l
Rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun...
song performed by Velvet Underground
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Gift
(reed, cale, morrison, tucker)
Waldo jeffers had reached his limit. it was now mid-august which meant that he had been separated from marsha for more than two months. two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared let
And two very expensive long-distance phone calls. true, when school had ended and shed returned to wisconsin, and he to locust, pennsylvania. she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity, she w
Date occasionally, but merely as amusement. she would remain faithful.
But lately waldo had begun to worry. he had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. he lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector,
Welling in his eyes. as he pictured marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. it was mo
An the human mind could bear.
Visions of marshas faithlessness haunted him. daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. and the thing was they wouldnt understand how she really was. he, waldo, alone, unders
This. he had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. he had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasnt there (aaahh..). the idea came to him on the thursday before the mu
Parade was scheduled to appear. he had just finished mowing and etching the edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from marsha. there w
Thing more than a circular form the amalgamated aluminum company of america inquiring into his awing needs. at least they cared enough to write.
It was a new york company. you could go anywhere in the mail. then it struck him, he didnt have enough money to go to wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? it was a
Ly simple. he would ship himself parcel post special delivery. the next day waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. he bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium s
Cardboard box, just right for a person of his built. he judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. a few airholes, some water, perhaps some midnight snacks and it wo
Robably be as good as going tourist.
By friday afternoon, waldo was set. he was packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three oclock. hed marked the package fragile, and as he sat curled up inside, res
The foam rubber cushioning hed thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on marshas face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then o
It to see her waldo finally there in person. she would kiss him, then, maybe they could see a movie. if hed only thought of this before. suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt hi
Barne up. he landed with a thud in a truck and then he was off.
Marsha bronson had just finished setting her hair. it had been a very rough weekend. she had to remember not to drink like that. bill had been nice about it though. after it was over hed said t
E still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didnt love her, he did feel an affection for her. and, after all, they were grown adults. oh, wh
Lly could teach waldo - but that seemed like years ago. sheila klein, her very, very best friend walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. oh, its absolutely maudlin o
E. ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky! marsha tightened her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, lick
R fingers and made a face. Im supposed to take these salt pills, but she wrinkled her nose, they make me feel like throwing up. marsha started to pat herself under the c
An exercise shed seen on television. g-d, dont even talk about tha
T. she got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. want one? supposed to be better than steak. and attempted to touch her
S. I dont think Ill ever touch a daiquiri again. she gave up and sat down, this time nearer the table that supported the telephone. maybe hell call. she said to sheila
Ance. sheila nibbled on a cuticle. after last night, I thought maybe youd be through with him. I know what you mean, my g-d, he was like an octopus. hands all over the place.&
She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. the thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all he didnt really do anything friday and saturday
Kind of owed it to him, you know what I mean. she started to scratch. sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. Ill tell you, I feel the same way, and even after a while,&q
Here she bend forward in a whisper, wanted to, and now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that mr. jameison of the clarence darrow post office rang the door bell of the large colored stucco frame house. when marsha bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the
Age in. he had his yellow and green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that marsha had gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in the den. what do you think i
Sheila asked. marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. she stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room: I dont know.
Inside the package waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. why dont yo
K at the return address and see who it is from? waldo felt his heart beating. he could feel the vibrating footsteps. it would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. its from waldo. that schmuck! said sheila. waldo trembled with expecta- tion. you might as well o
T, said sheila. both of them tried to flip the stable flap. ah, said marsha groaning. he must have nailed it shut. they tagged at the flap again. my god, you
A power drill to get this thing opened. they pulled again. you cant get a grip! they both stood still, breathing heavily. why dont you get the scissors, said shei
Arsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissors. then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. she ran downstairs and when she c
Ack, she had a large metal cutter in her hand. this is the best I could find. she was out of breath. here, you do it. Im gonna die. she sank into a large fluffy couch an
Aled noisily. sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too big and th
Ere was not enough room. g-ddamn this thing! she said feeling very exaspe- rated. then smiling I got an idea. what? said marsha. just watch, said
A touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, waldo was transfixed with excitement that he could hardly breathe. his skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. it would be soon. sh
Stood upright and walked around to the other side of the package. then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both hands, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade through the mid
F the package, through the middle of the masking tape, through the card- board through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of waldo jeffers head, which split slightly and caused l
Rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun...
song performed by Velvet Underground
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Sister Helen
"Why did you melt your waxen man
Sister Helen?
