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  1. Jane Austen's lesbianism is as fictional as Pride and Prejudice
  2. Similar authors to follow
  3. e.e. cummings complete iwojafevazyx.ml | Laureana Toledo - iwojafevazyx.ml
  4. Jane Austen at 200: still a friend and a stranger

Dumb for a while. VI the poem her belly marched through me as one army. From her nostrils to her feet she smelled of silence. The inspired cleat of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass my separate lusts her hair was like a gas evil to feel. One day i felt a mountain touch me where i stood maybe nine miles off. It was spring sun-stirring, sweetly to the mangling air muchness of buds mattered, a valley spilled its tickling river in my eyes, the killed world wriggled like a twitched string. VII an amiable putrescence carpenters the village of her mind bodily which ravelling,to a proud continual stitch of the unmitigated sistole purrs against my mind,the eyes' shuddering burrs of light stick on my brain harder than can twitch its terrors; the,mouth's,swallowed,muscle itch of groping mucous in my mouth occurs homelessly.


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While grip Hips simply, well fussed flesh does surely to mesh. New and eager, wittily peels the. Upon the whole he suddenly clapped a tiny sunset of vermouth -colour. Hair, he put between her lips a moist mistake,whose fragrance hurls me into tears,as the dusty new- ness of her obsolete gaze begins to. Seeing how the limp huddling string of your smile over his body squirms kissingly,i will bring you every spring handfuls of little normal worms. Dress deftly your flesh in stupid stuffs, phrase the immense weapon of your hair.

Understanding why his eye laughs, i will bring you every year something which is worth the whole, an inch of nothing for your soul. Creasing its smoothness—and leave the bed agrin with memories this white worm and i who love to feel what it will do in my bullying fingers as for the candle,it'U turn into a little curse of wax. On the line, not so old for the mother of twelve undershirts we are told by is it Bishop Taylor who needs hanging that marriage is a sure cure for masturbation.

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A dirty wind,twitches the,clothes which are clean —this is twilight, a little puppy hopping between skipping children It is the consummation of day,the hour she says to me you big fool she says i says to her i says Sally i says the mmmoon,begins to,drool softly,in the hot alley, a nigger's voice feels curiously cool suddenly-Lights go! It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.

At least my theory of technique,if I have one,is very far from original;nor is it complicated. If a poet is anybody,he is somebody to whom things made matter very little—some- body who is obsessed by Making. Like all obsessions,the Making obsession has disadvantages;for instance,my only interest in making money would be to make it. Fortunately,however,I should prefer to make almost anything else,including loco- motives and roses. It is with roses and locomotives not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls that my "poems" are competing.

They are also competing with each other,with elephants,and with El Greco. Ineluctable preoccupation with The Verb gives a poet one priceless advantage: LIZ with breathing as faithfully her lownecked dress a little topples and slightly expands one square foot mired in silk wrinkling loth stocking begins queerly to do a few gestures to death, the silent shoulders are both slowly with pinkish ponderous arms bedecked whose white thick wrists deliver promptly to a deep lap enormous mindless hands, and no one knows what i am sure of this her blunt unslender,what her big unkeen "Business is rotten"the face yawning said what her mouth thinks of if it were a kiss distinct entirely melting sinuous lean MAME she puts down the handmirror.

A thumblike index down- dragging yanks back skin"see" i,seeing,ceased to breathe. The plump left fist opening "wisdom. Flynn" the words drizzle untidily from released cheeks'Tll tell duh woild;some noive all right. Aint much on looks but how dat baby ached. GERT joggle i think will do it although the glad monosyllable jounce possibly can tell better how the balloons move as her ghost lurks,a Beau Brummell sticking in its three- cornered always moist mouth —jazz, for whose twitching lips,between you and me almost succeeds while toddle rings the bell.

But if her tall corpsecoloured body seat itself with the uncouth habitual dull jerk at garters there's no sharpest neat word for the thing. Listen"the feline she with radishred legs said crossing them slowly 'Tm asleep. Youse is asleep kid and everybody is. FRAN should i entirely ask of god why on the alert neck of this brittle whore delicately wobbles an improbably distinct face, and how these wooden big two feet conclude happeningly the unfirm drooping bloated calves i would receive the answer more or less deserved,Young fellow go in peace, which i do,being as Dick Mid once noted lifting a Green River here's to youse "a bloke wot's well behaved" And there're a hun-dred-mil-lion-oth-ers,like all of you successfully if delicately gelded or spaded gentlemen and ladies —pretty littleliverpill- hearted-Nujolneeding-There's-A-Reason americans who tensetendoned and with upward vacant eyes,painfully perpetually crouched,quivering,upon the sternly allotted sandpile —how silently emit a tiny violetflavoured nuisance: In thy your ear: So this is Paris.

Waiter a drink waiter two or three drinks what's become of Maeterlinck now that April's here? Oh for such a gurl gurl gurl, oh for such a gurl to be a fellow's twistandtwirl talk about your Sal- Sal- Sal-, talk about your Salo -mes but gimmie Jimmie's gal. How did the traffic get so jammed?

One wondrous fine sonofabitch to all purposes and intents in which distinct and rich portrait should be included,gents these by the fire's ruddy glow united not less than sixteen children and of course you know their mother,of his heart the queen —incalculable bliss! XXX ponder,darling,these busted statues of yon motheaten forum be aware notice what hath remained —the stone cringes clinging to the stone,how obsolete lips utter their extant smile As i was standing on the third rail waiting for the next train to grind me into lifeless atoms various absurd thoughts slyly crept into my highly sexed mind.

It seemed to me that i had first of all really made quite a mistake in being at all born,seeing that i was wifeless and only half awake,cursed with pimples, correctly dressed,cleanshaven above the nombril,and much to my astonishment much impressed by having once noticed as an infantile phenomenon George Washington al- most incompletely surrounded by well-drawn icecakes beheld being too strong,in brief: A collarbutton which had always not nothurt me not much and in the same place. Why according to tomorrow's paper the proletariat will not rise yesterday. Inexpressible itchings to be photographed with Lord Rothermere playing with Lord Rothermere billiards very well by moonlight with Lord Rothermere.

