A. E. HOUSMAN from More Poems
XXIII | |
Crossing alone the nighted ferry | |
With the one coin for fee, | |
Whom, on the wharf of Lethe waiting, | |
Count you to find? Not me. |
The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry, | |
The true, sick-hearted slave, | |
Expect him not in the just city | |
And free land of the grave. |
XXXI | |
Because I liked you better | |
Than suits a man to say, | |
It irked you, and I promised | |
To throw the thought away. |
To put the world between us | |
We parted, stiff and dry; | |
‘Good-bye,’ said you, ‘forget me.’ | |
‘I will, no fear,’ said I. |
If here, where clover whitens | |
The dead man’s knoll, you pass, | |
And no tall flower to meet you | |
Starts in the trefoiled grass, |
Halt by the headstone naming | |
The heart no longer stirred, | |
And say the lad that loved you | |
Was one that kept his word. | |
 |
1937 A. E. HOUSMAN
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? | |
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? | |
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? | |
Oh they’re taking him to prison for the colour of his hair. |
’Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; | |
In the good old time ’twas hanging for the colour that it is; | |
Though hanging isn’t bad enough and flaying would be fair | |
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair. |
Oh a deal of pains he’s taken and a pretty price he’s paid | |
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade; | |
But they’ve pulled the beggar’s hat off for the world to see and stare, | |
And they’re haling him to justice for the colour of his hair. |
Now ’tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet | |
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat, | |
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare | |
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair. |
(written 1895)
JOHN BETJEMAN The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel
He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer | |
As he gazed at the London skies | |
Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains | |
Or was it his bees-winged eyes? |
To the right and before him Pont Street | |
Did tower in her new built red, | |
As hard as the morning gaslight | |
That shone on his unmade bed, |
‘I want some more hock in my seltzer, | |
And Robbie, please give me your hand – | |
Is this the end or beginning? | |
How can I understand? |
‘So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book: | |
And Buchan has got in it now: | |
Approval of what is approved of | |
Is as false as a well-kept vow. |
‘More hock, Robbie – where is the seltzer? | |
Dear boy, pull again at the bell! | |
They are all little better than cretins, | |
Though this is the Cadogan Hotel. |
‘One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s – | |
Another one’s at the Savoy: | |
Do fetch my morocco portmanteau, | |
And bring them on later, dear boy.’ |
A thump, and a murmur of voices – | |
(‘Oh why must they make such a din?’) | |
As the door of the bedroom swung open | |
And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in: |
‘Mr. Woilde, we ’ave come for tew take yew | |
Where felons and criminals dwell: | |
We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly | |
For this is the Cadogan Hotel.’ |
He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book. | |
He staggered – and, terrible-eyed, | |
He brushed past the palms on the staircase | |
And was helped to a hansom outside. |
DAVID JONES from In Parenthesis
from Part 3 | |
And the deepened stillness as a calm, cast over us – a potent | |
influence over us and him – dead-calm for this Sargasso dank, | |
and for the creeping things. | |
You can hear the silence of it: | |
you can hear the rat of no-man’s-land | |
rut-out intricacies, | |
weasel-out his patient workings, | |
scrut, scrut, sscrut, | |
harrow-out earthly, trowel his cunning paw; | |
redeem the time of our uncharity, to sap his own amphibious | |
paradise. | |
You can hear this carrying-parties rustle our corruptions | |
through the night-weeds – contest the choicest morsels in his | |
tiny conduits, bead-eyed feast on us; by a rule of his nature, at | |
night-feast on the broken of us. | |
Those broad-pinioned; | |
blue-burnished, or brinded-back; | |
whose proud eyes watched | |
the broken emblems | |
droop and drag dust, | |
suffer with us this metamorphosis. | |
These too have shed their fine feathers; these too have slimed | |