To-day is the third since you began."
"The time was long, yet the time ran,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!)
"But if you have done your work aright,
Sister Helen,
You'll let me play, for you said I might."
"Be very still in your play to-night,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!)
"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,
Sister Helen;
If now it be molten, all is well."
"Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
O what is this, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,
Sister Helen;
How like dead folk he has dropp'd away!"
"Nay now, of the dead what can you say,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?)
"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,
Sister Helen,
Shines through the thinn'd wax red as blood!"
"Nay now, when look'd you yet on blood,
Little brother?"
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!)
"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,
Sister Helen,
And I'll play without the gallery door."
"Aye, let me rest,--I'll lie on the floor,
Little brother."
(O Mother, Mary Mother,
What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?)
"Here high up in the balcony,
Sister Helen,
[...] Read more
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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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.
[...] Read more
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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February Rain
To be the mud, the bog, the mire;
To soak the bones in February –
Eons from the autumn shower–
Even from a summer berry!
Sparrows chirp a desperate call,
Darting questions at the cows –
Oblivious to the dousing squall, they
Churn the sludge with pastern ploughs.
The crying air was lost in rhythm:
Drums incessant in the drops;
Not a chance for rainbow prism –
Even if the hammering stops!
Metallic chills entrap machines –
Tractors hushed within the shed.
Inside the house, a full cuisine
To bless with mead – and little said!
But out across the tiring field,
A sodden fox is hunting down
His prey of sorts – but nil of yield;
Perhaps he’ll starve; perhaps he’ll drown.
Still the clouds are hammering,
Hammering home their dreary aim –
A chatterbox in constant yammering,
Drenching all to make a claim.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Cold Feet
There was a little boy once upon a time
Who in spite of his young age and small size knew his mind
For every copper penny and clover he would find
Make a wish for better days the end of hard times
For no more cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
His clothes were always clean
His face was always scrubbed
There was food on the table enough to fill him up
His house was full of life - his house was full of love
But when winter days arrived
There was never money enough to shod his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He grew up to be a worker determined to succeed
He made a life for himself, free from worldly wants or needs
But with nobody to share the life hed made
No body to keep him warm at night
When hed go to sleep hed sleep alone with his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
One night he walked the street looking to the heavens above
Searching for a shooting star a benevolent god
When a woman passing by brushed his arm
He turned and found love
He then wished for the courage to ask this stranger
Who she was to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought shed like the party life and want the finer things
So he promised more than he could buy
And he promised her the sun and moon to not have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He worked day and night his fingers to the bone
Hi worried mind guilty conscience drive him on
He cant give her what she needs
He wants to give her what he thinks she wants
Her sad-eyed face, his empty pockets drive him on and his cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
Hed struggled all his life to be an honest man
Proud that the dirt on his palms was the soil of the land
But some guys he knew from high school days
Said they had a plan to get rich quick
And they could count him in if he dont have cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He thought about their offer accepted it without qualms
Dreamt about the life hed buy
The comfort that would come without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
He decided to tell his wife things would soon turn around
He said the little boy is dead
A man stands with you now without cold feet
Cold cold cold cold feet
[...] Read more
song performed by Tracy Chapman
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue
ROSALIND, HELEN, and her Child.
SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como.
HELEN
Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.
'T is long since thou and I have met;
And yet methinks it were unkind
Those moments to forget.
