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Edited by Don Quixote - 21-Aug-2011 at 21:09
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:14 |
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"If" is pretty much my life credo, so in a way it was my introduction. Now, something more in agreement with my mood today, a poem by Vladimir Vysotcky. It's actually a song, so I will post both the song and the lyrics.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGuIO-BIsYY How I detest... Russian title: Ya ne lyublyu How I detest the fatal final curtain! Edited by Don Quixote - 21-Aug-2011 at 21:17
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Nick1986
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Emperor Mighty Slayer of Trolls Joined: 22-Mar-2011 Location: England Online Status: Offline Posts: 7940
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Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 21:18 |
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Great poems
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Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!
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Centrix Vigilis
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Emperor Joined: 18-Aug-2006 Location: The Llano Online Status: Offline Posts: 7392
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Posted: 21-Aug-2011 at 22:11 |
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Indeed it is what I have enjoyed about this member a great deal here...and elsewhere.
And to help it along....I render one from my favorite Swd/Fan Author who was unfortunately not as well know as a tremendous poet.
From the pen of the legendary RE Howard.
''A poem about Cimmeria, the homeland of Conan:
Cimmeria'' I remember
The dark woods, masking slopes of sombre hills; The grey clouds' leaden everlasting arch; The dusky streams that flowed without a sound, And the lone winds that whispered down the passes. Vista upon vista marching, hills on hills, Slope beyond slope, each dark with sullen trees, Our gaunt land lay. So when a man climbed up A rugged peak and gazed, his shaded eye Saw but the endless vista--hill on hill, Slope beyond slope, each hooded like its brothers. It was gloomy land that seemed to hold All winds and clouds and dreams that shun the sun, With bare boughs rattling in the lonesome winds, And the dark woodlands brooding over all, Not even lightened by the rare dim sun Which made squat shadows out of men; they called it Cimmeria, land of Darkness and deep Night. It was so long ago and far away I have forgotten the very name men called me. The axe and flint-tipped spear are like a dream, And hunts and wars are like shadows. I recall Only the stillness of that sombre land; The clouds that piled forever on the hills, The dimness of the everlasting woods. Cimmeria, land of Darkness and the Night. RE Howard Edited by Centrix Vigilis - 21-Aug-2011 at 22:13
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"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"
S. T. Friedman Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'
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Centrix Vigilis
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Emperor Joined: 18-Aug-2006 Location: The Llano Online Status: Offline Posts: 7392
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Posted: 22-Aug-2011 at 04:13 |
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Shame on ya if ya don't know Banjo Patterson.The Man From Snowy River
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast; But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, "He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, So he went; they found the horses by the big mimosa clump, So Clancy rode to wheel them--he was racing on the wing Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull-- He sent the flint-stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He was right among the horses as they climbed the farther hill, And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam; And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
(c) A B Paterson
Edited by Centrix Vigilis - 22-Aug-2011 at 04:15
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"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"
S. T. Friedman Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'
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Chookie
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Pretorian Joined: 14-Apr-2008 Location: Alba Online Status: Offline Posts: 171
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Posted: 22-Aug-2011 at 17:33 |
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The Return (A Piper's Vaunting) by Pittendrigh Macgillivray
Och hey! for the splendour of
tartans!
Shall come back again to the
heather,
Och, then, for the bonnet and
feather!
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For money you did what guns could not do.........
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 01:05 |
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Thank you, guys, for those great contributions!
I have for today another Vysotsky song/poem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=104cOJeGeTA I recommend the song before or in the same time with the poem, /because my link is dead one have to paste the URL on the search/ it adds much of the feeling to the poem, especially when one reads a translation, as I said many times Russian doesn't carry well in English. It's a very tragic song...very Slavic, I would say, with the typical for the Russian worldview anarchic bursting of pain and hope, despair and enthusiasm, the drinken-ness of the coming end and the personal decision to meet it head-on. No wonder Anarchism, the most misunderstood political ideal ever, started in Russia. Unruly horses Russian title: Koni priveredlivye Along the chasm's edge, upon the precipice's brink Edited by Don Quixote - 23-Aug-2011 at 01:07
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Centrix Vigilis
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Emperor Joined: 18-Aug-2006 Location: The Llano Online Status: Offline Posts: 7392
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Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 07:07 |
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Good stuff.