their dark-bright coats; these too have condescended to dig in. | |
The white-tailed eagle at the battle ebb, | |
where the sea wars against the river | |
the speckled kite of Maldon | |
and the crow | |
have naturally selected to be un-winged; | |
to go on the belly, to | |
sap sap sap | |
with festered spines, arched under the moon; furrit with | |
whiskered snouts the secret parts of us. | |
When it’s all quiet you can hear them: | |
scrut scrut scrut | |
when it’s as quiet as this is. | |
It’s so very still. | |
Your body fits the crevice of the bay in the most comfortable | |
fashion imaginable. | |
It’s cushy enough. |
The relief elbows him on the fire-step: All quiet china? – | |
bugger all to report? – kipping mate? – christ, mate – you’ll ’ave | |
’em all over. |
(… ) |
from Part 7 | |
But sweet sister death has gone debauched today and stalks on | |
this high ground with strumpet confidence, makes no coy veiling | |
of her appetite but leers from you to me with all her parts | |
discovered. |
By one and one the line gaps, where her fancy will – howsoever | |
they may howl for their virginity | |
she holds them – who impinge less on space | |
sink limply to a heap | |
nourish a lesser category of being | |
like those other who fructify the land | |
like Tristram | |
Lamorak de Galis | |
Alisand le Orphelin | |
Beaumains who was youngest | |
or all of them in shaft-shade | |
at strait Thermopylae | |
or the sweet brothers Balin and Balan | |
embraced beneath their single monument. | |
Jonathan my lovely one | |
on Gelboe mountain | |
and the young man Absalom. | |
White Hart transfixed in his dark lodge. | |
Peredur of steel arms | |
and he who with intention took grass of that field to be for | |
him the Species of Bread. | |
Taillefer the maker, | |
and on the same day, | |
thirty thousand other ranks. | |
And in the country of Béarn – Oliver | |
and all the rest – so many without memento | |
beneath the tumuli on the high hills | |
and under the harvest places. |
But how intolerably bright the morning is where we who are | |
alive and remain, walk lifted up, carried forward by an effective | |
word. |
(… ) |
The secret princes between the leaning trees have diadems given | |
them. | |
Life the leveller hugs her impudent equality – she may proceed | |
at once to less discriminating zones. |
The Queen of the Woods has cut bright boughs of various | |
flowering. | |
These knew her influential eyes. Her awarding hands can | |
pluck for each their fragile prize. | |
She speaks to them according to precedence. She knows what’s | |
due to this elect society. She can choose twelve gentle-men. She | |
knows who is most lord between the high trees and on the open | |
down. | |
Some she gives white berries | |
some she gives brown | |
Emil has a curious crown it’s | |
made of golden saxifrage. | |
Fatty wears sweet-briar, | |
he will reign with her for a thousand years. | |
For Balder she reaches high to fetch his. | |
Ulrich smiles for his myrtle wand. | |
That swine Lillywhite has daisies to his chain – you’d hardly | |
credit it. | |
She plaits torques of equal splendour for Mr. Jenkins and Billy | |
Crower. | |
Hansel with Gronwy share dog-violets for a palm, where they | |
lie in serious embrace beneath the twisted tripod. | |
Siôn gets St. John’s Wort – that’s fair enough. | |
Dai Great-coat, she can’t find him anywhere – she calls both | |
high and low, she had a very special one for him. | |
Among this July noblesse she is mindful of December wood | |
when the trees of the forest beat against each other because of | |
him. | |
She carries to Aneirin-in-the-nullah a rowan sprig, for the | |
glory of Guenedota. You couldn’t hear what she said to him, | |
because she was careful for the Disciplines of the Wars. |
AUSTIN CLARKE The Straying Student 1938
On a holy day when sails were blowing southward, | |
A bishop sang the Mass at Inishmore, | |
Men took one side, their wives were on the other | |
But I heard the woman coming from the shore: | |
And wild in despair my parents cried aloud | |
For they saw the vision draw me to the doorway. |
Long had she lived in Rome when Popes were bad, | |
The wealth of every age she makes her own, | |
Yet smiled on me in eager admiration, | |
And for a summer taught me all I know, | |
Banishing shame with her great laugh that rang | |
As if a pillar caught it back alone. |
I learned the prouder counsel of her throat, | |
My mind was growing bold as light in Greece; | |
