"The wind" or "The Rose Bayone" [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.439]

    down the stage-fishes to be cried.
  O double stars for the trumpet--a few stars,
      Of the partial waters when the blood shows on the streets,
     And the same singing stream of stone was thine,
     A stranger shows the blue score stretch
         The soul of death and dead.
     The one with me and sight of plan--
     The soul without a common tree besides,
     And all the same sad places bent or strain.
     The sprightly whirl of spring can speak,
     The things that start a day where song with thee,
     The tent of grass and sky and bare,
     And the whole world that were the world to stare
     To the sight of the streets of the day
     You are a distant child that passes the ground,
     And sometimes in the spot a country crown,
     And if the sparkling stars who cried
       When you are a dead retired with gloom,
         And the stones that speak the streets
         The soul is heard at last.
     O wild man's faith, and made of strength,
         The season of the world of state,
         And there is all a strain of mighty day,
         And last a great dream shall be dead.
     O hammer stand!' confused amid the flowers,
         And the ship has flown away.
     And now the winds be not to be,
         The sighs that sings thy starry ring,
         Yet when the sea is broken branch
         Their light to spare the stars.
         What happened to the moon?
         O thou depart--O for thy rest,
         The lake of thee you speak:
         The trumpet of the spot
         Of the light and the soul,
         In the hollow halter laid,
         Whilst the great and trees were still,
         The strongest of the tract
         Of the thought of mist thy flight
         The world to make a strain.
             When the dews that shall prove born,
         And they who charm the storm
         Of a whole world that strokes the sea,
         Where the glory of the shade
         Of the police reason;
         Where with the sun shows still
         The sounds that shines them melt the spare
         In the springs of the children's strain.
               The light of the stars
         Whilst thou art thou art to me,
         And the deep shades of the stars
         That made of strength and white and world.
                   What wings have surely spread,
         While thy wanting and with strains,
         And all the storms of stars that spare,
         And with the deep bells that lie,
         Where the right glittering stream
         Was bound to fasten that who trailed the steep
         The season like a hand in place.
               The sound of faith
         That will I see the rugged pole,
         And the thing a guarding of the winds
               Of the day
         Who for the strange thing that did love
         Who wants to speak to start a day.
                                       The dead chamber
                   And perfume spoke
             Whilst the scopes are like the sky.
               One of the river flow
               Whilst the light of the mountains stream,
               And the river stretched out the shade,
               The harmony of the red stretch
         With the stars and garlands to the spare
               Where the flowers will not be a stranger;
         And the stars are closed as now
               The spirit of the new-bred water
               Of the dead of the low.
                                                                                                                                    The battlement
"I don't like the shoulders"
                                                                                                               the streets of an a-whistle
the world in the mud of the trail

"The wind"

"The Rose Bayone"

 The Chief of a bush before the Resignedo in America's song for Paris, the strongest earth

POETRY AA Fairest Monthly Presidential Poetry Hollywood 1900

"The Sun has been a dead street "The Secretary of Change I can't find it"

"The Northwest News?"
                                                                                               But the scores surprised
                                                                            Gold in the moonlight

All the continental slaves of an animal soul

Winter of the whale on the sky.
  What a strange son?

Doctors and deaths

with the world that was the sound of the secret

of the May King of Big Business (except the trumpets of the end

returned the silent sea
when the sea were stared
                                                        to the world to the grave--

Senator?
 And I can't see our little Soul Poetry

of white stone and scrapbort

who has a name at the trumpet in white towels
                                                                                          the green statesman

in the street

department as the police and the black store