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Primal

Cast: Krew Boylan, Ch'aska Cuba de Reed, Santiago Cuba de Reed, Lindsay Farris, Rebekah Foord

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The Last Battle of the Cid

Low he lay upon his dying couch, the knight without a stain,
The unconquered Cid Campeadór, the bright breast-plate of Spain,
The incarnate honour of Castille, of Aragon and Navarre,
Very crown of Spanish chivalry, Rodrigo of Bivar!

Sick he lay, and grieved in spirit, for that Paynim dogs should dare
Camp around his knightly citadel, Valencia the fair!
For that he no more should face them, in his beauteous armour dight,
To whom God and Santiago aye gave victory in the fight.

Faintly rising o'er the ramparts came the murmur of the siege,
And he could but pray for Christendom, his country and his liege;
For his well-belovèd city, granite-girdled, pennon-starred,
And the royal wealth of treasure that its stately portals barred.

Santiago, at whose altar I did watch mine armour bright,
And was girt with golden spur and brand, a consecrated knight!—
Santiago, by my vow redeemed at Compostela's shrine,
Let the Paynim life-blood only touch these blessed walls of mine!

Santiago, warrior saintly, who with Don Fernando's host
Stormed and won the gates of Coimbra, guard my fortress on the coast!
Keep the holy leper's blessing, though the snow is on my hair;—
Strike the base-born unbelievers!—save Valencia the fair!”

Lo, a sudden cloud of glory filled his chamber as he prayed!
Lo, San Pedro stood beside him, all in shining robes arrayed!
“For thy love, Rodrigo Diaz, to Cardeña's house,” said he,
“I have offered intercessions, and the Lord hath answered me.

“Thou must die, O well-beloved!—thirty days, and thou must die!
Yet in death shall Santiago grant thee still a victory.
Thou shalt ride forth to the battle—Santiago shall be there—
For the Faith and Don Alfonso and Valencia the fair.”

Silence reigned within the chamber; none stood near the hero's bed;
All that dazzling flood of glory slowly, softly vanishèd.
He could only hear the murmur from the ramparts rise and fall;
He could only see the cross-bars stretching dimly on the wall.
In San Pedro's chapel lay the Cid, his eyes with rapture dim,
And proclaimed the wondrous favour that the Lord had granted him.
Then he parted from his vassals, and went humbly to confess;
And the warrior-bishop clothed his soul in its baptismal dress.

'Twas the holy day of Pentecost that saw Ruy Diaz die—
Evermore the spotless mirror of Castillian chivalry!

They, in whom his will was shrinèd, Alvar Fanez and his knights,
Stood to watch the hero vanquished who had won a thousand fights.

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The Death Of Raschi

[Aaron Ben Mier 'loquitur.']

If I remember Raschi? An I live,
Grandson, to bless thy grandchild, I'll forget
Never that youth and what he did for Prague.
Aye, aye, I know! he slurred a certain verse
In such and such a prayer; omitted quite
To stand erect there where the ritual
Commands us rise and bow towards the East;
Therefore, the ingrates brand him heterodox,
Neglect his memory whose virtue saved
Each knave of us alive. Not I forget,
No more does God, who wrought a miracle
For his dear sake. The Passover was here.
Raschi, just wedded with the fair Rebekah,
Bode but the lapsing of the holy week
For homeward journey with his bride to France.
The sacred meal was spread. All sat at board
Within the house of Rabbi Jochanan:
The kind old priest; his noble, new-found son,
Whose name was wrung in every key of praise,
By every voice in Prague, from Duke to serf
(Save the vindictive bigot, Narzerad);
The beautiful young wife, whose cup of joy
Sparkled at brim; next her the vacant chair
Awaited the Messiah, who, unannounced,
In God's good time shall take his place with us.
Now when the Rabbi reached the verse where one
Shall rise from table, flinging wide the door,
To give the Prophet entrance, if so be
The glorious hour have sounded, Raschi rose,
Pale, grave, yet glad with great expectancy,
Crossed the hushed room, and, with a joyous smile
To greet the Saviour, opened the door.
A curse!
A cry, 'Revenged!' a thrust, a stifled moan,
The sheathing of a poniard-that was all!
In the dark vestibule a fleeing form,
Masked, gowned in black; and in the room of prayer,
Raschi, face downward on the stone-cold floor,
Bleeding his life out. Oh! what a cry was that
(Folk shuddered, hearing, roods off in the street)
Wherewith Rebekah rushed to raise her lord,
Kneeling beside him, striving in vain to quench
With turban, veil, torn shreds of gown, stained hands,
The black blood's sickening gush. He never spoke,
Never rewarded with one glance of life
The passion in her eyes. He met his end
Even as beneath the sickle the full ear
Bows to its death-so beautiful, silent, ripe.

