SPONTANEOUS me, Nature, The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with, The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder, The hill-side whiten’d with blossoms of the mountain ash, The same, late in autumn—the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and light and dark green, The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—the private untrimm’d bank—the primitive apples—the pebble-stones, Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of one after another, as I happen to call them to me, or think of them, The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,) The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me, This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all men carry, (Know, once for all, avow’d on purpose, wherever are men like me, are our lusty, lurking, masculine poems;) Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers, and the climbing sap, Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb of love—breasts of love—bellies press’d and glued together with love, Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after love, The body of my love—the body of the woman I love—the body of the man—the body of the earth, Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west, The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down—that gripes the full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and tight till he is satisfied, The wet of woods through the early hours, Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other, The smell of apples, aromas from crush’d sage-plant, mint, birch-bark, The boy’s longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what he was dreaming, The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and content to the ground, The no-form’d stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with, The hubb’d sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any one, The sensitive, orbic, underlapp’d brothers, that only privileged feelers may be intimate where they are, The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body—the bashful withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and edge themselves, The limpid liquid within the young man, The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful, The torment—the irritable tide that will not be at rest, The like of the same I feel—the like of the same in others, The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that flushes and flushes, The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to repress what would master him; The mystic amorous night—the strange half-welcome pangs, visions, sweats, The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers—the young man all color’d, red, ashamed, angry; The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked, The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun, the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them, The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen’d long-round walnuts; The continence of vegetables, birds, animals, The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent, while birds and animals never once skulk or find themselves indecent; The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of maternity, The oath of procreation I have sworn—my Adamic and fresh daughters, The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I saturate what shall produce boys to fill my place when I am through, The wholesome relief, repose, content; And this bunch, pluck’d at random from myself; It has done its work—I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may.
Picture of the Day:
"Put the Llama in the car and let's go!"
NYC. A Llama in Times Square, 1957. By Inge Morath // Magnum Photos
(Dedicated to the victims and families of the Boston Marathon)
Quote of the Day:
Poem of the Day: I Measure Every Grief I Meet
by Emily Dickinson
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled—
Some thousands—on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,—
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.
There's grief of want, and grief of cold,—
A sort they call 'despair,'
There's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
Poem of the Day: He Would Never Use One Word Where None Would Do
by: Philip Levine
If you said “Nice day,” he would look up
at the three clouds riding overhead,
nod at each, and go back to doing what-
ever he was doing or not doing.
If you asked for a smoke or a light,
he’d hand you whatever he found
in his pockets: a jackknife, a hankie –
usually unsoiled — a dollar bill,
a subway token. Once he gave me
half the sandwich he was eating
at the little outdoor restaurant
on La Guardia Place. I remember
a single sparrow was perched on the back
of his chair, and when he held out
a piece of bread on his open palm,
the bird snatched it up and went back to
its place without even a thank you,
one hard eye staring at my bad eye
as though I were next. That was in May
of ’97, spring had come late,
but the sun warmed both of us for hours
while silence prevailed, if you can call
the blaring of taxi horns and the trucks
fighting for parking and the kids on skates
streaming past silence. My friend Frankie
was such a comfort to me that year,
the year of the crisis. He would turn
up his great dark head just going gray
until his eyes met mine, and that was all
I needed to go on talking nonsense
as he sat patiently waiting me out,
the bird staring over his shoulder.
“Silence is silver,” my Zaydee had said,
getting it wrong and right, just as he said
“Water is thicker than blood,” thinking
this made him a real American.
Frankie was already American,
being half German, half Indian.
Fact is, silence is the perfect water:
unlike rain it falls from no clouds
to wash our minds, to ease our tired eyes,
to give heart to the thin blades of grass
fighting through the concrete for even air
dirtied by our endless stream of words.
HOW wonderful is Death, Death, and his brother Sleep! One, pale as yonder waning moon With lips of lurid blue; The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean's wave It blushes o'er the world; Yet both so passing wonderful!
Hath then the gloomy Power Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres Seized on her sinless soul? Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline which is fair As breathing marble, perish? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight But loathsomeness and ruin? Spare nothing but a gloomy theme, On which the lightest heart might moralize? Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation, Which the breath of roseate morning Chaseth into darkness? Will Ianthe wake again, And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life and rapture, from her smile?
