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diff --git a/old/60606-8.txt b/old/60606-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bb08981..0000000 --- a/old/60606-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2392 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glebe 1913/09 (Vol. 1, No. 1): Songs, -Sighs and Curses, by Adolf Wolff - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Glebe 1913/09 (Vol. 1, No. 1): Songs, Sighs and Curses - -Author: Adolf Wolff - -Editor: Alfred Kreymborg - Man Ray - -Release Date: November 1, 2019 [EBook #60606] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLEBE 1913/09 (VOL. 1 *** - - - - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was -produced from images made available by the Blue Mountain -Project, Princeton University. - - - - - - - Songs, Sighs and Curses - - THE - GLEBE - - VOLUME 1 - NUMBER 1 - - SEPTEMBER - 1913 - - PRICE OF THIS - ISSUE 60 CENTS - - By Adolf Wolff - - - - - Songs, Sighs and Curses - - - By - Adolf Wolff - - SEPTEMBER 1913 - - - Published by THE GLEBE at Ridgefield, - New Jersey - - - Copyright, 1913 - By - Adolf Wolff. - - - TO LEONARD D. ABBOTT. - - Dear Friend:--To whom else than to you can I - dedicate this little wreath of poems? Weeds - or flowers, without you, they would not have - been. Your interest, your sympathy, your - appreciation were the sunshine and rain that - brought them forth--to blossom for a moment - or forever. - - ADOLF WOLFF. - - -NOTE.--All the poems in this volume were written in the year 1912-13. -When asked in what sequence he would arrange his poems, Wolff threw the -manuscripts in the air, saying, "Let Fate decide." They now appear in -the order in which they were picked up from the floor. This is true of -all except the proem and those comprising the group under the heading -"To One Who Could Not Love," which appear towards the end of the volume. - - - - - THE PROEM - - - I sing and sigh and also curse, - Thus only can I give expression - To that which will not brook repression; - I am alive, I have a voice, - And so I sing and sigh and curse-- - All life doth sing and sigh and curse. - - The joy of love is in my song, - I sigh for pleasures yet untasted-- - For things I dream--o'er moments wasted - And sometimes interrupt my song - With clenched fist to curse a wrong-- - It is a joy to curse a wrong. - - And so I sing and sigh and curse-- - All life doth sing and sigh and curse. - - - - - CAPTIVES - - - I visited the Zoo one dreary day, - And in the lion's house I watched a lion, - A great Numidian lion in his cage, - With eyes three-quarters closed, with haughty gait, - Pace up and down the limits of his cage. - - Was he oblivious of the tyrant bars, - The gaze of human eyes, his captive state, - And did he blink but better thus to see - The jungle's vast expanse? - - He suddenly stood still; and, face to face, - We stood and stared into each other's eyes, - And we each saw in one another's eyes - A royal captive in a wretched cage. - - - - - IF I WERE GOD - - - If I were God--the first thing I would do - Would be to make all women beautiful.-- - All women beautiful--and all men strong. - Then I'd resign--and make myself a man. - That's just what I would do--if I were God. - - - - - OPTIMISM - - - On that cold table, where shameless, without blushing - They spread their nakedness, - I see what yesterday had been a living beauty - And is to-day a corpse-- - A flimsy mass of tissues and of juices, - The prey of autopsy to-day, - To-morrow prey of worms and dissolution. - And whilst the perfume of this lifeless flower, - Concoction made of chemicals and death, - Inflicts an outrage on my sense of odor, - Does disenchantment fill me with disgust? - Does Death's black wing engulf me in its shadow? - And being face to face with life's fragility - Am I made sick of life? - I am not sick of life. - I prize life more knowing how brief it is, - How insecure, how fragile and how fleeting. - I love the eyes bright with the spark of life, - I love them more knowing they'll soon be dimmed. - I love the lips aglow with warmth of life, - I love them more because they'll soon be cold. - I love all flesh that palpitates with life, - I love it more knowing it soon shall be - An inert, flimsy mass of fetid tissue. - I love the voice that rings with sounds of life, - I love it more knowing 'twill soon be silent. - I love the mind pregnant with living thought, - I love it more knowing that soon 'twill be - The tomb of thought. - I therefore let the dead bury their dead, - And like a buzzing bee in quest of flowers - I seek the flowers of life that gladly yield - The sap that love distills to joy--that joy - That is much sweeter than the sweetest honey. - - - - - THE CLOUD - - - There hovers over me a muddy cloud, - Enveloping me in its gloomy shadow, - That dims the native sunshine of my heart, - That dulls the keen perception of the mind, - That stunts the latent powers of the soul, - That smothers all the rising flames of hope, - That cowes the wings of genius that would soar. - - I am forever followed by this cloud, - I can't escape, I cannot flee this cloud, - This muddy, gloomy, hell-begotten cloud-- - The dollar sign is traced upon this cloud! - - - - - QUESTIONINGS - - - Is it because the sun caresses me - And makes me warm with its delightful rays - That it is mine? That it is only mine? - - Is it because I frolic in the sea, - The sea that hugs me with a thousand waves, - That it is mine? That it is only mine? - - Is it because I hold you in my arms - And madly kiss you, calling you my love, - That you are mine? That you are only mine? - - - - - THE LIBERTY I LOATHE - - - I am at large, can go this way and that, - No dungeon walls, no prison bars say halt, - When roving fancies seize upon my feet. - - But am I free? Can I be truly free - When that which lives within me is repressed, - When my true self in vain from deep within - Doth clamor for the right of self-expression? - - What hideous mockery of freedom this! - Put me in jail, put me in jail for life, - Let bread and water be my only fare, - Make rats and spiders my associates. - - But have the light into my dungeon pour - From overhead and give me clay, - Oh, give me lots of clay--the tender flesh, - The oily, tender flesh of mother earth, - - Responsive as a mistress to the touch, - And I will have a feast no king e'er knew, - And taste of pleasures that the gods would envy. - And I will make unto myself a world, - - A world of which myself would be the God, - A world in which my every dream and thought, - My every feeling and my every passion - Would find embodiment in plastic form. - - Oh, for a prison where I could be free! - - - - - ON SEEING THE GARMENT STRIKERS MARCH - - - I see a hundred thousand marching by. - I also see as many, many millions - That are in spirit also marching by. - And lo! methinks this is but a rehearsal - - For the Exodus from the Land of Bondage-- - And I behold with my prophetic eyes - God's chosen people crossing the Red Sea; - The workers of the world, God's chosen people, - Are crossing the Red Sea of Revolution. - And I behold the Industrial Commonwealth, - The Promised Land of plenty and of peace, - Where each one, under his own fig-tree seated, - Shall sing his praises to the Lord of Life. - - - - - THE TOILERS - - - Crouching they cling like vermin to the earth - And with their bleeding fingers scrape the earth - But for a little dust, their sustenance, - A little dust mixed with the sweat of brow, - The blood of fingers and the tears of pain. - - 'Tis not for them the sun shines gloriously, - The flowers bloom, the fruit hangs on the tree, - 'Tis not for them the birds and poets sing, - Or lovely women smile. - - They have to crouch and cling and sweat and scrape - But for a little dust--their sustenance. - - - - - PANEROTICISM - - - I love all women's smiling eyes, - I love all women's tempting lips, - I love all women's loving hearts, - I love all women's tender skin, - I love all women's glowing flesh, - I love all women's weakness, - I love all women's strength. - I love! I love! I love! - - - - - APHRODITE - - - I've seen a Venus not of marble carved - By some great sculptor's hand in ancient Greece, - Unearthed in a mutilated state - By archaeologists in quest of ruins - And pedestaled in temple of fine art. - - The Venus I have seen was made of flesh, - Of ordinary, living, human flesh, - More beautiful than statue e'er could be. - She stands behind a counter in a store - From morning until night dispensing wares-- - A living Venus at five dollars per. - - - - - THE TYRANNY OF RHYME - - - Inane coquette, depart from me, - Thou siren known as Muse of rhyme, - Thou fain wouldst make thy slave of me, - To give thee all my thought, my time, - And all the love that's in my heart, - I know thee well, depart! depart! - - I love a nobler Muse than thee, - She's simple, free, intense, sublime, - Her rhythm has sweeter melody - Than e'er could have thy wanton rhyme. - I gave to Rhythm my soul, my heart, - O Muse of Rhyme, depart! depart! - - - - - LINES INSPIRED ON MEETING A LADY - - To A. L. - - - I look at life as an astronomer - Looks at the star-filled sky. - - Life seems a sky to me, all human beings - Rotating in their orbits are as stars. - Some are obscure and some are luminous, - Some give the light and warmth to solar systems, - Some shed on lovers' heads soft lunar light. - Some, like the comets, cosmic vagabonds, - Are ever tramping the sidereal roads, - And others, myriad-massed in endless stretches, - Compose the glory of the Milky Way. - - I look at life as an astrologer - Believing in the influence of stars, - Their influences evil, beneficial. - Perplexed I ponder o'er the laws mysterious - That govern all the movements of the stars. - And I am troubled in my inmost being - At the appearance of a new-found star - As on the threshold of a mystery. - There hove into my sphere a new-found star - Of primal magnitude, magnificent, - Whose magnetism most irrestistibly - Attracts me to itself. - - Am I to be the happy satellite - Of this fair human sun whose smile or frown - Could make me be a fertile Earth or Moon, - A fertile Earth or frozen, barren Moon? - Oh, will it just continue in its course, - Rotating in its orbit and recede, - Recede, recede, and leave me far behind - Obscure and cold and sad and all alone?... - - - - - OSCAR WILDE - - - The work was done. - The spirit-moulders of immortal souls - Wiped from their brows the sweat and washed their hands, - And standing by, in full contentment gazed - Upon their wondrous work. - - A masterpiece! it was a masterpiece! - A genius to be born unto the world, - One more to swell that galaxy of stars - That makes the cosmic bosom swell with pride. - Another inextinguishable star - To scintillate throughout eternity. - - The angels stood, heads bowed in reverence - Before what was to be the poet Wilde, - And as they stood, these proud progenitors, - In blissful contemplation of their child, - There fell upon them, as a shadow cast - By purple clouds upon a limpid lake, - A sadness that no human voice could tell. - - Forebodings of the suffering of Wilde - Depressed them so that, kneeling down, they wept. - They wept over the dire humiliation - Awaiting him who is the pride of God, - And over man's stupidity they wept-- - The colossal stupidity of man. - - - - - IMPERIALISM - - - With one great gesture of my love-mad arms - Would that I could embrace the entire world, - The entire world of love-inspiring women. - - With one unending pressure of my lips - I wish that I could kiss the entire world, - The entire world of love-inspiring women. - - With one great spasm of ecstasy supreme - Would that I could possess the entire world, - The entire world of love-inspiring women. - - - - - THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR - - - The children of the poor are little plants - That grow in sandy soil midst rocks and weeds - And rusty cans of tin, and other junk - Within the gloomy shadow of a wall, - The gloomy shadow of a mildewed wall; - Poor little plants! poor children of the poor. - - - - - THE CALL OF SEX - - - Know you that bottomless and boundless sea, - Each heaving billow whereof is a woman? - Oh, how my love-parched body craves to plunge - Into the soothing substance of this sea!... - - Oh, for the joy of absolute abandon - To the caressing furore of this sea; - The frantic joy of breaking all restrictions, - Of daring all the dangers of this sea! - - The ecstatic and the harrowing sensation - Of rising, ever rising on a wave, - A giant wave that rises, ever rises, - And then to be replunged into the deep! - - The all-absorbing, all-inclusive deep. - - What if the mouth doth swallow liquid bitter; - What if the heinous sharks men call disease - Snap at my flesh, infecting me with poison, - And even what if that mysterious mermaid, - That moon-pale Undine claim me as her own - And seal our union with the kiss of death? - - What of it? Does not all life end in death? - Give me the death of Tristan and Isolde: - I die for life and love,--I fear not death. - - - - - IMMORTALITY - - - At dawn of day the stars die one by one. - They only seem to die, but do not die. - - There is no death for humans, or for stars. - What we call life and death is only rhythm. - It is all cadence, measure, rest, inflection, - The poetry, the music of the spheres. - - The universe is one stupendous poem - Whereof the suns and stars are words and letters, - And we frail humans, punctuation marks. - - - - - TO LIVE OR NOT TO LIVE - - - To be or not to be is not the question; - The question is, to live or not to live. - Alive or dead or only vegetating, - One thing is sure, we cannot help but being. - - To live! to be alive; to live intensely! - To live with every fibre of the frame, - With every sinew, every nerve and muscle; - To live like this, or not to live at all. - - But we are cowards, we are fools and