A crocodile eats a native,who in revenge beats it insensible with a banana, establishing meanwhile a religious cult based on consubstantial intangibility. Personne ne m'aime et j'ai les mains froides. His Royal Highness said "peek-a-boo" and thirty tame fleas left the prettily embroidered howdah immediately. Thumbprints of an angel named Frederick found on a lightning-rod,Boston,Mass. We refer,of course,to my position.

A bachelor incapable of occupation,he had long suppressed the desire to suppress the suppressed desire of shall we say: Idleness,while meaning its opposite? Nothing could be clearer to all con- cerned than that i am not a policeman. Meanwhile the tea regressed. Miggin's harm in is,extinguishing the spittoon by a candle furnished by courtesy of the management on Thursdays,opposite which a church stood perfectly upright but not piano item: By this time,however,the flight of crows had ceased.

I withdrew my hands from the tennisracket. One brief convulsive octopus,and then our hero folded his umbrella. It seemed too beautiful. Let us perhaps excuse me if i repeat himself: If i should have made this perfectly clear,it entirely would have been not my fault. XXXIII voices to voices,lip to lip i swear to noone everyone constitutes undying;or whatever this and that petal confutes While you and i have lips and voices which are for kissing and to sing with who cares if some oneeyed son of a bitch invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

Which being quite beyond dispute as prove from Troy N. O a monkey with a sharp face waddling carefully the length of this padded pole;a monkey attached by a chain securely to this always talking individual,mysterious witty hatless. Cats which move smoothly from neck to neck of bottles,cats smoothly willowing out and in between bottles,who step smoothly and rapidly along this pole over five squirming mice;or leap through hoops offire,creatingsmoothness.

People stare,the drunker applaud while twilight takes the sting out of the vermilion jacket of nodding hairy Jacqueline who is given a mouse to hold lovingly, our lady what do you think of this? Do your proud fingers and your arms tremble remembering something squirming fragile and which had been presented unto you by a mystery? Like the crackle of a typewriter,in the afternoon sky. That is enough of life,for you. VI you are not going to,dear. You are not going to and i but that doesn't in the least matter.

The big fear Who held us deeply in His fist is no longer,can you imagine it i can't which doesn't matter and what does is possibly this dear,that we may resume impact with the inutile collide once more with the imaginable,love,and eat sunlight do you believe it? Dear i put my eyes into you but that doesn't matter further than of old because you fooled the doctors,i touch you with hopes and words and with so and so: It's different too isn't it different dear from moving as we,you and i,used to move when i thought you were going to but that doesn't matter when you thought you were going to America.

Love if you like and i like,for the reason that i hate people and lean out of this window is love,iove and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason that i do not fall into this street is love. And send life out of me and the night absolutely into me II touching you i say it being Spring and night "let us go a very little beyond the last road—there's something to be found" and smiling you answer "every thing turns into something else,and slips away Along the sand behind us,a big yellow dog that's II oil tel duh woil doi sez dooyuh unnurs tanmih eesez pullih nizmus tash,oi dough un giv uh shid oi sez.

Tom oidoughwuntuh doot,butoiguttuh braikyooz,datswut eesez tuhmih. Nowoi askyuh woodundat maik yurarstoin green? Muh jax awl gawn.

Jane Austen's lesbianism is as fictional as Pride and Prejudice

Fur Croi saik ainnoughbudih gutnutntuhplai? Next door but four gentlemen are trinightly entertained by a whore who Talks in the daytime,when who is asleep with only several faces and a multitude of chins: Both very young noisily who kiss throw silently things Each at other if not quarrelling in a luxury of telescoped languages she smokes three castles He looks Jewish ,next door but One a on Dirty bed Mangy from person Porous sits years its of self fee bly Perpetually coughing And thickly spotting But next door nobody seems to live at present l'on parle de repapering;i don't think so.

Some people 's future is toothsome like they got pockets full may take a littl e nibble now And then bite candy others fly,their;puLLing: McKinley when Buch tooked out his C. Abe tucks it up back inley clamored Clever Rusefelt to Theodore Odysseus Graren't we couldn't free the negro because he ant but Coolitch wiped his valley forge with Sitting Bull's T. I thereupon loosened my collar and dove for the nearest 1 surreptitiously cogitating the dictum of a new england sculptor well on in life re the helen moller dancers,whom he considered "elevating—that is,if dancing CAN be elevating" Miss believe it or Gay is a certain Young Woman unacquainted with the libido and pursuing a course of instruction at radcliffe college,cambridge,mass.

De room swung roun an crawled up into itself, an awful big light squoits down my spine like i was dead er sumpn: XXIX in a middle of a room stands a suicide sniffing a Paper rose smiling to a self "somewhere it is Spring and sometimes people are in real-.

M iN -visiblya mongban gedfrag- ment ssky? XLV you in win ter who sit dying thinking huddled behind dir ty glass mind muddled and cuddled by dreams or some times vacantly gazing through un washed panes into a crisp todo of murdering uncouth faces which pass rap idly with their breaths. I have never loved you dear as now i love behold this fool who,in the month of June, having of certain stars and planets heard, rose very slowly in a tight balloon until the smallening world became absurd; him did an archer spy whose aim had erred never and by that little trick or this he shot the aeronaut down,into the abyss —and wonderfully i fell through the green groove of twilight,striking into many a piece.

I have never loved you dear as now i love god's terrible face,brighter than a spoon, collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life which liked the sun and the moon resembles something that has not occurred: I have never loved you dear as now i love.

The moon's round,through the window as you see and really i have no servants. We could almost live at the top of these stairs,there's a free room.

