03-07-2009, 01:49 PM
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Join Date: Dec 2004
Location: In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, at the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, walled round with rocks as an inland island, the ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
Posts: 8,967
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On The Bus
She swayed with young and careless grace Along the pitching bus Indifferent to the brutal race Aroused in each of us. She didn’t speak, but we could hear A lyric siren sing, And every lurid dream was clear In wild imagining. Her cotton clothes were of that bare Beyond unbaring kind; She pressed against the lucky air And trailed her scent behind.
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My strength is as the strength of eight -- My heart is nearly pure. |
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