Yes! she will wake again, Although her glowing limbs are motionless, And silent those sweet lips, Once breathing eloquence That might have soothed a tiger's rage Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. Her dewy eyes are closed, And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, The baby Sleep is pillowed; Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride, Curling like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column.
Hark! whence that rushing sound? 'T is like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells, Which, wandering on the echoing shore, The enthusiast hears at evening; 'T is softer than the west wind's sigh; 'T is wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings The genii of the breezes sweep; Those lines of rainbow light Are like the moonbeams when they fall Through some cathedral window, but the tints Are such as may not find Comparison on earth.
Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light; These the Queen of Spells drew in; She spread a charm around the spot, And, leaning graceful from the ethereal car, Long did she gaze, and silently, Upon the slumbering maid.
Oh! not the visioned poet in his dreams, When silvery clouds float through the wildered brain, When every sight of lovely, wild and grand Astonishes, enraptures, elevates, When fancy at a glance combines The wondrous and the beautiful,-- So bright, so fair, so wild a shape Hath ever yet beheld, As that which reined the coursers of the air And poured the magic of her gaze Upon the maiden's sleep.
The broad and yellow moon Shone dimly through her form-- That form of faultless symmetry; The pearly and pellucid car Moved not the moonlight's line. 'T was not an earthly pageant. Those, who had looked upon the sight Passing all human glory, Saw not the yellow moon, Saw not the mortal scene, Heard not the night-wind's rush, Heard not an earthly sound, Saw but the fairy pageant, Heard but the heavenly strains That filled the lonely dwelling.
The Fairy's frame was slight--yon fibrous cloud, That catches but the palest tinge of even, And which the straining eye can hardly seize When melting into eastern twilight's shadow, Were scarce so thin, so slight; but the fair star That gems the glittering coronet of morn, Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form, Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, Yet with an undulating motion, Swayed to her outline gracefully.
From her celestial car The Fairy Queen descended, And thrice she waved her wand Circled with wreaths of amaranth; Her thin and misty form Moved with the moving air, And the clear silver tones, As thus she spoke, were such As are unheard by all but gifted ear.
FAIRY 'Stars! your balmiest influence shed! Elements! your wrath suspend! Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds That circle thy domain! Let not a breath be seen to stir Around yon grass-grown ruin's height! Let even the restless gossamer Sleep on the moveless air! Soul of Ianthe! thou, Judged alone worthy of the envied boon That waits the good and the sincere; that waits Those who have struggled, and with resolute will Vanquished earth's pride and meanness, burst the chains, The icy chains of custom, and have shone The day-stars of their age;--Soul of Ianthe! Awake! arise!'
Sudden arose Ianthe's Soul; it stood All beautiful in naked purity, The perfect semblance of its bodily frame; Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace-- Each stain of earthliness Had passed away--it reassumed Its native dignity and stood Immortal amid ruin.
Upon the couch the body lay, Wrapt in the depth of slumber; Its features were fixed and meaningless, Yet animal life was there, And every organ yet performed Its natural functions; 'twas a sight Of wonder to behold the body and the soul. The self-same lineaments, the same Marks of identity were there; Yet, oh, how different! One aspires to Heaven, Pants for its sempiternal heritage, And, ever changing, ever rising still, Wantons in endless being: The other, for a time the unwilling sport Of circumstance and passion, struggles on; Fleets through its sad duration rapidly; Then like an useless and worn-out machine, Rots, perishes, and passes.
FAIRY 'Spirit! who hast dived so deep; Spirit! who hast soared so high; Thou the fearless, thou the mild, Accept the boon thy worth hath earned, Ascend the car with me!'
SPIRIT 'Do I dream? Is this new feeling But a visioned ghost of slumber? If indeed I am a soul, A free, a disembodied soul, Speak again to me.'
FAIRY 'I am the Fairy MAB: to me 'tis given The wonders of the human world to keep; The secrets of the immeasurable past, In the unfailing consciences of men, Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find; The future, from the causes which arise In each event, I gather; not the sting Which retributive memory implants In the hard bosom of the selfish man, Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up The thoughts and actions of a well-spent day, Are unforeseen, unregistered by me; And it is yet permitted me to rend The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit, Clothed in its changeless purity, may know How soonest to accomplish the great end For which it hath its being, and may taste That peace which in the end all life will share. This is the meed of virtue; happy Soul, Ascend the car with me!'
