All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn.
Four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the merry deer ran before.
Fleeter be they than dappled dreams the swift red deer the red rare deer.
Four red roebuck at a white water the cruel bugle sang before.
Horn at hip went my love riding riding the echo down into the silver dawn.
Four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the level meadows ran before.
Softer be they than slippered sleep the lean lithe deer the fleet flown deer.
Four fleet does at a gold valley the famished arrow sang before.
Bow at belt went my love riding riding the mountain down into the silver dawn.
Four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the sheer peaks ran before.
Paler be they than daunting death the sleek slim deer the tall tense deer.
Four tall stags at the green mountain the lucky hunter sang before.
All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn.
Four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before.
Anyone lived in a pretty how town
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did.
Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain
children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april with by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain
Ballad of the Scholar's Lament
When I have struggled through three hundred years of Roman history, and hastened o'er Some French play-(though I have my private fears Of flunking sorely when I take the floor In class),-when I have steeped my soul in gore And Greek, and figured over half a ream With Algebra, which I do (not) adore, How shall I manage to compose a theme?
It's well enough to talk of poor and peers, And munch the golden apples' shiny core, And lay a lot of heroes on their biers;- While the great Alec, knocking down a score, Takes out his handkerchief, boohoo-ing, "More!"- But harshly I awaken from my dream, To find a new,-er,-privilege,-in store: How shall I manage to compose a theme?
After I've swallowed prophecies of seers, And trailed Aeneas from the Trojan shore, Learned how Achilles, after many jeers, On piggy Agamemnon got to sore, And heard how Hercules, Esq., tore Around, and swept and dusted with a stream, There's one last duty,-let's not call it bore,- How shall I manage to compose a theme?
Envoi
Of what avail is all my mighty lore? I beat my breast, I tear my hair, I scream: "Behold, I have a Herculean chore. How shall I manage to compose a theme?"
Buffalo Bill
Buffalo Bill's defunct who used to ride a watersmooth-silver stallion and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons justlikethat Jesus he was a handsome man and what I want to know is how do you like your blue-eyed boy Mister Death
Fame Speaks
Stand forth,John Keats! On earth thou knew'st me not; Steadfast through all the storms of passion,thou, True to thy muse,and virgin to thy vow; Resigned,if name with ashes were forgot, So thou one arrow in the gold had'st shot! I never placed my laurel on thy brow, But on thy name I come to lay it now, When thy bones wither in the earthly plot. Fame is my name. I dwell among the clouds, Being immortal,and the wreath I bring Itself is Immortality. The sweets Of earth I know not,more the pains,but wing In mine own ether,with the crowned crowds Born of the centuries.-Stand forth,John Keats!
