Her eyes are wild
Her head is bare
The sun has burned
her coal black hair
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain
And she came far from over the main
She has a baby in her arm
or else she were alone;
And underneath the haystack warm
And on the greenwood stone
She talked and sung the woods among
And it was in the English tongue.
(Wordsworth)
Perchance in this wild spot there will be laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire
Hands that the rod of empire mught have swayed
Or walked in ecstacy the living lyre
(H.D.Thoreau)
     The Black Poplar
If when the body dies,
the soul
Which served your life so well
After that life
could reach a destiny
thats higher on the scale
Than the perfection which God leads it too
Then fasten the divine dream
on your restless soul
And with new root come back
down to earth
Then it may grow unknowing
clothed again
In the tall gray trunk of
some black Poplar tree
Its graceful branches all in shimmering green
The fortunate child of the wind and earth
Set free in its blue world
fine as a lyre Of youth and love
Alive but not in time
(Luis Cernuda)
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