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BOY IN THE WIND
How came this troubled one to stray
With fire and song in the wind’s way?
Indiffrent and dumb and sweet,
The seasons fall about his feet.
Frail flames are set behind his eyes,
And under his ribs his heart makes moan
Like a pent bird who throbs and dies.
He walkes in the windy night alone.
And who would know if he should sing
Whose song is less that the murmuring
Of the wind full of the ruin of spring?
And who could say if he had flown
Like a flame blown out or a bird up-blown?
Or if his heart cries out in pain
Who hears the cry through wind and rain?
He wonders east. He wonders west.
Where will he ever come to rest
With that fire blowing in his brain,
And that bird greaving at his breast?
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THE POOR GIRLS MEDITATION
I am sitting here
Since the moon rose in the night,
Kindling a fire,
And striving to keep it alight;
The folk of the house are lying
In slumber deep;
The cocks will be crowing soon:
The whole of the land is asleep.
May I never leave this world
Until my ill-luck is gone;
Till I have cows and sheep,
And the lad that I love for my own:
I would not think it long,
The night I would lie at his breast,
And the daughters of spite, after that,
Might say the thing they liked best.
Love covers up hate,
If a girl have beauty at all:
On a bed that was narrow and high,
A three-month I lie by the wall:
When I bethought on the lad that I left on the brow of the hill,
I wept from dark until dark
and my cheaks have the tear-tracks still.
And, O, young lad that I love,
I am no mark for your scorn:
All you can say of me
Is underwered I was born:
And if I’ve no fortune in hand,
Nor cattle nor sheep of my own,
this I can say, O lad,
I am fitted to lie my lone.
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WHAT LIPS MY LIPS HAVE KISSED
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning: but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply:
And in my heart there stird a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me a midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonley tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knowes its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang to me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
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O GATHER ME THE ROSE
O gather me the rose, the rose,
While yet in flower we find it,
For summer smiles, but summer goes,
And winter waits behind it.
For with the dream foregone, foregone,
The deed fororne for ever,
The worm Regret will canker on,
And time will turn him never.
So were it well to love, to love,
And cheat any laughter
The fate beneath us and above,
The dark before and after.
The myrtle and the rose, the rose,
The sunshine and the swallow,
The dream that comes, the wish that goes,
The memories will follow!
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POET TO HIS LOVE
An old silver church in a forest
Is my love for you.
The trees around it
Are words that I have stolen from your heart.
An old silver bell, the last smile you gave,
Hangs at the top of my church.
It rings only when you come through the frost
And stand beside it.
And then I have no need for ringing,
For your voice takes its place.
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Contact me
teufelsunde@yahoo.com