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Basil Bunting -
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Sycamore seed twirling,
O, writhe to its measure!
Dust swirling trims pleasure.
Thorns prance in a gale.
In air snow flickers, twigs tap, elms drip.
Swaggering, shimmering fall, drench and towel us all!
Dance tiptoe, bull,
black against may.
Ridiculous and lovely
chase hurdling shadows
morning into noon.
Brag, sweet tenor bull, descant on Rawthey's madrigal, each pebble its part for the fells' late spring.
A strong song tows us, long earsick.
Blind, we follow rain slant, spray flick to fields we do not know.
Name and date split in soft slate a few months obliterate. 166
Then is Now. The star you steer by is gone, its tremulous thread spun in the hurricane spider floss on my cheek; light from the zenith spun when the slowworm lay in her lap fifty years ago.
Quote of the day
And of all axioms this shall win the prize,— 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise.
March 1, 1900
April 17, 1985
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Remarkable Last Words (or Near-Last Words)
Philip James Bailey
Letitia Elizabeth Landon