The chains of earth's immurement Fell from Ianthe's spirit; They shrank and brake like bandages of straw Beneath a wakened giant's strength. She knew her glorious change, And felt in apprehension uncontrolled New raptures opening round; Each day-dream of her mortal life, Each frenzied vision of the slumbers That closed each well-spent day, Seemed now to meet reality. The Fairy and the Soul proceeded; The silver clouds disparted; And as the car of magic they ascended, Again the speechless music swelled, Again the coursers of the air Unfurled their azure pennons, and the Queen, Shaking the beamy reins, Bade them pursue their way.
The magic car moved on. The night was fair, and countless stars Studded heaven's dark blue vault; Just o'er the eastern wave Peeped the first faint smile of morn. The magic car moved on— From the celestial hoofs The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew, And where the burning wheels Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak, Was traced a line of lightning. Now it flew far above a rock, The utmost verge of earth, The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow Lowered o'er the silver sea.
Far, far below the chariot's path, Calm as a slumbering babe, Tremendous Ocean lay. The mirror of its stillness showed The pale and waning stars, The chariot's fiery track, And the gray light of morn Tinging those fleecy clouds That canopied the dawn.
Seemed it that the chariot's way Lay through the midst of an immense concave Radiant with million constellations, tinged With shades of infinite color, And semicircled with a belt Flashing incessant meteors.
The magic car moved on. As they approached their goal, The coursers seemed to gather speed; The sea no longer was distinguished; earth Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere; The sun's unclouded orb Rolled through the black concave; Its rays of rapid light Parted around the chariot's swifter course, And fell, like ocean's feathery spray Dashed from the boiling surge Before a vessel's prow.
The magic car moved on. Earth's distant orb appeared The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven; Whilst round the chariot's way Innumerable systems rolled And countless spheres diffused An ever-varying glory. It was a sight of wonder: some Were hornèd like the crescent moon; Some shed a mild and silver beam Like Hesperus o'er the western sea; Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, Like worlds to death and ruin driven; Some shone like suns, and as the chariot passed, Eclipsed all other light.
Spirit of Nature! here— In this interminable wilderness Of worlds, at whose immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple! Yet not the lightest leaf That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee; Yet not the meanest worm That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead, Less shares thy eternal breath! Spirit of Nature! thou, Imperishable as this scene-- Here is thy fitting temple!
Hot August noon: already on that day Since sunrise through the Wiltshire downs, most sad Of mouth and eye, he had gone leagues of way; Ay and by night, till whether good or bad
He was, he knew not, though he knew perchance That he was Launcelot, the bravest knight Of all who since the world was, have borne lance, Or swung their swords in wrong cause or in right.
Nay, he knew nothing now, except that where The Glastonbury gilded towers shine, A lady dwelt, whose name was Guenevere; This he knew also; that some fingers twine,
Not only in a man's hair, even his heart, (Making him good or bad I mean,) but in his life, Skies, earth, men's looks and deeds, all that has part, Not being ourselves, in that half-sleep, half-strife,
(Strange sleep, strange strife,) that men call living; so Was Launcelot most glad when the moon rose, Because it brought new memories of her. "Lo, Between the trees a large moon, the wind lows
"Not loud, but as a cow begins to low, Wishing for strength to make the herdsman hear: The ripe corn gathereth dew; yea, long ago, In the old garden life, my Guenevere
"Loved to sit still among the flowers, till night Had quite come on, hair loosen'd, for she said, Smiling like heaven, that its fairness might Draw up the wind sooner to cool her head.
