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"Oh, I'm not hired by the Councilmen
ROBERT BRIDGES To cleanse the statues here:
(1844I do this one as a self-willed duty, Not as paid to,
SO SWEET LOVE SEEMED Or at all made to,
(1894) But because the doing is dear.”
So sweet love seemed that April morn,
When first we kissed beside the thorn, Ah, then I hail you brother and friend, - So strangely sweet, it was not strange Liberty's knight divine!
We thought that love could never change. What you have done would have been my
doing, Yea, most verily,
But I can tell — let truth be told Well, and thoroughly,
That love will change in growing old;
35 Had but your courage been mine!
Though day by day is nought to see,
The sickness of desire, that in dark days
fled; If they delight thee not, 'tis thou art dead.
When is the Muse most lustily acclaimed? When she in paths not native goes astray, There to disown her record if she may, Deny her lineage, turn as one ashamed From all she was, and all that once was
famed To be her realm and birthright. Yet to
day, Her need is rather to retrace her way To where of old her steadfast signal
Passion's crater yearning,
W. W. GIBSON
FIRES (Proem of Fires, 1910-11)
All day beneath the bleak, indifferent skies,
Matches !” cries.
And now beneath the dismal, dripping
night, And shadowed by a deeper night, he
stands: And yet he holds within his palsied hands Quick fire enough to set his world alight.
"Eva!" - each syllable Light as a flower fell – "Eva!" he whispered the Wondering maid: Soft as a bubble sung Out of a linnet's lung, Soft and most silverly "Eva!” he said. Picture that orchard sprite, Eve, with her body white, Supple and smooth to her Slim finger tips, – Wondering, listening, Listening, wondering, Eve with a berry Half-way to her lips. Oh had our simple Eve Seen through the make-believe! Had she but known the Pretender he was! – Out of the boughs he came, Whispering still her name, Tumbling in twenty rings Into the grass. Here was the strangest pair In the world anywhere, — Eve in the bells and grass Kneeling, and he Telling his story low ... Singing birds saw them go Down the dark path to The Blasphemous Tree. Oh what a clatter when Titmouse and Jenny Wren Saw him successful and Taking his leave! How the birds rated him, How they all hated him! How they all pitied Poor motherless Eve! Picture her crying Outside in the lane, Eve, with no dish of sweet Berries and plums to eat, Haunting the gate of the Orchard in vain ...
Eve, with her basket, was
HEAVEN (c. 1913)
Now, God be thanked Who has matched
us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us
and sharpened power,
as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary;
5 Leave the sick hearts that honor could
not move, And half-men, and their dirty songs and
dreary, And all the little emptiness of love! Oh! we, who have known shame, we have
found release there, Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep
has mending, Naught broken save this body, lost but
breath; Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long
peace there, But only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy. is but
Fish (Ay-replete, in depth of June,
One Who swam ere rivers were begun, Immense, of fishy form and mind, Squamous, omnipotent, and kind; And under that Almighty Fin, The littlest fish may enter in. Oh! never Aly conceals a hook, Fish say, in the Eternal Brook; But more than mundane weeds are there, And mud, celestially fair; Fat caterpillars drift around, And Paradisal grubs are found, Unfading moths, immortal Aies, And the worm that never dies. And in that Heaven of all their wish, There shall be no more land, say fish.