|
Somebody's always throwing bricks, Somebody's always heaving cinders, Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. Factory windows are always broken. Other windows are let alone. No one throws through the chapel-window The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. Factory windows are always broken. Something or other is going wrong. Something is rotten---I think, in Denmark. End of the factory-window song. |
|
there is a thunderstorm, they are playing a Wagner overture and the people leave their seats under the trees and run inside to the pavilion the women giggling, the men pretending calm, wet cigarettes being thrown away, Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look, one man sits alone in the rain listening. the audience notices him. they turn and look. the orchestra goes about its business. the man sits in the night in the rain, listening. there is something wrong with him, isn't there? he came to hear the music. |
|
never was there such a lay--- whom,among her dollies,dad first("don't tell your mother")had; making annie slightly mad but very wonderful in bed ---saints and satyrs,go your way youths and maidens:let us pray |
|
not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim(death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness -electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange;lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on itself. A world of made is not a world of born-pity poor flesh and trees,poor stars and stones, but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if--listen:there's a hell of a good universe next door;let's go |
|
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white. His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death. Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful. |
|
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye; And further still at an unearthly height, One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night. |
|
A little brown rat with pinkish ears and lovely Almond-shaped eyes. He and his wife live in the woodpile by my back door, and they are so equal I cannot tell which is which when they poke their noses out of the crevices among the sticks of firewood and then venture farther in search of sunflower seeds spilled from the feeder. I cannot tell you, dear friend, how glad I am to see them. I haven't seen a fox for years, or a mink, or A fisher cat, or an eagle or a porcupine; I haven't Seen any of my old company in the woods And the fields, we who used to live in such Close affection and admiration. Well, I remember When the coons would tap on my window, when The ravens would speak to me from the edge of their Little precipice. Where are they now? Everyone knows. Gone. Scattered in this terrible dispersal. But at least The brown rat that most people revile and fear And castigate has brought his wife to live with me Again. Welcome, little citizen, little survivor. Lend me your presence, and I will lend you mine. |
|
We take cover from the worst Of the storm, with a greatcoat round Our shoulders and my hands around your waist. I've got it wrong. That isn't ivy Entwined in the bushes round The wood, but hops. You intoxicate me! Let's spread the greatcoat on the ground. |
|
Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.' And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times when we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly. Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation, With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky. And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wineskins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death. |
|
and the Goops they lick their knives; They spill their broth on the tablecloth OH, they lead disgusting lives! The Goops they talk while eating, and loud and fast they chew, and that is why I'm glad that I am NOT a GOOP-----are you? |