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We almost could go you and i into a together whitely big there is but if so or so slowly i opened the window a most tinyness,the moon with white wig and polished buttons would take you away —and all the clocks would run down the next day. LVII somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: LX because i love you last night clothed in sealace appeared to me your mind drifting with chuckling rubbish of pearl weed coral and stones; lifted,and before my eyes sinking inward,fled;softly your face smile breasts gargled by death: LXIII be unto love as rain is unto colour;create me gradually or as these emerging now hills invent the air breathe simply my each how my trembling where my still unvisible when.

Wait if i am not heart,because at least i beat —always think i am gone like a sun which must go sometimes,to make an earth gladly seem firm for you: LXVI nothing is more exactly terrible than to be alone in the house,with somebody and with something You are gone, there is laughter and despair impersonates a street i lean from the window,behold ghosts, a man hugging a woman in a park. LXX here is the ocean,this is moonlight: S i r rlvInG.

But he turned into a fair y! Two pale slippery small eyes balanced upon one broken babypout pretty teeth wander into which and out of Life,dost Thou contain a marvel than this death named Smith less strange? Married and lies afraid;aggressive and: Says over un graves der,speaking says. Nci;ddaanncciinn GIY a nda n-saint dance! When out of sheer nothing came a huger than fear a white with madness wind and broke oceans and tore mountains from their sockets and strewed the black air with writhing alive skies—and in death's place new fragrantly young earth space opening was.

King Christ,this world is all aleak; and lifepreservers there are none: Streets glit ter a,strut: Love having found wound up such pretty toys as themselves could not know: Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootof- minusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs. Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most- people? The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively ultravoluptuous super- palazzo,and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming with every conceivable species of undesirable organism.

Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice they'd improbably call it dying— you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing: You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now;and now is much too busy being a little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included. Take the socalled standardofliving.

What do mostpeople mean by "living"? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science,in its finite but unbounded wisdom,has suc- ceeded in selling their wives. If science could fail,a mountain's a mammal. Mostpeople's wives can spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omni- potence immediately and will accept no substitutes —luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal. The plusorminus movie to end moving,the strictly scientific parlourgame of real unreality,the tyranny conceived in misconception and dedicated to the proposition that every man is a woman and any woman a king,hasn't a wheel to stand on.

What their most synthetic not to mention transparent majesty, mrsandmr collective foetus,would improbably call a ghost is walking. He isn't an undream of anaesthetized impersons,or a cosmic comfort- station,or a transcendentally sterilized lookiesoundiefeelietastiesmellie. He is a healthily complex,a naturally homogeneous,citizen of immor- tality. The now of his each pitying free imperfect gesture,his any birth or hreathing,insults perfected inframortally millenniums of slavishness. He is a little more than everything,he is democracy;he is alive: Miracles are to come.

With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening,innocent spontaneous,true. No- where possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are among the very mouths of light. Nothing be- lieved or doubted;brain over heart, surface: Only how measureless coolflamesof making; only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely open- ing;only alive.

Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno, impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence;never to rest and never to have: Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question E. Little ness be ing comes ex -pert- Ly expand: For if you're young,whatever life you wear it will become you;and if you are glad whatever's living will yourself become.

Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need: No body loved big that quick sharp thick snake of a voice these root like legs or feethands; nobody ever could ever had love loved whose his climbing shoulders queerly twilight: We're alive and shall bexities may overflow am was assassinating whole grassblades,five ideas can swallow a man;three words im -prison a woman for all her now: Employs a very crazily how clownlike that this quickly ghost scribbling from there to where —name unless i'm mistaken chauvesouris— whose grammar is atrocious; but so what princess selene doesn't know a thing who's much too busy being her beautiful yes.

Expecting more would be neither fantastic nor pathological but dumb. The number of times a wheel turns doesn't determine its roundness: Women and men both little and small cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance sleep wake hope and then they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down one day anyone died i guess and noone stooped to kiss his face busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes.

Lifting the valleys of the sea my father moved through griefs of joy; praising a forehead called the moon singing desire into begin joy was his song and joy so pure a heart of star by him could steer and pure so now and now so yes the wrists of twilight would rejoice keen as midsummer's keen beyond conceiving mind of sun will stand, so strictly over utmost him so hugely stood my father's dream hisfleshwasfleshhis blood was blood: My father moved through theys of we, singing each new leaf out of each tree and every child was sure that spring danced when she heard my father sing then let men kill which cannot share, let blood and flesh be mud and mire,.

By handless hints do conjurers rule? Each why of a leaf says floating each how you're which as to die each green of a new you're who as to grow but you're he as to do what must whispers be must be the wise fool ifliving'stogive so breathing's to steal— five wishes are five and one hand is a mind then over our thief goes you go and i has pulled for he's we such fruit from what bough that someone called they made him pay with his now. Huge this collective pseudobeast sans either pain or joy does nothing except preexist its hoi in its polloi and if sometimes he's prodded forth to exercise her vote or made by threats of something worth than death to change their coat —which something as you'll never guess infiftythousand years equals the quote and unquote loss of liberty my dears— or even is compelled to fight itself from tame to teem still doth our hero contemplate in raptures of undream that strictly and how scienti fie land of supernod where freedom is compulsory and only man is god.

Progress is a comfortable disease: A world of made is not a world of born—pity poor flesh and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence. We doctors know a hopeless case if—listen: It's two are halves of one: Let liars wilt,repaying life they're loaned; we by a gift called dying born must grow deep in dark least ourselves remembering love only rides his year. XIX when you are silent,shining host by guest a snowingly enfolding glory is all angry common things to disappear causing through mystery miracle peace: Blow king to beggar and queen to seem blow friend tofiend: Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind blow pity to envy and soul to mind —whose hearts are mountains,roots are trees, it's they shall cry hello to the spring what if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?

Blow soon to never and never to twice blow life to isn't: Swoop shrill collective myth into thy grave merely to toil the scale to shrillerness per every madge and mabel dick and dave —tomorrow is our permanent address and there they'll scarcely find us if they do, we'll move away still further: Hills jump with brooks: Soul was i understand seduced by Life;whose brother married Heart, now Mrs Death.

