Inspirational

        Oh! the sickening sensation!
        Oh! the burning agitation
                In my soul!
        Oh! the awful desolation
                Of my soul!
        And my breast is sore with sighing.
        Comfort to myself denying
    Comfort and relief denying to my soul distrest and sore;
        While that worst of all diseases
        With a pain that naught appeases
                Ever burns
        While a pain that grimly pleases
                Alway burns,
        Kindled by thy bright eye's beaming,
        By thy brilliant, blue eye's beaming,
    When I saw thee, saw and loved thee on that fatal eve of yore;
        And anon it has been living,
        And a blissful sadness giving
                While with thee,
        Min...

In the east the morning comes,
Hear the rollin' of the drums
On the hill.
But the heart that beat as they beat
In the battle's raging day heat
Lieth still.
Unto him the night has come,
Though they roll the morning drum.

What is in the bugle's blast?
It is: "Victory at last!
Now for rest."
But, my comrades, come behold him,
Where our colors now enfold him,
And his breast
Bares no more to meet the blade,
But lies covered in the shade.

What a stir there is to-day!
They are laying him away
Where he fell.
There the flag goes draped before him;
Now they pile the grave sod o'er him
With a knell.
And he answers to his name
In the higher ranks of fame.

There's a woman left to mourn
For the child that she ha...

    There was a time that's gone
    And will not come again,
    We knew it was a pleasant time,
    How good we never dreamed.

    When, for a whimsy's sake,
    We'd even play with pain,
    For everything awaited us
    And life immortal seemed.

    It seemed unending then
    To forward-looking eyes,
    No thought of what postponement meant
    Hung dark across our mirth;

    We had years and strength enough
    For any enterprise,
    Our numerous companionship
    Were heirs to all the earth.

    But now all memory
    Is one ironic truth,
    We look like strangers at the boys
    We were so long ago;

    For half of us are dead,
    And half have lost their youth,
    And our hearts are scar...

Why be at pains that I should know
You sought not me?
Do breezes, then, make features glow
So rosily?
Come, the lit port is at our back,
And the tumbling sea;
Elsewhere the lampless uphill track
To uncertainty!

O should not we two waifs join hands?
I am alone,
You would enrich me more than lands
By being my own.
Yet, though this facile moment flies,
Close is your tone,
And ere to-morrow's dewfall dries
I plough the unknown.

Why openest thou afresh the spring of
my grief, O son of Alpin, inquiring
how Oscur fell? My eyes are blind with
tears; but memory beams on my heart.
How can I relate the mournful death of
the head of the people! Prince of the
warriours, Oscur my son, shall I see thee
no more!

He fell as the moon in a storm; as
the sun from the midst of his course,
when clouds rise from the waste of the
waves, when the blackness of the storm
inwraps the rocks of Ardannider. I, like
an ancient oak on Morven, I moulder
alone in my place. The blast hath lopped
my branches away; and I tremble
at the wings of the north. Prince of
the warriors, Oscur my son! shall I see
thee no more!

DERMID

DERMID and Oscur were one: They
reaped the battle ...

Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank -
Head and foot, shoulder and shank -
By a grey eye's heed steered well, one crew, fall to;
Stand at stress. Each limb's barrowy brawn, his thew
That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank -
    Soared or sank - ,
Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll- call, rank
And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do -
His sinew-service where do.

He leans to it, Harry bends, look. Back, elbow, and liquid waist
In him, all quail to the wallowing o' the plough:'s cheek crimsons; curls
Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced -
See his wind- lilylocks -laced;
Churlsgrace, too, child of Amans...

        Away o'er the hills in the valley green
        Away from the noise of the busy town;
        I dream sweet dreams of the olden days
        Of you in your beautiful wedding gown.

        I dream that you come and sit by me
        And you hold my hand and ruff my hair;
        Your eyes shine with a sweet delight
        That I used to see so often there.