misers, - Afraid to live--afraid to pay the price-- - The price of youth,--the price of youth is age; - The price--the price of joy is pain. - - And disenchantment is the price of love. - And Life--the price of Life is Death. - - Come, let us live, and let us live intensely. - Life! Life! more Life! more Life at any cost. - - - - - MY RICHES - - - Behold in me one richer than a king, - Richer than Croesus was or Solomon, - Aye, richer even than a Rockefeller. - And lo! the gilded portals of my palace - Are thrown wide open, and the spacious vaults, - Staked full of treasures even to o'erflowing - Remain unguarded, and I welcome thee - To enter and partake of all my riches. - - My palace is my heart; my wealth, my treasure - Is love, immeasurable, boundless love. - - - - - DEPRIVATION - - - The world is like a tapestry to me, - Immense and wonderful, where interwoven - With art most consummate by masterhand - I see a maze of beings and of things. - - I can but see a little at a time, - My sight is limited, the view is vast, - The picture disconcertingly complex. - But often, here and there, a brilliant spot, - A woman's figure in life's tapestry - Attracts my gaze and holds me in its spell. - - And, like a child that's crying for the moon, - My hands would grasp that which delights mine eye, - To press it fondly to my happy heart. - Alas, the world, as tapestry and tomb, - Will not give up its own. - - - - - A SPHINX - - - I like to see a woman wearing furs, - Long-haired and dark and vicious looking furs, - Strong smelling, soft, exotic looking furs, - Contrasting strongly with her brilliant flesh, - Her tender, warm and angel-tinted flesh. - I love the angel and the beast in women. - That's why I like a woman wearing furs. - - - - - EXCUSE ME, MUSE - - - 'Tis not the hour to sing of pink-hued vapors - So softly sailing under azure skies; - Nor of the shadow warm and so mysterious - Cast by the lashes of a woman's eyes. - - 'Tis not the time for soft euphonious sighing - And holding converse with pale lunar light. - 'Tis not the hour for musing and for dreaming, - Excuse me, Muse, I must go out and fight. - - And I will fight as long as infants suckle - In vain at parched breasts devoid of milk; - As long as my poor sisters sell their bodies - For bread and rags, while parasites wear silk. - - As long as slave and master, thief and pauper - Remain such terms as may to man apply, - So long, I say, my lyre shall be a weapon, - My song shall be the rebel's battle cry. - - - - - NOEL - - - Tormented Galilean who art Lord - Of those that crucify thee every day - And every hour and minute of the day - And every hour and minute of the night: - With pious glee they celebrate the night - That witnessed thine appearance upon earth, - That night when angels chanted "peace on earth." - - They chanted "Peace on earth, good will to men," - And thou wert crowned with thorns by hands of men - And thou wert spat upon by mouths of men - And thou hast been betrayed by kiss of men; - Condemned by men and crucified by men, - Aye, crucified and deified by men. - - And every year for many centuries, - On Christmas eve for many centuries, - In churches and cathedrals Christians sing - Their gladness of the coming of the Lord. - The organ's thunder glorifies the Lord, - The priests and ministers exalt the Lord, - The infant Lord the virgin Mary bore; - On Christmas eve it was in Bethlehem: - And whilst they fete the babe of Bethlehem, - Ten thousand babes on earth die painful deaths - And millions live to live lives worse than death - And still the massacre of innocents - Goes on relentlessly. Poor innocents! - - - - - LINES TO THE WOOLWORTH BUILDING - - - Imposing pile of pale and polished stone, - Cathedral-like in thy solemnity, - Thy rectilinear grandeur awes my soul, - And makes me shudder! - Monstrous sacrilege, O when before - Has thing so big been made for end so small? - - Unholy Temple of the priests of lucre, - How most appropriate thy pallor is, - So like in color to the tint of bones-- - Thy slender, upright lines so much like bones-- - So much like children's bones. - - How like unto the pyramids thou art; - The tyrants' tombs, built by a million slaves. - And like the pyramids, ere long - Thou'lt be the relic of an age gone by. - - - - - THE ARTISTS - - - They have been born to model and to mould - The shapeless clay into expressive form - Even as gods! to seize the fleeting shades, - The subtle hues of things that pass or stay - And make them live and glow intensely. - - They have been born to tell their wondrous dreams - In rhythmic stanzas full of strength and grace, - To plunge into the very depths of things, - To seek the precious essence that is fit - For distillation to symphonic strain. - - Require them not to leave their sacred sphere, - To mix with common vendors in the mart, - To traffic their creations and to throw - The priceless pearls of genius to the swine - For but a bowl of vinegar and gall. - - O bring to them the little bread and milk - Which they must have to live, and if you can - Rejoice to give them honey. Be to them - What ravens were unto a prophet once. - - Does not the beauty they create or dream - Atone for all our ugly deeds or thoughts, - Even as the saints who pray for those that sin - Sustain the equilibrium that must be - In order that the world may not be doomed? - - Eternal malediction fall on those - Who mock or crucify these chosen ones - And let them be thrice blessed who help to clear - Life's rugged road of thorns for those who pass - And passing, leave this world more beautiful. - - - - - CAIN REFORMED - - - Am I my brother's keeper? Yes, indeed, - I keep him, aye, I keep him hard at work. - I also keep the fruit of all his work - And of his children's work I keep the fruit. - - And when he does not keep the laws I make - That give me power to keep him hard at work, - I am his keeper, keeping him in jail. - Am I my brother's keeper? Yes, indeed. - - - - - GOLGOTHA - - - On the Golgotha of mine inmost being - There stands a crucifix, - And in the deepest recess of my being - In perpetuity Good Friday reigns. - - And always in the stillness of the night, - The endless night within mine inmost being, - I hear the moaning and the supplications - Of him that's crucified within my being. - - I see the wounds of side and hands and feet, - The wounds that glow like rubies in the night, - That cast a lurid glare upon the night, - Those mystic wounds in number like the senses. - - Four horrid wounds upon the hands and feet, - One on the side, thus making five in all, - Just as the senses, making five in all. - - And in the endless night within my being - I hear the moaning and the supplications. - - "Oh, tear me from my cross," entreats the Christ, - "For I am Joy, thy God, the son of Life. - Oh, tear me from my cross," entreats the Christ. - - That cursed instrument of agony, - Is conscience; human conscience is the cross-- - The cross whereon our Joy is crucified. - - My Lord, I