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Elegy XIX: To his mistress going to bed
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy; Until I labour, I in labour lie. The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight, Is tired with standing, though he never fight. Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering, But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear, That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there. Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime Tells me from you that now it is bed-time. Off with that happy busk, which I envy, That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals, As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals. Off with your wiry coronet, and show The hairy diadems which on you do grow. Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed. In such white robes heaven's angels used to be Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise ; and though Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know By this these angels from an evil sprite ; Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright. Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below. O, my America, my Newfoundland, My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd, My mine of precious stones, my empery ; How am I blest in thus discovering thee ! To enter in these bonds, is to be free ; Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be. Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ; As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views ; That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem, His earthly soul might court that, not them. Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made For laymen, are all women thus array'd. Themselves are only mystic books, which we Whom their imputed grace will dignify Must see reveal'd. Then, since that I may know, As liberally as to thy midwife show Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ; There is no penance due to innocence : To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then, What needst thou have more covering than a man?
spedisci salva scarica sposta elimina brutta non male bella commenta
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Benjamin Pantier
Together in this grave lie Benjamin Pantier, attorney at law, And Nig, his dog, constant companion, solace and friend. Down the gray road, friends, children, men and women, Passing one by one out of life, left me till I was alone With Nig for partner, bed-fellow, comrade in drink. In the morning of life I knew aspiration and saw glory. Then she, who survives me, snared my soul With a snare which bled me to death, Till I, once strong of will, lay broken, indifferent, Living with Nig in a room back of a dingy office. Under my jaw-bone is snuggled the bony nose of Nig — Our story is lost in silence. Go by, mad world!
spedisci salva scarica sposta elimina brutta non male bella commenta
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The migrants
The ridal motion of refugees, not the flight of wild geese, the faces in freight-cars , haggard and coal-eyed, particularly the peaked srare of children, the huge bundles crossings bridges,axles creaking as if joints and bones were audible, the dark stain spreading on maps whose shapes dissolve their frontiers the way that corpses melt in a lime-pit,or the bright mulch of autumn is trampled into mud and the smoke of a cypress signals Sachenhausen, those without trains, without mules or horses, those who have the rocking-chair and the sewing machine heaped on a human cart, a waggon without horses for horses have long since galopped out of their field back to the mithology of mercy, back to the cone of the orange steeple piercing clouds over the lindens and the stone bells of Sunday over the cobbles, those who rest their hands on the sides of carts as if their were the flanks of mules, and the women with flirt faces, with glazed cheekbones , with eyes the colour of duck -ponds glazed over with ice, for whom the year has only one season,one sky: that of rooks flapping like torn umbrellas, all have been reduced into a common language, the homeless,the province-less,to the incredible memory of apples and clean streams,and the sound of milk filling the summer churns, where are you from, what was your districts,I know that lake, I know the beer and its inns,I believed in its mountains, now there is a monstrous map that is called Nowhere and that is where we 're all headed,behind it there is a view called the Province of Mercy, where the only government is that of apples and the only army the wide banners of barley, and its farms are simple,and that is the vision that narrows is the irises of dying and the rired whom we leave in ditches before they stiffen and their brows go cold as the stones that have broken our shoes, as the clouds that grow ashen so quickly after dawn over palm and poplar,in the deceitful sunrise of this,your new century.
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