[...] Read more

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Journey Santiago

Journey Santiago
Discover in your search
A land in Love with mystery
It’s not far out of reach

Journey Santiago
Know Truth and know her well.
Forever on your travels
Hide not within your shell.

Forever Santiago,
Journey to discover
Mystery loves the land at hand,
Journey to recover.

Discover Santiago
Follow as the river flows.

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Adrienne Vittadini

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The Regiment of Princes

Musynge upon the restlees bysynesse
Which that this troubly world hath ay on honde,
That othir thyng than fruyt of bittirnesse
Ne yildith naght, as I can undirstonde,
At Chestres In, right faste by the Stronde,
As I lay in my bed upon a nyght,
Thoght me byrefte of sleep the force and might. 1

And many a day and nyght that wikkid hyne
Hadde beforn vexed my poore goost
So grevously that of angwissh and pyne
No rycher man was nowhere in no coost.
This dar I seyn, may no wight make his boost
That he with thoght was bet than I aqweynted,
For to the deeth he wel ny hath me feynted.

Bysyly in my mynde I gan revolve
The welthe unseur of every creature,
How lightly that Fortune it can dissolve
Whan that hir list that it no lenger dure;
And of the brotilnesse of hir nature
My tremblynge herte so greet gastnesse hadde
That my spirites were of my lyf sadde.

Me fil to mynde how that nat longe agoo
Fortunes strook doun thraste estat rial
Into mescheef, and I took heede also
Of many anothir lord that hadde a fal.
In mene estat eek sikirnesse at al
Ne saw I noon, but I sy atte laste
Wher seuretee for to abyde hir caste.

In poore estat shee pighte hir pavyloun
To kevere hir fro the storm of descendynge 2
For shee kneew no lower descencion
Sauf oonly deeth, fro which no wight lyvynge
Deffende him may; and thus in my musynge
I destitut was of joie and good hope,
And to myn ese nothyng cowde I grope.

For right as blyve ran it in my thoght,
Thogh poore I be, yit sumwhat leese I may.
Than deemed I that seurtee wolde noght
With me abyde; it is nat to hir pay
Ther to sojourne as shee descende may.
And thus unsikir of my smal lyflode,
Thoght leide on me ful many an hevy lode.

I thoghte eek, if I into povert creepe,
Than am I entred into sikirnesse;

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Genesis XXIV

Who is this man
that walketh in the field,
O Eleazar,
steward to my lord?

And Eleazar
answered her and said,
Daughter of Bethuel,
it is other none
But my lord Isaac,
son unto my lord,
Who, as his wont is,
walketh in the field,
In the hour of evening,
meditating there.

Therefore Rebekah
basted where she sat,
And from her camel
’lighting to the earth,
Sought for a veil
and put it on her face.

But Isaac also,
walking in the field,
Saw from afar
a company that came,
Camels, and a seat
as where a woman sat;
Wherefore he came
and met them on the way.

Whom, when Rebekah
saw, she came before,
Saying, Behold
the handmaid of my lord;
Who, for my lord’s sake,
travel from my land.

But he said, O
thou blessed of our God,
Come, for the tent
is eager for thy face.
Shall not thy husband,
be unto thee more than
Hundreds of kinsmen
living in thy land?

And Eleazar answered,
Thus and thus,

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Cuba Libre

the place that I come from
I barely remember
the place that I come from
I barely remember
but the soul of my people
will be with me forever
the soul of my people
will be with me forever

swept by an ocean of beautiful memories
swept by an ocean of beautiful memories
of people and places
that I carry with me
of people and places
that I carry with me

the place that I come from
I barely remember
the place that I come from
I barely remember
but the soul of my people
will be with me forever
the soul of my people
will be with me forever

you're hard to forget
though we're apart
you live in my heart

quiero mi Cuba libre (I want my Cuba free)
pa que la gente pueda (so that the people can)
pa que mi gente pueda bailar ( so that my people can dance)

quiero mi Cuba libre
pa que la gente pueda
pa que mi gente pueda bailar

I pray that the rain will
bathe you in freedom
only music and laughter
be heard on the breeze
and forever after our dance wil continue
and I will at last
get to see you again
you're hard to forget
though we're apart
you live in my heart

