Entry LIV – April

The Great Lover
Rupert Brook

But the best I’ve known,
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown 
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.



Entry LIII – April

The Great Lover
Rupert Brook

Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; 
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass.


Entry LII – April

The Wise
Countee Cullen

Dead men are wisest, for they know
How far the roots of flowers go,
How long a seed must rot to grow.

Dead men alone bear frost and rain
On throbless heart and heatless brain,
And feel no stir of joy or pain.

Dead men alone are satiate;
They sleep and dream and have no weight,
To curb their rest, of love or hate.

Strange, men should flee their company,
Or think me strange who long to be
Wrapped in their cool immunity.


Entry L – March

Lewis Carrol

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


Entry XLIX – March

In Winter
Robert Wallace

It is hard, inland, in winter.
When the fields are motionless in snow
to remember waves, to remember the wide, sloshing immensity

of the Atlantic, continuous, green in the cold, taking snow
or rain into itself,

to realize the endurance of the tilting bell buoy
(hour by hour, years through) that clangs, clangs,

from land; even in storm and night-howling
snow, wet, red, flashing
to mark the channel. Some things
are, even if no one comes.


Entry XLVIII – March

Annabel Lee
Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


Entry XLVII – February

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell like a falling star,


Entry XLVI – February

Ungainly Things
Robert Wallace

A regular country toad—pebbly,
as the shade of the spruces
in the garden
he came from—rode
to Paris in a hatbox
to Lautrec’s
studio (skylights
on the skies of Paris)
and stared
from searchlight eyes,
dim yellow; bow-armed,
cutworms from a box,
among the furniture and easels,
while the clumsy little painter
him in charcoal
until he was beautiful.
One day
he found his way
down stairs toward the world
into the streets of Montmartre,
and, missing him, the painter-dwarf
peering among cobbles,
Laughed at, searching
until long past dark
the length of the Avenue Frochot,
over and over,
for the fisted, marble-eyed
no one would ever see again
in sketches that make ungainly things beautiful.