poem content,pred,label,score,anger,disgust,fear,joy,neutral,sadness,surprise,age,type
"Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the Turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance and no space was seen
'Twixt this Turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine
That the Turtle saw his right
Flaming in the Phoenix' sight:
Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appalled
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.

Reason, in itself confounded,
",5,sadness,0.6507381,0.13340177,0.07661828,0.094705686,0.006762238,0.03295978,0.6507381,0.004814104,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Sir Charles into my chamber coming in,
When I was writing of my Fairy Queen;
I praysaid hewhen Queen Mab you do see
Present my service to her Majesty:
And tell her I have heard Fame's loud report
Both of her beauty and her stately court.
When I Queen Mab within my fancy viewed,
My thoughts bowed low, fearing I should be rude;
Kissing her garment thin which fancy made,
I knelt upon a thought, like one that prayed;
And then, in whispers soft, I did present
His humble service which in mirth was sent;
Thus by imagination I have been
In Fairy court and seen the Fairy Queen.",0,anger,0.26429585,0.26429585,0.14570697,0.057977196,0.2627153,0.019884355,0.24445744,0.00496282,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Our vice runs beyond all that old men saw,
And far authentically above our laws,
And scorning virtues safe and golden mean,
Sits uncontrolled upon the high extreme.
Circes, thy monsters painted out the hue,
Of feigned filthiness, but ours is true.
Our vice puts down all proverbs and all themes,
Our vice excels all fables and all dreams.",0,anger,0.75805366,0.75805366,0.21044387,0.003689876,0.001755206,0.013996695,0.011482558,0.000578273,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song.
Helpe then, O holy Virgin chiefe of nine,
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will,
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill,
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill,
That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong.
And thou most dreaded impe of highest Jove,
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
At that good knight so cunningly didst rove,
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart,
Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde:
Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart,
In loves and gentle jollities arrayd,
After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage allayd.
And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright,
Mirrour of grace and M",0,anger,0.89628047,0.89628047,0.009259264,0.004948996,0.002319839,0.007622642,0.07808781,0.001481163,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Long have I longd to see my love againe,
Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my loves sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him everie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance,
Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As love is full of foolish fantasies)
Weening to kisse his lips, as my loves fees,
I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.",5,sadness,0.6005434,0.027076684,0.036344208,0.075487465,0.01721248,0.187106,0.6005434,0.05622985,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
    Might not compare with his pure ivorie white,
    On whose faire front a poets pen may write,
Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
    Are rarely framd tintrap poore gazine eies:
    His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apollos dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
    His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
    Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set.
    Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
    Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?",5,sadness,0.42004195,0.04255015,0.06554515,0.06674763,0.09826062,0.16271324,0.42004195,0.14414129,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Praisd be Dianas fair and harmless light;
Praisd be the dews wherewith she moists the ground;
Praisd be her beams, the glory of the night;
Praisd be her power by which all powers abound.

Praisd be her nymphs with whom she decks the woods,
Praisd be her knights in whom true honour lives;
Praisd be that force by which she moves the floods;
Let that Diana shine which all these gives.

In heaven queen she is among the spheres;
In aye she mistress-like makes all things pure;
Eternity in her oft change she bears;
She beauty is; by her the fair endure.

Time wears her not: she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is placd;
By her the virtue of the stars down slide;
In her is virtues perfect image cast.

         A knowledge pure it is her worth to know:
         With Circes let them dwell that think not so.",3,joy,0.44201624,0.03210633,0.029625678,0.019745067,0.44201624,0.41969204,0.03451381,0.022300735,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,
But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus son, that proud victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.",5,sadness,0.9726232,0.003043852,0.006401607,0.001264692,0.006771398,0.008088763,0.9726232,0.001806491,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead
         And that thou think'st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
         Thou call'st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
         A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent.",5,sadness,0.7981401,0.06664314,0.017437905,0.0846977,0.009671022,0.019653255,0.7981401,0.003756844,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Pla ce bo,
Who is there, who?
Di le xi,
Dame Margery;
Fa, re, my, my,
Wherfore and why, why?
For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,
That was late slayn at Carowe,
Among the Nones Blake,
For that swete soules sake,
And for all sparowes soules,
Set in our bederolles,
Pater noster qui,
With an Ave Mari,
And with the corner of a Crede,
The more shalbe your mede.

Whan I remembre agayn
How mi Philyp was slayn,
Never halfe the payne
Was betwene you twayne,
Pyramus and Thesbe,
As than befell to me:
I wept and I wayled,
The tearys downe hayled;
But nothinge it avayled
To call Phylyp agayne,
Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.

Gib, I saye, our cat,
Worrowyd her on that
Which I loved best:
It can not be exprest
My sorowfull hevynesse,
But all without redresse;
For within that stounde,
Halfe slumbrynge, in a swounde
I fell downe to the grounde.

Unneth I kest myne eyes
Towarde the cloudy skyes:
But whan I dyd beholde
My sparow dead and colde,
No creatuer but that wolde
Have rewed upon me,
To behold and se
What hevynesse dyd me pange;
Wherewith my handes I wrange,
That my senaws cracked,
As though I had ben racked,
So payned and so strayned,
That no lyfe wellnye remayned.

I syghed and I sobbed,
For that I was robbed
Of my sparowes lyfe.
O mayden,",5,sadness,0.9465588,0.007991029,0.002492897,0.011882428,0.001421519,0.00923335,0.9465588,0.020419933,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Ye learned sisters which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyed in theyr prayse.
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment.
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound,
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I unto my selfe alone will sing,
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.

Early before the worlds light giving lampe,
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake, and with fresh lusty hed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove,
Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore and soone her dight,
For lo the wished day is come at last,
That",5,sadness,0.9789839,0.001429413,0.001563793,0.001156013,0.005797562,0.007477433,0.9789839,0.003591983,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath;
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives;
Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they ",1,disgust,0.7544679,0.17520611,0.7544679,0.025787208,0.001442237,0.0136766,0.027894672,0.001525205,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"By that he ended had his ghostly sermon,
The fox was well induc'd to be a parson,
And of the priest eftsoons gan to inquire,
How to a benefice he might aspire.
""Marry, there"" (said the priest) ""is art indeed:
Much good deep learning one thereout may read;
For that the ground-work is, and end of all,
How to obtain a beneficial.
First, therefore, when ye have in handsome wise
Yourself attired, as you can devise,
Then to some nobleman yourself apply,
Or other great one in the worldes eye,
That hath a zealous disposition
To God, and so to his religion.
There must thou fashion eke a godly zeal,
Such as no carpers may contrare reveal;
For each thing feigned ought more wary be.
There thou must walk in sober gravity,
And seem as saint-like as Saint Radegund:
Fast much, pray oft, look lowly on the ground,
And unto every one do courtesy meek:
These looks (nought saying) do a benefice seek,
But be thou sure one not to lack or long.
And if thee list unto the court to throng,
And there to hunt after the hoped prey,
Then must thou thee dispose another way:
For there thou needs must learn to laugh, to lie,
To face, to forge, to scoff, to company,
To crouch, to please, to be a beetle-stock
Of thy great master's will, to scorn, or mock.
So may'st thou chance mock out",2,fear,0.83474773,0.024138127,0.0190233,0.83474773,0.006109807,0.09767624,0.011607379,0.006697413,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"CALM was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play,
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
When I whose sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In prince's court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain,
Walked forth to ease my pain
Along the shore of silver streaming Thames,
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorned with dainty gems,
Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
And crown their paramours,
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
      Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

There, in a meadow, by the river's side,
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied,
As each had been a bride;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full featously
The tender stalks on high.
Of every sort, which in that meadow grew,
They gathered some; the violet pallid blue,
The little daisy, that at evening closes,
The virgin lily, an",2,fear,0.86505675,0.004147891,0.003045552,0.86505675,0.025343042,0.018379806,0.08188996,0.002136987,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"THENOT    &      HOBBINOLL
Tell me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?
What? hath some Wolfe thy tender Lambes ytorne?
Or is thy Bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?
Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?

Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare,
Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne?
Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling teares
Adowne thy cheeke, to quenche thy thristye payne.

HOBBINOLL
Nor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne,
But for the ladde, whome long I lovd so deare,
Nowe loves a lasse, that all his love doth scorne:
He plongd in payne, his tressed locks dooth teare.

Shepheards delights he dooth them all forsweare,
Hys pleasaunt Pipe, whych made us meriment,
He wylfully hath broke, and doth forbeare
His wonted songs, wherein he all outwent.

THENOT
What is he for a Ladde, you so lament?
Ys love such pinching payne to them, that prove?
And hath he skill to make so excellent,
Yet hath so little skill to brydle love?

HOBBINOLL
Colin thou kenst, the Southerne shepheardes boye:
Him Love hath wounded with a deadly darte.
Whilome on him was all my care and joye,
Forcing with gyfts to winne his wanton heart.

But now from me hys madding mynd is starte,
And woes the Widdowes daughter of the glenne:
So nowe",5,sadness,0.3508661,0.093325496,0.018645318,0.07089706,0.033454023,0.2754509,0.3508661,0.15736115,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"PIERCE       &         CUDDIE
Cuddie, for shame hold up thy heavye head,
And let us cast with what delight to chace,
And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade,
In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base:
Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead.

CUDDY
Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne,
That all mine Oten reedes bene rent and wore:
And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne,
Such pleasaunce makes the Grashopper so poore,
And ligge so layd, when Winter doth her straine.

The dapper ditties, that I wont devise,
To feede youthes fancie, and the flocking fry,
Delighten much: what I the bett for thy?
They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise.
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?

PIERS
Cuddie, the prayse is better, then the price,
The glory eke much greater then the gayne:
O what an honor is it, to restraine
The lust of lawlesse youth with good advice:
Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine,
Whereto thou list their trayned willes entice.

Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame,
O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleave:
Seemeth thou dost their soule of sence bereave,
All ",5,sadness,0.45549944,0.0558328,0.03064683,0.14982133,0.13087474,0.15908247,0.45549944,0.01824241,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Go and catch a falling star,
    Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
    Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
            And find
            What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
    Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
    Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
            And swear,
            No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
    Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
    Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
            Yet she
            Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.





Poetry Out Loud Note: In the print anthology, this poem is titled simply ""Song."" The student may give either title during the recitation. ",2,fear,0.5037597,0.062476493,0.027293196,0.5037597,0.06523795,0.13846354,0.1415563,0.061212946,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Orpheus with his lute made trees, 
And the mountain tops that freeze, 
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers 
Ever sprung; as sun and showers 
There had made a lasting spring. 
Every thing that heard him play, 
Even the billows of the sea, 
Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art, 
Killing care and grief of heart 
Fall asleep, or hearing, die.",5,sadness,0.7890199,0.035388175,0.014954172,0.10209855,0.016636938,0.03099039,0.7890199,0.010911801,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foison of the year:
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
    In all external grace you have some part,
    But you like none, none you, for constant heart.",4,neutral,0.45800713,0.058337178,0.08645845,0.14416134,0.02059903,0.45800713,0.07655989,0.15587689,Renaissance,Mythology & Folklore
"Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds oertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offenders sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offences cross.
   Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
   And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
 
 
 ",5,sadness,0.8271735,0.055132218,0.05107738,0.040555913,0.007884524,0.014407688,0.8271735,0.00376883,Renaissance,Nature
"The welcome Sun from sea Freake is returned,
And cheereth with his beams the naked earth,
Which gains with his coming her apparel
And had his absence six long months mourned.
Out of her fragrant sides she sends to greet him
The rashed primrose and the violet;
While she the fields and meadows doth beset
With flowers, and hangs the trees with pearl to meet him.
Amid this hope and joy she doth forget,
To kill the hemlock which doth grow too fast,
And chill the adder making too much haste,
With his black sons revived with the heat;
     Till summer comes with diverse colours clad,
      Much like my Epigrams both good and bad.",5,sadness,0.9588492,0.001807358,0.001566465,0.00396161,0.015089945,0.01469885,0.9588492,0.004026577,Renaissance,Nature
"I met a courtier riding on the plain,
Well-mounted on a brave and gallant steed;
I sat upon a jade, and spurred to my pain
My lazy beast, whose tired sides did bleed:
He saw my case, and then of courtesy
Did rein his horse, and drew the bridle in,
Because I did desire his company:
But he corvetting way of me did win.
     What should I do, who was besteaded so?
      His horse stood still faster than mine could go.",2,fear,0.54568714,0.11192153,0.02670746,0.54568714,0.006055695,0.06275155,0.19763216,0.04924453,Renaissance,Nature
"Walking the fields a wantcatcher I spied,
To him I went, desirous of his game:
Sir, have you taken wants? Yes, he replied,
Here are a dozen, which were lately taen.
Then you have left no more. No more? quoth he.
Sir I can show you more: the more the worse;
And to his work he went, but 'twould not be,
For all the wants were crept into my purse.
     Farewell friend wantcatcher, since 'twill not be,
     Thou cannot catch the wants, but they catch me.",5,sadness,0.67691547,0.0843377,0.028276358,0.14503424,0.027957706,0.023842413,0.67691547,0.013636143,Renaissance,Nature
"Fishing, if I a fisher may protest,
Of pleasures is the sweetest, of sports the best,
Of exercises the most excellent.
Of recreations the most innocent.
But now the sport is marred, and what, ye, why?
Fishes decrease, and fishers multiply.",5,sadness,0.49931893,0.16323632,0.22305277,0.009157649,0.009843458,0.076222874,0.49931893,0.019168107,Renaissance,Nature
"Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best;
    Light; leave thy light; fitt for a lightsome soule;
    Darknes doth truly sure with mee oprest
    Whom absence power doth from mirthe controle:

The very trees with hanging heads condole
    Sweet sommers parting, and of leaves distrest
    In dying coulers make a griefe-full role;
    Soe much (alas) to sorrow are they prest,

Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpetts made:
    Theyr fall, theyr branches, all theyr mournings prove;
    With leavles, naked bodies, whose huese vade
    From hopefull greene, to wither in theyr love,

If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners bee
Noe mervaile that I grieve, who like want see.",5,sadness,0.9863613,0.001114342,0.000555517,0.00198455,0.00379747,0.002905593,0.9863613,0.003281246,Renaissance,Nature
"Januarie. gloga prima. ARGVMENT.

    IN this fyrst glogue Colin clout a shepheardes boy complaineth him of his vnfortunate loue, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being very sore traueled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winterbeaten flocke. And lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and casteth him selfe to the ground.


COLIN Cloute.


A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)
when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent.
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold.


All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke:
Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.


Ye gods of loue, that pitie louers payne,
(if any gods the paine of louers pitie:)
Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine,
And bowe ",5,sadness,0.46473804,0.3593817,0.010176388,0.094412744,0.03229734,0.020138763,0.46473804,0.018855043,Renaissance,Nature
"Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslips bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bats back I do fly
After summer merrily.   
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.",5,sadness,0.86180305,0.009453331,0.03808358,0.00774908,0.025415896,0.043539822,0.86180305,0.013955242,Renaissance,Nature
"Tis true, tis day, what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because tis light?
Did we lie down because twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, thats the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.",1,disgust,0.76626426,0.11475197,0.76626426,0.046325557,0.002775067,0.018765615,0.048796035,0.002321533,Renaissance,Nature
"As I in hoary winters night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprisd I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
Alas! quoth he, but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are mens defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
      So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
      With this he vanishd out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
      And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas day.",2,fear,0.98224306,0.006270697,0.000842373,0.98224306,0.001182706,0.001590852,0.003877021,0.003993346,Renaissance,Nature
"Care for thy soul as thing of greatest price,
      Made to the end to taste of power divine,
Devoid of guilt, abhorring sin and vice,
      Apt by Gods grace to virtue to incline.
Care for it so as by thy retchless train
It be not brought to taste eternal pain.

Care for thy corse, but chiefly for souls sake;
      Cut off excess, sustaining food is best;
To vanquish pride but comely clothing take;
      Seek after skill, deep ignorance detest.
Care so, I say, the flesh to feed and clothe
That thou harm not thy soul and body both.

Care for the world to do thy body right;
      Rack not thy wit to win thy wicked ways;
Seek not to oppress the weak by wrongful might;
      To pay thy due do banish all delays.
Care to dispend according to thy store,
And in like sort be mindful of the poor.

Care for thy soul, as for thy chiefest stay;
      Care for thy body for thy souls avail;
Care for the world for bodys help alway;
      Care yet but so as virtue may prevail.
Care in such sort that thou be sure of this:
Care keep thee not from heaven and heavenly bliss.",5,sadness,0.606267,0.058556102,0.09075333,0.14099364,0.024269417,0.07581,0.606267,0.003350564,Renaissance,Nature
"The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds.
The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy.",2,fear,0.48446983,0.12658742,0.012293185,0.48446983,0.04520442,0.11198955,0.21522103,0.004234561,Renaissance,Nature
"Fie pleasure, fie! thou cloyest me with delight,
Thou fillst my mouth with sweetmeats overmuch;
I wallow still in joy both day and night:
I deem, I dream, I do, I taste, I touch,
No thing but all that smells of perfect bliss;
Fie pleasure, fie! I cannot like of this.

   To taste (sometimes) a bait of bitter gall,
To drink a draught of sour ale (some season)
To eat brown bread with homely hands in hall,
Doth much increase mens appetites, by reason,
And makes the sweet more sugard that ensues,
Since minds of men do still seek after news.

   The pamperd horse is seldom seen in breath,
Whose manger makes his grace (oftimes) to melt;
The crammed fowl comes quickly to his death;
Such colds they catch in hottest haps that swelt;
And I (much like) in pleasure scawled still,
Do fear to starve although I feed my fill.

   It might suffice that Love hath built his bower
Between my ladys lively shining eyes;
It were enough that beautys fading flower
Grows ever fresh with her in heavenly wise;
It had been well that she were fair of face,
And yet not rob all other dames of grace.

   To muse in mind, how wise, how fair, how good,
How brave, how frank, how courteous, and how true
My lady is, doth but inflame my blood
With humours such as bid my health adieu;
Si",3,joy,0.9432563,0.004874013,0.006278632,0.009114236,0.9432563,0.00998345,0.024905458,0.001587893,Renaissance,Nature
"Green groweth the holly,
So doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.

As the holly groweth green
With ivy all alone
When flowers cannot be seen
And greenwood leaves be gone,

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
From all other only
To her I me betake.

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my special
Who hath my heart truly
Be sure, and ever shall.",5,sadness,0.86001325,0.034284122,0.01911789,0.012303145,0.011534858,0.05449609,0.86001325,0.008250681,Renaissance,Nature
"Lucks, my fair falcon, and your fellows all,
   How well pleasant it were your liberty!
Ye not forsake me that fair might ye befall.
But they that sometime liked my company:
Like lice away from dead bodies they crawl.
Lo what a proof in light adversity!
But ye my birds, I swear by all your bells,
Ye be my friends, and so be but few else.",5,sadness,0.2608996,0.0685468,0.03998946,0.24252383,0.20119122,0.15402214,0.2608996,0.032826975,Renaissance,Nature
"If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherds tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancys spring, but sorrows fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.",5,sadness,0.86622083,0.09022778,0.009286306,0.004476463,0.00438951,0.021076743,0.86622083,0.004322372,Renaissance,Nature
"Gut eats all day and lechers all the night;
So all his meat he tasteth over twice;
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himself a thoroughfare of vice.
Thus in his belly can he change a sin:
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.",1,disgust,0.9206772,0.023302263,0.9206772,0.003138875,0.00199914,0.0382851,0.011053817,0.001543476,Renaissance,Nature
"The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.",5,sadness,0.5428759,0.11743567,0.04073387,0.19008465,0.01721198,0.0822984,0.5428759,0.009359519,Renaissance,Nature
"Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
   Thou art not so unkind
      As mans ingratitude;
   Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
      Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
   Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
      This life is most jolly.

   Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
   That dost not bite so nigh
      As benefits forgot:
   Though thou the waters warp,
      Thy sting is not so sharp
      As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly...",0,anger,0.64269555,0.64269555,0.035199728,0.02332509,0.047654003,0.049075596,0.1827686,0.019281406,Renaissance,Nature
"When daisies pied and violets blue
      And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
      Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he: 
                                                    Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo! O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
      And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
      And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
                                                    Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo! O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When icicles hang by the wall,
      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
      And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring-owl,
                                                    Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who!a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
      And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly ",2,fear,0.7099316,0.019259883,0.006627448,0.7099316,0.098099954,0.035416797,0.10938268,0.021281593,Renaissance,Nature
"When that I was and a little tiny boy,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to mans estate,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
    For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun,
    With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But thats all one, our play is done,
    And well strive to please you every day.",2,fear,0.3691118,0.07864389,0.03235327,0.3691118,0.109513946,0.07031246,0.3031196,0.03694503,Renaissance,Nature
"From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beautys rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feedst thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Though that art now the worlds fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, makst waste in niggarding.
   Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
   To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee.",5,sadness,0.42777652,0.24020965,0.26603034,0.015414551,0.024015944,0.023592979,0.42777652,0.002960089,Renaissance,Nature
"Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summers lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or natures changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owst;
Nor shall death brag thou wanderst in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growst:
   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.",2,fear,0.8179652,0.019137107,0.010433524,0.8179652,0.012578015,0.028965693,0.083004326,0.027916165,Renaissance,Nature
"Spring, the sweet spring, is the years pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
      Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
            Spring, the sweet spring!",3,joy,0.86166173,0.019444862,0.003949688,0.013374581,0.86166173,0.06768325,0.018474482,0.015411382,Renaissance,Nature
"No crooked leg, no bleared eye,
No part deformed out of kind,
Nor yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward suspicious mind.",2,fear,0.4211827,0.032794077,0.25658932,0.4211827,0.002560395,0.19582304,0.044692766,0.046357628,Renaissance,Nature
"Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;
         Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
         But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
         More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too;
         And therefore what thou wert, and who,
                I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught;
         Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
         For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;
         Then, as an angel, face, and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear,
         So thy love may be my love's sphere;
                Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.",5,sadness,0.5927125,0.17008345,0.028184148,0.1076673,0.0314426,0.043824453,0.5927125,0.026085543,Renaissance,Nature
"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that even in heav'nly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?",5,sadness,0.97962016,0.001551691,0.00271965,0.00189999,0.001994435,0.0085667,0.97962016,0.003647397,Renaissance,Nature
"When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light?
Or did she else that sober hue devise,
In object best to knit and strength our sight;
Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise,
They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight?
Or would she her miraculous power show,
That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary,
She even in black doth make all beauties flow?
Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be
Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed
To honour all their deaths who for her bleed.",5,sadness,0.7970613,0.007638117,0.02837489,0.012848663,0.045095477,0.091772124,0.7970613,0.01720934,Renaissance,Nature
"Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.

There will the river whispering run
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun;
And there the 'enamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait:
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.",2,fear,0.7450651,0.06573945,0.05103175,0.7450651,0.008637745,0.07885253,0.045865215,0.004808344,Renaissance,Nature
"Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage,
A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth 'suage.
The fable is inverted, and far more
A block afflicts, now, than a stork before.
Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us;
In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.
As steady'as I can wish that my thoughts were,
Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there,
The sea is now; and, as the isles which we
Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.
As water did in storms, now pitch runs out;
As lead, when a fir'd church becomes one spout.
And all our beauty, and our trim, decays,
Like courts removing, or like ended plays.
The fighting-place now seamen's rags supply;
And all the tackling is a frippery.
No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay
Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday.
Earth's hollownesses, which the world's lungs are,
Have no more wind than the upper vault of air.
We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover,
But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover.
Only the calenture together draws
Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes' jaws;
And on the hatches, as on altars, lies
Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice.
Who live, that miracle do multiply,
Where walkers in hot ovens do not die.
If in despite of these we s",2,fear,0.5802504,0.13939689,0.027005045,0.5802504,0.023776397,0.10580888,0.12129217,0.002470222,Renaissance,Nature
"Where, like a pillow on a bed
         A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest
The violet's reclining head,
         Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented
         With a fast balm, which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
         Our eyes upon one double string;
So to'intergraft our hands, as yet
         Was all the means to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
         Was all our propagation.
As 'twixt two equal armies fate
         Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls (which to advance their state
         Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
         We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
         And we said nothing, all the day.
If any, so by love refin'd
         That he soul's language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
         Within convenient distance stood,
He (though he knew not which soul spake,
         Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take
         And part far purer than he came.
This ecstasy doth unperplex,
         We said, and tell us what we love;
We see by this it was not sex,
         We see we saw not what did move;
But as all several souls contain
",2,fear,0.46371606,0.04391692,0.020680485,0.46371606,0.07220984,0.13148893,0.1524386,0.11554916,Renaissance,Nature
"No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
         As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
         This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;
         Affection here takes reverence's name.
Were her first years the golden age? That's true,
         But now she's gold oft tried and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
         This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
         He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
         They were Love's graves, for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
         Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit;
And here till hers, which must be his death, come,
         He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere
         In progress, yet his standing house is here:
Here where still evening is, not noon nor night,
         Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
         You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is Love's timber, youth his underwood;
         There he, as wine in June, enrages blood,
Which",5,sadness,0.3267189,0.03762448,0.22090763,0.18972123,0.04491815,0.15108383,0.3267189,0.02902584,Renaissance,Nature
"Here take my picture; though I bid farewell
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come back, my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun beams tann'd,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care's rash sudden storms being o'erspread,
My body'a sack of bones, broken within,
And powder's blue stains scatter'd on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to'have lov'd a man
So foul and coarse as, oh, I may seem then,
This shall say what I was, and thou shalt say,
""Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he
Should now love less, what he did love to see?
That which in him was fair and delicate,
Was but the milk which in love's childish state
Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough
To feed on that, which to disus'd tastes seems tough.""",0,anger,0.42788264,0.42788264,0.26161623,0.08047269,0.003673123,0.019217104,0.2013779,0.005760264,Renaissance,Nature
"Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste,
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feebled flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour I can myself sustain;
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.",2,fear,0.9686759,0.011716015,0.00167363,0.9686759,0.000961982,0.003023014,0.013207516,0.000741984,Renaissance,Nature
"Since I am coming to that holy room,
         Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made thy music; as I come
         I tune the instrument here at the door,
         And what I must do then, think here before.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown
         Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown
         That this is my south-west discovery,
      Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,

I joy, that in these straits I see my west;
         For, though their currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me? As west and east
         In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,
         So death doth touch the resurrection.

Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are
         The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?
Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,
         All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,
         Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.

We think that Paradise and Calvary,
         Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;
Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;
         As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,
         May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;
         By these his thorns, g",5,sadness,0.5240766,0.015104795,0.010988965,0.12171081,0.19333285,0.08281571,0.5240766,0.05197029,Renaissance,Nature
"My galley, charged with forgetfulness,
Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass
'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine en'my, alas,
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness;
And every owre a thought in readiness,
As though that death were light in such a case.
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness.
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,
Hath done the weared cords great hinderance;
Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance.
The stars be hid that led me to this pain;
Drowned is Reason that should me comfort,
And I remain despairing of the port.",5,sadness,0.55026555,0.02018169,0.008024417,0.40765643,0.002516548,0.009303055,0.55026555,0.002052357,Renaissance,Nature
"My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse,
That, for because her livelood was but thin,

Would needs go seek her townish sister's house.
She thought herself endured too much pain;
The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse

That when the furrows swimmed with the rain,
She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight;
And worse than that, bare meat there did remain

To comfort her when she her house had dight;
Sometime a barley corn; sometime a bean;
For which she laboured hard both day and night

In harvest time whilst she might go and glean;
And where store was stroyed with the flood,
Then well away! for she undone was clean.

Then was she fain to take instead of food
Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile.
""My sister,"" quod she, ""hath a living good,

And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile.
In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry
In bed of down; the dirt doth not defile

Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I.
Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost,
And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry.

By sea, by land, of the delicates, the most
Her cater seeks, and spareth for no peril.
She feedeth on boiled bacon meet and roast,

And hath thereof neither charge nor travail;
And when she l",5,sadness,0.5348395,0.036514793,0.32641965,0.034347024,0.005559565,0.0585395,0.5348395,0.003779925,Renaissance,Nature
"Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be.
Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
Is far more business than this world is worth.
I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
When this world will grow better than before,
Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
That carcass's last resurrection?
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
Should be employ'd, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
Because she was the form, that made it live;
Nor could complain that this world was unfit
To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
She, that first tried indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
As courts to princes; she, whose eyes ",5,sadness,0.8631421,0.022240803,0.04189771,0.026214946,0.004477934,0.039341316,0.8631421,0.002685208,Renaissance,Nature
"Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.",3,joy,0.84132254,0.005719239,0.01047053,0.001652642,0.84132254,0.119742915,0.010334603,0.010757562,Renaissance,Nature
"Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
                                             Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them,ding-dong, bell.",2,fear,0.7153817,0.006306361,0.005511555,0.7153817,0.010019437,0.023462547,0.046013065,0.1933053,Renaissance,Nature
"Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes: 
With every thing that pretty is, 
My lady sweet, arise: 
Arise, arise.",3,joy,0.58393747,0.050853603,0.020199211,0.07331422,0.58393747,0.14710245,0.06848389,0.056109115,Renaissance,Nature
"Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.",0,anger,0.58736545,0.58736545,0.23401728,0.031236894,0.003033048,0.11632898,0.024277162,0.003741249,Renaissance,Nature
"Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
            Here shall he see
            No enemy
But winter and rough weather.",3,joy,0.77614343,0.013407908,0.008070704,0.036082316,0.77614343,0.049279217,0.10908629,0.007930149,Renaissance,Nature
"Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.",1,disgust,0.48166302,0.28183666,0.48166302,0.008176133,0.005929297,0.03803704,0.17971073,0.004647007,Renaissance,Nature
"That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.",2,fear,0.94769895,0.007009341,0.005124677,0.94769895,0.003222228,0.0047231,0.02988094,0.002340793,Renaissance,Nature
"How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.",5,sadness,0.92884195,0.003154338,0.005605273,0.042062096,0.005585386,0.009223388,0.92884195,0.005527537,Renaissance,Nature
"Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[......] these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.",5,sadness,0.36263087,0.27773398,0.21191804,0.017701777,0.00289751,0.08875423,0.36263087,0.038363498,Renaissance,Nature
"Now thou has loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when you leavst, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow?
            Or say that now
We are not just those persons which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, deaths image, them unloose?
            Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic, against these scapes I could
            Dispute and conquer, if I would,
            Which I abstain to do,
For by tomorrow, I may think so too.",0,anger,0.80670744,0.80670744,0.031866588,0.12438416,0.002293583,0.022383982,0.009530661,0.002833656,Renaissance,Love
"Womanhood, wanton, ye want:
Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless;
Plenty of ill, of goodness scant,
Ye rail at riot, reckless:
To praise your port it is needless;
For all your draff yet and your dregs,
As well borne as ye full oft time begs.

Why so coy and full of scorn?
Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say;
My new furred gown, when it is worn...
Put up your purse, ye shall not pay!
By crede, I trust to see the day,
As proud a pea-hen as ye spread,
Of me and other ye may have need!

Though angelic be your smiling,
Yet is your tongue an adders tail,
Full like a scorpion stinging
All those by whom ye have avail.
Good mistress Anne, there ye do shail:
What prate ye, pretty pigesnye?
I trust to quite you ere I die!

Your key is meet for every lock,
Your key is common and hangeth out;
Your key is ready, we need not knock,
Nor stand long wresting there about;
Of your door-gate ye have no doubt:
But one thing is, that ye be lewd:
Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd!

To mistress Anne, that farly sweet,
That wones at The Key in Thames Street.
 ",0,anger,0.6388618,0.6388618,0.21807216,0.068367295,0.005234041,0.037749294,0.028346468,0.003368908,Renaissance,Love
"Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he of envy could obtain.

A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stith, where some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britains gain.

A visage, stern and mild; where both did grow,
Vice to condemn, in virtues to rejoice;
Amid great storms whom grace assured so,
To live upright and smile at fortunes choice.

A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme;
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;
A mark the which (unperfited, for time)
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.

A tongue that served in foreign realms his king;
Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth, by travail unto fame.

An eye whose judgment no affect could blind,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile;
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.

A heart where dread yet never so impressed
To hide the thought that might the truth avaunce;
In neither fortune lift, nor so repressed,
To swell in wealth, nor yield unto mischance.

A valiant corps, where force and beaut",2,fear,0.78815114,0.06259491,0.057084203,0.78815114,0.010298229,0.039040517,0.036793545,0.006037481,Renaissance,Love
"Alas, madam, for stealing of a kiss
Have I so much your mind there offended?
Have I then done so grievously amiss
That by no means it may be amended?

