And here desire, not to be kissed away.
The eyes of this dead lady speak to me.
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Blue, blue is the grass about the river
And within, the mistress, in the midmost of her youth.White, white of face, hesitates, passing the door.Slender, she puts forth a slender hand;And she was a courtezan in the old days,And she has married a sot,Who now goes drunkenly outAnd leaves her too much alone.
How many will come after me
Telling the heart of their truthas I have taught them to tell it;Fruit of my seed,O my unnameable children.Know then that I loved you from afore-time,Clear speakers, naked in the sun, untrammelled.
On a certain one’s departure
But where’s the old friend hasn’t fallen off,Or slacked his hand-grip when you first gripped fame?I know your circle and can fairly tellWhat you have kept and what you’ve left behind:I know my circle and know very wellHow many faces I’d have out of mind.
Phyllidula is scrawny but amorous,
That in pleasure she receives more than she can give;If she does not count this blessedLet her change her religion.
The baby new to earth and sky
Unto himself the question putOr asked us if the cowIs higher in the mental scaleThan men like me and you,Or if the cow refrains from foodTill she finds work to do.‘The baby new to earth and sky,’As Tennyson has written,Just goes ahead and sucks a teatLike to-day’s great men in Britain.
Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions.
You are very idle, my songs,I fear you will come to a bad end.You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops,You do next to nothing at all.You do not even express our inner nobilitys,You will come to a very bad end.And I? I have gone half-cracked.I have talked to you so…