And when in sleep her stirring limbs were shown, | |
I blessed the noonday rock that knew no tree: | |
And for an hour the mountain was her throne, | |
Although her eyes were bright with mockery. |
They say I was sent back from Salamanca | |
And failed in logic, but I wrote her praise | |
Nine times upon a college wall in France. | |
She laid her hand at darkfall on my page | |
That I might read the heavens in a glance | |
And I knew every star the Moors have named. |
Awake or in my sleep, I have no peace now, | |
Before the ball is struck, my breath has gone, | |
And yet I tremble lest she may deceive me | |
And leave me in this land, where every woman’s son | |
Must carry his own coffin and believe, | |
In dread, all that the clergy teach the young. |
ROBERT GRAVES To Evoke Posterity
To evoke posterity | |
Is to weep on your own grave, | |
Ventriloquizing for the unborn: | |
‘Would you were present in flesh, hero! | |
What wreaths and junketings!’ |
And the punishment is fixed: | |
To be found fully ancestral, | |
To be cast in bronze for a city square, | |
To dribble green in times of rain | |
And stain the pedestal. |
Spiders in the spread beard; | |
A life proverbial | |
On clergy lips a-cackle; | |
Eponymous institutes, | |
Their luckless architecture. |
Two more dates of life and birth | |
For the hour of special study | |
From which all boys and girls of mettle | |
Twice a week play truant | |
And worn excuses try. |
Alive, you have abhorred | |
The crowds on holiday | |
Jostling and whistling – yet would you air | |
Your death-mask, smoothly lidded, | |
Along the promenade? |
ELIZABETH DARYUSH
Children of wealth in your warm nursery, | |
Set in the cushioned window-seat to watch | |
The volleying snow, guarded invisibly | |
By the clear double pane through which no touch | |
Untimely penetrates, you cannot tell | |
What winter means; its cruel truths to you | |
Are only sound and sight; your citadel | |
Is safe from feeling, and from knowledge too. |
Go down, go out to elemental wrong, | |
Waste your too round limbs, tan your skin too white; | |
The glass of comfort, ignorance, seems strong | |
Today, and yet perhaps this very night |
You’ll wake to horror’s wrecking fire – your home | |
Is wired within for this, in every room. |
LOUIS MACNEICE The Sunlight on the Garden
The sunlight on the garden | |
Hardens and grows cold, | |
We cannot cage the minute | |
Within its nets of gold, | |
When all is told | |
We cannot beg for pardon. |
Our freedom as free lances | |
Advances towards its end; | |
The earth compels, upon it | |
Sonnets and birds descend; | |
And soon, my friend, | |
We shall have no time for dances. |
The sky was good for flying | |
Defying the church bells | |
And every evil iron | |
Siren and what it tells: | |
The earth compels, | |
We are dying, Egypt, dying |
And not expecting pardon, | |
Hardened in heart anew, | |
But glad to have sat under | |
Thunder and rain with you, | |
And grateful too | |
For sunlight on the garden. |
1939 W. B. YEATS Long-legged Fly
That civilisation may not sink | |
Its great battle lost, | |
Quiet the dog, tether the pony | |
To a distant post. | |
Our master Caesar is in the tent | |
Where the maps are spread, | |
His eyes fixed upon nothing, | |
A hand under his head. |
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream | |
His mind moves upon silence. |
That the topless towers be burnt | |
And men recall that face, | |
Move most gently if move you must | |
In this lonely place. | |
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child, | |
That nobody looks; her feet | |
Practise a tinker shuffle | |
Picked up on the street. |
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream | |
Her mind moves upon silence. |
That girls at puberty may find | |
The first Adam in their thought, | |
Shut the door of the Pope’s chapel, | |
Keep those children out. | |
There on the scaffolding reclines | |
Michael Angelo. | |
With no more sound than the mice make | |
His hand moves to and fro. |
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream | |
His mind moves upon silence. |
W. H. AUDEN In Memory of W. B. Yeats
I | |
He disappeared in the dead of winter: | |
The brooks were frozen, the air-ports almost deserted, | |
And snow disfigured the public statues; | |
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. | |
O all the instruments agree | |
The day of his death was a dark cold day. |
Far from his illness | |
