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I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love’s praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men’s days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a flame:–we have beaconed the world’s night.
A city:–and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor:–we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love’s magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I’ll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . . .
These I have loved:
……………..White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such–
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair’s fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year’s ferns. . . .
……………………………………………………Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water’s dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body’s pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;–
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They’ll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love’s trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
—-Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what’s left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers. . . .
……………………………….But the best I’ve known
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
……………………………….Nothing remains.
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, ‘All these were lovely’; say, ‘He loved.’

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mgtzdCW

Wrecked the car!
Drove into the pole!
Why?   Bee cause.

——————–

photo by Karunakar Rayker at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgtzdCW/Honey+Bee

——————-

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

At Half past Three, a single Bird
Unto a silent Sky
Propounded but a single term
Of cautious melody. 

At Half past Four, Experiment
Had subjugated test
And lo, Her silver Principle
Supplanted all the rest. 

At Half past Seven, Element
Nor Implement, be seen –
And Place was where the Presence was
Circumference between.

 

Alcatraz

16093176809_39430638cd_o

The isle of birds – named Alcatraz:
It perches in the bay.
The birds perch there, a prison, too,
Until men went away.

The nest is there; they’ve flown the coop;
The cells decay, are bare.
But ghosts live where men came and died –
,,,A broken spirits lair.

Hilled San Francisco sits across
A tantalizing stretch
Of water cold and current strong
To tempt the captive wretch.

When free men had their festive fetes,
Their parties New Year’s Eve,
The music and the twitters winged
For celled to hear, receive.

Feared Al Capone, sick, maddened there;
Yes, many went insane.
Machine Gun Kelly said it best –
There’s nothing worth this pain.

There, Creepy Karpis crept on toes,
,,,And one bird studied birds.
He grew “Life” famous – Robert Stroud –
But died without his words.

The isle, the Rock called Alcatraz,
Was hard for hardened men.
The worst knew when they came to roost,
They’d be there till the end.

It was a cage upon the sea
From which men never flew.
All were bird men of Alcatraz
Until they paid their due.

——————————————————-

The pictures are mine.  One is a view of Alcatraz from San Francisco.
The pink is a bed of flowers.  The other is a view of San Francisco
from Alcatraz.

*Alcatraz means birds; hence, the Isle of Birds.

——————————————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

When I do count the clock that tells the time
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,
When I behold the violet past prime
And sable curls all silver’d o’er with white,
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard –
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow,
And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

 

mmUMevE

Cockatoo.
No, let’s recount them.
Cock-a-three.

——————– 

photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mmUMevE/3+in+a+row

—————————

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————————

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
 

“You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Patterson’s pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!”

“I don’t know what part of the pasture you mean.”

“You know where they cut off the woods—let me see—
It was two years ago—or no!—can it be
No longer than that?—and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.”

“Why, there hasn’t been time for the bushes to grow.
That’s always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they’re up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror’s trick.”

“It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they’re ebony skinned:
The blue’s but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.”

“Does Patterson know what he has, do you think?”

“He may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them for him—you know what he is.
He won’t make the fact that they’re rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us other folk out.”

“I wonder you didn’t see Loren about.”

“The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should come by, with a democrat-load
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.”

“He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?”

“He just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But he thought a big thought—I could tell by his eye—
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
‘I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'”

“He’s a thriftier person than some I could name.”

“He seems to be thrifty; and hasn’t he need,
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They store a great many away.
They eat them the year round, and those they don’t eat
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.”

“Who cares what they say? It’s a nice way to live,
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.”

“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow—
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”

“I wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange kind—they told me it hadn’t a name.”

“I’ve told you how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For the picking. The rascal, he said he’d be glad
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been some berries—but those were all gone.
He didn’t say where they had been. He went on:
‘I’m sure—I’m sure’—as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see,
Mame, we don’t know any good berrying place?’
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.