        Then my heart is filled with a hallowed love
        And I know t'is but a little way
        To the spirit land, and I know that I
        Shall meet you there some glad sweet day.

        Then our wedding day in the spirit land
        Will be filled with love and joy serene;
        And the infinite hand will guide us where
        The waters are still and the valleys green.

I strayed about the deck, an hour, to-night
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
In the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still
No one could see me.

I would have thought of them
    Heedless, within a week of battle, in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And link'd beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered, . . .

    Only, always,
I could but see them, against the lamplight--pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in...

In this war we're always moving,
Moving on;
When we make a friend another friend has gone;
Should a woman's kindly face
Make us welcome for a space,
Then it's boot and saddle, boys, we're
Moving on.

In the hospitals they're moving,
Moving on;
They're here today, tomorrow they are gone;
When the bravest and the best
Of the boys you know "go west",
Then you're choking down your tears and
Moving on.

Tears most prevail; with tears, too, thou may'st move
Rocks to relent, and coyest maids to love.

    All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
        Ere spring was going--ah, spring is gone!
    And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,--
        Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

    All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
        Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
    And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
        And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow’s orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee.
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.

Moral:

The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.

Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
    Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
    In bright exhalement reach the skies.
        Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they past, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.--
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
    O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
        Leave me to sigh.

You bound strong sandals on my feet,
You gave me bread and wine,
And sent me under sun and stars,
For all the world was mine.

Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
You know not what you do;
For all my world is in your arms,
My sun and stars are you.

Perchè quel che mi trasse ad amar prima.

HE WILL ALWAYS LOVE HER, THOUGH DENIED THE SIGHT OF HER.


    Though cruelty denies my view
Those charms which led me first to love;
To passion yet will I be true,
Nor shall my will rebellious prove.
Amid the curls of golden hair
That wave those beauteous temples round,
Cupid spread craftily the snare
With which my captive heart he bound:
And from those eyes he caught the ray
Which thaw'd the ice that fenced my breast,
Chasing all other thoughts away,
With brightness suddenly imprest.
But now that hair of sunny gleam,
Ah me! is ravish'd from my sight;
Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam,
And change to sadness past delight.
A glorious death by all is prized;
Tis death alone sha...

Oh, I have n't got long to live, for we all
Die soon, e'en those who live longest;
And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance
Along with the richest and strongest.
So it's heigho for a glass and a song,
And a bright eye over the table,
And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush,
And the pick of a gentleman's stable.

There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yester-night,
But he 's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh;
'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow,
And the vultures shall feast on his marrow.
But it's heigho for a brave old song
And a glass while we are able;
Here 's a health to death and another cup
To the bright eye over the table.

I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest,
But who argues now on appearance?
A ...

    1

    Having wilderness cracks
    in emotional facades
    chinks within
    to let cabins in.

    2
    Porous wind
    examining pavement,
    foot-sore maybe loose
    winding entrails
    of our hearts
    into lavatory paper;
    would that it pleased
    riddled trees
    - more whistling,
    poked holes
    across oasis tracks
    wandering spaces.

    3
    Blistering thought,
    paint flecks
    chipped in the mica-afraid
    heat of wan-ton passion;
    (acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine)
    a wan smile
    left from which
    I pretend to remember all.

    4
    Love-smitten
    to lend
    the reach of your arm -
    sighs,
    droop...

Wot’s that you’re readin’? a novel? A novel! well, darn my skin!
You a man grown and bearded and histin’ such stuff ez that in
Stuff about gals and their sweethearts! No wonder you’re thin ez a knife.
Look at me clar two hundred and never read one in my life!

That’s my opinion o’ novels. And ez to their lyin’ round here,
They belong to the Jedge’s daughter the Jedge who came up last year
On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam o’ pine and fir;
And his daughter well, she read novels, and that’s what’s the matter with her.

Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and night,
Alone in the cabin up ‘yer till she grew like a ghost, all white.
She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and away
Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she w...