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Keep away, son, these lakes are salt. These flowers Eat insects. Here private lunatics Yell and skip in a very dry country. Or where some haywire monument Some badfaced daddy of fear Commands an unintelligent rite. To dance on the unlucky mountain, To dance they go, and shake the sin Out of their feet and hands, Frenzied until the sudden night Falls very quiet, and magic sin Creeps, secret, back again. Badlands echo with omens of ruin: Seven are very satisfied, regaining possession: (Bring a little mescaline, you’ll get along!) There’s something in your bones, There’s someone dirty in your critical skin, There’s a tradition in your cruel misdirected finger Which you must obey, and scribble in the hot sand: “Let everybody come and attend Where lights and airs are fixed To teach and entertain. O watch the sandy people Hopping in the naked bull’s-eye, Shake the wildness out of their limbs, Try to make peace like John in skins Elijah in the timid air or Anthony in tombs: Pluck the imaginary trigger, brothers. Shoot the devil: he’ll be back again!” America needs these fatal friends Of God and country, to grovel in mystical ashes, Pretty big prophets whose words don’t burn, Fighting the strenuous imago all day long. Only these lunatics, (O happy chance) Only these are sent. Only this anaemic thunder Grumbles on the salt flats, in rainless night: O go home, brother, go home! The devil’s back again, And magic Hell is swallowing flies.

Ye poets ragged and forlorn, Down from your garrets haste; Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born, Not yet consign'd to paste; I know a trick to make you thrive; O, 'tis a quaint device: Your still-born poems shall revive, And scorn to wrap up spice. Get all your verses printed fair, Then let them well be dried; And Curll must have a special care To leave the margin wide. Lend these to paper-sparing Pope; And when he sets to write, No letter with an envelope Could give him more delight. When Pope has fill'd the margins round, Why then recall your loan; Sell them to Curll for fifty pound, And swear they are your own.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears   I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met—or never parted— We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace. enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears   I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE ... The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue; Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe; The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte, Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys broughte. The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. SECONDE MYNSTRELLE So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; Ynn Womman alleyne mannes pleasaunce lyes; As Instruments of joie were made the kynde. Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charme for thee. THYRDE MYNSTRELLE Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe; Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte; Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die, Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde; Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre, Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care. ... MYNSTRELLE’S SONGE O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, Gone to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wyllowe tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Al the celness of a mayde. Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys death-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I’lle dente the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre, Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie stylle schall bee. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

As he spoke we could hear, ever more loudly, the noise Of the burning fires; the flood of flames was coming Nearer and nearer. “My father, let me take you Upon my shoulders and carry you with me. The burden will be easy. Whatever happens, You and I will experience it together, Peril or safety, whichever it will be. Little Iülus will come along beside me. My wife will follow behind us. And you, my servants, Listen to what I say: just as you leave The limits of the city there is a mound, And the vestiges of a deserted temple of Ceres, And a cypress tree that has been preserved alive For many years by the piety of our fathers. We will all meet there, though perhaps by different ways And, Father, you must carry in your arms The holy images of our household gods; I, coming so late from the fighting and the carnage Cannot presume to touch them until I have washed Myself in running water.” Thus I spoke. I take up the tawny pelt of a lion and Cover my neck and my broad shoulders with it, And bowing down, I accept the weight of my father; Iülus puts his hand in mine and goes Along beside me, trying to match my steps As best he can, trying his best to keep up. My wife follows behind us, a little way back. So we all set out together, making our way Among the shadows, and I, who only just A little while ago had faced, undaunted, Showers of arrows and swarms of enemy Greeks, Am frightened by every slightest change in the air And startled by every slightest sound I hear, Fearful for whom I walk with and whom I carry. And just as I had almost come to the gates And thought that I had almost gotten us free, I thought I heard the sound of many feet, And my father, peering intently into the shadows, Cries out to me, “Get away, get away, my son, My son, they are coming! I see their shining shields, I see the glow of their weapons in the dark!” I am alarmed, and I don’t know what happened But some power hostile to me distracts my wits And I am confused, and I lead us away by ways That I don’t know, and off the familiar streets That together we are following, and so, O God! some fate has taken away my wife, Creüsa, my wife, away from me. What happened? Did she wander from the way that we were going? Did she fall back, having to rest some place Back there, and so we left her? I did not know. I never saw her again, and as we went, I never turned to look behind, and never Thought of her until we reached the mound And Ceres’ ancient place. When all of us, At last, had gotten there, we all were there, But she had vanished and she wasn’t there. Gone from her people, gone from her child, and her husband. What men or gods in my frenzy did I not Cry out against? What worse sight had I seen? I left Ascanius and Anchises and The household gods in the care of my companions And I found a secluded place deep in a valley For them to hide, and I myself took up My shining weapons and sought the city again, Determined, no matter what, to look for my Creüsa everywhere in Troy. I find My way along the walls and to, and through, The shadowed gate I’d left the city by; Carefully, step by unseen step, in the dark, Backwards the way I came I make my way; Everywhere as I go fills me with terror; The very silence around me fills me with terror. I make my way to my home in case, in case, She’s gone back there. The Greeks had invaded the house And set it on fire, and through the house the fire Rolled up on the surge of the wind to the very roof, And the flames tower high above the burning house And the heat of the burning pours up into the sky. And so I go on, and once again I see The palace of Priam, and the citadel, And in the empty courtyard of Juno’s shrine There’s Phoenix and dire Ulysses, guarding the treasures Taken from everywhere from the shrines that the Greeks Had set fire to; the golden bowls, the holy Altar-tables, the stolen holy vestments; Boys and trembling matrons stand around . . . I wander in the streets, in my desperation Calling out her name, Creüsa, Creüsa, Calling Creüsa, over and over again. And as I went among the ruined buildings And through the streets of the ruined city, lo, Suddenly there rose before my eyes The strangely magnified image of my wife. I was stupefied; my hair stood on end; my voice Got caught in my throat. Then she spoke to me and said Words that altered everything for me: “Beloved husband, what use is it for you To persist in this insanity of grief. What has happened here has happened not without The will of the gods. The high lord of Olympus Does not permit Creüsa to go with you To be with you on your journey where you are going. Long exile will be yours, ploughing across Vast seas until you come to Hesperia, Where Lydian Tiber gently flows between Rich husbanded fields and where you will be happy, A king, and wedded to a royal wife. Give up your weeping now for your Creüsa; I, a Dardan woman and the spouse Of divine Venus’s son, will never see The scornful households of the Myrmidons Or the Dolopians, and never have to be A scullion slave in service to some Greek matron. The Mighty Mother keeps me on these shores. Farewell and may your care protect and cherish Your child and mine.” And having spoken thus, The image of her receded into air, Leaving me weeping, with so much still to say. Three times I tried to embrace her and to hold her; Three times the image, clasped in vain, escaped As if it were a breeze or on the wings Of a vanishing dream. And so, the night being over, I returned to my companions where they were. When I got there I was amazed to see How many others, women and men, had come, Wretched survivors of the fall of the city, To join us in the exile and the journey, A heartbreaking company, come from everywhere, Ready in their hearts and with their fortunes, To follow me wherever I was going. And now the morning star was rising over The highest ridges of Ida, bringing in The day that was beginning; the Danaans held The city behind the gates that they had locked. There was no hope of further help. And so I acknowledged this, and taking up the burden Of my father once again, I sought the hills.

