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I am no more but you live on,
Is shaking house and forest, strainingNot single fir trees one by oneBut the whole wood, all trees together,With all the distance far and wide,Like sail-less yachts in stormy weatherWhen moored within a bay they lie.And this not out of wanton prideOr fury bent on aimless wronging,But to provide a lullabyFor you with words of grief…
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Dismal day, with the weather inclement.
Down the porch in front of the doorway;Through my wide-open windows they come.But behind the old fence on the roadside,See, the public gardens are flooded.Like wild beasts in a den, the raincloudsSprawl about in shaggy disorder.In such weather, I dream of a volumeOn the beauties of Earth in our age,And I draw an imp of…
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I am finished, but you live on.
rocks the house and the clearing,not each pine alone,but all the trees together,with the vast distance, whole,like the hulls of vessels,moored in a bay, storm-blown.And it shakes them not from mischief,and not with an aimless tone,but to find, for you, from its grief,the words of a cradle-song.
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Life returned with a cause-the way
Just as on that distant summer day,I am standing in the same old street.People are the same, and people’s worries,And the sunset’s still a fireball,Just the way death’s night once in a hurryNailed it to the ancient mansion’s wall.Women, in the same cheap clothes attired,Are still wearing down their shoes at night.Afterwards, against the roofing…
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Yes, I shall swear by you, my verse,
You’re not a tenor’s shape and voice,You’re summer travelling third class,You are a suburb, not a tune.You’re a street as close as May,You’re a battlefield at night,Where clouds groan loudly in dismayAnd scatter, when dismissed, in fright.And, splitting in the railway’s lace-That’s outskirts, not refrain and home-They crawl back to their native placeWithout a song,…
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At least let me now deceive myself with illusions
And yet I came so close so many times.And yet how paralyzed I was, how cowardly;why did I keep my lips sealedwhile my empty life wept inside me,my desires wore robes of mourning?To have been so close so many timesto those sensual eyes, those lips,to that body I dreamed of, loved-so close so many times.
The exceptional thing about him was
his vast sexual experienceand the fact that usuallyhis attitude matched his age,in spite of this there were moments-extremely rare, of course- when he gave the impressionthat his flesh was almost virginal.His twenty-nine-year-old beauty,so used by pleasure,would sometimes strangely remind oneof a boy who, somewhat awkwardly, giveshis pure body to love for the first time.
We interrupt the work of the gods,
In the palaces of Eleusis and PhthiaDemeter and Thetis start good worksamid high flames and dense smoke. Butalways Metaneira rushes from the king’schambers, disheveled and scared,and always Peleus is fearful and interferes.
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At least let me now deceive myself with illusions
And yet I came so close so many times.And yet how paralyzed I was, how cowardly;why did I keep my lips sealedwhile my empty life wept inside me,my desires wore robes of mourning?To have been so close so many timesto those sensual eyes, those lips,to that body I dreamed of, loved-so close so many times.
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For two years he studied with Ammonios Sakkas,
Then he went into politics.But he gave that up. The Prefect was an idiot,and those around him solemn, officious nitwits:their Greek -poor fools- barbaric.After that he becamevaguely curious about the Church: to be baptizedand pass as a Christian. But he soonlet that one drop: it would certainly have caused a rowwith his parents, ostentatious pagans,and…
Aristomenis, son of Menelaos,
was generally liked in Alexandriaduring the ten days he spent there.As his name, his dress, modest, was also Greek.He received honors gladly,but he did not solicit them; he was unassuming.He bought Greek books,especially history and philosophy.Above all he was a man of few words.It got around that he must be a profound thinker,and men like…
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