“If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He’ll find he’s mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We’ll pick in the Pattersons’ pasture this year.
We’ll go in the morning, that is, if it’s clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It’s so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.
‘Well, one of us is.’ For complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking—you stood up beside me, you know.”

“We sha’n’t have the place to ourselves to enjoy—
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They’ll be there to-morrow, or even to-night.
They won’t be too friendly—they may be polite—
To people they look on as having no right
To pick where they’re picking. But we won’t complain.
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I’m caught in traffic – five o’clock,
And everything is slowed.
The cheetahs now are turtles and
The snails are nailed to the road.

I’m stuck behind the steering wheel
And traffic’s like a clock –
It moves by sound: tick tick tick tick
So slow to go just a block.

I’m sure there’re those who fume and curse
To burn gas sitting still,
And long for home, an easy chair,
And view, like mine, on a hill.

But there’s a way to rise above
This glacier moving slow,
And some are very good at it –
It’s what we all need to know.

It is a way to win the wait
In each and ev’ry que –
Just find a something that you love –
A ship to sail you on through.

Just study people; say a prayer
Play games with all the signs.
There are a million things – and me?
I sailed – I wrote all these lines.

—————————————————–

photo by Michal Zacharzewski at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/noDRdOY/Rush+hour

—————————————————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

Sunday morning just at nine,
Dan McGinty dressed so fine
Stood looking up at a very high stone wall,
When his friend, young Pat McCann,
Says, “I’ll bet five dollars, Dan
I could carry you to the top without a fall.”
So on his shoulders he took Dan,
To climb the ladder he began,
And soon commenced to reach up near the top;
When McGinty, cute old rogue,
To win the five he did let go
Never thinking just how far he’d have to drop.

Chorus:
Down went McGinty to the bottom of the wall
And tho’ he won the five, he was more dead than alive
Sure his ribs and nose and back were broke from getting such a fall
Dressed in his best suit of clothes.

From the hospital Mac went home,
When they fixed his broken bones,
To find he was the father of a child;
So to celebrate it right,
His friends he went to invite,
And soon he was drinking whiskey fast and wild;
Then he waddled down the street
In his Sunday suit so neat
Holding up his head as proud as John the Great;
But in the sidewalk was a hole,
To receive a ton of coal,
That McGinty never saw till just too late.

Chorus:
Down went McGinty to the bottom of the hole,
Then the driver of the cart gave the load of coal a start
And it took us half an hour to dig McGinty from the coal,
Dress’d in his best suit of clothes.

Now McGinty raved and swore,
About his clothes he felt so sore
And an oath he took he’d kill the man or die;
So he tightly grabbed his stick
And hit the driver a lick,
Then he raised a little shanty on his eye.
But two policemen saw the muss
And they soon joined in the fuss
Then they ran McGinty in for being drunk;
And the Judge says with a smile,
We will keep you for a while
In a cell to sleep upon a prison bunk.

Chorus:
Down went McGinty to the bottom of the jail,
Where his board would cost him nix, and he stay’d exactly six;
They were big long months he stopped, for no one went his bail
Dressed in his best suit of clothes.

Now McGinty thin and pale
One fine day got out of jail,
And with joy to see his boy was nearly wild;
To his house he quickly ran
To see his wife Bedaley Ann,
But she skipp’d away and took along the child.
Then he gave up in despair
And he madly pulled his hair
As he stood one day upon the river shore;
Knowing well he couldn’t swim,
He did foolishly jump in,
Although water he had never took before.

Chorus:
Down went McGinty to the bottom of the say*
And he must be very wet for they haven’t found him yet
But they say his ghost comes round the docks before the break of day,
Dressed in his best suit of clothes.

*sea

performed on YouTube (4:03) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFkta4CpHiE

mgypRAc

While standing,
Can you do this trick?
Touch your toes!

——————– 

photo by Phil Edon at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mgypRAc/Flamingo

——————–

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

—————————-

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.