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The Couth and Culture thread

Discussion in 'The Lounge' started by BFISA, Jun 23, 2008.

  1. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    The Village Blacksmith

    Under a spreading chestnut-tree
    The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
    With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
    Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
    His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
    He earns whate'er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
    For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
    You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
    With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
    When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
    Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
    And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
    Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
    And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach,
    He hears his daughter's voice,
    Singing in the village choir,
    And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
    Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
    How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
    A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
    Onward through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close;
    Something attempted, something done,
    Has earned a night's repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
    For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus at the flaming forge of life
    Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
    Each burning deed and thought.
     
  2. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    The Cremation of Sam McGee
    by: Robert W. Service

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
    Where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam
    'Round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold
    Seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he'd often say in his homely way
    That he'd "sooner live in hell".

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
    Over the Dawson trail.
    Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
    It stabbed like a driven nail.
    If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
    Till sometimes we couldn't see;
    It wasn't much fun, but the only one
    To whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight
    In our robes beneath the snow,
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
    Were dancing heel and toe,
    He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
    "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
    And if I do, I'm asking that you
    Won't refuse my last request."

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
    Then he says with a sort of moan:
    "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
    Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
    Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
    Of the icy grave that pains;
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
    You'll cremate my last remains."

    A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
    So I swore I would not fail;
    And we started on at the streak of dawn;
    But God! he looked ghastly pale.
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
    Of his home in Tennessee;
    And before nightfall a corpse was all
    That was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
    And I hurried, horror-driven,
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
    Because of a promise given;
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
    "You may tax your brawn and brains,
    But you promised true, and it's up to you
    To cremate those last remains."

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
    And the trail has its own stern code.
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
    In my heart how I cursed that load.
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
    While the huskies, round in a ring,
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
    O God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay
    Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent
    And the grub was getting low;
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
    But I swore I would not give in;
    And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
    And it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
    And a derelict there lay;
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
    It was called the "Alice May".
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
    And I looked at my frozen chum;
    Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
    "Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
    And I lit the boiler fire;
    Some coal I found that was lying around,
    And I heaped the fuel higher;
    The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
    Such a blaze you seldom see;
    And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
    And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

    Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
    To hear him sizzle so;
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
    And the wind began to blow.
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
    Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
    Went streaking down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow
    I wrestled with grisly fear;
    But the stars came out and they danced about
    Ere again I ventured near;
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
    "I'll just take a peep inside.
    I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
    Then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
    In the heart of the furnace roar;
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
    And he said: "Please close that door.
    It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
    You'll let in the cold and storm --
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
    It's the first time I've been warm."

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.
     
  3. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Tyger Tyger Burning Bright...

    The Tyger
    by William Blake


    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire in thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, and what art?
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand, and what dread feet?

    What the hammer? What the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? What dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
     
  4. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    The Raven
    by Edgar Allan Poe

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door--

    "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--

    Only this and nothing more."



    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--

    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

    Nameless here for evermore.



    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

    Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

    "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--

    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--

    This it is and nothing more."



    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

    "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

    That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;----

    Darkness there and nothing more.



    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--

    Merely this and nothing more.



    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--

    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--

    'Tis the wind and nothing more!"



    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

    In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--

    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--

    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.



    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

    "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

    Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--

    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."



    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

    Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--

    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

    With such name as "Nevermore."



    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--

    Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before--

    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

    Then the bird said "Nevermore."



    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

    "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--

    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

    Of 'Never--nevermore.'"



    But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--

    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

    Meant in croaking "Nevermore."



    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

    She shall press, ah, nevermore!



    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."



    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--

    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--

    On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--

    Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."



    "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!

    By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--

    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."



    "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

    "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!

    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

    Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."



    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

    Shall be lifted--nevermore!
     
  5. AnteaterCharger

    AnteaterCharger Calibrating Bolttalk, Podcast by Podcast Staff Member Super Moderator Podcaster

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    Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson (my favorite)

    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

    I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
    Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
    Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
    That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
    Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known; cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am a part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
    Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
    For ever and for ever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
    To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
    As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
    Were all too little, and of one to me
    Little remains: but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this grey spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

    This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
    To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle —
    Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
    This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
    A rugged people, and through soft degrees
    Subdue them to the useful and the good.
    Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
    Of common duties, decent not to fail
    In offices of tenderness, and pay
    Meet adoration to my household gods,
    When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
    There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me —
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
    Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
    Death closes all: but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
    The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
    'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew

    Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
     
  6. AnteaterCharger

    AnteaterCharger Calibrating Bolttalk, Podcast by Podcast Staff Member Super Moderator Podcaster

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    The Charge of the Light Brigade
    Alfred, Lord Tennyson

    1.