quiero mi Cuba libre
pa que la gente pueda

[...] Read more

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Guantanamo

[Intro:]
El sol calienta alla en lo alto
Y la palma real nos alumbra
Orgullo de mi tierra cubana
Aqui no hay canto en vano
[Translation:]
The sun heats above
And the royal palm enlights us
With the pride of my Cuban soil
Here it can't be found
A song in vain
[Chorus]
Mi casa y su casa - Guantanamo
The grass is greener on my side - eh eh eh
And I got all my moros here - Guantanamo
Just me y my familia - eh eh eh
[Rapverse1 (Isam)]
Ey chico!
Just idle the car while I run in to the super Mercado
Cop the Cuban bootleg compay Segundo
Gon' barbeque, ya know ill kebab
Only this time, no blues brotha
The vibe is Cuba
Give twenties and couple of wise words to the kids
I'm an example to them, stay in school learn buiss'
Tell'em; respect the whole nine
Respect them old folks
Take my dinner with the Don
Couscous with parmesan
The sun is about to set
Hawaiian shirts, Havana cigars
Red sky, hot breeze, ladies like the guitars
And I can assure ya ass my pueblo is ghetto
Veteran cars ain't no flat tire, just hold on
Or we can lounge in Tangier
Not the one in Vegas, naah the one in Maroc
Cruise the Atlantic, from yours to my block
Mo' hot sauce, mo' sipping, mo' palmas, mo' bailar
[Chorus]
[Rapverse2 (Lenny)]
El son de mi cuba
Me da los buenos dias
Desayuno y al salir
Todo el mundo ya esta arriba
Oye chico subele el volumen
Me encanta ese bolero
Y esta cola para el pan
Le da la vuelta al mundo entero
Ahora ya en La Habana
Viejas calles con aire colonial

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Edmund Spenser

Virgils Gnat

Wrong'd, yet not daring to expresse my paine,
To you (great Lord) the causer of my care,
In clowdie teares my case I thus complaine
Vnto yourselfe, that onely priuie are:
But if that any Oedipus vnware
Shall chaunce, through power of some diuining spright,
To reade the secrete of this riddle rare,
And know the purporte of my euill plight,
Let him rest pleased with his owne insight,
Ne further seeke to glose vpon the text:
For griefe enough it is to grieued wight
To feele his fault, and not be further vext.
But what so by my selfe may not be showen,
May by this Gnatts complaint be easily knowen.


We now haue playde (Augustus) wantonly,
Tuning our song vnto a tender Muse,
And like a cobweb weauing slenderly,
Haue onely playde: let thus much then excuse
This Gnats small Poeme, that th' whole history
Is but a jest, though envie it abuse:
But who such sports and sweet delights doth blame,
Shall lighter seeme than this Gnats idle name.

Hereafter, when as season more secure
Shall bring forth fruit, this Muse shall speak to thee
In bigger notes, that may thy sense allure,
And for thy worth frame some fit Poesie,
The golden offspring of Latona pure,
And ornament of great Ioues progenie,
Phoebus shall be the author of my song,
Playing on iuorie harp with siluer strong.

He shall inspire my verse with gentle mood
Of Poets Prince, whether he woon beside
Faire Xanthus sprincled with Chimæras blood;
Or in the woods of Astery abide;
Or whereas mount Parnasse, the Muses brood,
Doth his broad forhead like two hornes diuide,
And the sweete waues of sounding Castaly
With liquid foote doth slide downe easily.

Wherefore ye Sisters which the glorie bee
Of the Pierian streames, fayre Naiades,
Go too, and dauncing all in companie,
Adorne that God: and thou holie Pales,
To whome the honest care of husbandrie
Returneth by continuall successe,
Haue care for to pursue his footing light;

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Lindsay’s Graduation

We were so proud of Lindsay
On her graduation day
She turned a fresh new corner
So much she had to say

For she had passed a milestone
What special memories
So beautiful and so talented
With wonderful qualities

Whatever she chose to do
We knew she’d do it well
Her family looked happily on
Full of pride, we could tell

Of course there are always
Bumps rising in the trail
But with Lindsay’s determination
How could she possibly fail?

It’s so wonderful to watch
Young people at their peak
So willing and so ready
For it’s knowledge that they seek

So we look at Lindsay’s pictures
We knew that she’d go far
Whatever direction she took
She’d be our special star!

