Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass:
There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass.
Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride
And climb the glorious mysteries of Heaven’s silent tide
In voyages that change the very metes and bounds of Fate —
O empty boats, we all refuse, that by our windows wait!
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Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry,
The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar,White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar.I rushed to the door yard. The city was gone.My home was a hut without orchard or lawn.It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream,Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream…Then…Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row,Gods of…
Star of my heart, I follow from afar.
Where Time is not, and only dreamers are.Star from of old, the Magi-Kings are deadAnd a foolish Saxon seeks the manger-bed.O lead me to Jehovah’s childAcross this dreamland lone and wild,Then will I speak this prayer unsaid,And kiss his little haloed head —‘My star and I, we love thee, little child.’Except the Christ be born…
Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire —Fire that freed the slave.
(A Poem Game.)
‘Down cellar,’ said the cricket,‘Down cellar,’ said the cricket,‘Down cellar,’ said the cricket,‘I saw a ball last night,In honor of a lady,In honor of a lady,In honor of a lady,Whose wings were pearly-white.The breath of bitter weather,The breath of bitter weather,The breath of bitter weather,Had smashed the cellar pane.We entertained a drift of leaves,We entertained…
The moon’s an open furnace door
We shovel in our blackest griefs,Upon that grate are castOur aching burdens, loves and fearsAnd underneath them waitPaper and tar and pitch and pineCalled strife and blood and hate.Out of it all there comes a flame,A splendid widening light.Sorrow is turned to mysteryAnd Death into delight.
A Song in Chinese Tapestries
‘San Francisco sleeps as the dead—Ended license, lust and play:Why do you iron the night away?Your big clock speaks with a deadly sound,With a tick and a wail till dawn comes round.While the monster shadows glower and creep,What can be better for man than sleep?’‘I will tell you a secret,’ Chang replied;‘My breast with vision…