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To a slender wind
Chtysolith thy step, And on a jewelled pool Faint arrowy moonstone on a tear-culled cadence, Like fragmentary rain Shaken silkily from star-scaled boughs.
Each note of thy dusky song Is a petal that has delicate breath And is azure; And is more beautiful than the drift of leaves.
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Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed (Sonnet 27)
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for my limbs with travel tired; But then begins a journey in my head To work my mind, when body's work's expired. For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see: Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beaueous and her old face new. Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee and for myself no quiet find.
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I don't know if for certain
I don't know if for certain, but I imagine that a man and a woman fall in love one day, little by little they come to be alone, something in each heart tells them that they are alone, alone on the earth they enter each other, they go on killing each other. It all happens in silence. The way light happens in the eye. Love unites bodies. They go on filling each other with silence.
One day they wake up, over their arms. Then they think they know the whole thing. They see themselves naked and they know the whole thing.
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Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled (Sonnet 24)
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled Thy beauty's form in table of my heart. My body is the frame wherein 'this held, And perspective is is best painter's art: For through the painter must you see his skill To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, werethrough the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee. Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art: Thei draw but what they see, know not the heart.
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George Trimble
Do you remember when I stood on the steps Of the Court House and talked free-silver, And the single-tax of Henry George? Then do you remember that, when the Peerless Leader Lost the first battle, I began to talk prohibition. And became active in the church? That was due to my wife, Who pictured to me my destruction If I did not prove my morality to the people. Well, she ruined me: For the radicals grew suspicious of me, And the conservatives were never sure of me — And here I lie, unwept of all.
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