"subtile" poems
Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name,
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,
Angels affect us oft, and worship’d be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtile than the parent is,
Love must not be, but take a body too,
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw, I had love’s pinnace overfraught,
Ev’ry thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt’ring bright, can love inhere;
Then as an Angel, face, and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my loves sphere;
Just such disparity
As is twixt Air and Angels’ purity,
‘Twixt women’s love, and men’s will ever be.
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The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The **** of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The--isms and the--anities,
Magnificence and shame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or drown them in a drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Here at the wine one birls,
There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim,
He lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
Envoy
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:--
'O Vanity of Vanities!'
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What might we find if there were no lessons needing
learning,
no bait to not wait for ever to be
re
alized in the blink of an eye,
likka polish, a gloss
light flash active
pop
The shining being more subtile than any beast, eh?
You gnowad eyemean, o yew don'.
Once more, book of life with us in it, as words
and nada mas,
reconciled via bluetooth, keys to kingdoms
flow from my finger tips,
knocks are-were an swered swern sworn in a-mode, e-mode
zero-mode
ah, modern linguistics link us back the Burns and
wee beasties makom plans,
happy natal day misstress riddell
"'Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story
Aug 13, 2020
Aug 13, 2020 at 5:54 PM UTC
Femme Terre
Larmes de pluie
Aux creux des soleils
Goutte de sang
Rosées nocturnes
Baignées par la lune
Femme Ether
Etat d'Etre
Rayonnement
Intérieur
Vers le Sacré
Femme Argile
Fil
tendu vers l'Infini
Lien intime
connexion subtile
Funambule en équilibre
Au dessus de l'Univers
caro royer
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
Is heaven this?
out of sight, slightly subtile, strangely stride
to enhance but not to wide
it's body, becoming what
we think it has been and will ever be
our deepest thoughts and tears to believe.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Tepid waves seethe across my body as I melt back into subtile remorse. I am no longer myself, when the sun rises and I cease to realize the severity of my grief. When will I exhale the poison I've interwoven within my lungs. Stagnant, acrid, tarnished with the thoughts of waking up as someone else, waking up somewhere else, just being anything else. How long can I soak in melodramatic tendencies before I'm too old to change the way I felt in winter. The way I felt when leaves changed and hit the crisp ground, when my breathe clung to the air on my break during night shift. When I smelled the change of the seasons that brought with them familiar thoughts of sleeping six feet under. One day I might change my view, I might make it out to somewhere that feels like home. I'll no longer be stuck out of place, out of time, hoping to catch the next ride over to the other side. Autumn won't remind me how much I hate myself. The leaves won't force me to reminisce about the days I've spent under the blankets avoiding life and the tremendous responsibility that comes with my loathing. One day I'll be happy. One day I'll wake up motivated and with purpose. One day the last thing I'll think about "what about today?"
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC