What god will catch me
when I’m down, when I’ve taken
sufficient drink to reveal
myself, when my words are little
more than a blurring
of consonant and vowel?
I’m drunk on spring:
branches of waxy leaves that
greet me at my driveway,
a family clutching
trays of sweets.
How can I sing of this?
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its
One tree, another tree,
Each standing alone and erect.
The wind and air
Tell their distance apart.
But beneath the cover of earth
Their roots reach out
And at depths that cannot be seen
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors–
No–yet still stedfast,
An old Hare lived in a house on a hill,
One hundred years old and never was ill;
His ears so long and his eyes so big,
And is leg so spry that he knew everything
About the beasts that walk and the bird’s that sing–
This old Doc Hare,
Who lived up there
In a mighty fine house on
Nature is a world of fascinated things,
which is never boring.
Gives freshness to the humans and birds,
Hence, adds life to the whole world.
It gives beauty to the land,
In whatever direction you stand.
Let no moment be spent without nature
Which is a dream place for creatures.
Away from the bustling life.
A joy grows in a jar.
Chaos mind, disturbed life.
Hope grows in a Jar.
Many big ideas, big dreams insight.
A dream grows in a Jar.
Where others are planning to soar high in the sky.
Wrote a mother to her child:
Why do you say, I don’t understand,
I’ve brought you all way braving,
The scorching sun and blistering sand.
I have heard your heartbeats,
When none could see you in me,
I have felt your heartbeats,
Whenever you have felt lonely.
And why should I be sad?
And why should you be glad?
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
When I may be glad
While you may be sad —
Ah, should I not wait till then?
What if the skies are gray
And hide the sun away;
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
The sun will break through,
Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. AAs the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the
See the golden Leopard with the spots!
The golden cat of the cliffs!
See the Leopard with the bulging cheeks,
The golden Leopard with the wide face, I-Face-
Nothing,
The particoloured one, I-Climb-Into-A-Small-Tree
I rip off the eyebrows!
Clawer am I, dig my nail in deep,
My enemies I leave behind, saying
`This was not one leopard but ten!`
Mr
Yes, Mary Ann, I freely grant,
The charms of Henry’s eyes I see;
But while I gaze, I something want,
I want those eyes — to gaze on me.
And I allow, in Henry’s heart
Not Envy’s self a fault can see:
Yet still I must one wish impart,
FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of
Aromatic or stinky folds,
Customary is the game.
On velvety linen or dirty sheets,
Love is all the same.
Freeze the event in your mind,
In a tale or poetry,
Canvas it or sculpt it,
Choreograph, song or melody.
Down earth, love is need,
A primal instinct ready to claw,
The inevitable event of seclusion,
When hands become the paw.
These to His Memory–since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself–I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears–
These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my king’s ideal knight,
“Who reverenced his conscience as his king;<br
This morning a cat—bright orange—pawing at the one patch of new grass in the sand-and tanbark-colored leaves.
And last night the sapphire of the raccoon’s eyes in the beam of the flashlight.
He was climbing a tree beside the house, trying to get onto the porch, I think, for a wad of oatmeal
Simmered in cider from the bottom of the
I’ve got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I’ve got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
John Delaney of the Rifles has been shot.
A man we never knew,
Does it cloud the day for you
That he lies among the dead
Moving, hearing, heeding not?
No history will hold his humble name.
No sculptured stone will tell
The traveller where he fell;
That he lies among the dead
Is the measure of his fame.
When
Sheets of tin nailed to posts
driven in the ground
make up the house.
Some rags complete
the intimate landscape.
The sun slanting though cracks
welcomes the owner
After twelve hour of slave
labour.
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruin’d fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace,
Or the King’s real, or his stamped face
Contemplate, what you will,
