A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
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Love poetry
To J. S.
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace!
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.
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A Coat
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
In walking naked.
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Crazy Jane Talks With The Bishop
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.
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An Almost Made Up Poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
You used to write insane poems about
Angels and God, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it'all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, ì not jealous
because wè never met. We got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. So you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
Angels and God. We know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn'sure. Maybe
it was the upper case. You were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, "her, print her, shè mad but shè
magic. Therè no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn'happen. Your letters got sadder.
Your lovers betrayed you. Kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. It didn'help. You said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. A friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. If I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. It was best like this.
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Quand On N'a Que L'Amour
If we only have love
We can reach those in pain
We can heal all our wounds
We can use our own names.
If we only have love
We can melt all the guns
And then give the new world
To our daughters and sons. If we only have love
Then Jerusalem stands
And then death has no shadow
There are no foreign lands.
If we only have love
We will never bow down
We'll be tall as the pines
Neither heroes nor clowns.
If we only have love
Then we'll only be men
And we'll drink from the Grail
To be born once again
Then with nothing at all
But the little we are
We'll have conquered all time
All space, the sun, and the stars.
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Riches, I Hold In Light Esteem
Riches I hold in light esteem
And Love I laugh to scorn
And lust of Fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn–
And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is– "Leave the heart that now I bear
And give me liberty."
Yes, as my swift days near their goal
'Tis all that I implore
Through life and death, a chainless soul
With courage to endure!
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To J. S.
a man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips.
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere.
As she fled fast through sun and shade
The happy winds upon her played,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere.
God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
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The Sorrow Of Love
A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.
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The Groom's Story
Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss,
But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an'that's good enough for us.
We knew as it was in' im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part,
We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart;
For "e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin" dignified,
It seemed a kind ò liberty to drive 'im or to ride;
For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do.
But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.
'E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay,
'e wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.
And yet we knew 'twas in' im; we knew as 'e could fly;
But what we couldn't get at was 'ow to make 'im try.
We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day,
We got the last yard out of "m in a most amazin" way.
It was all along ò master; which master 'as the name
Of a reg'lar true blue sportsman, an'always acts the same;
But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one,
An''e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.
I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick--
a greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an'bred in a blacksmith's shop.
It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
It didn't need no nothin' but a bit ò standin' room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an'it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.
Well, master took 'is motor-car, an'moted 'ere an'there,
a frightenin' the 'orses an'a poisenin' the air.
'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor! --what _did_ 'e know,
Excep'that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?
An'then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again
But somethin' jammed, an'there 'e stuck in the mud of a country lane.
It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.
This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an'when we reached the car,
We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an'looked most dignified.
Not bad tempered, mind you, but kind of pained and vexed,
And 'e seemed to say, 'Well, blì me! Wot _will_ they ask me next?
I've put up with some liberties, but this caps all by far,
To be assistant engine to a crocky motor car! '
Well, master, "e was in the car, a-fiddlin" with the gear,
An'the 'orse was meditatin', an'I was standin' near,
When master 'e touched somethin'--what it was we'll never know--
But it sort ò spurred the boiler up and made the engine go.
"Old 'ard, old gal! ' says master, and 'Gently then! ' says I,
But an engine wont 'eed coaxin' an'it ain' t no use to try;
So first 'e pulled a lever, an'then 'e turned a screw,
But the thing kept crawlin' forrard spite of all that 'e could do.
And first it went quite slowly, and the 'orse went also slow,
But 'e 'ad to buck up faster when the wheels began to go;
For the car kept crowdin' on 'im and buttin''im along,
An'in less than 'alf a minute, sir, that 'orse was goin' strong.
At first 'e walked quite dignified, an'then 'e had to trot,
And then 'e tried to canter when the pace became too 'ot.
'E looked 'is very 'aughtiest, as if 'e didn't mind,
And all the time the motor-car was pushin''im be'ind.
Now, master lost 'is 'ead when 'e found 'e couldn't stop,
And 'e pulled a valve or somethin' an'somethin' else went pop,
An'somethin' else went fizzywig, an'in a flash or less,
That blessed car was goin' like a limited express.
Master 'eld the steerin' gear, an'kept the road all right,
And away they whizzed and clattered--my aunt! It was a sight.
'E seemed the finest draught 'orse as ever lived by far,
For all the country Juggins thought 'twas 'im wot pulled the car.
'E was stretchin' like a grey'ound, 'e was goin' all 'e knew,
But it bumped an'shoved be'ind 'im, for all that 'e could do;
It butted 'im and boosted 'im an'spanked 'im on a'ead,
Till 'e broke the ten-mile record, same as I already said.
Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The only time we ever found what that 'ere 'orse could do.
Some say it wasn't 'ardly fair, and the papers made a fuss,
But 'e broke the ten-mile record, and that's good enough for us.
You see that 'orse's tail, sir? You don't! No more do we,
Which really ain' t surprisin', for 'e 'as no tail to see;
That engine wore it off 'im before master made it stop,
And all the road was litter'd like a bloomin' barber's shop.
And master? Well, it cured 'im. 'E altered from that day,
And come back to 'is 'orses in the good old-fashioned way.
And if you wants to git the sack, the quickest way by far,
Is to 'int as 'ow you think 'e ought to keep a motorcar.
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