will redeem thee from thy cross, - And give thee burial in mine aching heart, - Whence thou shalt rise and henceforth ever reign - Over the Kingdom of the blessed flesh. - - - - - IDOLATRY - - - I stood before a leg in the museum, - A marble leg, a mutilated leg, - Supported by a rod of polished bronze. - This leg of some hermaphroditic god - Was carved in Greece, when ancient Greece was young. - - In deepest reverence I stood and gazed - Upon this relic of an absent god. - And as I stood I wondered if perchance - Idolatry is not this very act, - That thus enshrines an ancient piece of stone, - Whilst living sculptors are compelled to waste - In fruitless idleness that precious power - Which carves the Victories of Samothrace. - - Idolators, ye worship graven stones - But are indifferent to the gods that carve them. - - - - - TO ARTURO GIOVANNITTI - - - Arturo Giovannitti, fellow worker - In song and in revolt, sing on! sing on! - The battling warriors in the war of classes - Have need of your inspired, inspiring voice, - You are the rebel, leader, poet, prophet, - You have already worn the martyr's crown. - - If there be in me just one spark of envy, - It is that I was not like you in gaol. - I envied you that most supreme distinction - Of living in the shadow of the cross - With all the sacred shades of martyred rebels, - A fellow worker of departed Christs. - - - - - NIGHTMARE - - - I had a dream, I had a horrid dream. - I dreamt that Byron travels for a house - That handles wines from Portugal and Spain, - That Shelley is a cashier of a bank, - That Keats is valet to a wealthy Jew, - That Oscar Wilde lays bricks, that Edgar Poe - Is selling silks and satins on the road, - And that Walt Whitman, he of noble height, - Is manager of a department store. - And I would have dreamed on, had not disgust, - A flood of dire disgust, awakened me, - And I myself was forced to rush downtown - To live the life I shudder at in dream. - - - - - LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING HENRI'S PAINTING OF THE LADY IN BLACK VELVET - - - The Lady in black velvet is the night, - The deep, uncanny, weird, mysterious night, - The witching, troubling, awe-inspiring night, - Serene and silent, sweet and subtle night, - Tempestuous, tragic, black and feverish night. - - The Lady in black velvet is the night, - Her robe of black as black as blackest night, - Enfolds a world--a world of sleepless night, - A world of sighs, of cravings and of crimes, - Of maddening joys, of languors that consume, - Of pains unbearable, of livid fears, - Of nightmares and of dreams. - - Then there's the sombre gray of shifting clouds - Whose masses rent asunder now reveal - The radiant luminary of the night, - Her silv'ry, radiant face is Queen of night. - The Lady in black velvet is the night. - - - - - THE BABE - - - Fruit of a moment of supremest bliss, - A passionate embrace, a long drawn kiss, - Soft, pink and warm and chubby little thing, - Most helpless being, despotic as a king. - - Third cousin to the gold-fish, the kitten and the chick, - As free from care as they are, as shame-free and as quick - To feel that life means living and living must be joy, - That nothing is of value unless it be a toy. - - - - - A SCENARIO - - - Scene I. - - The time--a glorious summer afternoon. - The place--somewhere along the Palisades. - Rocks here and there; some trees and many bushes. - - A youthful artist, seated on a rock, - With great strokes paints the sun-illumined Hudson. - - A fair young woman enters on the scene, - Absorbed in picking many kinds of flowers. - - The youthful artist, catching sight of her, - Stands up and drops his palette and his brushes. - And when she sees the youth she drops the flowers. - - They stand in silence looking at each other. - He then approaches her to raise her flowers-- - And then she smiles, and he says foolish things, - Deliciously absurd and foolish things. - - The insects are abuzzing, and the leaves-- - The foliage of the bushes and the trees - Are whispering--are gossiping in whispers. - - He takes her by the hand and kisses her, - He kisses her and takes her in his arms, - And carries her behind a clump of bushes. - - - Scene II. - - The time and place and scene just as before. - From left to right there enters on the scene - Quite simultaneously a man and woman. - Each reads a book while walking, so absorbed - That they well-nigh collide with one another. - He begs her pardon which, of course, she grants. - He asks her if they have not met before, - Her face seems so familiar, and she says: - Perhaps he saw her somewhere at a lecture. - And so they start to talk about their books, - About their lectures and about their books. - They seat themselves upon a rock and talk, - And talk and talk and talk and talk and talk. - The insects are abuzzing and the leaves-- - The foliage of the bushes and the trees - Are whispering, are gossiping in whispers. - And from behind the softly swaying bushes - Escape the sounds of kisses and of sighs, - The kisses and the sighs of youthful lovers. - And all the time the woman and the man - Sit arguing, discussing and discussing - Psychology, sociology and ethics. - So different it is behind the bushes. - And while some hug and kiss and others argue, - A sudden gloom spreads over everything. - The azure sky is now a sky of ink, - The lightning flashes and the thunder claps, - The shower is terrific'ly intense. - Both couples find an overhanging rock, - A scanty shelter 'gainst a raging storm. - A blinding lightning flash, a thunder clap, - All four lie dead. - Is there a moral? - Guess! - - - - - THE TEMPLE - - - Round, full and fertile is her abdomen, - Even as Mother Earth. - O! tree of life bearing the fruit of love, - O! precious shell a precious pearl enclosing, - O! wondrous instrument whereon love plays - A fiery rhapsody, - The echo whereof is a human life. - O! blessed mother of the child of man. - - Ye fools, detach your gaze from godless heavens, - God is right here if you would worship God, - The mystery of life and love is God, - And every pregnant woman is God's temple. - - - - - SHELLEY - - - Lucifer! dripping with celestial splendour, - All aglow with cosmic rebellion, - Thundering forth pious blasphemies, - Chanting sacrilegious hymns, - Thy voice is like unto the trumpet sounds - Of the Archangels of the Apocalypse - Calling the dead to life. - Meteor fallen from the bosom of infinitude - Into the common clay, - Strange visitant from another orb, - Permeated with the music of the spheres, - Replete and radiant with rarest gems, - Perplexing, exciting, soothing, betwitching. - Lucifer! Prometheus! Dionysos! Shelley! - - - - - THE SCULPTOR AND THE CLAY - - - The sculptor, man, in woman mostly sees - The clay of which to model gods of love. - Some, cunning little cupids only are, - The little rascal gods of light flirtation, - Who like the fire-flies on a summer night - Are luminous a moment--and that's all. - - While others are the serious gods of love, - Majestic and intense as life itself, - Mysterious and perplexing as the Sphinx, - Relentless as the furies or as death, - As maddening as poison of the snake, - As soothing as is balm upon a wound, - And sweet as that which passeth understanding. - As sweet as that and sometimes just as bitter. - - Such are the statues man, the sculptor, moulds - Of woman--clay. - - - - - CONTEMPT - - - I spit upon the laws that thieves have made - To give the crooked strength to rob the weak. - - I spit upon a country full of wealth - Where millions live in squalor and in want. - - I spit upon a flag that waves above - A nation made of masters and of slaves. - - I spit upon religions that defend - A hell on earth, and preach a life to come. - - I spit upon all morals that contend - That joy of life is not life's highest end. - - I spit upon the education that - Makes pygmies out of what might have been men. - - Upon this whole damned system do I spit, - And while I spit--I weep. - - - - - WILLIAM MORRIS - - - Dreamer of dreams--dreamer of golden dreams, - Explorer of the rainbow-lands of yore, - Columbus of Arcadian Continents, - Poetic founder of Utopian states. - - Dreamer of dreams? Dreamer of only dreams? - A master worker with the mind and hand - Who made the beautiful and useful wed, - An alchemist who turned all work to art. - - Dreamer of dreams? Maker of wondrous things? - A knight in mortal combat for a cause, - A sower of emancipation's seed, - A master builder of a better world. - - - - - DON JUAN'S SONG - - - From maids yet in their spring-time teens - To full blown thirty summer queens, - I love them all! - - From golden blondes and deep brunettes - To Titian-locked one ne'er forgets-- - I love them all! - - From fairies frail or plump or slender - To women built with queenly splendor, - I love them all! - - From damsels pale and melancholy - To matrons gay and widows jolly, - I love them all! - - From maidens unsophisticated - To syrens well initiated, - I love them all! I love them all! - - - - - EASTER ON FIFTH AVENUE - - - Capital best qualifies the weather - That Easter Sunday donned for the occasion - And the parade was also capital, - It was indeed a capital parade. - - The gorgeous gowns, the stunning Easter hats - Were capital and those hand-made complexions - Down to the escorts groomed with perfect style - Down to the sermons that the preachers preached - In fashionable churches were most capital. - - Indeed the sight I saw that Easter morn - Along Fifth Avenue was capital, - Upon the sidewalks silently and slow - The grand cortège of capital marched on. - - And whilst I was enjoying this grand sight - There rose before my mind another sight: - I saw the street between the sidewalks filled - In compact mass with wan and worn spectators - Who were in silence viewing the parade, - It was a mob of children, men and women - Whose pallid faces and whose piteous rags - Gave to the spectacle a capital contrast, - 'Twas Easter, Easter, lo! The Christ has risen! - Upon the whole the show was capital. - - - - - CONTEMPLATION - - - I went into a house of many lofts, - And in each loft I saw a thousand men, - And women, too, and children, too, I saw. - And all around arose a deaf'ning roar-- - The roaring of machines o'er which were bent - The toilers toiling at their tiresome task. - And as I stood and gazed upon this scene - I wondered why it was--I wondered why.... - - I went into a house of gilded halls, - And in each hall there shone a thousand lights, - And many men and women also shone. - Delightful music mingled with perfume. - Around luxurious tables, diners sat - Enjoying luscious viands, mellow wines. - And as I stood and gazed upon this scene, - I thought of toilers and I understood. - - - - - CONFIDENCES - - - I have to go to work to win my bread, - When oft upon my way the Muse of song, - Espying me from far approaches me - And takes me by the hand as tenderly - As would a sister take her little brother. - She whispers words as sparkling as champagne, - As warm as blood, as pure as morning dew, - And so enchants me that I cannot help - But yield unto the tempting muse of song. - She takes me from the world's drear, dusty road - And leads me into that mysterious park - Where lies the limpid lake of inspiration. - The flowers of life and death grow in this park-- - Of love and hate, the flowers of joy and pain, - Of smiles and sighs, of laughter and of tears, - The blooms of hope and those of disillusion. - All, all these flowers grow in this wondrous park. - I drink some water from the Muse's palm, - The water of the lake of inspiration. - And then in silence do I wend my way - Through rows of silent and mysterious flowers, - Inhaling all the odors of the flowers, - The sweet and bitter odors of the flowers. - And like the bee, I also make some honey, - Alas! my honey is not always sweet. - Perhaps because the flowers of life are bitter. - Then I am harshly driven from this Eden - By the compulsion of a god I hate, - And I must go to work to win my bread. - The honey of the poet has no market. - Tempt me no more, dear Muse, or else I'll starve. - - - - - IN THE LIBRARY - - - As she sat facing me the other day - Reading a book, while I was writing verses, - Or rather trying to, for I could not - Detach my gaze from her bewitching visage, - Nor could my mind in rhythmic furrows flow, - Pursuing thoughts to her all unrelated, - When like the heaving billows that are yielding - To the attracting powers of the moon, - My every thought by her has been attracted. - I thus bethought me: "Wherefore write I poems, - When here, before me, breathes a living poem, - Compared to whom, all poems are as dust - Besides a sweetly smelling, blooming flower." - So I lay down my pen and gazed at her. - - - - - BYRON - - - The thought of Byron wakens in my mind - The vision of a solitary tree - Titanic and contorted on a cliff - That overhangs a wild abysmal sea. - Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles, - Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock, - Much like the miser's fingers on his gold. - Within its arteries the sap of life, - The procreative juice in torrents flows, - And gushes forth luxurious vegetation. - The foliage-covered head is always raised - In bold defiance of the elements. - Undaunted by the tempest's fiendish rage, - Calm under the concerted stare of stars, - The fickle lover of a fickle moon. - On balmy days or peaceful summer eves - The rendezvous of master-singer birds. - Perennial, rich, melodious and sad, - Passionate and desolate and wild - And beautiful and always beautiful. - - - - - CHIAROSCURO - - - I met a plum-hued Venus late one night, - Live specimen of pure Egyptian art. - The regal amplitude of tropic zones, - Their rich luxuriance breathed on her face - And radiated from her clothed form. - - Her eyes shone with that lustful brilliancy - Of eyes of jungle prowlers who at night - A-sniffling and a-growling hunt for