Looking to unload tonight

Added: Alina Michels - Date: 14.11.2021 11:23 - Views: 47460 - Clicks: 8555

Submit your work, meet writers and drop the. Become a member. Mark Tilford Nov Continue reading Christina Rossetti. The Months: A ant. Various Flowers, Fruits, etc. Scene: A Cottage with its Grounds. January discovered seated by the fire. Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, Dim the day until the cold dark night. If no one else should come, Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb, And never troublesome: Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb? Here's butter for my hunch of bread, And sugar for your crumb; Here's room upon the hearthrug, If you'll only come.

In your scarlet waistcoat, With your keen bright eye, Where are you loitering? Wings were made to fly! Make haste to breakfast, Come and fetch your crumb, For I'm as glad to see you As you are glad to come. The birds flutter in, hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal, when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand.

Good-morrow, sister. Brother, joy to you! I've brought some snowdrops; only just a few, But quite enough to prove the world awake, Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew And for the pale sun's sake. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside.

She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her. Here's brother March comes whirling on his way With winds that eddy and sing. Come, show me what you bring; For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, And must away.

I wrestle and frown, And topple down; I wrench, I rend, I uproot; Yet the violet Is born where I set The sole of my flying foot, [Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the background. I drive ocean ashore With rush and roar, And he cannot say me nay: My harpstrings all Are the forests tall, Making music when I play. And as others perforce, So I on my course Run and needs must run, With sap on the mount And buds past count And rivers and clouds and sun, With seasons and breath And time and death And all that has yet begun.

April comes along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song. Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers While you build a nest: Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast, Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers. You must dart away From the chosen spray, Looking to unload tonight intrusive third Extra little bird; the unwedded herd! These have done with play, And must work to-day. You're hope and sweetness, April.

Birth means dying, As wings and wind mean flying; So you and I and all things fly or die; And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying. But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers, And a lapful of flowers, And these dear nestlings aged three hours; And here's their mother sitting, Their father's merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them. What beaks you have, you funny things, What voices shrill and weak; Who'd think that anything that sings Could sing through such a beak? Yet you'll be nightingales one day, And charm the country-side, When I'm away and far away And May is queen and bride. April starts and looks round. Ah May, good-morrow May, and so good-bye. That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh: Your sorrow's half in fun, Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.

I've gathered flowers all as I came along, At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower,-- [She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden. And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower. The world and I are far too full of bliss To think or plan or toil or care; The sun is waxing strong, The days are waxing long, And all that is, Looking to unload tonight fair.

Looking to unload tonight

Here are my buds of lily and of rose, And here's my namesake-blossom, may; And from a watery spot See here forget-me-not, With all that blows To-day. Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove, And every nightingale And cuckoo tells its tale, And all they mean Is love. Surely you're come too early, sister June.

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon And set the world a-gasping at my noon. Yet come I must. So here are strawberries Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please; And here are full-blown roses by the score, More roses, and yet more. The sun does all my long day's work for me, Raises and ripens everything; I need but sit beneath a leafy tree And watch and sing. Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee, Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree And drop asleep.

Looking to unload tonight

Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow, Each in its way has not a fellow. He steals up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes. What, here already? Nay, my tryst is kept; The longest day slipped by you while you slept. I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom, [Hands her the plate. Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees, As downy, bask and boom In sunshine and in gloom of trees. But get you in, a storm is at my heels; The whirlwind whistles and wheels, Lightning flashes and thunder peals, Flying and following hard upon my heels.

The roar of a storm sweeps up From the east to the lurid west, The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled with rain to the brink; The sky is purple and fire, Blackness and noise and unrest; The earth, parched with desire, Opens her mouth to drink. Send forth thy thunder and fire, Turn over thy brimming cup, O sky, appease the desire Of earth in her parched unrest; Pour out drink Looking to unload tonight her thirst, Her famishing life lift up; Make thyself fair as at Looking to unload tonight, With a rainbow for thy crest. Have done with thunder and fire, O sky with the rainbow crest; O earth, have done with desire, Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm And scatheless from my storm. Your hands are full of corn, I see, As full as hands can be: And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm In their recovered calm, And that they owe to me. Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, Barley bows a graceful head, Short and small shoots up canary, Each of these is some one's bread; Bread for man or bread for beast, Or at very least A bird's savory feast.

Men are brethren of each other, One in flesh and one in food; And a sort of foster brother Is the litter, or the brood, Of that folk in fur or feather, Who, with men together, Breast the wind and weather. My harvest home is ended; and I spy September drawing nigh With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, And the first sigh Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through Their skins, and pearled with dew These damsons violet-blue. Sylvia Plath. This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.

Separated from my house by a row of hetones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

Looking to unload tonight

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe Looking to unload tonight tenderness The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this.

She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence. Mysterious Aries Nov Who We Are. Oscar Wilde. O happy field! Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea, Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon. There was a time when any common bird Could make me sing in unison, a time When all the strings of boyish life were stirred To quick response or more melodious rhyme By every forest idyll;—do I change?

Looking to unload tonight

Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range? The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom, The little dust stored in the narrow urn, The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,— Were not these better far than to return To my old fitful restless malady, Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery? And Love! I must From such sweet ruin play the runaway, Although too constant memory never can Forget the arched splendour of those brows Olympian Which for a little season made my youth So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence That all the chiding of more prudent Truth Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!

Go seek some other quarry! My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,— Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow Back to the troubled waters of this shore Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near, Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

Let Venus go and chuck her daintyAnd kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair, With net and spear and hunting equi Let young Adonis to his tryst repair, But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel. Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy Who from Mount Ida saw the Looking to unload tonight cloud Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed In wonder at her feet, not for the sake Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.

Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed! O for one grand unselfish simple life To teach us what is Wisdom! Speak ye Rydalian laurels! One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod! Let some young Florentine each eventide Bring coronals of that enchanted flower Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide, And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes; Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings, Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings Of the eternal chanting Cherubim Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay, He is not dead, the immemorial Fates Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.

Lift up your he ye everlasting gates! Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain For the vile thing he hated lurks within Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin. Still Looking to unload tonight avails it that she sought her cave That murderous mother of red harlotries?

Looking to unload tonight

At Munich on the marble architrave The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas Which wash AEgina fret in loneliness Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless For lack of our ideals, if one star Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust Which was Mazzini once!

O it were meet To roll the stone from off the sepulchre And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her, Our Italy! Most blessed among nations and most sad, For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell That day at Aspromonte and was glad That in an age when God was bought and sold One man could die for Liberty! The old Greek serenity Which curbs the passion of that.

Looking to unload tonight

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