    Half a league, half a league,
    Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.
    "Forward, the Light Brigade!
    "Charge for the guns!" he said:
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    2.

    "Forward, the Light Brigade!"
    Was there a man dismay'd?
    Not tho' the soldier knew
    Someone had blunder'd:
    Their's not to make reply,
    Their's not to reason why,
    Their's but to do and die:
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    3.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
    Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of Hell
    Rode the six hundred.

    4.

    Flash'd all their sabres bare,
    Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army, while
    All the world wonder'd:
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right thro' the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reel'd from the sabre stroke
    Shatter'd and sunder'd.
    Then they rode back, but not
    Not the six hundred.

    5.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
    Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell,
    They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death
    Back from the mouth of Hell,
    All that was left of them,
    Left of six hundred.

    6.

    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
    All the world wondered.
    Honor the charge they made,
    Honor the Light Brigade,
    Noble six hundred.
     
  7. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Abu Ben Adam

    James Leigh Hunt

    Abu Ben Adam,may his tribe increase

    Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace

    And saw, within the moonlight of his room

    Making it rich, like a lily in bloom

    An angel writing in a book of gold.

    Exceeding peace had made Abu Ben Adam bold

    And to the presence in his room he said

    ' What writest thou?'

    The vision raised its head

    And with a look of all sweet accord Answered:

    'The names of those who love the Lord.

    'And is mine one?' said Abu.

    'Nay not so' Replied the Angel

    Abu spoke more low

    But cheerily still and said

    'I pray thee then Write me as one that loves his fellow-men'

    The angel wrote and vanished.

    The next night it came again with awaking light

    And showed the names of whom love of God had blessed.

    And lo! Ben Adam's name led all the rest.
     
  8. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Gunga Din
    by Rudyard Kipling

    You may talk o' gin and beer
    When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
    An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
    But when it comes to slaughter
    You will do your work on water,
    An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
    Now in Injia's sunny clime,
    Where I used to spend my time
    A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
    Of all them blackfaced crew
    The finest man I knew
    Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
    He was "Din! Din! Din!
    You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
    Hi! Slippy hitherao!
    Water, get it! Panee lao! [Bring water swiftly.]
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

    The uniform 'e wore
    Was nothin' much before,
    An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
    For a piece o' twisty rag
    An' a goatskin water-bag
    Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
    When the sweatin' troop-train lay
    In a sidin' through the day,
    Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
    We shouted "Harry By!" [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for "O brother."]
    Till our throats were bricky-dry,
    Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
    It was "Din! Din! Din!
    You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
    You put some juldee in it [Be quick.]
    Or I'll marrow you this minute [Hit you.]
    If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

    'E would dot an' carry one
    Till the longest day was done;
    An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
    If we charged or broke or cut,
    You could bet your bloomin' nut,
    'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
    With 'is mussick on 'is back, [Water-skin.]
    'E would skip with our attack,
    An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
    An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
    'E was white, clear white, inside
    When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
    It was "Din! Din! Din!"
    With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
    When the cartridges ran out,
    You could hear the front-ranks shout,
    "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

    I shan't forgit the night
    When I dropped be'ind the fight
    With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
    I was chokin' mad with thirst,
    An' the man that spied me first
    Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
    'E lifted up my 'ead,
    An' he plugged me where I bled,
    An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
    It was crawlin' and it stunk,
    But of all the drinks I've drunk,
    I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
    It was "Din! Din! Din!
    'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
    'E's chawin' up the ground,
    An' 'e's kickin' all around:
    For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

    'E carried me away
    To where a dooli lay,
    An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
    'E put me safe inside,
    An' just before 'e died,
    "I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
    So I'll meet 'im later on
    At the place where 'e is gone --
    Where it's always double drill and no canteen.
    'E'll be squattin' on the coals
    Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
    An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
    Yes, Din! Din! Din!
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
    Though I've belted you and flayed you,
    By the livin' Gawd that made you,
    You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
     
  9. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    The Charge of the Light Brigade
    by Alfred, Lord Tennyson


    Half a league, half a league,
      Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.
    'Forward, the Light Brigade!
    Charge for the guns' he said:
    Into the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.

    'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
    Was there a man dismay'd?
    Not tho' the soldiers knew
      Some one had blunder'd:
    Their's not to make reply,
    Their's not to reason why,
    Their's but to do and die:
    Into the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
      Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of Hell
      Rode the six hundred.

    Flash'd all their sabres bare,
    Flash'd as they turned in air
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army while
      All the world wonder'd:
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right thro' the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
    Shatter'd and sunder'd.
    Then they rode back, but not
    Not the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
      Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell,
    They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death,
    Back from the mouth of Hell,
    All that was left of them,
      Left of six hundred.

    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
      All the world wonder'd.
    Honour the charge they made!
    Honour the Light Brigade,
      Noble six hundred!
     
  10. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

    Joined:
    Nov 16, 2005
    Messages:
    41,645
    Ratings:
    +2,172
    The Glove and the Lions

    James Leigh Hunt

    King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
    And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court.
    The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
    And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he signed:
    And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
    Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

    Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
    They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their
    paws;
    With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
    Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
    The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
    Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

    De Lorge's love o'er heard the King, a beauteous lively dame,
    With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
    She thought, The Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
    He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
    King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
    I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

    She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
    He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
    The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
    Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
    "By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he
    sat;
    "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."
     
  11. AnteaterCharger

    AnteaterCharger Calibrating Bolttalk, Podcast by Podcast Staff Member Super Moderator Podcaster

    Joined:
    Jan 19, 2006
    Messages:
    19,110
    Ratings:
    +2,929
    How I feel today

    William Butler Yeats: "The Second Coming" (1921)

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre (1)
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming (2) is at hand;
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi (3)
    Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again; but now I know
    That twenty centuries (4)
    of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
     
  12. Lightning's Girl

    Lightning's Girl Mod Chick =) Staff Member Moderator

    Joined:
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    Whew! That's some rather daunting reading!:icon_huh:

    But I like couth. And I like culture. And herewith, I present this missive from the creative mind of one Ogden Nash:

    The panther is like a leopard,
    Except it hasn't been peppered.
    Should you behold a panther crouch,
    Prepare to say ouch,
    Or better yet, if called by a panther,
    Don't anther!:lol:
     
  13. Lightning's Girl

    Lightning's Girl Mod Chick =) Staff Member Moderator

    Joined:
    Jan 15, 2007
    Messages:
    3,835
    Ratings:
    +1,153
    And then there's this little ditty, whose author, I'm afraid, has long since been forgotten:

    Eletelephony

    Once there was an elephant,
    Who tried to use the telephant,
    No, no! I mean an elephone,
    Who tried to use the telephone.

    (Dear me! I am not certain quite,
    That even now I've got it right.)

    Howe'er it was, he got his trunk,
    Entangled in the telephunk,
    The more he tried to get it free
    The louder buzzed the telephee.....

    (I fear I'd better drop the song
    Of elephop and telephong.)
    :lol:
     
  14. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

    Joined:
    Nov 16, 2005
    Messages:
    41,645
    Ratings:
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    I remeber this!! Who was the author?? :icon_shrug: :icon_huh: :lol:
     
  15. Buck Melanoma

    Buck Melanoma Guest

    Ratings:
    +408
    Paul Revere's Ride
    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Listen my children and you shall hear
    Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
    On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
    Hardly a man is now alive
    Who remembers that famous day and year.

    He said to his friend, "If the British march
    By land or sea from the town to-night,
    Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
    Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
    One if by land, and two if by sea;
    And I on the opposite shore will be,
    Ready to ride and spread the alarm
    Through every Middlesex village and farm,
    For the country folk to be up and to arm."

    Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
    Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
    Just as the moon rose over the bay,
    Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
    The Somerset, British man-of-war;
    A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
    Across the moon like a prison bar,
    And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
    By its own reflection in the tide.

    Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
    Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
    Till in the silence around him he hears
    The muster of men at the barrack door,
    The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
    And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
    Marching down to their boats on the shore.

    Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
    By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
    To the belfry chamber overhead,
    And startled the pigeons from their perch
    On the sombre rafters, that round him made
    Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
    By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
    To the highest window in the wall,
    Where he paused to listen and look down
    A moment on the roofs of the town
    And the moonlight flowing over all.

    Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
    In their night encampment on the hill,
    Wrapped in silence so deep and still
    That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
    The watchful night-wind, as it went
    Creeping along from tent to tent,
    And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
    A moment only he feels the spell
    Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
    Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
    For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
    On a shadowy something far away,
    Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
    A line of black that bends and floats
    On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

    Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
    Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
    On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
    Now he patted his horse's side,
    Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
    Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
    And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
    But mostly he watched with eager search
    The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
    As it rose above the graves on the hill,
    Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
    And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
    A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
    He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
    But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
    A second lamp in the belfry burns.

    A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
    A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
    And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
    Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
    That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
    The fate of a nation was riding that night;
    And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
    Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
    He has left the village and mounted the steep,
    And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
    Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
    And under the alders that skirt its edge,
    Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
    Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

    It was twelve by the village clock
    When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
    He heard the crowing of the ****,
    And the barking of the farmer's dog,
    And felt the damp of the river fog,
    That rises after the sun goes down.

    It was one by the village clock,
    When he galloped into Lexington.
    He saw the gilded weathercock
    Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
    And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
    Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
    As if they already stood aghast
    At the bloody work they would look upon.

    It was two by the village clock,
    When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
    He heard the bleating of the flock,
    And the twitter of birds among the trees,
    And felt the breath of the morning breeze
    Blowing over the meadow brown.
    And one was safe and asleep in his bed
    Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
    Who that day would be lying dead,
    Pierced by a British musket ball.

    You know the rest. In the books you have read
    How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
    How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
    >From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
    Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
    Then crossing the fields to emerge again
    Under the trees at the turn of the road,
    And only pausing to fire and load.

    So through the night rode Paul Revere;
    And so through the night went his cry of alarm
    To every Middlesex village and farm,---
    A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
    A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
    And a word that shall echo for evermore!
    For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
    Through all our history, to the last,
    In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
    The people will waken and listen to hear
    The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
    And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
     
  16. Buck Melanoma

    Buck Melanoma Guest

    Ratings:
    +408
    JABBERWOCKY
    Lewis Carroll
    (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

    `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.


    "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!"

    He took his vorpal sword in hand:
    Long time the manxome foe he sought --
    So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
    And stood awhile in thought.

    And, as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
    Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

    One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
    He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

    "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
    O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
    He chortled in his joy.


    `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.
     
  17. Buck Melanoma

    Buck Melanoma Guest

    Ratings:
    +408
    Howl, Parts I & II
    by Allen Ginsberg

    For Carl Solomon

    I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
    hysterical naked,
    dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry
    fix,
    angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the
    starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
    who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
    supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
    cities contemplating jazz,
    who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels
    staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
    who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan-
    sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
    who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes
    on the windows of the skull,
    who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in
    wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
    who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt
    of marijuana for New York,
    who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or
    purgatoried their torsos night after night
    with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and **** and
    endless balls,
    incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind
    leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
    tionless world of Time between,
    Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunk-
    enness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
    blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring
    winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of
    mind,
    who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy
    Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought
    them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain
    all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
    who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat
    through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the
    crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
    who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue
    to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
    a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire
    escapes off windowsills of Empire State out of the moon,
    yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and
    anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
    whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with
    brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
    who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous
    picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
    suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of
    China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
    who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wonder-
    ing where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
    who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward
    lonesome farms in grandfather night,
    who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah
    because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
    who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels
    who were visionary indian angels,
    who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural
    ecstasy,
    who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse
    of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
    who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or
    soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
    and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
    who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but
    the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in
    fireplace Chicago,
    who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts
    with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incompre-
    hensible leaflets,
    who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze
    of Capitalism,
    who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and
    undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and
    wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
    who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before
    the machinery of other skeletons,
    who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for
    committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and
    intoxication,
    who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof
    waving genitals and manuscripts,
    who let themselves be ****ed in the *** by saintly motorcyclists, and
    screamed with joy,
    who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of
    Atlantic and Caribbean love,
    who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of
    public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whom-
    ever come who may,
    who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind
    a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to
    pierce them with a sword,
    who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew
    of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the
    womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ***
    and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom.
    who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a
    package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued
    along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with
    a vision of ultimate **** and come eluding the last gyzym of con-
    sciousness,
    who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and
    were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of
    the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
    who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C.,
    secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to
    the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner
    backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or
    with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings
    & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys
    too,
    who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a
    sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-
    over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams
    & stumbled to unemployment offices,
    who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks
    waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-
    heat and opium,
    who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hud-
    son under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
    be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
    who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy
    bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
    who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions
    and bad music,
    who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to
    build harpsichords in their lofts,