"Now while I ride how quick the moon gets small, As it did then: I tell myself a tale That will not last beyond the whitewashed wall, Thoughts of some joust must help me through the vale,
"Keep this till after: How Sir Gareth ran A good course that day under my Queen's eyes, And how she sway'd laughing at Dinadan. No. Back again, the other thoughts will rise,
"And yet I think so fast 'twill end right soon: Verily then I think, that Guenevere, Made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon, Did love me more than ever, was more dear
"To me than ever, she would let me lie And kiss her feet, or, if I sat behind, Would drop her hand and arm most tenderly, And touch my mouth. And she would let me wind
"Her hair around my neck, so that it fell Upon my red robe, strange in the twilight With many unnamed colours, till the bell Of her mouth on my cheek sent a delight
"Through all my ways of being; like the stroke Wherewith God threw all men upon the face When he took Enoch, and when Enoch woke With a changed body in the happy place.
"Once, I remember, as I sat beside, She turn'd a little, and laid back her head, And slept upon my breast; I almost died In those night-watches with my love and dread.
"There lily-like she bow'd her head and slept, And I breathed low, and did not dare to move, But sat and quiver'd inwardly, thoughts crept, And frighten'd me with pulses of my Love.
"The stars shone out above the doubtful green Of her bodice, in the green sky overhead; Pale in the green sky were the stars I ween, Because the moon shone like a star she shed
"When she dwelt up in heaven a while ago, And ruled all things but God: the night went on, The wind grew cold, and the white moon grew low, One hand had fallen down, and now lay on
"My cold stiff palm; there were no colours then For near an hour, and I fell asleep In spite of all my striving, even when I held her whose name-letters make me leap.
"I did not sleep long, feeling that in sleep I did some loved one wrong, so that the sun Had only just arisen from the deep Still land of colours, when before me one
"Stood whom I knew, but scarcely dared to touch, She seemed to have changed so in the night; Moreover she held scarlet lilies, such As Maiden Margaret bears upon the light
"Of the great church walls, natheless did I walk Through the fresh wet woods, and the wheat that morn, Touching her hair and hand and mouth, and talk Of love we held, nigh hid among the corn.
"Back to the palace, ere the sun grew high, We went, and in a cool green room all day I gazed upon the arras giddily, Where the wind set the silken kings a-sway.
"I could not hold her hand, or see her face; For which may God forgive me! but I think, Howsoever, that she was not in that place." These memories Launcelot was quick to drink;
And when these fell, some paces past the wall, There rose yet others, but they wearied more, And tasted not so sweet; they did not fall So soon, but vaguely wrenched his strained heart sore
In shadowy slipping from his grasp: these gone, A longing followed; if he might but touch That Guenevere at once! Still night, the lone Grey horse's head before him vex'd him much,
In steady nodding over the grey road: Still night, and night, and night, and emptied heart Of any stories; what a dismal load Time grew at last, yea, when the night did part,
And let the sun flame over all, still there The horse's grey ears turn'd this way and that, And still he watch'd them twitching in the glare Of the morning sun, behind them still he sat,
Quite wearied out with all the wretched night, Until about the dustiest of the day, On the last down's brow he drew his rein in sight Of the Glastonbury roofs that choke the way.
And he was now quite giddy as before, When she slept by him, tired out, and her hair Was mingled with the rushes on the floor, And he, being tired too, was scarce aware
Of her presence; yet as he sat and gazed, A shiver ran throughout him, and his breath Came slower, he seem'd suddenly amazed, As though he had not heard of Arthur's death.
This for a moment only, presently He rode on giddy still, until he reach'd A place of apple-trees, by the thorn-tree Wherefrom St. Joseph in the days past preached.
Dazed there he laid his head upon a tomb, Not knowing it was Arthur's, at which sight One of her maidens told her, "He is come," And she went forth to meet him; yet a blight
Had settled on her, all her robes were black, With a long white veil only; she went slow, As one walks to be slain, her eyes did lack Half her old glory, yea, alas! the glow
Had left her face and hands; this was because As she lay last night on her purple bed, Wishing for morning, grudging every pause Of the palace clocks, until that Launcelot's head
Should lie on her breast, with all her golden hair Each side: when suddenly the thing grew drear, In morning twilight, when the grey downs bare Grew into lumps of sin to Guenevere.