mates. - - Her mellow, soft and sing-song voice was whisp'ring - Enticing promises of untold joys - To taste of in this paradise of jet. - - Alas! the curse of value, price and profit - Indelibly was branded on her brow, - The brow that ages past was of a savage. - Oh! thou hast conquered glorious Christian progress. - - - - - DESPONDENCY - - - I sadly watch the hours go by, - The hours, the days, the months, the years, - And what's called life shall soon go by, - And helpless and with fruitless rage - I watch the hours of life go by. - - And I must curse when I would bless, - And I who am all love, must hate, - And I who have been born to sing - Must spend myself in moans and tears. - - And must I perish on this rock - A cruel God has bound me to? - Will not some Hercules ere come - And make me free? - - - - - IN MEMORIAM - - - Within the mansion of my memory - There is a sumptuous chapel, where at times - I kneel in deep devotion at the shrines - Of all the blessed women I have loved. - I burn for them the incense of my thoughts; - Before their sacred images I lay - The flowers of my purest sentiments, - And on their altars piously I light - The pallid candles of my vain regrets. - - I oft hold retrospective rendezvous - Within the chapel of the loves of yore. - - - - - SPRING SONG - - - I too shall sing thy glory, Spring, - Oh, season in thyself a song; - In every tongue thy name doth ring - With music we remember long. - Fruehling! Primavera! Spring! - Thy name to whisper is to sing. - - Why should I seek sweet melody - And softly sounding words to say - All that the spring-time means to me? - Why should I make an effort, pray, - When Fruehling! primavera! spring! - To whisper only is to sing. - - - - - TO A FRIEND - - - You sigh because you are not loved. - You only think you are not loved. - I also sighed as you now sigh, - Because I thought I was not loved. - But I was loved--how I was loved! - She lay awake at night and dreamed - Of me, who thought I was not loved. - Some loves like blooms that blush unseen, - Remain unknown and unconfessed, - And we oftimes are best beloved - When loved with love in silence shrined. - So be not sad, dear friend, nor sigh, - But feel assured there is a heart - In this wide world that beats for you. - - - - - I SAW THREE NUNS - - - I saw three nuns go by the other day: - Three upright coffins slowly gliding by. - - Funereal, black and chilling to behold, - The ghastly shadows of a defunct past. - The worms of ignorance and superstition - Give to these dead, the semblances of life. - The past has not yet buried all its dead. - - I saw three nuns go by the other day: - Three upright coffins slowly gliding by. - - - - - A WOMAN LOVES ME - - - A woman loves me! - 'Tis not of her I sing whose womb has been - The primal cradle of my tender self; - I mean not mother-love. - - A woman loves me! - 'Tis not of her I sing who also sprang - From that same source whence also I have sprung; - I mean not sister-love. - - A woman loves me! - I sing of her who "from the mobs of life" - Has chosen me as him to whom alone - She will unlock her body and her soul - To welcome all my love. - - - - - ELIZABETH GURLEY FLYNN - - (The Workers' Jeanne d'Arc) - - - She too a vision had and voices heard: - She heard the groans of slaving, starving workers: - She had a vision of their liberation. - - She also mounted steed and armor donned. - The soap-box or the platform is her steed. - Her coat of mail defiance of the powers. - - She too to victory an army leads. - Her army is the risen proletariat, - In arms against their pitiless exploiters. - - She too is hated by the church and state. - They'd burn her at the stake if they but dared, - Condemned for witchcraft or some other crime. - - She too shall live an ever-shining glory, - In human history, in human hearts-- - An even brighter glory than Jeanne d'Arc. - - The Maid of Orleans routed but the English, - And to a worthless king restored a throne, - To sway a sceptre o'er a land of serfs. - - Lead by Elizabeth we'll rout the masters - And to the workers of the world restore - The earth itself and all its joys and riches. - - Let all men rally round her blood-red banner - Which bears the motto of the revolution: - "Death to all masters! Freedom to all slaves!" - - - - - JEALOUSY - - - As you peruse those heavy, dusty volumes - With tense attention hour after hour, - Whilst totally indifferent to me,-- - To me, who sees in you the book of books, - To whom the very cover of this book, - Your outward aspect, is more interesting - Than the contents of all books ever printed. - - Is it a wonder I would like to build - A mammoth pile of all the books there are - And let the raging fire consume them all? - - - - - MISERS - - - I know of misers meaner than are those - Who lay awake at night to guard their treasure, - Which is in their possession only dust, - A sordid, useless heap of gilded dust - That might have given peace and bread to many. - - The misers whom I mean are fair to see, - Delightful to converse with and to kiss; - They fascinate us with their wondrous eyes - As serpents fascinate the little birds. - They draw us closer to them, ever closer, - Then suddenly like serpents they coil up - And put beyond our grasp their queenly treasures, - Alas! in their possession to remain, - But useless, vain and perishable things - That might have given ecstasy to many. - - - - - SWINBURNE - - - Algernon Swinburne, is there not in thee - Something akin to bells that ring at sea? - In their sound so clear - There is little cheer, - When their knell I hear - I recoil with fear. - Though thy voice be clear as the day's light, - It is pregnant with mystery, death, and night. - - - - - OUR LADY OF INFINITE MERCY - - - I often think of a mysterious woman-- - There must be somewhere a mysterious woman, - Mysterious and most marvelous of beauty, - Most beautiful,--miraculously kind, - Indeed a kindness passing understanding, - So great a kindness that it seemeth madness. - It seemeth madness, for she sallies forth - At dead of night into the dismal streets, - Into the dismal and deserted streets, - Monotously criss-crossing the city, - The monstrous, lightless, heartless, sleeping city, - Where prowling as the vermin shunning light, - Or derelicts adrift on dreary seas, - She seeks the disinherited of joy - She seeks the stunted, the disfigured children, - The starved, diseased and the discouraged children - Of stepmother society, seeks them out, - Whom everybody shuns and no one loves. - She seeks them out and gives herself to them, - This queenly woman, marvelous of beauty, - Entirely gives herself to those of whom - The thought alone makes shudder with disgust. - She gives herself even as the twilight enters - A fetid, vermin-ridden, mildewed dungeon, - A whiff of heaven in a life of hell. - Oh, have you, have you ever seen that woman, - That beautiful, that kind, mysterious woman? - She is our Lady of Infinite Mercy. - Blessed be our Lady of Infinite