"spanless" poems
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark,
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came;
The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall,
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves.
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came,
The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree!
But we will make it ******* for the hearth,
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor,
And boats and bridges for the use of men.
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain:
The glittering axe was broken in their arms,
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade.
Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll'd
With music in the growing breeze of Time,
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs
Shall move the stony bases of the world.
886
I’m full of love! It is inside me!
It’s huge like the Pacific Ocean:
Complete, horizonless and deep.
My love is kinglike as an ocean.
It can be never swum across,
Won over or comprehended.
You can be pleasingly present in it
Or easily got killed or disappeared.
And maybe love is like the Andes:
Spanless, unbroken, unfathomed.
If you are nearby the Andes,
They’ll overwhelm you by its greatness.
My love will doubtlessly give
A shelter to a wounded heart.
It won’t reproach, play foul, betray.
It makes no odds who you just are.
It’s difficult to carry love,
Without dropping and destroying.
I try to save it anyway
From mean abuse and full dishonoring.
Jan 25, 2025
Jan 25, 2025 at 5:03 PM UTC
When heavy mists decided to retreat
And undertows turned down their graze
The hoary ocean accepted his defeat
And distant shore ahead arose ablaze
How many nights have seen the face
Of loud joys and silent wonders
Coimbra! What a lovely place
Your songs kept captive spanless numbers
And even more fell in a slumber
Under her lulling velvet tunes
Her poems spurt with blood of umber
But then it’s you who’s left with wounds
Side note: consider it a crime
To put blanc feelings in a rhyme
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:09 PM UTC