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, | |
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; | |
By mourning tongues | |
The death of the poet was kept from his poems. |
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, | |
An afternoon of nurses and rumours; | |
The provinces of his body revolted, | |
The squares of his mind were empty, | |
Silence invaded the suburbs, | |
The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers. |
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities | |
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections; | |
To find his happiness in another kind of wood | |
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. | |
The words of a dead man | |
Are modified in the guts of the living. |
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow | |
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the | |
floor of the Bourse, | |
And the poor have the sufferings to which | |
they are fairly accustomed, | |
And each in the cell of himself is almost | |
convinced of his freedom; | |
A few thousand will think of this day | |
As one thinks of a day when one did something | |
slightly unusual. |
O all the instruments agree | |
The day of his death was a dark cold day. |
II | |
You were silly like us: your gift survived it all; | |
The parish of rich women, physical decay, | |
Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. | |
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, | |
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives | |
In the valley of its saying where executives | |
Would never want to tamper; it flows south | |
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, | |
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, | |
A way of happening, a mouth. |
III | |
Earth, receive an honoured guest; | |
William Yeats is laid to rest: | |
Let the Irish vessel lie | |
Emptied of its poetry. |
Time that is intolerant | |
Of the brave and innocent, | |
And indifferent in a week | |
To a beautiful physique, |
Worships language and forgives | |
Everyone by whom it lives; | |
Pardons cowardice, conceit, | |
Lays its honours at their feet. |
Time that with this strange excuse | |
Pardoned Kipling and his views, | |
And will pardon Paul Claudel, | |
Pardons him for writing well. |
In the nightmare of the dark | |
All the dogs of Europe bark, | |
And the living nations wait, | |
Each sequestered in its hate; |
Intellectual disgrace | |
Stares from every human face, | |
And the seas of pity lie | |
Locked and frozen in each eye. |
Follow, poet, follow right | |
To the bottom of the night, | |
With your unconstraining voice | |
Still persuade us to rejoice; |
With the farming of a verse | |
Make a vineyard of the curse, | |
Sing of human unsuccess | |
In a rapture of distress; |
In the deserts of the heart | |
Let the healing fountain start, | |
In the prison of his days | |
Teach the free man how to praise. |
LOUIS MACNEICE from Autumn Journal
I | |
Close and slow, summer is ending in Hampshire, | |
Ebbing away down ramps of shaven lawn where close-clipped yew | |
Insulates the lives of retired generals and admirals | |
And the spyglasses hung in the hall and the prayer-books ready in the pew | |
And August going out to the tin trumpets of nasturtiums | |
And the sunflowers’ Salvation Army blare of brass | |
And the spinster sitting in a deckchair picking up stitches | |
Not raising her eyes to the noise of the planes that pass | |
Northward from Lee-on-Solent. Macrocarpa and cypress | |
And roses on a rustic trellis and mulberry trees | |
And bacon and eggs in a silver dish for breakfast | |
And all the inherited assets of bodily ease | |
And all the inherited worries, rheumatism and taxes, | |
And whether Stella will marry and what to do with Dick | |
And the branch of the family that lost their money in Hatry | |
And the passing of the Morning Post and of life’s climacteric | |
And the growth of vulgarity, cars that pass the gate-lodge | |
And crowds undressing on the beach | |
And the hiking cockney lovers with thoughts directed | |
Neither to God nor Nation but each to each. | |
But the home is still a sanctum under the pelmets, | |
All quiet on the Family Front, | |
Farmyard noises across the fields at evening | |
While the trucks of the Southern Railway dawdle… shunt | |
Into poppy sidings for the night – night which knows no passion | |
No assault of hands or tongue | |
For all is old as flint or chalk or pine-needles | |
