Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead.... How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead? Or though forgetting, sing--and she is dead? O hush, Untimely, truant Thrush! ...
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound...
Along, come along, Let's meet in a throng Here of tinkers; And quaff up a bowl As big as a cowl To beer drinkers. The pole of the hop Place in the aleshop To bethwack us,...
She stood waist-deep among the briers: Above in twisted lengths were rolled The sunset's tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the west's cloud-pillared fires.
...The poetry is fine... rewarding reading... Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic boasts an admirable image or two. Brown can write, without a doubt.
Bare bones future Medical schools may be facing a bare bones future, thanks to a shortage of skeletons. According to an article in The Medical Post, most anatomy skeletons come from...
It's mighty lonesome-like and drear. Above the Wild the moon rides high, And shows up sharp and needle-clear The emptiness of earth and sky; No happy homes with love a-glow;...
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;...
The stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, And we can feel the rattling wheel Revolving as we go. Then tread away, my gallant boys, And make the axle fly;...
Its roots are bristling in the air Like some mad Earth-god's spiny hair; The loud south-wester's swell and yell Smote it at midnight, and it fell. Thus ends the tree...
A simple nosegay! was that much to ask? (Winter still gloomed, with scarce a bud yet showing). He loved her ill, if he resigned the task. 'Somewhere,' she cried, 'there must be blossom blowing.'...
In the far green depths of the forest glade, Where the hunter's footsteps but rarely strayed, Was a darksome dell, possessed, 'twas said, By an evil spirit, dark and dread,...
No one goes there now: For what is left to fetch away From the desolate battlements all arow, And the lead roof heavy and grey? Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,...
I was playing with my hoop along the road Just where the bushes are, when, suddenly, There came a shout., I ran away and stowed Myself beneath a bush, and watched to see...