On a day—alack the day!—
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen ‘gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

Dedication

Inscribed to a dear Child:
in memory of golden summer hours
and whispers of a summer sea.

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
   Eager she wields her *****; yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
   The tale he loves to tell.

Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
   Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life,
   Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
   Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
   The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
   Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days--
Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore
   Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!

PREFACE

If--and the thing is wildly possible--the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.18)

"Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes."

In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural History--I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened.

The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it--he would only refer to his Naval Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand--so it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder. The helmsman* used to stand by with tears in his eyes; he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, "No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm," had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words "and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one." So remon{-} strance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards.

As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce "slithy toves." The "i" in "slithy" is long, as in "writhe"; and "toves" is pronounced so as to rhyme with "groves." Again, the first "o" in "borogoves" is pronounced like the "o" in "borrow." I have heard people try to give it the sound of the"o" in "worry." Such is Human Perversity. This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard works in that poem. Humpty-Dumpty's theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a port{-} manteau, seems to me the right explanation for all.

For instance, take the two words "fuming" and "furious." Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts incline ever so little towards "fuming," you will say "fuming-furious;" if they turn, by even a hair's breadth, towards "furious," you will say "furious-fuming;" but if you have that rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say "frumious."

Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known
words--

     "Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!"

Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that, rather than die, he would have gasped out "Rilchiam!"

CONTENTS

Fit the First. The Landing
Fit the Second. The Bellman's Speech
Fit the Third. The Baker's Tale
Fit the Fourth. The Hunting
Fit the Fifth. The ******'s Lesson
Fit the Sixth. The Barrister's Dream
Fit the Seventh. The Banker's Fate
Fit the Eighth. The Vanishing

Fit the First.

THE LANDING

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
    As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
    By a finger entwined in his hair.

"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
    That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
    What I tell you three times is true."

  The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
  A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
  And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
  Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
  Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a ******, that paced on the deck,
  Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
  Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
  He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
  And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
  With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
  They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
  He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots--but the worst of it was,
  He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
  Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
  But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
  He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends,"
  And his enemies "Toasted-cheese."

"His form in ungainly--his intellect small--"
  (So the Bellman would often remark)
"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
  Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."

He would joke with hy{ae}nas, returning their stare
  With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
  "Just to keep up its spirits," he said.

He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--
  And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--
He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,
  No materials were to be had.

The last of the crew needs especial remark,
  Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea--but, that one being "Snark,"
  The good Bellman engaged him at once.

He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
  When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only **** Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
  And was almost too frightened to speak:

But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
  There was only one ****** on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
  Whose death would be deeply deplored.

The ******, who happened to hear the remark,
  Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
  Could atone for that dismal surprise!

It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
  Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
  With the plans he had made for the trip:

Navigation was always a difficult art,
  Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
  Undertaking another as well.

The ******'s best course was, no doubt, to procure
  A second-hand dagger-proof coat--
So the Baker advised it-- and next, to insure
  Its life in some Office of note:

This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire
  (On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire,
  And one Against Damage From Hail.

Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
  Whenever the Butcher was by,
The ****** kept looking the opposite way,
  And appeared unaccountably shy.

II.--THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.

Fit the Second.

THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.

The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies--
  Such a carriage, such ease and such grace!
Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,
  The moment one looked in his face!

He had bought a large map representing the sea,
  Without the least vestige of land:
And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be
  A map they could all understand.

"What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators,
  Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?"
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
   "They are merely conventional signs!

"Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
  But we've got our brave Captain to thank
(So the crew would protest) "that he's bought us the best--
  A perfect and absolute blank!"

This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out
  That the Captain they trusted so well
Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,
  And that was to tingle his bell.

He was thoughtful and grave--but the orders he gave
  Were enough to bewilder a crew.
When he cried "Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!"
  What on earth was the helmsman to do?

Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:
  A thing, as the Bellman remarked,
That frequently happens in tropical climes,
  When a vessel is, so to speak, "snarked."

But the principal failing occurred in the sailing,
   And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed,
Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East,
  That the ship would not travel due West!

But the danger was past--they had landed at last,
  With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:
Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,
  Which consisted to chasms and crags.

The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low,
  And repeated in musical tone
Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe--
  But the crew would do nothing but groan.

He served out some grog with a liberal hand,
  And bade them sit down on the beach:
And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand,
  As he stood and delivered his speech.

"Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!"
  (They were all of them fond of quotations:
So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers,
  While he served out additional rations).

"We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
   (Four weeks to the month you may mark),
But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks)
  Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!

"We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
  (Seven days to the week I allow),
But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
  We have never beheld till now!

"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
  The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
  The warranted genuine Snarks.

"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
  Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
  With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp.

"Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
  That it carries too far, when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
  And dines on the following day.

"The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
  Should you happen to venture on one,
It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:
  And it always looks grave at a pun.

"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
  Which is constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes--
  A sentiment open to doubt.

"The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
  To describe each particular batch:
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
  From those that have whiskers, and scratch.

"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
  Yet, I feel it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm,
  For the Baker had fainted away.

