Ghost of Icarus, rise and seeThis boast of Old Mortality,Called "Bug-O'-Night" by men that rideIn winged, sharded, whirring pride.On fateful mission high intent--Invaders of the firmament.
BOOK IOf Nature touches the consenting heartsOf mortal men; and what the pleasing storesWhich beauteous imitation thence derivesTo deck the poet's, or the painter's toil;My verse unfolds
This is the case of a high-school land,deadset in adolescence;loud treble laughs and sudden fists,bright cheeks, the gangling presence
O HAPPY time of youthful lovers (thusMy story may begin) O balmy time,In which a love-knot on a lady's browIs fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
Leaving the sea, the pale moon lights the strand.
Tracing old runes, a youth inscribes the sand.
And by the rune-ring waits a woman fair,
Down to her feet extends her dripping hair.
Where beauteous Isis and her husband Thame
With mingled waves for ever flow the same,
In times of yore an ancient baron lived,
Great gifts bestowed, and great respect received.
He smelled bad and was red-eyed with the miseries of being scared while sleepless when he said
A CHILD'S smile--nothing more; Quiet, and soft, and grave, and seldom seen; Like summer lightning o'er, Leaving the little face again serene.
Look seaward, Sentinel, and tell the land
What you behold.
Now, sporting muse, draw in the flowing reins,Leave the clear streams a while for sunny plains.
FOR sixty days and upwards, A storm of shell and shot Rained round us in a flaming shower, But still we faltered not.
Were strangers two to two, and each unto the other three
I do not know the lady and I dont think she knows me.
Were strangers to each other here, and to the other two,
And they themselves are strangers yet, if all we hear is true.
A MOUNTAIN stream, its channel deep Beneath a rock's rough base had torn;
'I cannot but remember such things were, And were most dear to me.'WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains,Chills the warm, tide which flows along the veins
Nec tantum prodere vati,
Quantum scire licet. Venit aetas omnis in unam
Congeriem, miserumque premunt tot saecula pectus.
What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stopsTo howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps
But let them pass! To right your wrong,
Aspasia of the ardent South,
Your poet means to sing a song
With some prolixity of mouth.
Twenty-Two stalwarts in stripes and shorts Kicking a ball along,
I now mean to be serious;--it is time, Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
O Health! capricious maid!
Why dost thou shun my peaceful bower,
Where I had hope to share thy power,
And bless thy lasting aid?
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