At first she said no word, but lay quite still, Only her mouth was open, and her eyes Gazed wretchedly about from hill to hill; As though she asked, not with so much surprise
As tired disgust, what made them stand up there So cold and grey. After, a spasm took Her face, and all her frame, she caught her hair, All her hair, in both hands, terribly she shook,
And rose till she was sitting in the bed, Set her teeth hard, and shut her eyes and seem'd As though she would have torn it from her head, Natheless she dropp'd it, lay down, as she deem'd
It matter'd not whatever she might do: O Lord Christ! pity on her ghastly face! Those dismal hours while the cloudless blue Drew the sun higher: He did give her grace;
Because at last she rose up from her bed, And put her raiment on, and knelt before The blessed rood, and with her dry lips said, Muttering the words against the marble floor:
"Unless you pardon, what shall I do, Lord, But go to hell? and there see day by day Foul deed on deed, hear foulest word on word, For ever and ever, such as on the way
"To Camelot I heard once from a churl, That curled me up upon my jennet's neck With bitter shame; how then, Lord, should I curl For ages and for ages? dost thou reck
"That I am beautiful, Lord, even as you And your dear mother? why did I forget You were so beautiful, and good, and true, That you loved me so, Guenevere? O yet
"If even I go to hell, I cannot choose But love you, Christ, yea, though I cannot keep From loving Launcelot; O Christ! must I lose My own heart's love? see, though I cannot weep,
"Yet am I very sorry for my sin; Moreover, Christ, I cannot bear that hell, I am most fain to love you, and to win A place in heaven some time: I cannot tell:
"Speak to me, Christ! I kiss, kiss, kiss your feet; Ah! now I weep!" The maid said, "By the tomb He waiteth for you, lady," coming fleet, Not knowing what woe filled up all the room.
So Guenevere rose and went to meet him there, He did not hear her coming, as he lay On Arthur's head, till some of her long hair Brush'd on the new-cut stone: "Well done! to pray
"For Arthur, my dear Lord, the greatest king That ever lived." "Guenevere! Guenevere! Do you not know me, are you gone mad? fling Your arms and hair about me, lest I fear
"You are not Guenevere, but some other thing." "Pray you forgive me, fair lord Launcelot! I am not mad, but I am sick; they cling, God's curses, unto such as I am; not
"Ever again shall we twine arms and lips." "Yea, she is mad: thy heavy law, O Lord, Is very tight about her now, and grips Her poor heart, so that no right word
"Can reach her mouth; so, Lord, forgive her now, That she not knowing what she does, being mad, Kills me in this way: Guenevere, bend low And kiss me once! for God's love kiss me! sad
"Though your face is, you look much kinder now; Yea once, once for the last time kiss me, lest I die." "Christ! my hot lips are very near his brow, Help me to save his soul! Yea, verily,
"Across my husband's head, fair Launcelot! Fair serpent mark'd with V upon the head! This thing we did while yet he was alive, Why not, O twisting knight, now he is dead?
"Yea, shake! shake now and shiver! if you can Remember anything for agony, Pray you remember how when the wind ran One cool spring evening through fair aspen-tree,
"And elm and oak about the palace there The king came back from battle, and I stood To meet him, with my ladies, on the stair, My face made beautiful with my young blood."
"Will she lie now, Lord God?" "Remember too, Wrung heart, how first before the knights there came A royal bier, hung round with green and blue, About it shone great tapers with sick flame.
"And thereupon Lucius, the Emperor, Lay royal-robed, but stone-cold now and dead, Not able to hold sword or sceptre more, But not quite grim; because his cloven head
"Bore no marks now of Launcelot's bitter sword, Being by embalmers deftly solder'd up; So still it seem'd the face of a great lord, Being mended as a craftsman mends a cup.
"Also the heralds sung rejoicingly To their long trumpets; 'Fallen under shield, Here lieth Lucius, King of Italy, Slain by Lord Launcelot in open field.'
"Thereat the people shouted: 'Launcelot!' And through the spears I saw you drawing nigh, You and Lord Arthur: nay, I saw you not, But rather Arthur, God would not let die,
"I hoped, these many years; he should grow great, And in his great arms still encircle me, Kissing my face, half blinded with the heat Of king's love for the queen I used to be.