And the rebels and the young | |
Have taken the train to town or the two-seater | |
Unravelling rails or road, | |
Losing the thread deliberately behind them – | |
Autumnal palinode. | |
And I am in the train too now and summer is going | |
South as I go north | |
Bound for the dead leaves falling, the burning bonfire, | |
The dying that brings forth | |
The harder life, revealing the trees’ girders, | |
The frost that kills the germs of laissez-faire; | |
West Meon, Tisted, Farnham, Woking, Weybridge, | |
Then London’s packed and stale and pregnant air. | |
My dog, a symbol of the abandoned order, | |
Lies on the carriage floor, | |
Her eyes inept and glamorous as a film star’s, | |
Who wants to live, i.e. wants more | |
Presents, jewellery, furs, gadgets, solicitations | |
As if to live were not | |
Following the curve of a planet or controlled water | |
But a leap in the dark, a tangent, a stray shot. | |
It is this we learn after so many failures, | |
The building of castles in sand, of queens in snow, | |
That we cannot make any corner in life or in life’s beauty, | |
That no river is a river which does not flow. | |
Surbiton, and a woman gets in, painted | |
With dyed hair but a ladder in her stocking and eyes | |
Patient beneath the calculated lashes, | |
Inured for ever to surprise; | |
And the train’s rhythm becomes the ad nauseam repetition | |
Of every tired aubade and maudlin madrigal, | |
The faded airs of sexual attraction | |
Wandering like dead leaves along a warehouse wall: | |
‘I loved my love with a platform ticket, | |
A jazz song, | |
A handbag, a pair of stockings of Paris Sand – | |
I loved her long. | |
I loved her between the lines and against the clock, | |
Not until death | |
But till life did us part I loved her with paper money | |
And with whisky on the breath. | |
I loved her with peacock’s eyes and the wares of Carthage, | |
With glass and gloves and gold and a powder puff | |
With blasphemy, camaraderie, and bravado | |
And lots of other stuff. | |
I loved my love with the wings of angels | |
Dipped in henna, unearthly red, | |
With my office hours, with flowers and sirens, | |
With my budget, my latchkey, and my daily bread.’ | |
And so to London and down the ever-moving | |
Stairs | |
Where a warm wind blows the bodies of men together | |
And blows apart their complexes and cares. |
XV | |
Shelley and jazz and lieder and love and hymn-tunes | |
And day returns too soon; | |
We’ll get drunk among the roses | |
In the valley of the moon. | |
Give me an aphrodisiac, give me lotus, | |
Give me the same again; | |
Make all the erotic poets of Rome and Ionia | |
And Florence and Provence and Spain | |
Pay a tithe of their sugar to my potion | |
And ferment my days | |
With the twang of Hawaii and the boom of the Congo, | |
Let the old Muse loosen her stays | |
Or give me a new Muse with stockings and suspenders | |
And a smile like a cat, | |
With false eyelashes and finger-nails of carmine | |
And dressed by Schiaparelli, with a pill-box hat. | |
Let the aces run riot round Brooklands, | |
Let the tape-machines go drunk, | |
Turn on the purple spotlight, pull out the Vox Humana, | |
Dig up somebody’s body in a cloakroom trunk. | |
Give us sensations and then again sensations – | |
Strip-tease, fireworks, all-in wrestling, gin; | |
Spend your capital, open your house and pawn your padlocks, | |
Let the critical sense go out and the Roaring Boys come in. | |
Give me a houri but houris are too easy, | |
Give me a nun; | |
We’ll rape the angels off the golden reredos | |
Before we’re done. | |
Tiger-women and Lesbos, drums and entrails, | |
And let the skies rotate, | |
We’ll play roulette with the stars, we’ll sit out drinking | |
At the Hangman’s Gate. | |
O look who comes here. I cannot see their faces | |
Walking in file, slowly in file; | |
They have no shoes on their feet, the knobs of their ankles | |
Catch the moonlight as they pass the stile | |
And cross the moor among the skeletons of bog-oak | |
Following the track from the gallows back to the town; | |
Each has the end of a rope around his neck. I wonder | |
Who let these men come back, who cut them down – | |
And now they reach the gate and line up opposite | |
The neon lights on the medieval wall | |
And underneath the sky-signs | |
Each one takes his cowl and lets it fall | |
And we see their faces, each the same as the other, | |
Men and women, each like a closed door, | |
But something about their faces is familiar; | |