Then revenge you, and the next way is this:
Another kiss shall have my life ended,
For to my mouth the first my heart did suck;
The next shall clean out of my breast it pluck.",0,anger,0.76391184,0.76391184,0.109876975,0.012996079,0.001887828,0.027259197,0.08067376,0.003394387,Renaissance,Love
"The sovereign beauty which I do admire,
Witness the world how worthy to be praised:
The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire
In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised;
That being now with her huge brightness dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view;
But looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestial hue.
So when my tongue would speak her praises due,
It stopped is with thought's astonishment:
And when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravish'd is with fancy's wonderment:
Yet in my heart I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite.",6,surprise,0.9763232,0.003896806,0.001214908,0.007248919,0.002821089,0.006652494,0.001842579,0.9763232,Renaissance,Love
"Like as a huntsman after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escap'd away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their prey:
So after long pursuit and vain assay,
When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle deer return'd the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide:
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own goodwill her firmly tied.
Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild,
So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd.",2,fear,0.8486281,0.011338733,0.03798223,0.8486281,0.010510471,0.047320005,0.041624617,0.002595885,Renaissance,Love
"Most happy letters, fram'd by skilful trade,
With which that happy name was first design'd:
The which three times thrice happy hath me made,
With gifts of body, fortune, and of mind.
The first my being to me gave by kind,
From mother's womb deriv'd by due descent,
The second is my sovereign Queen most kind,
That honour and large richesse to me lent.
The third my love, my life's last ornament,
By whom my spirit out of dust was raised:
To speak her praise and glory excellent,
Of all alive most worthy to be praised.
Ye three Elizabeths for ever live,
That three such graces did unto me give.",3,joy,0.98277944,0.002010125,0.001099353,0.000400744,0.98277944,0.005504465,0.003479987,0.004725912,Renaissance,Love
"Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that your self ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more prais'd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fair it be,
Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue:
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed:
Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fair, and what he fair hath made,
All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.",5,sadness,0.78472674,0.007341729,0.024018891,0.03224575,0.017857766,0.11901323,0.78472674,0.014795882,Renaissance,Love
"One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
""Vain man,"" said she, ""that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise.""
""Not so,"" (quod I) ""let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.""",5,sadness,0.3350045,0.13352002,0.30409813,0.07763226,0.011649887,0.12898146,0.3350045,0.009113715,Renaissance,Love
"This holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclin'd:
Therefore I likewise on so holy day,
For my sweet saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind,
In which her glorious image placed is,
On which my thoughts do day and night attend,
Like sacred priests that never think amiss.
There I to her as th' author of my bliss,
Will build an altar to appease her ire:
And on the same my heart will sacrifice,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire:
The which vouchsafe, O goddess, to accept,
Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept.",0,anger,0.91386944,0.91386944,0.04321013,0.00417064,0.00474894,0.022124674,0.010490431,0.001385723,Renaissance,Love
"AH whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me?
What wontless fury dost thou now inspire
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?
Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire,
Thou in me kindlest much more great desire,
And up aloft above my strength dost raise
The wondrous matter of my fire to praise.

That as I erst in praise of thine own name,
So now in honour of thy mother dear,
An honourable hymn I eke should frame,
And with the brightness of her beauty clear,
The ravish'd hearts of gazeful men might rear
To admiration of that heavenly light,
From whence proceeds such soul-enchanting might.

Thereto do thou, great goddess, queen of beauty,
Mother of love, and of all world's delight,
Without whose sovereign grace and kindly duty
Nothing on earth seems fair to fleshly sight,
Do thou vouchsafe with thy love-kindling light
T' illuminate my dim and dulled eyne,
And beautify this sacred hymn of thine:

That both to thee, to whom I mean it most,
And eke to her, whose fair immortal beam
Hath darted fire into my feeble ghost,
That now it wasted is with woes extreme,
It may so please, that she at length will stream
Some dew of grace into my withered heart,
After long sorrow and consuming smart.

WHAT time this world's great Workmaster did cast
To make all things",0,anger,0.9484851,0.9484851,0.004514703,0.008367625,0.002066175,0.00946423,0.021608472,0.005493656,Renaissance,Love
"And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay, for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame;
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart
Never for to depart,
Nother for pain nor smart;
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus
And have no more pity
Of him that loveth thee?
Helas, thy cruelty!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!",0,anger,0.77894306,0.77894306,0.072565004,0.01251019,0.003982395,0.0140774,0.10857068,0.009351148,Renaissance,Love
"Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
""Fool,"" said my Muse to me, ""look in thy heart, and write.""",1,disgust,0.2713804,0.2619344,0.2713804,0.007298649,0.099869385,0.099327035,0.25441247,0.005777654,Renaissance,Love
"You that do search for every purling spring
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
Ye that do dictionary's method bring
Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing:
You take wrong ways; those far-fet helps be such
As do bewray a want of inward touch,
And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to light.
But if, both for your love and skill, your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.",5,sadness,0.51634777,0.065414906,0.05404482,0.018385064,0.018669724,0.30031878,0.51634777,0.02681895,Renaissance,Love
"Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound, fly!
See there that boy, that murd'ring boy, I say,
Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey.
So tyrant he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so fair level in so secret stay,
As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye;
There himself with his shot he close doth lay.
Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,
And stay'd, pleas'd with the prospect of the place,
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid;
But straight I saw motions of lightning grace
And then descried the glist'ring of his dart:
But ere I could fly thence it pierc'd my heart.",0,anger,0.93826944,0.93826944,0.013308606,0.026552401,0.001601308,0.009410236,0.009185751,0.00167233,Renaissance,Love
"The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness
Bewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes,
Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,
With idle pains and missing aim do guess.
Some, that know how my spring I did address,
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;
Others, because the prince my service tries,
Think that I think state errors to redress;
But harder judges judge ambition's ragei
Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry placei
Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage.
O fool or over-wise! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start
But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart.",5,sadness,0.9660958,0.004975773,0.005645535,0.00192111,0.002165568,0.012392323,0.9660958,0.006803813,Renaissance,Love
"Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,
That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;
Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.
Or else let them in statelier glory shine,
Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;
Or with strange similes enrich each line,
Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.
For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,
And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.
How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read
What love and beauty be; then all my deed
But copying is, what in her Nature writes.",5,sadness,0.5038399,0.008122544,0.030069312,0.026462799,0.09601183,0.32777894,0.5038399,0.007714638,Renaissance,Love
"I might!unhappy wordO me, I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;
Till now wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right;
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight,
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is;
But to myself myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me
That I respects for both our sakes must show:
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near: O punish'd eyes,
That I had been more foolish,or more wise!",5,sadness,0.9606384,0.009017803,0.001010503,0.001506322,0.006507213,0.003932236,0.9606384,0.01738751,Renaissance,Love
"Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.",5,sadness,0.8236891,0.018500056,0.007521932,0.11503051,0.007485515,0.024555385,0.8236891,0.00321745,Renaissance,Love
"Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.",0,anger,0.22338991,0.22338991,0.123965025,0.044964045,0.17244025,0.20905311,0.17073794,0.05544964,Renaissance,Love
"No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame;
Nor aught do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.",0,anger,0.54666924,0.54666924,0.24922884,0.015464032,0.006328772,0.042078394,0.13691309,0.003317525,Renaissance,Love
"Who will in fairest book of nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,
Let him but learn of love to read in thee,
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be perfection's heir
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:
But ""Ah,"" Desire still cries, ""Give me some food!""",0,anger,0.56761837,0.56761837,0.14237456,0.022287615,0.0125167,0.19321728,0.04258495,0.019400598,Renaissance,Love
"Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber melody.
Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet:
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot,
Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,i
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.",5,sadness,0.57261366,0.009256154,0.001952463,0.00246911,0.36997357,0.024887886,0.57261366,0.018847102,Renaissance,Love
"Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are?
When I demand of Phoenix Stella's state,
You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:
O God, think you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether she did sit or walk;
How cloth'd, how waited on; sigh'd she, or smil'd;
Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk;
With what pastime time's journey she beguiled;
If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name.
Say all; and all well said, still say the same.",4,neutral,0.5687855,0.03965494,0.06904375,0.013068683,0.04604163,0.5687855,0.11094929,0.15245627,Renaissance,Love
"Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes
Where he is that mine oft moisteth and washeth,
The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth
For to rest in his worldly paradise
And find the sweet bitter under this guise.
What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth
Whereby with himself on love he plaineth
That spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice.
Thus is it in such extremity brought,
In frozen thought, now and now it standeth in flame.
Twixt misery and wealth, twixt earnest and game,
But few glad, and many diverse thought
With sore repentance of his hardiness.
Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless.",5,sadness,0.66037405,0.22384924,0.06081325,0.004348715,0.005414059,0.041999053,0.66037405,0.00320161,Renaissance,Love
"For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
         Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
         With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
                Take you a course, get you a place,
                Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stamped face
         Contemplate; what you will, approve,
         So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
         What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
         When did my colds a forward spring remove?
                When did the heats which my veins fill
                Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
         Litigious men, which quarrels move,
         Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
         Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
         And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
                The phnix riddle hath more wit
                By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
         We die and rise the same, and prove
         Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live ",5,sadness,0.34216857,0.050639782,0.013707083,0.06652717,0.19085419,0.25006256,0.34216857,0.08604063,Renaissance,Love
"Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have, my peers;
Poets, though divine, are men,
Some have lov'd as old again.
And it is not always face,
Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace;
Or the feature, or the youth.
But the language and the truth,
With the ardour and the passion,
Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then will read the story,
First prepare you to be sorry
That you never knew till now
Either whom to love or how;
But be glad, as soon with me,
When you know that this is she
Of whose beauty it was sung;
She shall make the old man young,
Keep the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason why
All the world for love may die.",5,sadness,0.6833349,0.004550501,0.007619755,0.007218532,0.10394016,0.16494583,0.6833349,0.028390318,Renaissance,Love
"See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!",3,joy,0.75942224,0.018188938,0.014872972,0.00346581,0.75942224,0.113800704,0.069269456,0.02097987,Renaissance,Love
"Muses that sing love's sensual empery,
And lovers kindling your enraged fires
At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires;
You that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory;
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory,
And let my love the honour'd subject be
Of love, and honour's complete history.
Your eyes were never yet let in to see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
But dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.",0,anger,0.9661593,0.9661593,0.01697268,0.002848703,0.000809578,0.007126214,0.004983733,0.00109991,Renaissance,Love
"Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream;
            It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy,
Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.

   As lightning, or a taper's light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak'd me;
            Yet I thought thee
(For thou lovest truth) an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou sawest my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts, beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.

   Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
            Thou art not thou.
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me;
Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would",2,fear,0.9379468,0.007182041,0.001304536,0.9379468,0.007717474,0.008065679,0.033993438,0.003790124,Renaissance,Love
"""Who is it that this dark night
Underneath my window plaineth?""
It is one who from thy sight
Being, ah, exil'd, disdaineth
Every other vulgar light.

""Why, alas, and are you he?
Be not yet those fancies changed?""
Dear, when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estranged,
Let my change to ruin be.

""Well, in absence this will die;
Leave to see, and leave to wonder.""
Absence sure will help, if I
Can learn how myself to sunder
From what in my heart doth lie.

""But time will these thoughts remove;
Time doth work what no man knoweth.""
Time doth as the subject prove;
With time still the affection groweth
In the faithful turtle-dove.

""What if you new beauties see?
Will not they stir new affection?""
I will think they pictures be,
Image-like, of saints' perfection,
Poorly counterfeiting thee.

""But your reason's purest light
Bids you leave such minds to nourish.""
Dear, do reason no such spite;
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason's sight.

""But the wrongs love bears will make
Love at length leave undertaking.""
No, the more fools it do shake,
In a ground of so firm making
Deeper still they drive the stake.

""Peace, I think that some give ear!
Come no more, lest I get anger!""
Bliss, I will my bliss forbear;
Fearing, swee",0,anger,0.57750297,0.57750297,0.19003099,0.13323452,0.005503526,0.049277052,0.040235046,0.004215891,Renaissance,Love
"Farewell love and all thy laws forever;
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store
And scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore farewell; go trouble younger hearts
And in me claim no more authority.
With idle youth go use thy property
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts,
For hitherto though I have lost all my time,
Me lusteth no lenger rotten boughs to climb.",0,anger,0.45270777,0.45270777,0.054704178,0.21357279,0.012245457,0.068116866,0.19576529,0.002887634,Renaissance,Love
"Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,
Though thou be black as night
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun unhappy shadow.

Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,
Though here thou livst disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.

Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still black must be,
Till Her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.

Follow her while yet her glory shineth,
There comes a luckless night,
That will dim all her light,
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.

Follow still since so thy fates ordained,
The Sun must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,
The Sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.




Poetry Out Loud Note: In the print anthology, this poem is titled ""Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow."" The student may give either title during the recitation.",5,sadness,0.7427369,0.1515081,0.03908691,0.012547615,0.005755577,0.044925373,0.7427369,0.0034396,Renaissance,Love
"Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.
There, wrapp'd in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.

All that I sung still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first; still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy.
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight:
It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her delight.",5,sadness,0.893108,0.047074847,0.015924552,0.004470917,0.008057515,0.02868125,0.893108,0.002682934,Renaissance,Love
"Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
            Forget not yet.

   Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
            Forget not yet.

   Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;
The painful patience in denays,
            Forget not yet.

   Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been and is
The mind that never meant amiss;
            Forget not yet.

   Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
            Forget not this.",5,sadness,0.94454676,0.03052197,0.006533066,0.006835147,0.004881995,0.004968165,0.94454676,0.001712875,Renaissance,Love
"Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
         Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
         For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
         Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
         Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
         Have from a better brain,
Can better do'it; except she meant that I
         By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me,
         For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came;
         As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
         So, 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.",2,fear,0.3565587,0.12099531,0.04507302,0.3565587,0.024491483,0.12681586,0.30998158,0.016084004,Renaissance,Love
"I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers den?
Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.",2,fear,0.7379322,0.020816728,0.01266541,0.7379322,0.005575432,0.09073487,0.052103348,0.08017207,Renaissance,Love
"The heart and service to you proffer'd
With right good will full honestly,
Refuse it not, since it is offer'd,
But take it to you gentlely.

And though it be a small present,
Yet good, consider graciously
The thought, the mind, and the intent
Of him that loves you faithfully.

It were a thing of small effect
To work my woe thus cruelly,
For my good will to be abject:
Therefore accept it lovingly.

Pain or travel, to run or ride,
I undertake it pleasantly;
Bid ye me go, and straight I glide
At your commandement humbly.

Pain or pleasure, now may you plant
Even which it please you steadfastly;
Do which you list, I shall not want
To be your servant secretly.

And since so much I do desire
To be your own assuredly,
For all my service and my hire
Reward your servant liberally.",5,sadness,0.5094118,0.058496717,0.15411752,0.02170616,0.13893998,0.115488306,0.5094118,0.001839535,Renaissance,Love
"Show me dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear.
What! is it she which on the other shore
Goes richly painted? or which, robb'd and tore,
Laments and mourns in Germany and here?
Sleeps she a thousand, then peeps up one year?
Is she self-truth, and errs? now new, now outwore?
Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore
On one, on seven, or on no hill appear?
Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights
First travel we to seek, and then make love?
Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights,
And let mine amorous soul court thy mild Dove,
Who is most true and pleasing to thee then
When she'is embrac'd and open to most men.",5,sadness,0.8538488,0.009941204,0.010537207,0.010575735,0.004462629,0.06801437,0.8538488,0.04261999,Renaissance,Love
"Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt
To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her soul early into heaven ravished,
Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set.
Here the admiring her my mind did whet
To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head;
But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,
A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet.
But why should I beg more love, whenas thou
Dost woo my soul, for hers off'ring all thine,
And dost not only fear lest I allow
My love to saints and angels, things divine,
But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt
Lest the world, flesh, yea devil put thee out.",2,fear,0.70522046,0.044711813,0.006048079,0.70522046,0.003524581,0.015970793,0.22000453,0.004519741,Renaissance,Love
"I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me notyet can I scape no wise
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.",2,fear,0.769913,0.07660087,0.003904084,0.769913,0.003847921,0.005729766,0.13923943,0.000764998,Renaissance,Love
"Unhappy verse, the witness of my unhappy state,
Make thy self flutt'ring wings of thy fast flying
Thought, and fly forth unto my love, wheresoever she be:
Whether lying restless in heavy bed, or else
Sitting so cheerless at the cheerful board, or else
Playing alone careless on her heavenly virginals.
If in bed, tell her, that my eyes can take no rest:
If at board, tell her, that my mouth can eat no meat:
If at her virginals, tell her, I can hear no mirth.
Asked why? say: waking love suffereth no sleep:
Say that raging love doth appal the weak stomach:
Say, that lamenting love marreth the musical.
Tell her, that her pleasures were wont to lull me asleep:
Tell her, that her beauty was wont to feed mine eyes:
Tell her, that her sweet tongue was wont to make me mirth.
Now do I nightly waste, wanting my kindly rest:
Now do I daily starve, wanting my lively food:
Now do I always die, wanting thy timely mirth.
And if I waste, who will bewail my heavy chance?
And if I starve, who will record my cursed end?
And if I die, who will say: ""This was Immerito""?",5,sadness,0.9627835,0.004174987,0.001497424,0.000913286,0.017513538,0.00844475,0.9627835,0.004672454,Renaissance,Love
"I can love both fair and brown,
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays,
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays,
Her whom the country formed, and whom the town,
Her who believes, and her who tries,
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes,
And her who is dry cork, and never cries;
I can love her, and her, and you, and you,
I can love any, so she be not true.

Will no other vice content you?
Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers?
Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others?
Or doth a fear that men are true torment you?
O we are not, be not you so;
Let me, and do you, twenty know.
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.
Must I, who came to travail thorough you,
Grow your fixed subject, because you are true?

Venus heard me sigh this song,
And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore,
She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more.
She went, examined, and returned ere long,
And said, Alas! some two or three
Poor heretics in love there be,
Which think to stablish dangerous constancy.
But I have told them, Since you will be true,
You shall be true to them who are false to you.",5,sadness,0.4175414,0.08104701,0.14885975,0.03296692,0.02425372,0.28768364,0.4175414,0.007647527,Renaissance,Love
"Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light,
That both doth shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.",0,anger,0.32618538,0.32618538,0.050751712,0.046368055,0.078975044,0.2442681,0.24773882,0.005712922,Renaissance,Love
"Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, love, in love's philosophy.
         These three hours that we have spent,
         Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd.
But, now the sun is just above our head,
         We do those shadows tread,
         And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
From us, and our cares; but now 'tis not so.
That love has not attain'd the high'st degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way.
         As the first were made to blind
         Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,
         To me thou, falsely, thine,
         And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day;
But oh, love's day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his first minute, after noon, is night.",2,fear,0.4099695,0.03357837,0.031252988,0.4099695,0.028615605,0.2461624,0.23413585,0.01628526,Renaissance,Love
"The longe love that in my thought doth harbour
And in mine hert doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence
And therein campeth, spreading his banner.
She that me learneth to love and suffer
And will that my trust and lustes negligence
Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness taketh displeasure.
Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth and not appeareth.
What may I do when my master feareth
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life ending faithfully.",0,anger,0.7323516,0.7323516,0.11536149,0.018914202,0.005586742,0.056816854,0.06966702,0.001302034,Renaissance,Love
"Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I,
Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
         I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
         Oh, 'tis imposture all!
And as no chemic yet th'elixir got,
         But glorifies his pregnant pot
         If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
         So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,
         But get a winter-seeming summer's night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
         Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
         That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
         Which he in her angelic finds,
         Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.
         Hope not for mind in women; at their best
         Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.",5,sadness,0.8732967,0.006989748,0.004340551,0.016319428,0.057185482,0.027169678,0.8732967,0.014698507,Renaissance,Love
"I long to talk with some old lover's ghost,
      Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he, who then lov'd most,
      Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produc'd a destiny,
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
      I must love her, that loves not me.

   Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
      Nor he in his young godhead practis'd it.
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
      His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be
      Love, till I love her, that loves me.

   But every modern god will now extend
      His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
      All is the purlieu of the god of love.
O! were we waken'd by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
      I should love her, who loves not me.

   Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I,
      As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
      A deeper plague, to make her love me too;
Which, since she loves before, I'am loth to see.
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,
      If she whom I love, should love me.",0,anger,0.30896184,0.30896184,0.2100533,0.12966365,0.007389878,0.036199227,0.30175224,0.00597988,Renaissance,Love
"If yet I have not all thy love,
Dear, I shall never have it all;
I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move,
Nor can intreat one other tear to fall;
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee
Sighs, tears, and oaths, and lettersI have spent.
Yet no more can be due to me,
Than at the bargain made was meant;
If then thy gift of love were partial,
That some to me, some should to others fall,
         Dear, I shall never have thee all.

Or if then thou gavest me all,
All was but all, which thou hadst then;
But if in thy heart, since, there be or shall
New love created be, by other men,
Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,
In sighs, in oaths, and letters, outbid me,
This new love may beget new fears,
For this love was not vow'd by thee.
And yet it was, thy gift being general;
The ground, thy heart, is mine; whatever shall
         Grow there, dear, I should have it all.

Yet I would not have all yet,
He that hath all can have no more;
And since my love doth every day admit
New growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store;
Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,
If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it;
Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart,
It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it;
But we will have a way",5,sadness,0.8874674,0.010890877,0.005702685,0.045138083,0.006171267,0.035565592,0.8874674,0.009064103,Renaissance,Love
"Madam, withouten many words
    Once I am sure ye will or no ...
And if ye will, then leave your bourds
    And use your wit and show it so,
And with a beck ye shall me call;
    And if of one that burneth alway
Ye have any pity at all,
    Answer him fair with & {.} or nay.
If it be &, {.} I shall be fain;
    If it be nay, friends as before;
Ye shall another man obtain,
    And I mine own and yours no more.",5,sadness,0.5687009,0.2523667,0.042424794,0.028889302,0.04436034,0.052647423,0.5687009,0.010610526,Renaissance,Love
"My lute awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon;
Should we then sigh or sing or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have done.

Perchance thee lie wethered and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told;
Care then who list, for I have done.

And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.

Now cease, my lute; this is the last
Labour",5,sadness,0.39346382,0.36217353,0.098557465,0.06268672,0.009466921,0.066826984,0.39346382,0.006824586,Renaissance,Love
"I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
For else it could not be
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me
And cast my love behind.
I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest He
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

O, but my conscious fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundred of gray hairs,
Told seven and forty years
Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly and my rocky face;
And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.",2,fear,0.92021054,0.007899344,0.006059385,0.92021054,0.001606554,0.022013169,0.03827376,0.003937309,Renaissance,Love
"When my grave is broke up again
       Some second guest to entertain,
       (For graves have learn'd that woman head,
       To be to more than one a bed)
                And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
                Will he not let'us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls, at the last busy day,
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

         If this fall in a time, or land,
         Where mis-devotion doth command,
         Then he, that digs us up, will bring
         Us to the bishop, and the king,
                To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
                A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
And since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

         First, we lov'd well and faithfully,
         Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;
         Difference of sex no more we knew
         Than our guardian angels do;
                Coming and going, we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;
                Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals
Which nature, injur'd by late law, s",5,sadness,0.8965628,0.018859599,0.005878787,0.026860531,0.01379197,0.018507238,0.8965628,0.01953909,Renaissance,Love
"Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;
For Love is dead
All love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain;
Worth, as nought worth, rejected,
And Faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Weep, neighbours, weep; do you not hear it said
That Love is dead?
His death-bed, peacock's folly;
His winding-sheet is shame;
His will, false-seeming holy;
His sole exec'tor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Let dirge be sung and trentals rightly read,
For Love is dead;
Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress' marble heart,
Which epitaph containeth,
""Her eyes were once his dart.""
From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzy,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!

Alas, I lie, rage hath this error bred;
Love is not dead;
Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind,
Where she his counsel keepeth,
Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a franzy,
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliver us!",0,anger,0.61200166,0.61200166,0.1291565,0.009529099,0.00292983,0.022759762,0.21907859,0.004544546,Renaissance,Love
"Rose-cheek'd Laura, come,
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed;
Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord,

But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
Selves eternal.",3,joy,0.7396048,0.007427755,0.013714334,0.001743478,0.7396048,0.089204624,0.1414608,0.006844215,Renaissance,Love
"Since so ye please to hear me plain,
And that ye do rejoice my smart,
Me list no lenger to remain
To such as be so overthwart.

But cursed be that cruel heart
Which hath procurd a careless mind
For me and mine unfeigned smart,
And forceth me such faults to find.

More than too much I am assured
Of thine intent, whereto to trust;
A speedless proof I have endured,
And now I leave it to them that lust.",0,anger,0.5494469,0.5494469,0.09895142,0.018084273,0.021513658,0.024089182,0.2846117,0.003302896,Renaissance,Love
"My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight;
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his hurt did light,
So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart and I have his.",5,sadness,0.41214663,0.026295992,0.022937154,0.005777537,0.22153346,0.29640755,0.41214663,0.014901666,Renaissance,Love
"O Mistress mine where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming,
      That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further pretty sweeting.
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
      Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love, 'tis not hereafter,
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
      What's to come, is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty:
      Youth's a stuff will not endure.",3,joy,0.40288413,0.004660153,0.004919136,0.23961434,0.40288413,0.15998529,0.16459496,0.023342062,Renaissance,Love
"Sweetest love, I do not go,
         For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
         A fitter love for me;
                But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
         Thus by feign'd deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
         And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
         Nor half so short a way:
                Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
         More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,
         That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
         Nor a lost hour recall!
                But come bad chance,
And we join to'it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
         Itself o'er us to'advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
         But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
         My life's blood doth decay.
                It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
         That art the best of me.

Let not thy divining heart
         Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
         And may thy fears fulfil;
                But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep;
They who one another k",5,sadness,0.90909076,0.007190059,0.001413401,0.05533319,0.013055967,0.00877294,0.90909076,0.005143702,Renaissance,Love
"Take, oh take those lips away,
      That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes: the breake of day,
      Lights that do mislead the Morn;
But my kisses bring again, bring again,
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.",5,sadness,0.8777005,0.010478116,0.003737072,0.016051654,0.0324306,0.0508967,0.8777005,0.008705372,Renaissance,Love
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,
         And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
         And Ill not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
         Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Joves nectar sup,
         I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
         Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
         It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
         And sentst it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
         Not of itself, but thee.",5,sadness,0.4947908,0.041272786,0.022846062,0.13537024,0.05990798,0.22030301,0.4947908,0.025509195,Renaissance,Love
"When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.",5,sadness,0.3017804,0.29175064,0.14999391,0.010116776,0.06826941,0.1547248,0.3017804,0.02336409,Renaissance,Love
"Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd Phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one more heinous crime:
O, carve not with the hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen!
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old Time! Despite thy wrong
My love shall in my verse ever live young.",0,anger,0.8314622,0.8314622,0.051025737,0.024031173,0.002267948,0.014313473,0.07480878,0.002090672,Renaissance,Love
"Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.",5,sadness,0.87305576,0.081954196,0.007909986,0.003345119,0.00568153,0.019909864,0.87305576,0.008143511,Renaissance,Love
"When, in disgrace with fortune and mens eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this mans art and that mans scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heavens gate;
       For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.",5,sadness,0.7044506,0.1855173,0.057258688,0.007403913,0.027200595,0.016024293,0.7044506,0.002144634,Renaissance,Love
"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight;
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.",5,sadness,0.98483574,0.001359083,0.00153628,0.001600331,0.002146471,0.005969859,0.98483574,0.002552216,Renaissance,Love
"If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
""Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.""",0,anger,0.47519508,0.47519508,0.24631472,0.010306436,0.038888127,0.18779106,0.033135243,0.008369359,Renaissance,Love
"When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'd
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.",0,anger,0.6363197,0.6363197,0.02291271,0.024548948,0.00270029,0.018037241,0.29094282,0.004538337,Renaissance,Love
"Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill.
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.",3,joy,0.85655,0.006495526,0.006741128,0.002036222,0.85655,0.034929875,0.090635486,0.002611801,Renaissance,Love
"No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell; 
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so, 
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if (I say) you look upon this verse, 
When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
And mock you with me after I am gone.",5,sadness,0.67102116,0.06804431,0.11526377,0.12125487,0.004324095,0.0175412,0.67102116,0.002550562,Renaissance,Love
"Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes;
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.",5,sadness,0.84564644,0.061582185,0.016592512,0.017880261,0.01817174,0.03725105,0.84564644,0.002875837,Renaissance,Love
"Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end!
Mine appetite, I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.",0,anger,0.2833565,0.2833565,0.24401644,0.06783641,0.021119168,0.13806322,0.19305839,0.052549995,Renaissance,Love
"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.",2,fear,0.81955063,0.014392035,0.015545247,0.81955063,0.008553888,0.10113091,0.022375433,0.018451875,Renaissance,Love
"Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
    All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
    To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.",0,anger,0.6877506,0.6877506,0.23002955,0.011763563,0.004941277,0.009402676,0.054627616,0.001484724,Renaissance,Love
"My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare.",1,disgust,0.5526561,0.023761645,0.5526561,0.038702555,0.07871267,0.160312,0.12780853,0.018046396,Renaissance,Love
"Still to be neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed; 
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
                       Than all th'adulteries of art. 
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.",4,neutral,0.29274374,0.038542036,0.11554689,0.05222507,0.17810932,0.29274374,0.27466303,0.048169937,Renaissance,Love
"               Busy old fool, unruly sun,
               Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
               Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
               Late school boys and sour prentices,
         Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
         Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

               Thy beams, so reverend and strong
               Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
               If her eyes have not blinded thine,
               Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
         Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
         Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

               She's all states, and all princes, I,
               Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
               Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
               In that the world's contracted thus.
         Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be",5,sadness,0.44782013,0.008010168,0.002491553,0.013205921,0.40629396,0.07524913,0.44782013,0.046929196,Renaissance,Love
"There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow which none may buy,
Till ""Cherry ripe"" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till ""Cherry ripe"" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till ""Cherry ripe"" themselves do cry.",5,sadness,0.8569582,0.005990244,0.004832652,0.001913918,0.040449265,0.08284539,0.8569582,0.007010313,Renaissance,Love
"They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this?

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.",2,fear,0.95508516,0.013782281,0.004404782,0.95508516,0.003904837,0.011708045,0.00928079,0.001834105,Renaissance,Love
"Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair,
Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot,
And murmur soft ""She will, or she will not.""

Go burn these pois'nous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl's feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,
That all my fears and cares an end may have.

Then come, you fairies! dance with me a round;
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.",2,fear,0.62260246,0.21527654,0.028035559,0.62260246,0.005707831,0.043067336,0.08199613,0.003314235,Renaissance,Love
"   Unstable dream, according to the place,
Be steadfast once, or else at least be true.
By tasted sweetness make me not to rue
The sudden loss of thy false feigned grace.
By good respect in such a dangerous case
Thou broughtest not her into this tossing mew
But madest my sprite live, my care to renew,
My body in tempest her succour to embrace.
The body dead, the sprite had his desire,
Painless was th'one, th'other in delight.
Why then, alas, did it not keep it right,
Returning, to leap into the fire?
     And where it was at wish, it could not remain,
     Such mocks of dreams they turn to deadly pain.",5,sadness,0.64982677,0.13092288,0.013114189,0.18102251,0.014298759,0.008769831,0.64982677,0.002044985,Renaissance,Love
"As virtuous men pass mildly away,
   And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
   The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
   No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
   To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
   Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
   Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
   (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
   Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
   That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
   Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
   Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
   Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
   As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
   To move, but doth, if the other do.

And though it in the center sit,
   Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
   And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
   Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my ci",5,sadness,0.8808793,0.004470504,0.003954877,0.067128375,0.017937062,0.02241115,0.8808793,0.003218802,Renaissance,Love
"          Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
         For thus they be
         Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.

         On a round ball
A workman that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, all;
         So doth each tear
         Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mix'd with mine do overflow
This world; by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.

         O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
         Let not the wind
         Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.",5,sadness,0.95504165,0.005252481,0.003205964,0.015210957,0.005839445,0.00981092,0.95504165,0.005638602,Renaissance,Love
"What needeth these threnning words and wasted wind?
All this cannot make me restore my prey.
To rob your good, iwis, is not my mind,
Nor causeless your fair hand did I display.
Let love be judge or else whom next we meet
That may both hear what you and I can say:
She took from me an heart, and I a glove from her.
Let us see now if th'one be worth th'other.",0,anger,0.79867315,0.79867315,0.03414444,0.054273594,0.003918631,0.061953433,0.041262247,0.005774416,Renaissance,Love
"What should I say,
Since faith is dead,
And truth away
From you is fled?
Should I be led
With doubleness?
Nay, nay, mistress!

I promised you,
And you promised me,
To be as true
As I would be.
But since I see
Your double heart,
Farewell my part!

Though for to take
It is not my mind,
But to forsake
[One so unkind]
And as I find,
So will I trust:
Farewell, unjust!

