Many directions

by heartscore

Another dark lady (by Edwin Arlington Robinson) Think not, because I wonder where you fled, That I would lift a pin to see you there; You may, for me, be prowling anywhere, So long as you show not your little head: No dark and evil story of the dead Would leave you less pernicious or less fair— Not even Lilith, with her famous hair; And Lilith was the devil, I have read. I cannot hate you, for I loved you then. The woods were golden then. There was a road Through beeches; and I said their smooth feet showed Like yours. Truth must have heard me from afar, For I shall never have to learn again That yours are cloven as no beech’s are.
What lips my lips have kissed (by Edna St. Vincent Millay What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.
One way ticket (by Langston Hughes) I pick up my life, And take it with me, And I put it down in Chicago, Detroit, Buffalo, Scranton, Any place that is North and East, And not Dixie. I pick up my life And take it on the train, To Los Angeles, Bakersfield, Seattle, Oakland, Salt Lake Any place that is North and West, And not South. I am fed up With Jim Crow laws, People who are cruel And afraid, Who lynch and run, Who are scared of me And me of them I pick up my life And take it away On a one-way ticket- Gone up North Gone out West Gone
Fire (by Langston Hughes) Fire, Fire, Lord! Fire gonna burn ma soul! I ain’t been good, I ain’t been clean— I been stinkin’, low down, mean. Fire, Fire, Lord! Fire gonna burn my soul! Tell me, brother, Do you believe If you wanta go to heaben Got to moan an’grieve? Fire, Fire, Lord! Fire gonna burn ma soul! I been stealin’, Been tellin’ lies, Had more women Than Pharaoh had wives. Fire, Fire, Lord! Fire gonna burn ma soul! I means Fire, Lord! Fire gonna burn ma soul!
Many red devils (by Stephen Crane) Many red devils ran from my heart And out upon the page, They were so tiny The pen could mash them. And many struggled in the ink. It was strange To write in this red muck Of things from my heart.
There's been a death in the opposite house (by Emily Dickinson) There's been a death in the opposite house As lately as today. I know it by the numb look Such houses have alway. The neighbours rustle in and out, The doctor drives away. A window opens like a pod, Abrupt, mechanically; Somebody flings a mattress out, - The children hurry by; They wonder if It died on that, - I used to when a boy. The minister goes stiffly in As if the house were his, And he owned all the mourners now, And little boys besides; And then the milliner, and the man Of the appalling trade, To take the measure of the house. There'll be that dark parade Of tassels and of coaches soon; It's easy as a sign, - The intuition of the news In just a country town.
Richard Cory (by Edwin Arlington Robinson) Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich - yes, richer than a king - And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Kid sleepy (by Langston Hughes)
Factory windows (by Vachel Lindsay) Factory windows are always broken. Somebody's always throwing bricks, Somebody's always heaving cinders, Playing ugly Yahoo tricks. Factory windows are always broken. Other windows are let alone. No one throws through the chapel-window The bitter, snarling, derisive stone. Factory windows are always broken. Something or other is going wrong. Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark. End of factory-window song.
Fast rode the knight ( by Stephen Crane) Fast rode the knight With spurs, hot and reeking, Ever waving an eager sword, "To save my lady!" Fast rode the knIght, And leaped from saddle to war. Men of steel flickered and gleamed Like riot of silver lights, And the gold of the knight's good banner Still waved on a castle wall. . . . . . A horse, Blowing, staggering, bloody thing, Forgotten at foot of castle wall. A horse Dead at foot of castle wall.
The road not taken (by Robert Frost) TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5 Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, 10 And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. 15 I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
The story of the ashes and the flame (by Edwin Arlington Robinson) NO matter why, nor whence, nor when she came, There was her place. No matter what men said, No matter what she was; living or dead, Faithful or not, he loved her all the same. The story was as old as human shame, 5 But ever since that lonely night she fled, With books to blind him, he had only read The story of the ashes and the flame. There she was always coming pretty soon To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes 10 That had in them the laughter of the moon For baffled lovers, and to make him think— Before she gave him time enough to wink— Her kisses were the keys to Paradise.
Credo (by Edwin Arlington Robinson) I cannot find my way: there is no star In all the shrouded heavens anywhere; And there is not a whisper in the air Of any living voice but one so far That I can hear it only as a bar Of lost, imperial music, played when fair And angel fingers wove, and unaware, Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are. No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call, For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears, The black and awful chaos of the night; For through it all--above, beyond it all-- I know the far sent message of the years, I feel the coming glory of the light.
The mill (by Edwin Arlington Robinson) The miller's wife had waited long, The tea was cold, the fire was dead; And there might yet be nothing wrong In how he went and what he said: "There are no millers any more," Was all that she had heard him say; And he had lingered at the door So long that it seemed yesterday. Sick with a fear that had no form She knew that she was there at last; And in the mill there was a warm And mealy fragrance of the past. What else there was would only seem To say again what he had meant; And what was hanging from a beam Would not have heeded where she went. And if she thought it followed her, She may have reasoned in the dark That one way of the few there were Would hide her and would leave no mark: Black water, smooth above the weir Like starry velvet in the night, Though ruffled once, would soon appear The same as ever to the sight.


released January 1, 2007


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heartscore Bad Homburg Vor Der Höhe, Germany

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