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My Super Man
In the dreams I dream
Only you visible in thee
My perfect human
With a pale skin you were handsomely made
visible, but don't have face
many heads but zero brains
their job is to blow their discouraging beams
There Was A Boy
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander! many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Much In Little
Amid the iris and the rose,
The honeysuckle and the bay,
The wild earth for a moment goes
In dust or weed another way.
As drear and barren as the glooms of Death,
It lies, a windless land of livid dawns,
Nude to a desolate firmament, with hills
That seem the gibbous bones of the mummied Earth,
Clark Ashton Smith
Would that in body and spirit Shakespeare came
Visible emperor of the deeds of Time,
With Justice still the genius of his rhyme,
Giving each man his due, each passion grace,
Fear death?-to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
World! to arms!
Do you shrink?
What! shrink when the hoofs of the Cossack are crushing
The bosom of mother, the tonsure of priest,
Endymion: Book Iv
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
A Hidden Life
Proudly the youth, sudden with manhood crowned,
Went walking by his horses, the first time,
That morning, to the plough. No soldier gay
Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt
An Essay On Man: Epistle I.
Having proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as (to use my Lord Bacon's expression) come home to men's business and bosoms, I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering man in the abstract, his nature and his state; since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.
It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
We both have our hands to give
Take mine I shall lead you afar
I have lived several times my face hasw changed
A Forest Hymn
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
William Cullen Bryant
At Sea Off The Isle Of Man
Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong
And doubts and scruples seldom teased the brain,
That no adventurer's bark had power to gain
These shores if he approached them bent on wrong;
The Lovers' Walk
Sweet twining hedgeflowers wind-stirred in no wise
On this June day; and hand that clings in hand:-
Still glades; and meeting faces scarcely fann'd:-
An osier-odoured stream that draws the skies
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The Imaginary Iceberg
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship,
although it meant the end of travel.
Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock
and all the sea were moving marble.
RHAICOS was born amid the hills wherefrom
Gnidos the light of Caria is discernâ??d
And small are the white-crested that play near,
And smaller onward are the purple waves.
Walter Savage Landor
Hyperion: Book I
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards,
A Mood Of Pavlowa
The soul of the Spring through its body of earth
Bursts in a bloom of fire,
And the crocuses come in a rainbow riot of mirth….
They flutter, they burn, they take wing, they
O Living Always--always Dying
O LIVING always--always dying!
O the burials of me, past and present!
O me, while I stride ahead, material, visible, imperious as ever!
O me, what I was for years, now dead, (I lament not--I am content;)
A Dream Of Oblivion
The day of time was darkening to its end:
The sun hung chill within the blackened noon,
Its splendors one with night. Form planetrs doomed
The wail of death to empty silence rose.
Clark Ashton Smith
Hiding under the hill,
Heavy with trailing robes and tangled veils of green,
Till only its little haggard face was visible,
The garden lay shy and wistful,
First-born of the creating Voice!
Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent
Waiting upon him first, what time he went
Moving about mid the tumultuous noise
Who can remember back to the first poets,
The greatest ones, greater even than Orpheus?
No one has remembered that far back
Or now considers, among the artifacts,
Stars Over The Dordogne
Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
Between the wave-ridge and the strand
I let you forth in sight of land,
Songs that with storm-crossed wings and eyes
Strain eastward till the darkness dies;
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Who whispers here is forgotten.
Saliva's emptiest fruit
adorns the stones,
<i>To the memory of my mother</i>
And now she has over her head brown clouds of roots
a slim lily of salt on the temples beads of sand
They haunt me, they tease me with hinted
The songs that I may not utter;
They lead me, they flatter, they woo me.