Can ye say nay?
But you said
That I alway
Should be obeyed?
And thus betrayed
Or that I wiste
Farewell, unkissed.",0,anger,0.6147347,0.6147347,0.07154487,0.051151,0.003281092,0.01658394,0.23753926,0.005165086,Renaissance,Love
"When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arriv'd, a new admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finish'd love
From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me.",3,joy,0.9612187,0.003248792,0.004921196,0.002715909,0.9612187,0.016504452,0.00748096,0.003910033,Renaissance,Love
"Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, helas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.",5,sadness,0.54131484,0.06976852,0.061709523,0.15063235,0.010693269,0.15674604,0.54131484,0.009135447,Renaissance,Love
"Ye old mule that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,
For it is true, without any fable,
No man setteth more by riding in your saddle.
Too much travail so do your train appair.
        Ye old mule
With false savour though you deceive th'air,
Whoso taste you shall well perceive your lair
Savoureth somewhat of a Kappurs stable.
        Ye old mule
Ye must now serve to market and to fair,
All for the burden, for panniers a pair.
For since gray hairs been powdered in your sable,
The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable
To purchase it by payment and by prayer,
        Ye old mule.",4,neutral,0.27465743,0.12074305,0.19801918,0.1785436,0.044440024,0.27465743,0.15502529,0.028571473,Renaissance,Love
"I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick,
Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm,
Weak from the noon-day heat.
A church bell sounded mournfully far away,
I heard the cry of a baby,
And the coughing of John Yarnell,
Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying,
Then the violent voice of my wife:
""Watch out, the potatoes are burning!""
I smelled them ... then there was irresistible disgust.
I pulled the trigger ... blackness ... light ...
Unspeakable regret ... fumbling for the world again.
Too late! Thus I came here,
With lungs for breathing ... one cannot breathe here with lungs,
Though one must breathe
Of what use is it To rid one's self of the world,
When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?",5,sadness,0.77585083,0.009471505,0.09461086,0.09341401,0.001923439,0.016682262,0.77585083,0.0080471,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge.
When I felt the bullet enter my heart
I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail
For stealing the hogs of Curl Trenary,
Instead of running away and joining the army.
Rather a thousand times the county jail
Than to lie under this marble figure with wings,
And this granite pedestal Bearing the words, Pro Patria.
What do they mean, anyway?",5,sadness,0.65685993,0.031389557,0.061068904,0.101059996,0.00189782,0.045351014,0.65685993,0.10237267,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I was only eight years old;
And before I grew up and knew what it meant
I had no words for it, except
That I was frightened and told my
Mother; And that my Father got a pistol
And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy,
Fifteen years old, except for his Mother.
Nevertheless the story clung to me.
But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five,
Was a newcomer and never heard it
Till two years after we were married.
Then he considered himself cheated,
And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin.
Well, he deserted me, and I died
The following winter.",2,fear,0.99224555,0.002056046,0.001023841,0.99224555,0.000739487,0.00102355,0.001775227,0.001136358,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I have heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow,
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out,
Pitch like King Billy bomb-balls in
Until the town lie beaten flat.

All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or on shipboard,
Camel-back, horse-back, ass-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall an",2,fear,0.9017083,0.00723644,0.008826606,0.9017083,0.002460601,0.029516526,0.04577725,0.004474318,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?",0,anger,0.5668459,0.5668459,0.13995771,0.04701653,0.001575442,0.050931357,0.17329669,0.020376412,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I 
GLOOM! 
An October like November; 
August a hundred thousand hours, 
And all September, 
A hundred thousand, dragging sunlit days, 
And half October like a thousand years . . . 
And doom! 
That then was Antwerp. . . 
                              In the name of God, 
How could they do it? 
Those souls that usually dived 
Into the dirty caverns of mines; 
Who usually hived 
In whitened hovels; under ragged poplars; 
Who dragged muddy shovels, over the grassy mud, 
Lumbering to work over the greasy sods. . . 
Those men there, with the appearance of clods 
Were the bravest men that a usually listless priest of God 
Ever shrived. . . 
And it is not for us to make them an anthem. 
If we found words there would come no wind that would fan them 
To a tune that the trumpets might blow it, 
Shrill through the heaven that's ours or yet Allah's, 
Or the wide halls of any Valhallas. 
We can make no such anthem. So that all that is ours 
For inditing in sonnets, pantoums, elegiacs, or lays 
Is this: 
In the name of God, how could they do it? 


II 
For there is no new thing under the sun, 
Only this uncomely man with a smoking gun 
In the gloom. . . 
What the devil will he gain by it? 
Digging a hole in the mud and standing all day in the rain by it 
Wa",2,fear,0.38940993,0.045441974,0.01590022,0.38940993,0.025707407,0.04009593,0.3265899,0.15685463,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"As I went up by Ovillers
   In mud and water cold to the knee,
There went three jeering, fleering spectres,
   That walked abreast and talked of me.
 
The first said, Heres a right brave soldier
   That walks the dark unfearingly;
Soon hell come back on a fine stretcher,
   And laughing for a nice Blighty.
 
The second, Read his face, old comrade,
   No kind of lucky chance I see;
One day hell freeze in mud to the marrow,
   Then look his last on Picardie.
 
Though bitter the word of these first twain
   Curses the third spat venomously;
Hell stay untouched till the wars last dawning
   Then live one hour of agony.
 
Liars the first two were. Behold me
   At sloping arms by one  two  three;
Waiting the time I shall discover
   Whether the third spake verity.",2,fear,0.8951824,0.011395522,0.010294131,0.8951824,0.00637664,0.010234616,0.065021716,0.001495007,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"She was a village
Of lovely knowledge
The high roads left her aside, she was forlorn, a maid 
Water ran there, dusk hid her, she climbed four-wayed.
Brown-gold windows showed last folk not yet asleep;
Water ran, was a centre of silence deep,
Fathomless deeps of pricked sky, almost fathomless
Hallowed an upward gaze in pale satin of blue.
And I was happy indeed, of mind, soul, body even
Having got given
A sign undoubtful of a dear England few
Doubt, not many have seen,
That Will Squele he knew and was so shriven.
Home of Twelfth Night  Edward Thomas by Arras fallen,
Borrow and Hardy, Sussex tales out of Roman heights callen.
No madrigals or field-songs to my all reverent whim;
Till I got back I was dumb.",2,fear,0.62966114,0.00286718,0.002109974,0.62966114,0.1305056,0.026860032,0.19379096,0.014205058,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"If it were not for England, who would bear
This heavy servitude one moment more?
To keep a brothel, sweep and wash the floor
Of filthiest hovels were noble to compare
With this brass-cleaning life. Now here, now there
Harried in foolishness, scanned curiously o'er
By fools made brazen by conceit, and store
Of antique witticisms thin and bare.

Only the love of comrades sweetens all,
Whose laughing spirit will not be outdone.
As night-watching men wait for the sun
To hearten them, so wait I on such boys
As neither brass nor Hell-fire may appal,
Nor guns, nor sergeant-major's bluster and noise.",1,disgust,0.703174,0.2440555,0.703174,0.016120587,0.001967744,0.014402081,0.019222815,0.001057364,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Only the wanderer
   Knows England's graces,
Or can anew see clear
   Familiar faces.

And who loves joy as he
   That dwells in shadows?
Do not forget me quite,
   O Severn meadows.",5,sadness,0.84869134,0.007117992,0.005978257,0.01729937,0.056262754,0.05474015,0.84869134,0.009910114,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Little did I dream, England, that you bore me
Under the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows,
To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders
And your enfolding seas.
 
I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service,
Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty,
As through a child's face one may see the clear spirit
Miraculously shining.
 
Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly,
Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river
Muddy and strongly flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets
Safe in its bosom.
 
Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-pools
Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs ...
But deep in my heart for ever goes on your daily being,
And uses consecrate.
 
Think on me too, O Mother, who wrest my soul to serve you
In strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters;
None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice;
None, but you, repay.",2,fear,0.985163,0.001189605,0.001177384,0.985163,0.002227453,0.003175609,0.005262144,0.001804846,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"He's gone, and all our plans
   Are useless indeed.
We'll walk no more on Cotswold
   Where the sheep feed
   Quietly and take no heed.
 
His body that was so quick
   Is not as you
Knew it, on Severn river
   Under the blue
   Driving our small boat through.
 
You would not know him now ...
   But still he died
Nobly, so cover him over
   With violets of pride
   Purple from Severn side.
 
Cover him, cover him soon!
   And with thick-set
Masses of memoried flowers
   Hide that red wet
   Thing I must somehow forget.",5,sadness,0.57540715,0.038979463,0.010920246,0.08414389,0.031616528,0.08271511,0.57540715,0.17621763,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes;
Thy lovely things must all be laid away;
And thou, as others, must face the riven day
Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums,
Or bugles' strident cry. When mere noise numbs
The sense of being, the sick soul doth sway,
Remember thy great craft's honour, that they may say
Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs
Of praise the little versemen joyed to take
Shall be forgotten; then they must know we are,
For all our skill in words, equal in might
And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make
The name of poet terrible in just war,
And like a crown of honour upon the fight.",2,fear,0.98175085,0.005155256,0.002407502,0.98175085,0.000874312,0.003137301,0.00568484,0.000989941,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"When I remember plain heroic strength
And shining virtue shown by Ypres pools,
Then read the blither written by knaves for fools
In praise of English soldiers lying at length,
Who purely dream what England shall be made
Gloriously new, free of the old stains
By us, who pay the price that must be paid,
Will freeze all winter over Ypres plains.
Our silly dreams of peace you put aside
And brotherhood of man, for you will see
An armed mistress, braggart of the tide,
Her children slaves, under your mastery.
We'll have a word there too, and forge a knife,
Will cut the cancer threatens England's life.",4,neutral,0.412443,0.20955202,0.07117611,0.015767315,0.245073,0.412443,0.041662987,0.004325669,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"An open door says, “Come in.”
A shut door says, “Who are you?”
Shadows and ghosts go through shut doors.
If ??a door is shut and you want it shut,
     why open it?
If ??a door is open and you want it open,
     why shut it?
Doors forget but only doors know what it is
     doors forget.",6,surprise,0.3146205,0.0673088,0.017514952,0.22961012,0.011132753,0.28360108,0.076211765,0.3146205,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.
The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin;
Poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour.
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death’s-heads;
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,
A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.
Dark blood flowed in the fosse,
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides
Of youths and of the ol",5,sadness,0.7287822,0.009171355,0.100207925,0.06934228,0.005463048,0.0759106,0.7287822,0.011122601,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I sat on the Dogana’s steps
For the gondolas cost too much, that year,
And there were not “those girls”, there was one face,
And the Buccentoro twenty yards off, howling, “Stretti”,
And the lit cross-beams, that year, in the Morosini,
And peacocks in Koré’s house, or there may have been.
              Gods float in the azure air,
Bright gods and Tuscan, back before dew was shed.
Light: and the first light, before ever dew was fallen.
Panisks, and from the oak, dryas,
And from the apple, mælid,
Through all the wood, and the leaves are full of voices,
A-whisper, and the clouds bowe over the lake,
And there are gods upon them,
And in the water, the almond-white swimmers,
The silvery water glazes the upturned nipple,
                As Poggio has remarked.
Green veins in the turquoise,
Or, the gray steps lead up under the cedars.
 
My Cid rode up to Burgos,
Up to the studded gate between two towers,
Beat with his lance butt, and the child came out,
Una niña de nueve años,
To the little gallery over the gate, between the towers,
Reading the writ, voce tinnula:
That no man speak to, feed, help Ruy Diaz,
On pain to have his heart out, set on a pike spike
And both his eyes torn out, and all his goods sequestered,
“And here, Myo Cid, are the seals,
The big seal and the writing.”
And he ca",2,fear,0.47515342,0.10489745,0.05627072,0.47515342,0.02440611,0.15105528,0.11639248,0.071824536,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Palace in smoky light,
Troy but a heap of smouldering boundary stones,
ANAXIFORMINGES!  Aurunculeia!
Hear me.   Cadmus of Golden Prows!
The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare,
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light;
Dew-haze blurs, in the grass, pale ankles moving.
Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf
                under the apple trees,
Choros nympharum, goat-foot, with the pale foot alternate;
Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows,
A black cock crows in the sea-foam;
 
And by the curved, carved foot of the couch,
             claw-foot and lion head, an old man seated
Speaking in the low drone…:
                        Ityn!
Et ter flebiliter, Ityn, Ityn!
And she went toward the window and cast her down,
               “All the while, the while, swallows crying:
Ityn!
               “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish.”
               “It is Cabestan’s heart in the dish?”
               “No other taste shall change this.”
And she went toward the window,
                      the slim white stone bar
Making a double arch;
Firm even fingers held to the firm pale stone;
Swung for a moment,
                        and the wind out of Rhodez
Caught in the full of her sleeve.
               . . .  the swallows crying:
‘Tis.  ‘Tis. ",2,fear,0.22375272,0.14596055,0.071708344,0.22375272,0.08912828,0.15002848,0.20020264,0.11921897,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Zeus lies in Ceres’ bosom
Taishan is attended of loves
                        under Cythera, before sunrise
And he said: “Hay aquí mucho catolicismo—(sounded
                                                            catolithismo
                      y muy poco reliHion.”
and he said: “Yo creo que los reyes desparecen”
(Kings will, I think, disappear)
This was Padre José Elizondo
                                        in 1906 and in 1917
or about 1917
                and Dolores said: “Come pan, niño,”   eat bread, me lad
Sargent had painted her
                                        before he descended
(i.e. if he descended
                but in those days he did thumb sketches,
impressions of the Velázquez in the Museo del Prado
and books cost a peseta,
                         brass candlesticks in proportion,
hot wind came from the marshes
       and death-chill from the mountains.
And later Bowers wrote: “but such hatred,
       I have never conceived such”
and the London reds wouldn’t show up his friends
                        (i.e. friends of Franco
working in London) and in Alcázar
forty years gone, they said: go back to the station to eat
you can sleep here for a peseta”
               goat bells tinkled all night
               and the hostess grinned: Eso es lut",5,sadness,0.6730651,0.1322096,0.01208585,0.037965048,0.037207942,0.03466892,0.6730651,0.07279756,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"With Usura
 
With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting
that design might cover their face,
with usura
hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall
harpes et luz
or where virgin receiveth message
and halo projects from incision,
with usura
seeth no man Gonzaga his heirs and his concubines
no picture is made to endure nor to live with
but it is made to sell and sell quickly
with usura, sin against nature,
is thy bread ever more of stale rags
is thy bread dry as paper,
with no mountain wheat, no strong flour
with usura the line grows thick
with usura is no clear demarcation
and no man can find site for his dwelling.
Stonecutter is kept from his stone
weaver is kept from his loom
WITH USURA
wool comes not to market
sheep bringeth no gain with usura
Usura is a murrain, usura
blunteth the needle in the maid’s hand
and stoppeth the spinner’s cunning. Pietro Lombardo
came not by usura
Duccio came not by usura
nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin’ not by usura
nor was ‘La Calunnia’ painted.
Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,
Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit.
Not by usura St. Trophime
Not by usura Saint Hilaire,
Usura rusteth the chisel
It rusteth the craft and the craftsman
It gnaweth the thread in the l",5,sadness,0.29877907,0.23356183,0.13828774,0.12094128,0.033746906,0.14274687,0.29877907,0.03193639,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"A Lady asks me
               I speak in season
She seeks reason for an affect, wild often
That is so proud he hath Love for a name
Who denys it can hear the truth now
Wherefore I speak to the present knowers
Having no hope that low-hearted
              Can bring sight to such reason
Be there not natural demonstration
               I have no will to try proof-bringing
Or say where it hath birth
What is its virtu and power
Its being and every moving
Or delight whereby ‘tis called “to love”
Or if man can show it to sight.
 
Where memory liveth,
               it takes its state
Formed like a diafan from light on shade
Which shadow cometh of Mars and remaineth
Created, having a name sensate,
Custom of the soul,
               will from the heart;
Cometh from a seen form which being understood
Taketh locus and remaining in the intellect possible
Wherein hath he neither weight nor still-standing,
Descendeth not by quality but shineth out
Himself his own effect unendingly
Not in delight but in the being aware
Nor can he leave his true likeness otherwhere.
 
He is not vertu but cometh of that perfection
Which is so postulate not by the reason
But ‘tis felt, I say.
Beyond salvation, holdeth his judging force
Deeming intention to be reason’s peer and mate,
Poor in discernment, being thu",5,sadness,0.41955656,0.046311725,0.01888109,0.15359831,0.14266387,0.19507563,0.41955656,0.023912853,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"   So in Pieria, from the wedded bliss
Of Time and Memory, the Muses came
To be the means of rich oblivion,
And rest from cares.  And when the Thunderer
Took heaven, then the Titans warred on him
For pity of mankind. But the great law,
Which is the law of music, not of bread,
Set Atlas for a pillar, manacled
His brother to the rocks of the Scythia,
And under Aetna fixed the furious Typhon.
So should thought rule, not force. And Amphion,
Pursuing justice, entered Thebes and slew
His mother's spouse; but when he would make sure
And fortify the city, then he took
The lyre that Hermes gave, and played, and watched
The stones move and assemble, till a wall
Engirded Thebes and kept the citadel
Beyond the reach of arrows and of fire.
What other power but harmony can build
A city, and what gift so magical
As that by which a city lifts its walls?
So men, in years to come, shall feel the power
Of this man moving through the high-ranged thought
Which plans for beauty, builds for larger life.
The stones shall rise in towers to answer him.",0,anger,0.90006495,0.90006495,0.039415505,0.002738537,0.002628616,0.013164109,0.038943253,0.003045006,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"My bands of silk and miniver
Momently grew heavier;
The black gauze was beggarly thin;
The ermine muffled mouth and chin;
I could not suck the moonlight in.

Harlequin in lozenges
Of love and hate, I walked in these
Striped and ragged rigmaroles;
Along the pavement my footsoles
Trod warily on living coals.

Shouldering the thoughts I loathed,
In their corrupt disguises clothed,
Morality I could not tear
From my ribs, to leave them bare
Ivory in silver air.

There I walked, and there I raged;
The spiritual savage caged
Within my skeleton, raged afresh
To feel, behind a carnal mesh,
The clean bones crying in the flesh.",1,disgust,0.8243026,0.09561151,0.8243026,0.013012507,0.001306975,0.011452813,0.051674772,0.002638841,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"                                    I

Behoild Pelides with his yellow hair,
Proud child of Thetis, hero loved of Jove;
Above the frowning of his brows of wove
A crown of gold, well combed, with Spartan care.
Who might have seen him, sullen, great, and fair,
As with the wrongful world he proudly strove,
And by high deeds his wilder passion shrove,
Mastering love, resentment, and despair.
He knew his end, and Phoebus arrow sure
He braved for fame immortal and a friend,
Despising life; and we, who know our end,
Know that in our decay he shall endure
And all our childrens hearts to grief inure,
With whose first bitter battles his shall blend.

                                    II

Who brought thee forth, immortal vision, who
In Phthia or in Tempe brought thee forth?
Out of the sunlight and the sapful earth
What god the simples of thy spirit drew?
A goddess rose from the green waves, and threw
Her arms about a king, to give thee birth;
A centaur, patron of thy boyish mirth,
Over the meadows in thy footsteps flew.
Now Thessaly forgets thee, and the deep
Thy keeled bark furrowed answers not thy prayer;
But far away new generations keep
Thy laurels fresh; where branching Isis hems
The lawns of Oxford round about, or where
Enchanted Eton sits by pleasant",5,sadness,0.6829496,0.22879897,0.020905267,0.006389975,0.026332961,0.029739264,0.6829496,0.004883916,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"To me, one silly task is like another.
I bare the shambling tricks of lust and pride.
This flesh will never give a child its mother,—
Song, like a wing, tears through my breast, my side,
And madness chooses out my voice again,
Again. I am the chosen no hand saves:
The shrieking heaven lifted over men,
Not the dumb earth, wherein they set their graves.",0,anger,0.52755797,0.52755797,0.017143061,0.4278655,0.002891837,0.007320487,0.014209209,0.00301183,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"You can shuffle and scuffle and scold,
   You can rattle the knockers and knobs,
Or batter the doorsteps with buckets of gold
   Till the Deputy-Governor sobs.
You can sneak up a suitable plank
   In a frantic endeavor to see—
But what do they do in the Commonwealth Bank
   When the Big Door bangs at Three?

Listen in the cellars, listen in the vaults,
Can’t you hear the tellers turning somersaults?
Can’t you hear the spectres of inspectors and directors
Dancing with the phantoms in a Dead Man’s Waltz?
Some are ghosts of nabobs, poverty and stray bobs,
Midas and his mistress, Mammon and his wife;
Other ones are sentries, guarding double entries,
Long-forgotten, double-dealing, troubled double-life.
Down among the pass-books, money lent and spent,
Down among the forests of the Four Per Cent.,
Where the ledgers meet and moulder, and the overdrafts grow older,
And the phantoms shrug a shoulder when you ask ’em for the rent.

They are bogies of Grandfather’s cheques,
   They are spectres of buried accounts,
They are crinoline sweethearts with pearls on their necks,
   Demanding enormous amounts.
They are payment for suppers and flowers,
   For diamonds to banish a tear,
For sweet, pretty ladies in opulent hours . . .
   And tombstones . . . and bailiffs . . . and beer . . .

Down in ",2,fear,0.94166535,0.032233536,0.004243476,0.94166535,0.001792229,0.011389927,0.004958557,0.003716993,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved,a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.",2,fear,0.49985966,0.1696895,0.08568839,0.49985966,0.002967356,0.024182947,0.18744057,0.030171538,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
For mine own bosom is the paradise
Where all my lifes fair visions are unfurled.
Within my natures shell I slumber curled,
Unmindful of the changing outer skies,
Where now, perchance, some new-born Eros flies,
Or some old Cronos from his throne is hurled.
I heed them not; or if the subtle night
Haunt me with deities I never saw,
I soon mine eyelids drowsy curtain draw
To hide their myriad faces from my sight.
They threat in vain; the whirlwind cannot awe
A happy snow-flake dancing in the flaw.",2,fear,0.69315344,0.019903079,0.011654549,0.69315344,0.007015616,0.14203121,0.121619284,0.004622801,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Another's a half-cracked fellowJohn Heydon,
Worker of miracles, dealer in levitation,
In thoughts upon pure form, in alchemy,
Seer of pretty visions (""servant of God and secretary of nature"");         
Full of plaintive charm, like Botticelli's,
With half-transparent forms, lacking the vigor of gods.
Thus Heydon, in a trance, at Bulverton,
Had such a sight:
Decked all in green, with sleeves of yellow silk
Slit to the elbow, slashed with various purples.
Her eyes were green as glass, her foot was leaf-like.
She was adorned with choicest emeralds,
And promised him the way of holy wisdom.
""Pretty green bank,"" began the half-lost poem.
Take the old way, say I met John Heydon,         
Sought out the place,
Lay on the bank, was ""plunged deep in swevyn;""
And saw the companyLayamon, Chaucer
Pass each in his appropriate robes;
Conversed with each, observed the varying fashion.
And then comes Heydon.
                                 ""I have seen John Heydon.""
Let us hear John Heydon!
                                 ""Omniformis
Omnis intellectus est""thus he begins, by spouting half of Psellus.
(Then comes a note, my assiduous commentator:
Not Psellus De Daemonibus, but Porphyry's Chances,
In the thirteenth chapter, that ""every intellect is omni-form."")
Magnifico Lorenzo used the dodge,
Sa",1,disgust,0.231196,0.08074288,0.231196,0.17846917,0.023896977,0.1972734,0.20092729,0.08749423,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men's bones he saw bequeath
An embassy.  Their numbers as he watched,
Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.

And wrecks passed without sound of bells,
The calyx of death's bounty giving back
A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph,
The portent wound in corridors of shells.

Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil,
Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled,
Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars;
And silent answers crept across the stars.

Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive
No farther tides... High in the azure steeps
Monody shall not wake the mariner.
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.",0,anger,0.8479631,0.8479631,0.078115724,0.019894091,0.00141898,0.021954147,0.028659765,0.001994218,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"My love looks like a girl to-night,
      But she is old.
The plaits that lie along her pillow
      Are not gold,
But threaded with filigree silver,
      And uncanny cold.

She looks like a young maiden, since her brow
      Is smooth and fair,
Her cheeks are very smooth, her eyes are closed.
      She sleeps a rare
Still winsome sleep, so still, and so composed.

Nay, but she sleeps like a bride, and dreams her dreams
      Of perfect things.
She lies at last, the darling, in the shape of her dream,
      And her dead mouth sings
By its shape, like the thrushes in clear evenings.",4,neutral,0.36928916,0.008941465,0.04190064,0.15797503,0.089985505,0.36928916,0.21362974,0.1182785,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I

The mind has shown itself at times
Too much the baked and labeled dough
Divided by accepted multitudes.
Across the stacked partitions of the day
Across the memoranda, baseball scores,
The stenographic smiles and stock quotations
Smutty wings flash out equivocations.

The mind is brushed by sparrow wings;
Numbers, rebuffed by asphalt, crowd
The margins of the day, accent the curbs,
Convoying divers dawns on every corner
To druggist, barber and tobacconist,
Until the graduate opacities of evening
Take them away as suddenly to somewhere
Virginal perhaps, less fragmentary, cool.

         There is the world dimensional for
       those untwisted by the love of things
       irreconcilable ...

And yet, suppose some evening I forgot
The fare and transfer, yet got by that way
Without recall,lost yet poised in traffic.
Then I might find your eyes across an aisle,
Still flickering with those prefigurations
Prodigal, yet uncontested now,
Half-riant before the jerky window frame.

There is some way, I think, to touch
Those hands of yours that count the nights
Stippled with pink and green advertisements.
And now, before its arteries turn dark
I would have you meet this bartered blood.
Imminent in his dream, none better knows
The white wafer cheek of l",4,neutral,0.4529378,0.050652012,0.06735282,0.14945251,0.019451462,0.4529378,0.07223358,0.18791981,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Aulder than mammoth or than mastodon   
Deep i’ the herts o’ a’ men lurk scaut-heid   
Skrymmorie monsters few daur look upon.
Brides sometimes catch their wild een, scansin’ reid,   
Beekin’ abune the herts they thocht to lo’e   
And horror-stricken ken that i’ themselves   
A like beast stan’s, and lookin’ love thro’ and thro’   
Meets the reid een wi’ een like seevun hells.   
... Nearer the twa beasts draw, and, couplin’, brak
The bubbles o’ twa sauls and the haill warld gangs black.

Yet wha has heard the beasts’ wild matin’-call   
To ither music syne can gi’e nae ear.
The nameless lo’enotes haud him in a thrall.   
Forgot are guid and ill, and joy and fear.
... My bluid sail thraw a dark hood owre my een   
And I sail venture deep into the hills
Whaur, scaddows on the skyline, can be seen
—Twinin’ the sun’s brent broo wi’ plaited horns
As gin they crooned it wi’ a croon o’ thorns—
The beasts in wha’s wild cries a’ Scotland’s destiny thrills.

The lo’es o’ single herts are strays; but there   
The herds that draw the generations are,   
And whasae hears them roarin’, evermair   
Is yin wi’ a’ that gangs to mak’ or mar   
The spirit o’ the race, and leads it still
Whither it can be led, ’yont a’ desire and will.

I

Wergeland, I mind o’ thee—for thy bluid tae
Kent the rouch ",2,fear,0.9706707,0.006501787,0.003522044,0.9706707,0.001920607,0.004354406,0.008273427,0.00475706,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The unfathomable came,
rose from the earth,
flaring up in moonlight.
She wore the old shard in her hair,
her hip leaned on night.
No smoke of sacrifice, the universe",2,fear,0.5566817,0.026524898,0.035863638,0.5566817,0.00320712,0.015807854,0.008292411,0.35362235,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I will grow myself quiet leaves
in the difficult silence of chastity.
I will hide in the immense namelessness
though each tree murmurs to him my name.
I am the bed of leaves he can never scorch,
not even with his eyes of fire.
I am the naked face of the flower; a cross.
He cannot escape by reaching me.
The god and the goal; the lover and the loved;
the pursuit and the flight, entwined.
Though a god, he will die in the depths of my barl
I will glisten his face on my leaves.
Every eagle will have his eyelids.
Every event—his speed.
Each one of the thousand suns
will pursue me as he has chased.
Each one of the symbols of silence
will learn his name I refuse to bear.
I am he: the sun, its immense bowl
pouring out selves as from a fount of chastity.
He is I: the ever-green song in flight,
the sun forever pursuing me.",1,disgust,0.35906094,0.24284215,0.35906094,0.08962433,0.007564064,0.16474485,0.13385634,0.002307349,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"This woman came out of sea-foam,
Covered her nakedness with her hand,
And got lost in a mortal crowd.
A sweaty baker was breathing over his bags of flour,
A sweaty carpenter was fitting a board to a board,
Two barbers were looking out their window sadly.
This woman came out of sea-foam
And got lost in the crowd.
Behind the city walls flies were devouring dung.
An old woman with a crutch was running away from death.
An infant was keeping porridge behind his cheek.
This woman came out of sea-foam
And got lost in the crowd.
On the way back from the fields, people recognized her,
Bowed to her and invited her in
And, pressing their cheeks to their infants, whispered:
""This woman came out of sea-foam,
And she is filled with a will
That brings ease wherever she goes.""",1,disgust,0.79526484,0.010448564,0.79526484,0.028080551,0.001664219,0.024138037,0.13351294,0.006890858,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Protector of sheep, goats and cattle,
Pillar of strength, personified phallus,
Herald of gods, arrant pilferer,
Patron of travellers, indefatigable runner,
Flyer like a breath of wind
Over the watery sea and the vast earth,
Leader of the souls of Penelope's slain suitors
As they flew rustling like bats
To the welcoming fields of asphodel,
Where the ghosts of those who are no longer dwell,
What can you do to help us in this hell
Of perpetual wars that we inhabit?
Teach us with your cunning, bit by bit,
To learn to live as ghosts with ghosts
On the world's unbearably barren coasts.",2,fear,0.8178512,0.030639095,0.03839299,0.8178512,0.004363233,0.07956424,0.02544506,0.003744238,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"September—the beech trees wrote.
In the park the teacher a-b-c'ed
when suddenly the stranger appeared,
clanking.
Because the teacher grew pale,
the children shrieked.
Mars walked through the city
multiplying the flags;
he accepted the toast.
(He especially liked the little word ""just"")
A barber trimmed him for nothing,
for nothing a smith shod him.

