Les plus lus ▸
Anne Scott Musil
the only part i loved were the
rippling circles of water and the words
that water wind wood air obey
one law
those ripples wondrous geometrical
perfect eddies circles in my sink
or at a stone's throw
swings clocks seesaws all
that same motion lawful
birds' lever wings
core-petal flower circles
a cut trunk or time: the seasons
coming going returning
or moisture making rain which
moistens then more rain
or our sun-circling
Leaves fall like words
on a page, punctuations
in time.
Summers passing, flights
of geese, the
loosening of ties.
Orange ambiguity
leaf and butterfly
fluttering.
One to fall, crinkle
and wither, the other
freedom and flight.
Where my love waits
A hand has painted stars upon the vault
Which never change,
The trees have turned resplendent gold
But no leaves fall,
The moon hangs full in copper hues
And never wanes,
The night bears warming breezes
But no dawn.
There must be winter, and a sleep
Before we meet,
Till love permits the world to breathe again.
In such a cell with compass and with scale
Some quaint geographer might subtly trap
The oceans and the earth into a map,
Painting the sea and sky with colors pale,
Embellished well with many a quaint design,
The elephant, the bullock and the ape,
The apple, the corn, the winepress and the grape,
The battle axe, the frigate and the mine.
Lo, now, we see the tabulated scheme
Of all the earth; its diagram of story;
But not its mysteries of pain and dream,
Its love, its pride, its passion and its glory.
So Fortunes lie on paper and make no sound,
But with its seasons still the earth turns round.
ON journeys through the States we start,
(Ay, through the world—urged by these songs,
Sailing henceforth to every land—to every sea;)
We, willing learners of all, teachers of all, and lovers of all.
We have watch’d the seasons dispensing themselves, and passing on,
We have said, Why should not a man or woman do as much as the seasons, and effuse as much?
We dwell a while in every city and town;
We pass through Kanada, the north-east, the vast valley of the Mississippi, and the
Southern
States;
We confer on equal terms with each of The States,
We make trial of ourselves, and invite men and women to hear;
We say to ourselves, Remember, fear not, be candid, promulge the body and the Soul;
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:
“What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.
“Now Jove, for once be mighty civil.
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I’ve no more to say,
Give me Maria’s natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.”
“’Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!
The Mountain sat upon the Plain
In his tremendous Chair --
His observation omnifold,
His inquest, everywhere --
The Seasons played around his knees
Like Children round a sire --
Grandfather of the Days is He
Of Dawn, the Ancestor --