Rythmic Fancies and Fantastic Rhymes

Framsida
Blair-Murdock, 1915 - 60 sidor
"Sentimental, solemn, humorous and ill-humorous" poems from San Francisco solicitor and University of California graduate.
 

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Sida 46 - My task is done, my song hath ceased, my theme Has died into an echo; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp— and what is writ, is writ; Would it were worthier...
Sida 46 - The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ ; — Would it were worthier ! but I am not now That which I have been — and my visions flit Less palpably before me — and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.
Sida 38 - The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me, Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
Sida 46 - Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been — A sound which makes us linger; — yet— farewell ! Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene Which is his last, if in your memories dwell A thought which once was his, if on ye swell A single recollection, not in vain He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain.
Sida 55 - A gauze o'er my bosom throw, And let me inhale the odors That over the garden blow. I dreamed I was with my Antony, And in his arms I lay; Ah, me ! the vision has vanished — The music has died away. The flame and the perfume have perished — As this spiced aromatic pastille That wound the blue smoke of its odor Is now but an ashy hill.
Sida 58 - To brood in the tree's thick branches, And the shadow of sleep was gone ! Then I roused and roared in answer, And unsheathed from my cushioned feet My curving claws, and stretched me, And wandered my mate to greet. We toyed in the amber moonlight, Upon the warm flat sand, And struck at each other our massive arms — How powerful he was and grand...
Sida 56 - Oh! for a storm and thunder — For lightning and wild fierce rain! Fling down that lute — I hate it! Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash them and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred. Hark! to my Indian beauty, — My cockatoo, creamy white, With roses under his feathers, — That flashes across the light.
Sida 56 - Till he hears you even in Rome. There — leave me, and take from my chamber That wretched little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaningless, And its silly tinkling bell ! Take him, — my nerves he vexes — The thing without blood or brain, — Or, by the body of Isis...
Sida 59 - Then down to the fountain we loitered. Where the antelopes came to drink ; Like a bolt we sprang upon them, Ere they had time to shrink; We drank their blood and crushed them. And tore them limb from limb.
Sida 55 - They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odors fan me Till into my veins they creep; Reach down the lute, and play me A melancholy tune, To rhyme with the dream that has vanished And the slumbering afternoon.

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