Mars took quarters in the city hall,
he was enthusiastic about towers
and above all, he appreciated card indexes.
He collected ragpickers and bums,
and made them knight and adviser.
Hidden in a fold of his garment
the locust lurked.
""Strictest blackout!"" he commanded
and gnashed his teeth at the moon
when she followed his order
only now and then.",1,disgust,0.6911982,0.045059197,0.6911982,0.21777433,0.005900225,0.010578156,0.020048665,0.009441143,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I am the virgin
the woman
the prostitute
I am the salt
the mercury
the sulphur
I am heaven
and hell
I am the earth
you see me illuminated
maternal
Don't trust me
I can consign you
to darkness.",2,fear,0.88947237,0.033418607,0.028210923,0.88947237,0.003816594,0.008853585,0.034495853,0.001732056,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Shall I be punished more severely
than Actaeon he only gazed on the
Goddess from afar in the wood hie
dea silvarum venatu fessa solebat
virgineos artus liquido perfundere
rore her maiden limbs in the crystal water while I in my ardor pursued her into the shower laving
with impious (and soapy) hands
the breasts of the celestial as the
warm rain upon them circumfus—
aeque Dianam corporibus texere suis the nymphs thronging about her
weaving a screen with their bodies
Actaeon was torn to pieces by his
own dogs what fate now awaits me?",5,sadness,0.36672285,0.19449016,0.27750197,0.08901465,0.019449277,0.037917823,0.36672285,0.014903144,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Halt God with the clubfoot, stop mocking our weal
With the steel of your heart always forging woe
You know what we want is ploughshares
Why encourage that stupid rival of yours
—Ares of rifle and sword—
Prometheus is chained on the peak
Foothills of Caucasus swarming
With Scythian tanks and guns
All you do is to chuckle
And go on shaping new weapons
It is no use listening to you
And our hireling rulers...",0,anger,0.34102818,0.34102818,0.08133589,0.020770287,0.22085628,0.28862527,0.03085307,0.016531039,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Once, when I was a boy,
Apollo summoned me
To be apprenticed to the endless summer of light and consciousness,
And thus to become and be what poets often have been,
A shepherd of being, a riding master of being, holding the sun-god's horses,
leading his sheep, training his eagles
Directing the constellations to their stations, and to each grace of place.
But the goat-god, piping and dancing, speaking an unknown tongue or the language of the magician,
Sang from the darkness or rose from the underground, whence arise
Love and love's drunkenness, love and birth, love and death, death and rebirth
Which are the beginning of the phoenix festivals, the tragic plays in celebration of
Dionysus,
And in mourning for his drunken and fallen princes, the singers and sinners,fallen
because they are, in the end,
Drunken with pride, blinded by joy.
And I followed Dionysus, forgetting Apollo. I followed him far too long until I was
wrong and chanted:
""One cannot serve both gods. One must choose to win and lose.""
But I was wrong and when I knew how I was wrong I knew
What, in a way, I had known all along:
This was the new world, here I belonged, here I was wrong because
Here every tragedy has a happy ending, and any error may be
A fabulous discovery of America, of the opulence hidden in the dark d",5,sadness,0.90716267,0.010329169,0.025011983,0.012165124,0.005139933,0.037356522,0.90716267,0.002834619,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I moved him, and he moved in me by power,
knowing the pulse and the refrain of blood
that pumped a spring into the veins of dance
along the water's edge and in its hour.
The rhythm in a sparrow and a bud
left everything to art, to art and chance.",4,neutral,0.5407392,0.15744656,0.12550682,0.062016457,0.018556679,0.5407392,0.028745608,0.066988714,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Sleep filled him with dreams of fruit and leaves;
wakefulness kept him from picking even a mulberry.
And the two together divided his limbs among the Bacchae",5,sadness,0.29298645,0.029373866,0.1905178,0.15789466,0.007430618,0.28855255,0.29298645,0.033244096,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"O Eros, silently smiling one, hear me.
Let the shadow of thy wings
brush me.
Let thy presence
enfold me, as if darkness
were swandown.
Let me see that darkness
lamp in hand,
this country become
the other country
sacred to desire.
Drowsy god,
slow the wheels of my thought
so that I listen only
to the snowfall hush of
thy circling.
Close my beloved with me
in the smoke ring of thy power,
that we may be, each to the other,
figures of flame,
figures of smoke,
figures of flesh
newly seen in the dusk",2,fear,0.47944131,0.21930398,0.050378516,0.47944131,0.004572914,0.18309166,0.058901098,0.004310487,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead.
Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all,
And weave ye him his coronal.
There is no summer in the leaves,
And withered are the sedges;
How shall we weave a coronal,
Or gather floral pledges?
That I may not say, Ladies.
Death was ever a churl.
That I may not say, Ladies.
How should he show a reason,
That he has taken our Lord away
Upon such hollow season?",5,sadness,0.36273736,0.11867329,0.23585589,0.11775073,0.003463597,0.11470395,0.36273736,0.04681518,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"On the hoof or dead, a satyr weighs
about the single same. They mingle
with goddesses and singe themselves in flame
that they ignite with steady gaze
while they recite the name of One
who in the olden days
slept on Naxos' shingle,
and they are golden ruddy in the sun
and hold themselves aloof.
A satyr on the hoof is fleet.
Slaughtered, their dark red meat is strong.",1,disgust,0.8710375,0.05877333,0.8710375,0.013733799,0.001209206,0.022998137,0.031193582,0.001054497,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The Centaur does not need a Horse;
He's part of one, as a matter of course.
'Twixt animal and man divided,
His sex-life never is one-sided.
He does what Doves and Sparrows do—
What else he does is up to you.",4,neutral,0.77366257,0.06533575,0.076628186,0.025516849,0.010948505,0.77366257,0.031181233,0.016726881,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Fitfully, he squeezed himself to the last,
his head ringing ... then smash, over stones gone green
the whole crown cup at one stroke splattering
all that thinking lofted within the beast.
Vaults have melted and poured the contrary whole ...
Flesh went off in freezing jags of mist,
in foggy coils, slowly, though a stripped heart
arrowed by fire winnows itself from night.
Plodding executioner, vast sleeve
with its trains, shadow dragged at the embers, axes
slicing into the glowing clod. And earth
tumbles to slumber. Nevermore centaur: the wild.
Yet under scorching trots at the stud farms, ringing
deep within piled strata, veins of gold.",0,anger,0.5826955,0.5826955,0.1304351,0.12050117,0.002590991,0.06265315,0.08662402,0.01450011,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"To say that he was unhappy is either to say too much
or too little: depending on who's the audience.
Still, the smell he'd give off was a bit too odious,
and his canter was also quite hard to match.
He said, They meant just a monument, but something went astray:
the womb? the assembly line? the economy?
Or else, the war never happened, they befriended the enemy,
and he was left as it is, presumably to portray
Intransigence, Incompatibility—that sort of thing which proves
not so much one's uniqueness or virtue, but probability.
For years, resembling a cloud, he wandered in olive groves,
marveling at one-leggedness, the mother of immobility.
Learned to lie to himself, and turned it into an art
for want of a better company, also to check his sanity.
And he died fairly young—because his animal part
turned out to be less durable than his humanity.",1,disgust,0.9210785,0.009661192,0.9210785,0.009923996,0.000816694,0.03888795,0.015763849,0.003867854,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"How this tart fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on a bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the virgin shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,

Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate the Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window",1,disgust,0.6892144,0.21521392,0.6892144,0.017659318,0.00429109,0.055075124,0.014598348,0.003947642,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Before the oarsmen of Odysseus
would leave their mark upon the wine-dark sea,
I can divine the indefinable forms
of that old god whose name was Proteus.
Shepherd of the wave-flocks of the waters
and wielder of the gift of prophecy,
he liked to make a secret of his knowledge
and weave a pattern of ambiguous signs.
At the demand of people, he took on
the substance of a lion or a bonfire
or a tree, spreading shade on the river bank
or water which would disappear in water.
Proteus the Egyptian should not surprise you,
you, who are one, but also many others.",6,surprise,0.5021789,0.05288497,0.08721117,0.08805088,0.012663472,0.21613218,0.040878326,0.5021789,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Water touched water through my heart.
I fell into a white tangle of octopus,
fluttering for air, one molecule, one second ...
something ghosted across my brain, fiber
or seeds rising on the black negative.
Then I fled into whales, into thread-fine
fish where I ate muscle from my own bones,
into the conch, believing I was a sea.
As a sea anemone, prehensile, I waved
tentacles in the dark; crept with snails,
frightened of the impulse snapping
whatever-I-was into eels, minnows, bones,
into coins stamped with bees, into memory.
The membranes weren't sealed. I escaped—
light or energy—through mysterious windows.
Rents appeared in my insane fabric,
I'd tumble out of shape into other edges,
the cliff of my own dreams looming blue
in the shark's thrust for the swimmer.",2,fear,0.9369332,0.014556558,0.022897491,0.9369332,0.002750405,0.015596915,0.003695685,0.003569603,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Ages ago they called her old.
But there she was, walking the same street
each day. So they changed the time-scale,
calculating her age as with forests,
in centuries. Yet she stood
in the same spot each evening,
black as a citadel
towering, cavernous, charred,
and out of it the words that teemed in her
against her will, unwatched,
endlessly flapped and screamed,
while those that returned already
perched beneath her brows
shadowy, set for the night.",2,fear,0.31353414,0.20802163,0.09384217,0.31353414,0.002566154,0.23737817,0.11141925,0.033238497,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Dear individual soul, this is the Styx.
The Styx, that's right: Why are you so perplexed?
As soon as Charon reads the prepared text
over the speakers, let the nymphs affix
your name badge and transport you to the banks.
(The nymphs? They fled your woods and joined the ranks
of personnel here.) Floodlights will reveal
piers built of reinforced concrete and steel,
and hovercrafts whose beelike buzz resounds
where Charon used to ply his wooden oar.
Mankind has multiplied, has burst its bounds:
nothing, sweet soul, is as it was before.
Skyscrapers, solid waste, and dirty air:
the scenery's been harmed beyond repair.
Safe and efficient transportation (millions
of souls served here, all races, creeds, and sexes)
requires urban planning: hence pavilions,
warehouses, dry docks, and office complexes.
Among the gods it's Hermes, my dear soul,
who makes all prophecies and estimations
when revolutions and wars take their toll—
our boats, of course, require reservations.
A one-way trip across the Styx is free:
the meters saying, ""No Canadian dimes,
no tokens"" are left standing, as you see,
but only to remind us of old times.
From Section Tau Four of the Alpha Pier
you're boarding hovercraft Sigma Sixteen—
it's packed with sweating souls, but in the rear
you'll find a seat (I've got it on my s",6,surprise,0.54291093,0.02855181,0.048360027,0.022363665,0.002651749,0.3383527,0.0168091,0.54291093,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"With only his dim lantern
To tell him where he is
And every time a mountain
Of fresh corpses to load up
Take them to the other side
Where there are plenty more
I'd say by now he must be confused
As to which side is which
I'd say it doesn't matter
No one complains he's got
Their pockets to go through
In one a crust of bread in another a sausage
Once in a long while a mirror
Or a book which he throws
Overboard into the dark river
Swift and cold and deep",1,disgust,0.65240335,0.03593017,0.65240335,0.042330574,0.001843158,0.20620589,0.022885118,0.03840173,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"All darkness is not equally dark. When he stepped
down into the boat he made us snuff the whole
row of smoldering torches and brands we'd kept.
I drew my mantle round me. It was cold.
""It's in pitch-darkness that I forebode land.""
And the boat-hook guided the ferry into black.
Around the stem, Acheron's waters lapped.
""There still remains some thirteen heartbeats' sand
in the hourglass by the tiller. So I won't be late.""
Where we saw night's dark side and coal on coal
he steered by the rocky islets' shadow play,
and by the stone-pines' contours, toward his goal.
In the dark the scrape of keel on gravel bank.
""Here's my arm. Good night. The fare's one obol, thanks.""",1,disgust,0.33967474,0.16750804,0.33967474,0.27136582,0.002175971,0.13756569,0.07298155,0.008728264,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The conductor's hands were black with money:
Hold on to your ticket, he said, the inspector's
Mind is black with suspicion, and hold on to
That dissolving map. We moved through London,
We could see the pigeons through the glass but failed
To hear their rumours of wars, we could see
The lost dog barking but never knew
That his bark was as shrill as a cock crowing,
We just jogged on, at each request
Stop there was a crowd of aggressively vacant
Faces, we just jogged on, eternity
Gave itself airs in revolving lights
And then we came to the Thames and all
The bridges were down, the further shore
Was lost in fog, so we asked the conductor
What we should do. He said: Take the ferry
Faute de mieux. We flicked the flashlight
And there was the ferryman just as Virgil
And Dante had seen him. He looked at us coldly
And his eyes were dead and his hands on the oar
Marbled his calves and he said to us coldly:
If you want to die you will have to pay for it",2,fear,0.70828164,0.23013887,0.016789185,0.70828164,0.00163649,0.028915271,0.007675235,0.006563355,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Nor skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall cover you,
Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the fir-tree
Nor the pine.
Nor sight of whin nor gorse
Nor river-yew,
Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
Nor of linnet,
Nor of thrush.
Nor word nor touch nor sight
Of lover, you
Shall long through the night but for this:
The roll of the full tide to cover you
Without question,
Without kiss",2,fear,0.4060114,0.18770598,0.22050302,0.4060114,0.003178126,0.09505626,0.082367495,0.005177725,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"There is no river which is called Lethe
by the ancients. To forget
is to neglect
or to refuse to
hold on to, to fail
to get... they should put out to sea
without being discovered by them ... he protected
the murderer unawares
it is not unknown to me
that some god led thee
What remains hidden
is also forgetfulness
means, the unnoticed, that which hasn't
been seen yet, lateo the Latin what lies
concealed ... lest he perish having known ...
lest he perish
having not accomplished his end

Thou thoughtest
to escape the gods' notice
in ... to let a thing escape, to forget?
That she might bear
unknown?
to forget purposely, to pass over? He chose
to forget?
Caught by the leg
he went head first
through the hole
into the darkness
where the waters
roar
& when he came out
he needed
those who could bathe
him back into
his memory and
his forgetfulness: his wits
were sharp enough
when he was on
sugar & didn't remember
all that had happened
in the year and a half
since he had come in barefoot

