Click on the bonsai for the next poem. Open Directory Project at dmoz. If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and do not go gentle into that good night summary pdf one reads it, does it really exist?
Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. Furby, Eliza, Mr_Friss and Miss_Friss. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. Hoping to cease not till death. Nature without check with original energy. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
I am mad for it to be in contact with me. Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Always the procreant urge of the world. Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. I and this mystery here we stand. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? But they are not the Me myself. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. And you must not be abased to the other. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet. A child said What is the grass? How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. And here you are the mothers’ laps. Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children?
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d. And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. Has any one supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
They do not know how immortal, but I know. For me children and the begetters of children. And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. I peeringly view them from the top. I mind them or the show or resonance of them–I come and I depart. The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow. And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my side. My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner. Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.