FIT III.--THE BAKER'S TALE.

Fit the Third.

THE BAKER'S TALE.

They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
  They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
  They set him conundrums to guess.

When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
  His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
  And excitedly tingled his bell.

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
  Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "**!" told his story of woe
  In an antediluvian tone.

"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
  "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark--
  We have hardly a minute to waste!"

"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
  "And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
  To help you in hunting the Snark.

"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
  Remarked, when I bade him farewell--"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed,
  As he angrily tingled his bell.

"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,
  " 'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens,
  And it's handy for striking a light.

" 'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care;
  You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
  You may charm it with smiles and soap--' "

("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold
  In a hasty parenthesis cried,
"That's exactly the way I have always been told
  That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")

" 'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
  If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
  And never be met with again!'

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
  When I think of my uncle's last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
  Brimming over with quivering curds!

"It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!"
  The Bellman indignantly said.
And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more.
  It is this, it is this that I dread!

"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
  In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
  And I use it for striking a light:

"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
  In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away--
  And the notion I cannot endure!"

FIT IV.--THE HUNTING.

Fit the fourth.

THE HUNTING.

The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
  "If only you'd spoken before!
It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
  With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!

"We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
  If you never were met with again--
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
  You might have suggested it then?

"It's excessively awkward to mention it now--
  As I think I've already remarked."
And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
  "I informed you the day we embar

Now that we have met,
You cannot unmeet me,
For the energy of the world
Is no longer the same.
That is the nature
Of encountered souls
Who now know
What the world misses in passing,
That brief door into hearts,
Beyond appearance.
Our meeting is a dare
Time has organized.
Drop your clothes,
Dismiss ancient hopes,
Kiss the air one last time,
Fall into warm darkness,
And go home,
The home you miss
And never knew,
The peace you need
But never claimed.
Shake your life this meeting
And raise your eyes to a view
Through a window
To the god I am.

i wish to unmeet you
         only to meet you again.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side:
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

No unmeet key in life,
Of course resolving karma prioritizes...

Inscribed to a Dear Child:
In Memory of Golden Summer Hours
And Whispers of a Summer Sea

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
Eager she wields her *****: yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
The tale he loves to tell.
Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem if you list, such hours a waste of life,
Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
The heart-love of a child!

Inscribed to a Dear Child:
In Memory of Golden Summer Hours
And Whispers of a Summer Sea

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
Eager she wields her *****: yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
The tale he loves to tell.
Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem if you list, such hours a waste of life,
Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
The heart-love of a child!

But our eyes can't unmeet,
and you can't unwound my heart,
the strings you tugged at.
I'm not the kind of person you keep 
when you let everything just
fall apart.

You were always the first one
to bolt out the door
when the curtains caught fire,
when the faucet spewed dirt
instead of water.

What little light I thought you saw
in my fluorescent eyes,
couldn't get past your opacity
and you just watched them
burn out.

It was always going to end
exactly like
this.

sum or is or body fair?
the dawn which marks with crimson
the light which trills or hair

                                                 ?


loose or hangs by easily does
such clatter and or slop
(legs unmeet; a trollop)
or string that cherries pop


sum or is or *** wit lips?
lush with tearful smaking?


or is it honey that which drips?

Of all the things that I could wish and hope for,
I prayed to a god who I doubt and disappoint;
begging for him to take me back in time,
just so that I could unmeet you... for one last time,
frankly, there isn't much that I wouldn't do,
for this to all become true.

do not lay me amongst thy hand
(towar' heaven ascending)
of earth stuff more come.

come thy mouth as daughters;
come thy slavering, come thy pistil keep.
a flower,

come. come as
riotously fragrant Spring
snowing easily with health.

come, and, steal my soul for sleep;
and place 'tween the knees of forests
***** bales of sighing wind.

come in most unsilent clothed
thy myriad of flesh.

come and life

unmeet thy thighs
,admitting,

perhaps the lather(your colour)
through me to seep.

sitting pale breasted
lipped in certain
opaque girlness
hangs by mortal
froth hair darkly
a thousand thick
and brutal firm

(a table usually
hangs over) thighs
brushed gently
akimbo lengths
of drooling ***
unmeet slowly
(while you
pretend to eat)
and laughing
divides rapidly
your cheeks
blundering with
crimson by wetly
fingers consumed

I have these wishes that appear to never get fulfilled

Not when I wanted to be happy,
not when I wanted to be okay

I wanna know why
Why is it always like this because right now all I want and
God knows how much

I wish to unmeet you
But then again, things would never be like this if I didn't

And the worst part is I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing at all