Old may mean anything which everyone would rather not become; but growing is" erect her whole life smiled "was and will always remain: Look at these each serenely welcoming his only and inimitably his destiny mountains! Be thou gay by dark and day: Mountains are mountains now;skies now are skies— and such a sharpening freedom lifts our blood as if whole supreme this complete doubtless universe we'd and we alone had made —yes;or as if our souls,awakened from summer's green trance,would not adventure soon a deeper magic: At which smiling he stops: And darling never fear: Time's a strange fellow; more he gives than takes and he takes all nor any marvel finds quite disappearance but some keener makes losing,gaining —love!

The whole truth not hid by matter;not by mind revealed more than all dying life,all living death and never which has been or will be told sings only—and all lovers are the song. Here only here is freedom: And then this dreamer wept: Tall as the truth was who: Death should take his hat off to this dame: To doubt that in whose form less form all goodness truth and beauty lurk, simply to her does not occur alarm ing notion for idealists?

Nobody ,it's safe to say,observed him but myself;and why? Much better than which,every woman who's despite the ultramachinations of some loveless infraworld a woman knows; and certain men quite possibly may have shall we say guessed?

e.e. cummings complete iwojafevazyx.ml | Laureana Toledo - iwojafevazyx.ml

In spectral such hugest how hush,one dead leaf stirring makes a crash —far away as far as alive lies april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some perpetually roaming whylessness— autumn has gone: Then,with not credible the anywhere eclipsing of a spirit's ignorance by every wisdom knowledge fears to dare, how the myself's own self who's child will dance! Only whose vision can create the whole being forever born a foolishwise proudhumble citizen of ecstasies more steep than climb can time with all his years he's free into the beauty of the truth; and strolls the axis of the universe —love.

Where we sought For help in that with which we could do naught, You were at hand, prepared to show the way, And when we came to you in sore dismay You made most clear the path with perils fraught. Now when wefindourselves about to lose Your leadership, whose strength will ever dwell In us and by us to the very end, We know no better title we can use In wishing you afinal,fond farewell, Than that whichfitsyou best,—our faithful friend!

And now, when Nature begins to grow, And the buds are out, and the birds are gay And all is well—above and below,— Here's to the coming of blithesome May. Winter was good when he met us here, With his sharp, clear days, and hisflashingsnow, But we carried Winter out on his bier, And buried him, many a month ago. March was not hard with all his blow, With April, Spring seemed on her way, But we've reached the best at last, and so Here's to the coming of blithesome May.

Winter has ended his cold career,— No more death, and no more woe,— We've come at last to a different sphere, With no more freezing, and—mistletoe. Spring in coming was very slow,— Altogether too much delay,— But we've cheered her on from foe to foe: Here's to the coming of blithesome May. Envoi Think of the gratitude all must owe,— Heaven has visited earth to-day. It's well enough to talk of poor and peers, And munch the golden apples' shiny core, And lay a lot of heroes on their biers;— While the great Alec, knocking down a score, Takes out his handkerchief, boohoo-ing, "More!

How shall I manage to compose a theme? Envoi Of what avail is all my mighty lore? I beat my breast, I tear my hair, I scream: Spring was good, and Summer better, But the best of all is waiting,— Madame Winter—don't forget her. Spring we welcomed when we met, Summer was a blessing; Autumn points to school, but yet Let's be acquiescing.

Spring had many precious pleasures; Winter's on a different rating; She has greater, richer treasures,— O You Skating! Gleam of ice, and glint of steel, Jolly, snappy weather; Glide on ice and joy of zeal, All, alone, together. Who can imprint her? We've found life hid between the folds of mire, Sensed life in every place, heard life in tune. The earth-shell cracks with underneath desire; Spring crawls from the cocoon. Her puny wings vibrant with will to grow, She clings, expanding like an opening eye; More large, more able, more developed, lo, The perfect butterfly.

A faint beam totters feebly in the west, Trembles, and all the earth is wild with light, Stumbles, and all the world is in the dark. The huge black sleep above;—lo, two white stars. Harvard, your shadow-walls, and ghost-toned tower, Dim, ancient-moulded, vague, and faint, and far, Is gone! And through thefleshI see the soul: Colouring iron in red leaping flame, The thunder-strokes of mighty, sweating men, Furious hammers clashingfierceand high,— And in a corner of the smithy coiled, Black, brutal, massive-linked, the toil-wrought chain Which is to bind God's right hand to the world.

Huge finny forms of phosphorescence flee— Weird shadows—through the deeps, or caracole With the sea-horses on some eye-less shoal, Quickening the leafage of a wave-tombed tree. As a great miser, morbid with his gain, Pricked by unhealthy frettings, drowns dismay In gorging on his plunders, one by one,— Sudden—out of the vault of Heaven, the Sun Unlocks the rainbow's glory, and the day.

The air is strange with rare birds after rain. Such lustre, spread So livingly before our starting sight, Cries in the accents of its primal might: Oh little thrush With the holy note, Like a footstep of God in a sick-room's hush My soul you crush. Unstopped organ, from earth you break To knock at the skies, And I can but shake My fragile fetters, and with you rise Into Paradise. But Love, your music requires not wings. To the common breed It clings, and sings: This is my creed.

A panting silence fills The empty vault of Night with shimmering bars Of sullen silver, where the lake distils Its misered bounty. No whisper mars The utter silence of the untranslated stars. Poises the sun upon his west, a spark Superlative,—and dives beneath the world; From the day's fillets Night shakes out her locks; List! One pure trembling drop of cadence purled— "Summer! For I will have her mine! For, poorly-clad, she is strangely proud, And will not sit at the servants' board, But saith she comes of the snow.