Where have we seen them before? | |
Was it the murderer on the nursery ceiling | |
Or Judas Iscariot in the Field of Blood | |
Or someone at Gallipoli or in Flanders | |
Caught in the end-all mud? | |
But take no notice of them, out with the ukulele, | |
The saxophone and the dice; | |
They are sure to go away if we take no notice; | |
Another round of drinks or make it twice. | |
That was a good one, tell us another, don’t stop talking, | |
Cap your stories; if | |
You haven’t any new ones tell the old ones, | |
Tell them as often as you like and perhaps those horrible stiff | |
People with blank faces that are yet familiar | |
Won’t be there when you look again, but don’t | |
Look just yet, just give them time to vanish. I said to vanish; | |
What do you mean – they won’t? | |
Give us the songs of Harlem or Mitylene – | |
Pearls in wine – | |
There can’t be a hell unless there is a heaven | |
And a devil would have to be divine | |
And there can’t be such things one way or the other; | |
That we know; | |
You can’t step into the same river twice so there can’t be | |
Ghosts; thank God that rivers always flow. | |
Sufficient to the moment is the moment; | |
Past and future merely don’t make sense | |
And yet I thought I had seen them… | |
But how, if there is only a present tense? | |
Come on, boys, we aren’t afraid of bogies, | |
Give us another drink; | |
This little lady has a fetish, | |
She goes to bed in mink. | |
This little pig went to market – | |
Now I think you may look, I think the coast is clear. | |
Well, why don’t you answer? | |
I can’t answer because they are still there. |
1940 W. H. AUDEN Musée des Beaux Arts
About suffering they were never wrong, | |
The Old Masters: how well they understood | |
Its human position; how it takes place | |
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; | |
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting | |
For the miraculous birth, there always must be | |
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating | |
On a pond at the edge of the wood: | |
They never forgot | |
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course | |
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot | |
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse | |
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. |
In Brueghel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away | |
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may | |
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, | |
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone | |
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green | |
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen | |
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, | |
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on. |
JOHN BETJEMAN Pot-Pourri from a Surrey Garden
Miles of pram in the wind and Pam in the gorse track, | |
Coco-nut smell of the broom, and a packet of Weights | |
Press’d in the sand. The thud of a hoof on a horse-track – | |
A horse-riding horse for a horse-track – | |
Conifer county of Surrey approached | |
Through remarkable wrought-iron gates. |
Over your boundary now, I wash my face in a bird-bath, | |
Then which path shall I take? that over there by the pram? | |
Down by the pond! or – yes, I will take the slippery third path, | |
Trodden away with gym shoes, | |
Beautiful fir-dry alley that leads | |
To the bountiful body of Pam. |
Pam, I adore you, Pam, you great big mountainous sports girl, | |
Whizzing them over the net, full of the strength of five: | |
That old Malvernian brother, you zephyr and khaki shorts girl, | |
Although he’s playing for Woking, | |
Can’t stand up | |
To your wonderful backhand drive. |
See the strength of her arm, as firm and hairy as Hendren’s; | |
See the size of her thighs, the pout of her lips as, cross, | |
And full of a pent-up strength, she swipes at the rhododendrons, | |
Lucky the rhododendrons, | |
And flings her arrogant love-lock | |
Back with a petulant toss. |
Over the redolent pinewoods, in at the bathroom casement, | |
One fine Saturday, Windlesham bells shall call: | |
Up the Butterfield aisle rich with Gothic enlacement, | |
Licensed now for embracement, | |
Pam and I, as the organ | |
Thunders over you all. |
WILLIAM EMPSON Missing Dates
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. | |
It is not the effort nor the failure tires. | |
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. |