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Stories and Poetry
poems by Richard Eberhard, born in Austin, Minn.,1904


The goal of intellectual man
Striving to do what he can
To bring down out of uncreated light
Illumination to our night

Is not possession of the fire
Annihilation of his own desire
To the source a secret soaring
And all his self outpouring

Nor is it an imageless place
Wherein there is no human face
Nor laws, nor hierarchies, nor dooms
And only the cold weight of the tomb

But it is human love, love
Concrete, specific, in a natural move
Gathering goodness, it is free
In the blood as in the mind's harmony,

It is love discoverable here
Difficult, dangerous, pure, clear,
The truth of the positive hour
Composing all of human power.

poems by Richard Armour,


Night after night, for years on end,
My mattress has been my closest friend.

My mattress and I are cozy and pally;
There are hills on the sides – I sleep in the valley.

It clearly reveals the shape I’m in:
Where I’m thin it’s thick, where it’s thick I’m thin.

Its contours reflect the first and the last of me.
It’s very nearly a plaster cast of me.

I miss my mattress when I am gone;
It’s one thing I’ve made an impression on.

poems by W. H. Auden, born at York,England,1907;

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
      Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
      The soldiers coming.

O what is that light I see flashing so clear
      Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
      As they step lightly.

O what are they doing with all that gear;
      What are they doing this morning, this morning?
Only the usual maneuvers, dear,
      Or perhaps a warning.

O why have they left the road down there;
      Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in the orders, dear;
      Why are you kneeling?

O haven´t they stopped for the doctor´s care;
      Haven´t they reined their horses, their horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
      None of these forces.

O is it the parson they want, with white hair;
      Is the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
      Without a visit.

O it must be the farmer who lives so near,
      It must be the farmer, so cunning, cunning:
They have passed the farm already, dear,
      And now they are running.

O where are you going? Stay with me here.
      Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
      But I must be leaving.

O it´s broken the lock and splintered the door,
      O it´s the gate where they´re turning, turning;
Their feet are heavy on the floor
      And their eyes are burning.

poems by Robert Hayden


Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
Then with cracked hands that ached
From labor in the weekday weather made
Banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I´d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he´d call,
And slowly I would rise and dress,
Fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
Who had driven out the cold
And polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
Of love´s austere and lonely offices?

poems by Dylan Thomas, born in Swansea, Wales, 1914; died in New York, 1953


The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.

The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.

The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locust came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.

Five kings count the deaD but do not soften
The crusted wound nor pat the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hand have no tears to flow.


And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.


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