With Justice still the genius of his rhyme,
Giving each man his due, each passion grace,
Impartial as the rain from Heaven’s face
Or sunshine from the heaven-enthroned sun.
Sweet Swan of Avon, come to us again.
Teach us to write, and writing, to be men.
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I look on the specious electrical light
Wickedly red or malignantly greenLike the beads of a young Senegambian queen.Showing, while millions of souls hurry on,The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn,By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl,Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl,By maggotry motions in sickening lineProclaiming a hat or a soup or a wine,While there far above…
Twelve snails went walking after night.
Then stop and bug their eyesAnd blow.Some folks . . . are . . . deadly . . . slow.Twelve snails went walking yestereve,Led by their fat old king.They were so dull their princeling hadNo sceptre, robe or ring—Only a paper cap to wearWhen nightly journeying.This king-snail said: ‘I feel a thoughtWithin. . . ….
[To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated instrument]
[Bass drum beaten loudly.]Booth led boldly with his big bass drum —(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)The Saints smiled gravely and they said: ‘He’s come.’(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank,Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale —Minds still…
What the Carpenter Said
Some folks can see it plain.Look, you may catch a glint of light,A sparkle through the pane,Showing the place is brighter stillWithin, though bright without.There, at a cosy open fireStrange babes are grouped about.The children of the wind and tide–The urchins of the sky,Drying their wings from storms and thingsSo they again can fly.
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.
Down, down beneath the daisy beds,
And moaning on the cinder-pathThey’re blind amid the rain.Can murmurs of the worms ariseTo higher hearts than mine?I wonder if that gardener hearsWho made the mold all fineAnd packed each gentle seedling downSo carefully in line?I watched the red rose reaching upTo ask him if he heardThose cries that stung the evening earthTill all the…