He rose from the table, red with wine; He put one hand against the wall, Swaying as he did stand; Three steps took he in the breathless hall, Said, "You shall love me, for you are mine. White stretched the north-land, white the south She was gone like a spark from the ash that chars; And "After her! They found the maid. And her eyes were stars, A starry smile was upon her mouth, And the snow-flowers in her hair. Delicious dark the hive of heaven drips; Now in the firmament all shining crowd The trembling, yearning stars, that cannot speak For perfect joy; now steals a shadowy cloud, A radiant tear, across the moon's pale cheek.

Dumbly the glorious sky yields up her lips. New skies new seasons bring. Wee red men build their lodge of yellow sands In the primeval grass; the willow stands Donned in her ermine, to be crowned with Spring. How high the sky's vast purple palace towers! And lo, the pride of majesty beguiled, With playful hands, King Winter's laughing child, Sweet April Heaven, from that royal brow Hath plucked the snowy wreath of cloud, and now Flings from her lap the million fluttering flowers. The face Of heaven clouded with the Day's red doom Was veiled in silent darkness, and the musk Of summer's glorious rose breathed in the gloom.

Then from the world's harsh voice and glittering eyes, The awful rant and roar of men and things, Forth fared we into Silence. The strong wings Of Nature shut us from the common crowd; On high, the stars like sleeping butterflies Hung from the great grey drowsyflowersof cloud. Three fragrant trees which guard the gates, Three perfume-trees which sweeten nights, Rise upon heaven, full of stars And dripping with white radiance. Her body is more white than trees. Five founts of Bacchus, honey-cold, Five showers making drunk the lawns, Spout up a dark delicious rain Filling the earth with sleep and tears.

Her tresses are more sweet than wine. Seven flowers which breathe divinity, Seven wondering blossoms of embrace, Open their glory to the moon, Kissing white immortality. Her mouth is chaster than a flower. When the fleet moonlight silently Fled like a white nymph down the grass, Leaving the night to loneliness, All songfully I loved my love In gardens of white ivory. The strings are silver to my harp, And all the frame is ebony I think the moon is blossoming— My hungry fingers bite the strings— My harp becomes a flower, and blooms.

The strings are golden to my harp, And all the frame is as a rose. I think the moon is quivering— My longing fingers search the chords— My harp becomes a heart, and breaks. When thefirstday-beam silently Broke like an arrow from the east, Quivering unto the heights of dawn, All silently I left my love In gardens of white ivory. There are three trees which stand like dreams Before the gates of ivory; The moon has withered in the west— My harp has withered—Hail the day!

Wherefore this dagger at my thighs. There arefivefounts which play like sleep Upon the gates of ivory; The moon is songless in the west— My harp is songless—Hail the day! Wherefore this dagger at my hands. There are sevenflowerswhich smile like death Within the gates of ivory; The moon is broken in the west— My harp is broken—Hail the day!

Wherefore this dagger at my heart. Here will I meet my love Beneath hushed trees. Over the silver meadows Offlower-foldedgrass, Shall come unto me Her feet like arrows of moonlight. Under the magic forest Mute with shadow, I will utterly greet The blown star of her face. By white waters Sheathed in rippling silence, Shall I behold her hands Hurting the dark with lilies. Hush thee to worship, soul! Now is thy movement of love. Night; and a red cloud Under the moon. I n green cloisters throng Shy nuns of evening, telling beads of song. Swallows, like winged prayers, soar steadily by, Hallowing twilight.

From the faint and high, Night waves her misting censers, and along The world, the singing rises into strong, Pure peace. Now earth and heaven twain raptures die. I knew your presence in the twilight mist, In the world-filling darkness, in the rain That spoke in whispers,—for the world was kissed And laid in sleep.

The Christlike sun Moves to his resurrection in rejoicing heights, And priestly hills partake of morning one by one. I look for you when comes the beautiful blue moon, When earth is as a queen whose soul hath taken flight, Embalmed in the entire strength of perfect light. The immense heaven, a vase of utter silence, towers Vastward, beyond where dreams the unawakened moon, Holding infinity and her invisible flowers.

The hours drum up to sunset; now the west awakes To armies. Suddenly across the firmament Couriers of light spur forth their captain's high intent. Now devout legions, mustering heavenward without cease, Face the hushed hordes of night. A trumpet-radiance breaks— I see the young ranked glories marching down to peace. Twilight, and great with silence of beginning dreams, Yet haunted still by broken hosts in brave retreat, Of blameless cohorts whelmed into sublime defeat, Which, darkly under world their ragged spears withdraw, Shall rise tofirethe night in far victorious gleams, When over the towered east leaps the white sword of dawn.

So do I want you, when in heavenly spaces God Slips His white wonders on the silent trail of time; When out the smoking eve begins to slowly climb A great, red, fearsomeflower,about whose fatal face The faint moths gather and die—till withered pale, she nod Far in the west, and morn the little dreams shall chase. Now is the world at peace; Heaven unto her heart Holdeth sublimities afar from touch of day, Presents divine the fates shall never take away, Unfaded memories, immortal ponderings, The little knock of prayer whereby are thrown apart Those inner doors which lead into all priceless things.

O night, mother divine of poetry and stars! O thou whose patient face is nearest unto God, Thou of chaste feet with beautiful oblivion shod, Having the dear, swift-winged dark within thy hands,— The prison invisible of souls thy peace unbars, And love and I rise up into unspoken lands. Life, I bid thee to say. Who hath taken away Her who sate at my side.

For whiter is she than any pearl; But the nights be lonely and dread. Life, what hast thou done with thy loveliest girl? Look to the wood, She said. For the white bird, O, the white bird, Sleep he toucheth the white bird, The white bird and the red. Give me her eyes! For I would kiss them asleep, That are so cool and deep, So soft and wondering wide.

Bluer are they than ponds of dream; But the skies be grey o'erhead. Life, where may the eyes of thy fairest gleam? Look to thefield,She said. For the blueflower,O, the blue flower, Night he stilleth the blue flower, The blueflowerand the red. O, for her hair! Her young and wonderful hair, To hide my sorrow there, In the heart of a shining tide. For her hair is more yellow than Heaven's dawn; But the world's last leaves be shed. Life, where is thy youngest angel gone? Look to the west, She said. For the yellow light, O, the yellow light, Death he moweth the yellow light, The yellow light and the red.

