He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me,
ON the Sabbath-day,
Through the churchyard old and gray,
Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;
And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,
'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ-calms,
'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,
I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere,
While the organ shook the air,
A noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does.
An adjective is what describes the noun.
In "The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz"
of and with are prepositions. The's
an article, a can's a noun,
a noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does.
A can can roll - or not. What isn't was
or might be, might meaning not yet known.
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colours,
He made their tiny wings.
and dawn wake up call,
whistle and call for gold sun-
songs of the thrill days.
waft in fading mist
I dreamed of purple
all through last night's sable hours
in a sunset world
lilacs danced the dusk
underneath plum colored skies
in the sun's shadow
purple martin songs
from beauty birds on a wing
At magic mountain
of the purple twilight dusk,
Summery stars swirl!
A dusty purple evening,
of redbird songs echoing.
Pearls spill down the mountainside,
No breeze is stirring.
Golden memories now fade
I was an enthusiastic painter, striving to apply more verve and color,
Like sunshine dreams, of blue-gray days, that couldn't be any duller.
Painting had for long been my passion, but had turned into a career,
Like the splashy sunset evenings, when blue stars magically appear.
I had sold many of my artworks, and had also held some exhibitions,
People admired my use of colors, its liberal use, with few inhibitions.
My mother was a prominent artist, and I'd followed in her footsteps,
Deep purple passion, green garden glory, with a scent remarkably rich,
Like the haunting, full October moon, that hardly ever fails to bewitch!
Lilac lovely, violet and voluptuous, in gilt daytime, and evening's ease,
When soon cosmic skies are colored, like rubies, cardinals and cherries.
Admired like amethysts, or glistening grapes, or plump, plentiful plums,
Or like beauty marching down every lane, to a beating of festal drums!
Lilac like lavender, spreading redolent secrets, over scenic, sunlit miles,
Until sangria nights of fuchsia fervor, and fiery, shooting star projectiles.