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A Dead Warrior

    HERE sown to dust lies one that drave             [sic]
    The furrow through his heart;
    Now, of the fields he died to save
    His own dust forms a part.

    Where went the tramp of martial feet,
    The blare of trumpets loud,
    Comes silence with her winding sheet,
    And shadow with her shroud.

    His mind no longer counsel takes,
    No sword his hand need draw,
    Across whose borders peace now makes
    Inviolable law.

    So, with distraction round him stilled,
    Now let him be content!
    And time from age to age shall build
    His standing monument.

    Not here, where strife, and greed, and lust
    Grind up the bones of men;
    But in that safe and secret dust
    Which shall not rise again.
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The Wanderer

    OUT of the railroad eating house
    Comes a lean brown man,
    And putting down his pack
    Sits smoking a cigarette.
    The glow lights up his sensitive Voltaire face
    Gazing moodily out on the trail:
    The blue patches under his eyes
    Show that he has not slept;
    It is evident that he has not long to live
    And that he knows it.
    He will die sooner if he smokes cigarettes,
    And that is the reason why he is smoking one.



























girl dancing in a bikini animated gifMen, Women, and Wordsanimated fairy and wand

    CHLORINDA in the slipping gown
    Unblushingly parades her soul
    For clinical inspection as
    Example of the Sapphic rôle;

    While Doris shudders gracefully
    And droops against the man in black,
    Confessing that she marvels at
    His length of limb and breadth of back.

    (Dear Doris: so ingenuous!
    Emotionally so sincere!)
    The man in black is wholly charmed,
    And lends a firm, hedonic ear.

    Repression is the moment's theme:
    Gerald holds forth on Oedipus
    And mentions dire catastrophies
    That tastes of his may bring to us.

    If we attempt to circumvent
    Our fateful Attic heritage --
    Wadding his argument around
    With splendid Freudian verbiage.

    The slim young man against the wall,
    With pretty blushes epicene,
    Evokes the shade of Socrates,
    And lectures from the fire-screen.

    Close by him sits Elizabeth,
    Her pale hands bluely rectinerved:
    Example virginal and wan
    Of bunkered fuel too long reserved.shining knight running

    Elizabeth bewails her fate
    With frankness not quite unafraid:
    The room is tenderly inclined,
    But no Satyros proffers aid.

    And so from hand to eager hand
    The facile ball of talk is sped.
    One waits for, misses, and laments
    The absent lover of the dead.

    Black was the Hellespont those nights
    When, for a priestess of Sestos,
    Leander slipped into the flood
    From the still town of Abydos.

    What theories sustained his stroke
    When all the world was overcast,
    And Freud and Jung still humbly lurked
    In unexpressed spermatoblast?

    Did Orestes and Plyades,
    While camping by their Grecian streams,
    Exchange, interpret and set down
    The revelations of their dreams?

    Sappho, Jocasta, Oedipus --
    Your names go round the room tonight,
    Illuminated by our modern blaze
    Of psychoanalytic light.

    We pity you your sightless years,
    And celebrate out learned day:
    But Doris and the man in black,
    With ancient wisdom, steal away.

bible and the devil