Lawn Ebooks Catalog
Bards of Passion and of Mirth written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletchers Tragi Comedy The Fair Maid of the
BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth Have ye souls in heaven too, Doubled-lived in regions new Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon With the noise of fountains wondrous, And the parle of voices thund'rous With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth Philosophic numbers smooth Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.
Moore's wide-ranging diction is one way in which she expresses her non-hierarchical approach to poetic language in many of her poems, she moves freely from an erudite and precise vocabulary to a style that is either journalistic or conversational. Similarly, her syntax ranges from the very simple to the highly complex, making it difficult for the reader to find any sense of a traditional lyric elegance in her poetry. Moore also uses sound (alliteration, assonance, and rhyme) as well as the rhythms created by lines and line-breaks to disrupt normal reading strategies. Here the breaking ofthe line between unconscious and fastidiousness emphasizes the syntactic relationship between the two words (one is the modifier ofthe other) as well as their sonic resemblance. The line break also introduces a level of humor or irony into the poem just as the image of making a pup eat its meat from a plate undermines the aesthetic dignity of Certain Ming products later in the stanza, the splitting of...
67 ( When on my bed the moonlight falls ) 1001 88 ( Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet ) 1001 95 ( By night we lingered on the lawn ) 1001 119 ( Doors, where my heart was used to beat ) 1003 121 ( Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun ) 1003 130 ( Thy voice is on the rolling air ) 1004 The Eagle 1004
Seated on Elysian lawns Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth Philosophic numbers smooth Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
See the sun gleams the living pastures rise, After the nurture of the fallen shower, How beautiful how blue th' ethereal vault, How verdurous the lawns, how clear the brooks Such noble warlike steeds, such herds of kine, So sleek, so vast such spacious flocks of sheep, Like flakes of gold illuminating the green, What other Paradise adorn but thine, Britannia
Before each doorway is a lawn, fair . . ., of sure estimation, I liken each one of them in extent2 to the earth together with its seas. Vast though you may deem the extent of the spacious law.is, a rampart of silver, undrcaymg, has been formed about each several lawn. Twelve ramparts- -perfect the boundary (. ) of the portals, of the lawns, There are forty gateways in the heavenly habitation with its kingly thrones three to each tranquil lawn, and three to each portal. to each gateway of that lawn, The ramparts of the lawns, as is meet, wrought of white bronze, their height mighty in brilliance is as that from the earth to the pure sun.
Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread A mighty forest for the moist earth fed So plenteously all weed-hidden roots Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits. And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep, Where no man went and if from shepherd's keep A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens, Never again saw he the happy pens Whither his brethren, bleating with content, Over the hills at every nightfall went. Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever, That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever From the white flock, but pass'd unworried By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan ay great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, And ivy banks all leading pleasantly To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Stems thronging all around between the swell Of turf and slanting branches who could tell The freshness of the space of heaven above, Edg'd round...
Rough Music marks a decisive shift in Digges's work. The volume mourns a broken relationship but, as David Baker writes, without self-pity or blame, without the rehearsal of confessions or accusations (201). Digges reveals her considerable erudition with allusions to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Charles Darwin, Sigmund Freud, medical procedures, and medieval rituals, but she also injects the poems with a rougher cadence and harsher, grittier imagery. Broom ritualizes loss by focusing on an ordinary household object and imaginatively transforming it into an oar that parted waters, raft-keel and mast, or twirled around and around on the back lawn, a sort of compass. Writing about graffiti-making street gangs in Tombs of the Muses, Digges displays her ability to identify with those outside her immediate experience as well as her
Earth and stars in the sky and drops in the rain'. In the Armenian oral epic armies are described as being as numerous as the stars in heaven, or as more uncountable than the sand of the sea, the stars in the sky, and the grass on the ground. In Irish saga it is related that the slain Fomori on the Mag Tuired were as numerous as the stars of heaven, the sands of the sea, the snowflakes, the dewdrops on a lawn, (etc.). When Cri Chulainn fought on the Mag Muirthemne, 'as many as the sands of the sea, and the stars of heaven, and the dew of May, and snowflakes and hailstones . . . were their cloven heads and cloven skulls and severed hands and their red bones'.69
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute Tempered to the oaten flute, Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
Toward earth, and swept across the lawn Back and forth, past one another, pausing as if listening, then sharply cutting the morning again into shard upon shard of frantic and crested descent, jagged slivers of raucous outrage, they kept at it, crying singly, together, alternately, as if on cue, discordant anthem. The pattern of their inconsolable fear could be seen against the flat spring sky as identical to the pattern made by that unmendable shatter of disjointed rubbish on the lawn, all morning long.
They wept in great, undignified, blubbering fits, and what could we do to console them How would we dry them out or pick them up who went to pieces, broke down, or burst out, invoking, in their sniffling, our own names, our bleak deeds, our most embarrassing dreams Did they prefer things streaked and blurred, the colors of houses merging with the colors of trees, the lawns melting into the streets, the dun sky running and smearing the station where the vague buses were always going away Pity was too common for them, and sympathy. Neither were they truly sad. They wept best when there was no legitimate reason for tears, no recent widow walking her mongoloid son, no deaf student sodomized behind the gym, no mendicant with his lyrics of a suicidal girl. They did not believe in despots or atomic bombs. They wept on celebration days, when picnics were spread by pretty lakes or bronze plaques were engraved with their names. They wept sagas and epics. It was their talent to weep. Their...
This brand of soap has the same smell as once in the big House he visited when he was eight the walls of the bathroom open To reveal a lawn where a great yellow ball rolls back through a hoop To rest at the head of a mallet held in the hands of a child. Those epicureans who haunt the lawns, whose amputated delicate fingers tingle, Whose delicate eyelids are dropped for ever not to be pained by the great new institutes,
And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of Death. But, oh ere long Too well I did perceive it was the voice Of my most honoured Lady, your dear sister. Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear And RO poor hapless nightingale, thought I, How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste, Through paths and turnings often trod by day, Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place Where that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise (For so by certain signs I knew), had met Already, ere my best speed could prevent, The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey Who gently asked if he had seen such two, Supposing him some neighbour villager. Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed Ye were the two she meant with that I sprung Into swift flight, till I had found you here But further know I not.
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