And then I must scrub and bake and sweep
Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
And the young lie long and dream in their bed
Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,
And their ~y goes over in idleness,
And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:
While I must work because I am old,
And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
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Dry timber under that rich foliage,
Too old for a man’s love I stood in rageImagining men. Imagining that I couldA greater with a lesser pang assuageOr but to find if withered vein ran blood,I tore my body that its wine might coverWhatever could rccall the lip of lover.And after that I held my fingers up,Stared at the wine-dark nail, or…
Shepherd. That cry’s from the first cuckoo of the year.
Goatherd. Nor bird nor beastCould make me wish for anything this day,Being old, but that the old alone might die,And that would be against God’s providence.Let the young wish. But what has brought you here?Never until this moment have we metWhere my goats browse on the scarce grass or leapFrom stone to Stone.Shepherd. I am…
BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart,
From joy the holy branches start,And all the trembling flowers they bear.The changing colours of its fruitHave dowered the stars with merry light;The surety of its hidden rootHas planted quiet in the night;The shaking of its leafy headHas given the waves their melody,And made my lips and music wed,Murmuring a wizard song for thee.There the…
SAY that the men of the old black tower,
Their money spent, their wine gone sour,Lack nothing that a soldier needs,That all are oath-bound men:Those banners come not in.There in the tomb stand the dead upright,But winds come up from the shore:They shake when the winds roar,Old bones upon the mountain shake.Those banners come to bribe or threaten,Or whisper that a man’s a foolWho,…
I THINK it better that in times like these
We have no gift to set a statesman right;He has had enough of medding who can pleaseA young girl in the indolence of her youth,Or an old man upon a winter’s night.
YOUR hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,
My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.I knew that horse-play, knew it for a murderous thing.What wholesome sun has ripened is wholesome food to eat,And that alone; yet I, being driven half insaneBecause of some green wing, gathered old mummy wheatIn the mad abstract dark and ground it grain by grainAnd after…