not to hold
not to remember
not to come by
anything got",2,fear,0.51357985,0.12705055,0.03282703,0.51357985,0.006647577,0.08587618,0.2089876,0.025031246,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The bride stepped on a snake; pierced by his venom,
The girl tripped, falling, stumbled into Death.
Her bridegroom, Orpheus, poet of the hour,
And pride ofRhadope, sang loud his loss
To everyone on earth. When this was done,
His wailing voice, his lyre, and himself
Came weaving through the tall gates ojTaenarus
Down to the world of Death and flowing Darkness
To tell the story of his grief again.",5,sadness,0.8820438,0.026241701,0.013725946,0.06262225,0.002065164,0.008679333,0.8820438,0.004621846,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"So you have swept me back,
I who could have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who could have slept among the live flowers
at last;
so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;
so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;
if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.
v
So for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I have lost the earth
and the flowers of the earth,
and the live souls above the earth,
and you who had passed across the light
and reached
ruthless;
you who have your own light,
who are to yourself a presence,
who need no presence;
yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:
such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of blackness,
such terror
is no loss;
hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
a loss;
my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above earth.
VI
Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the sta",0,anger,0.89456886,0.89456886,0.006510909,0.080507874,0.001309308,0.006624421,0.008399787,0.002078983,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"He is here, come down to look for you.
It is the song that calls you back,
a song of joy and suffering
equally: a promise:
that things will be different up there
than they were last time.
You would rather have gone on feeling nothing,
emptiness and silence; this stagnant peace
of the deepest sea, which is easier
than the noise and flesh of the surface.
i
You are used to these blanched dim corridors,
you are used to the king
who passes you without speaking.
The other one is different
and you almost remember him.
He says he is singing to you
because he loves you,
not as you are now,
so chilled and minimal: moving and still
both, like a white curtain blowing
in the draft from a half-opened window
beside a chair on which nobody sits.",4,neutral,0.5799286,0.017232874,0.022964489,0.016373629,0.1354902,0.5799286,0.21653199,0.011478194,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"When Orpheus and his Eurydice
walked up from the underworld, they thought
of the light up there, how beautiful it was,
how much they longed for, needed it;
but even so, they'd been a long time
in the dark, too long. They'd learned it needed them",5,sadness,0.27146736,0.034996442,0.060406134,0.26042366,0.19891007,0.10414504,0.27146736,0.06965127,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Eurydice is impossible
If Orpheus looks away
Eurydice doubts and weeps
If Orpheus looks at her
Eurydice dies",2,fear,0.5053926,0.005757851,0.014226582,0.5053926,0.002374953,0.03834711,0.4296804,0.004220396,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"They had almost reached light.
And as he walked, a space
was left behind in the air
like a keyhole in a door
but him-shaped.
And the door of the air
was opening, opening so wide
he had to turn to close it.",6,surprise,0.58113396,0.033669475,0.037047323,0.27667862,0.002544851,0.05672028,0.012205425,0.58113396,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Though there are wild dogs
Infesting the roads
We have recitals, catalogues
Of protected birds;
And the rare pale sun
To water our days.
Men turn to savagery now or turn
To the laws'
Immutable black and red.
To be judged for his song,
Traversing the still-moist dead,
The newly-stung,
Love goes, carrying compassion
To the rawly-difficult;
His countenance, his hands' motion,
Serene even to a fault.",1,disgust,0.6794915,0.07832639,0.6794915,0.014899739,0.063572645,0.096552715,0.06535158,0.001805504,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"And she was there. The little boat
Coasting the perilous isles of sleep,
Zones of oblivion and despair,
Stopped, for Eurydice was there.
The foundering skiff could scarcely keep
All that felicity afloat.
As if we had left earth's frontier wood
Long since and from this sea had won
The lost original of the soul,
The moment gave us pure and whole
Each back to each, and swept us on
Past every choice to boundless good.
Forgiveness, truth, atonement, all
Our love at once—till we could dare
At last to turn our heads and see
The poor ghost of Eurydice
Still sitting in her silver chair,
Alone in Hades' empty hall.",5,sadness,0.7023125,0.005446491,0.007837263,0.24841765,0.004754089,0.028115997,0.7023125,0.003116033,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"It was an adventure much could be made of: a walk
On the shores of the darkest known river,
Among the hooded, shoving crowds, by steaming rocks
And rows of ruined huts half-buried in the muck;
Then to the great court with its marble yard
Whose emptiness gave him the creeps, and to sit there
In the sunken silence of the place and speak
Of what he had lost, what he still possessed of his loss,
And, then, pulling out all the stops, describing her eyes,
Her forehead where the golden light of evening spread,
The curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, everything
Down to her thighs and calves, letting, letting the words come,
As if lifted from sleep, to drift upstream,
Against the water's will, where all the condemned
And pointless labor, stunned by his voice's cadence,
Would come to a halt, and even the crazed, dishevelled
Furies, for the first time, would weep, and the soot-filled
Air would clear just enough for her, the lost bride,
To step through the image of herself and be seen in the light.
As everyone knows, this was the first great poem,
Which was followed by days of sitting around
In the houses of friends, with his head back, his eyes
Closed, trying to will her return, but finding
Only himself, again and again, trapped
In the chill of his loss, and, finally,
Without a w",2,fear,0.6726638,0.04703522,0.05788897,0.6726638,0.00271156,0.079069726,0.077828296,0.062802434,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"II,XII I
Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.
Be forever dead in Eurydice—more gladly arise
into the seamless life proclaimed in your song.
Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days,
be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.
Be—and yet know the great void where all things begin,
the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,
so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.
To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb
creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums,
joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.",5,sadness,0.6068874,0.073461786,0.012169877,0.08736074,0.0520401,0.15625273,0.6068874,0.011827311,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Whether he will go on singing
or not, knowing what he knows
of the horror of this world:
He was not wandering among meadows
all this time. He was down there
among the mouthless ones, among
those with no fingers, those
whose names are forbidden,
those washed up eaten into
among the gray stones
of the shore where nobody goes
through fear. Those with silence.
He has been trying to sing
love into existence again
and he has failed.
Yet he will continue
to sing, in the stadium
crowded with the already dead
who raise their eyeless faces
to listen to him; while the red flowers
grow up and splatter open
against the walls.
They have cut off both his hands
and soon they will tear
his head from his body in one burst
of furious refusal.
He foresees this. Yet he will go on
singing, and in praise.
To sing is either praise
or defiance. Praise is defiance.",2,fear,0.9439236,0.04145999,0.003850183,0.9439236,0.001077456,0.003532199,0.003120021,0.003036543,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"When Orpheus walked beneath the trees
all the leaves were Eurydices
when Orpheus looked into a well
he saw the skies of hell
when Orpheus took up his lyre
he saw his funeral pyre
on which the Maenads tossed
his scattered limbs and hissed
""Everything he did was wrong:
love and theory, wife and song""
yet when they picked up his head
they kissed his mouth and said
""All the lies these lips told
kept us from ever growing old—
now keep them wet eternally.""
And Orpheus saw them throw it in the sea",0,anger,0.38531014,0.38531014,0.35152373,0.17947501,0.006171482,0.017386304,0.053594775,0.006538622,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"therefore to open
mouth, and let
the voice
flayed, and eaten, piece
by lean piece, and with what
savorings, and with what
shovings of the greasy fingers
to the mouth, to get
full flavors
who, also, went
down, and, came
up, a
coming back and,
then, hid
he fell to the
cannibal girls
after this",1,disgust,0.45797923,0.028346473,0.45797923,0.03738569,0.048692346,0.36487558,0.02911967,0.033601023,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Of all the women whom I know it is
Alcestis I most passionately admire,
Who died for an unworthy man, being
Sure that love was death
And nothing more. Nothing is pure in
Nature. Not childhood, nor infancy
Nor the moment of begetting with its
Too many images. Uneasy in my
Labor, uneasy in my rest. In love
Distressed; and in my loneliness quite lost—
I walk out in this storm, as in a mind
Deranged but not unclean;
Alcestis is my dream, who died forever
And then rose—for three days mute and strange.",2,fear,0.9607507,0.00156678,0.006095032,0.9607507,0.000730929,0.006629297,0.020039158,0.004188143,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"She seeks him; but he shuns the love
Of all who are phenomenal.
Only reflection sanctifies,
For him, the beauty she holds dear.
All mass is burden; he sinks its power:
Potential drowned, the perfect flower.
He knelt to the one pure idea,
Self-love: the perfect sacrifice.
She calls and calls to him, till all
The vacant world resounds with love.
*
Only reflection sanctifies,
For him, the beauty she holds dear.
He kneels to the one pure idea,
Self-love: the perfect sacrifice.
For he has shunned all forms of love
That are, like hers, phenomenal.
She calls and calls to him, till all
The vacant world resounds with love.
*
Only reflection sanctifies,
For him, the beauty she holds dear.
She calls and calls to him, till all
The vacant world resounds with love.",1,disgust,0.54834974,0.07029819,0.54834974,0.013783479,0.005668125,0.24457361,0.11399598,0.003330991,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Himself the worshipped and the worshipper,
He sought himself and was pursued, wooed, fired
By Ms own heat of love. Again, again
He tried to kiss the image in the well;
Again, again his arms embraced the silver
Elusive waters where his image shone....
* * *
Then with his last ""Good-bye,"" ""Good-bye,"" said Echo.
At this he placed his head deep in cool grasses
While death shut fast his eyes....",4,neutral,0.41597068,0.1471393,0.13629003,0.052372005,0.02488256,0.41597068,0.2124594,0.010885992,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"So, even with a severed tongue, Philomela recounted her tribulations,
weaving them one by one into her robe with patience and faith,
with modest colors—violet, ash, white and black—and as is always true
with works of art, there's an excess of black. All the rest—
Procne, Tereus with his axe, their pursuit in Daulis,
even the cutting out of the tongue—we consider insignificant, things we forget.
That robe of hers is enough, secret and precise, and her transformation
at the crucial moment into a nightingale. Still, we say: without all the rest,
those things now contemptible, would this brilliant robe and the nightingale exist?",1,disgust,0.47264197,0.18888503,0.47264197,0.044237603,0.007292864,0.2381594,0.030106891,0.018676272,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"He who breaks
Philomela's heart
to save her from
the pain of love
is a liar
a liar.
What is the nightingale's
sweet song
it means
get lost
get lost.
On these trees
I'm
the only
male.",5,sadness,0.79935557,0.04459683,0.013040912,0.022094239,0.004654748,0.103129886,0.79935557,0.013127813,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"As though the mercury's under its tongue, it won't
talk. As though with the mercury in its sphincter,
immobile, by a leaf-coated pond
a statue stands white like a blight of winter.
After such snow, there is nothing indeed: the ins
and outs of centuries, pestered heather.
That's what coming full circle means—
when your countenance starts to resemble weather,
when Pygmalion's vanished. And you are free
to cloud your folds, to bare the navel.
Future at last! That is, bleached debris
of a glacier amid the five-lettered ""never.""
Hence the routine of a goddess, nee
alabaster, that lets roving pupils gorge on
the heart of the color and temperature of the knee.
That's what it looks like inside a virgin.",1,disgust,0.621562,0.113408856,0.621562,0.037698507,0.004701814,0.1583611,0.05116573,0.013101966,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Niobe, your tears
are your children now. See how
we have multiplied.",4,neutral,0.71337783,0.06824401,0.025004314,0.003970257,0.011025781,0.71337783,0.07617608,0.10220176,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The boy accepted them;
His whole childhood in them, his difference
From the others. The wings
Gold,
Gold for credence,
Every feather of them. He believed more in the things
Than I, and less. Familiar as speech,
The family tongue. I remember
New expedients, frauds, ridiculous
In the real withering sun blazing
Still. Who could have said
More, losing the boy anyway, anyway
In the bare field there old man, old potterer ...",0,anger,0.39403987,0.39403987,0.28569487,0.06305445,0.004367499,0.14691995,0.07782356,0.028099844,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"His memories of the labyrinth go numb with sleep.
The single memory: how the calls and the confusion rose
until at last they swung him up from the earth.
And how all cleavings which have cried out always
for their bridges in his breast
slowly shut like eyelids,
and how the birds swept past like shuttles, like arrows,
and finally the last lark brushing his hand,
falling like song.
Then: the wind's labyrinth, with its blind bulls,
cacophonous lights and inclines,
with its dizzying breath which he through arduous
struggle learned how to parry,
until it rose again, his vision and his flight.
Now he is rising alone, in a sky without clouds,
in a space empty of birds in the din of the aircraft...
rising towards a clearer and clearer sun,
turning gradually cooler, turning cold,
and upwards toward the spring of his blood, soul's cataract:
a prisoner in a whistling lift,
a seabubble's journey toward the looming magnetic air:
the bursting of the foetal membrane, transparently near,
and the vortex of signs, born of the springtide, raging of azure,
crumbling walls, and drunkenly the call of the other side:
Reality fallen
Without reality born!",2,fear,0.6231105,0.06261706,0.012780358,0.6231105,0.002809452,0.027869843,0.201607,0.0692058,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"He said he would be back and we'd drink wine together
He said that everything would be better than before
He said we were on the edge of a new relation
He said he would never again cringe before his father
He said that he was going to invent full-time
He said he loved me that going into me
He said was going into the world and the sky
He said all the buckles were very firm
He said the wax was the best wax
He said Wait for me here on the beach
He said Just don't cry
I remember the gulls and the waves
I remember the islands going dark on the sea
I remember the girls laughing
I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me
I remember mother saying: Inventors are like poets,
a trashy lot
I remember she said those who try out inventions are worse
I remember she added: Women who love such are the worst of all
I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer.
I would have liked to try those wings myself.
It would have been better than this.",2,fear,0.74614906,0.012605701,0.03931636,0.74614906,0.012951642,0.15133797,0.022886675,0.01475261,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The gift from above
the penalty from above—
threads of the same spool.
If it weren't for his wings
who would have known
that Icarus was a fool?",0,anger,0.50556046,0.50556046,0.25908569,0.019822048,0.004784718,0.08869015,0.081821784,0.040235132,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"From the ascending jet
the cities recede
like a wilderness
of expanding constellations
like the heroic past.
If engines falter
what to fall back on
what underlies us
but universal darkness
pocked with fleeing stars?
We do most fear to fall
into no thing
but falling.
They have blown out
even the flaming sun
by which God candled
this egg shaped earth
saw in its molten yolk
a stir of feathers
set it warm to brood
nested in orbit.
From this dark egg
we all have hatched
we Icarus, at moth
to a doomed star
now free-fall
out of time.",2,fear,0.9682979,0.005504658,0.001688362,0.9682979,0.000731545,0.006217616,0.011395179,0.006164686,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Aging, the mind contracts
and learns to do with less:
out of itself exacts
a filament, a tress
to trap the lightest prize,
a joy too fine for sense,
that passion would despise
but for its impotence.",3,joy,0.64306176,0.026883783,0.04283682,0.002766195,0.64306176,0.05788825,0.22254787,0.004015404,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Love which is the most difficult mystery
Asking from every young one answers
And most from those most eager and most beautiful—
Love is a bird in a fist:
To hold it hides it, to look at it lets it go.
It will twist loose if you lift so much as a finger.
It will stay if you cover it—stay but unknown and invisible.
Either you keep it forever with fist closed
Or let it fling
Singing in fervor of sun and in song vanish.
There is no answer other to this mystery.",4,neutral,0.47951353,0.24332497,0.04043332,0.10385484,0.028638983,0.47951353,0.090777665,0.013456632,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"When Psyche—life—goes down to the shades,
To search for Persephone in the translucent forest,
A blind swallow flings itself at her feet
With Stygian tenderness and a green twig.
A throng of shades rushes towards the fugitive,
Greeting the new companion with lamentations,
And they wring their weak hands at her
With bewilderment, shyly hopeful.
One holds out a mirror, another a flask of perfume—
The soul is a woman after all, she likes trinkets,
And the leafless forest of transparent voices
Is sprinkled with dry laments like fine rain.
And not knowing where to begin in this tender commotion,
The soul does not recognize the transparent groves;
She breathes on the mirror and delays handing over
The copper lozenge for the foggy ferrying",2,fear,0.74931765,0.017375892,0.046336666,0.74931765,0.00620179,0.05137692,0.07824711,0.051143907,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"My fate is cruel? No doubt it makes you think
Of Dante, how I'm in it up to here.
The pool is warm, I tell myself; to drink
It wouldn't cool me anyway, so tears
Are not in order. And to eat the fruit
That hangs above me on that long, lone branch
Would only lead to fouling what I stand
In. No, it's better this way. This way suits
Me fine, thank you. In water free of stench,
I contemplate one perfect apple wind
Would only blow away were I to reach.
Weep not for me, my gentle reader. Each
Man wants some object that will always tease
And taunt. The trick is learning to be pleased.",1,disgust,0.71102595,0.092807315,0.71102595,0.036489677,0.004930026,0.121450715,0.030997975,0.002298293,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Sits at the window, waits the threatened steel
as any common housewife waits near dark
for groceries that should have come at four,
when it's too late to phone to hear they're certain,
to know the boy is pedalling up the hill
and not gone home. A boy who's late—
it could be simply that, so still her hands.
Two or three birds. Bare branches.
A thrush taps on the gravel, tilts its head.
Her eyes, she thinks, could hold it if she wanted,
could make it come up close, think this is home.
Sits there, her folded hands, her lips cold,
the expected blade already on her skin.
A piece of wind no bigger than a man
moves the dead leaves, bends the sopping grass.
A blind cord knocks the window like a drum.
'Perseus, stalwart, honest, comes his way,
his footstep nicks the corners of the day,
like something hard against a grey, chipped stone.'
The stone he says she makes with those grey eyes.
Jade in the dusk. Heavier than grey.
And when he comes, how talk moves like a mirror,
a polished shield, in shadows, then in light,
always his care to stay behind its hurt.
Talks of her greatest gift—to deck out men
in stone: stone heart, stone limbs, the lot.
Turns men to stone, turns them to herself.
'The only way to end, for both our good.'
And like a man who shows off coins or gems
he lets his words fal",2,fear,0.7755042,0.09864778,0.025175007,0.7755042,0.001383633,0.0691563,0.019241557,0.010891507,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Perseus on an ornamental charger,
German work, sixteenth century,
Hovering above the slumbering Medusa
Like a buzzing fly or a mosquito
On beaten, golden wings. His head averted
From her agate gaze. In his right hand
A sword, in his left a mirror.
Helmeted by night, slipshod by darkness.
Wondering where to strike. She looks asleep
As if dreaming of petrified forests,
Monumental dryads, stone leaves, stone limbs,
Or of the mate that she will never meet
Who will look into her eyes and live.",2,fear,0.9376626,0.008123486,0.0269671,0.9376626,0.000935197,0.011533645,0.01156549,0.003212364,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Heracles, mighty son offair-ankled Alkmene,
accomplished his grim labors....
Blessed is he.' His exploits all finished,
he is now among the gods, griefless and ageless forever.",5,sadness,0.98209727,0.00184485,0.001714184,0.005882557,0.001216241,0.005891623,0.98209727,0.001353354,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"For (no one left) pretending not to care
Becomes an academic exercise:
I could as easily hold up the skies
As sit here writing in a summer chair
Or find that voluntary garden where
I can assert my title to the prize
That's mine if I unravel the disguise,
That doubleness we live in as in air.
I do care. Even at the eleventh hour
One has to hope for a miraculous birth,
Though from the golden tree the dragons sigh
Who have the whole of life within their power,
Who will yield nothing. And the widowed earth
Will sit there bravely smiling and not cry.",3,joy,0.40642253,0.015431497,0.014463786,0.003289059,0.40642253,0.2383006,0.31435633,0.007736168,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"They are not dead, they are not dead!
Now that the sun, like a lion, licks his paws
and goes slowly down the hill:
now that the moon, who remembers, and only cares
that we should be lovely in the flesh, with bright, crescent feet,
pauses near the crest of the hill, climbing slowly, like a queen
looking down on the lion as he retreats—
Now the sea is the Argonauts' sea, and in the dawn
Odysseus calls the commands, as he steers past those foamy islands;
wait, wait, don't bring me the coffee yet, nor the pain grille.
The dawn is not off the sea, and Odysseus' ships
have not yet passed the islands, I must watch them still.",4,neutral,0.28129318,0.12980844,0.17417839,0.23750651,0.03135086,0.28129318,0.08803141,0.05783121,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Jason swore that his hand was hers forever.
She took him at his word....
* # *
There Medea found
Jason remarried, and with her deadly spells
She burnt his bride to ashes while two seas
Witnessed the flames that poured from Jason's halls.
Even then her blood-red steel had pierced the bodies
Of their two sons; yet she escaped the edge
of Jason's sword by taking refuge in her
Dragon's car, those flying monsters born
Of Titan's blood.",0,anger,0.9414577,0.9414577,0.015848024,0.018403856,0.001110978,0.006025833,0.013881658,0.003271906,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Anguish and revenge made visible, her serpents lifted
Medea above pity and horror of the enacted
Crime; murderess to herself most cruel,
Absolute in power of absolute loss,
Invulnerable by human justice or human hate,
Apollo whose ancestral fire seethed in her veins
Snatched among the gods who acknowledge only
The truth of life, fulfilled in her
To the last bitter blood-drop of her being.
On amphora and crater apotheosis
Has raised into the myths of Greece the barbarous
Wronged woman whose outstretched parting hand
Warns that there are furies among the immortals,
That anguish is an avenging frenzy
Of passionate love that slaughters her own children.
What could earth-bound Jason who rated calculation above the gods
Answer Medea departing on the dragon-chariot of her desolation?",0,anger,0.8909249,0.8909249,0.021936981,0.016440416,0.001008213,0.006764756,0.061158244,0.001766558,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"All through the blazing afternoon
The hand drums talk together like locusts;
The flute pours out its endless, thin stream,
Threading it in and out the clatter of sticks upon wood-blocks.
Drums and bells exchange handfulls of bright coins,
Drums and bells scatter their music, like pennies, all over the air,
And see, the lutanist's thin hand
Rapidly picks the spangling notes off from his wires
And throws them about like drops of water.
Behind the bamboo blinds,
Behind the palms,
In the green, sundappled apartments of her palace
Redslippered Ariadne, with a tiny yawn,
Tosses a ball upon her roulette wheel.
Suddenly, dead north,
A Greek ship leaps over the horizon, skips like a colt, paws the foam.
The ship courses through the pasture of bright amethysts
And whinnies at the jetty.
The whole city runs to see:
Quick as closing your hand
The racing sail's down.
Then the drums are stunned, and the crowd, exalted, cries:
O Theseus! O Grecian hero!
Like a thought through the mind
Ariadne moves to the window.
Arrows of light, in every direction,
Leap from the armor of the black-eyed captain.
Arrows of light
Resound within her like the strings of a guitar.",6,surprise,0.7629014,0.07562819,0.03154438,0.081234075,0.003070398,0.038142942,0.007478629,0.7629014,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The Sphinx has fallen upon him
with teeth and nails outstretched
and with the full ferocity of life.
Oedipus fell at her first onslaught,
her first appearance horrified him—
until then he had never imagined
such a face or such talk.
But for all the monster's leaning
her two legs on Oedipus' breast,
he recovers quickly—and now
he has no fear of her at all, because he has
the solution ready and will win.
And yet he is not joyful over this victory.
His fully melancholy gaze
is not turned on the Sphinx, beyond
he sees the narrow road that leads to Thebes,
and that finally will end at Colonus.
And his soul is clearly and prophetically aware
that there the Sphinx will speak to him again
with more difficult and with more extensive
riddles that have no answer.",5,sadness,0.9601747,0.002123007,0.004327476,0.011653635,0.005204546,0.013389193,0.9601747,0.003127529,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Not to have guessed is better: what is, ends,
But among fellows, with reluctance,
Clasped by the Woman-Breasted, Lion-Pawed.
To have clasped in one's own arms a mother,
To have killed with one's own hands a father
—Is not this, Lame One, to have been alone?
The seer is doomed for seeing; and to understand
Is to pluck out one's own eyes with one's own hands.
But speak: what has a woman's breasts, a lion's paws?
You stand at midday in the marketplace
Before your life: to see is to have spoken.
—Yet to see, Blind One, is to be alone.",2,fear,0.29836243,0.04702591,0.27592114,0.29836243,0.002218092,0.10528343,0.26049063,0.010698332,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"So I spoke in a chorus of three different voices:
of a gun-shy banshee,
of a landlocked merman,
of Orpheus himself wih a bad case of laryngitis,
and said, Where is this performance getting us?
And the Sphinx—at least I took her for the Sphinx:
according to the sextant,
the fix seemed right for the road to Thebes,
and she had the same firm
hoyden impersonal breasts that Ingres endows her with—
said, ""Not much of anywhere as far as I can tell.
Where are you trying to get to?""
Nowhere that I know of.
""Then you are heading the wrong way,
turning your back on it. This is the road
from nowhere that you know of
to nowhere that you don't know of.""
Is there much difference?
""How should I know? All that I've been to
is the nowhere that / know of.""
So I scuffed it all out
and started over again.",4,neutral,0.4002856,0.11498656,0.16851912,0.13061227,0.005997647,0.4002856,0.04320624,0.13639249,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"In the zero of the night, in the lipping hour,
Skin-time, knocking-time, when the heart is pearled
And the moon squanders its uranian gold,
She taunted me, who was all music's tongue,
Philosophy's and wilderness's breed,
Of shifting shape, half jungle-cat, half-dancer,
Night's woman-petaled, lion-scented rose,
To whom I gave, out of a hero's need,
The dolor of my thrust, my riddling answer,
Whose force no lesser mortal knows. Dangerous?
Yes, as nervous oracles foretold
Who could not guess the secret taste of her:
Impossible wine! I came into the world
To fill a fate; am punished by my youth
No more. What if dog-faced logic howls
Was it art or magic multiplied my joy?
Nature has reasons beyond true or false.
We played like metaphysic animals
Whose freedom made our knowledge bold
Before the tragic curtain of the day:
I can bear the dishonor now of growing old.
Blinded and old, exiled, diseased, and scorned—
The verdict's bitten on the brazen gates,
For the gods grant each of us his lot, his term.
Hail to the King of Thebes!—my self, ordained
To satisfy the impulse of the worm,
Bemummied in those famous incestuous sheets,
The bloodiest flags of nations of the curse,
To be hung from the balcony outside the room
Where I encounter my most flagrant source.
Children, grandchildren, my lo",2,fear,0.6563322,0.12605812,0.14562008,0.6563322,0.00270787,0.021357784,0.04207572,0.005848176,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Remembered on the Peloponnesian roads,
He and his serving-boy and his concubine,
White-headed and light-hearted, their true wits gone
Past the last stroke of time into a day
Without a yesterday or a to-morrow,
A brightness laid like a blue lake around them,
Or endless field to play or linger in.
They were so gay and innocent, you'd have thought
A god had won a glorious prize for them
In some celestial field, and the odds were gone,
Fate sent on holiday, the earth and heaven
Thenceforth in endless friendly talk together.
They were quite storyless and had clean forgotten
That memory burning in another world;
But they too leaf-light now for any story.
If anyone spoke a word of other guilt
By chance before them, then they stamped their feet
In rage and gnashed their teeth like peevish children.
But then forgot. The road their welcoming home.
They would not stay in a house or let a door
Be shut on them. The surly Spartan farmers
Were kind to them, pitying their happiness",4,neutral,0.2859812,0.25051153,0.11716353,0.002744151,0.22753997,0.2859812,0.107964076,0.008095546,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Blind Oedipus
is old, death sits
at his side, its cold breath
on his hand. If you lean close,
you can hear him speak;
""Cursed with words, yet still
they are my eyes, and what I say
I see: old men
who put their sons on distant hills
to die, and calling it god's will,
those armies of the young are led
to think the enemy
is somewhere over there
and so are spared the messenger's
arrival with the news: the twisted root,
the lame foot—your father's legacy
to you, your mother dreaming
the king's dream, the oracle mouthing
his desires,
the rain dark
as we begin, like statues
made of earth, to melt back into mud,
eyes pouring water, faces streaked
and losing shape, returning to earth—
like the terra-cotta army
buried in the tomb
of the Emperor Qin, but this time
no beautiful figures to dig up,
no one to comment on the exquisite realism,
how each face is faithful
to its original, the way each costume
shows the rank, how the handsome horses
flank imperial pride—only
one common mud, earth closing
over its own eyes ...
we, who would give dumb matter
voice, and to inherent numbers
bring an intricate and abstract mirror, and span
the distance between stars with the silver
strands of mind, and link all difference
in the shimmering bridge
of imagery, and with blind molecules
grow eyes and hands t",0,anger,0.52474004,0.52474004,0.14986318,0.03084938,0.004954867,0.075124666,0.19914183,0.01532609,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Long afterwards
the intelligent could deduce what had been offered
and not recognized
and they suggest that bitterness should be confined
to the fact that the gods chose for their arbiter
a mind and character so ordinary
albeit a prince
and brought up as a shepherd
a calling he must have liked
for he had returned to it
when they stood before him
the three
naked feminine deathless
and he realized that he was clothed
in nothing but mortality
the strap of his quiver of arrows crossing
between his nipples
making it seem stranger
and he knew he must choose
and on that day
the one with the gray eyes spoke first
and whatever she said he kept
thinking he remembered
but remembered it woven with confusion and fear
the two faces that he called father
the first sight of the palace
where the brothers were strangers
and the dogs watched him and refused to know him
she made everything clear she was dazzling she
offered it to him
to have for his own but what he saw
was the scorn above her eyes
and her words of which he understood few
all said to him Take -wisdom
take power
you will forget anyway
the one with the dark eyes spoke
and everything she said
he imagined he had once wished for
but in confusion and cowardice
the crown
of his father the crowns the crowns bowing to him
his name everywhere ",0,anger,0.5859619,0.5859619,0.005705218,0.38176697,0.00252349,0.003643574,0.018106738,0.00229205,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Blue! Here I am, come out of the deadly caves
1b hear the thundering surf break on the shores
And see those ships, when sunrise strikes the waves,
Emerge from the dark with banks of golden oars.
My lonely hands summon those majesties
Whose salty beards amused my soft, light fingers.
I cried. They sang of their nebulous victories
And of those bays where the wake of their warships lingers.
I hear the martial trumpets, the profound
Sea shells beat a rhythm for the flying blades;
The clear song of the oarsmen stills the storms,
And the gods on heroic prows where the rollers pound,
Their ancient smiles battered by foam cascades,
Stretch out to me their indulgent, sculptured arms",5,sadness,0.72370064,0.026864178,0.021704754,0.047019027,0.055522162,0.107239306,0.72370064,0.017949967,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"There are rhymes in this world.
Disjoin them, and it trembles.
You were a blind man, Homer.
Night sat on your eyebrows.
Night, your singer's cloak.
Night, on your eyes, like a shutter.
Would a seeing man not have joined
Achilles to Helen?
Helen. Achilles.
Name a better sounding match.
For, in defiance of chaos
The world thrives on accords.
Yet, disjointed (with accord
At its core) it seeks revenge
In wifely unfaithfulness
And the burning Troy.
You were a blind man, bard.
You littered fortune like trash.
Those rhymes have been forged in that
World, and as you draw them apart
This world crumbles. Who needs
An accord! Grow old, Helen!
Achaia's best warrior!
Sparta's sweet beauty!
Nothing but the murmur
Of myrtle, a lyre's dream:
""Helen. Achilles.
The couple kept apart.""",2,fear,0.875613,0.03847071,0.017741045,0.875613,0.002079653,0.03585167,0.026343133,0.003900707,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Teucer: ... in sea-girt Cypress, -where it was decreed
by Apollo that I should live, giving the city
the name ofSalamis in memory of my island home.
* * *
Helen: I never went to Troy; it was a phantom.
* * *
Servant: What? You mean it was only for a cloud
that we struggled so much?",6,surprise,0.7012402,0.023455871,0.03982306,0.072421834,0.002806635,0.13605957,0.024192818,0.7012402,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Wakefulness. Homer. Taut sails.
I have read half the list of ships:
The outstretched brood, the string of cranes
That once soared over Hellas.
Like a wedge of cranes into alien lands—
Divine foam on the heads of the kings—
Where are you sailing? Were it not for Helen,
What would Troy be to you, Achaean men?
The sea and Homer—both impelled by love.
To whom shall I listen? And now Homer is silent,
And a black sea, with its ornate noise,
Approaches my pillow with a ponderous roar.",2,fear,0.6118397,0.039323874,0.059731107,0.6118397,0.004969585,0.13440257,0.10802804,0.04170514,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"From the first look I knew he was no good.
That perfumed hair, those teeth, those smiling lips
all said, ""Come home with me."" I knew I would.
Love? Who can say? Daylight withdrew in strips
along those vaulted archways waiting where
the slaves would hear us whisper on the stair.
Not smart, not interesting—no, not the best
at anything, all talk and fingertips.
The best I left behind; they're in those ships
nosing your harbor. You can guess the rest.
The heart does what it does, and done is done.
Regret? What for? The future finds its Troys
in every Sparta, and your fate was spun
not by old crones, but pretty girls and boys",1,disgust,0.6432411,0.122321874,0.6432411,0.010948823,0.003524987,0.18265708,0.027616117,0.009689987,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Iphigenia, led to sacrifice
Between the piercing cries of those who weep for her,
Serenely marches with the light
And, face turned forward to the wind,
Like victory riding a vessel's prow,
Untouched, annihilates catastrophe.",5,sadness,0.9484421,0.003870758,0.009130583,0.019423222,0.001685785,0.015373729,0.9484421,0.002073794,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The stairs lead to the room as bleak as glass
Where fancy turns the statues.
The empty chairs are dreaming of a protocol,
The tables, of a treaty;
And the world has become a museum.
(The girl is gone,
Fled from the broken altar by the beach,
From the unholy sacrifice when calms became a trade-wind.)
The palaces stare out from their uncurtained trouble,
And windows weep in the weak sun.
The women fear the empty upper rooms
More than the streets as grey as guns
Or the swordlight of the wide unfriendly esplanade.
Thoughts turn to salt among those shrouded chairs
Where, with knives no crueller than pens, or promises,
Took place the painless slaying of the leader's daughter.
O, humbler than the truth she bowed her head,
And scarcely seemed, to us, to die.
But after she was killed she fled, alive, like a surprise,
Out of the glass world, to Diana's Tauris.
The wind cheered like a hero in the tackle of the standing ships
And hurled them bravely on the swords and lances of the wintry sea—
While wisdom turned to salt upon the broken piers.
This is the way the ministers have killed the truth, our daughter,
Steps lead back into the rooms we fear to enter;
Our minds are bleaker than the hall of mirrors:
And the world has become a museum.",2,fear,0.86419195,0.009810844,0.007417216,0.86419195,0.001357182,0.009379171,0.10590812,0.001935565,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Little girls—
skinny, resigned
to freckles that won't go away,
not turning any heads
as they walk across the eyelids of the world,
looking just like Mom or Dad,
and sincerely horrified by it—
in the middle of dinner,
in the middle of a book,
while studying the mirror,
may suddenly be taken off to Troy.
In the grand boudoir of a wink
they all turn into beautiful Helens.
They ascend the royal staircase
in the rustling of silk and admiration.
They feel light. They all know
that beauty equals rest,
that lips mold the speech's meaning,
and gestures sculpt themselves
in inspired nonchalance.
Their small faces
worth dismissing envoys for
extend proudly on necks
that merit countless sieges.
Those tall, dark movie stars,
their girlfriends' older brothers,
the teacher from art class,
alas, they must all be slain.
Little girls
observe disaster
from a tower of smiles.
Litttle girls
wring their hands
in intoxicating mock despair.
Little girls
against a backdrop of destruction,
with flaming towns for tiaras,
in earrings of pandemic lamentation.
Pale and tearless.
Triumphant. Sated with view.
Dreading only the inevitable
moment of return.
Little girls
returning.",2,fear,0.800868,0.016366897,0.012408896,0.800868,0.003021308,0.014056818,0.14895979,0.004318285,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Seeing that Patroclos was slaughtered,
who was so manly, strong, and young,
the horses of Achilles began weeping;
their deathless nature leapt in rage
at this accomplishment of death.
They waved their heads, and shook their long manes;
with their hooves they struck the earth, and lamented,
knowing Patroclos was lifeless, ruined,
base flesh now—his mind lost—
undefended, breathless,
returning to the great Nothing out of life.
Zeus saw the deathless horses' tears
and pity moved him. ""It was wrong,""
he said, ""for me to act so carelessly
at Peleus' wedding feast. Not giving you
would have been better, my poor horses.
What could you have found, degraded there,
with miserable mankind,
the plaything of Fate?
Exempt from death, exempt from age,
time's offending rule still subjects you.
Men have tied you on their racks.""
And yet not that, but death's eternal ruin
still forced the tears from these two noble beasts",0,anger,0.7694231,0.7694231,0.02548163,0.033420414,0.001609644,0.008928934,0.15811448,0.003021773,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"She looked over his shoulder
For vines and olive trees,
Marble well-governed cities
And ships upon untamed seas,
But there on the shining metal
His hands had put instead
An artificial wilderness
And a sky like lead.
A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,
Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
An unintelligible multitude.
A million eyes, a million boots in line,
Without expression, waiting for a sign.
Out of the air a voice without a face
Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.
She looked over his shoulder
For ritual pieties,
White flower-garlanded heifers,
Libation and sacrifice,
But there on the shining metal
Where the altar should have been,
She saw by his flickering forge-light
Quite another scene.
Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
A crowd of ordinary decent folk
Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven u",5,sadness,0.5189269,0.080260046,0.23702703,0.04319654,0.003564616,0.104314305,0.5189269,0.012710639,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"""... glorious Hector,
quickly lifting the helmet from his head,
set it down on the ground, fiery in the sunlight,
and raising his son he kissed him, tossed him, in his arms,
lifting a prayer to Zeus and the other deathless gods:
""Zeus, all you immortals! Grant this boy, my son,
may be like me, first in glory among the Trojans,
strong and brave like me, and rule all Troy in power
and one day let them say, ""He is a better man than hisfather!'-
when he comes home from battle bearing the bloody gear
of the mortal enemy he has killed in war—
a joy to his mother's heart.",0,anger,0.8224015,0.8224015,0.007831272,0.005762534,0.13451186,0.013099889,0.010184846,0.00620808,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"When shiny Hector reached out for his son, the wean
Squimed and buried his head between his nurse's breasts
And howled, terrorised by his father, by flashing bronze
And the nightmarish nodding of the horse-hair crest.
His daddy laughed, his mammy laughed, and his daddy
Took off the helmet and laid it on the ground to gleam,
Then kissed the babbie and dandled him in his arms and
Prayed that his son might grow up bloodier than him.",2,fear,0.965603,0.018144105,0.006879292,0.965603,0.002154325,0.002580866,0.003174052,0.001464369,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"A tower, no ivy, I. The wind was powerless,
horns lunging round and round me like a bull's.
It stirred up clouds of dust to north and south
and in quarters I've forgotten or never knew.
But I endured, foundations deep in earth,
walls broad, heart strong
and warm within, defending my own brood.
Sorrow was closer kin than any of those.
Not the favorite, not the eldest. But a kinsman
agreeable in the chores, humble at table,
a shadowy teller of tales beside the fire.
There were times he went off hunting far away
at the masculine call
of his steady pulse, his eye sharp on the target.
He returned with game, consigned it
to a helper shrewd with the knife
and the zealous care of women.
On retiring I'd say: What a fine
piece of work my hands are weaving out of the hours.
From girlhood on I kept before my eyes
a handsome sampler;
was ambitious to copy its figure; wished no more.
Unmarried, I lived chaste while that was right;
later was loyal to one, to my own husband.
Never a dawn that found me still asleep,
never a night that overtook me till
the beehive hum of my home had sunk to rest.
The house of my lord was rich with works of my hand;
his lands stretched out to horizons.
And so that his name would not die
when his body died,
he had sons of me; they were valiant sons; had stamina.
Of ",2,fear,0.43832228,0.066602275,0.33185452,0.43832228,0.004275727,0.07675022,0.07809599,0.004099006,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Clytemnestra opens the window, looks
at herself in the glass to put on her new
hat. Agamemnon stands in the vestibule,
lights a cigarette, and waits for his wife.
Aegisthus comes in at the main door. He
doesn't know that Agamemnon returned
home last night. They meet on the stairs.
Clytemnestra suggests that they go to the
theatre. From now on they will be going
out a lot together.
Electra works in the cooperative.
Orestes studies pharmacology. Soon he'll
marry his careless classmate with the pale
complexion and eyes continually filled
with tears.",4,neutral,0.65740603,0.018631505,0.121050805,0.039344005,0.005401275,0.65740603,0.09372668,0.06443977,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"On the Mycenae road with its eucalyptus
trees you can find resiny
wine and cheese of sheep's milk ""A la belle
Helene de Menelas,"" a tavern
that leads thought away from the blood
of the Atridae. Your palace, Agamemnon,
is a bandits' hide-out under Mount
Zara, of stone unscratched by roots,
perched over twisted ravines.
The poets speak much of you, of the crime
invented in your house of crises,
of Electra's sombre frenzy,
for ten years drawing her distant
brother to matricide with the eye
of her sex; the diabolical speak
of the queen's logic—wife
of the absent soldier Agamemnon,
mind, sword betrayed.
And you alone are lost
Orestes, your face vanished without
a golden mask. To the Lions of the gate,
and skeletons of the scenic harmony
raised by philologists of the stones,
greetings from a Greek Sicilian",1,disgust,0.6004783,0.13539635,0.6004783,0.13259676,0.005652652,0.08983276,0.030834757,0.005208525,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I myself saw furious with blood
Neoptolemus, at his side the black Atridae,
Hecuba and the hundred daughters, Priam
Cut down, his filth drenching the holy fires.
In that extremity I bore me well,
A true gentleman, valorous in arms,
Disinterested and honourable. Then fled:
That was a time when civilization
Run by the few fell to the many, and
Crashed to the shout of men, the clang of arms:
Cold victualing I seized, I hoisted up
The old man my father upon my back,
In the smoke made by sea for a new world
Saving little—a mind imperishable
If time is, a love of past things tenuous
As the hesitation of receding love.
(To the reduction of uncitied littorals
We brought chiefly the vigor of prophecy,
Our hunger breeding calculation
And fixed triumphs.)
I saw the thirsty dove
In the glowing fields of Troy, hemp ripening
And tawny corn, the thickening Blue Grass
All lying rich forever in the green sun.
I see all things apart, the towers that men
Contrive I too contrived long, long ago.
Now I demand little. The singular passion
Abides its object and consumes desire
In the circling shadow of its appetite.
There was a time when the young eyes were slow,
Their flame steady beyond the firstling fire,
I stood in the rain, far from home at nightfall
By the Potomac, the great Dome lit the water,
T",0,anger,0.97454894,0.97454894,0.010806035,0.007777419,0.000467714,0.003792496,0.001684063,0.000923264,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"O sad Ulysses in decline, seer
of terrible omens, does
no sweetness in your soul foment
Desire
fora
pale dreamer of shipwrecks,
who loves you?",5,sadness,0.96387666,0.001596841,0.002257118,0.018020013,0.002046628,0.008862975,0.96387666,0.003339724,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Aft, he sleeps,
un twitching,
he has seen all places
and been made to suffer,
they call him godlike,
the ship rides the wine-dark waves,
he is on his way home,
he sleeps.",4,neutral,0.3394423,0.013279934,0.123910695,0.20446062,0.007517418,0.3394423,0.2775262,0.033862893,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Pity Ulysses, fondly sure
his men exulted in their pure
recovered forms and burned to think
what shame befell from Circe's drink.
Be glad he never did awaken
nights when heroes, memory-shaken,
sicken with longing for the sty,
the brutal tusk, the leering eye.",0,anger,0.9244945,0.9244945,0.041169323,0.009968228,0.001494127,0.004396131,0.017591342,0.000886478,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"I never turned anyone into a pig.
Some people are pigs; I make them
look like pigs.
I'm sick of your world
that lets the outside disguise the inside.
Your men weren't bad men;
undisciplined life
did that to them. As pigs,
under the care of
me and my ladies, they
sweetened right up.
Then I reversed the spell,
showing you my goodness
as well as my power. I saw
we could be happy here,
as men and women are
when their needs are simple. In the same breath,
I foresaw your departure,
your men with my help braving
the crying and pounding sea. You think
a few tears upset me? My friend,
every sorceress is
a pragmatist at heart; nobody
sees essence who can't
face limitation. If I wanted only to hold you
I could hold you prisoner.",1,disgust,0.64071536,0.12719168,0.64071536,0.012988484,0.018088087,0.1671786,0.025775937,0.008061954,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take?
Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
Or cringing dribbling dog, man's servile friend,
Or cat that prettily pounces on its meat,
Tortures it hours, then does not care to eat:
Parrot, moth, shark, wolf, crocodile, ass, flea.
What germs, what jostling mobs there were in me.
These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No claw or web here: each foot ends in hoof.
Into what bulk has method disappeared?
Like ham, streaked. I am gross—grey, gross, flap-eared.
The pale-lashed eyes my only human feature.
My teeth tear, tear. I am the snouted creature
That bites through anything, root, wire, or can.
If I was not afraid I'd eat a man.
Oh a man's flesh already is in mine.
Hand and foot poised for risk. Buried in swine.
I root and root, you think that it is greed,
It is, but I seek out a plant I need.
Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
To where it flickers deep in grass, the moly:
Cool flesh of magic in each leaf and shoot,
From milky flower to the black forked root.
From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin
And human title, putting pig within.
I push my big grey wet snout through the green,
Dreaming the flower I have never seen",1,disgust,0.50471216,0.029024886,0.50471216,0.3705019,0.001768996,0.064048246,0.014722485,0.015221366,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Her Telepathic-Station transmits thought-waves
the second-rate, the bored, the disappointed,
and any of us when tired or uneasy,
are tuned to receive.
So, though unlisted in atlas or phone-book,
Her garden is easy to find. In no time
one reaches the gate over which is written
large: MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.
Inside it is warm and still like a drowsy
September day, though the leaves show no sign of
turning. All around one notes the usual
pinks and blues and reds,
a shade over-emphasized. The rose-bushes
have no thorns. An invisible orchestra
plays the Great Masters: the technique is flawless,
the rendering schmaltz.
Of Herself no sign. But, just as the pilgrim
is starting to wonder 'Have I been hoaxed by
a myth?', he feels Her hand in his and hears Her
murmuring: At last!
With me, mistaught one, you shall learn the answers.
What is conscience but a nattering fish-wife,
the Tree of Knowledge but the splintered main-mast
of the Ship of Fools?
Consent, you poor alien, to my arms where
sequence is conquered, division abolished:
soon, soon, in the perfect orgasm, you shall, pet,
be one with the All.
She does not brutalize her victims (beasts could
bite or bolt). She simplifies them to flowers,
sessile fatalists who don't mind and only
can talk to themselves.
All but a privileged Few, the elit",4,neutral,0.6154509,0.009308642,0.02819504,0.26326925,0.008252938,0.6154509,0.06557354,0.009949622,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"a personal note (re: visitation)
always pyrotechnics;
stars spinning into phalluses
of light, serpents promising
sweetness, their forked tongues
thick and erect, patriarchs of bird
exposing themselves in the air.
this skin is sick with loneliness.
You want what a man wants,
next time come as a man
or don't come.",1,disgust,0.36780888,0.040112272,0.36780888,0.18374704,0.011716598,0.089190185,0.262743,0.044682,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far          and             wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles
far
and
wee",3,joy,0.82878566,0.004262684,0.000799425,0.003263792,0.82878566,0.037773244,0.03304172,0.092073366,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.
Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeled
With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes
That never flinched or turned to compromise,
And Luck, he cried, good luck!and waved an arm,
Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm
In all of Maine could boast of; and away
He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay...
We walked on leisurely until a bend
Showed him once more, now working toward the end
Of one great path; wearing his eighty years
Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers.

Then we turned off abruptlytook the road
Cutting the village, the one with the commanding
View of the river. And we strode
More briskly now to the long pier that showed
Where the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing.
In the canoe we stepped; our paddles dipped
Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark slipped
More on than in the water. Smoothly then
We shot its nose against the rippling current,
Feeling the rising rivers half-deterrent
Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade
To keep from swerving round; while we delayed
To watch the curious wave-eaten locks;
Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks....
Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted
A thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk.
And over us the wise and noble-hearted
Twi",4,neutral,0.25978985,0.120775476,0.037361644,0.2310112,0.10488688,0.25978985,0.14999,0.09618497,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"The difficulty to think at the end of day,   
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun   
And nothing is left except light on your fur—

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,   
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk   
And August the most peaceful month.

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,   
Without that monument of cat,   
The cat forgotten in the moon;

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,   
In which everything is meant for you   
And nothing need be explained;

Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full

And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,   
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,   
A self that touches all edges,

You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone—
You sit with your head like a carving in space   
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.",5,sadness,0.45953566,0.03690783,0.11725894,0.13794713,0.12383017,0.1182718,0.45953566,0.006248513,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Living, I had no might
To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
I am so near
No whisper, falling light,
Divides us, dear.

Living, I had no claim
On your great hours.
Now the thin candle-flame,
The closing flowers,
Wed summer with my name, 
And these are ours.

Your shadow on the dust,
Strength, and a cry,
Delight, despair, mistrust, 
All these am I.
Dawn, and the far hills thrust
To a far sky.

Living, I had no skill
To stay your tread,
Now all that was my will
Silence has said.
We are one for good and ill
Since I am dead.",2,fear,0.73542106,0.008628956,0.004515852,0.73542106,0.004098595,0.01538168,0.23014018,0.00181362,Modern,Mythology & Folklore
"Knock knock He has closed his door
The gardens lilies have started to rot
So who is the corpse being carried from the house

You just knocked on his door

And trot trot

Trot goes little lady mouse

Translated from the French ",2,fear,0.340101,0.09728816,0.19512415,0.340101,0.006461356,0.24467294,0.042022243,0.07433019,Modern,Nature
"I have built a house in the middle of the Ocean
Its windows are the rivers flowing from my eyes
Octopi are crawling all over where the walls are
Hear their triple hearts beat and their beaks peck against the windowpanes

House of dampness
House of burning
Seasons fastness
Season singing
The airplanes are laying eggs
Watch out for the dropping of the anchor

Watch out for the shooting black ichor
It would be good if you were to come from the sky
The skys honeysuckle is climbing
The earthly octopi are throbbing
And so very many of us have become our own gravediggers
Pale octopi of the chalky waves O octopi with pale beaks
Around the house is this ocean that you know well
  And is never still


Translated from the French ",2,fear,0.48265758,0.22617243,0.03193207,0.48265758,0.009196277,0.10348967,0.115599,0.03095298,Modern,Nature
"The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor,

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.",1,disgust,0.49972895,0.038913347,0.49972895,0.015854489,0.004938011,0.20866926,0.2118004,0.020095622,Modern,Nature
"I

My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair;
   Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
   Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
   Upon the breathless starlit air,
   Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
   Fix every wandering thought upon
   That quarter where all thought is done:
   Who can distinguish darkness from the soul?

My Self. The consecrated blade upon my knees
   Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,
   Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
   Unspotted by the centuries;
   That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
   From some court-lady's dress and round
   The wooden scabbard bound and wound,
   Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn.

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man
   Long past his prime remember things that are
   Emblematical of love and war?
   Think of ancestral night that can,
   If but imagination scorn the earth
   And intellect its wandering
   To this and that and t'other thing,
   Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

My Self. Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
   Five hundred years ago, about it lie
   Flowers from I know not what embroidery—
   Heart's purple—and all these I set
   For emblems of the day against the tower
   Emblematical of the night,
   And claim as by a soldier's right
  ",2,fear,0.805294,0.04039551,0.015341104,0.805294,0.006862758,0.028726572,0.0816152,0.02176487,Modern,Nature
"The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the starlit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood,
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter f",0,anger,0.9467809,0.9467809,0.019706773,0.009295058,0.000727128,0.008754442,0.013172906,0.001562773,Modern,Nature
"O sweet everlasting Voices, be still;
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.",2,fear,0.97002655,0.008778666,0.002046829,0.97002655,0.000920793,0.008584961,0.005753265,0.003888869,Modern,Nature
"Although you hide in the ebb and flow
Of the pale tide when the moon has set,
The people of coming days will know
About the casting out of my net,
And how you have leaped times out of mind
Over the little silver cords,
And think that you were hard and unkind,
And blame you with many bitter words.",0,anger,0.89363587,0.89363587,0.034992125,0.002905874,0.001786835,0.028249929,0.03618441,0.002245032,Modern,Nature
"She that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers' touch
And from her fingers ate its bit.

Did she in touching that lone wing
Recall the years before her mind
Became a bitter, an abstract thing,
Her thought some popular enmity:
Blind and leader of the blind
Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?

When long ago I saw her ride
Under Ben Bulben to the meet,
The beauty of her country-side
With all youth's lonely wildness stirred,
She seemed to have grown clean and sweet
Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:

Sea-borne, or balanced in the air
When first it sprang out of the nest
Upon some lofty rock to stare
Upon the cloudy canopy,
While under its storm-beaten breast
Cried out the hollows of the sea.",0,anger,0.75534236,0.75534236,0.11230249,0.036561493,0.002747976,0.033911727,0.052969046,0.00616491,Modern,Nature
"There was a man whom Sorrow named his friend,
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
And humming sands, where windy surges wend:
And he called loudly to the stars to bend
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story!
The sea swept on and cried her old cry still,
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
He fled the persecution of her glory
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
And thought, I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own tale again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.",5,sadness,0.9197989,0.004628364,0.005002256,0.013988165,0.013141451,0.028356142,0.9197989,0.015084685,Modern,Nature
"The woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers?  By the Rood
Where are now the warring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.

Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass  
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs  the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tel",5,sadness,0.5639367,0.014334116,0.008394544,0.37415966,0.004325906,0.023715852,0.5639367,0.011133193,Modern,Nature
"There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactnesses
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.",4,neutral,0.58948195,0.02387426,0.2785814,0.04391247,0.005130926,0.58948195,0.024808822,0.034210213,Modern,Nature
"By a peninsula the painter sat and
Sketched the uneven valley groves.
The apostle gave alms to the
Meek. The volcano burst
In fusive sulphur and hurled
Rocks and ore into the air
Heavens sudden change at
The drawing tempestuous,
Darkening shade of dense clouded hues.
The wanderer soon chose
His spot of rest; they bore the
Chosen hero upon their shoulders,
Whom they strangely admired, as
The beach-tide summer of people desired.",2,fear,0.48399824,0.14311683,0.16707963,0.48399824,0.011543532,0.061910037,0.111047,0.021304717,Modern,Nature
"Is this the river East I heard?
Where the ferries, tugs and sailboats stirred
And the reaching wharves from the inner land
Ourstretched, like the harmless receiving hand
 
And the silvery tinge that sparkles aloud
Like the brilliant white demons, which a tide has towed
From the rays of the morning sun
Which it doth ceaselessly shine upon.
 
