We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
I would build a cloudy House For my thoughts to live in; When for earth too fancy-loose And too low for Heaven! Hush! I talk my dream aloud I build it bright to see, I build it on the moonlit cloud, To which I looked with thee.
Cloud-walls of the morning's grey, Faced with amber column, Crowned with crimson cupola From a sunset solemn! May mists, for the casements, fetch, Pale and glimmering; With a sunbeam hid in each, And a smell of spring.
Build the entrance high and proud, Darkening and then brightening, If a riven thunder-cloud, Veined by the lightning. Use one with an iris-stain, For the door within; Turning to a sound like rain, As I enter in.
Build a spacious hall thereby: Boldly, never fearing. Use the blue place of the sky, Which the wind is clearing; Branched with corridors sublime, Flecked with winding stairs Such as children wish to climb, Following their own prayers.
In the mutest of the house, I will have my chamber: Silence at the door shall use Evening's light of amber, Solemnising every mood, Softening in degree, Turning sadness into good, As I turn the key.
Be my chamber tapestried With the showers of summer, Close, but soundless - glorified When the sunbeams come here; Wandering harpers, harping on Waters stringed for such, Drawing colours, for a tune, With a vibrant touch.
Bring a shadow green and still From the chestnut forest, Bring a purple from the hill, When the heat is sorest; Spread them out from wall to wall, Carpet-wove around, Whereupon the foot shall fall In light instead of sound.
Bring the fantasque cloudlets home From the noontide zenith Ranged, for sculptures, round the room, Named as Fancy weeneth: Some be Junos, without eyes; Naiads, without sources Some be birds of paradise, Some, Olympian horses.
Bring the dews the birds shake off, Waking in the hedges, Those too, perfumed for a proof, From the lilies' edges: From our England's field and moor, Bring them calm and white in; Whence to form a mirror pure, For Love's self-delighting.
Bring a grey cloud from the east, Where the lark is singing; Something of the song at least, Unlost in the bringing: That shall be a morning chair, Poet-dream may sit in, When it leans out on the air, Unrhymed and unwritten.
Bring the red cloud from the sun While he sinketh, catch it. That shall be a couch, with one Sidelong star to watch it, Fit for poet's finest Thought, At the curfew-sounding; Things unseen being nearer brought Than the seen, around him.
Poet's thought, not poet's sigh! 'Las, they come together! Cloudy walls divide and fly, As in April weather! Cupola and column proud, Structure bright to see - Gone - except that moonlit cloud, To which I looked with thee!
Let them! Wipe such visionings From the Fancy's cartel Love secures some fairer things Dowered with his immortal. The sun may darken - heaven be bowed - But still, unchanged shall be, Here in my soul, that moonlit cloud, To which I looked with THEE!
Ohhh . . .from the Ms. to the young Mr. It's always so good to see how poetic sound travels from one generation to the next:
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor ever eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
The training wing commander recited this at our wing-pinning ceremony. We young bucks just looked at each other in bewilderment, having just gone through 120 pucker hours of serial touch-and-goes, simulated forced landings, simulated bail outs, close acro, the dreaded hood and the like.