No wonder ya rescue, on occasion, 'damsels in distress'.
You were born for it.
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"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"
S. T. Friedman Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'
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Centrix Vigilis
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Emperor Joined: 18-Aug-2006 Location: The Llano Online Status: Offline Posts: 7392
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Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 07:15 |
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The only thing ya missing is a good horse and forty Cav troopers following behind ya and that red and white guidon. Sabers.... come with the basic kit.
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"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"
S. T. Friedman Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'
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Michael Collins
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Pretorian Historum joker, suspended Joined: 20-Mar-2011 Location: Éire Online Status: Offline Posts: 174
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Posted: 23-Aug-2011 at 12:27 |
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I'll be posting here shortly as promised - I'm just very tight for time at the minute.
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Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 02:22 |
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Edgar Alan Po - "The City in the Sea"
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne Edited by Don Quixote - 24-Aug-2011 at 02:24
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Centrix Vigilis
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Emperor Joined: 18-Aug-2006 Location: The Llano Online Status: Offline Posts: 7392
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 16:56 |
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Robert Service
Ye who know the Lone Trail
fain would follow it, Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. Ye who take the Lone Trail, The trails of the world be countless, And one lies safe in the sunlight, And somehow you're sick of the highway, And sometimes it leads to the desert, And sometimes it leads to the mountain, And sometimes it leads to the Southland, And sometimes it leads to the Northland, And sometimes it leads to a coral reef And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, Often it leads to the dead-pit; By your bones they will follow behind you, The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail
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"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"
S. T. Friedman Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'
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Chookie
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Pretorian Joined: 14-Apr-2008 Location: Alba Online Status: Offline Posts: 171
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:00 |
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An Eala Bhan (Dòmhnall
Ruadh Chorùna)
The White Swan (English)
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For money you did what guns could not do.........
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Centrix Vigilis
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Emperor Joined: 18-Aug-2006 Location: The Llano Online Status: Offline Posts: 7392
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:05 |
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That..is a classic.
Reference a question concerning Robert Service.
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"Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence"
S. T. Friedman Pilger's law: 'If it's been officially denied, then it's probably true'
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Michael Collins
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Pretorian Historum joker, suspended Joined: 20-Mar-2011 Location: Éire Online Status: Offline Posts: 174
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:06 |
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- P.H. Pearse
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Is í labhairt a dteanga an moladh is mó is féidir linn a thabhairt dár namhaid.
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Nick1986
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Emperor Mighty Slayer of Trolls Joined: 22-Mar-2011 Location: England Online Status: Offline Posts: 7940
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 18:09 |
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
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Me Grimlock not nice Dino! Me bash brains!
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 24-Aug-2011 at 20:20 |
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Really good poems, everyone!
Mine for today is a Kipling: A Ballad of Jakkko HillOne moment bid the horses wait, Edited by Don Quixote - 24-Aug-2011 at 20:20
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 26-Aug-2011 at 01:41 |
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Longfellow, The Battle of Lovell's Pond:
Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast
That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast, As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear, Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier. The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell Has sunk into silence along the wild dell; The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er, And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more. The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 01:04 |
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Vladimir Mayakovsky: Edited by Don Quixote - 28-Aug-2011 at 01:05
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Don Quixote
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Tsar Retired AE Moderator Joined: 29-Dec-2010 Online Status: Offline Posts: 4734
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Posted: 28-Aug-2011 at 01:09 |
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Boris Pasternak:
Sparrow Hills
Breasts beneath kisses, as though under a tap!Summer’s stream won’t run for ever.We can’t pump out the accordion’s roarnight after night, in a dusty fever.I’ve heard of age. Terrible prophecies!No wave will lift its hands to the stars.They say – who believes? No face in the leaves,no gods in the air, in the ponds: no hearts.Rouse your soul! Make the day, foaming.It’s noon in the world. Where are your eyes?See there, thoughts in the whiteness seething,fir-cones, woodpeckers, cloud, heat, pines.Here, the city’s trolley-lines end.Beyond there’s no rails, it’s the trees.Beyond – it’s Sunday, breaking branches,the glade running off, sliding on leaves.Scattering noons: Whitsuntide: walking,‘The world’s always like this’, says the wood.So the copse planned it, the clearing was told,So it pours, from the clouds, towards us.
Edited by Don Quixote - 28-Aug-2011 at 01:14
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