But look at the depth of the drippling tide
The dripples, reripples like the locusts astride;
As the boat turns upon the silvery spread
It leavesstrangea shadow dead.
 
And the very charms from the reflective river
And from the stacks of the floating boat
There seemeth the quality neer to dissever
Like the ruffles from the mystified smoke.",2,fear,0.5807262,0.068225816,0.03276411,0.5807262,0.014422626,0.13432604,0.059402898,0.11013224,Modern,Nature
"The motion of gathering loops of water
Must either burst or remain in a moment.
The violet colors through the glass
Throw up little swellings that appear
And spatter as soon as another strikes
And is born; so pure are they of colored
Hues, that we feel the absent strength
Of its power. When they begin they gather
Like sand on the beach: each bubble
Contains a complete eye of water.",0,anger,0.5011555,0.5011555,0.15772572,0.044256322,0.005055336,0.1785686,0.053324685,0.05991383,Modern,Nature
"I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.",4,neutral,0.24709253,0.113124326,0.18548404,0.16612205,0.030297764,0.24709253,0.1641557,0.09372367,Modern,Nature
"I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
 
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of the spirit.
 
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields,
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who wore at their hearts the fire’s centre.
Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.",4,neutral,0.54339725,0.032686096,0.05408956,0.1783027,0.055483054,0.54339725,0.12188993,0.014151418,Modern,Nature
"Barque of phosphor
On the palmy beach,
 
Move outward into heaven,
Into the alabasters
And night blues.
 
Foam and cloud are one.
Sultry moon-monsters
Are dissolving.
 
Fill your black hull
With white moonlight.
 
There will never be an end
To this droning of the surf.",0,anger,0.94658774,0.94658774,0.009800932,0.027975082,0.001988021,0.004286659,0.006945752,0.002415865,Modern,Nature
"The trade-wind jingles the rings in the nets around the racks by the docks on Indian River.
It is the same jingle of the water among roots under the banks of the palmettoes,
It is the same jingle of the red-bird breasting the orange-treesout of the cedars.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.",4,neutral,0.73965603,0.01267004,0.067803204,0.021993961,0.010366885,0.73965603,0.08460009,0.06290974,Modern,Nature
"Her terrace was the sand
And the palms and the twilight.
 
She made of the motions of her wrist
The grandiose gestures
Of her thought.
 
The rumpling of the plumes
Of this creature of the evening
Came to be sleights of sails
Over the sea.
 
And thus she roamed
In the roamings of her fan,

Partaking of the sea,
And of the evening,
As they flowed around
And uttered their subsiding sound.",2,fear,0.5395814,0.051527552,0.075128704,0.5395814,0.0356213,0.14256918,0.11427945,0.041292444,Modern,Nature
"As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth
The big-finned palm
And green vine angering for life,
 
As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth hymn and hymn
From the beholder,
Beholding all these green sides
And gold sides of green sides,
 
And blessed mornings,
Meet for the eye of the young alligator,
And lightning colors
So, in me, come flinging
Forms, flames, and the flakes of flames.",0,anger,0.9696527,0.9696527,0.004932391,0.004021517,0.00141968,0.013029297,0.004910866,0.00203343,Modern,Nature
"   I. Springing Jack

Green wooden leaves clap light away,
Severely practical, as they

Shelter the children candy-pale,
The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . .

The showman’s face is cubed clear as
The shapes reflected in a glass

Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speech
Fumbling for space from each to each).

The fusty showman fumbles, must
Fit in a particle of dust

The universe, for fear it gain
Its freedom from my cube of brain.

Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace
Behind my crude-striped wooden face

As I, a puppet tinsel-pink
Leap on my springs, learn how to think—

Till like the trembling golden stalk
Of some long-petalled star, I walk

Through the dark heavens, and the dew
Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.


     II. The Ape Watches “Aunt Sally”

The apples are an angel’s meat;
The shining dark leaves make clear sweet

The juice; green wooden fruits alway
Fall on these flowers as white as day—

(Clear angel-face on hairy stalk:
Soul grown from flesh, an ape’s young talk!)

And in this green and lovely ground
The Fair, world-like, turns round and round

And bumpkins throw their pence to shed
Aunt Sally’s wooden clear-striped head.—

I do not care if men should throw
Round sun and moon to make me go—

As bright as gold and silver pence . . .
They cannot drive ",2,fear,0.79490256,0.13022768,0.040030178,0.79490256,0.009866825,0.011928153,0.010996463,0.002048162,Modern,Nature
"Turn again, turn again,
Goose Clothilda, Goosie Jane.

Bright wooden waves of people creak
From houses built with coloured straws
Of heat; Dean Pasppus’ long nose snores
Harsh as a hautbois, marshy-weak.

The wooden waves of people creak
Through the fields all water-sleek.

And in among the straws of light
Those bumpkin hautbois-sounds take flight.

Whence he lies snoring like the moon
Clownish-white all afternoon.

Beneath the trees’ arsenical
Sharp woodwind tunes; heretical—

Blown like the wind’s mane
(Creaking woodenly again).

His wandering thoughts escape like geese
Till he, their gooseherd, sets up chase,
And clouds of wool join the bright race
For scattered old simplicities.",1,disgust,0.39165047,0.10913075,0.39165047,0.24879475,0.003920275,0.13696937,0.08034186,0.029192515,Modern,Nature
"The moon has left the sky, love,
The stars are hiding now,
And frowning on the world, love,
Night bares her sable brow.

The snow is on the ground, love,
And cold and keen the air is.
Im singing here to you, love;
Youre dreaming there in Paris.

But this is Natures law, love,
Though just it may not seem,
That men should wake to sing, love;
While maidens sleep and dream.

Them care may not molest, love,
Nor stir them from their slumbers,
Though midnight find the swain, love.
Still halting oer his numbers.

I watch the rosy dawn, love,
Come stealing up the east,
While all things round rejoice, love,
That Night her reign has ceased.

The lark will soon be heard, love,
And on his way be winging;
When Natures poets, wake, love,
Why should a man be singing?",0,anger,0.6641075,0.6641075,0.027195154,0.00853507,0.014968458,0.05409024,0.22670646,0.004397058,Modern,Nature
"The buffaloes are gone.
And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
Those who saw the buffaloes by thousands and how they pawed the prairie sod into dust with their hoofs, their great heads down pawing on in a great pageant of dusk,
Those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
And the buffaloes are gone.",1,disgust,0.3678249,0.066850275,0.3678249,0.04209842,0.004811387,0.21952464,0.21364729,0.08524314,Modern,Nature
"There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of bloodI keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.    

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sunI got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoots hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waitingI keep the b",0,anger,0.32001776,0.32001776,0.24707697,0.16763712,0.005118037,0.1733112,0.063952535,0.02288647,Modern,Nature
"The sea-wash never ends.
The sea-wash repeats, repeats.
Only old songs? Is that all the sea knows?
             Only the old strong songs?
             Is that all?
The sea-wash repeats, repeats.",6,surprise,0.42850342,0.019168522,0.014216957,0.043115176,0.017504983,0.40111634,0.07637455,0.42850342,Modern,Nature
"I went out at night alone;
 The young blood flowing beyond the sea
Seemed to have drenched my spirits wings
 I bore my sorrow heavily.

But when I lifted up my head
 From shadows shaken on the snow,
I saw Orion in the east
 Burn steadily as long ago.

From windows in my fathers house,
 Dreaming my dreams on winter nights,
I watched Orion as a girl
 Above another citys lights.

Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too,
 The worlds heart breaks beneath its wars,
All things are changed, save in the east
 The faithful beauty of the stars.",2,fear,0.8549281,0.002474625,0.001955302,0.8549281,0.001223323,0.002781138,0.13224117,0.004396362,Modern,Nature
"Nightingale singing—gale of Nanking

Sing—mystery

of Ming-dynasty

sing

ing

in Ming

Syringa

Myringa   

Singer

Song-winged

sing-wind   

syringa

ringer

Song-wing   

sing long   

syringa

lingerer",6,surprise,0.26352632,0.024937395,0.010570749,0.1560624,0.22297427,0.19664909,0.12527983,0.26352632,Modern,Nature
"Openly, yes,
         With the naturalness
         Of the hippopotamus or the alligator
When it climbs out on the bank to experience the

Sun, I do these
Things which I do, which please
         No one but myself.  Now I breathe and now I am sub-
         Merged; the blemishes stand up and shout when the object

In view was a
Renaissance; shall I say
         The contrary?  The sediment of the river which
         Encrusts my joints, makes me very gray but I am used

To it, it may
Remain there; do away
         With it and I am myself done away with, for the
         Patina of circumstance can but enrich what was

There to begin
With.  This elephant skin
         Which I inhabit, fibered over like the shell of
         The coco-nut, this piece of black glass through which no light

Can filtercut
Into checkers by rut
         Upon rut of unpreventable experience
         It is a manual for the peanut-tongued and the

Hairy toed.  Black
But beautiful, my back
         Is full of the history of power.  Of power?  What
         Is powerful and what is not?  My soul shall never

Be cut into
By a wooden spear; through-
         Out childhood to the present time, the unity of
         Life and death has been expressed by the circumference

Descri",5,sadness,0.26980415,0.12628229,0.055375043,0.18808696,0.0997748,0.19537829,0.26980415,0.06529855,Modern,Nature
"Man, looking into the sea
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have it to yourself
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing
but you cannot stand in the middle of this:
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a processioneach with an emerald turkey-foot at the top
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them
for their bones have not lasted;
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly awaythe blades of the oars   
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress upon themselves in a phalanxbeautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them
and the ocean, under the pulsation of light-houses and noise of bell-buoys,
advances",1,disgust,0.5440475,0.15703306,0.5440475,0.057578538,0.010075782,0.14768529,0.06101569,0.022564175,Modern,Nature
"                                  1 

When the world turns completely upside down
You say well emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
Well live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
Youll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternuts dark gold color.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
Well swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.


                                  2 

The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.

Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The spring begins before the winters over.
By February you may find the skins
Of garter snakes and water moccasins
Dwindled and harsh, dead-whi",5,sadness,0.7343658,0.01813134,0.010444,0.072023585,0.03141585,0.07189155,0.7343658,0.061727807,Modern,Nature
"Muzzle and jowl and beastly brow,
bilious glaring eyes, tufted ears,
recidivous criminality in the slouch,
—This is not the latest absconding bankrupt
but a ‘beautiful’ tiger imported at great expense from   
Kuala Lumpur.

7 photographers, 4 black-and-white artists and an R.A.   
are taking his profitable likeness;   
28 reporters and an essayist
are writing him up.
Sundry ladies think he is a darling   
especially at mealtimes, observing
that a firm near the docks advertises replicas
fullgrown on approval for easy cash payments.

?Felis Tigris (Straits Settlements) (Bobo) takes exercise   
up and down his cage before feeding
in a stench of excrements of great cats
indifferent to beauty or brutality.
He is said to have eaten several persons
but of course you can never be quite sure of these things.",1,disgust,0.51445246,0.20204869,0.51445246,0.09915139,0.021792518,0.06708768,0.068603635,0.026863597,Modern,Nature
"One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.",5,sadness,0.84484637,0.032052916,0.06351564,0.025912292,0.002397418,0.026698211,0.84484637,0.004577152,Modern,Nature
"At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside.

That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.",2,fear,0.37853944,0.20887825,0.21507382,0.37853944,0.00589104,0.08702554,0.091258764,0.01333316,Modern,Nature
"Quick passage into
memory and behind
only blank spaces,

blue stain on pink
litmus or merely
known so closely

something falls away
receding from touch,
caught in the air

your fingers move,
agile water-fly
padding the surface

of what is seen
even among these
defractions, bent

pencil or warps
of a flat eye,
the wide world circling.",1,disgust,0.28544757,0.17499194,0.28544757,0.09650911,0.010765916,0.2807574,0.06806986,0.08345826,Modern,Nature
"This tuft that thrives on saline nothingness,
Inverted octopus with heavenward arms
Thrust parching from a palm-bole hard by the cove?
A bird almost?of almost bird alarms,

Is pulmonary to the wind that jars
Its tentacles, horrific in their lurch.
The lizard’s throat, held bloated for a fly,
Balloons but warily from this throbbing perch.

The needles and hack-saws of cactus bleed
A milk of earth when stricken off the stalk;
But this,?defenseless, thornless, sheds no blood,
Almost no shadow?but the air’s thin talk.

Angelic Dynamo! Ventriloquist of the Blue!
While beachward creeps the shark-swept Spanish Main
By what conjunctions do the winds appoint
Its apotheosis, at last?the hurricane!",2,fear,0.7480685,0.03174564,0.1806521,0.7480685,0.001341173,0.012195073,0.010573453,0.015424099,Modern,Nature
"The star dissolved in evening—the one star
The silently
                   and night O soon now, soon
And still the light now
                                    and still now the large
Relinquishing
                     and through the pools of blue
Still, still the swallows
                                       and a wind now
                                                            and the tree
Gathering darkness:
                              I was small. I lay
Beside my mother on the grass, and sleep
Came—

          slow hooves and dripping with the dark
The velvet muzzles, the white feet that move
In a dream water
                        and O soon now soon
Sleep and the night.

                              And I was not afraid.
Her hand lay over mine. Her fingers knew
Darkness,—and sleep—the silent lands, the far
Far off of morning where I should awake.",5,sadness,0.74370384,0.011104071,0.007040812,0.075765975,0.04981225,0.04445196,0.74370384,0.06812112,Modern,Nature
"Perspective never withers from their eyes;   
They keep that docile edict of the Spring
That blends March with August Antarctic skies:   
These are but cows that see no other thing   
Than grass and snow, and their own inner being   
Through the rich halo that they do not trouble   
Even to cast upon the seasons fleeting
Though they should thin and die on last years stubble.

And they are awkward, ponderous and uncoy . . .   
While we who press the cider mill, regarding them
We, who with pledges taste the bright annoy   
Of friendships acid wine, retarding phlegm,
Shifting reprisals (til who shall tell us when
The jest is too sharp to be kindly?) boast
Much of our store of faith in other men
Who would, ourselves, stalk down the merriest ghost.

Above them old Mizzentop, palatial white   
Hostelryfloor by floor to cinquefoil dormer   
Portholes the ceilings stack their stoic height.   
Long tiers of windows staring out toward former   
Facesloose panes crown the hill and gleam   
At sunset with a silent, cobwebbed patience . . .   

See them, like eyes that still uphold some dream   
Through mapled vistas, cancelled reservations!

High from the central cupola, they say
Ones glance could cross the borders of three states;   
But I have seen deaths star",5,sadness,0.62273663,0.00605697,0.006945391,0.03996016,0.24259813,0.06962566,0.62273663,0.012077058,Modern,Nature
"I wanted you, nameless Woman of the South,
No wraith, but utterlyas still more alone
The Southern Cross takes night
And lifts her girdles from her, one by one
High, cool,
wide from the slowly smoldering fire
Of lower heavens,
vaporous scars!

Eve! Magdalene!
or Mary, you?

Whatever callfalls vainly on the wave.
O simian Venus, homeless Eve,
Unwedded, stumbling gardenless to grieve
Windswept guitars on lonely decks forever;
Finally to answer all within one grave!

And this long wake of phosphor,
iridescent
Furrow of all our traveltrailed derision!
Eyes crumble at its kiss. Its long-drawn spell
Incites a yell. Slid on that backward vision
The mind is churned to spittle, whispering hell.

I wanted you . . . The embers of the Cross
Climbed by aslant and huddling aromatically.
It is blood to remember; it is fire
To stammer back . . . It is
Godyour namelessness. And the wash

All night the water combed you with black
Insolence. You crept out simmering, accomplished.
Water rattled that stinging coil, your
Rehearsed hairdocile, alas, from many arms.
Yes, Evewraith of my unloved seed!

The Cross, a phantom, buckleddropped below the dawn.
Light drowned the lithic trillions of your spawn.",5,sadness,0.89949787,0.012603638,0.005443316,0.0440349,0.003062473,0.02125245,0.89949787,0.014105357,Modern,Nature
"I

Brag, sweet tenor bull,
descant on Rawthey’s madrigal,
each pebble its part
for the fells’ late spring.
Dance tiptoe, bull,
black against may.
Ridiculous and lovely
chase hurdling shadows
morning into noon.
May on the bull’s hide
and through the dale
furrows fill with may,
paving the slowworm’s way.

A mason times his mallet
to a lark’s twitter,
listening while the marble rests,
lays his rule
at a letter’s edge,
fingertips checking,
till the stone spells a name
naming none,
a man abolished.
Painful lark, labouring to rise!
The solemn mallet says:
In the grave’s slot
he lies. We rot.

Decay thrusts the blade,
wheat stands in excrement
trembling. Rawthey trembles.
Tongue stumbles, ears err
for fear of spring.
Rub the stone with sand,
wet sandstone rending
roughness away. Fingers
ache on the rubbing stone.
The mason says: Rocks
happen by chance.
No one here bolts the door,
love is so sore.

Stone smooth as skin,
cold as the dead they load
on a low lorry by night.
The moon sits on the fell
but it will rain.
Under sacks on the stone
two children lie,
hear the horse stale,
the mason whistle,
harness mutter to shaft,
felloe to axle squeak,
rut thud the rim,
crushed grit.

Stocking to stocking, jersey to jersey,
head to a hard arm,
they kiss under the rain,
bruised by their marble bed",2,fear,0.5013457,0.035524797,0.06619235,0.5013457,0.00854326,0.06794229,0.31444836,0.006003251,Modern,Nature
"The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,
The wide reach of bay and the long sky line,
O, I am sick for home!

The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air,
And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,
When will the good ship come?

The wretched stumps all charred and burned,
And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,
Why is the world so old?

The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky
Where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,
Where are the dead untold?

The thin, slant willows by the flooded bog,
The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,
Sorrow with life began!

And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore,
O the wind, and the wind, for evermore!
What will become of man?",5,sadness,0.62673265,0.03641117,0.18430726,0.081975214,0.002955966,0.037218954,0.62673265,0.030398836,Modern,Nature
"Anemone and aquilegia
Have sprouted in the garden
Where dorms the melancholy
Between the amour and the disdain
It comes there also our umbras
Which the night disperses
The sun that rendered them somber
With them disappears
The deities of live water
Let flow their hair
Pass it's necessary that you pursue
This beautiful umbra that you want",5,sadness,0.98622805,0.001033826,0.00207258,0.001025252,0.002094925,0.006216973,0.98622805,0.001328396,Modern,Nature
"For this she starred her eyes with salt
And scooped her temples thin,
Until her face shone pure of fault
From the forehead to the chin.

In coldest crucibles of pain
Her shrinking flesh was fired
And smoothed into a finer grain
To make it more desired.

Pain left her lips more clear than glass;
It colored and cooled her hand.
She lay a field of scented grass
Yielded as pasture land.

For this her loveliness was curved
And carved as silver is:
For this she was brave: but she deserved
A better grave than this.",1,disgust,0.46858785,0.39777327,0.46858785,0.006410058,0.001991363,0.046765916,0.076791964,0.001679613,Modern,Nature
"These hills are sandy. Trees are dwarfed here. Crows
Caw dismally in skies of an arid brilliance,
Complain in dusty pine-trees. Yellow daybreak
Lights on the long brown slopes a frost-like dew,
Dew as heavy as rain; the rabbit tracks
Show sharply in it, as they might in snow.
But it’s soon gone in the sun—what good does it do?
The houses, on the slope, or among brown trees,
Are grey and shrivelled. And the men who live here
Are small and withered, spider-like, with large eyes.

Bring water with you if you come to live here—
Cold tinkling cisterns, or else wells so deep
That one looks down to Ganges or Himalayas.
Yes, and bring mountains with you, white, moon-bearing,
Mountains of ice. You will have need of these
Profundities and peaks of wet and cold.

Bring also, in a cage of wire or osier,
Birds of a golden colour, who will sing
Of leaves that do not wither, watery fruits
That heavily hang on long melodious boughs
In the blue-silver forests of deep valleys.

I have now been here—how many years? Years unnumbered.
My hands grow clawlike. My eyes are large and starved.
I brought no bird with me, I have no cistern
Where I might find the moon, or river, or snow.
Some day, for lack of these, I’ll spin a web
Between two dusty pine-tree tops, and hang there
Face downward, like a spider",5,sadness,0.30804908,0.13988034,0.24232672,0.18095495,0.002455084,0.10571703,0.30804908,0.020616759,Modern,Nature
"(after Albert Cook)

All day, that
is forever,

they fall, leaves,
pine needles,

as blindly as
hours into hours

colliding,
and the chill

rain—what else
do you expect

of October?—
spilling from one

roof to another,
like words from

lips to lips, your
long incertain

say in all of this
unsure of where

the camera is
and how the light

is placed and what
it is that’s ending.",2,fear,0.4085427,0.17034185,0.028994404,0.4085427,0.013649416,0.20096642,0.09930219,0.07820302,Modern,Nature
"I
         
Cook was a captain of the Admiralty
When sea-captains had the evil eye,
Or should have, what with beating krakens off
And casting nativities of ships;
Cook was a captain of the powder-days
When captains, you might have said, if you had been
Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side,
Or gaping at them up companionways,
Were more like warlocks than a humble man—
And men were humble then who gazed at them,
Poor horn-eyed sailors, bullied by devils’ fists
Of wind or water, or the want of both,
Childlike and trusting, filled with eager trust—
Cook was a captain of the sailing days
When sea-captains were kings like this,
Not cold executives of company-rules
Cracking their boilers for a dividend
Or bidding their engineers go wink
At bells and telegraphs, so plates would hold
Another pound. Those captains drove their ships
By their own blood, no laws of schoolbook steam,
Till yards were sprung, and masts went overboard—
Daemons in periwigs, doling magic out,
Who read fair alphabets in stars
Where humbler men found but a mess of sparks,
Who steered their crews by mysteries
And strange, half-dreadful sortilege with books,
Used medicines that only gods could know
The sense of, but sailors drank
In simple faith. That was the captain
Cook was when he came to the Coral Se",1,disgust,0.34780988,0.2157604,0.34780988,0.24363996,0.020666255,0.081860624,0.069988176,0.020274693,Modern,Nature
"“In warm sunlight jade
engenders smoke”; poetry,
like indigo mountain,
keeps its distance;

the light plays words
and figures, stone’s
edge edged with air,
green haze growing.

Amused by butterflies,
Chuang Tsu dreaming,
the emperor’s heart in
spring, thoroughly transformed.

Still, in pieces, the words
rest so much apart.
Risking my life I lean
on dangerous railings.


When the dream wakes
to its own particulars,
the strands scattered,
loose hair on muslin,

broken characters
the reeds make, unmake—
vague    no reason
bright    again    dark—

the sidewalk’s fracturing,
damp willow twig
forked there as well
locust seedpods:

Autumn, then, and
gourd music, the wind—
indistinct    no-stop
break    again    join.


Drifting between narrow
bluffs, sharp bends
enclose us, deep
rain-cuts all around—

mountain pass, slant
sunlight and snow line,
the dream piazza
gilded into a high valley;

“haze, mist,” Kuo Hsi
interrupted, sluice-
way wedged into
a mountain like a keel;

what was said by fire-
light, the bandit in
the yellow sombrero
laughing at the window.

Chill surprise of
Chinese apples, glitter
of the Pacific between
buildings—caught in

passing, an empty
rowboat or Russian sealer
riding at anchor, Magellan
full sail in dusty curtains,

casements groan like
taut rigging, bright
s",2,fear,0.46380562,0.0758861,0.02165475,0.46380562,0.023127103,0.06298145,0.049568966,0.30297598,Modern,Nature
"She sang beyond the genius of the sea.   
The water never formed to mind or voice,   
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion   
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,   
That was not ours although we understood,   
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.   
The song and water were not medleyed sound   
Even if what she sang was what she heard,   
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred   
The grinding water and the gasping wind;   
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.   
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.   
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew   
It was the spirit that we sought and knew   
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea   
That rose, or even colored by many waves;   
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,   
However clear, it would have been deep air,   
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound   
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,   
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of w",2,fear,0.51605654,0.04468525,0.16524407,0.51605654,0.006009155,0.08890094,0.1690128,0.010091255,Modern,Nature
"I speak this poem now with grave and level voice   
In praise of autumn, of the far-horn-winding fall.

I praise the flower-barren fields, the clouds, the tall   
Unanswering branches where the wind makes sullen noise.

I praise the fall: it is the human season.
                                                                  Now
No more the foreign sun does meddle at our earth,   
Enforce the green and bring the fallow land to birth,   
Nor winter yet weigh all with silence the pine bough,

But now in autumn with the black and outcast crows   
Share we the spacious world: the whispering year is gone:   
There is more room to live now: the once secret dawn   
Comes late by daylight and the dark unguarded goes.

Between the mutinous brave burning of the leaves   
And winter’s covering of our hearts with his deep snow   
We are alone: there are no evening birds: we know   
The naked moon: the tame stars circle at our eaves.

It is the human season. On this sterile air
Do words outcarry breath: the sound goes on and on.   
I hear a dead man’s cry from autumn long since gone.

I cry to you beyond upon this bitter air.",5,sadness,0.836296,0.053078737,0.019538442,0.041509498,0.02412783,0.023232264,0.836296,0.002217216,Modern,Nature
"Not that the pines were darker there,   
nor mid-May dogwood brighter there,   
nor swifts more swift in summer air;
    it was my own country,

having its thunderclap of spring,   
its long midsummer ripening,   
its corn hoar-stiff at harvesting,
    almost like any country,

yet being mine; its face, its speech,   
its hills bent low within my reach,   
its river birch and upland beech
    were mine, of my own country.

Now the dark waters at the bow
fold back, like earth against the plow;   
foam brightens like the dogwood now
    at home, in my own country.",2,fear,0.43554118,0.04786934,0.01399766,0.43554118,0.06840236,0.033471927,0.33484495,0.06587259,Modern,Nature
"It is easily forgotten, year to
year, exactly where the plot is,
though the place is entirely familiar—
a willow tree by a curving roadway
sweeping black asphalt with tender leaves;

damp grass strewn with flower boxes,
canvas chairs, darkskinned old ladies
circling in draped black crepe family stones,
fingers cramped red at the knuckles, discolored
nails, fresh soil for new plants, old rosaries;

such fingers kneading the damp earth gently down
on new roots, black humus caught in grey hair
brushed back, and the single waterfaucet,
birdlike upon its grey pipe stem,
a stream opening at its foot.

We know the stories that are told,
by starts and stops, by bent men at strange joy
regarding the precise enactments of their own
gesturing. And among the women there will be
a naming of families, a counting off, an ordering.

The morning may be brilliant; the season
is one of brilliances—sunlight through
the fountained willow behind us, its splayed
shadow spreading westward, our shadows westward,
irregular across damp grass, the close-set stones.

It may be that since our walk there is faltering,
moving in careful steps around snow-on-the-mountain,
bluebells and zebragrass toward that place
between the willow and the waterfaucet, the way
is lost, that we have no practiced step there,
and ",4,neutral,0.36344332,0.10672807,0.18113479,0.16323882,0.03174122,0.36344332,0.087755695,0.06595811,Modern,Nature
"I

“At odds again,”   
hands moving out   
of the shadows.   
And now, now   
everything seems   
definite, discrete,   
fingers webbed   
with sunlight
the tree lets through,   
arms still in their   
own time, circling,   
catch up, catch   
hold at the wrists,   
like cell chains   
in a watchcrystal   
completing themselves.   
Together again.   
Shoulders, torso,   
each one of us one,   
once more. It is   
hard to imagine   
minutes just past.


II

“At odds again,”   
hands moving against   
the wind like loose   
flapping things,   
washcloths, words   
long frayed with   
careless use. You   
wanted to say   
it was beginning   
to bother you,   
beginning to wish,   
wondering if thought   
in broken light   
could ever touch   
itself, reassemble   
itself. The King,   
our promise, broken,   
the sword we imagined   
gone, hovers like   
leafmold in the light.   
Say it, then, the stain   
of things remains.


III

“At odds again,”
elbow cupped into   
wet leaves. After   
love, there are   
moments of clutter,   
and no amount of   
practice will teach   
you to regard them   
as anything more   
than what you lean   
against catching   
its buried chill.
Keep your fancy   
to yourself; facts   
do not fade but are   
momentarily obscured,   
the work of hands,   
t",2,fear,0.30498222,0.12039261,0.034258883,0.30498222,0.11865786,0.15527558,0.17879494,0.08763794,Modern,Nature
"While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever, and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me.
I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.",2,fear,0.5217347,0.015289169,0.035680003,0.5217347,0.004883754,0.028427998,0.38872734,0.005257035,Modern,Nature
"Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.",5,sadness,0.36899653,0.033616234,0.116619974,0.33002844,0.003224855,0.13935018,0.36899653,0.008163729,Modern,Nature
"Since there is no escape, since at the end
My body will be utterly destroyed,
This hand I love as I have loved a friend,
This body I tended, wept with and enjoyed;
Since there is no escape even for me
Who love life with a love too sharp to bear:
The scent of orchards in the rain, the sea
And hours alone too still and sure for prayer
Since darkness waits for me, then all the more
Let me go down as waves sweep to the shore
In pride, and let me sing with my last breath;
In these few hours of light I lift my head;
Life is my loverI shall leave the dead
If there is any way to baffle death.",5,sadness,0.8631088,0.031257626,0.015068741,0.07509589,0.002699624,0.009234032,0.8631088,0.003535252,Modern,Nature
"After the whey-faced anonymity
Of river-gums and scribbly-gums and bush,
After the rubbing and the hit of brush,
You come to the South Country

As if the argument of trees were done,
The doubts and quarrelling, the plots and pains,
All ended by these clear and gliding planes
Like an abrupt solution.

And over the flat earth of empty farms
The monstrous continent of air floats back
Coloured with rotting sunlight and the black,
Bruised flesh of thunderstorms:

Air arched, enormous, pounding the bony ridge,
Ditches and hutches, with a drench of light,
So huge, from such infinities of height,
You walk on the sky’s beach

While even the dwindled hills are small and bare,
As if, rebellious, buried, pitiful,
Something below pushed up a knob of skull,
Feeling its way to air.",1,disgust,0.7187592,0.05701713,0.7187592,0.10658913,0.001863488,0.055709686,0.050055258,0.010006108,Modern,Nature
"Here, in the withered arbor, like the arrested wind,
Straight sides, carven knees,
Stands the statue, with hands flung out in alarm
Or remonstrances.

Over the lintel sway the woven bracts of the vine
In a pattern of angles.
The quill of the fountain falters, woods rake on the sky
Their brusque tangles.

The birds walk by slowly, circling the marble girl,
The golden quails,
The pheasants, closed up in their arrowy wings,
Dragging their sharp tails.

The inquietudes of the sap and of the blood are spent.
What is forsaken will rest.
But her heel is lifted,—she would flee,—the whistle of the birds
Fails on her breast.",2,fear,0.9151931,0.043971937,0.006680164,0.9151931,0.001176624,0.016473975,0.011435933,0.005068232,Modern,Nature
"This is my advice to foreigners:   
call it simply—the river;
never say old muddy
or even Missouri,
and except when it is necessary   
ignore the fact that it moves.   
It is the river, a singular,
stationary figure of division.
Do not allow the pre-Socratic   
to enter your mind except
when thinking of clear water trout   
streams in north central Wyoming.   
The river is a variety of land,   
a kind of dark sea or great bay,   
sea of greater ocean.
At times I find it good discipline   
to think of it as a tree
rooted in the delta,
a snake on its topmost western branch.   
These hills are not containers;   
they give no vantage but that   
looking out is an act of transit.   
We are not confused,
we do not lose our place.",2,fear,0.63151026,0.042793512,0.056595985,0.63151026,0.013881842,0.19296919,0.048611794,0.013637336,Modern,Nature
"I

Geography matters.
It is the plan,
the arrangement of things
that confuses our enemies,
the difference between what
they expect and what they get;
as simple as bobbing for apples
becomes difficult, deception is
an achievement in ordering the obvious.


II

Let us make a song
for our confusion:
Call it “Red Skies over Gary”
or “Red Skies in the Sunset”
or “Red Skies and the Open Hearth.”

    Red Skies over Gary,
    you are my sunset,
    my only home.

Let us make ourselves invisible,
not make songs, or even
disappear suddenly from
the sidewalks of Calumet.