Come, sit by me. I see thee stand
By this lone lake, in this far land,
Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
United, and thine eyes replying
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Come, gentle friend! wilt sit by me?
And be as thou wert wont to be
Ere we were disunited?
None doth behold us now; the power
That led us forth at this lone hour
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn. Oh, come,
And talk of our abandoned home!
Remember, this is Italy,
And we are exiles. Talk with me
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Barren and dark although they be,
Were dearer than these chestnut woods;
Those heathy paths, that inland stream,
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream;
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
That cannot be! Rosalind, speak,
Speak to me! Leave me not! When morn did come,
When evening fell upon our common home,
When for one hour we parted,--do not frown;
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken;
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,
Turn, as 't were but the memory of me,
And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee!
ROSALIND
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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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,
[...] Read more
Looking For A Goose To Cook
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Move your hoofs.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Someone's got you hooked!
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Move your hoofs.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Someone's got you hooked!
I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
Move my hoofs.
And I don't want to be,
Saddled down...
By a lover,
Looking for a goose to cook.
I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
Move my hoofs.
And I don't want to be,
Saddled down...
By a lover,
Looking for a goose to cook.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Move your hoofs.
When you find that you've been saddled for a ride...
Someone's got you hooked!
I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
Move my hoofs.
And I don't want to be,
Saddled down...
By a lover...
Looking for a goose to cook.
Many looking at a saddled goose to cook.
And I don't want to be a saddled goose to cook.
Many looking at a saddled goose to cook.
And I don't want to be a saddled goose to cook.
I know,
When I'm hooked.
I can't,
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Door Of Humility
ENGLAND
We lead the blind by voice and hand,
And not by light they cannot see;
We are not framed to understand
The How and Why of such as He;
But natured only to rejoice
At every sound or sign of hope,
And, guided by the still small voice,
In patience through the darkness grope;
Until our finer sense expands,
And we exchange for holier sight
The earthly help of voice and hands,
And in His light behold the Light.
I
Let there be Light! The self-same Power
That out of formless dark and void
Endued with life's mysterious dower
Planet, and star, and asteroid;
That moved upon the waters' face,
And, breathing on them His intent,
Divided, and assigned their place
To, ocean, air, and firmament;
That bade the land appear, and bring
Forth herb and leaf, both fruit and flower,
Cattle that graze, and birds that sing,
Ordained the sunshine and the shower;
That, moulding man and woman, breathed
In them an active soul at birth
In His own image, and bequeathed
To them dominion over Earth;
That, by whatever is, decreed
His Will and Word shall be obeyed,
From loftiest star to lowliest seed;-
The worm and me He also made.
And when, for nuptials of the Spring
With Summer, on the vestal thorn
The bridal veil hung flowering,
A cry was heard, and I was born.
II
[...] Read more
poem by Alfred Austin
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A Fable For Critics
Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'
Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.
Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,
[...] Read more
poem by James Russell Lowell
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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,
[...] Read more
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Rain,rain
Why am I here if youre there
So far away its not fair
To be without you like this
I miss you more than you know
The nights are long
The days slow
Without the warmth of your kiss
Wish you were back here with me
Cause out my window
All is see is
Rain , rain in the sky
Everywhere I look my eyes see
Rain , rain fallin down
Crying as it hits the ground
Rain , rain in my heart
Every day that were apart
Rain , rain
Falling rain , rain
Rain , rain
Only rain , rain
The sun is strong when youre near
But when youre gone it disappears
Behind an ocean of blue
The telephones not good enough
It cant reach out it cant touch
Me like the way you do
Wish you would knock at my door
Cause only you can stop the pouring
Rain , rain in the sky
Everywhere I look my eyes see
Rain , rain fallin down
Crying as it hits the ground
Rain , rain in my heart
Every day that were apart
Rain , rain
Falling rain , rain
Rain , rain
Only rain , rain
Maybe ill go outside
And walk beneath the clouds
Pretend its you thats watching over me
This isnt the only thing that comes
Between us now
Baby soon well be together
Oooo
( everywhere I look I see rain )
( everywhere I look I see rain )
Rain
( everywhere I look I see rain )
Everywhere I look I see rain
[...] Read more
song performed by Cher
Added by Lucian Velea
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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,
[...] Read more
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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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
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Cold Feet
He just turned seventeen
When the moment came
He was standing on the corner
In the pouring rain
She pulled up along side
And rolled the window down
And said can I drive you
To some part of town
Hes sitting beside her
With a great big smile
The lady had class
It stood out a mile
His heart was beating
Like a big bass drum
Thinking at last
His time had finally come
He started talkin fast
Trying to loosen up
But he just felt kinda stupid
So he shut up
She said dont think Im fast
cause Im really not
But his fever went all wild
It was getting hot
She pulled into the driveway
Of a big brown stone
He was champing at the bit
And then her heart be told
She said my husbands working
Hell be gong all day
But he couldnt believe it
When he heard himself say
Im getting cold feet
Im getting cold feet
Lady dont ya hear me talking to you
Hey theres something that you can do
Im so nervous I just might shoot you
Ive got them cold, cold feet
Well a couple years on
And our heros grown
Hes a professional musician
With a band of his own
Hadnt had much luck
With the girls that he meets
Might get another case of terminal cold feet
He met a girl not too long ago
She thought she could change him
But it wasnt so
As soon as she mentioned long term romance
He went into that same old song and dance
[...] Read more
song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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Lilacs At My Funeral
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m dead
Lilacs in my coffin
Placed gently by my head
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m gone
Lilacs to help send me
On my journey home
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs for my grave
Lilacs instead of roses
Think of the money you will save
1978
www.dakotaraeaustin.com
poem by Dakota Austin
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The Moat House
PART I
I
UNDER the shade of convent towers,
Where fast and vigil mark the hours,
From childhood into youth there grew
A maid as fresh as April dew,
And sweet as May's ideal flowers,
Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies,
Like children's dreams most pure, unwise,
Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too,
That sometimes shone a moment through
Her wondrous unawakened eyes.
The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant
The twig should grow as it was bent;
That she, like them, should watch youth's bier,
Should watch her day-dreams disappear,
And go the loveless way they went.
The convent walls were high and grey;
How could Love hope to find a way
Into that citadel forlorn,
Where his dear name was put to scorn,
Or called a sinful thing to say?
Yet Love did come; what need to tell
Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell
Across her feet when dreamily
She paced, with unused breviary,
Down paths made still with August's spell--
Of looks cast through the chapel grate,
Of letters helped by Love and Fate,
That to cold fingers did not come
But lay within a warmer home,
Upon her heart inviolate?
Somehow he loved her--she loved him:
Then filled her soul's cup to the brim,
And all her daily life grew bright
With such a flood of rosy light
As turned the altar candles dim.
[...] Read more
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Plea Of The Midsummer Fairies
I
'Twas in that mellow season of the year
When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves
Till they be gold,—and with a broader sphere
The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;—
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,
Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time,
To think how the bright months had spent their prime,
II
So that, wherever I address'd my way,
I seem'd to track the melancholy feet
Of him that is the Father of Decay,
And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;—
Wherefore regretfully I made retreat
To some unwasted regions of my brain,
Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat,
And bade that bounteous season bloom again,
And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.
III
It was a shady and sequester'd scene,
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio,
Planted with his own laurels evergreen,
And roses that for endless summer blow;
And there were fountain springs to overflow
Their marble basins,—and cool green arcades
Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,—
With timid coneys cropping the green blades.
IV
And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish,
Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin,
Some crimson-barr'd;—and ever at a wish
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in,
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom;
Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win
My changeable regard,—for so we doom
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Hood
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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,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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