And we thought of wilderness
That bore the thousand angels,
That strew the dust
As fine as frost
Upon the fancied candles.

O, black as autumn night
Are fed the holy forests
That fertilized the grain,
That breathes the birth
Of chanted aurists.

The soaring swan of danger
That held the mighty plain —
The bitter seed of glittering age
Seems glad to mourn its twain.

Gonna sit around for a while
Shoulda just ridden down this aisle
Deacon Jones keepin' a-prayin'
Got as much religion as one of air
Wanna go to heaven, gotta stop this stuff
Going to be struttin' that thing
Which a way?

I don't know
I don't know
I don't know
I don't know
I'm tellin' these lovers
Honey , they're struttin' that thing
night and day

There's a lady, but her name is Lou
Shook that thing till she caught the flu

" G ONEYS an' gullies an' all o' the birds o' the sea
They ain't no birds, not really, " said Billy the Dane.
" Not mollies, nor gullies, nor goneys at all, " said he,
" But simply the sperrits of mariners livin' again.

" Them birds goin' fishin' is nothin' but souls o' the drowned,
Souls o' the drowned an' the kicked as are never no more;
An' that there haughty old albatross cruisin' around,
Belike he 's Admiral Nelson or Admiral Noah.

" An' merry 's the life they are living. They settle and dip,

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes

Gone are the coloured princes, gone echo, gone laughter:
Drips the blank roof: and the moss creeps after.

Dead is the crumbled chimney: all mellowed to rotting
The wall-tints, and the floor-tints, from the spotting
Of the rain, from the wind and slow appetite
Of patient mould: and of the worms that bite
At beauty all their innumerable lives.

— But the sudden nip of knives,
The lady aching for her stiffening lord,
The passionate-fearful bride,
And beaded Pallor clamped to the torment-board,

Golgotha's journey is an ancient way
That leads from Rome's outrageous judgment gate
To modern slums and trenches, where we pray
To him whose heart is breaking with our hate.

We build his crosses now of steel and lead,
And pierce his body with the bayonet;
Behind the trenches watch his blood flow red
In flaming anguish that we soon forget.

Lord Caesar's high tribunal, Martian-wise,
Spits in his face—Rome never was more rude!—
And in the name of freedom still denies
To Christian men the right of rectitude.

The golf links lie so near the mill
—That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
—And see the men at play.

The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown,
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun;

The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook,
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook;

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies--

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,

The golden sun that brings the day,
And lends men light to see withal,
In vain doth cast his beams away,
Where they are blind on whom they fall:
There is no force in all his light
To give the mole a perfect sight.

But thou, my sun, more bright than he
That shines at noon in summer tide,
Hast given me light and power to see;
With perfect skill my sight to guide.
'Till now I lived as blind as mole,
That hides her head in earthly hole.

I heard the praise of beauty's grace,
Yet deemed it nought but Poet's skill;

A golden pallor of voluptuous light
Filled the warm southern night:
The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene
Moved like a stately queen,
So rife with conscious beauty all the while,
What could she do but smile
At her own perfect loveliness below,
Glassed in the tranquil flow
Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams?
Half lost in waking dreams,
As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed,
Lo! from a neighboring glade,
Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came
A fairy shape of flame.