III

Cobalt and carborundum
are refinements of the art.

So it’s true, you held
the razor in your teeth,
or was it pure magic,
a miracle of place?
One makes for workability,
the other for hardness,
and chromium bright,
the stainless achievement.


IV

I came from Calumet to Gary,
and it was early evening;
south of the mills, poppy fields
toxic red above the car lots,
have a Coke on Texaco
’til the mercury arcs devour us
and it is purple night.",4,neutral,0.6508942,0.05437243,0.035342433,0.14169025,0.010668932,0.6508942,0.031784307,0.07524742,Modern,Nature
"Absolute zero: the locust sings:
summer’s caught in eternity’s rings:
the rock explodes, the planet dies,
we shovel up our verities.

The razor rasps across the face
and in the glass our fleeting race
lit by infinity’s lightning wink
under the thunder tries to think.

In this frail gourd the granite pours
the timeless howls like all outdoors
the sensuous moment builds a wall
open as wind, no wall at all:

while still obedient to valves and knobs
the vascular jukebox throbs and sobs
expounding hope propounding yearning
proposing love, but never learning

or only learning at zero’s gate
like summer’s locust the final hate
formless ice on a formless plain
that was and is and comes again.",5,sadness,0.7620198,0.06341276,0.012489069,0.12018705,0.006052319,0.019900812,0.7620198,0.015938116,Modern,Nature
"I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;   
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,   
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,   
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;   
For he must fly back to his perch and cling   
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
    And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars   
And they pulse again with a keener sting
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
    But a prayer that he sends from his hearts deep core,   
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings
I know why the caged bird sings!",5,sadness,0.9452928,0.007221836,0.006117541,0.016316734,0.007803875,0.008097,0.9452928,0.00915022,Modern,Nature
"‘Talbingo River’—as one says of bones:
‘Captain’ or ‘Commodore’ that smelt gunpowder
In old engagements no one quite believes
Or understands. Talbingo had its blood
As they did, ran with waters huge and clear
Lopping down mountains,
Turning crags to banks.

Now it’s a sort of aching valley,
Basalt shaggy with scales,
A funnel of tobacco-coloured clay,
Smoulders of puffed earth
And pebbles and shell-bodied flies
And water thickening to stone in pocks.

That’s what we’re like out here,
Beds of dried-up passions.",5,sadness,0.76238555,0.009718929,0.17217451,0.010895706,0.002433855,0.0374776,0.76238555,0.004913868,Modern,Nature
"I
Among twenty snowy mountains,   
The only moving thing   
Was the eye of the blackbird.   

II
I was of three minds,   
Like a tree   
In which there are three blackbirds.   

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.   
It was a small part of the pantomime.   

IV
A man and a woman   
Are one.   
A man and a woman and a blackbird   
Are one.   

V
I do not know which to prefer,   
The beauty of inflections   
Or the beauty of innuendoes,   
The blackbird whistling   
Or just after.   

VI
Icicles filled the long window   
With barbaric glass.   
The shadow of the blackbird   
Crossed it, to and fro.   
The mood   
Traced in the shadow   
An indecipherable cause.   

VII
O thin men of Haddam,   
Why do you imagine golden birds?   
Do you not see how the blackbird   
Walks around the feet   
Of the women about you?   

VIII
I know noble accents   
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;   
But I know, too,   
That the blackbird is involved   
In what I know.   

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,   
It marked the edge   
Of one of many circles.   

X
At the sight of blackbirds   
Flying in a green light,   
Even the bawds of euphony   
Would cry out sharply.   

XI
He rode over Connecticut   
In a glass coach.   
",2,fear,0.40449342,0.09056609,0.03900125,0.40449342,0.08830688,0.07218361,0.18838473,0.11706403,Modern,Nature
"I

Calm was the sea to which your course you kept,
Oh, how much calmer than all southern seas!
Many your nameless mates, whom the keen breeze
Wafted from mothers that of old have wept.
All souls of children taken as they slept
Are your companions, partners of your ease,
And the green souls of all these autumn trees
Are with you through the silent spaces swept.
Your virgin body gave its gentle breath
Untainted to the gods. Why should we grieve,
But that we merit not your holy death?
We shall not loiter long, your friends and I;
Living you made it goodlier to live,
Dead you will make it easier to die.

II

With you a part of me hath passed away;
For in the peopled forest of my mind
A tree made leafless by this wintry wind
Shall never don again its green array.
Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,
Have something of their friendliness resigned;
Another, if I would, I could not find,
And I am grown much older in a day.
But yet I treasure in my memory
Your gift of charity, your mellow ease,
And the dear honour of your amity;
For these once mine, my life is rich with these.
And I scarce know which part may greater be,
What I keep of you, or you rob of me.

III

Your bark lies anchored in the peaceful bight
Until a kinder wind unfurl her sail;
",5,sadness,0.9079258,0.002210939,0.003365707,0.00298793,0.042237725,0.035751987,0.9079258,0.005519898,Modern,Nature
"nothing but this continent
intent on its dismay—
hands, etc. bandaged,
a torn petticoat fringed
with lace, roseate frozen
fingers, or elsewhere
feet wrapped in burlap
scuffing new snow

after the indigo of their tunics
seeps back into the soil
this spring, the several springs’
dulling thaw and incidental greenery

what marks they made were
harrowed out by those who settled,
so set themselves against the land

whether to keep the land
open to passage
or parcel it to the plow
Benton and Everett argued

“English tartars,” some said,
white savages to plunder the trade,
“only farmer and tradesman stabilize”

his head raised slightly
the dying woodsman
views the open plains,

“flat water” squalls
spilling stiff grasses
into the small shade a stand
of scrub trees gives his end

“huge skulls and whitening
bones of buffalo
were scattered everywhere”

the Conestoga’s canvas
straining to the wind,
the plow’s first bite,
the first indenture
of the rutted road,
crossties set down,
oil, asphalt glittering
quartz aggregate to the sun

the harrow’s bright discs
crumble the damp shine
of the new furrow,
the wind dulls and sifts
grassland into dust

two days in the storm cellar,
wet rags to their faces,
the slatted door impacted
with wet rags, dowery linens

strange light at the cyclone’s
onset, a",5,sadness,0.7775009,0.05124116,0.007450755,0.07209617,0.010375218,0.018996697,0.7775009,0.062339053,Modern,Nature
"But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.

The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats

The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these

For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.",3,joy,0.60341984,0.004508719,0.002898297,0.002770355,0.60341984,0.12622717,0.033453245,0.2267224,Modern,Nature
"As others or ourselves
let’s say—furtive, then,

inconsequent and sad—
or on the edge of thought,

perhaps, or into some
predictable meandering,

the outward accelerations
of water against its shore

dissipating into erosions,
cuts and counter-cuts,

remembered as landscape,
the convenient certainties

of an abandoned past.
Is it tree or treeline

or the massing of leaves
against the sky or color

freed from shadow or something
of color deepening against shade,

the sensible bluff that heaves
above the bluff’s presumed

insensible marl? River,
again, always enclosed

by its own turnings, its
own turnings overgrown.",2,fear,0.8561494,0.029157497,0.011317008,0.8561494,0.00459399,0.05441369,0.036200278,0.00816814,Modern,Nature
"The incoherent rushing of the train
Dulls like a drugged pain

Numbs
To an ether throbbing of inaudible drums

Unfolds
Hush within hush until the night withholds

Only its darkness.
                            From the deep
Dark a voice calls like a voice in sleep

Slowly a strange name in a strange tongue.

Among

The sleeping listeners a sound
As leaves stir faintly on the ground

When snow falls from a windless sky—
A stir    A sigh",2,fear,0.83464366,0.006296795,0.016222958,0.83464366,0.003746292,0.014831385,0.089989774,0.034269102,Modern,Nature
"When you are not surprised, not surprised,
nor leap in imagination from sunlight into shadow   
or from shadow into sunlight   
suiting the color of fright or delight   
to the bewildering circumstance   
when you are no longer surprised   
by the quiet or fury of daybreak   
the stormy uprush of the sun’s rage   
over the edges of torn trees
torrents of living and dying flung
upward and outward inward and downward to space
or else
peace peace peace peace
the wood-thrush speaking his holy holy
far hidden in the forest of the mind   
while slowly
the limbs of light unwind
and the world’s surface dreams again of night
as the center dreams of light   
when you are not surprised
by breath and breath and breath
the first unconscious morning breath
the tap of the bird’s beak on the pane
and do not cry out come again   
blest blest that you are come again   
o light o sound o voice of bird o light   
and memory too o memory blest   
and curst with the debts of yesterday   
that would not stay, or stay

when you are not surprised
by death and death and death
death of the bee in the daffodil
death of color in the child’s cheek
on the young mother’s breast
death of sense of touch of sight
death of delight
and the inward death the inward turning night
when the heart hardens itself with hate",2,fear,0.6218922,0.04840915,0.002080302,0.6218922,0.013355286,0.012060531,0.019717572,0.28248492,Modern,Nature
"At five I wake, rise, rub on the smoking pane
A port to see—water breathing in the air,
Boughs broken. The sun comes up in a golden stain,
Floats like a glassy sea-fruit. There is mist everywhere,
White and humid, and the Harbour is like plated stone,
Dull flakes of ice. One light drips out alone,
One bead of winter-red, smouldering in the steam,
Quietly over the roof-tops—another window
Touched with a crystal fire in the sun’s gullies,
One lonely star of the morning, where no stars gleam.

Far away on the rim of this great misty cup,
The sun gilds the dead suburbs as he rises up,
Diamonds the wind-cocks, makes glitter the crusted spikes
On moss-drowned gables. Now the tiles drip scarlet-wet,
Swim like birds’ paving-stones, and sunlight strikes
Their watery mirrors with a moister rivulet,
Acid and cold. Here lie those mummied Kings,
Men sleeping in houses, embalmed in stony coffins,
Till the Last Trumpet calls their galleries up,
And the suburbs rise with distant murmurings.

O buried dolls, O men sleeping invisible there,
I stare above your mounds of stone, lean down,
Marooned and lonely in this bitter air,
And in one moment deny your frozen town,
Renounce your bodies—earth falls in clouds away,
Stones lose their meaning, substance is lost in clay,
Roofs fade, and that small smo",1,disgust,0.3600086,0.34846804,0.3600086,0.058602437,0.002463907,0.086368084,0.127702,0.016386956,Modern,Nature
"Even iron can put forth,
Even iron.

This is the iron age,
But let us take heart
Seeing iron break and bud,
Seeing rusty iron puff with clouds of blossom.

The almond-tree,
December's bare iron hooks sticking out of earth.

The almond-tree,
That knows the deadliest poison, like a snake
In supreme bitterness.

Upon the iron, and upon the steel,
Odd flakes as if of snow, odd bits of snow,
Odd crumbs of melting snow.

But you mistake, it is not from the sky;
From out the iron, and from out the steel,
Flying not down from heaven, but storming up,
Strange storming up from the dense under-earth
Along the iron, to the living steel
In rose-hot tips, and flakes of rose-pale snow
Setting supreme annunciation to the world.

Nay, what a heart of delicate super-faith,
Iron-breaking,
The rusty swords of almond-trees.

Trees suffer, like races, down the long ages.
They wander and are exiled, they live in exile through long ages
Like drawn blades never sheathed, hacked and gone black,
The alien trees in alien lands: and yet
The heart of blossom,
The unquenchable heart of blossom!

Look at the many-cicatrised frail vine, none more scarred and frail,
Yet see him fling himself abroad in fresh abandon
From the small wound-stump.

Even the wilful, obstinate, ",0,anger,0.49071342,0.49071342,0.30693987,0.092107154,0.001558009,0.03397996,0.069326416,0.005375247,Modern,Nature
"I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.",1,disgust,0.7785115,0.046888646,0.7785115,0.057457235,0.002596937,0.064349264,0.034139175,0.016057182,Modern,Nature
"A poem should be palpable and mute   
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   
As the flight of birds.

                         *               

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time   
As the moon climbs.

                         *               

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean   
But be.",2,fear,0.44355962,0.036960658,0.057355087,0.44355962,0.00924312,0.036822617,0.4089125,0.007146344,Modern,Nature
"At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...

Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.

And you think:
""The swallows are flying so late!""

Swallows?

Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.

Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.

At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.

Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps th",2,fear,0.74892515,0.015395273,0.009532456,0.74892515,0.002711262,0.019418012,0.023882387,0.18013547,Modern,Nature
"Then you shall see her truly--your blood remembering its first invasion of her secrecy, its first encounters with her kind, her chieftain lover...his shade that haunts the lakes and hills",4,neutral,0.56542146,0.0584165,0.2202627,0.09646373,0.007259988,0.56542146,0.027712869,0.024462644,Modern,Nature
"I
The bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Lincoln Park
Shrivels in the sun by day when the motor cars whirr by in long processions going somewhere to keep apppointment for dinner and matinees and buying and selling
Though in the dusk and nightfall when high waves are piling
On the slabs of the promenade along the lake shore near by
   I have seen the general dare the combers come closer
And make to ride his bronze horse out into the hoofs and guns of the storm.

II
I cross Lincoln Park on a winter night when the snow is falling.
Lincoln in bronze stands among the white lines of snow, his bronze forehead meeting soft echoes of the newsies crying forty thousand men are dead along the Yser, his bronze ears listening to the mumbled roar of the city at his bronze feet.
A lithe Indian on a bronze pony, Shakespeare seated with long legs in bronze, Garibaldi in a bronze cape, they hold places in the cold, lonely snow to-night on their pedestals and so they will hold them past midnight and into the dawn.",2,fear,0.88632786,0.02444573,0.002735655,0.88632786,0.006084846,0.014106177,0.05710125,0.00919841,Modern,Nature
"Man, the egregious egoist,
(In mystery the twig is bent,)
Imagines, by some mental twist,
That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load
Which on all living creatures lies,
Nor stoops to pity in the toad
The speechless sorrow of its eyes.

He asks no questions of the snake,
Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom
Where lidless fishes, broad awake,
Swim staring at a night-mare doom.",5,sadness,0.91304195,0.005210144,0.029681854,0.011716544,0.001733867,0.035252776,0.91304195,0.003362902,Modern,Nature
"Not in that wasted garden
Where bodies are drawn into grass
That feeds no flocks, and into evergreens
That bear no fruit 
There where along the shaded walks
Vain sighs are heard,
And vainer dreams are dreamed
Of close communion with departed souls 
But here under the apple tree
I loved and watched and pruned
With gnarled hands
In the long, long years;
Here under the roots of this northern-spy
To move in the chemic change and circle of life,
Into the soil and into the flesh of the tree,
And into the living epitaphs
Of redder apples!",5,sadness,0.8930469,0.020049598,0.013104068,0.029799381,0.007478641,0.018947942,0.8930469,0.017573448,Modern,Nature
"What large, dark hands are those at the window
Lifted, grasping the golden light
Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves
       To my heart's delight?

Ah, only the leaves! But in the west,
In the west I see a redness come
Over the evening's burning breast 
        'Tis the wound of love goes home!

The woodbine creeps abroad
Calling low to her lover:
The sun-lit flirt who all the day
Has poised above her lips in play
And stolen kisses, shallow and gay
Of pollen, now has gone away
 She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,
And when above her his broad wings hover
Then her bright breast she will uncover
And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow
Saunters a man from the farm below,
Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed
Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed.
The bird lies warm against the wall.
She glances quick her startled eyes
Towards him, then she turns away
Her small head, making warm display
Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway
Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,
Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies
In one blue stoop from out the sties
Into the evening's empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes
Hide your quaint, unfading blushes,
Still your quick tail, and lie as dead,
Till the dis",2,fear,0.49730828,0.07516041,0.020989172,0.49730828,0.021578273,0.046999205,0.19433239,0.14363234,Modern,Nature
"I met a man in South Street, tall –

a nervous shark tooth swung on his chain.

His eyes pressed through green glass

-          green glasses, or bar lights made them

so –

            shine –

                        GREEN –

                                    eyes –

stepped out – forgot to look at you

or left you several blocks away –

 

in the nickel-in-the-slot piano jogged

‘Stamboul Nights’ – weaving somebody’s nickel-sang-

 

            O Stamboul Rose – dreams weave the rose!

 

                        Murmurs of Leviathan he spoke,

                        and rum was Plato in our heads…

 

‘‘It’s S.S. Ala – Antwerp – now remember kid

to put me out at three she sails on time.

I’m not much good at time any more keep

weakeyed watches sometimes snooze-’’ his bony hands

got to beating time… ‘‘A whaler once-

I ought to keep time and get over it-I’m a

Democrat-I know what time it is-No

I don’t want to know what time it is-that

damned white Arctic killed my time…’’

 

            O Stamboul Rose-drums weave-

 

‘‘I ran a donkey engine down there on the Canal

in Panama-got tired of that-

then Yucatan selling kitchenware-beads-

have you seen Popocatepetl-birdless mouth

with ashes sifting down-?

                                    and then the coast again…",2,fear,0.68327683,0.018023083,0.004637369,0.68327683,0.042213883,0.054516077,0.052867733,0.14446507,Modern,Nature
"See, the grass is full of stars,
Fallen in their brightness;
Hearts they have of shining gold,
Rays of shining whiteness.

Buttercups have honeyed hearts,
Bees they love the clover,
But I love the daisies' dance
All the meadow over.

Blow, O blow, you happy winds,
Singing summer's praises,
Up the field and down the field
A-dancing with the daisies.",3,joy,0.6741746,0.006545154,0.004975064,0.001542004,0.6741746,0.17500256,0.10502816,0.03273244,Modern,Nature
"First there is the wind but not like the familiar wind but long and without lapses or falling away or surges of air as is usual but rather like the persistent pressure of a river or a running tide.

   This wind is from the other side and has an odor unlike the odor of the winds with us but like time if time had odor and were cold and carried a bitter and sharp taste like rust on the taste of snow or the fragrance of thunder.

   When the air has this taste of time the frontiers are not far from us.

   Then too there are the animals. There are always animals under the small trees. They belong neither to our side nor to theirs but are wild and because they are animals of such kind that wildness is unfamiliar in them as the horse for example or the goat and often sheep and dogs and like creatures their wandering there is strange and even terrifying signaling as it does the violation of custom and the subversion of order.

   There are also the unnatural lovers the distortion of images the penetration of mirrors and the inarticulate meanings of the dreams. The dreams are in turmoil like a squall of birds.

   Finally there is the evasion of those with whom we have come. It is at the frontiers that the companions desert us—that the girl returns to the old country

   that we are alo",1,disgust,0.58066446,0.05938125,0.58066446,0.21088435,0.001606713,0.11548578,0.021416558,0.010561007,Modern,Nature
"I’ the how-dumb-deid o’ the cauld hairst nicht   
The warl’ like an eemis stane
Wags i’ the lift;
An’ my eerie memories fa’
Like a yowdendrift.

Like a yowdendrift so’s I couldna read   
The words cut oot i’ the stane
Had the fug o’ fame
An’ history’s hazelraw
No’ yirdit thaim.",2,fear,0.94286734,0.003038415,0.00447026,0.94286734,0.003607991,0.008230102,0.008179059,0.029606745,Modern,Nature
"This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that's gone astray, and is lost.",6,surprise,0.9472926,0.015762059,0.007303624,0.01432229,0.001573017,0.011778554,0.001967812,0.9472926,Modern,Nature
"I never knew the earth had so much gold
The fields run over with it, and this hill
Hoary and old,
Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.

Such golden fires, such yellowlo, how good
This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God!
This fringe of wood,
Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod.

You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see
Your face grow mystical, as on that night
You turned to me,
And all the trembling worldand youwere white.

Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb;
The fields absorb you, color you entire . . .
And you become
A goddess standing in a world of fire!",2,fear,0.9287823,0.005733867,0.002860923,0.9287823,0.013451288,0.010292755,0.012130206,0.02674874,Modern,Nature
"The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.",2,fear,0.47768438,0.018585825,0.048803028,0.47768438,0.006319338,0.26593685,0.12428123,0.058389373,Modern,Nature
"When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.

She drips herself with water, and her shoulders
Glisten as silver, they crumple up
Like wet and falling roses, and I listen
For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals.
In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.",4,neutral,0.66725695,0.016756924,0.127679,0.013051177,0.03473949,0.66725695,0.12046181,0.020054614,Modern,Nature
"Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
   Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
   Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
   And sap ran free in my veins,
But I say in the moonlight dim and weird
   A guiltless victim's pains.

I bent me down to hear his sigh;
   I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
   And left him here alone.

They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
   And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
   And why does the night wind wail?

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
   And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
   And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night,
   Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
   What is the galling goad?

And now they beat at the prison door,
   ""Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
   And we fain would take him away

""From those who ride fast on our heels
   With mind to do him wrong;
They have no care for his innocence,
   And the rope they bear is long.""

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
   They have fooled the man with lies;
The bol",2,fear,0.8872695,0.004614367,0.009855308,0.8872695,0.001902279,0.007813904,0.078681625,0.009863053,Modern,Nature
"When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.",5,sadness,0.9682892,0.013952741,0.005892731,0.001730488,0.001901206,0.007433532,0.9682892,0.000800122,Modern,Nature
"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnights all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnets wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep hearts core.",5,sadness,0.7636279,0.017124033,0.017842906,0.0427058,0.01969401,0.08833861,0.7636279,0.050666776,Modern,Nature
"These alternate nights and days, these seasons
Somehow fail to convince me. It seems
I have the sense of infinity!

(In your dreams, O crew of Columbus,
O listeners over the sea
For the surf that breaks upon Nothing—)

Once I was waked by the nightingales in the garden.
I thought, What time is it? I thought,
Time—Is it Time still?—Now is it Time?

(Tell me your dreams, O sailors:
Tell me, in sleep did you climb
The tall masts, and before you—)

At night the stillness of old trees
Is a leaning over and the inertness
Of hills is a kind of waiting.

(In sleep, in a dream, did you see
The world’s end? Did the water
Break—and no shore—Did you see?)

Strange faces come through the streets to me
Like messengers: and I have been warned
By the moving slowly of hands at a window.

Oh, I have the sense of infinity—
But the world, sailors, is round.
They say there is no end to it.",2,fear,0.6710225,0.027383724,0.028465774,0.6710225,0.003522179,0.06355531,0.014269647,0.19178091,Modern,Nature
"little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see          i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look          the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
""Noel Noel""",2,fear,0.64770865,0.003797075,0.001197482,0.64770865,0.070387706,0.04945575,0.19158816,0.035865128,Modern,Nature
"A silver Lucifer
serves
cocaine in cornucopia

To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs
draped
in satirical draperies

Peris in livery
prepare
Lethe
for posthumous parvenues

Delirious Avenues
lit
with the chandelier souls
of infusoria
from Pharoah’s tombstones

lead
to mercurial doomsdays
Odious oasis
in furrowed phosphorous

the eye-white sky-light
white-light district
of lunar lusts

             Stellectric signs
“Wing shows on Starway”
“Zodiac carrousel”

Cyclones
of ecstatic dust
and ashes whirl
crusaders
from hallucinatory citadels
of shattered glass
into evacuate craters

A flock of dreams   
browse on Necropolis

From the shores
of oval oceans
in the oxidized Orient

Onyx-eyed Odalisques
and ornithologists
observe
the flight
of Eros obsolete

And “Immortality”
mildews ...   
in the museums of the moon

“Nocturnal cyclops”
“Crystal concubine”

Pocked with personification
the fossil virgin of the skies
waxes and wanes",3,joy,0.7010503,0.007843928,0.002395211,0.009095151,0.7010503,0.04455064,0.21692185,0.018142974,Modern,Nature
"Moonmoth and grasshopper that flee our page
And still wing on, untarnished of the name
We pinion to your bodies to assuage
Our envy of your freedomwe must maim

Because we are usurpers, and chagrined
And take the wing and scar it in the hand.
Names we have, even, to clap on the wind;
But we must die, as you, to understand.

I dreamed that all men dropped their names, and sang
As only they can praise, who build their days
With fin and hoof, with wing and sweetened fang
Struck free and holy in one Name always.",0,anger,0.82875293,0.82875293,0.039913416,0.011276637,0.001998405,0.05758165,0.057114847,0.003362185,Modern,Nature
"The tarantula rattling at the lily's foot,
Across the feet of the dead, laid in white sand
Near the coral beach; the small and ruddy crabs
Stilting out of sight, that reverse your name —

And above, the lyric palsy of eucalypti, seeping
A silver swash of something unvisited. . . . Suppose
I count these clean enamel frames of death,
Brutal necklaces of shells around each grave
Laid out so carefully. This pity can be told ...

And in the white sand I can find a name, albeit
In another tongue. Tree-name, flower-name deliberate,
Gainsay the unknown death. . . . The wind,
Sweeping the scrub palms, also is almost kind.

But who is a Captain of this doubloon isle
Without a turnstile? Nought but catchword crabs
Plaguing the hot groins of the underbrush? Who
The commissioner of mildew throughout the senses?
His Carib mathematics dull the bright new lenses.

Under the poinciana, of a noon or afternoon
Let fiery blossoms clot the light, render my ghost,
Sieved upward, black and white along the air —
Until it joins the blue's comedian host.

Let not the pilgrim see himself again
Bound like the dozen turtles on the wharf
Each twilight — still undead, and brine caked in their eyes,
— Huge, overturned: such thunder in their strain!
And clenched beaks coughing for the surge again!

Slagged of th",1,disgust,0.527399,0.04627646,0.527399,0.029015282,0.004660043,0.15020783,0.22421308,0.01822829,Modern,Nature
"All is lithogenesis—or lochia,
Carpolite fruit of the forbidden tree,
Stones blacker than any in the Caaba,
Cream-coloured caen-stone, chatoyant pieces,   
Celadon and corbeau, bistre and beige,   
Glaucous, hoar, enfouldered, cyathiform,   
Making mere faculae of the sun and moon,   
I study you glout and gloss, but have
No cadrans to adjust you with, and turn again   
From optik to haptik and like a blind man run   
My fingers over you, arris by arris, burr by burr,   
Slickensides, truité, rugas, foveoles,
Bringing my aesthesis in vain to bear,
An angle-titch to all your corrugations and coigns,   
Hatched foraminous cavo-rilievo of the world,   
Deictic, fiducial stones. Chiliad by chiliad   
What bricole piled you here, stupendous cairn?   
What artist poses the Earth écorché thus,   
Pillar of creation engouled in me?
What eburnation augments you with men’s bones,   
Every energumen an Endymion yet?
All the other stones are in this haecceity it seems,   
But where is the Christophanic rock that moved?   
What Cabirian song from this catasta comes?

Deep conviction or preference can seldom   
Find direct terms in which to express itself.   
Today on this shingle shelf
I understand this pensive reluctance so well,   
This not discommendable obstinacy,
These contrivances of an",2,fear,0.5173515,0.08729957,0.13088953,0.5173515,0.023936724,0.10490365,0.11586284,0.019756148,Modern,Nature
"She has no need to fear the fall
Of harvest from the laddered reach
Of orchards, nor the tide gone ebbing
      From the steep beach.

Nor hold to pain's effrontery
Her body's bulwark, stern and savage,
Nor be a glass, where to forsee
      Another's ravage.

What she has gathered, and what lost,
She will not find to lose again.
She is possessed by time, who once
      Was loved by men.",2,fear,0.8817146,0.049588278,0.008512225,0.8817146,0.002776148,0.00765304,0.048282534,0.001473189,Modern,Nature
"I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six oclock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the beds edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV
His soul str",5,sadness,0.7798497,0.011557338,0.10537683,0.046046887,0.004317611,0.036431924,0.7798497,0.016419694,Modern,Nature
"The willows carried a slow sound,
A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead.
I could never remember
That seething, steady leveling of the marshes
Till age had brought me to the sea.

Flags, weeds. And remembrance of steep alcoves
Where cypresses shared the noons
Tyranny; they drew me into hades almost.
And mammoth turtles climbing sulphur dreams
Yielded, while sun-silt rippled them
Asunder ...

How much I would have bartered! the black gorge
And all the singular nestings in the hills
Where beavers learn stitch and tooth.
The pond I entered once and quickly fled
I remember now its singing willow rim.

And finally, in that memory all things nurse;
After the city that I finally passed
With scalding unguents spread and smoking darts
The monsoon cut across the delta
At gulf gates ... There, beyond the dykes

I heard wind flaking sapphire, like this summer,
And willows could not hold more steady sound.",2,fear,0.41732863,0.05397854,0.05573612,0.41732863,0.00441973,0.051989477,0.3671129,0.0494345,Modern,Nature
"Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, ""Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.""

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
""Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.""
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing b",2,fear,0.60140467,0.07935728,0.09602842,0.60140467,0.004967518,0.07468478,0.09765629,0.04590106,Modern,Nature
"Think of our blindness where the water burned!
Are we so certain that those wings, returned
And turning, we had half discerned
Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen
The bird aloft there, did not mean?—
Our hearts so seized upon the sign!

Think how we sailed up-wind, the brine
Tasting of daphne, the enormous wave
Thundering in the water cave—
Thunder in stone. And how we beached the skiff
And climbed the coral of that iron cliff
And found what only in our hearts we’d heard—
The silver screaming of that one, white bird:
The fabulous wings, the crimson beak
That opened, red as blood, to shriek
And clamor in that world of stone,
No voice to answer but its own.

What certainty, hidden in our hearts before,
Found in the bird its metaphor?",2,fear,0.5862511,0.3662942,0.010681898,0.5862511,0.004085363,0.009487183,0.011866589,0.011333784,Modern,Nature
"Out of the winds' and the waves' riot,
Out of the loud foam,
He has put in to a great quiet
And a still home.

Here he may lie at ease and wonder
Why the old ship waits,
And hark for the surge and the strong thunder
Of the full Straits,

And look for the fishing fleet at morning,
Shadows like lost souls,
Slide through the fog where the seal's warning
Betrays the shoals,

And watch for the deep-sea liner climbing
Out of the bright West,
With a salmon-sky and her wake shining
Like a tern's breast, 

And never know he is done for ever
With the old sea's pride,
Borne from the fight and the full endeavour
On an ebb tide.",2,fear,0.44000283,0.009022269,0.009911823,0.44000283,0.007034271,0.16227388,0.35463703,0.017117955,Modern,Nature
"Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.
The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass,
The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,
But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous
In the blest Nirvana of eternal light!
Go to the good heart that is my husband,
Who broods upon what he calls our guilty love: i
Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for him
Wrought out my destiny i that through the flesh
I won spirit, and through spirit, peace.
There is no marriage in heaven,
But there is love.",5,sadness,0.6998325,0.026735839,0.010555683,0.021454556,0.1677415,0.06754495,0.6998325,0.006134974,Modern,Nature
"Stranger, you who hide my love
        In the curved cheek of a smile
And sleep with her upon a tongue
       Of soft lies that beguile,
          Your paradisal ecstasy
        Is justified is justified
By hunger of the beasts beneath
        The overhanging cloud
            Who to snatch quick pleasures run
             Before their momentary sun
Be eclipsed by death.

Lightly, lightly from my sleep
        She stole, our vows of dew to break
Upon a day of melting rain
        Another love to take:
           Her happy happy perfidy
        Was justified was justified
Since compulsive needs of sense
         Clamour to be satisfied
             And she was never one to miss
             Plausible happiness
Of a new experience.

I, who stand beneath a bitter
        Blasted tree, with the green life
Of summer joy cut from my side
        By that self-justifying knife,
            In my exiled misery
         Were justified were justified
If upon two lives I preyed
        Or punished with my suicide,
           Or murdered pity in my heart
           Or two other lives did part
To make the world pay what I paid.

Oh, but supposing that I climb
        Alone to a high room of clouds
Up a ladder of the time
And lie upon a bed alone
        And tear a feather from a wing
And liste",5,sadness,0.7912656,0.031986147,0.002648307,0.021548074,0.12739235,0.014257818,0.7912656,0.010901795,Modern,Love
"Knowlt Hoheimer ran away to the war
The day before Curl Trenary
Swore out a warrant through Justice Arnett
For stealing hogs.
But that's not the reason he turned a soldier.
He caught me running with Lucius Atherton.
We quarreled and I told him never again
To cross my path.
Then he stole the hogs and went to the war
Back of every soldier is a woman.",0,anger,0.6769307,0.6769307,0.14882237,0.055663455,0.002039801,0.089893214,0.021281594,0.005368806,Modern,Love
"He protested all his life long
The newspapers lied about him villainously;
That he was not at fault for Minerva's fall,
But only tried to help her.
Poor soul so sunk in sin he could not see
That even trying to help her, as he called it,
He had broken the law human and divine.
Passers by, an ancient admonition to you:
If your ways would be ways of pleasantness,
And all your pathways peace,
Love God and keep his commandments.",1,disgust,0.32076624,0.20144272,0.32076624,0.014920079,0.011752393,0.14616725,0.30111447,0.003836851,Modern,Love
"How can I, that girl standing there,

My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics,
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has both read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms.",2,fear,0.35600117,0.054711465,0.047734402,0.35600117,0.003347307,0.3428514,0.047469504,0.14788476,Modern,Love
"I

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last being but a broken man
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

II

What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his fairy bride.

