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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Grail

In the village Bellastrino
On the craggy Tuscan hills,
Lies an old abandoned Abbey
And the Church of San Michele,
Though the village was abandoned
There are two who would not go,
The Abbot, Father Grandier,
The Priest, Don Angelo.

The Abbey on the mountain top,
The Church down in the dell,
They'd fought, these two, for twenty years
Consigning each to Hell!
For in the Church of San Michele
Before the village failed,
Down in the crypt, beneath the floor
They'd found the Holy Grail.

A bowl, fine wrought in pale green glass,
There's no room for debate,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Mary - A Ballad

Author Note: The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have
adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly
popular.

I.

Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs,
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

II.

No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek,
Cold and hunger awake not her care:
Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek

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poem by Robert Southey
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Concrete Abbey.

Concrete Abbey.

Abbey took the pain, she took the sorrow.
Look at her now; it’s easy to face tomorrow.
She was lost and confused,
But she knew what she had to do.
She left her shack,
She would never come back.
She went far away,
Abbey knew only one place to stay.
Grandfather was in shock when he saw Abbey,
She knew she would finally be happy.
Abbey took her pain and threw it as far as she could,
She broke the concrete like she knew she would.
She let Mr. Happy back into her life,
And forgot what Mr. Sorrow was like.

poem by Bethany Jeffreys
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View The Dragon

View the powerful dragons of this century,
Find their names and view the common logic,
Chew the warehouse with its smoke and abbey.

With computers define the current times abnormally,
Fence in the animals too good and heroic,
View the powerful dragons of this century.

May winter complete nothing of itself as an absentee,
Religion carries the videos and classics heraldic,
Chew the warehouse with its smoke and abbey.

My terms of the moon are foods from absurdity,
Keeping individuals of theology who are heretic,
View the powerful dragons of this century.

Zoology states classes and categories that are lively,
Horns sound on the way to what is hectic,
Chew the warehouse with its smoke and abbey.

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Abbey Assaroe

Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town,
It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down;
The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed!
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride;
The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Assaroe.

It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue;
It hears the voice of Erna's fall - Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below;
But gray at every season is Abbey Assaroe.

There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge;
He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge;

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poem by William Allingham
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The Lost Pyx: A Mediaeval Legend

Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand
   Attests to a deed of hell;
But of else than of bale is the mystic tale
   That ancient Vale-folk tell.

Ere Cernel's Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest,
   (In later life sub-prior
Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare
   In the field that was Cernel choir).

One night in his cell at the foot of yon dell
   The priest heard a frequent cry:
"Go, father, in haste to the cot on the waste,
   And shrive a man waiting to die."

Said the priest in a shout to the caller without,
   "The night howls, the tree-trunks bow;
One may barely by day track so rugged a way,
   And can I then do so now?"

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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Misery Machine

Man in the front got a sinister grin, careen down highway 666
We wanna go, crush the slow, as the pitchfork bends the needles grow
My arms are wheels, my legs are wheels, my blood is pavement
Were gonna ride to the abbey of the ema, to the abbey of the ema
Blood is pavement
The grill in the front is my sinister grin, bugs in my teeth make me sick sick sick
The objects may be larger than they appear in the mirror
My arms are wheels, my legs are wheels, my blood is pavement
Were gonna ride to the abbey of the ema, to the abbey of the ema
Blood is pavement
When you ride youre ridden, when you ride youre ridden
I am fueled by filth and fury
Do what I will, I will hurry there, there
My arms are wheels, my legs are wheels, my blood is pavement
Blood is pavement

song performed by Marilyn Manson
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Lay of St. Nicholas

'Statim sacerdoti apparuit diabolus in specie puellæ pulchritudinis miræ, et ecce Divus, fide catholica et cruce et aqua benedicta armatus, venit, et aspersit aquam in nomine Sanctæ et Individuæ Trinitatis, quam, quasi ardentem, diabolus, nequaquam sustinere valens, mugitibus fugit.'
-- Roger Hoveden.

Lord Abbot! Lord Abbot! I'd fain confess;
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!'

On bended knee spake the beautiful Maid;
'Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!'--
'Now naye, Fair Daughter,' the Lord Abbot said,
'Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be;

'There is Mess Michael, and holy Mess John,
Sage Penitauncers I ween be they!
And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine's cell,
Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey!'

'-- Oh, I will have none of Ambrose or John,
Though sage Penitauncers I trow they be;

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poem by Richard Harris Barham
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It could be true for M' lady Ernestine

Anselm the abbot avidly believed in bibliography.
He loved learning passionately and filled the abbey library
with scrolls and books of sacred lore and had scriveners by the score.
Who had the task of copying and reproducing everything.
Anselm decreed each monk must learn to read and write each in their turn
Although some monks were not impressed they had to learn at his behest.
Anselm the abbot’s word was law and soon the Abbey boasted more monks who were truly literate and able to communicate.
knowledge acquired painfully to other brothers easily.
Anselm had inadvertently created very probably
The very first religious school where love of learning was the rule
And so the abbey came to be more of a school than monastery
Anselm had realised his dream and risen high in the esteem
not only of the monarchy but of the church authority
The king decreed Anselm should be rewarded for his industry.
So he created Kings College where monks could pass on their knowledge.
And that’s how Oxford came to be in time a university
Where students came from far and wide to study by the riverside
A little bit of history not noted for its accuracy
I have no doubt you will agree it could well solve the mystery.

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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