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Geoffrey Chaucer

Book Of The Duchesse

THE PROEM

I have gret wonder, be this lighte,
How that I live, for day ne nighte
I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,
I have so many an ydel thoght
Purely for defaute of slepe
That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe
Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
Al is y-liche good to me --
Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be --
For I have feling in no-thinge,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For sorwful imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde
Hit were to liven in this wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;
And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,
Slepe; and thus melancolye
And dreed I have for to dye,
Defaute of slepe and hevinesse
Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,
That I have lost al lustihede.
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede
So I not what is best to do.
But men myght axe me, why soo
I may not slepe, and what me is?
But natheles, who aske this
Leseth his asking trewely.
My-selven can not telle why
The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,
I holde hit be a siknesse
That I have suffred this eight yere,
And yet my bote is never the nere;
For ther is phisicien but oon,
That may me hele; but that is doon.
Passe we over until eft;
That wil not be, moot nede be left;
Our first matere is good to kepe.
So whan I saw I might not slepe,
Til now late, this other night,
Upon my bedde I sat upright
And bad oon reche me a book,
A romaunce, and he hit me took

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Geoffrey Chaucer

The Canterbury Tales; Prologue

Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote,
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-

So priketh hem Nature in hir corages-
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially, from every shires ende

Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for the seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury, with ful devout corage,
At nyght were come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.
The chambres and the stables weren wyde,
And wel we weren esed atte beste;
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste,

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,
And made forward erly for to ryse
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse.
But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space,

Er that I ferther in this tale pace,
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun
To telle yow al the condicioun
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me,
And whiche they weren, and of what degree,

And eek in what array that they were inne;
And at a knyght than wol I first bigynne.

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Bellflower

Cast: Evan Glodell, Jessie Wiseman, Tyler Dawson, Rebekah Brandes, Vincent Grashaw, Zack Kraus, Keghan Hurst, Alexandra Boylan, Bradshaw Pruitt, Brian Thomas Evans

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Rebekah

Yahweh has made my journey successful,
Like Rebekah and her maids;
For this message comes from Yahweh and,
We cannot speak evil against it.
You are always hungry and always eating,
How then can you grow thin?
But, i will not eat until i have told you my mind;
For life is not always about food.
Rebekah is your name and need to learn more,
For this world is not as you do see it always.

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Raschi In Prague

Raschi of Troyes, the Moon of Israel,
The authoritative Talmudist, returned
From his wide wanderings under many skies,
To all the synagogues of the Orient,
Through Spain and Italy, the isles of Greece,
Beautiful, dolorous, sacred Palestine,
Dead, obelisked Egypt, floral, musk-breathed Persia,
Laughing with bloom, across the Caucasus,
The interminable sameness of bare steppes,
Through dark luxuriance of Bohemian woods,
And issuing on the broad, bright Moldau vale,
Entered the gates of Prague. Here, too, his fame,
Being winged, preceded him. His people swarmed
Like bees to gather the rich honey-dew
Of learning from his lips. Amazement filled
All eyes beholding him. No hoary sage,
He who had sat in Egypt at the feet
Of Moses ben-Maimuni, called him friend;
Raschi the scholiast, poet, and physician,
Who bore the ponderous Bible's storied wisdom,
The Mischna's tangled lore at tip of tongue,
Light as a garland on a lance, appeared
In the just-ripened glory of a man.
From his clear eye youth flamed magnificent;
Force, masked by grace, moved in his balanced frame;
An intellectual, virile beauty reigned
Dominant on domed brow, on fine, firm lips,
An eagle profile cut in gilded bronze,
Strong, delicate as a head upon a coin,
While, as an aureole crowns a burning lamp,
Above all beauty of the body and brain
Shone beauty of a soul benign with love.
Even as a tawny flock of huddled sheep,
Grazing each other's heels, urged by one will,
With bleat and baa following the wether's lead,
Or the wise shepherd, so o'er the Moldau bridge
Trotted the throng of yellow-caftaned Jews,
Chattering, hustling, shuffling. At their head
Marched Rabbi Jochanan ben-Eleazar,
High priest in Prague, oldest and most revered,
To greet the star of Israel. As a father
Yearns toward his son, so toward the noble Raschi
Leapt at first sight the patriarch's fresh old heart.
'My home be thine in Prague! Be thou my son,
Who have no offspring save one simple girl.
See, glorious youth, who dost renew the days
Of David and of Samuel, early graced
With God's anointing oil, how Israel
Delights to honor who hath honored him.'
Then Raschi, though he felt a ball of fire

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Journey Santiago - It's a Life we Live to Love

Journey Santiago
Discover in your search
A land in love with mystery
Its not far out of reach

I know a girl and she says she’s seen it all
She knows a boy who thinks he knows it all
She says she’s the kind of girl who could be it all
She says she knows a boy who thinks he’s fallen for her

In a land in love with mystery
We could be happy and I guess we could be free

He says he wants to know the secret of your eyes
He wants to slip between your thighs girl
But it comes as no surprise that you’re turning away now
When he says

Every dream I have I am kissing you
Every life I’ve lived I’ve been missing you.