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
`The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it,
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players an",5,sadness,0.6405641,0.19291864,0.08877351,0.014048408,0.003594412,0.05090632,0.6405641,0.009194567,Modern,Love
"Were you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead:
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
Though you have the will of wild birds,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun:
O would, beloved, that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.",5,sadness,0.6955061,0.0672899,0.056481637,0.11687355,0.020185435,0.041172296,0.6955061,0.002491095,Modern,Love
"Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything thats lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.",3,joy,0.55661434,0.007823067,0.008432107,0.010871476,0.55661434,0.16112904,0.23893166,0.016198313,Modern,Love
"Some may have blamed you that you took away
The verses that could move them on the day
When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind
With lightning, you went from me, and I could find
Nothing to make a song about but kings,
Helmets, and swords, and half-forgotten things
That were like memories of youbut now
We'll out, for the world lives as long ago;
And while we're in our laughing, weeping fit,
Hurl helmets, crowns, and swords into the pit.
But, dear, cling close to me; since you were gone,
My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.",5,sadness,0.83730197,0.044077527,0.022802884,0.010075835,0.008828039,0.07148765,0.83730197,0.00542613,Modern,Love
"Shy one, shy one,
Shy one of my heart,
She moves in the firelight
Pensively apart.

She carries in the dishes,
And lays them in a row.
To an isle in the water
With her would I go.

She carries in the candles,
And lights the curtained room,
Shy in the doorway
And shy in the gloom;

And shy as a rabbit,
Helpful and shy.
To an isle in the water
With her would I fly.",2,fear,0.90056336,0.002431419,0.011997989,0.90056336,0.003168824,0.037785683,0.039958924,0.004093746,Modern,Love
"I feel the spring far off, far off,
    The faint, far scent of bud and leaf
Oh, how can spring take heart to come
    To a world in grief,
    Deep grief?
 
The sun turns north, the days grow long,
    Later the evening star grows bright
How can the daylight linger on
    For men to fight,
    Still fight?
 
The grass is waking in the ground,
    Soon it will rise and blow in waves
How can it have the heart to sway
    Over the graves,
    New graves?
 
Under the boughs where lovers walked
    The apple-blooms will shed their breath
But what of all the lovers now
    Parted by Death,
    Grey Death?",5,sadness,0.9191003,0.007386385,0.002136494,0.041769564,0.005255163,0.007453966,0.9191003,0.016898073,Modern,Love
"Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily;
   Watching the candle guttering in the draught;
Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily
   Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed
 
With pity and pride, photographs of all colours,
   All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France;
Or mother's faces worn with countless dolours;
   Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance,
 
Though in a picture only, a common cheap
   Ill-taken card; and childrenfrozen, some
(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep
   Out of the handkerchief that is his home
 
(But he's so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling
   Delight across the miles of land and sea,
That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling
   Could quite blot outnot mud nor lethargy.
 
Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O
   The pain of them, wide Earth's most sacred things! 
Lying in dug-outs, hearing the great shells slow
   Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings.
 
But onceO why did he keep that bitter token
   Of a dead Love?that boy, who, suddenly moved,
Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken,
   A girl who better had not been beloved.",2,fear,0.77755415,0.004948995,0.003055844,0.77755415,0.035070706,0.009144127,0.16457981,0.005646334,Modern,Love
"Now that I know
That passion warms little
Of flesh in the mold,
And treasure is brittle,

Ill lie here and learn
How, over their ground,
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.


August 1922",0,anger,0.5473736,0.5473736,0.18421426,0.08563785,0.005091774,0.08691062,0.08118186,0.009590017,Modern,Love
"
        I knew too that through them I knew too that he was through, I knew too that he threw them. I knew too that they were through, I knew too I knew too, I knew I knew them.
        I knew to them.

        If they tear a hunter through, if they tear through a hunter, if they tear through a hunt and a hunter, if they tear through different sizes of the six, the different sizes of the six which are these, a woman with a white package under one arm and a black package under the other arm and dressed in brown with a white blouse, the second Saint Joseph the third a hunter in a blue coat and black garters and a plaid cap, a fourth a knife grinder who is full faced and a very little woman with black hair and a yellow hat and an excellently smiling appropriate soldier. All these as you please.

        In the meantime examples of the same lily. In this way please have you rung.
 

WHAT DO I SEE?

        A very little snail.

        A medium sized turkey.

        A small band of sheep.

        A fair orange tree.

        All nice wives are like that.

        Listen to them from here.

        Oh.

        You did not have an answer.

        Here.

        Yes.
 

A VERY VALENTINE.

        Very fine is my valentine.

        Very fine and very mine.

        Very mine is my ",4,neutral,0.30740455,0.0923416,0.17819326,0.15517023,0.04519111,0.30740455,0.12451667,0.09718249,Modern,Love
"Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,
     My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
     And meltest me to melody.
 
Thou art my life, by thee I live,
     From thee proceed the joys I know;
Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give
     The meed of lovethe cup of woe.
 
Thou art my love, by thee I lead
     My soul the paths of light along,
From vale to vale, from mead to mead,
     And home it in the hills of song.
 
My song, my soul, my life, my all,
     Why need I pray or make my plea,
Since my petition cannot fall;
     For Im already one with thee!",3,joy,0.5895429,0.027218617,0.006047665,0.08779794,0.5895429,0.11893864,0.14214402,0.028310148,Modern,Love
"Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
Thats all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.",5,sadness,0.7347304,0.017154917,0.12109075,0.029248878,0.005696844,0.08001884,0.7347304,0.012059424,Modern,Love
"Bilbea, I was in Babylon on Saturday night.
I saw nothing of you anywhere.
I was at the old place and the other girls were there,
But no Bilbea.

Have you gone to another house? or city?
Why dont you write?
I was sorry. I walked home half-sick.

Tell me how it goes.
Send me some kind of a letter.
And take care of yourself.",5,sadness,0.60761636,0.012572118,0.0597893,0.12044923,0.003535361,0.10981779,0.60761636,0.08621989,Modern,Love
"How much do you love me, a million bushels?
Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more.

And tomorrow maybe only half a bushel?
Tomorrow maybe not even a half a bushel.

And is this your heart arithmetic?
This is the way the wind measures the weather.",6,surprise,0.6279101,0.017548703,0.014634516,0.006541962,0.041152697,0.2196485,0.07256358,0.6279101,Modern,Love
"as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
—long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
—long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
—long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
—time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough",2,fear,0.75416714,0.21518183,0.002439459,0.75416714,0.00869475,0.005741441,0.010983817,0.002791619,Modern,Love
"love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky",0,anger,0.67386276,0.67386276,0.004725899,0.004332849,0.04627262,0.029895546,0.23291141,0.007998947,Modern,Love
"Harry loves Myrtle—He has strong arms, from the warehouse,
And on Sunday when they take the bus to emerald meadows he doesn't say:
""What will your chastity amount to when your flesh withers in a little while?""
No,
On Sunday, when they picnic in emerald meadows they look at the Sunday paper:
GIRL SLAYS BANKER-BETRAYER
They spread it around on the grass
BATH-TUB STIRS JERSEY ROW
And then they sit down on it, nice.
Harry doesn't say ""Ziggin's Ointment for withered flesh,
Cures thousands of men and women of moles, warts, red veins, flabby throat, scalp and hair diseases,
Not expensive, and fully guaranteed.""
No,
Harry says nothing at all,
He smiles,
And they kiss in the emerald meadows on the Sunday paper.",4,neutral,0.50277823,0.022374341,0.3554967,0.0068594,0.05785573,0.50277823,0.047710963,0.006924627,Modern,Love
"Even when your friend, the radio, is still; even when her dream, the magazine, is finished; even when his life, the ticker, is silent; even when their destiny, the boulevard, is bare;
And after that paradise, the dance-hall, is closed; after that theater, the clinic, is dark,

Still there will be your desire, and hers, and his hopes and theirs,
Your laughter, their laughter,
Your curse and his curse, her reward and their reward, their dismay and his dismay and her dismay and yours—

Even when your enemy, the collector, is dead; even when your counsellor, the salesman, is sleeping; even when your sweetheart, the movie queen, has spoken; even when your friend, the magnate, is gone.",5,sadness,0.59166235,0.06026971,0.08675138,0.025222749,0.044995174,0.17644165,0.59166235,0.014656963,Modern,Love
"Suddenly discovering in the eyes of the very beautiful
                            Normande cocotte
The eyes of the very learned British Museum assistant.",6,surprise,0.5046653,0.006427392,0.002649218,0.071726464,0.37704924,0.016207637,0.021274712,0.5046653,Modern,Love
"We sat together at one summers end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,   
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moments thought,   
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.   
Better go down upon your marrow-bones   
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones   
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;   
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet   
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen   
The martyrs call the world.
                                          And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake   
Theres many a one shall find out all heartache   
On finding that her voice is sweet and low   
Replied, To be born woman is to know
Although they do not talk of it at school
That we must labour to be beautiful.
I said, Its certain there is no fine thing   
Since Adams fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be   
So much compounded of high courtesy   
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks   
Precedents out of beautiful old books;   
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;   
We saw t",5,sadness,0.4380248,0.07815102,0.027419522,0.15135774,0.1712057,0.087346904,0.4380248,0.046494365,Modern,Love
"What do I owe to you
Who loved me deep and long?
You never gave my spirit wings
Nor gave my heart a song.

But oh, to him I loved,
Who loved me not at all,
I owe the little open gate
That led through heaven’s wall.",4,neutral,0.68784344,0.03599591,0.037594788,0.009628221,0.023617286,0.68784344,0.15992671,0.045393668,Modern,Love
"Down by the salley gardens
   my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens
   with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy,
   as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish,
   with her would not agree.

In a field by the river
   my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder
   she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy,
   as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish,
   and now am full of tears.
 ",5,sadness,0.5771358,0.08386038,0.024295567,0.22726557,0.047905494,0.026159845,0.5771358,0.01337737,Modern,Love
"She has attained the permanence
She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.
Untended stalks blow over her
Even and swift, like young men running.

Always in the heart she loved
Others had lived,—she heard their laughter.
She lies where none has lain before,
Where certainly none will follow after.",3,joy,0.79639465,0.012342668,0.020715691,0.005192133,0.79639465,0.119553365,0.03930874,0.006492849,Modern,Love
"The house was just twinkling in the moon light,   
And inside it twinkling with delight,
Is my baby bright.
Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling   
with the moonlight,
Bless my baby bless my baby bright,
Bless my baby twinkling with delight,
In the house twinkling in the moon light,
Her hubby dear loves to cheer when he thinks
and he always thinks when he knows and he always   
knows that his blessed baby wifey is all here and he
is all hers, and sticks to her like burrs, blessed baby",3,joy,0.9804762,0.003545035,0.001255117,0.001470179,0.9804762,0.006166,0.004714115,0.002373324,Modern,Love
"You dweller in the dark cabin,
To whom the watermelon is always purple,   
Whose garden is wind and moon,

Of the two dreams, night and day,
What lover, what dreamer, would choose   
The one obscured by sleep?

Here is the plantain by your door   
And the best cock of red feather   
That crew before the clocks.

A feme may come, leaf-green,   
Whose coming may give revel   
Beyond revelries of sleep,

Yes, and the blackbird spread its tail,   
So that the sun may speckle,   
While it creaks hail.

You dweller in the dark cabin,   
Rise, since rising will not waken,   
And hail, cry hail, cry hail.",3,joy,0.31651157,0.052035034,0.021888735,0.22325036,0.31651157,0.15556854,0.16835451,0.062391248,Modern,Love
"i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)",2,fear,0.8165838,0.005704763,0.000417689,0.8165838,0.020601342,0.005802019,0.14315234,0.007738022,Modern,Love
"Come when the nights are bright with stars
Or come when the moon is mellow;
Come when the sun his golden bars
Drops on the hay-field yellow.
Come in the twilight soft and gray,
Come in the night or come in the day,
Come, O love, wheneer you may,
And you are welcome, welcome.

You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,
You are soft as the nesting dove.
Come to my heart and bring it to rest
As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

Come when my heart is full of grief
Or when my heart is merry;
Come with the falling of the leaf
Or with the reddning cherry.
Come when the years first blossom blows,
Come when the summer gleams and glows,
Come with the winters drifting snows,
And you are welcome, welcome.",5,sadness,0.7233069,0.005368221,0.007355308,0.004258799,0.1413798,0.10831805,0.7233069,0.010012831,Modern,Love
"When beauty breaks and falls asunder
I feel no grief for it, but wonder.
When love, like a frail shell, lies broken,
I keep no chip of it for token.
I never had a man for friend
Who did not know that love must end.
I never had a girl for lover
Who could discern when love was over.
What the wise doubt, the fool believes--
Who is it, then, that love deceives?
",5,sadness,0.9691089,0.001982702,0.002238157,0.005449854,0.001025997,0.005594493,0.9691089,0.014599948,Modern,Love
"Agathas


Four and forty lovers had Agathas in the old days,
All of whom she refused;

And now she turns to me seeking love,
And her hair also is turning.

Young Lady


I have fed your lar with poppies,
I have adored you for three full years;
And now you grumble because your dress does not fit
And because I happen to say so.

Lesbia Illa


Memnon, Memnon, that lady
Who used to walk about amongst us
With such gracious uncertainty,
Is now wedded
To a British householder.
Lugete, Veneres! Lugete, Cupidinesque!

Passing


Flawless as Aphrodite,
Thoroughly beautiful,
Brainless,
The faint odor of your patchouli,
Faint, almost, as the lines of cruelty about your chin,
Assails me, and concerns me almost as little.",0,anger,0.567636,0.567636,0.23714723,0.14249781,0.003375224,0.025495188,0.019823864,0.004024638,Modern,Love
"I do not know where either of us can turn
Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other.
I do not know how we can bear
The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon,
Or many trees shaken together in the darkness.
We shall wish not to be alone
And that love were not dispersed and set free—
Though you defeat me,
And I be heavy upon you.

But like earth heaped over the heart
Is love grown perfect.
Like a shell over the beat of life
Is love perfect to the last.
So let it be the same
Whether we turn to the dark or to the kiss of another;
Let us know this for leavetaking,
That I may not be heavy upon you,
That you may blind me no more.",2,fear,0.9772219,0.002939846,0.001670229,0.9772219,0.000653797,0.004512314,0.010452482,0.002549418,Modern,Love
"At last I know—it’s on old ivory jars,
Glassed with old miniatures and garnered once with musk.   
I’ve seen those eyes like smouldering April stars
As carp might see them behind their bubbled skies
In pale green fishponds—they’re as green your eyes,   
   As lakes themselves, changed to green stone at dusk.

At last I know—it’s paned in a crystal hoop   
On powder-boxes from some dead Italian girl,
I’ve seen such eyes grow suddenly dark, and droop   
Their small, pure lids, as if I’d pried too far   
In finding you snared there on that ivory jar
   By crusted motes of rose and smoky-pearl.",2,fear,0.39513057,0.047073625,0.25623095,0.39513057,0.008554048,0.16280973,0.049059547,0.08114158,Modern,Love
"Four white heifers with sprawling hooves
         trundle the waggon.
   Its ill-roped crates heavy with fruit sway.
The chisel point of the goad, blue and white,
         glitters ahead,
   a flame to follow lance-high in a man’s hand
who does not shave. His linen trousers
         like him want washing.
   You can see his baked skin through his shirt.
He has no shoes and his hat has a hole in it.
         ‘Hu ! vaca ! Hu ! vaca !’
   he says staccato without raising his voice;
‘Adios caballero’ legato but
         in the same tone.
   Camelmen high on muzzled mounts
boots rattling against the panels
         of an empty
   packsaddle do not answer strangers.
Each with his train of seven or eight tied
         head to tail they
   pass silent but for the heavy bells
and plip of slobber dripping from
         muzzle to dust;
   save that on sand their soles squeak slightly.
Milkmaids, friendly girls between
         fourteen and twenty
   or younger, bolt upright on small
trotting donkeys that bray (they arch their
         tails a few inches
   from the root, stretch neck and jaw forward
to make the windpipe a trumpet)
         chatter. Jolted
   cans clatter. The girls’ smiles repeat
the black silk curve of the wimple
         under the chin.
   Their hats are absurd doll’s hat",5,sadness,0.25863653,0.11005429,0.050806385,0.06360966,0.06710991,0.24228638,0.25863653,0.20749687,Modern,Love
"In my heart the old love
Struggled with the new,
It was ghostly waking
All night through.

Dear things, kind things
That my old love said,
Ranged themselves reproachfully
Round my bed.

But I could not heed them,
For I seemed to see
Dark eyes of my new love
Fixed on me.

Old love, old love,
How can I be true?
Shall I be faithless to myself
Or to you?",2,fear,0.90679866,0.018736942,0.011068963,0.90679866,0.000822587,0.00986988,0.04723019,0.00547284,Modern,Love
"I

Oh chimes set high on the sunny tower   
    Ring on, ring on unendingly,
Make all the hours a single hour,   
For when the dusk begins to flower,   
    The man I love will come to me! ...

But no, go slowly as you will,
    I should not bid you hasten so,   
For while I wait for love to come,   
Some other girl is standing dumb,
    Fearing her love will go.


       II

Oh white steam over the roofs, blow high!   
    Oh chimes in the tower ring clear and free!   
Oh sun awake in the covered sky,
    For the man I love, loves me! ...

Oh drifting steam disperse and die,
    Oh tower stand shrouded toward the south,—
Fate heard afar my happy cry,
    And laid her finger on my mouth.


       III

The dusk was blue with blowing mist,   
    The lights were spangles in a veil,   
And from the clamor far below
    Floated faint music like a wail.

It voiced what I shall never speak,
    My heart was breaking all night long,
But when the dawn was hard and gray,   
    My tears distilled into a song.


       IV

I said, “I have shut my heart   
    As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein   
    And trouble me no more.”

But over the roofs there came
    The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
    Where the street-pianos play.

My room was white ",2,fear,0.68131196,0.051560704,0.008746127,0.68131196,0.049782652,0.029205834,0.16325493,0.016137725,Modern,Love
"Now that I have your face by heart, I look   
Less at its features than its darkening frame   
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,   
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook.   
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show   
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.

Now that I have your face by heart, I look.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read   
In the black chords upon a dulling page   
Music that is not meant for music’s cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.   
The staves are shuttled over with a stark   
Unprinted silence. In a double dream   
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.   
The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;   
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps   
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.",2,fear,0.5538195,0.1119443,0.11927514,0.5538195,0.005851353,0.041370906,0.16138735,0.006351527,Modern,Love
"Love has crept into her sealed heart
As a field bee, black and amber,
Breaks from the winter-cell, to clamber
Up the warm grass where the sunbeams start.

Love has crept into her summery eyes,
And a glint of colored sunshine brings
Such as his along the folded wings
Of the bee before he flies.

But I with my ruffling, impatient breath
Have loosened the wings of the wild young sprite;
He has opened them out in a reeling flight,
And down her words he hasteneth.

Love flies delighted in her voice:
The hum of his glittering, drunken wings
Sets quivering with music the little things
That she says, and her simple words rejoice.",0,anger,0.9125686,0.9125686,0.009835928,0.010014798,0.0067433,0.04747998,0.007163498,0.006193926,Modern,Love
"The dark is thrown
Back from the brightness, like hair
Cast over a shoulder.
I am alone,

Four years older;
Like the chairs and the walls
Which I once watched brighten
With you beside me. I was to waken
Never like this, whatever came or was taken.

The stalk grows, the year beats on the wind.
Apples come, and the month for their fall.
The bark spreads, the roots tighten.
Though today be the last
Or tomorrow all,
You will not mind.

That I may not remember
Does not matter.
I shall not be with you again.
What we knew, even now
Must scatter
And be ruined, and blow
Like dust in the rain.

You have been dead a long season
And have less than desire
Who were lover with lover;
And I have life—that old reason
To wait for what comes,
To leave what is over.",5,sadness,0.47537282,0.11714043,0.08583128,0.18748929,0.002976268,0.12442742,0.47537282,0.006762439,Modern,Love
"A birdless heaven, sea-dusk and a star
Sad in the west;
And thou, poor heart, love’s image, fond and far,
Rememberest:

Her silent eyes and her soft foam-white brow
And fragrant hair,
Falling as in the silence falleth now
Dusk from the air.

Ah, why wilt thou remember these, or why,
Poor heart, repine,
If the sweet love she yielded with a sigh
Was never thine?",5,sadness,0.9819179,0.001401402,0.003035301,0.001411961,0.001352683,0.007184987,0.9819179,0.003695848,Modern,Love
"Too high, too high to pluck
My heart shall swing.
A fruit no bee shall suck,
No wasp shall sting.

If on some night of cold
It falls to ground
In apple-leaves of gold
Ill wrap it round.

And I shall seal it up
With spice and salt,
In a carven silver cup,
In a deep vault.

Before my eyes are blind
And my lips mute,
I must eat core and rind
Of that same fruit.

Before my heart is dust
At the end of all,
Eat it I must, I must
Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet
By some strange art;
Wild honey I shall eat
When I eat my heart.

O honey cool and chaste
As clovers breath!
Sweet Heaven I shall taste
Before my death.",0,anger,0.47374296,0.47374296,0.21707372,0.08266504,0.003556604,0.0758958,0.12674755,0.020318307,Modern,Love
"When the first dark had fallen around them
And the leaves were weary of praise,
In the clear silence Beauty found them
And shewed them all her ways.

In the high noon of the heavenly garden
Where the angels sunned with the birds,
Beauty, before their hearts could harden,
Had taught them heavenly words.

When they fled in the burning weather
And nothing dawned but a dream,
Beauty fasted their hands together
And cooled them at her stream.

And when day wearied and night grew stronger,
And they slept as the beautiful must,
Then she bided a little longer,
And blossomed from their dust.",5,sadness,0.8148722,0.04859743,0.032754622,0.037621774,0.006144568,0.053894207,0.8148722,0.006115198,Modern,Love
"The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.

'I have cap and bells, he pondered,
'I will send them to her and die;
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.",2,fear,0.32397202,0.075910665,0.10853584,0.32397202,0.020491857,0.14708386,0.2727489,0.051256876,Modern,Love
"Supper comes at five o'clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o'clock
But eight o'clock is far.

How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight o'clock to me.",5,sadness,0.8915699,0.005513207,0.006458632,0.044395536,0.003366304,0.03108394,0.8915699,0.017612427,Modern,Love
"Go, dumb-born book,
Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes:
Hadst thou but song
As thou hast subjects known,
Then were there cause in thee that should condone
Even my faults that heavy upon me lie
And build her glories their longevity.

Tell her that sheds
Such treasure in the air,
Recking naught else but that her graces give
Life to the moment,
I would bid them live
As roses might, in magic amber laid,
Red overwrought with orange and all made
One substance and one colour
Braving time.

Tell her that goes
With song upon her lips
But sings not out the song, nor knows
The maker of it, some other mouth,
May be as fair as hers,
Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers,
When our two dusts with Wallers shall be laid,
Siftings on siftings in oblivion,
Till change hath broken down
All things save Beauty alone.",4,neutral,0.3899554,0.23721783,0.18302308,0.015676793,0.017876228,0.3899554,0.15262918,0.003621442,Modern,Love
"They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before, 
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.",4,neutral,0.32698014,0.048243895,0.06830366,0.15139069,0.12532796,0.32698014,0.17962967,0.10012397,Modern,Love
"You have not conquered me—it is the surge
Of love itself that beats against my will;
It is the sting of conflict, the old urge
That calls me still.

It is not you I love—it is the form
And shadow of all lovers who have died
That gives you all the freshness of a warm
And unfamiliar bride.

It is your name I breathe, your hands I seek;
It will be you when you are gone.
And yet the dream, the name I never speak,
Is that that lures me on.

It is the golden summons, the bright wave
Of banners calling me anew;
It is all beauty, perilous and grave—
It is not you.",0,anger,0.82366806,0.82366806,0.055046435,0.0737767,0.001973708,0.02263305,0.02043195,0.002470025,Modern,Love
"Version 1 (1921)
Yours is the shame and sorrow,
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.

I was diligent to explore you,
Blossom you stalk by stalk,
Till my fire of creation bore you
Shrivelling down in the final dour
Anguish  then I suffered a balk.

I knew your pain, and it broke
My fine, craftsman's nerve;
Your body quailed at my stroke,
And my courage failed to give you the last
Fine torture you did deserve.

You are shapely, you are adorned,
But opaque and dull in the flesh,
Who, had I but pierced with the thorned
Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast
In a lovely illumined mesh.

Like a painted window: the best
Suffering burnt through your flesh,
Undrossed it and left it blest
With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now
Who shall take you afresh?

Now who will burn you free
From your body's terrors and dross,
Since the fire has failed in me?
What man will stoop in your flesh to plough
The shrieking cross?

A mute, nearly beautiful thing
Is your face, that fills me with shame
As I see it hardening,
Warping the perfect image of God,
And darkening my eternal fame.

Version 2 (1928)
Yours is the sullen sorrow,
The disgrace is also mine;
Your love was intense and thorough,
Mine was th",5,sadness,0.89951384,0.047736287,0.012460313,0.027617242,0.00287286,0.006802335,0.89951384,0.002997199,Modern,Love
"Strephon kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.",1,disgust,0.36353734,0.12174716,0.36353734,0.028496671,0.007307178,0.14518216,0.32710627,0.006623212,Modern,Love
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, What is it?
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and",2,fear,0.89785075,0.010195919,0.012145588,0.89785075,0.002118271,0.045313027,0.021081138,0.011295296,Modern,Love
"I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed 
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you 
It takes life to love Life.",5,sadness,0.8331813,0.12861498,0.011375031,0.003328482,0.0048855,0.014898169,0.8331813,0.003716449,Modern,Love
"Seen my lady home las' night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye,
An' a smile go flittin' by 
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin'-bird was singin' fine,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
An' my hea't was beatin' so,
When I reached my lady's do',
Dat I could n't ba' to go 
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an' took a tase,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An' she answe'd, ""'Cose I do""
Jump back, honey, jump back.",3,joy,0.5823997,0.01658231,0.006955735,0.006576907,0.5823997,0.24778484,0.09896501,0.040735442,Modern,Love
"W'en daih's chillun in de house,
Dey keep on a-gittin' tall;
But de folks don' seem to see
Dat dey's growin' up at all,
'Twell dey fin' out some fine day
Dat de gals has 'menced to grow,
W'en dey notice as dey pass
Dat de front gate's saggin' low.

W'en de hinges creak an' cry,
An' de bahs go slantin' down,
You kin reckon dat hit's time
Fu' to cas' yo' eye erroun',
'Cause daih ain't no 'sputin' dis,
Hit's de trues' sign to show
Dat daih's cou'tin goin' on
W'en de ol' front gate sags low.

Oh, you grumble an' complain,
An' you prop dat gate up right;
But you notice right nex' day
Dat hit's in de same ol' plight.
So you fin' dat hit's a rule,
An' daih ain' no use to blow,
W'en de gals is growin' up,
Dat de front gate will sag low.

Den you t'ink o' yo' young days,
W'en you cou'ted Sally Jane,
An' you so't o' feel ashamed
Fu' to grumble an' complain,
'Cause yo' ricerlection says,
An' you know hits wo'ds is so,
Dat huh pappy had a time
Wid his front gate saggin' low.

So you jes' looks on an' smiles
At 'em leanin' on de gate,
Tryin' to t'ink whut he kin say
Fu' to keep him daih so late,
But you lets dat gate erlone,
Fu' yo' 'sperunce goes to show,
'Twell de gals is ma'ied off,
It gwine keep on saggin' low.",5,sadness,0.7428317,0.009456915,0.06675063,0.017147262,0.012181004,0.123883,0.7428317,0.027749466,Modern,Love
"I saw her in a Broadway car,
The woman I might grow to be;
I felt my lover look at her
And then turn suddenly to me.

Her hair was dull and drew no light
And yet its color was as mine;
Her eyes were strangely like my eyes
Tho' love had never made them shine.

Her body was a thing grown thin,
Hungry for love that never came;
Her soul was frozen in the dark
Unwarmed forever by love's flame.

I felt my lover look at her
And then turn suddenly to me, 
His eyes were magic to defy
The woman I shall never be.",2,fear,0.78566414,0.037563205,0.00789305,0.78566414,0.00387203,0.011360556,0.13314216,0.02050481,Modern,Love
"                                          I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.

Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna: 

Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.


                                              II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.

Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.

She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.

A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned
A cymbal crashed,
And roaring horns.


                                           III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.

They wondered why Susanna crie",2,fear,0.46311352,0.02238129,0.027738055,0.46311352,0.020772692,0.06457613,0.36778188,0.033636406,Modern,Love
"I
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itself  as it will seem to do
With ""I have saved this afternoon for you"";
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
""So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.""
And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.

""You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you 
Without these friendships  life, what cauchemar!""
Among the winding of the violins
And the ariettes
Of crac",2,fear,0.50975186,0.06418717,0.08743721,0.50975186,0.011080045,0.14953624,0.09060105,0.08740646,Modern,Love
"This youth too long has heard the break
Of waters in a land of change.
He goes to see what suns can make
From soil more indurate and strange.

He cuts what holds his days together
And shuts him in, as lock on lock:
The arrowed vane announcing weather,
The tripping racket of a clock;

Seeking, I think, a light that waits
Still as a lamp upon a shelf, 
A land with hills like rocky gates
Where no sea leaps upon itself.

But he will find that nothing dares
To be enduring, save where, south
Of hidden deserts, torn fire glares
On beauty with a rusted mouth, 

Where something dreadful and another
Look quietly upon each other.",2,fear,0.91478056,0.007322994,0.024733981,0.91478056,0.001108894,0.01116812,0.026042618,0.014842842,Modern,Love
"Making his advances
He does not look at her, nor sniff at her,
No, not even sniff at her, his nose is blank.

Only he senses the vulnerable folds of skin
That work beneath her while she sprawls along
In her ungainly pace,
Her folds of skin that work and row
Beneath the earth-soiled hovel in which she moves.

And so he strains beneath her housey walls
And catches her trouser-legs in his beak
Suddenly, or her skinny limb,
And strange and grimly drags at her
Like a dog,
Only agelessly silent, with a reptile's awful persistency.

Grim, gruesome gallantry, to which he is doomed.
Dragged out of an eternity of silent isolation
And doomed to partiality, partial being,
Ache, and want of being,
Want,
Self-exposure, hard humiliation, need to add himself on to her.

Born to walk alone,
Forerunner,
Now suddenly distracted into this mazy side-track,
This awkward, harrowing pursuit,
This grim necessity from within.

Does she know
As she moves eternally slowly away?
Or is he driven against her with a bang, like a bird flying in the dark against a window,
All knowledgeless?

The awful concussion,
And the still more awful need to persist, to follow, follow, continue,
Driven, after ons of pristine, fore-god-like singleness and oneness,
At the end of some myster",2,fear,0.72223055,0.008305622,0.06117917,0.72223055,0.002310261,0.037200578,0.15929358,0.009480172,Modern,Love
"I thought he was dumb,
I said he was dumb,
Yet I've heard him cry.

First faint scream,
Out of life's unfathomable dawn,
Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's dawning rim,
Far, far off, far scream.

Tortoise in extremis.

Why were we crucified into sex?
Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves,
As we began,
As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?

A far, was-it-audible scream,
Or did it sound on the plasm direct?

Worse than the cry of the new-born,
A scream,
A yell,
A shout,
A pan,
A death-agony,
A birth-cry,
A submission,
All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn.

War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream reptilian,
Why was the veil torn?
The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane?
The male soul's membrane
Torn with a shriek half music, half horror.

Crucifixion.
Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of that dense female,
Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the shell
In tortoise-nakedness,
Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spread-eagle over her house-roof,
And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath her walls,
Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in uttermost tension
Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping ",2,fear,0.9646876,0.009095738,0.00653042,0.9646876,0.000842463,0.006011784,0.006807732,0.006024323,Modern,Love
"With the man I love who loves me not,
I walked in the street-lamps' flare;
We watched the world go home that night
In a flood through Union Square.

I leaned to catch the words he said
That were light as a snowflake falling;
Ah well that he never leaned to hear
The words my heart was calling.

And on we walked and on we walked
Past the fiery lights of the picture shows 
Where the girls with thirsty eyes go by
On the errand each man knows.

And on we walked and on we walked,
At the door at last we said good-bye;
I knew by his smile he had not heard
My heart's unuttered cry.

With the man I love who loves me not
I walked in the street-lamps' flare 
But oh, the girls who ask for love
In the lights of Union Square.",0,anger,0.7624336,0.7624336,0.005694535,0.14440295,0.011061176,0.02599247,0.03962847,0.010786821,Modern,Love
"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.",5,sadness,0.9807027,0.000842312,0.001412597,0.004987665,0.001448397,0.006964972,0.9807027,0.003641346,Modern,Love