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beth stclair May 11
the star of the star of the morning
is restful and breathful and free

the star of the star of the evening
blossoms dark as a shadowy tree,


the waves drive out far in their rivers
as blue as a star in the sky,

and the darkness relents for her shivers
must finally die.


waves turning and burning and dancing
clouds wandering e'er ever on

and the darkness that finds the new morning,
as cold as stark night's bitter song,


oh, brother who wept for my sisters
no tears as alive as their breath

swept out where the wild sea blisters
and pain knows of death.


wild whispers, wild birds and the fury
of waves that sing out to the clouds

the death then of life that we bury
laid out in the whitest of shrouds


the sea, oh, the sea, how she sings me
a song of a dance never sung

and her rhythms soon calm and placate me
her bell solemn rung.


and sweet love is the journey i strive for
as blue as a mysterious sea

and the love is a fruit full of succor,
and the moment will live e'er free,


you stand tragic as a painting so mournful
alone as a poet who rests,

and the lull of the storms here at night fall
the sea's treasure chests.


the day wraps the night in her roses
and night wraps the day in her sight

and midnight's soft moonlight supposes
that day is a journey e'er bright,


and love was a love still forever
and love had no rose in her bower

for the floor of the sea like a feather
the delicatest flower.
beth stclair Nov 2018
the clouds storm and stir the horizon
and swoon like a sorrowful bird,

the sun sinks the same way once risen
and deafening the fires of his word,


a lover waits hopeless and dreary,
and hopeless and dreary departs

for love not returned leaves her weary
and breathful her heart.


a vision as clear as the ages,
that reach to the soul or the heart

the storm of the clouds broken cages
long gone those soft clouds that depart


and the sea strides to shore like a viking,
and rages eternal like cloud,

for the storm now is spent and surrenders,
that once stood so proud.


the sea she will wrap me in flowers
and drown me in ivies and wine,

as the sharp winter wind blows wild showers,
that bury the aches of the pines,


and the sea i found tender with rapture
blew me back where the ages relent,

and the sea gave me back all its flowers,
for the love never meant.


desire is no pastry or pudding,
it is death, it is life, it is naught,

in its rages it cries like a blossom
that bursts from the bough and is caught,


no lover could rule or control me,
but they begged and they begged
for my love,

and the love that i gave soon destroyed me,
a lion to the dove.


yet the sea dries my eyes from my weeping,
rejuvinates like vinaigrette,

and love never once won or departing
soon buries its soul in regret,


and the sea sings like a stereotyped lover,
too broody to throw out a rose

and the rose would be tearful my lover,
seas sea e'en froze.


for the sea is a viking of passion,
strange ghost of the wind and the wave,

and knows nothing of love or compassion,
but will leave you with the dark that can't save,


i see her in the **** frost, her blossom,
the waves that still billow like sails

the foam the blue foam near the flotsam,
her song a soft silvery scale.
Knit Personality Mar 2017
A baby's cheeks, creamy and soft,
      Would tempt the angel who seeks
To touch a heaven 'neath her loft—
         A baby's cheeks.

A plumpness puffs the chubby peaks
      Where roses bloom as oft
As streak their slopes with runny creeks.

Kissing the cheeks with peach-fuzz puffed
      That near speech with the weeks
Will send the spirit's soar aloft
         A baby's cheeks.

* * *

Étude Réaliste by Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837-1909

I.
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,
      Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
         A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
      They stretch and spread and wink
Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink
      Gleam half so heavenly sweet
As shine on life's untrodden brink
         A Baby's feet.

II.
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled
      Whence yet no leaf expands,
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,
         A baby's hands.

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands
      When battle's bolt is hurled,
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled
      Match, even in loveliest lands,
The sweetest flowers in all the world—
         A baby's hands.

III.
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
      Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win
         A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
      And sleep flows out and in,
Sees perfect in them Paradise.

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
      Their speech make dumb the wise,
By mute glad godhead felt within
         A baby's eyes.

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An important recent discovery.

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