"Launcelot, Launcelot, why did he take your hand, When he had kissed me in his kingly way? Saying: 'This is the knight whom all the land Calls Arthur's banner, sword, and shield to-day;
"'Cherish him, love.' Why did your long lips cleave In such strange way unto my fingers then? So eagerly glad to kiss, so loath to leave When you rose up? Why among helmed men
"Could I always tell you by your long strong arms, And sway like an angel's in your saddle there? Why sicken'd I so often with alarms Over the tilt-yard? Why were you more fair
"Than aspens in the autumn at their best? Why did you fill all lands with your great fame, So that Breuse even, as he rode, fear'd lest At turning of the way your shield should flame?
"Was it nought then, my agony and strife? When as day passed by day, year after year, I found I could not live a righteous life! Didst ever think queens held their truth for dear?
"O, but your lips say: 'Yea, but she was cold Sometimes, always uncertain as the spring; When I was sad she would be overbold, Longing for kisses. When war-bells did ring,
"'The back-toll'd bells of noisy Camelot.'" "Now, Lord God, listen! listen, Guenevere, Though I am weak just now, I think there's not A man who dares to say: 'You hated her,
"'And left her moaning while you fought your fill In the daisied meadows!' lo you her thin hand, That on the carven stone can not keep still, Because she loves me against God's command,
"Has often been quite wet with tear on tear, Tears Launcelot keeps somewhere, surely not In his own heart, perhaps in Heaven, where He will not be these ages." "Launcelot!
"Loud lips, wrung heart! I say when the bells rang, The noisy back-toll'd bells of Camelot, There were two spots on earth, the thrushes sang In the lonely gardens where my love was not,
"Where I was almost weeping; I dared not Weep quite in those days, lest one maid should say, In tittering whispers: 'Where is Launcelot To wipe with some kerchief those tears away?'
"Another answer sharply with brows knit, And warning hand up, scarcely lower though: 'You speak too loud, see you, she heareth it, This tigress fair has claws, as I well know,
"'As Launcelot knows too, the poor knight! well-a-day! Why met he not with Iseult from the West, Or better still, Iseult of Brittany? Perchance indeed quite ladyless were best.'
"Alas, my maids, you loved not overmuch Queen Guenevere, uncertain as sunshine In March; forgive me! for my sin being such, About my whole life, all my deeds did twine,
"Made me quite wicked; as I found out then, I think; in the lonely palace where each morn We went, my maids and I, to say prayers when They sang mass in the chapel on the lawn.
"And every morn I scarce could pray at all, For Launcelot's red-golden hair would play, Instead of sunlight, on the painted wall, Mingled with dreams of what the priest did say;
"Grim curses out of Peter and of Paul; Judging of strange sins in Leviticus; Another sort of writing on the wall, Scored deep across the painted heads of us.
"Christ sitting with the woman at the well, And Mary Magdalen repenting there, Her dimmed eyes scorch'd and red at sight of hell So hardly 'scaped, no gold light on her hair.
"And if the priest said anything that seemed To touch upon the sin they said we did, (This in their teeth) they looked as if they deem'd That I was spying what thoughts might be hid
"Under green-cover'd bosoms, heaving quick Beneath quick thoughts; while they grew red with shame, And gazed down at their feet: while I felt sick, And almost shriek'd if one should call my name.
"The thrushes sang in the lone garden there: But where you were the birds were scared I trow: Clanging of arms about pavilions fair, Mixed with the knights' laughs; there, as I well know,
"Rode Launcelot, the king of all the band, And scowling Gauwaine, like the night in day, And handsome Gareth, with his great white hand Curl'd round the helm-crest, ere he join'd the fray;
"And merry Dinadan with sharp dark face, All true knights loved to see; and in the fight Great Tristram, and though helmed you could trace In all his bearing the frank noble knight;
"And by him Palomydes, helmet off, He fought, his face brush'd by his hair, Red heavy swinging hair; he fear'd a scoff So overmuch, though what true knight would dare
"To mock that face, fretted with useless care, And bitter useless striving after love? O Palomydes, with much honour bear Beast Glatysaunt upon your shield, above
"Your helm that hides the swinging of your hair, And think of Iseult, as your sword drives through Much mail and plate: O God, let me be there A little time, as I was long ago!
"Because stout Gareth lets his spear fall low, Gauwaine and Launcelot, and Dinadan Are helm'd and waiting; let the trumpets go! Bend over, ladies, to see all you can!
