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The Course of a Particular
The Course of a Particular by Wallace Stevens Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind, Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less. It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow. The leaves cry . . . One holds off and merely hears the cry. It is a busy…
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The Flight of Language
The Flight of Language by W. S. Merwin Some of the leaves stay on all winter and spring comes without knowing whether there is suffering in them or ever was and what it is in the tongue they speak that cannot be remembered by listening for the whole time that they are on the tree…
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On Growing Old
On Growing Old by John Masefield Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying, My dog and I are old, too old for roving, Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. I take the book and gather to the fire, Turning old yellow…
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The Stars at Tallapoosa
The Stars at Tallapoosa by Wallace Stevens The lines are straight and swift between the stars. The night is not the cradle that they cry, The criers, undulating the deep-oceaned phrase. The lines are much too dark and much too sharp. The mind herein attains simplicity. There is no moon, on single, silvered leaf. The…
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London Rain
London Rain by Louis MacNeice The rain of London pimples The ebony street with white And the neon lamps of London Stain the canals of night And the park becomes a jungle In the alchemy of night. My wishes turn to violent Horses black as coal— The randy mares of fancy, The stallions of the…
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Sad Strains of a Gay Waltz
Sad Strains of a Gay Waltz by Wallace Stevens The truth is that there comes a time When we can mourn no more over music That is so much motionless sound. There comes a time when the waltz Is no longer a mode of desire, a mode Of revealing desire and is empty of shadows.…
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Secrets
Twelve Songs [Song VIII, April 1936] by W. H. Auden At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend; Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never…
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Plums
On a particularly slow and boring evening, I happened to breeze through this site on my way to nowhere (side note: the post from June 18th is about the linotype; all of my graduate work was done in a building named after its inventor, Mergenthaler), and was reminded of a poem that has been a…
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Selections
from Félise by Swinburne Two gifts perforce he has given us yet, Though sad things stay and glad things fly ; Two gifts he has given us, to forget All glad and sad things that go by, And then to die. from Ilicet by Swinburne A little sorrow, a little pleasure, Fate metes us from…
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A bit of fun from Brooke
Two of my favorites from Rupert Brooke: The Voice by Rupert Brooke Safe in the magic of my woods I lay, and watched the dying light. Faint in the pale high solitudes, And washed with rain and veiled by night, Silver and blue and green were showing. And the dark woods grew darker still; And…