Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die. And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn? Ever the hard unsunk ground, Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides, Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real, Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that breath of itches and thirsts, Ever the vexer's hoot! Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven. To the lady by her side, Praise we the Virgin all divine. Birches by Robert Frost. Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; And Geraldine again turned round, And like a thing, that sought relief, Full of wonder and full of grief, She rolled her large bright eyes divine. Angers that are like noisy clouds have set our hearts abeat; But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. Said Christabel, 'Now heaven be praised if all be well! I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. Home to her father's mansion. The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you.
These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing, If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing, If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. Have you outstript the rest? O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. But we have all bent low and low bred. Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you! But there was another great eaglewith great wings and thick this vine bent its roots toward him!
I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab. And take thy lovely daughter home: And he will meet thee on the way. A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy; And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together. May no fate willfully misunderstand me. Let their backs be continually bent. Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. But we have all bent low and low georgetown. Then he went up and bent down over him again. From his high place he sent shaking on the earth; he saw and nations were suddenly moved: and the eternal mountains were broken, the unchanging hills were bent down; his ways are eternal.
So Ahab went on up to eat and drink, while Elijah climbed to the top of Carmel. Waiting in gloom, protected by frost, The dirt receding before my prophetical screams, I underlying causes to balance them at last, My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day. To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, And clothe you both in solemn vest, And over the mountains haste along, Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, Detain you on the valley road. ‘Song of Myself’: A Poem by Walt Whitman –. Each spake words of high disdain. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth, Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask—lie over!
While in the lady's arms she lay, Had put a rapture in her breast, And on her lips and o'er her eyes. That He, who on the cross did groan, Might wash away her sins unknown, She forthwith led fair Geraldine. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks. And you love them, and for their sake. He spake: his eye in lightning rolls! Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? For I have lain entranced I wis). I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. Red Hanrahan's Song About Ireland - Red Hanrahan's Song About Ireland Poem by William Butler Yeats. Till we find where the sly one hides and bring him forth, Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life, Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death. At each wild word to feel within.
How on her death-bed she did say, That she should hear the castle-bell. Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my side. For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned. That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, That all her features were resigned. Then he went up and lay on the boy: he put mouth to mouth, eye to eye, hand to hand. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me, And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. With words of unmeant bitterness. Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair. We feed them lunch and we feed them God's Word and we watch them transform. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs, Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.
Awakens the lady Christabel. Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And jealous of the listening air. Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt! You laggards there on guard!