'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. |
Always mistrust a subordinate who never finds fault with his superior. |
And with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree, the day hooded by low clouds. |
Bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! |
Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourned, till Pity's self be dead |
Between the dark lakes where the dark rivers flow there is no ferry waiting on the shore of rock and no man holding a long oar, ready to take your last coin. This is the real earth and the real water it contains. |
But all they want to do Is tie the poem to a chair with rope And torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose To find out what it really means. |
But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her, barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor. She will look in at me with her thin arms extended, offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light. |
By fairy hands their knell is rung; / By forms unseen their dirge is sung. |
Each one is a gift, no doubt, mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead moments before you open your eyes. |
Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole. |
Hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires. |
Here's to the wind blowing against this lighted house and to the vast, windless spaces between the stars. |
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, / By all their country's wishes blest! |
I think humor is a very serious thing. I use it as a way of weakening the reader's defenses so that I can more easily take him to something more. |