One.
If I could, I would wash my body in the endless sunrays of your morning language with curtains wide open and coffee brewing
I would sing rhythms of fire breathing unrequited love poems and stain your bedsheets with untouched melodies I should never had wrote for you in the first place
I would have the ghost of my former self dance bare feet in your kitchen to songs you have never listened to
If I could, I would pick myself up and take myself to the hospital, attach myself to the nearest IV and drug myself up until I forget how in love I am with someone as spiteful as you
Two.
It's almost funny to me how you can lie to someone about how you hate liars and then you can lie and pretend you still hate liars because you don’t think that I know that you're lying
Three.
You don't have to let me down easy
In fact, I want you to skull drag these words on asphalt streets, rip them apart and throw them at me at the speed of a bullet
Let this declaration be a war cry
Do not tell me it might happen sometime down the road
Because neither of us can see what is going to happen so instead of giving me hope why don't you just ******* tell me that I am not what you want
That you could do better, that you are out of my league
And you are but I have always believed that in relation to how many lucky pennies I have picked up, I would spend them all on you
Four.
If I could, I would break all my bones to have them mold into the structure you would most like them to be in
I would get a lobotomy, wipe my mind clean and start fresh, build a beautiful minded girl that you might be able to love
One with sunflowers growing on the layers of her frontal lobe, one with ripped wave ocean tyrants of searing joy tattooed to her skull, someone who can make you laugh, someone who's laugh you adored
Five.
I'm sorry I let my hands tie ropes to your heart strings, I am telling you to stop pulling me along when really I am the only one who is still holding on
It is easy to be confused in love because I have found that we convince ourselves something is true simply because we want it to be
Six.
It once was wonderful, I felt like you looked at me as more than another catcall, girl's number you got while you were working and I often wonder what would happen if I never strolled into your workplace, if I never looked in your direction, if I hated Mexican food, if I lived too far away
Maybe if I stapled the receipt to my shoulder and walked backwards we could unmeet each other, and I will have the bittersweet opportunity to miss out on this heartache you have unknowingly caused
Seven.
I am not trying to make you love me because you cannot force someone to feel something when there is no vacancy inside of their chest or even when they is but they like the empty spaces
I have cut off pieces of myself and tried to hand them to you and it was hard to understand why you wouldn't want them
Some people do not appreciate sacrifice or maybe they do not care much for such insanity
And I know, I know it makes no sense put valuable things into hands that shake, that tremble, that quiver
Hands that often break things without feeling remorse, we willingly let go and expect them to catch up when they cannot even catch up to their own minds
It is a dangerous game that we all love to play
You are a the red light that I always end up running
And I know the risk of calamity, the risk of consequences
Eight.
Sometimes I like to talk about you like you're the one that got away, sort of like you're on a trip somewhere and you're coming back
And maybe you are, and maybe I am making all of this up in my mind like a child convinces himself that there are no monsters under their bed or a wife who tries to convince herself that he isn't cheating
It is a dangerous game, we all know it is
So, I'll be around if you want someone to be dangerous with

where your lips meet

       (unmeet)

     :

there is day ;

there is night    .

I want to rub you up the right way
I want to put a shot across your stern.
I'll wait until it rains and then make hay,
My bridges all are steel and shall not burn.

These inverted phrases weave a past intent -
To look back in blessing of our yet to be:
You'll see me like Impatience on a Monument,
To set my sight beyond the wood - to see one special tree.

Then delve in sky to find your roots  
To make your fallen leaves breathe green anew.
And know: untasted are the finest fruits -
And only words that make no sense, are true.

And so I end begin this pointless noteless song;
I have objectives to unmeet, things not to do.
I have lost all sense of right and left and wrong.
There is only one truth I know, Love.
And that is always…

You

I don't wish to unmeet you

you remind me of love that was real

but I wish for time to pass a little faster now

because I miss you so

Sometimes I find myself remembering what it felt like to have never met you at all
But If I had the chance to go back and unmeet you, I wouldn’t take it

I don't contemplate you as my friend,
because you do a lot of things which aren't acceptable.
But still, expect me to be fine with it.

Putting me on your insta stories or writing me paragraphs,
don't mean a thing,
if you really don't respect me.

Using me for attention and popularity only,
and sticking around me,
because you think I'm cool ?
Yeah ! that idea is absolutely *ty.

Are you even a good friend if you just talk * about me,
behind my back.
Because, bro ! what about loyalty ?

Telling people wrong things about me,
and judging my character,
when Ii told you something,
because I thought you were trustworthy !

Bringing me flowers when I'm sick,
but making fun of my insecurities.

Saying that you wanna make me feel loved but how ?
Because I can't see you doing anything effective,
but just hurting me because I don't expect you to be mean to me.

Using words to express that you care,
but what about actions ?
Well ! you don't even make me feel good in my bad times.
What's your point ?

Not supporting me with anything,
even when I always hype you up,
when you're about to do something terrible.
Because I know that you won't listen to my advices.

Coming to me,
only when you've no one,
is nothing but just selfieshness.
Because you were never there for me.

Hurting my feelings but still calling me your best friend,
as if I'm a backup plan or just "nobody" when you don't need me.

Your toxic traits,
are ** up my living because you're nothing but,
just someone like a trashing machine and,
one of the mistakes that I've made.
Because you're destroying a lot of things, with your toxicity.

I'm used to all this but it's all just so unhealthy,
that I can't even tolerate.
I wish I could unmeet you and,
remove everything we had.