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Brilliant, this day — a young virtuoso of a day. Morning shadow cut by sharpest scissors, deft hands. And every prodigy of green — whether it's ferns or lichens or needles or impatient points of buds on spindly bushes — greener than ever before.

And the way the conifers hold new cones to the light for the blessing, a festive right, and sing the oceanic chant the wind transcribes for them!

A day that shines in the cold like a first-prize brass band swinging along the street of a coal-dusty village, wholly at odds with the claims of reasonable gloom. Oliver Cromwell Written After the Celebration of his Funeral 1 And now 'tis time; for their officious haste, Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans ere all rites were past Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly.

For in a round what order can be shew'd, Where all the parts so equal perfect are? Nor was his virtue poison'd soon as born With the too early thoughts of being king. Thus poor mechanic arts in public move Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go.

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I Love You Sweatheart A man risked his life to write the words. A man hung upside down an idiot friend holding his legs? And his beloved, the next morning driving to work. His words are not meant to be so unique. Does she recognize his handwriting? Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?

And did he call her at work expecting her to faint with delight at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk? She will know I love her now, the world will know my love for her! A man risked his life to write the world. Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always, regardless, no exceptions, always in blazing matters like these: The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame, At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.

They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose, When the rumour ran along the shore: Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its cage; Woe to the pampered Pekinese, that faced Growltiger's rage.

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  • Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships, And woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips! But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been vowed; To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.

    The Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear-- Because it was a Siamese had mauled his missing ear. Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at play, The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey lay.

    This is the one thing needful. Stainvirl's house — Page Some observations on Mrs.

    All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide-- And Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side. And his raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks-- As the Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.

    Growltiger had no eye or ear for aught but Griddlebone, And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly baritone, Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise-- But the moonlight shone reflected from a thousand bright blue eyes. And closer still and closer the sampans circled round, And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.

    The lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives-- For the foe was armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives. Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and junks, They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks. Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly skeered; I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared. She probably escaped with ease, I'm sure she was not drowned-- But a serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.

    The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on rank; Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the plank.

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  • He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop, At the end of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop. Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the land; At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.

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  • Rats were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock, And a day of celebration was commanded in Bangkok. Mostly what I came for was a last glimpse Of the rock hanging over my cot, that towering Sheerness fifty fathoms high screed with ferns And failing tree roots, crumbling footholds And dour smile. And I, myself, what did I make of it? The voices coming into my head Welcoming kin, alive or dead, my eyes Jerking to the roadside magpie, Its white tail-bar doing a hop, skip and jump.

    Admonitions To A Special Person Watch out for power, for its avalanche can bury you, snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain. Watch out for hate, it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out to eat off your leg, an instant leper. Watch out for friends, because when you betray them, as you will, they will bury their heads in the toilet and flush themselves away.

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    Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.

    Watch out for games, the actor's part, the speech planned, known, given, for they will give you away and you will stand like a naked little boy, pissing on your own child-bed. Watch out for love unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes , it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will end.

    It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land.

    A fever, in a few days, snapt off the thread of her life, and made me the child of affliction, when I had not a thought of the mourner. The big fields were very useful for the kids to play in.

    To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief. Special person, if I were you I'd pay no attention to admonitions from me, made somewhat out of your words and somewhat out of mine. I do not believe a word I have said, except some, except I think of you like a young tree with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root and the real green thing will come.

    Oh special person, possible leaves, this typewriter likes you on the way to them, but wants to break crystal glasses in celebration, for you, when the dark crust is thrown off and you float all around like a happened balloon.



    at 13:41

    It is not pleasant to you?


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