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You nice little madam! Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools. You jolly old cot! No use! Now, he, p.

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I was easy half a minute ago. The old grey Alp has caught the cloud, And the torrent river sings aloud; The glacier-green Rosanna sings An organ song of its upper springs. Foaming under the tiers of pine, I see it dash down the dark ravine, And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play, With an earnest will to find its way.

RUMI The Greatest Love Poems of All Time Vol 1

A chain of foam from end to end, And a solitude so deep, my friend, You may forget that man abides Beyond the great mute mountain-sides. Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude Of river and rock and forest rude, The roaring voice through the long white chain Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain. And now my turn had come—O me! What wisdom was mine that second!

Save me! My village lily! And Bruges with morn is blinking. Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving. Up, is the song-note! Respectability the women like. Well, well! His needle-muzzle still works out and in. Bother the couple! You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy! Prosper me later! Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man Call for the thing that is his pure desire! Fame is the birthright of the living lyre! To noble impulse Nature puts no ban. Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised! Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.

Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks, Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books. All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dear Shy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year! But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed, When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled? Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detect The figure of Mary Charlworth.

Miss Mary, we thank you now!

Poem on the Death of Elias Boudinot’s Child, [4 September 1774]

Her punishment was to commence: The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense. He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict. His name was Tom, and, dash me! I think you might add: Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad. Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats, The voice of the farmer opened. A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore. The old man sneered, and read forward. O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the fray They moved! He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slow Swung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows that grow.

And still as he led the onslaught, his treacherous side-shots he sent At her who was fighting a battle as fierce, and who sat there unbent. They frightened me there. And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot fire lengthened out. Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lot faced about. Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the little French cocks.

A ball in his mouth, and the noble old Irishman dropped by my side. Then there was just an instant to save myself, when a short wheeze Of bloody lungs under the smoke, and a red-coat crawled up on his knees. I got some hard knocks and sharp stings, But felt them no more than angel, or devil, except in the wind. But French, and a General, surely he was, and, God bless him! A curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turned His eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintly discerned His old self in an old mirror. Then gathering sense in his fist, He sounded it hard on his knee-cap.

Tom properly stated his praises in facts, but the lady preferred To deck the narration with brackets, and drop her additional word. For Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit.

O, do not be too happy! If Tom tells a cleverish story—there is such a thing as a knight! My heart has so bled for you! Far better had Mary been dumb.

But when again she stammered in this bewildering way, The farmer no longer could bear it, and begged her to go, or to stay, p. Is that it?

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And that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wild Should share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, as they smiled. The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, with contempt, They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt.

Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago? I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight. The letter brought by your comrade—he has but just read it aloud! It only reached him this morning! He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins alone Are left, he loves them threefold. All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chest p.

Was this all a terrible fib? Tom told what the cannon had done. How low when angels fall their black descent, Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went, And one false note cast wailful to the insane. Now seems the language heard of Love as rain To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant. But listen in the thought; so may there come Conception of a newly-added chord, Commanding space beyond where ear has home.

FOLLOW THE SILENCE: poems of passion and conscience Vol. 1 - Charles Edward York - Google Sách

In labour of the trouble at its fount, Leads Life to an intelligible Lord The rebel discords up the sacred mount. She lay Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away With muffled pulses. Like sculptured effigies they might be seen Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between; Each wishing for the sword that severs all. It ended, and the morrow brought the task. Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in By shutting all too zealous for their sin: Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask. But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had! He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers: A languid humour stole among the hours, And if their smiles encountered, he went mad, And raged deep inward, till the light was brown Before his vision, and the world, forgot, Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.

A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown The pit of infamy: and then again He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove To ape the magnanimity of love, And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.


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This was the woman; what now of the man? But pass him. If he comes beneath a heel, He shall be crushed until he cannot feel, Or, being callous, haply till he can. But he is nothing:—nothing? Only mark The rich light striking out from her on him!