And he claims you are his world
He wants to lay down by the fire with you
He claims he can make you happy
In a land in love with mystery.

Journey Santiago
Forever in your search
Seek the love that makes you whole
It’s not far out of reach.

Can’t you see the passion in his eyes?
Can’t you tell he’d sail the skies for you?
And still you’re turning away when he says

Every dream I have is of kissing you
Every life I’ve lived, I’ve been missing you
Still it’s true in a thousand ways
That you paint me blue in a thousand shades
Then leave me wading here
Shaking from the nightmare
Won’t you share a while and listen
Won’t you smile a smile and glisten
Lighten up the day for me
Join me in a love of mystery

She wants to know if you shed a tear for Alice
As she walked in wonderland
For she said that she may never understand you
If you don’t know the wonder of this land

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Slaves who painted dreams

The underfed lions in the Emperor’s palace
Pace behind iron gates on the Hill of Spring -
The pachyderms die unwatered on the banks of the Zaire
River Zoo as generations of war machines parade -

The wildebeest corpses piled and rotting on the wires
Strung up to guarantee well meat for Smithfield market -
Enclosed, mortgaged, incorporated, the hills and streams
Of the Namib, in the power of men who would own mountains

While in survival style, the market boys
Who line the treacherous tarmac heading to Mpika
Hold up puppy-dogs and rabbits by the ears
As the WaBenzi roll their big wheels by.

At rest, I see in outline, the shade-net nurseries
Of saplings watered in their plastic stands
Awaiting the Sahelian rains to soften the soil
In the perforated hillsides of Santiago de Praia

And “green diamonds” from the Gaborone dam, sold side by side
On Saturdays, with batiks from the Roll-the-Blanket museum
And the sandals from Pilane that will wear for years -
Those old tough tanned cow hides.

Awaking in the year two thousand, seeing again:
Old children in displacement camps on the Limpopo
Freed from indentured rebel service, faces distended,
Eyes not alive. And more than this. The rows of skulls
In a church of memory in Rwanda.
And I remember reading of
A father in Bosnia nailed to his front door. A man
Dragged behind a Texas pickup until he too was dead.
And a kid from Senegal, reaching for his identity,
Blasted with bullets in a Bronx brownstone
Until he too was dead.

When I was a child: A Turkish “radical”
Was burned to death with acid on a hillside. A newspaper photo.
Accusing image, the open mouth, without an accompanying word.
A poet-singer whose song I did not know, not then,
His fingers were broken carefully, before he was shot
In the Santiago de Chile stadium. I lost count of it all
Somewhere in the 8th decade of the twentieth century.

Does someone remember every name, and every crime?
Is every insult registered somewhere, an injury?
Are we learning to own the count ourselves,
Lest we be slain once more with numbered forearms?
Will we renounce before it starts again, tomorrow?

[...] Read more

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Long, Long, Long, Long Ago

Long, long, long, long ago,
There lived a man named Santiago
He loved to play his pipe day long,
By the rivulet and hill along.
The tune of the pipe filled the air,
Nature the listener, human a rare!
With its melody danced the trees,
The brooklet stopped going freeze.
The sky remained azure always,
The Sun could not withdraw his rays.
He had nothing to have there,
Squirrels cracked nuts to share.
The song birds singing moved around,
Keeping in pace with his lovely sound.
Happy was the man Santiago,
He lived there long, long ago.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A Musical Instrument

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.

'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan
(Laughed while he sat by the river),
'The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, --
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

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The Ballad of Rudolph Reed

Rudolph Reed was oaken.
His wife was oaken too.
And his two good girls and his good little man
Oakened as they grew.

"I am not hungry for berries.
I am not hungry for bread.
But hungry hungry for a house
Where at night a man in bed

"May never hear the plaster
Stir as if in pain.
May never hear the roaches
Falling like fat rain.

"Where never wife and children need
Go blinking through the gloom.
Where every room of many rooms
Will be full of room.

"Oh my home may have its east or west
Or north or south behind it.
All I know is I shall know it,
And fight for it when I find it."

The agent's steep and steady stare
Corroded to a grin.
Why you black old, tough old hell of a man,
Move your family in!

Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed,
Nary a curse cursed he,
But moved in his House. With his dark little wife,
And his dark little children three.

A neighbor would look, with a yawning eye
That squeezed into a slit.
But the Rudolph Reeds and children three
Were too joyous to notice it.

For were they not firm in a home of their own
With windows everywhere
And a beautiful banistered stair
And a front yard for flowers and a back for grass?

The first night, a rock, big as two fists.
The second, a rock big as three.
But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.
(Though oaken as man could be.)

[...] Read more

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