The sneck's aye sweirt and ayont a doverin cratur wi a lit o the lowe they ken ilka gadge on the bowe bi the soond o thir foot-fa glisk the skyrie lamp hingin on the smittie ceilin a spreckelt green plaunt is deein a wandert bairn greets aneath thon laich an gowstie lift at lang an last the onfa.

we must know a force greater than our weaknesses —Jean Toomer like most boys, ignorant or fearful of beauty, we pinned back the wings of butterflies and plucked off their legs, and watched and watched them tumble from leaves like pinecones wheeling from rooftops; and we laughed. we crumbled alka-seltzer for the pigeons, “those flying rats” my mother’s ex-husband once called. their bodies floundering like toys flung from a window. white foam from their mouths stark against the asphalt framing their artless convulsions and we laughed with open-mouths until tears dripped from our chins and our throats were raw with the rightness of god.

The sober reality Was a double line of orphans in blue smocks Marching above the blue river Under the smoky eye of winter. It is possible to envy them; The picture of which they formed a part Was so well composed, In shades of blue and smoke And the dull brick red of the asylum walls; How orderly and tranquil the effect Of the wintry ranks of children Under the silent sky.

1. Then the long fencerow, that years ago had heaved and buckled, took on a copper shine in the sunset, the dew. A garlic haze of cut pastures simmered fields away. 2. They were flushed from sex—they were traced with that other body, just parted. They stood in the length of first fall waiting. And their skin, that had been so willing, 3. delible as ash to a trembling fingertip, became its own again. One star, three. Nothing good was going to happen. Night winds lifted themselves out of wheat rows and shook 4. off what had been done. So they turned elsewhere. Her fingers gathered up her collar softly in a bunch, and she put on a scarf. It was not even cold. It was only cool.

Dawn on the black hill, and up on the roof cats drowsing. Last night, there was a boy who fell off this roof, breaking his back. The wind riffles the cool leaves of the trees. The red clouds above are warm and move slowly. A stray dog appears in the alley below, sniffing the boy on the cobblestones, and a raw wail rises up among chimneys: someone’s unhappy. The crickets were singing all night, and the stars were blown out by the wind. In dawn’s glow, even the eyes of the cats in love were extinguished, the cats the boy watched. The female is crying, no toms are around and nothing can soothe her: not the tops of the trees, not the red clouds. She cries to the wide sky, as if it were still night. The boy was spying on cats making love. The stray dog sniffs the boy’s body and growls; he got here at dawn, fleeing the glow that crept down the far hill. Swimming the river that drenched him as dew drenches fields, he was finally caught by the light. The bitches were still howling. The river runs smoothly, skimmed by birds that drop from red clouds, elated to find their river deserted.