I GLOOM! An October like November; August a hundred thousand hours, And all September, A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days, And half October like a thousand years . . . And doom! That then was Antwerp. . . In the name of God, How could they do it? Those souls that usually dived Into the dirty caverns of mines; Who usually hived In whitened hovels; under ragged poplars;
(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality) Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
To hurt the Negro and avoid the Jew Is the curriculum. In mid-September The entering boys, identified by hats, Wander in a maze of mannered brick Where boxwood and magnolia brood And columns with imperious stance Like rows of ante-bellum girls Eye them, outlanders.
"Build me straight, O worthy Master! Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!"
The merchant's word Delighted the Master heard; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, "Erelong we will launch
Which represents you, as my bones do, waits, all pores open, for the stun of snow. Which will come, as it always does, between breaths, between nights of no wind and days of the nulled sun. And has to be welcome. All instinct wants to anticipate faceless fields, a white road drawn
Ye sons of Great Britain, come join with me, And sing in praise of Sir Garnet Wolseley; Sound drums and trumpets cheerfully, For he has acted most heroically.
Therefore loudly his praises sing Until the hills their echoes back doth ring; For he is a noble hero bold,
Ye Sons of Great Britain! come join with me And sing in praise of the gallant British Armie, That behaved right manfully in the Soudan, At the great battle of Omdurman.
’Twas in the year of 1898, and on the 2nd of September, Which the Khalifa and his surviving followers will long remember, Because Sir Herbert Kitchener has annihilated them outright,
An Etching A meadow brown; across the yonder edge A zigzag fence is ambling; here a wedge Of underbush has cleft its course in twain, Till where beyond it staggers up again;
September was when it began. Locusts dying in the fields; our dogs Silent, moving like shadows on a wall; And strange worms crawling; flies of a kind We had never seen before; huge vineyard moths; Badgers and snakes, abandoning Their holes in the field; the fruit gone rotten; Queer fungi sprouting; the fields and woods
The leaves of blue came drifting down. In the corner Madeleine Reierbacher was reading Lorna Doone. The bay’s water helped to implement the structuring of the garden hose. The envelope fell. Was it pink or was it red? Consult Lorna Doone. There, voyager, you will find your answer. The savant grapeade stands Remember Madeleine Reierbacher. Madeleine Reierbacher says, “If you are happy, there is no one to keep you from being happy;
The day gets slowly started. A rap at the bedroom door, bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice the color of sun which isn’t out this morning. A cool shower, a shave, soothing Noxzema for razor burn. A bed is made. The paper doesn’t come
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
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