for him who has ears to hear
I’m a mockingbird with no
new song to sing
said Webb. I wanted not
to mock, but
to mimic the mockingbird,
mimicking-mock her
when I over heard
her song ring through the vale:
I have no meteres,
fresh offrians, nothing neowe for you to sing
save
patches of colorful old clothes
quilted:
Before the gods that made the gods
had seen their sunrise pass,
leof landfruma lange ahta
ece Drihten, æfter teode
firum foldan, Frea ælmihtig.
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen what that they were seeke.
List! wen Arthur he was King,
Many came to that Lords place
All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
the year laid down his mantle cold.
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!
Bloweth seed and groweth meed
Winter is ycomen in.
Timor Mortis conturbat me
No! I am not Price Hamlet, nor was meant to be
No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
Timor Mortis conturbat me
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of the sea
or hawk in his tower
as midwinter flower
So joyously,
So maidenly.
Up in the tower of that hawk
It was twelve by the village clock
I heard the crowing of the cock
Swift speedy Time, feather’d with flying hours
No April can revive thy wither’d flowers.
so womanly
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
With naked foot stalking in my chamber
That now are wild and do not remember
that I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet I by no means wearied my mind
of Massive requiem with other juggling deeds
In me was sown all kind of feigned seeds.
The nightingale with feathers new she sings:
“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pain
Tell’st to the Moon, my tale of tender woe;
From what sad cause can such sweet sorrow flow?
Winter is come, for every sparrow springs
or empties some dull opiate to the drain.”
She is a woman poor and blind
Great Lady of the greatest Isle, whose light
long have I sought, but fain would I find
the argument of mine afflicted stile:
to which to heare, vouchsafe, O dearest dred awhile
and flattery with words so kind.
I grieve and dare not show my discontent
to Venus’ sonne, that with his cruell dart
he lit, yet dare not say he ever meant,
that glorious fire I kindled in her hart,
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne.
Ye Virgins, ye from Cupid’s tents—
my grinders now are few my sight doth faile.
Let hearts as yet with raging love
my skin that wrinkles, and my cheeks that pale.
But could youth last and love still breed,
had joys no date nor age no need,
then these delights my mind might move—
at that good knight so cunning, rove.
By just exchange, one for another given:
All the men that loved him
for most of the woman that pitied him,
(There never was a better bargain driven).
Surprised I was with sudden heat that made my heart to glow
without the mead of some melodious tear;
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
and up and down the people go,
gazing where the lilies blow,
round an island there below—
changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears.
My Almond-tree (gray haires) doth flourish now
and back, once straight, begins apace to bow
He that is down needs fear no fall
He that is humble ever shall
Fierce as the Eastern princes grow.
I would be married, but I’d have one wife,
to hide her shame from every eye
the only art her guilt to cover
with velvet violet lining with the lamp light gloating over
darkening the light and blotting out the sun,
so surely anchored on
a tranquil doubting one.
Yet this inconstancy is such
as you too shall adore:
I could not love thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more,
nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
To make a final conquest of all me,
Love has composed so sweet an enemy.
My soul, there is a country
far beyond the stars,
free captives undermining shadowy bars
with merry minstrelsy.
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles
that all is as it is, and yet made free.
The Mariner hath his will
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
that each shall choose forever from the All.
We neither believe what either can say
Who to another does his heart submit,
makes his own idol, and then worships it,
and neither believing we neither betray.
To remedy all her sad ails
from this his pride and cruelty
and humming flies in woeful gales—
send to the sun, in great desire
to warm her digits at that fire
and set him up a Deity
whilst thine the Victory is, and free.
While every kind look adds a link to my chain
Wife and servant are the same,
but only differ in the name—
on her beauty I gazed of pleasure and complained.
Freely and thankfully as much I tasted
Pleasures, and Praise, and Plenty had with me
but their just value. If allow’d they be
as will not reason, or Religion wasted.
No, no; for my virginity
When I lost that, I say, I died
What charm could soothe my melancholy?
Could hide my shame? Only to die.
O, my Luve’s like a red, red rose—
a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose,
she will drain my dearest veins,
but we shall be free!
Let them follow me!
Yes, yes; for my virginity,
When I lost that, I say, I died,
(use or misused). That right has not decayed:
we still beget by law in which we’re made
and though we make anew, we make no lie—
that all is as it is, and yet made free.
I died—and the choice to die for me was sweet.
That we poor sinners may obtain
a snowy stag, a stag of ten
Dear blessed Jesus now constrain,
Ye come silently down the glen
I pray the living God might be
bearing his branches sturdily
his tender mercies picking-free
Singing so hardily, hardily.
Through boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r
this little island may survive,
awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:
will take away, may cease to give.
And Time’s stern tide, with cold Oblivion’s wave,
shall soon dissolve each fair, each fading charm;
E’en Nature’s self, so powerful cannot save
her own rich gifts from this overwhelming harm.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier’d dell below.
But the fact is I was napping,
and so gently he came rapping
to the pulse of the nightmares as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to her death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
And all the while on White Horse Hill
The horse lay long and wan,
The turf crawled and the fungus crept,
And the little sorrel, while all men slept,
Unwrought the work of man.
Our best laid schemes, they gang oft’gley
leave not but grief and pain,
have worn us really all the same
for so much melody.
With velvet finger, velvet foot,
The fierce soft mosses then
Crept on the large white commonweal
All folk had striven to strip and peel,
And the grass, like a great green witch’s wheel
Unwound the toils of men.
And the mockingbird’s sung cavalry
was mocking such rude revelry:
their danse macabre in the vale
that came with a bad King’s burial-end
or love songs singing—break or mend
Through demon pipes that wail
Or Heaven’s harps—their Tale.
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