Still sigh over established and natural fact
Long since fully discussed by Ovid.
They howl. They complain in delicate and exhausted metres
That the twitching of three abdominal nerves
Is incapable of producing a lasting Nirvana.
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Who, who will be the next man to entrust his girl to a friend?
The gods have brought shame on their relatives;Each man wants the pomegranate for himself;Amiable and harmonious people are pushed incontinent into duels,A Trojan and adulterous person came to Menelaus under the rites of hospitium,And there was a case in Colchis, Jason and that woman in Colchis;And besides, Lynceus,you were drunk.Could you endure such promiscuity?She was…
Her grave, sweet haughtiness
Her quiet ironies.Others are beautiful, none more, some less.I suppose, when poetry comes down to facts,When our souls are returned to the godsAnd the spheres they belong in,Here in the every-day where our actsRise up and judge us;I suppose there are a few dozen veritiesThat no shift of mood can shake from us:One place where…
As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.
Wal, Thanksgivin’ do be comin’ round.
And coal, by gum! Thet were just found,Is surely gettin’ cheaper.The winds will soon begin to howl,And winter, in its yearly growl,Across the medders begin to prowl,And Jack Frost gettin’ deeper.By shucks! It seems to me,That you I orter beThankful, that our Ted could seeA way to operate it.I sez to Mandy, sure, sez I,I’ll…
Thy soul
Atthis.O Atthis,I long for thy lips.I long for thy narrow breasts,Thou restless, ungathered.
An image of Lethe,
Full of faint lightbut golden,Gray cliffs,and beneath themA seaHarsher than granite,unstill, never ceasing;High formswith the movement of gods,Perilous aspect;And one said:‘This is Actaeon.’Actaeon of golden greaves!Over fair meadows,Over the cool face of that field,Unstill, ever movingHosts of an ancient people,The silent cortège.