If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you! I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never apologize, (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all. Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer. Red Hanrahan's Song About Ireland, By WB Yeats - Irish Poem. He does not get wealth for himself, and is unable to keep what he has got; the heads of his grain are not bent down to the earth. A child said What is the grass? Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index. Look, the wicked have bent their bow and placed their arrow on the string, to shoot from the darkness at the upright in heart. Can she the bodiless dead espy? Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
But I'm face to face with Jesus in the dirt, and the more I bend, the harder and better and fuller this life gets. The same who lay down by her side—. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, With ropes of rock and bells of air. Let your ear be bent down for hearing my words, and let your heart give thought to knowledge. My soul still keeps the memory of them; and is bent down in me. Are pacing both into the hall, And pacing on through page and groom, Enter the Baron's presence-room. Broken across it, and one eye is weeping. He who is blessing thee is blessed, And he who is cursing thee is cursed. 'Song of Myself' is long, but well worth devoting ten or fifteen minutes to reading, whether you're familiar with Whitman's distinctive and psalmic free verse style or new to the world of Walt Whitman's poetry. We have moved our weekly meeting from the slum of Masese to my living room because I have been up all night and just can't imagine getting all 13 of these little people out of the house. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now. Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself. Red Hanrahan's Song About Ireland, by W. B. Yeats | : poems, essays, and short stories. Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, Who all give back, one after t'other, The death-note to their living brother; And oft too, by the knell offended, Just as their one! And in her arms the maid she took, Ah wel-a-day!
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am, Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me, I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you. But we have all bent low and low bred. So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.
To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes, I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting, I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape. We sit in the dirt, not worried about the red stains and serve 400 plates of food to sponsored children on Saturday. But we have all bent low and low georgetown 11s. It is the sword of the wounded -- the great one, That is entering the inner chamber to them. Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.
The boy sneezed seven times and opened his eyes. And thus the lofty lady spake—. Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, So fair, so innocent, so mild; The same, for whom thy lady died! I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God! Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away. Ben and jerry lows. Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair. Around here, we live bent low. Still count as slowly as he can! I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again. Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth, (I tell not the fall of Alamo, Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo, ). And thence I vowed this self-same day.
O then the Baron forgot his age, His noble heart swelled high with rage; He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side. I would, said Geraldine, she were! Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Is this then a touch? I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes, That they turn from gazing after and down the road, And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent, Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?
He bent down toward the ground and put his face between his knees. Let their backs be continually bent. And all the people gave praise to the Lord, the God of their fathers, with bent heads worshipping the Lord and the king. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. Since arms of thine. Press close bare-bosom'd night—press close magnetic nourishing night! And my people are bent to backsliding from me: though they called them to the most High, none at all would exalt him. My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot, And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot, And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
From the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them to be mine. "We will be your family, " she asserts, and she means it. And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! Mary mother, save me now! Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp, My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.
I rub lotion into old scarred feet and think of the journeys they have traveled. Let their eyes be darkened, so that they can't see. Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you! Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, Like a youthful hermitess, Beauteous in a wilderness, Who, praying always, prays in sleep. Perhaps I might tell more. With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums, I play not marches for accepted victors only, I play marches for conquer'd and slain persons. Raised up beneath the old oak tree! I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them. Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare, For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air; Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood; But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean, Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest. It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on. By riding them down over and over again.
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. These words Sir Leoline first said, When he rose and found his lady dead: These words Sir Leoline will say. Jesu, Maria, shield her well! I whisper thanks for the ways they have blessed me and the things they have taught me, and here in a puddle on the hard tile floor, joy overflows. Which when I saw and when I heard, I wonder'd what might ail the bird; For nothing near it could I see. Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven. At each wild word to feel within. His heart was cleft with pain and rage, His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, Dishonoured thus in his old age; Dishonoured by his only child, And all his hospitality. I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, (They do not know how immortal, but I know. With such perplexity of mind. With forced unconscious sympathy.
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; And Geraldine again turned round, And like a thing, that sought relief, Full of wonder and full of grief, She rolled her large bright eyes divine. Now I see it is true, what I guess'd at, What I guess'd when I loaf'd on the grass, What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed, And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the morning.