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Read Ebook: Mammals of Washington Volume 2 University of Kansas Publications Museum of Natural History by Dalquest Walter Woelber Hall E Raymond Eugene Raymond Editor Hoffmeister Donald Frederick Editor
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Ebook has 1462 lines and 134544 words, and 30 pages
Mice 9
Rest 10
'The Strength, the Mellow Music, and the Laughter' 11
Ashes 12
'Du bist wie eine Blume' 13
Home 14
'Ma?tre de Ballet' 15
The Grudge 16
Wedding Day 17
Crucifixion 18
Spring in Winter 19
The Exile 20
Sonnet for Helen 21
Song 22
Musings 23
The Poet 24
'If all the trees were magic trees' 26
'Alone with these my poems...' 28
Mice
I see the broken bodies of women and men, Temples of God ruined; I see the claws Of sinister Fate, from the reach of whose feline paws Never are safe the bodies of women and men.
Almighty Cat, it sits on the Throne of the World, With paw outstretched, grinning at us, the mice, Who play our trivial games of virtue and vice, And pray--to That which sits on the Throne of the World!
From our beginning till all is over and done, Unwitting who watches, pursuing our personal ends, Hither and thither we scamper....The paw descends; The paw descends and all is over and done.
Rest
Here is tranquillity and silvan shade; For now, emerging from that waste of sand Which was my life, I reach a fruitful glade, A pool of water in a thirsty land.
Your gentle soul a well of beauty is, And crystal clear the sunlit deeps thereof; And from that fountain of unmeasured bliss I draw the living water of your love.
Here is the goal of all my wandering, Here is oblivion of my bitterness, And here the temple where my heart shall sing Your eyes that light me and your lips that bless.
The steadfast beauty of her eyes is balm, And in her touch there's healing for my hurt; She is unshaken as a vessel girt Mid waters of unutterable calm.
The years grow fragrant with her fragrance: they, Sipping her sweetness, leave her yet more sweet. Laden with divers colours, at her feet They shed their motley silks and go their way
Like withered dreams. So youth must follow after, Youth that is brief and beauty that is grass; But from her gentle soul shall never pass The strength, the mellow music, and the laughter.
Ashes
Bury the ashes. The life, the gleam Of love is gone: we have killed with kisses The fragile soul of rapture: this is Only the hollow husk of a dream, The bitter waking, the end thereof. Come, bury the ashes of love.
The music falters; the flame is spent; The vision is gone, the splendour faded, Leaving only a pitiful jaded Half-desire, and a discontent. The end of love is a weary kiss-- Surely hate were better than this!
So like a flower, so gentle, So fair, so pure thou art, That musing on thy beauty Brings sadness to my heart.
I lay my hands, in spirit, Upon thy gleaming hair, Praying that God may keep thee So sweet, so pure, so fair.
Home
Five weary days...and I shall creep Into the shadow of her hair And of her loveliness drink deep
And lose my desolation there, Feeling her cool lips quench my own. Lying so still, we shall not dare
To let one murmur like a stone Into the pool of silence fall. All senses will be fused in one:
Peace will surround us with a wall Of visible music, moments go Melodiously by, and all
The stillness brim with beauty; so Our hearts will whisper, throbbing fast: 'Must time undeviating flow And bear this fragile moment past?'
On a gossamer thread Of light that stretches From dark to dark Over the void We giddily jig To the mad music The Master makes.
From the Green Room He calls us forth, Sensitive puppets, Live automata, And with a gesture Sets us jerkily Dancing the tightrope.
From a seat in the stalls Of the cosmic theatre Silently He watches our antics.
When we call to him 'Master, Master! Help, we are falling!' Out of the darkness Comes no word ....Only a chuckle.
The Grudge
We are of baser quality: we have been Tried by fire and judged a spurious gold. We are little of soul; and yet in our pigmy way We have suffered and loved with a love that cannot be told.
Being less than you, we did not eagerly quaff The cup of gall: we prayed that it might pass. We are not gods: we are pitiful human stuff; And the blood of our passion has stained Gethsemane's grass.
We cannot say for our comfort: 'Losing them, We gain a glimpse of noble terrible heights, A cleansing exquisite pain, a sacred grief, A dream to cherish'--we think of the vanished lights;
We think of the fine nerves shattered, the warm blood chilled, The laughter silenced, the zest and the beauty gone, The desolation of wasted wonderful dreams That will never be lived, of work that cannot be done.
Wedding Day
Was it for this we loved: to settle down In some nice suburb not too far from town, To eat and sleep and kiss complacently, Loving by rote as decent people do: Was it for this we hungered, I and you?
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