This was what the pointsman said,
With both hands at his throbbing head:--
The shiv'ring piano, foaming at the mouth,
Will wrench you by its ravings, discompose you.
. Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs aw
It was the night before the famous day
When that befell of which I write. The house
The vital vapors to absorb,
The moon, with famished gaze,
Nor Love nor Fate dare I accuse
For that my love did me refuse,
IN tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
Again as in the desert way,
Behold my guides--a cloud by day,
All others rest; but I
Dream-haunted lie—
Six men went hunting, but only four returned.
Two, in fact, hadn't returned.
Last night was thick with wind, a time of countless stars.
All night long, a vast wind played within my mosquito net.
The Muses all are silent for your sake:
While night and distance take
DEAD man! will you ride with me,
As you rode that night of yore,
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings today.
Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
This separation cleaveth to the core. . . .
Even in slumber I am fated
Twilight ascends the abandoned ramps of noon
Within an ancient land, whose after-time
In darkroom of your eye the moonly mind
somersaults to counterfeit eclipse;
Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,
Yet will Thy hand still giving be;
Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
If ghosts should walk in Deptford, as very well they may,
A man might find the night there more stirring than the day,
I saw them sitting in the shade;
The long green vines hung over,
Under the dark and piny steep
We watched the storm crash by:
I was always afraid of Somes's Pond:
Not the little pond, by which the willow stands,
Sap stirs near me, roots stretch and seize,
Sundering stones.
Winter put his shoulder
To our door,
They say that poison-sprinkled flowers
Are sweeter in perfume
'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring
The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom,
In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
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