Written by
Pablo Neruda |
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.
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Written by
Anne Bradstreet |
1 To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,
2 Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,
3 For my mean Pen are too superior things;
4 Or how they all, or each their dates have run,
5 Let Poets and Historians set these forth.
6 My obscure lines shall not so dim their worth.
7 But when my wond'ring eyes and envious heart
8 Great Bartas' sugar'd lines do but read o'er,
9 Fool, I do grudge the Muses did not part
10 'Twixt him and me that over-fluent store.
11 A Bartas can do what a Bartas will
12 But simple I according to my skill.
13 From School-boy's tongue no Rhet'ric we expect,
14 Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,
15 Nor perfect beauty where's a main defect.
16 My foolish, broken, blemished Muse so sings,
17 And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,
18 'Cause Nature made it so irreparable.
19 Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongued Greek
20 Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain.
21 By Art he gladly found what he did seek,
22 A full requital of his striving pain.
23 Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure:
24 A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.
25 I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
26 Who says my hand a needle better fits.
27 A Poet's Pen all scorn I should thus wrong,
28 For such despite they cast on female wits.
29 If what I do prove well, it won't advance,
30 They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance.
31 But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
32 Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
33 And poesy made Calliope's own child?
34 So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts divine,
35 But this weak knot they will full soon untie.
36 The Greeks did nought but play the fools and lie.
37 Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are.
38 Men have precedency and still excel;
39 It is but vain unjustly to wage war.
40 Men can do best, and Women know it well.
41 Preeminence in all and each is yours;
42 Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.
43 And oh ye high flown quills that soar the skies,
44 And ever with your prey still catch your praise,
45 If e'er you deign these lowly lines your eyes,
46 Give thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no Bays.
47 This mean and unrefined ore of mine
48 Will make your glist'ring gold but more
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Written by
Samuel Johnson |
CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature call'd for aid,
And hov'ring death prepared the blow,
His vig'rous remedy display'd
The power of art without the show.
In Misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th' Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm--his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
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Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
In the good old days when the Army's ways were simple and unrefined,
With a stock to keep their chins in front, and a pigtail down behind,
When the only light in the barracks at night was a candle of grease or fat,
When they put the extinguisher on the light, they called it the Old Tin Hat.
Now, a very great man is the C. in C., for he is the whole of the show --
The reins and the whip and the driver's hand that maketh the team to go --
But the road he goes is a lonely road, with ever a choice to make,
When he comes to a place where the roads divide, which one is the road to take.
For there's one road right, and there's one road wrong, uphill, or over the flat,
And one road leads to the Temple of Fame, and one to the Old Tin Hat.
And a very great man is the man who holds an Army Corps command,
For he hurries his regiments here and there as the C. in C. has planned.
By day he travels about in state and stirreth them up to rights,
He toileth early and toileth late, and sitteth up half the nights;
But the evening comes when the candle throws twin shadows upon the mat,
And one of the shadows is like a wreath, and one like an Old Tin Hat.
And a very proud man is the Brigadier at the sound of the stately tread
Of his big battalions marching on, as he rides with his staff ahead.
There's never a band to play them out, and the bugle's note is still,
But he hears two tunes in the gentle breeze that blows from over the hill.
And one is a tune in a stirring key, and the other is faint and flat,
For one is the tune of "My new C.B." and the other, "My Old Tin Hat."
And the Colonel heading his regiment is life and soul of the show,
It's "Column of route", "Form troops", "Extend", and into the fight they go;
He does not duck when the air is full of the "wail of the whimpering lead",
He does not scout for the deep dugout when the 'planes are overhead;
He fears not hog, nor devil, nor dog, and he'd scrap with a mountain cat,
But he goeth in fear of the Brigadier, and in fear of the Old Tin Hat.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
In youth I gnawed life's bitter rind
And shared the rugged lot
Of fellows rude and unrefined,
Frustrated and forgot;
And now alas! it is too late
My sorry ways to mend,
So sadly I accept my fate,
A Roughneck to the end.
Profanity is in my voice
And slag is in my rhyme,
For I have mucked with men who curse
And grovel in the grime;
My fingers were not formed, I fear,
To frame a pretty pen,
So please forgive me if I veer
From Virtue now and then.
For I would be the living voice,
Though raucous is its tone,
Of men who rarely may rejoice,
Yet barely ever moan:
The rovers of the raw-ribbed lands,
The lads of lowly worth,
The scallywags with scaley hands
Who weld the ends of earth.
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