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Twenty-Seven: The Soft-Footed Phantom Speaks
- The University of Alabama Press
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315 And I heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder: and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps… —Revelation 14:2 A spectre is haunting Heaven—the spectre of communion . In that saint alliance is an old European, spying on pope and tsar alike, the benched radicals, the germ of their pleas infecting the calvary of fought wars. Does not the opposition party always condemn that which matches its strength? Does not the statistical enemy commune with blame, oppose the luminary? twenty-seven The Soft-Footed Phantom Speaks 316 Behold, fair of a thousand arts, my love, art of a fair house, thou hast the eyes of a thousand doves, eyes inside closings, eyes all but implied: thy hair is a flock of goats, it appears from the husbandry of God, a many-married man, beware . Thy teeth, shorn sheep, came a maundering, each one together bare and none is barren between them. Thy borders are as the scarlet lips of the horizon, thy speech silently handsome : thy temples are a part of any Rome, a bit of tangled fruit, the heir of the god that bit you. Thy throat is an armory, whereon fall a thousand escutcheons, sing protectorate of powerful men. Thy two breasts are as two new eggs, the twin fed between the irises. Until the day ruptures and the shadows blow leeward, I will get me to the mountain’s murmur by the candor of rain. My love shall fare as pots boil. Come with me my husband to the superior part of lions’ caverns, from the mound of paper leopards. A thousand ravished my heart, my sister, my husband, a thousand ravished my heart with one eye, with the electricity of a throat. Fair love, my sister, my husband! I spell the pomade, give respite to the spices of thee. My husband’s edges drip as if author of the honeycomb: the honeyed tongue I milk. The smell of arguments soon ebbs. A closed garden is my sister, secret cultivar, aspiring to speak and burgeon, a comely fundament concealed. This Rome is an orchard of pleasant fruits, a stream of spikenard and cinnamon , a living water of camphor, of aloe. It flows from a thousand souths, establishes the appointment of spies. Spike of calumny and skin, rank hellos, heat suffices. Love leaves the garden, enter its eaten fruits. If for years our suffered fathers, which out of this continent were birthed, were dedicated, a new nation of former [54.160.243.44] Project MUSE (2024-03-28 23:42 GMT) 317 indications, in freedom and proposal, would surely celebrate the conditions and think to require that all equal men are created. Now when enormity meets the battlefield, we war with time. The nation, or all nations, therefore proctors the test that amounts to consecration. We of the dominion have an attachment, from our here to the next person’s wheredo -we-go. But in a greater sense we cannot be pleased—we cannot office this earth, cannot sanctify this hearth. In order to die probably, a nation buys respect from the dead. From the gathering, we who are appropriate must make this! The world little notes our poor energies but can never forgive what it cannot see. It is incumbent upon us to live unfinished, to fight always the beautiful outpost where they adhere to the dead, increasing the dead, to whom they gave a degree of love. This nation underneath God will have a flattened birth, a government for the people of people, the perishing people. But, of course, the king, he is knowing nothing of history , which is always larger than the ruling class. What kind of conscripted century does not know? Do you not remember , when Madame France did not have the time, she so very surprised by the poverty of cake? Time then was as good as straw, something slept upon fitfully. Time then crawled with vermin and shortened itself like the afternoon light of a dwindled winter. Don’t you happen? And in compliance with what? In the classroom of landowning, people eat wheat and grudge. People are possible. Any future is the possibility of eating: if only it weren’t 1917. The people wear out and you are left with history, which will malnourish those remaining and feed only time, dear insignificanta, supple anarchist of the clock. Time is the original starveling. Time is...