Ode on the Spring BY THOMAS GRAY
Are you the one who keeps waning the sunlight after the rain? All to yourself, While running so carelesslydown the road that I despise See Something beyond that hill? Is it a sight my eyes have never seen? TheFerkel 2020
How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things? I would like to shelter it, among remote lost objects, in some dark and silent place that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound. Yet everything that touches us,… Read more »
A little while, a little while, The weary task is put away, And I can sing and I can smile, Alike, while I have holiday. Why wilt thou go, my harassed heart, What thought, what scene invites thee now? What spot, or near or far, Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
All profits disappear: the gain Of ease, the hoarded, secret sum; And now grim digits of old pain Return to litter up our home. We hunt the cause of ruin, add, Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn; For all our scratching on the pad, We cannot trace the error down. What we are seeking is… Read more »
To be in love Is to touch with a lighter hand. In yourself you stretch, you are well. You look at things Through his eyes. A cardinal is red. A sky is blue. Suddenly you know he knows too. He is not there but You know you are tasting together The winter, or a light… Read more »
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea But sad mortality o’er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor… Read more »
The fog has risen from the sea and crowned The dark, untrodden summits of the coast, Where roams a voice, in canyons uttermost, From midnight waters vibrant and profound. High on each granite altar dies the sound, Deep as the trampling of an armored host, Lone as the lamentation of a ghost, Sad as the… Read more »
By Marianne Moore of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat, it lies ‘in grandeur and in mass’ beneath a sea of shifting snow-dunes; dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined pseudo-podia made of glass that will bend–a much needed invention– comprising twenty-eight ice-fields from fifty to five hundred feet thick, of unimagined delicacy. ‘Picking… Read more »
La conscience humaine est morte ; dans l’orgie, Sur elle il s’accroupit ; ce cadavre lui plaît ; Par moments, gai, vainqueur, la prunelle rougie, Il se retourne et donne à la morte un soufflet.