Well 'ware art Thou that these have no redress, For always in Thine eyes is all distress Of bodies that without due raiment be; But are there Souls in winter garmentless, Be with them, God! Not for the hungry has my spirit care, Whether their bodies shall befilledor no, With whom the world her bounty will not share, Wherefore they move on feeble feet and slow, Feeling dear Death within their bodies grow: Thou knowest these at pain beyond confess, For sorrow never may Thy ears transgress, Though lips be locked and pain shall hold the key; But are there Souls whom hunger doth oppress.

Be with them, God! Not for the homeless do I ask, where e'er The lights of Hell their haunting faces show, The legion undesired anywhere, Whose hearts Love shall not build in,—who shall sow And reap such loneliness as murder's woe: Thy gracious mouth to these shall acquiesce, Which is so very wonderful to bless The plundered heart with joy held long in fee; But are there Souls that know not Love's caress, Be with them God!

Envoi Father, for this we thank Thee without cesse: Death is the body's birthright, as I guess, But are there Souls that walk in hopelessness, Be with them God! Ere my day be troubled of coming darkness, While the huge whole sky is elate with glory, Let me rise, and making my salutation, Stride into sunset. Cloaked in green thunder are the sudden shores Guarding the lintel's gold, whence of the wall Leaps the white echo; and within, the fall Is heard of the eternal feet of wars. Here, at high ease, saw I those purple lords, Sipping the wine of unforgetfulness, Upon thrones intimate with all the skies: Roland, and Richard, 'mid the shining press; Leonidas, belted with living swords; And Albert, with the lions in his eyes.

There is a journey, And who is for the long road Loves not to linger. For him the night calls, Out of the dawn and sunset Who has made poems. Oh thou that mournest thy heroic dead Fallen in youth and promise gloriously, In the deep meadows of their motherland Turning the silver blossoms into gold, The valor of thy children comfort thee.

Oh thou that bowest thy ecstatic face, Thy perfect sorrows are the world's to keep! Wherefore unto thy knees come we with prayer, Mother heroic, mother glorious, Beholding in thy eyes immortal tears. Or is the world so wide That souls may easily forget their speech, And the strong love that binds us each to each Who have stood together watching God's white tide Pouring, and those bright shapes of dreams which ride Through darkness; we who have walked the silent beach Strown with strange wonders out of ocean's reach Which the nextfloodin her great heart shall hide?

Do not forget me, though the sands should fall, And many things be swept away in deep, And a new vision uttered to the shore,— If after days bespeak me not at all, Nor other's praise awake my song from sleep, Nor Poetry remember, anymore. A cette intervention se seraient jointes les troupes de Wrangle qui auraient traverse la Roumanie A leur retour de la con- ference energetique de Londres, se rendant en U. Dans l'organisation de I'intervention le role directeur appartient a la France qui en a conduit la preparation avec l'aide active du Gouvernement anglais In the organization of the intervention the chief role belongs to France which has pre- pared it with the active aid of the English government But when it rains chickens we'll all catch larks —to borrow a phrase from Karl the Marks.

As a child he was puny;shrank from noise hated the girls and mistrusted the boise, didn't like whisky,learned to spell and generally seemed to be going to hell; so his parents,encouraged by desperation, gave him a classical education and went to sleep in their boots again out in the land where women are main. You know the rest: But every bathtub will have its gin and one man's sister's another man's sin and a hand in the bush is a stitch in time and Aint It All A Bloody Shime and he suffered a fate which is worse than death and I don't allude to unpleasant breath. Our blooming hero awoke,one day, tofindhe had nothing whatever to say: For what did our intellectual do, when he found himself so empty and bio?

Not I am a fake,but America's phoney! Not I am no artist,but Art's bologney! Or—briefly to paraphrase Karl the Marx— 'The first law of nature is,trees will be parx. For whoso conniveth at Lenin his dream shall dine upon bayonets,isn't and seam and a miss is as good as a mile is best for if you're not bourgeois you're Eddie Gest and wastelands live and waistlines die, which I very much hope it won't happen to eye; or as comrade Shakespeare remarked of old All that Glisters Is Mike Gold but a rolling snowball gathers no sparks —and the same hold true of Karl the Marks.

A warm, serene, soft heaven gazes down With dreamy eyes upon thefiend-crampedworld. The rosy eastern glow, the sun's I Come, Patters about the sky, and coos, and smiles— Sweet babe with tender, rose-begetting feet. From a black corpse of tree, the hideous rasp Of staring grackles, clucking and bowing each In drivelling salute, splits the soft air To inharmonious fragments; everywhere A nervous, endless, hoarse, incessant chirp Of sparrows telling all the evil news.

Ah, God—for the flower-air of Spring! To see The world in bud! To press with eager feet The dear, soft, thrilling green again! To be Once more in touch with heaven upon earth! One soul-toned thrush's perfect harmony, One little warbler's huge felicity, One buttercup! Fine as cloth Moon-spun on elfin loom,each filmy wall, Light as a buoyant cloudlet's feathery froth, Frail as a lily's face,soft as a silver moth.

Ill Night shall eat these girls and boys. Time makes his meal of thee and me. Love a broken doll shall be; the moon and sun like tired toys with all whereat joined hearts rejoice shall drop softly into the sea. Night shall eat these girls and boys. Love,lady,prizeth wisely thee; whose white and little hand annoys the universal death,pardi: O Pilgrim of green springtide and blue skies, Thy heart is dear to men of every age, All sympathy is in thy withered page, Whose soul was singing ere thy hand was wise.