    who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the
    tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
    who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in
    the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
    who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming
    of the pure vegetable kingdom,
    who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
    who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside
    of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next
    decade,
    who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and
    were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were
    growing old and cried,
    who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue
    amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regi-
    ments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertis-
    ing & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down
    by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
    who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked
    away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown
    soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
    who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window,
    jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the
    street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph
    records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whis-
    key and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears
    and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
    who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to the each other's
    hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
    who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you
    had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
    who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver
    & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
    Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver
    is lonesome for her heroes,
    who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salva-
    tion and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a
    second,
    who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals
    with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang
    sweet blues to Alcatraz,
    who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha
    or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
    Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
    who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with
    their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
    who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently
    presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with
    shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instanta-
    neous lobotomy,
    and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity
    hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & am-
    nesia,
    who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table,
    resting briefly in catatonia,
    returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and
    fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns
    of the East,
    Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the
    echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
    dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to
    stone as heavy as the moon,
    with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the
    tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 a.m. and the last
    telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
    emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper
    rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary,
    nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--
    ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the
    total animal soup of time--
    and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash
    of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the
    vibrating plane,
    who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images
    juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual
    images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of
    consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens
    Aeterna Deus
    to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before
    you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet
    confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
    naked and endless head,
    the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
    what might be left to say in time come after death,
    and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow
    of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love
    into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered
    the cities down to the last radio
    with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies
    good to eat a thousand years.
     
  18. Buck Melanoma

    Buck Melanoma Guest

    Ratings:
    +408
    Part II


    What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up
    their brains and imagination?
    Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Chil-
    dren screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old
    men weeping in the parks!
    Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Mo-
    loch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
    Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jail-
    house and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judg-
    ment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned govern-
    ments!
    Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running
    money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast
    is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
    Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrap-
    ers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose
    factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and
    antennae crown the cities!
    Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity
    and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
    whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the
    Mind!
    Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in
    Moloch! ********** in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
    Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness
    without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ec-
    stasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light stream-
    ing out of the sky!
    Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries!
    blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses
    granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
    They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios,
    tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
    Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American
    river!
    Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive
    bullshit!
    Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood!
    Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
    Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
    Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells!
    They bade farewell! They jumped off the roofl to solitude! waving! carrying
    flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
     
  19. Buck Melanoma

    Buck Melanoma Guest

    Ratings:
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    Birches
    by Robert Frost


    When I see birches bend to left and right

    Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

    I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

    But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

    As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

    Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

    After a rain. They click upon themselves

    As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

    As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

    Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

    Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--

    Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

    You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

    They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

    And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

    So low for long, they never right themselves:

    You may see their trunks arching in the woods

    Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

    Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

    Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

    But I was going to say when Truth broke in

    With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

    I should prefer to have some boy bend them

    As he went out and in to fetch the cows--

    Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

    Whose only play was what he found himself,

    Summer or winter, and could play alone.

    One by one he subdued his father's trees

    By riding them down over and over again

    Until he took the stiffness out of them,

    And not one but hung limp, not one was left

    For him to conquer. He learned all there was

    To learn about not launching out too soon

    And so not carrying the tree away

    Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

    To the top branches, climbing carefully

    With the same pains you use to fill a cup

    Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

    Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

    Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

    So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

    And so I dream of going back to be.

    It's when I'm weary of considerations,

    And life is too much like a pathless wood

    Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

    Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

    From a twig's having lashed across it open.

    I'd like to get away from earth awhile

    And then come back to it and begin over.

    May no fate willfully misunderstand me

    And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

    Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

    I don't know where it's likely to go better.

