I walk down the garden paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden paths.My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only whale-bone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
the worldgives you so much painand here you aremaking gold out of itthere is nothing purer than that - rupi kaur
A Rock, A River, A TreeHosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon,The dinosaur, who left dried tokens Of their sojourn hereOn our planet floor,Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon myBack and face your distant destiny,But seek no haven in my shadow,I will give you no hiding place down here.You, created only a little lower thanThe angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darknessHave lain too longFacedown in ignorance,Your mouths spilling wordsArmed for slaughter.The Rock cries out to us today, You may stand upon me, But do not hide your face.
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"? 'T is a pitiful sound to hear! It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear. 'T is the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?" And the night would say in its ghostly way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad; And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother'd said, And wonder what boy she meant! And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask Of the wind that hoarsely blew, And the voice would say in its meaningful way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" That this was true I must allow - You'll not believe it, though! Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so. And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you've been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest - Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?" And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!"
She rose among us where we lay.She wept, we put our work away.She chilled our laughter, stilled our play;And spread a silence there.And darkness shot across the sky,And once, and twice, we heard her cry;And saw her lift white hands on highAnd toss her troubled hair.What shape was this who came to us,With basilisk eyes so ominous,With mouth so sweet, so poisonous,And tortured hands so pale?We saw her wavering to and fro,Through dark and wind we saw her go;Yet what her name was did not know;And felt our spirits fail.We tried to turn away; but stillAbove we heard her sorrow thrill;And those that slept, they dreamed of illAnd dreadful things:Of skies grown red with rending flamesAnd shuddering hills that cracked their frames;Of twilights foul with wings;And skeletons dancing to a tune;And cries of children stifled soon;And over all a blood-red moonA dull and nightmare size.They woke, and sought to go their ways,Yet everywhere they met her gaze,Her fixed and burning eyes.Who are you now, —we cried to her—Spirit so strange, so sinister?We felt dead winds above us stir;And in the darkness heardA voice fall, singing, cloying sweet,Heavily dropping, though that heat,Heavy as honeyed pulses beat,Slow word by anguished word.And through the night strange music wentWith voice and cry so darkly blentWe could not fathom what they meant;Save only that they seemedTo thin the blood along our veins,Foretelling vile, delirious pains,And clouds divulging blood-red rainsUpon a hill undreamed.And this we heard: “Who dies for me,He shall possess me secretly,My terrible beauty he shall see,And slake my body’s flame.But who denies me cursed shall be,And slain, and buried loathsomely,And slimed upon with shame.”And darkness fell. And like a seaOf stumbling deaths we followed, weWho dared not stay behind.There all night long beneath a cloudWe rose and fell, we struck and bowed,We were the ploughman and the ploughed,Our eyes were red and blind.And some, they said, had touched her side,Before she fled us there;And some had taken her to bride;And some lain down for her and died;Who had not touched her hair,Ran to and fro and cursed and criedAnd sought her everywhere.“Her eyes have feasted on the dead,And small and shapely is her head,And dark and small her mouth," they said,“And beautiful to kiss;Her mouth is sinister and redAs blood in moonlight is.”Then poets forgot their jeweled wordsAnd cut the sky with glittering swords;And innocent souls turned carrion birdsTo perch upon the dead.Sweet daisy fields were drenched with death,The air became a charnel breath,Pale stones were splashed with red.Green leaves were dappled bright with bloodAnd fruit trees murdered in the bud;And when at length the dawnCame green as twilight from the east,And all that heaving horror ceased,Silent was every bird and beast,And that dark voice was gone.No word was there, no song, no bell,No furious tongue that dream to tell;Only the dead, who rose and fellAbove the wounded men;And whisperings and wails of painBlown slowly from the wounded grain,Blown slowly from the smoking plain;And silence fallen again.Until at dusk, from God knows where,Beneath dark birds that filled the air, Like one who did not hear or care,Under a blood-red cloud,An aged ploughman came alone And drove his share through flesh and bone,And turned them under to mould and stone;All night long he ploughed.
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;“’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.“There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”“O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”“Sweet creature!” said the spider, “You’re witty and you’re wise!How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing“Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drewThinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing! At last,Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!And now, dear little children, who may this story read,To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.
A darting fear — a pomp — a tear —A waking on a mornTo find that what one waked for,Inhales the different dawn.
We are the music-makers,And we are the dreamers of dreams,Wandering by lone sea-breakersAnd sitting by desolate streams;World losers and world forsakers,On whom the pale moon gleams:Yet we are the movers and shakersOf the world for ever, it seems. With wonderful deathless dittiesWe build up the world’s great cities.And out of a fabulous storyWe fashion an empire’s glory:One man with a dream, at pleasure,Shall go forth and conquer a crown;And three with a new song’s measureCan trample an empire down. We, in the ages lyingIn the buried past of the earth,Built Nineveh with our sighing,And Babel itself with our mirth;And o’erthrew them with prophesyingTo the old of the new world’s worth;For each age is a dream that is dying,Or one that is coming to birth.
Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing,Give praise with Gospel choirs in storefront churches,Mad with the joy of the Sabbath, Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun,Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes, A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry living wild on the Streets through generations of children.Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistleAs it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning,Give praise with the immense and peaceful sighOf the wind in the pinewoods, At night give praise with starry silences. Give praise with the skirling of seagulls And the rattle and flap of sails And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swellOut in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor. Give praise with the humpback whales, Huge in the ocean they sing to one another. Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and cicadas, Give praise with hum of bees, Give praise with the little peepers who live near water.When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like criesWe know that the winter is over. Give praise with mockingbirds, day’s nightingales.Hour by hour they sing in the crepe myrtle And glossy tulip treesOn quiet side streets in southern towns. Give praise with the rippling speechOf the eider-duck and her ducklingsAs they paddle their way downstreamIn the red-gold morning On Restiguche, their cold river,Salmon river, Wilderness river. Give praise with the whitethroat sparrow.Far, far from the cities, Far even from the towns, With piercing innocence He sings in the spruce-tree tops,Always four notes And four notes only. Give praise with water, With storms of rain and thunder And the small rains that sparkle as they dry,And the faint floating ocean roar That fills the seaside villages, And the clear brooks that travel down the mountains And with this poem, a leaf on the vast flood,And with the angels in that other country.
Peace is the centre of the atom, the core Of quiet within the storm. It is notA cessation, a nothingness; moreThe lightning in reverse is whatReveals the light. It is the law that bindsThe atom's structure, ordering the danceOf proton and electron, and that finds Within the midst of flame and wind, the glanceIn the still eye of the vast hurricane. Peace is not placidity: peace isThe power to endure the megaton of painWith joy, the silent thunder of release, The ordering of Love. Peace is the atom's start, The primal image: God within the heart.
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window wasSpawning snow and pink roses against itSoundlessly collateral and incompatible:World is suddener than we fancy it.World is crazier and more of it than we think,Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portionA tangerine and spit the pips and feelThe drunkenness of things being various.And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for worldIs more spiteful and gay than one supposes –On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands –There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
i heard a spiderand a fly arguingwait said the flydo not eat mei serve a great purposein the worldyou will have toshow me said the spideri scurry aroundgutters and sewersand garbage canssaid the fly and gatherup the germs oftyphoid influenzaand pneumonia on my feetand wingsthen i carry these germsinto the households of menand give them diseasesall the people whohave lived the rightsort of life recoverfrom the diseasesand the old soaks whohave weakened their systemswith liquor and iniquitysuccumb it is my missionto help rid the worldof these wicked personsi am a vessel of righteousnessscattering seeds of justiceand serving the noblest usesit is true said the spiderthat you are moreuseful in a ploddingmaterial sort of waythan i am but i do notserve the utilitarian deitiesi serve the gods of beautylook at the gossamer websi weave they float in the sunlike filaments of songif you get what i meani do not work at anythingi play all the timei am busy with the stuffof enchantment and the materialsof fairyland my workstranscend utilityi am the artista creator and a demi godit is ridiculous to supposethat i should be deniedthe food i need in orderto continue to createbeauty i tell youplainly mister fly it is alldamned nonsense for that foodto rear up on its hind legsand say it should not be eatenyou have convinced mesaid the fly say no moreand shutting all his eyeshe prepared himself for dinnerand yet he said i couldhave made out a casefor myself too if i hadhad a better line of talkof course you could said the spiderclutching a sirloin from himbut the end would have beenjust the same if neither ofus had spoken at allboss i am afraid that whatthe spider said is trueand it gives me to thinkfuriously upon the futilityof literature
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
When Mary on her wedding day,At last a bride, had gone awayFrom all her friends that there had spentThe happy day in merriment,And ringers rang, at evenfall,Their peals of bells, from great to small,Within the tower's mossy wallSo high against the evening sky,Then Jane, that there throughout the dayHad been the gayest of the gay,At last began to hang her headAnd ponder on her sister fled,And days that seem'd too quickly flown,To leave her now at home alone,With no one's life to match her own,So sad, though hitherto so glad.It saddened me that moonpaled nightTo see her by the wall, in white,While friends departed mate with mateBeyond the often-swinging gate,As there beside the lilac shade,Where golden-chained laburnum sway'd,Around her face her hairlocks play'd,All black with light behind her back.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
Sometimes in the middle autumn days,The windless days when the swallows have flown,And the sere elms brood in the mist,Each tree a being, rapt, alone,I know, not as in barren thought,But wordlessly, as the bones know,What quenching of my brain, what numbness,Wait in the dark grave where I go.And I see the people thronging the street,The death-marked people, they and IGoalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,Blind to the earth and to the sky;Nothing believing, nothing loving,Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the streamOf precious life that flows within us,But fighting, toiling as in a dream.So shall we in the rout of lifeSome thought, some faith, some meaning save,And speak it once before we goIn silence to the silent grave...
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