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| Sooner or Later, Part 4 of a series, cont'd |
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| Amarantha sweet and faire, Ah brade no more that shining haire! As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee let it flye. ..... See 'tis broke! Within this Grove The Bower, and the walkes of Love, Weary lye we downe and rest, And fanne each others panting breast, Heere wee'l strippe and coole our fire In Creame below, in milke-baths higher: And when all Well's are drane dry, I'le drink a tear out of thine eye. I'll so offend to make offence a skill; Redeeming time when men think least I will |
| A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora... Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me.... But oh! That deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! As holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! |
| Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.... |
| He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry, Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!" To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!" But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!" While, for those who preferred a more forcible word, He had different names from these: His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends," And his enemies "Toasted-cheese." ... "His form is ungainly -- his intellect small --" (So the Bellman would often remark) "But his courage is perfect! And that, after all, Is the thing that one needs with a Snark." |
| CAUTION ROAD OUT AHEAD |
Never 'preciated when I learned that one that 'e was just lookin' to get 'is ticket punched.... Then there's Coleridge...wonder 'f Xanadu was really just a Laudanum-stoned dream, 'r 'f he knew a bit about 'at what goes bump in th'night.... Close to two hours slipped away in this pursuit. Sometimes he'd fall silent as he ruminated on a particular piece, and the associations that it held for him. But eventually, the memory would play itself out, and another set of lines would make its way to his lips, and fill the air inside the car. Whan that Aprill with his shoures sweet The drought of March hath perc-ed to the roote, And bath-ed every vein in swich licour Of which virtue engendr-ed is the flower, Whan Zephyrus eek with his sweete breeth Inspir-ed hath in every hold and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halve cours y-run And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye (so priketh them Nature in hir corages), Thanne longen folk to goon on pigrimages, It struck him somehow appropriate that it was in the midst of the introduction to the Canterbury Tales that he made the final turn towards...well, home. He was surprised to think of it that way, and then, not. And it was most certainly a pilgrimage that he was undertaking. He was passing signs now -- warnings: |
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