    I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

    And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

    Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

    But dipped its top and set me down again.

    That would be good both going and coming back.

    One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
     
  20. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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  21. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    "Farewell love and all thy laws forever..."

    Thomas Wyatt

    Farewell, love, and all thy laws forever,
    Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
    Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
    To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavor.
    In blind error when I did persever,
    Thy sharp repulse that pricketh aye so sore
    Taught me in trifles that I set no store,
    But scape forth, since liberty is lever.
    Therefore, farewell, go trouble younger hearts,
    And in me claim no more authority;
    With idle youth go use thy property,
    And thereon spend thy many brittle darts.
    For hitherto though I have lost my time,
    Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.
     
  22. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    JABBERWOCKY

    Lewis Carroll
    (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

    `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.

    "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!"

    He took his vorpal sword in hand:
    Long time the manxome foe he sought --
    So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
    And stood awhile in thought.

    And, as in uffish thought he stood,
    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
    Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
    And burbled as it came!

    One, two! One, two! And through and through
    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
    He left it dead, and with its head
    He went galumphing back.

    "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
    Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
    O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
    He chortled in his joy.


    `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
    And the mome raths outgrabe.
     
  23. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Sonnet on Emily Bronte

    The parsonage o'erlooked the barren moors,
    The little garden and the graveyard there,
    With all the country round it bleak and bare
    Yet even desolation had its lures,
    And like the flower that blossoms and endures
    Among the rocks, here spirit, too, grew fair,
    And found its heaven in the bracing air
    Of Haworth midst the villagers and boors.

    She loved the tempest and the driving rain,
    Her very loneliness inspired her sight,
    The winds expressed her longing and her pain,
    And gave her fancy weird the wings for flight;
    But all the beauty round her shone in vain,
    Unless the home folks shared with her its light.
     
  24. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    THE OLD STOIC

    by: Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

    RICHES I hold in light esteem,
    And Love I laugh to scorn;
    And lust of fame was but a dream
    That vanish'd with the morn:

    And, if I pray, the only prayer
    That moves my lips for me
    Is, 'Leave the heart that now I bear,
    And give me liberty!'

    Yea, as my swift days near their goal,
    'Tis all that I implore:
    In life and death a chainless soul,
    With courage to endure.
     
  25. Lightning's Girl

    Lightning's Girl Mod Chick =) Staff Member Moderator

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    I've said it for forty years, and I STILL believe it: Lewis Carroll must've been stoned out of his gourd when he wrote this stuff. To this day I still wonder if LSD had been invented yet.:icon_huh:
     
  26. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Coleridge was said to be under the influence of opium when he wrote Kubla Khan.

    Aw ****, seems I duplicated Buck's effort...sorry :icon_eek: :icon_sad: :tdown:
     
  27. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    A Visit To The Asylum

    Edna St. Vincent Millay


    Once from a big, big building,
    When I was small, small,
    The queer folk in the windows
    Would smile at me and call.

    And in the hard wee gardens
    Such pleasant men would hoe:
    "Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!"—
    It was so red, you know.

    They cut me coloured asters
    With shears so sharp and neat,
    They brought me grapes and plums and pears
    And pretty cakes to eat.

    And out of all the windows,
    No matter where we went,
    The merriest eyes would follow me
    And make me compliment.

    There were a thousand windows,
    All latticed up and down.
    And up to all the windows,
    When we went back to town,

    The queer folk put their faces,
    As gentle as could be;
    "Come again, little girl!" they called, and I
    Called back, "You come see me!"
     
  28. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    ...and Poe hadta be pretty toasted when he did The Raven and the Tell-Tale Heart.
     
  29. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Race of Veterans

    Walt Whitman

    RACE of veterans! Race of victors!
    Race of the soil, ready for conflict! race of the conquering march!
    (No more credulity’s race, abiding-temper’d race;)
    Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself;
    Race of passion and the storm.
     
  30. BFISA

    BFISA Well-Known Member

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    Now Close The Windows

    Robert Frost

    Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
    If the trees must, let them silently toss;
    No bird is singing now, and if there is,
    Be it my loss.

    It will be long ere the marshes resume,
    I will be long ere the earliest bird:
    So close the windows and not hear the wind,
    But see all wind-stirred.
     

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