Ye spell, Beaneath his feet who walked in Heaven and Hell, "L'ltalia. Silent he stands, and like a sentinel Stares from beneath those brows of dread renown. Terrible, beautiful face, from whose pale lip Anathema hurtled upon the world, Stern mask, we read thee as an open scroll: What if this mouth Hate's bitter smile has curled? These eyes have known Love's starry fellowship; Behind which trembles the tremendous soul. On earth thou knew'st me not; Steadfast through all the storms of passion,thou, True to thy muse,and virgin to thy vow; Resigned,if name with ashes were forgot, So thou one arrow in the gold had'st shot!

I never placed my laurel on thy brow, But on thy name I come to lay it now, When thy bones wither in the earthly plot. Fame is my name. I dwell among the clouds, Being immortal,and the wreath I bring Itself is Immortality. The sweets Of earth I know not,more the pains,but wing In mine own ether,with the crowned crowds Born of the centuries.

Centuries wheel and pass, And generations wither into dust; Royalty is the vulgar food of rust, Valor and fame, their days be as the grass; What of today? These treasures of rare love and costing lust Shall the tomorrow reckon mold and must, Ere, stricken of time, itself shall cry alas.

Sole sits majestic Death, high lord of change; And Life, a little pinch of frankincense, Sweetens the certain passing LOVE POEMS I I have looked upon thee—and I have loved thee, Loved thy mouth, whose curve is the moon's young crescent, Loved thy beauty-blossoming eyes, and eyelids Petal-like, perfect; I would brush the dew in a flashing rainbow From thy face's twain mysterious flowers, And, supremely throned on the lips' full luna, Soar into Heaven.

Are you not with me at all times, faithfully standing, The soul of that golden prelude which is the childhood of day, By each imperishable stanza called a moment, Unto the splendid close, glory and light, envoi, Followed with stars? Verily you were near to me, To watch the strong boy-swallows carolling in sunset, To barter day and thought for night and ecstasy, To dream great dreams, you of my heart; to live great lives. You are the sunset. You are the long night of peace. And dawn is of you, a thrilling glory frightening stars.

Ill Thy face is a still white house of holy things, Graced with the quiet glory of thy hair. Upon thy perfect forehead the sweet air Hath laid her beauty where girlhood clings. Thine eyes are quivering celestial springs Of naked immortality, and there God hath Hope, where those twin angels stare, That sometimes sleep beneath their sheltering wings. The seals of love on those strong lips of thine Are perfect still; thy cheeks await their kiss. Thou art all virginal; God made thee His. Lost in the unreal life, the deathful din, Man bows himself before the Only Shrine— Who shall go in, O God—who shall go in?

A cup of sorrowful incense, A tree of keen leaves, An eager high ship, A quiver of superb arrows. What is thy breast to me? A flower of new prayer, A poem of firm light, A well of cool birds, A drawn bow trembling. What is thy body to me? The real monster is lurking. And soon, he will come for me. Rose and Thorn 1. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Blood Red Rose , please sign up. How is this short story is a good read?

See 1 question about Blood Red Rose…. Lists with This Book. Book 1 in trilogy. Blood Red Rose Book 2: Pure White Rose Book 3: Feb 22, warhawke rated it really liked it Recommends it for: First Person - Dual Rating: After years of hard work, Harlow Granger was finally living her dream as a professional ballet dancer. Fresh from the success of her show, she knew her life was about to change.

However, it was far from what she thought it would be after she captured the attention of the wrong person. Rueben Thorn liked pretty little things. When he first saw Harlow, he knew he needed to own her. With his resources, he Genre: With his resources, he vow to make her his no matter what. And when I saw something as beautiful as she was, I had to keep it. Thorn was a mysterious character. He's rich and powerful, but lived a secretive life. Even though he seemed controlling, I like how he was considerate and caring in his own way. Harlow might be shy and timid but she was ambitious - some up to the point that it looked like she's over her head.

She's also very compassionate especially towards people she cared about. I felt like a whore. I was a whore. For that man, I would have done anything. I like the overall concept of the story and I'm happy with the dirty part. However I feel a little disconnected with the main characters because there were contradictions in their thinking and actions. I actually prefer the supporting characters better when it comes to consistency. There were also instances that needed more answers now than later in the series.

Blood Red Rose is a story of hidden desires. This is the first book of Rose and Thorn, a dark romance trilogy. Books in the series: View all 10 comments. Feb 21, CC rated it really liked it Shelves: At 18 years old, Harlow Granger is an aspiring ballerina on the cusp of getting her big break until one fateful day when she is taken against her will. Upon realizing her predicament, Harlow begins training as a submissive all in the expectation that she will serve her master. Admiring her from afar, he knew she would be perfect for hi At 18 years old, Harlow Granger is an aspiring ballerina on the cusp of getting her big break until one fateful day when she is taken against her will.

Admiring her from afar, he knew she would be perfect for his needs and Harlow seems to bloom under his watchful eye despite the harsh circumstances. It made me want to sob. While she clings to the hope of escaping, certain developments arise until the inevitable happens.

Jane Austen at 200: still a friend and a stranger

I ate his cum like a whore and felt every bit the broken plaything he wanted to turn me into. The tone is also conflicting in that what Harlow experiences and feels seems to tilt on its axis throughout her plight. Unsure of what she understands, Harlow begins to direct her feelings in ways that will only cause more harm.

With being the first book in a series, much was introduced but there are many questions that remain about Harlow and Thorn. In Blood Red Rose Fawn Bailey pens a narrative that is rich in erotica and creates vulnerable characters that cause different reactions.

Rose and Thorn series: View all 17 comments. Apr 27, Paganalexandria rated it did not like it Shelves: I was drawn to this for the ballet element in the beginning, but repelled by "breaking the girl" process. I like dark, but this isn't my jam. I like my sociopaths more possessive than this. View all 9 comments. I love dark books but this one went too far and too disgusting. I wanted to lie to her.

