1247 Love poems

As I was walking one morning in spring, I heard a fair maiden most charmingly sing, All under her cow, as she sat a-milking, Saying, I shall be married, next Monday morning. You fairest of all creatures, my eyes e’er beheld, Oh! Where do you live love, or where do you dwell, I dwell at the top of yon bonny brown hill, I shall be fifteen years old next Monday morning. Fifteen years old love, is too young to marry, The other five years love, I’d have you to tarry, And perhaps in the meantime love you might be sorry, So put back your wedding, next Monday morning. You talk like a man without reason or skill, Five years I’ve been waiting against my will, Now, I am resolved my mind to fulfil, I wish that tomorrow was Monday morning. On Saturday night it is all my care, To powder my locks and curl my hair, And my two pretty maidens to wait on me there, To dance at my wedding next Monday morning. My husband will buy me a guinea gold ring, And at night he’ll give me a far better thing, With two precious jewels he’ll be me adorning, When I am his bride, on Monday morning.

When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough, And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted Than you are now.

I think I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung in jest; And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and breast; And all my pretty follies flung aside That won you to me, and beneath your gaze, Naked of reticence and shorn of pride, Spread like a chart my little wicked ways. I, that had been to you, had you remained, But one more waking from a recurrent dream, Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained, And walk your memory’s halls, austere, supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

I want to be near you | via nearness generally | an app "chance" rather than "skill" | determining the tax obligations of the feathers as | one falls into the pixel | on the white water | interlude. A grid is applied to the | field which dissolves into | the screen harmlessly beneath a summer storm. Brace. The silence that precedes an aperture opening | Left hands of right-handed engineers flensed skittish with false lines. These tears or weak areas | in crying fire are lined with a very transparent low weight enamel found in the company (from the Latin com-, "with", and panis, "bread") of other expressions | of space before choice under an ornamental plain. Since the location of paradise seems to be roughly that of Japan, a grid is applied | to the image from which the object has been extracted | and begins to spurt. As Emerson says, lyrical, not epical or even tragic | Suspension of certain clauses within the document is permitted when in cases of rebellion or the public safety may require it | The canvas may be folded in on itself 7 times. A sheet of melinex is | laid over the area of loss on the landscape | not the face | dolled by what it would release.

Era gia l’ora che volge il desio.

Hurt, hurtful, snake-charmed, struck white together half an hour we tear through the half-dark after some sweet core, under, over gravity, some white shore ... spin, hidden one,spin, trusted to me! laugh sore tooth sucked warm, sweet; sweet wine running cool through new dry shrewd turnings of my soul, opening veins. Gull-feathers beating, beating! Gliding. Still, sidelong eye ... wings beating like words against my eyes. And your eyes— o brother-animal, mild, terrible!—your eyes wait, have been waiting, knowing, unknowable, on that sky shore. A life is waiting. Its webbed hand reached out ... Trust me! truth- telling fish of the sky! your hand beyond my hand, your phosphorous trail broken, lost.

I used to think that if I loved hard enough and long enough passion would always win out like the way I loved cologne, venturing teenaged into congested malls, abusing testers only a salesperson surly enough inquiring if he or she could help me in any way, spitting the prices of even the smallest bottles of the scents I had slathered on, forcing me out in a cloud of confidence that I was the Calvin Klein Man, not the Old Spice Man, not the Zest Man, and certainly not the My Drafty House Is Warmed Badly by Kerosene Heaters Man impervious to my real life where I would sneak down in the middle of the night, passing snow collecting on the inside of the window sill, trying to descend the stairs silently to complete the night lying before the stove’s vents blowing sooty warm air deep into my sleeping lungs, clutching a broken lacrosse stick to intimidate rats so brazen our housecats accepted them as equal occupants until I exit those automatic doors, leave fountains where just out of range I envy white families tossing entire cigarette packs’ worth of what they call spare change, wishing for things they could already buy if they wanted laughing as those presidential faces fall sometimes up and sometimes down, all drowning in three inches of chlorinated well water return to the reservation where my sister- in-law embraces me later the same day, drawing deeply, saying she loves the scent of burned heating oil on men, that it reminds her of when she and my brother dated and she would hold him long in those last moments before allowing him to walk out her door, meander through snowy grooves, finding his way home while she looked out windows where ice crystals gathered on the proper side of the pane holding her breath as long as she dared, letting his presence seep out only when she could no longer bear, leaving him to be a vapor ghost on her window, a fog sure to vanish even before she turned from the window and here I am years later living in that same state, you miles away and I, knowing how presence disperses into air, wonder how long I can hold my breath.

If you sleep the night inside someone, her cells, saltwater-stained, fuse with yours like the blood of twins. Apes in Mauritania grow stronger, Galileo tells us, influenced by the sphere of angels. Here, then—thumbnail sketches for zoning changes along the riparian bank of the species boundary, for a chimera. Like fiber optics, human nerves lay along glassy bone

After our rendez-vous—this the last word he said, Waving to me as the train pulled away from the station. And so it seemed: harmless. Till evening brought The first prick of fever, which soon trellised my veins; At 2 AM came that knock on the city gates, Little pig, little pig, let me come in. . . . Ha! ever a bold and warlike people, we didn’t. Days of siege. We threw corpses dead of plague From the tops of parapets to frighten it away: But what was it? That vatic voice was not like his at all, and by its speech one could tell it somehow knew us well. The mystery deepened. A strange billowing cloud Made my people short of breath, I heard them wheezing. The end seemed near. What could this ailment be? Hunting  out clues, I went over the roses and snows Of his departed face like a treasure map, over His words hanging in air like the scrolls of Alexandria. Had I not been consensual, a free agent, Gay, single as any singing lark, who Chooses to unlock, to whom? Well? One night, finally, I climbed our tallest tower, lay In the open on its roof and had a brilliant dream. I saw my body nestled between angels Like the body of the prophet Jesus, I saw it Leaking from a finger’s tip like a slit ragdoll. And then I saw: this feathery, amorphous creature Black as mildew in the bath, soft as bread mold, Chewing on my bloodpuddings in the corner. And then I knew! That morning, I went out by the porter’s door Pressing one finger to judicious lips like Oedipus. Your name, I said,I have it now: Despair— Shrieking, it vanished with brimstone and flames. So I etched Harmless in that ground of merds and moss And to this day, my people listen to strangers crying wares With an intelligent ear, remembering our grave old danger.