"Everybody in the world is frightened of getting cut."
    Charles Manson

    I
    The image complete
    - collapsing corpses, rag dolls
    with skulls shot away ...
    ruby-red blood spurting
    slipstick/eyeshadow/mascara
    all so reptilian replete.

    II
    The long fingers of the pianist
    playing rifle fire to a
    captive audience,
    stiletto tones;
    the trance effect,
    precedes a cobra's strike,
    summer without smoke.

    III
    A glass of absinthe
    - the Degas painting,
    Marc Lepine measuring out his vial,
    measuring the worth of a single
    woman and finding her long on the call,
    cartridge shells exploding
    filaments of smoke
    (long and blue)...

I.
Now is done thy long day’s work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave.
Shadows of the silver birk
Sweep the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

II.
Thee nor carketh care nor slander;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.
Let them rave.
Light and shadow ever wander
O’er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

III.
Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed;
Chaunteth not the brooding bee
Sweeter tones than calumny?
Let them rave.
Thou wilt never raise thine head
From the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

IV.
Crocodiles wept tears for thee;
The woodbine and eglatere
Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear.<...

    You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die:
    And much you care; for most of you will cry,
    'Twas a just judgment on their constancy.
    For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,
    When no man dies for love, but on the stage:
    And even those martyrs are but rare in plays;
    A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
    Love is no more a violent desire;
    'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
    In all our sex, the name examined well,
    Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
    In woman, 'tis of subtle interest made:
    Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
    She first did wit's prerogative remove,
    And made a fool presume to prate of love.
    Let honour and preferment go for gold;
    But glorious beauty is not to be ...

What has been will be,
'Tis the under law of life;
'Tis the song of sky and sea,
To the key of calm and strife.

For guard we as we may,
What is to be will be,
The dark must fold each day --
The shore must gird each sea.

All things are ruled by law;
'Tis only in man's will
You meet a feeble flaw;
But fate is weaving still

The web and woof of life,
With hands that have no hearts,
Thro' calmness and thro' strife,
Despite all human arts.

For fate is master here,
He laughs at human wiles;
He sceptres every tear,
And fetters any smiles.

What is to be will be,
We cannot help ourselves;
The waves ask not the sea
Where lies the shore that shelves.

The law is coldest steel,
We live beneath ...

"Hosanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth
Superillustrans claritate tua
Felices ignes horum malahoth!"
Thus chanting saw I turn that substance bright
With fourfold lustre to its orb again,
Revolving; and the rest unto their dance
With it mov'd also; and like swiftest sparks,
In sudden distance from my sight were veil'd.

Me doubt possess'd, and "Speak," it whisper'd me,
"Speak, speak unto thy lady, that she quench
Thy thirst with drops of sweetness." Yet blank awe,
Which lords it o'er me, even at the sound
Of Beatrice's name, did bow me down
As one in slumber held. Not long that mood
Beatrice suffer'd: she, with such a smile,
As might have made one blest amid the flames,
Beaming upon me, thus her words began:
"Thou in thy thought art pond'ring (as I deem),
...

Let us clear a little space,
And make Love a burial-place.

He is dead, dear, as you see,
And he wearies you and me.

Growing heavier, day by day,
Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white butterflies,
These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare,
Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose
Let us his white eyelids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand,
Shorn of leaves - you understand.

Let some holy water fall
On his dead face, tears of gall -

As we kneel to him and say,
"Dreams to dreams," and turn away.

Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,
They will lower him to the dust.

Let us part here with a kiss -
You go that way, I go this.

Sin...

I.

    Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die, -
    The light of love, the love-light of the sky, -
    That I, at length, may see my darling's face
                            One minute's space.


II.

    Have I not wept to know myself so weak
    That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek,
    The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold
                            Her locks of gold?


III.

    Have I not sworn that I will not be wed,
    But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed?
    The soul can see, - for souls are seraphim, -
                            When eyes are dim.


IV.

    Oh, hush! she comes. I know her. She is nigh.
    She brings me death, true heart, and I will die.
    Sh...

The pale discrowned stacks of maize,
Like spectres in the sun,
Stand shivering nigh Avonaise,
Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain,
With melancholy chords;
Like cries from some old battle-plain,
Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green
With musical green waves,
She went, its plumed ranks between,
Unto the hill of graves.

There you may see sweet flowers set
O’er damsels and o’er dames,
Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret,
The sweet old quiet names.

The gravestones show in long array,
Though white or green with moss,
How linked in Life and Death are they,
The Shamrock and the Cross.

The gravestones face the Golden East,
And in the morn they take
The blessing o...

