Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark. ….. The End…..
The grass shall never forget this grave...
Though I thy Mithridates were, Framed to defy the poison-dart, Yet must thou fold me unaware To know the rapture of thy heart,
This heart that flutters near my heart My hope and all my riches is, Unhappy when we draw apart And happy between kiss and kiss:
The twilight turns from amethyst To deep and deeper blue, The lamp fills with a pale green glow The trees of the avenue.
Silently she's combing, Combing her long hair Silently and graciously, With many a pretty air.
Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling, Where my dark lover lies. Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling, At grey moonrise.
Wind whines and whines the shingle, The crazy pierstakes groan; A senile sea numbers each single Slimesilvered stone.
Of that so sweet imprisonment My soul, dearest, is fain -- - Soft arms that woo me to relent And woo me to detain.
O Sweetheart, hear you Your lover's tale; A man shall have sorrow When friends him fail.
O cool is the valley now And there, love, will we go For many a choir is singing now Where Love did sometime go.
Now, O now, in this brown land Where Love did so sweet music make We two shall wander, hand in hand, Forbearing for old friendship' sake,
My love is in a light attire Among the apple-trees, Where the gay winds do most desire To run in companies.
My dove, my beautiful one, Arise, arise! The night-dew lies Upon my lips and eyes.
Lightly come or lightly go: Though thy heart presage thee woe, Vales and many a wasted sun, Oread let thy laughter run,
He who hath glory lost, nor hath Found any soul to fellow his, Among his foes in scorn and wrath Holding to ancient nobleness,
Go seek her out all courteously, And say I come, Wind of spices whose song is ever Epithalamium.