"Clench teeth, dames, yea, clasp hands, for Gareth's spear Throws Kay from out his saddle, like a stone From a castle-window when the foe draws near: 'Iseult!' Sir Dinadan rolleth overthrown.
"'Iseult!' again: the pieces of each spear Fly fathoms up, and both the great steeds reel; 'Tristram for Iseult!' 'Iseult!' and 'Guenevere!' The ladies' names bite verily like steel.
"They bite: bite me, Lord God! I shall go mad, Or else die kissing him, he is so pale, He thinks me mad already, O bad! bad! Let me lie down a little while and wail."
"No longer so, rise up, I pray you, love, And slay me really, then we shall be heal'd, Perchance, in the aftertime by God above." "Banner of Arthur, with black-bended shield
"Sinister-wise across the fair gold ground! Here let me tell you what a knight you are, O sword and shield of Arthur! you are found A crooked sword, I think, that leaves a scar
"On the bearer's arm, so be he thinks it straight, Twisted Malay's crease beautiful blue-grey, Poison'd with sweet fruit; as he found too late, My husband Arthur, on some bitter day!
"O sickle cutting hemlock the day long! That the husbandman across his shoulder hangs, And, going homeward about evensong, Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs!
"Banner, and sword, and shield, you dare not die, Lest you meet Arthur in the other world, And, knowing who you are, he pass you by, Taking short turns that he may watch you curl'd,
"Body and face and limbs in agony, Lest he weep presently and go away, Saying: 'I loved him once,' with a sad sigh, Now I have slain him, Lord, let me go too, I pray.
[Launcelot falls.]
"Alas! alas! I know not what to do, If I run fast it is perchance that I May fall and stun myself, much better so, Never, never again! not even when I die."
[LAUNCELOT, on awaking.]
"I stretch'd my hands towards her and fell down, How long I lay in swoon I cannot tell: My head and hands were bleeding from the stone, When I rose up, also I heard a bell."
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.
Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman
Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.
Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.
So I started this challenge yesterday; I had planned on blogging each day, today is the first day I have been able to do so. I am not much of a breakfast person, even when I was really little; which may or may not have been a side effect of how I grew up during my first eight years.
I knew I could not eat as much because if I did then I may not have enough to last me the whole 6 days. So my first meal of the day was a hot dog with bread. And as you can see in my eagerness to eatI was halfway through lunch before I remembered to take a picture. So I snapped a shot and scarfed the rest of my meal down.
One thing I remember in those early years to keep the hunger pains at bay we drank a lot of water. We may have been lacking in food but we were never dehydrated. So when I would feel like I was hungry I would just drink water. I like to snack and generally I graze throughout the day, so drinking water sounds easier than it actually was.
For dinner I had rice with some fajita seasoning. It may look like I have more rice than I did. It was just a 1/4 cup and my dinner plate is only 8 inches across. To drink I just had water.
Sleeping was hard because I was very hungry, but eventually the mind takes over and sleep comes.
Day Two:
Today was the same thing. I think many people take for granted the variety of food available. How many types of chips, fruit, veggies, pizza, meat (the list goes on) are out there. How many restaurants there are: Chili's, McDonald's, Wendy's, Arby's and again the list extends a mile long.
Now try explaining that to five hungry little kids. Why they are not allowed to have the same things other kids have. Five rather hungry kids, asking for things any normal kids wants, and being told "No, we can't afford that."
I know my Mom was absolutely mortified when we did this: Imagine a troupe of grungy little children walking through Walmart belting out the tune "Walmart! Walmart! That's our store, we shop there because we're poor!" When you're just a little kid, you don't know any better.
A couple hours later I skimmed off a couple Mandarin oranges, about 1/3 of a cup.
Humanity i love you because you would rather black the boots of success than enquire whose soul dangles from his watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both
parties and because you unflinchingly applaud all songs containing the words country home and mother when sung at the old howard
Humanity i love you because when you’re hard up you pawn your intelligence to buy a drink and when you’re flush pride keeps
you from the pawn shop and because you are continually committing nuisances but more especially in your own house
Humanity i love you because you are perpetually putting the secret of life in your pants and forgetting it’s there and sitting down
on it and because you are forever making poems in the lap of death Humanity
