酷兔英语

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Tho', just to please the angels,
He may send down his flame.

God loves the golden leopard
Tho' he may spoil her lair.

God smites, yet loves the lion.
God makes the panther fair.

Dance then, wild guests of 'Frisco,
Yellow, bronze, white and red!

Dance by the golden gateway --
Dance, tho' he smite you dead!

The Trap
She was taught desire in the street,

Not at the angels' feet.
By the good no word was said

Of the worth of the bridal bed.
The secret was learned from the vile,

Not from her mother's smile.
Home spoke not. And the girl

Was caught in the public whirl.
Do you say "She gave consent:

Life drunk, she was content
With beasts that her fire could please?"

But she did not choose disease
Of mind and nerves and breath.

She was trapped to a slow, foul death.
The door was watched so well,

That the steep dark stair to hell
Was the only escaping way . . .

"She gave consent," you say?
Some think she was meek and good,

Only lost in the wood
Of youth, and deceived in man

When the hunger of sex began
That ties the husband and wife

To the end in a strong fond life.
Her captor, by chance was one

Of those whose passion was done,
A cold fierce worm of the sea

Enslaving for you and me.
The wages the poor must take

Have forced them to serve this snake.
Yea, half-paid girls must go

For bread to his pit below.
What hangman shall wait his host

Of butchers from coast to coast,
New York to the Golden Gate --

The merger of death and fate,
Lust-kings with a careful plan

Clean-cut, American?
In liberty's name we cry

For these women about to die.
O mothers who failed to tell

The mazes of heaven and hell,
Who failed to advise, implore

Your daughters at Love's strange door,
What will you do this day?

Your dear ones are hidden away,
As good as chained to the bed,

Hid like the mad, or the dead: --
The glories of endless years

Drowned in their harlot-tears:
The children they hoped to bear,

Grandchildren strong and fair,
The life for ages to be,

Cut off like a blasted tree,
Murdered in filth in a day,

Somehow, by the merchant gay!
In liberty's name we cry

For these women about to die.
What shall be said of a state

Where traps for the white brides wait?
Of sellers of drink who play

The game for the extra pay?
Of statesmen in league with all

Who hope for the girl-child's fall?
Of banks where hell's money is paid

And Pharisees all afraid
Of pandars that help them sin?

When will our wrath begin?
Where is David, the Next King of Israel?

Where is David? . . . O God's people,
Saul has passed, the good and great.

Mourn for Saul the first-anointed --
Head and shoulders o'er the state.

He was found among the Prophets:
Judge and monarch, merged in one.

But the wars of Saul are ended
And the works of Saul are done.

Where is David, ruddy shepherd,
God's boy-king for Israel?

Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty,
Singing where still waters dwell?

Prophet, find that destined minstrel
Wandering on the range to-day,

Driving sheep and crooning softly
Psalms that cannot pass away.

"David waits," the prophet answers,
"In a black notorious den,

In a cave upon the border
With four hundred outlaw men.

"He is fair, and loved of women,
Mighty-hearted, born to sing:

Thieving, weeping, erring, praying,
Radiant royal rebel-king.

"He will come with harp and psaltry,
Quell his troop of convict swine,

Quell his mad-dog roaring rascals,
Witching them with words divine --

"They will ram the walls of Zion!
They will win us Salem hill,

All for David, Shepherd David --
Singing like a mountain rill!"

On Reading Omar Khayyam
[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.]

In the midst of the battle I turned,
(For the thunders could flourish without me)

And hid by a rose-hung wall,
Forgetting the murder about me;

And wrote, from my wound, on the stone,
In mirth, half prayer, half play: --

"Send me a picture book,
Send me a song, to-day."

I saw him there by the wall
When I scarce had written the line,

In the enemy's colors dressed
And the serpent-standard of wine

Writhing its withered length
From his ghostly hands o'er the ground,

And there by his shadowy breast
The glorious poem I found.

This was his world-old cry:
Thus read the famous prayer:

"Wine, wine, wine and flowers
And cup-bearers always fair!"

'Twas a book of the snares of earth
Bordered in gold and blue,

And I read each line to the wind
And read to the roses too:

And they nodded their womanly heads
And told to the wall just why

For wine of the earth men bleed,
Kingdoms and empires die.

I envied the grape stained sage:
(The roses were praising him.)

The ways of the world seemed good
And the glory of heaven dim.

I envied the endless kings
Who found great pearls in the mire,

Who bought with the nation's life
The cup of delicious fire.

But the wine of God came down,
And I drank it out of the air.

(Fair is the serpent-cup,
But the cup of God more fair.)

The wine of God came down
That makes no drinker to weep.

And I went back to battle again
Leaving the singer asleep.

The Beggar's Valentine
Kiss me and comfort my heart

Maiden honest and fine.
I am the pilgrim boy

Lame, but hunting the shrine;
Fleeing away from the sweets,

Seeking the dust and rain,
Sworn to the staff and road,

Scorning pleasure and pain;
Nevertheless my mouth

Would rest like a bird an hour
And find in your curls a nest

And find in your breast a bower:
Nevertheless my eyes

Would lose themselves in your own,
Rivers that seek the sea,

Angels before the throne:
Kiss me and comfort my heart,

For love can never be mine:
Passion, hunger and pain,

These are the only wine
Of the pilgrim bound to the road.

He would rob no man of his own.
Your heart is another's I know,

Your honor is his alone.
The feasts of a long drawn love,

The feasts of a wedded life,
The harvests of patient years,

And hearthstone and children and wife:
These are your lords I know.

These can never be mine --
This is the price I pay

For the foolish search for the shrine:
This is the price I pay

For the joy of my midnight prayers,
Kneeling beneath the moon

With hills for my altar stairs;
This is the price I pay

For the throb of the mystic wings,
When the dove of God comes down

And beats round my heart and sings;
This is the price I pay

For the light I shall some day see


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