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Fables The vain coquette each suit disdains, And glories in her lovers' pains; With age she fades - each lover flies, Contemn'd, forlorn, she pines and dies
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Fragment: Wedded Souls
I am as a spirit who has dwelt Within his heart of hearts, and I have felt His feelings, and have thought his thoughts, and knows The immost converse of his soul, the tone Unheard but in the silence of his blood, When all the pulses in their multitude Image the trembling calm of summer seas. I have unlocked the golden melodies Of his deep soul, as with a master-key, And loosened them and bathed myself therein- Even as an eagle in a thunder-mist Clothing his wings with lightning.
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One's-Self I sing
One's-self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En.Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
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The hill
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter? All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever, One was burned in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in a jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith, The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one? —
All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth, One of a thwarted love, One at the hands of a brute in a brothel, One a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire, One after life in far-away London and Paris Was brought to her utile space by Ella and Kate and Mag — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle lsaac and Aunt Emily, And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton, And Major Walker who had talked With venerable men of the revolution? — All, all, are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead Sons from the war, And daughters whom life e had crushed, And their children fatherless, crying — All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones Who played with life all his ninety years, Braving the sleet with bared breast, Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin, Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven? Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago, 0f the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove, 0f what Abe Lincoln said One time at Springfield.
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