Be Drunk

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything

Bankers Are Just Like Anybody Else, Except Richer

This is a song to celebrate banks, Because they are full of money and you go into them and all you hear is clinks and clanks, Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills, Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills. Most bankers dwell in marble halls, Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits and discourage withdrawals, And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe betides the banker who fails to heed it,

Get Drunk

Always be drunk. That's it! The great imperative! In order not to feel Time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, Get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.

The Sacrificing Of The Poor Heroes For The Independence (Epic)

The Sacrificing Of The Poor Heroes For The Independence (Epic) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Either they would be independent or martyred they told And without weapons, enough food, necessary products They are fully bold To fight against those armed forces and occupationists, To snatch complete freedom, To ensure the glory of flying in the blue sky, ever open

Before

I. Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far. God must judge the couple: leave them as they are ---Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory, And whichever one the guilt's with, to my story! II. Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,

Autumn

October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown Along the westering furnace flaring red. O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, The burden of your wrongs is on my head.

Alaric In Italy

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? The march of hosts as Alaric passed? His steps have tracked that glorious clime, The birth-place of heroic time; But he, in northern deserts bred, Spared not the living for the dad, Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries From temple and from tomb arise. He passed - the light of burning fanes Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains;

The Evening Of The Mind

Now comes the evening of the mind. Here are the fireflies twitching in the blood; Here is the shadow moving down the page Where you sit reading by the garden wall. Now the dwarf peach trees, nailed to their trellises, Shudder and droop. Your know their voices now, Faintly the martyred peaches crying out Your name, the name nobody knows but you. It is the aura and the coming on. It is the thing descending, circling, here.

Calvary

Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow, Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free, Stung by the mob that came to see the show, The Master toiled along to Calvary; We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee, Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow; We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, -- And this was nineteen hundred years ago. But after nineteen hundred years the shame

The Choir Invisible

Oh, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world,

The Dragon And The Undying

All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings And beats upon the dark with furious wings; And, stung to rage by his own darting fires, Reaches with grappling coils from town to town; He lusts to break the loveliness of spires, And hurls their martyred music toppling down. Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze, Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas. Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night,

Divina Commedia

I.Written March 29, 1864.1. Oft have I seen at some cathedral door . A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, . Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet . Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor . Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er;

Abu Midjan

When Father Time swings round his scythe, Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, So that its juices, red and blithe, May cheer these thirsty bones of mine. "Elsewise with tears and bated breath Should I survey the life to be. But oh! How should I hail the death That brings that--vinous grace to me!"

India 1 - Women Dominated The Republic Day Parade In Delhi

A country where women were subdued and named By the society as "abala' or weak, delicate, powerless; Proved to be an amazing eye-opener for the entire nation, As hundreds of women marched with gusto, style, Their head held high with courage, determination, To strive hard to make their country proud, With their achievements, deeds, vitality of Untiring strength and unbeatable vision for India. The capital of India - Delhi was cold and foggy,

Veteran Sirens

The ghost of Ninon would be sorry now To laugh at them, were she to see them here, So brave and so alert for learning how To fence with reason for another year. Age offers a far comelier diadem Than theirs; but anguish has no eye for grace, When time’s malicious mercy cautions them To think a while of number and of space.

Only The Sound Will Last

Why shall I mind, why? Birds fled to the aquatic side, The sphere is vertical, The sphere is vertical- And move: rise and fall. At the borders of sight, bright stars rotate. The earth stands steady, seen from the heights. All the black holes are altered to confined circuits and links.

If You Were Mine, If You Were Mine,

`If you were mine, if you were mine, The day would dawn, the stars would shine, The sun would set, the moon arise, In holier and yet heavenlier skies. Then unto me the Year would bring A younger April, fresher Spring. I should not then seek sylvan ways For primrose clusters, woodbine sprays, To hear the mavis' matin tale, Or nocturn of the nightingale.

Frustration!

I used to stroll along in the pedestrian way, Most at night times for close of the day, With an anticipation of being so relax and calm, And also searching for something like balm. Just an expectation I had, Not the encountered experiences in life, And I thought the men outside, Were frolicsome and rollicking than the men inside.

Fra Pedro

Golden lights and lengthening shadows, Flings the splendid sun declining, O'er the monastery garden Rich in flower, fruit and foliage. Through the avenue of nut trees, Pace two grave and ghostly friars, Snowy white their gowns and girdles, Black as night their cowls and mantles.

Jesus, Do I Love Thee?

Jesus, do I love Thee? Thou art far above me, Seated out of sight Hid in Heavenly Light Of most highest height. Martyred hosts implore Thee, Seraphs fall before Thee, Angels and Archangels, Cherub throngs adore Thee; Blessed She that bore Thee!