English

I' VE lost my little May at last!
She perished in the spring,
When earliest flowers began to bud,
And earliest birds to sing;
I laid her in a country grave,
A green and soft retreat,
A marble tablet o'er her head,
And violets at her feet.

I would that she were back again,
In all her childish bloom;
My joy and hope have followed her,
My heart is in her tomb!
I know that she is gone away,
I know that she is fled,
I miss her everywhere, and yet
I cannot think her dead!

behind the glass wall
fluctuant i see blue limbs
crumble away black fungus noses
thighs kneecaps
‘i have the taste of the infinite’
ylem
primordial squinch the universe crushed into a seed
nothing will satisfy me
i write green ballets & hollow journeys
caught in the etheric web of yr crotch
a hairy ocean of darkness


dawamesc doors of pearl
open to fiery radiance
majoun madness
down marrakech alleys
the djemaa el fna
squirming with snakes
in carbide glow

How grave thou lookest, loved one! wherefore so?
Thy marble image seems a type of thee;
Like it, no sign of life thou giv'st to me;
Compared with thee, the stone appears to glow.

Behind his shield in ambush lurks the foe,
The friend's brow all-unruffled we should see.
I seek thee, but thou seek'st away to flee;
Fix'd as this sculptured figure, learn to grow!

Tell me, to which should I the preference pay?
Must I from both with coldness meet alone?
The one is lifeless, thou with life art blest.

Love, with what strange tyrannick lawes must they
Comply, which are subjected to thy sway!
How far all justice thy commands decline,
Which though they hope forbid, yet love enjoyne!
Must all are to thy hell condemn'd sustain
A double torture of despaire and pain?
Is't not enough vainly to hope and wooe,
That thou shouldst thus deny that vain hope too?
It were some Joy Ixion-like to fold
The empty aire, or feed on hopes as cold;
But if thou to my passion this deny,
Thou may'st be starv'd to death as well as I.

Ever, somewhere in the boundless blue,
Floats a cloud, like a ship at sea;
Ever a shadow lies on the hills,
And a wind from the south blows free.

Ever is heard the voice of the pines
As they weep o'er a long-lost love,
And ever, like the path of a star,
Flows the stream with hills above.

Ever the glens betray, passing sweet,
Secrets of brown lovers no more;
Ever the huntsman lingering there
At eve hears the dip of the oar;

Behold on the moonlit wave afar,
Two vague forms in a light canoe,

There is a garden in a distant place,
In a far field where trees encircling grow,
And, often when the summer breezes blow,
I go alone to muse upon a face
That was my joy. White roses interlace
His resting spot the granite cross below.
There my dumb heart can sometimes voice its woe
And ask the healing of our dear Lord's grace.
The fragrance of the rose is as his youth,
The blue forget-me-nots reflect his eyes,
The deep dyed pansies are for memory.
In that sweet garden I can feel the truth

The Poet should be one who sings,
Whose rhythmic music lilts and rings
With images inspired;
And he must be the Seer who sees
Beyond his utmost melodies,
Until, with soul, afired,
He brings the waiting world the word
That only Seer and Singer heard!

Lean close and set thine ear against the bark;
Then tell me what faint, murmurous sounds are heard:
Hath not the oak stored up the song of bird,
Whisper of wind and rain-lisp? Ay, and hark!
The shadowy elves that fret the summer dark,
With clash of horny winglets swiftly whirred,
Hear'st thou not them, with myriad noises, blurred,
Yet well defined if one but shrewdly mark?
And thou,—when thy Familiar setteth ear
Unto thy bosom, doth he note the same
Sweet concord of harmonious soundswithin?
Or is all hushed in hollow silence drear?

A YOUTH , adorn'd with every art
To warm and win the coldest heart,
In secret mine possess'd:
The morning bud that fairest blows,
The vernal oak that straightest grows,
His face and shape express'd.

In moving sounds he told his tale,
Soft as the sighings of the gale
That wakes the flowery year.
What wonder he could charm with ease,
Whom happy Nature taught to please,
Whom Honour made sincere?

At morn he left me—fought—and fell!
The fatal evening heard his knell,
And saw the tears I shed;