Holding malice like a puppy,
Waging war like a lambkin.’
‘Not so,’ quoth the man
Who had no fear of spirits;
‘It is only wrong for angels
Who can live like the flowers,
Holding malice like the puppies,
Waging war like the lambkins.’
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In the desert
who, squatting upon the ground,Held his heart in his hands,And ate of it.I said, ‘Is it good, friend?’‘It is bitter — bitter,’ he answered;‘But I like itBecause it is bitter,And because it is my heart.’
‘What says the sea, little shell?
Long has our brother been silent to us,Kept his message for the ships,Awkward ships, stupid ships.’‘The sea bids you mourn, O Pines,Sing low in the moonlight.He sends tale of the land of doom,Of place where endless fallsA rain of women’s tears,And men in grey robes —Men in grey robes —Chant the unknown pain.’‘What says the…
Once, I knew a fine song,
It was all of birds,And I held them in a basket;When I opened the wicket,Heavens! They all flew away.I cried, ‘Come back, little thoughts!’But they only laughed.They flew onUntil they were as sandThrown between me and the sky.
‘Truth,’ said a traveller,
Often have I been to it,Even to its highest tower,From whence the world looks black.’‘Truth,’ said a traveller,‘Is a breath, a wind,A shadow, a phantom;Long have I pursued it,But never have I touchedThe hem of its garment.’And I believed the second traveller;For truth was to meA breath, a wind,A shadow, a phantom,And never had I…
Yes, I have a thousand tongues,
Though I strive to use the one,It will make no melody at my will,But is dead in my mouth.
Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground.
Do you hope to see itIn one of your withered days?With your old eyesDo you hope to seeThe triumphal march of Justice?Do not wait, friend!Take your white beardAnd your old eyesTo more tender lands.
Holding malice like a puppy,
Waging war like a lambkin.’
‘Not so,’ quoth the man
Who had no fear of spirits;
‘It is only wrong for angels
Who can live like the flowers,
Holding malice like the puppies,
Waging war like the lambkins.’
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God lay dead in heaven;
Purple winds went moaning,Their wings drip-drippingWith bloodThat fell upon the earth.It, groaning thing,Turned black and sank.Then from the far cavernsOf dead sinsCame monsters, livid with desire.They fought,Wrangled over the world,A morsel.But of all sadness this was sad –A woman’s arms tried to shieldThe head of a sleeping manFrom the jaws of the final beast.
To the maiden
Alive with little froth-peopleSinging.To the sailor, wrecked,The sea was dead grey wallsSuperlative in vacancy,Upon which nevertheless at fateful timeWas writtenThe grim hatred of nature.
Fast rode the knight
Ever waving an eager sword,‘To save my lady!’Fast rode the knight,And leaped from saddle to war.Men of steel flickered and gleamedLike riot of silver lights,And the gold of the knight’s good bannerStill waved on a castle wall.. . . . . . . . . . . .A horse,Blowing, staggering, bloody thing,Forgotten at foot of…
Once there came a man
‘Range me all men of the world in rows.’And instantlyThere was terrific clamour among the peopleAgainst being ranged in rows.There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.It endured for ages;And blood was shedBy those who would not stand in rows,And by those who pined to stand in rows.Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.And those who staid…
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,Do not weep.War is kind.Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,Little souls who thirst for fight,These men were born to drill and die.The unexplained glory flies above them,Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom —A field where a thousand corpses lie.Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.Because your…
Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
There came a drooping maid with violets,But the spirit grasped her arm.‘No flowers for him,’ he said.The maid wept:‘Ah, I loved him.’But the spirit, grim and frowning:‘No flowers for him.’Now, this is it —If the spirit was just,Why did the maid weep?