Spires of Grace Church,
For you the workers of the world
Travailed with the mountains…
Aborting their own dreams
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How should they appraise you, who walk up close to you as to a mountain, each proclaiming his own eyeful against the other's eyeful.
Only time standing well off shall measure your circumference and height.
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Pythoness body—arching
Over the night like an ecstasy—
I feel your coils tightening…
And the world’s lessening breath.
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Old plant of Asia -
Mutilated vine
Holding earth's leaping sap
In every stem and shoot
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I love you, malcontent
Male wind -
Shaking the pollen from a flower
Or hurling the sea backward from the grinning sand.
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Warped… gland-dry…
With spine askew
And body shrunken into half its space…
Well-used as some cracked paving-stone…
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-Albert Parsons
went to his death
singing Annie Laurie;
didn't another have
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Last night
I watched a star fall like a great pearl into the sea,
Till my ego expanding encompassed sea and star,
Containing both as in a trembling cup.
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Was there a wind? Tap… tap… Night pads upon the snow with moccasined feet… and it is still… so still… an eagle's feather might fall like a stone. Could there have been a storm… mad-tossing golden mane on the neck of the wind…
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I
He walked under the shadow of the Hill
Where men are fed into the fires
...