Mercy! - - - - - A PAGAN'S PRAYER - - - I sought the shrine of Eros and I prayed:-- - O God omnipotent, O God supreme, - O God of love who art the God of Gods, - Behold thy worshipper upon his knees - Prostrated in the dust. - Let not my supplications rise in vain - From depths iniquitous to heights sublime. - O grant me my request, good God of love. - Unlock for me thy secret treasure house - And make me master of the arts of love. - My heart conceives great symphonies of love - That my poor body cannot execute. - I am a Beethoven, I am a Wagner, - My orchestration needs a thousand pieces, - But am restricted to a shepherd's reed. - Reveal to me the secrets of the ancients, - Instruct me in the art of love long lost; - That love of time when Gods and humans mingled. - In love I am a God, in love expression - I am alas! a frail, a weakling human. - O Eros! Eros! Eros! God of love, - Give me the power to love as Gods can love. - - - - - NIETZSCHE - - - A sombre silhouette - Against a sun-rise sky - In solemn solitude, - The wanderer goes by. - - The shadow that he casts - Upon the plains below - Strikes terror to the hearts - Of those that do not know. - - O messenger sublime - Who hailest from that land - Where joy and beauty reign; - If they could understand!... - - If they could understand - The message that you bring, - They'd strew your path with palms; - Hosannahs would they sing. - - Strength superceding faith, - Joy superceding fear: - The Super-Christ has come; - The Superman is near.... - - - - - TO A NEGRO BELLE - - - You make me dream of distant tropic climes, - Luxurious vegetation; nights serene - By burning passion made tempestuous, - The witching scent of rare exotic flowers - That sooth and render sweetly languorous, - Of music soft and weird, whose savage rhythm - Compels each fibre of the frame to dance. - - I see you as the princess of an isle - Whose jungles are replete with beasts of prey, - And whose vast forests ever are alive - With cries and frolickings of birds and apes; - Whose villages of bamboo huts are full - Of dusky-hued and happy naked people. - - Your simple hearted subjects pay you homage; - Prostrated in the dust, they weirdly chant - Thy praises, even as in my own way, - I sing your praises, sweet, exotic princess. - Oh, let me enter your enchanted realm, - And make of me your happy, humble slave. - - - - - WALT WHITMAN - - - Mountain-like he towers, a Matterhorn - Midst many minor peaks; - And like a mountain, mighty, vast and wild; - A finger pointing into boundless space, - A head raised high above the shifting clouds, - A heart that beats in unison with all, - An eye that first beholds the rising sun - And is the last to see her parting glory, - A clarion-call to freedom, - A gesture of revolt, - A world-encircling brotherhood embrace, - An exaltation of the lowly, - A vindication of the truth, - A glorification of the human body, - A declaration of the right of all - To live, to love, to dare and to do, - A hymn to life, a rhapsody of joy! - - - - - LIFE-LUST - - - My mouth--the mouth of my whole being waters - For all the fruit upon the lap of Life; - The luscious fruit of Life, (delicious fruit, - All running over with the juice of joy.) - - Life seems a banquet and my gourmand senses - Would gorge themselves with all good things thereof. - My taste, my touch, my smell, my sight, my hearing - Would drink the seasoned vintages of Life, - And relish all Life's rarest fruits and viands. - - Content to go whene'er the feast is over - Content, the feast was not prepared in vain. - - - - - ON A TALK OF SPINOZA - - - Durant spoke of Spinoza yesterday - And I sat list'ning, feeling, meditating. - And now and ever afterwards will feel - And live and think more deeply than before, - For having heard Durant speak of Spinoza. - - Spinoza! what a mighty, mighty name! - All Alexanders, Caesars and Napoleons-- - Mere specks of dust upon a polished lense, - Compared to that poor polisher of lenses. - - He polished lenses for myopic eyes, - The world's myopic eyes hath need of them-- - And long will need them,--poor myopic world. - My own sight seems improved since I have heard - Durant speak of Spinoza yesterday. - - - - - THE REVOLT OF THE RAGGED - - - We who have but rags to wear, - Let us go out on strike - And face the robber-master class - In all our naked might. - - Do they not hold that man is made - In the image of his God? - So we refuse to desecrate - The image of their God. - - No longer will we soil our limbs, - These beautiful, these wondrous limbs - With filthy, fetid rags. - - Where is the beast so wild, - The reptile or the worm so base in kind, - Would not disdain the rags "creation's kings" - Disgrace their bodies with? - - Oh be not shocked at our forced nakedness, - Ye masters who refuse to clothe your slaves. - Do you not steal the wool that we have shorn, - The cloth we weave, the garments that we made? - You stole our clothes, behold us naked now. - - Let us arise and from our bodies tear - The fetid uniform that brands us slaves. - In countless masses let us rally forth - And through each pore of our free body shout - Our right to life, to liberty, and joy. - - - - - I'VE SEEN A PRINCESS - - - I've read of princesses in fairy tales - And I have sometimes dreamed of princesses - But not until to-day have I beheld, - Beheld or ever spoken to a princess. - Yes, I have seen and spoken to a princess - In body and in mind; in thought and gesture, - Indeed, in every way a perfect princess. - - Since I am not some mighty potentate - In whom it would not seem as sheer presumption - To lay his heart and domains at her feet, - Would I at least could be a humble page - Forever in attendance on his princess, - To serve her and to worship her in silence, - And be allowed as wages for his hire - To breathe within the shadow of her charms. - - But though my princess be reality, - My hopes, my aspirations, my desires, - Alas, are dreams, mere dreams, alas, mere dreams. - - - - - THE GREAT DISCARD - - - I see a mighty junk-heap rising high, - Old bibles, crosses, crescents, six-point stars - And other symbols, idol's fetiches-- - The bloody tools of greed and superstition, - That have tormented man for centuries, - Disfiguring his body and his mind. - I see the flags of all the various nations, - In whose defense men slaughtered one another - Upon this junk-heap also; and the books - Wherein the laws are writ, that give to man - The power over man; - And all the institutions that have helped - To make of man an abject slave or tyrant, - These, too, are on this junk-heap. - - - - - THE SCULPTOR'S RHAPSODY - - - I am a God! - I am drunk with the joy of creating. - At my touch form comes out of chaos. - With a handful of clay I build monuments, - Vaster than the pyramids, - More mysterious than the Sphinx, - As startling as the Colossus of Rhodes. - My statues are austere as ancient cathedrals, - Their silhouette effaces the sky, - Their shadows engulf entire cities. - I