I really fucking did. But when I opened my mouth, the truth spilled out. Begging to be without me. The only one… without a say. I saw beautiful things and I took them away from where they grew and prospered. It was the case with Harlow, and it had been the case with my very first rose. I knew that without a shadow of a doubt. If I had to keep her against her will, I would. It made me a bad man. I like pretty, obedient little girls. I spent the night in an armchair across from her. She would just need to accept it. But it hurt me too, the way she recoiled, never so much as giving me a second glance.

My one mistake, my one fucking vice. Of all my sins, the nastiest, most unforgivable one — keeping her caged, fucking trapped, making her my captive. She would never be a free woman. If she was going to get away from me, she would have to escape. She could try, of course. Keep her blooming for me forever. There was no excuse, and there was no way back. All there was left to do was for me to forgive him. It would take a long time. We were both so fucked up. Let me be what you want. Apr 26, Dora Koutsoukou rated it liked it. View all 4 comments. View all 3 comments.

Story started out so promising. Such darkness and delicious drama. Gray readers will love it! This review is my personal opinion of this story. As usual my personal opinion should have ZERO influence on your experience with the story. With that being said, read, enjoy, and leave a review!

Mar 02, Kathleen R. Feb 23, April Symes rated it it was amazing Shelves: At 18 years old, Harlow Granger is an aspiring ballerina on the cusp of getting her big break until one terrible day when she is kidnapped against her will and spirited away. When he first saw Harlow, he knew he needed her, had to own her, make her his anyway he possibly could. Thorn is a man on a mission and Harlow is that mission. This is such a dark romance with its sensitive triggers, dark and delicious alpha male, innocent and sweet virgin heroine. I At 18 years old, Harlow Granger is an aspiring ballerina on the cusp of getting her big break until one terrible day when she is kidnapped against her will and spirited away.

There are several supporting characters that had me wondering what their motives were and the ending ended on a cliffhanger. And Thorn is the classic antihero but one that you do come to fall for. Harlow is one strong woman to go thru everything she did. This is a twisted, dark, angsty, hidden desires and heartbreaking passions new series by Ms Fawn Bailey which is the pen name for Isabella Sterling. Hmm it was interesting. I didn't know what to think of Ellis.

I think I liked him in some way and I really thought he was going to try to save Harlow. I didn't care for this one, it was probably just me? I had a migraine from hell so ill blame part of it on that.. I star for the cover! Mar 01, Vivi Chatzikiriakou rated it it was amazing Shelves: Here, you will be forced to embrace your dark self, to reveal your darkest sinful secrets. Because, no matter how brutal this story goes you will not stop wanting more Fawn I " Welcome to the world of the forbidden.

Fawn Isabella what have you done to me!!!! By reading the synopsis of the prequel I had been absolutely sure I was going to love this; and here I am saying it out loud. These is no sweet here, no swooning, only despair and the unpleasant, forbidden, arousal. If kinky or BDSM doesn't appeal to you then please don't proceed any further. Life hasn't treated Harlow Granger well. Taking away her mother at a very young age and having a father who never set his eyes on her or care about, left Harlow to work hard for her living and fullfil her great dream,to be a prima ballerina.

At her eighteen, Harlow finally lands a part at Nutcracker and she wins the audience from the very first performance. That night, Harlow flew in nine heaven but when the lights were off she landed in hell The Mansion which became her new home, where she learns how her body reacts from unfathomable pain to absolute pleasure Now he finally have her; but he needs to brake her first. After all, he likes broken things. He had planned to detail how to force her into submission.

How to train her to please him. This task, however, wasn't easy to Rueben Thorn and it became harder when his twisted dream became reality. Does he really brake her to no return? What transpires in this sinful, dark story is how Harlow deals with her captivity and how brutally she is forced to push her boundaries, mentally and physically, for a man who is never going to give her her freedom.


  • See a Problem?.
  • MEIN MANN (German Edition).
  • Science Fiction Quotations: From the Inner Mind to the Outer Limits.
  • While there is a contract in age and experience between Harlow and Thorn, they both share something similar; they are both broken. Fawn Bailey illustrated a great plot. Her well written narrative brings all the feels and reveals all that raw erotica that Blood Red Rose keeps inside. Being the first book in the series not much have unfold yet.

    However, the dark part the author has embraced, promises the continue of Harlow and Thorn to be epic. I hope I intrigued your imagination a little and make you grab the book, finding out what's really happening because there is no way to tell you myself. Until next time, enjoy your free time reading great books with the most unforgettable stories. Feb 19, Misty Schott rated it it was amazing. This is most definitely a Dark book and I absolutely loved every sinful dark word of it!!! This book is the first in a trilogy and even though it doesn't leave you hanging story wise know there is more to come with Thorn and Rose's story.

    Thorn is a wonderfully dark alpha male and I loved and hated this man throughout this book. Harlow aka Rose is our beautiful ballerina and I felt as though I was thrust into her mind and I was able to feel what she was feeling and I want more. There is a lot This is most definitely a Dark book and I absolutely loved every sinful dark word of it!!!

    There is a lot that happens in this book and the story is written so well and if you are like me and you love a heart wrenching dark romance, then you will definitely love this book. I am totally looking forward to the rest of this trilogy and this book is definitely one-click worthy. Make sure you grab this book, you will not be disappointed. Feb 21, SansaReads rated it it was amazing.

    Apr 28, Shari Kay marked it as not-for-me. Feb 22, Heather rated it liked it Shelves: My review is 3. I was so excited for this book but it felt like a bit of a let down. It was ok but I had a hard time staying interested. Apr 20, Terri Lynn rated it did not like it. I waited til the last book was out to start this series. I thought from reading the prequel that , Thorn would of been a stalker, psychotic kind of crazy Not rape and abuse I like dark reads, I really do. This is not starting off good for me.

    I do not like how Thorn is letting another man rape Harlow, to shape her for him. I thought since he claims he wants her to love him he would come off more kinder, chain her to a bed, make her d I waited til the last book was out to start this series. I thought since he claims he wants her to love him he would come off more kinder, chain her to a bed, make her depend on him, something like that. I did not know it would of been like this. It lacks insight not enough details.