Here lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt,
And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or els the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten yeers full,
Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely, Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journeys end was come,
And that he had tane up his latest Inne,
In the kind office of a Chamberlin
Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be sed,
Hobson has supt...

Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill!
Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn
For our iniquity, that we have worn
Soft as a grace, these, if it be thy will,
But not unsouled darkness! Not the chill
Dead air, in which men move a while forlorn
And swiftly fail! Oh, break us, make us mourn
With tears of blood, but let us see thee still!

For we have visioned thee! Once, long ago,
O'er sea and wilderness a cloud of fire.
Thou led'st us forth; 'mid many a shame and woe.
We still have dreamed apocalypse; at last.
Ah, go not out, thou Flame of all the past!
Burn, thou bright Ardor, burn, thou great Desire!

The melody of autumn
    Is the only tune I know,
And I sing it over and over
    Because it thrills me so;
It stirs anew the happy wish,
    So near to perfect bliss,
To live a little longer in
    A world like this.

The sound was never sweeter,
    The voice so nearly mute,
As beauty, dying, loses
    Her hold upon the lute;
And like the harmonies that touch
    And blend with those above,
Forever must an echo wake
    The heart of love.

Her robe of brown and coral
    And amber glistens through
Rare jewels of the morning,
    The opals of the dew,
Like royal fabrics worn beneath
    The tinselry of pearls,
Or diamond dust by fashion strewn
    On sunny curls.

If I could wrap such garments
    In...

The Two Greetings.

I.

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
Where all that was to be, in all that was,
Whirl’d for a million æons thro’ the vast
Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying light—
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,
Thro’ all this changing world of changeless law,
And every phase of ever-heightening life,
And nine long months of antenatal gloom,
With this last moon, this crescent—her dark orb
Touch’d with earth’s light—thou comest, darling boy;
Our own; a babe in lineament and limb
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man;
Whose face and form are hers and mine in one,
Indissolubly married like our love;
Live, and be happy in thyself, and serve
This mortal race thy kin so well, that men
May bless thee as we bless thee,...

So soon my body will have gone
Beyond the sound and sight of men,
And tho' it wakes and suffers now,
Its sleep will be unbroken then;
But oh, my frail immortal soul
That will not sleep forevermore,
A leaf borne onward by the blast,
A wave that never finds the shore.

Within the hollowed hand of God,
Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate,
That have no time nor period,
And know no early and no late.

Postpone you can not, nor advance
Success or failure that's to be;
All fortune, being born of chance,
Is bastard-child to destiny.

Bow down your head, or hold it high,
Consent, defy--no smallest part
Of this you change, although the die
Was fashioned from your living heart.

The Greatest Day that ever dawned,--
It was a Winter's Morn.

The Finest Temple ever built
Was a Shed where a Babe was born.

The Sweetest Robes by woman wrought
Were the Swaths by the Baby worn.

And the Fairest Hair the world has seen,
--Those Locks that were never shorn.

The Noblest Crown man ever wore,--
It was the Plaited Thorn.

The Grandest Death man ever died,--
It was the Death of Scorn.

The Sorest Grief by woman known
Was the Mother-Maid's forlorn.

The Deepest Sorrows e'er endured
Were by The Outcast borne.

The Truest Heart the world e'er broke
Was the Heart by man's sins torn.

She has gone for ever from earth away,
Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still;
In the silent night, when the moons pale ray,
Silvers the leaves on the window sill.
Just between sleeping and waking I lie,
Makebelieve feeling their velvet touch,
Darling! My darling! Oh, why should you die!
Leaving me lonely, who loved so much?

Those tiny fingers that used to stray
Over my face which is wrinkled now;
Those little white hands - how they used to play,
With the wanton curls round my once fair brow.
Thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks,
I seem to see now as I saw them then;
And a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks, -
'Thou shalt meet her again,' - but when? oh, when?

Deep in the grave was the coffin laid,
And buried with it was my purest lov...

Savitri was the only child
Of Madra's wise and mighty king;
Stern warriors, when they saw her, smiled,
As mountains smile to see the spring.
Fair as a lotus when the moon
Kisses its opening petals red,
After sweet showers in sultry June!
With happier heart, and lighter tread,
Chance strangers, having met her, past,
And often would they turn the head
A lingering second look to cast,
And bless the vision ere it fled.

What was her own peculiar charm?
The soft black eyes, the raven hair,
The curving neck, the rounded arm,
All these are common everywhere.
Her charm was this--upon her face
Childlike and innocent and fair,
No man with thought impure or base
Could ever look;--the glory there,
The sweet simplicity and grace,
Abashed the b...

I.

A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.

II.

The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?

A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.

Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen comple...