am a God! - I am drunk with the joy of creating. - - - - - ATAVISM - - - O, have you ever heard the gutter's call? - E'er felt the strange attraction of the sewer? - Or ceded to the urge from underneath, - To wallow in the mire, to plunge, to sink - Into the frightful abyss of perdition? - Were you e'er tempted from some siren's lips, - To cull the bliss, you know, is venomous? - Or did you feel the satanic desire, - To soil and mutilate the sacred image - Of that ideal you worshiped all your life? - It is the atavistic voice that's waking, - The dormant beast in you. Beware! Beware! - - - - - TO ONE WHO COULD NOT LOVE - - - I - - You told me that you love the water, - The cascades' roaring, rushing water, - The rivers' gently flowing water, - The pools' mysterious silent water, - The erring brooklets' whisp'ring water, - The oceans' moaning, hissing water, - The oceans' seething, sighing water, - It's thundering, caressing water. - My love for you is also as the water, - The roaring, rushing, silent, whisp'ring water. - The thundering, the seething, sighing water. - - Oh, love me, for my love is like the water, - Did you not tell me that you love the water? - - - II - - I've been a profligate till now, - Have squandered of the treasures of my heart - In reckless fashion. - Henceforth my beloved, - Each precious scrap of love, - Each feeling, thought or passion, - Is yours alone. - My very life is yours. - - - III - - You sometime make me dream of fair Granada, - Of olden days of Moorish reign and glory; - At other times you make me feel the gloom - Of Christian Spain, sepulchral and morose. - - You are as the Alhambra when you smile, - Gold-tinted, graceful, radiating joy. - But when you frown or are indifferent, - Then like to the Escurial you are, - Depressing, full of sombreness and chill. - - - IV - - I strolled through lonely by-paths in the park, - It was the hour, it was the mystic hour, - When 'tis no longer day, nor yet is night. - When o'er all nature hangs a solemn hush, - And everything is peaceful and serene. - And thus I strolled along and thought of her-- - And then I sat upon a rustic bench - And thought of her,--and only thought of her. - And o'ver all nature hung a solemn hush; - And I was sad, and it was growing dark. - And as I sat there on the rustic bench - Close by to me I heard two voices speak. - They spoke Italian. Softly did they speak, - And there was sadness in their voices too. - One spoke of Beatrice as angel might - Have spoken of the queen of all the heavens; - The other spoke of Laura as a bard - Would speak of her who might have been the queen,-- - The queen of every kingdom of the earth. - I turned my head and seated by my side - I saw the sad, illustrious Tuscan bards, - The requiem of whose unrequited love - Reverberates throughout eternity. - I did not rise and go, but kept my place. - Is not my love as great as was their love? - And is not she as beautiful, as cold, - As hopelessly indifferent and cold, - As ever Beatrice and Laura were? - And so I also spoke about my love, - Then we were silent sitting side by side. - Upon that rustic bench in Central Park, - Along a lonesome by-path in the park. - It was the hour, it was that mystic hour - When 'tis no longer day nor yet is night; - And o'er all nature hangs a solemn hush, - And everything is peaceful and serene. - Then they both went away so quietly - That I was unaware that they had gone - Until I turned my head and saw them not. - - - V - - My heart is like a man condemned to death, - Who in the corner of his gloomy cell - Hugs one last spark of hope. - - Bright as a diamond in the dark of night, - And as a diamond difficult to crush, - Is this last spark of hope. - - - VI - - Since Orpheus with the magic of his music, - Could charm the wildest beast, why could not I - Enthrall you with the music of my love? - Is not love's music magical enough, - Or is your heart stone deaf? - Even if so! - I will perform a miracle and cause - Your heart to hear love's music. - - - VII - - And even if you loved me not, - If you but knew the pain I feel - When you but breathe a word that's harsh, - When you betray the faintest frown; - And when you mock me for my love, - Or chide me for the least caress, - If you but knew the pain I feel. - - Aye, even if you loved me not, - You ne'er would frown at me or mock - My love for you, or harshly speak, - Or bid me not to kiss your hand; - Instead you'd treat me as a child, - You'd treat me as a child that's sick, - And patiently you would submit - To my caress; you would allow - My feverish hands to stroke your hair, - My quivering lips to kiss your brow, - My famished eyes to feast on you, - And my delirious heart to spin: - To spin a spider's web of love, - To make your heart its captive fly. - - Aye, even if you loved me not, - If you but knew the pain I feel, - Whene'er I think you love me not, - You'd treat me as a little child; - You'd tell me love's sweet fairy tale, - I will believe love's fairy tale. - Please tell me love's sweet fairy tale, - Aye, even if you love me not. - - - VIII - - The sun is warm and bright, - All nature sings; - The song of love and life is in the air, - The flowing waters and the rolling hills, - The grass we tread upon, the birds that fly, - The humming insects, aye, all men, all beasts, - All things are happy in the sun's caress. - - But in my heart, in my unhappy heart, - The icy blast of winter still persists, - And desolation reigns. - Your frown obliterates the sun for me, - And your indifference is worse than death. - And in my heart, in my unhappy heart, - Dire desolation reigns. - - - IX - - This is the tale of an unhappy sculptor, - A shaft of marble radiantly white, - Whose adamantine substance would not yield - To the impassioned efforts of the sculptor. - The chisel struck the irresponsive rock - Again, again, again, but all in vain - Until at last discouraged and exhausted - He sinks down at the foot of this cold stone. - - That might have been a living Galathea, - But is alas the tombstone of Pygmalion. - - - X - - It was a sepulchre I have been wooing: - Fair to behold was she and seeming warm, - But deep within as cold as death itself, - And to love's fervent pleadings irresponsive; - Aye, even as the tomb. - Deaf to the voice of poetry and love, - Alas! she's doubly deaf. - It was a sepulchre I have been wooing. - - - The October issue of THE - GLEBE will present "The - Azure Adder," a one-act - comedy by Charles Demuth. - - Subscription price per year, $3.00 - - - - - Transcriber's Notes - - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Glebe 1913/09 (Vol. 1, No. 1): -Songs, Sighs and Curses, by Adolf Wolff - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GLEBE 1913/09 (VOL. 1 *** - -***** This file should be named 60606-8.txt or 60606-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/6/0/60606/ - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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