Butterflies, Why?

Butterflies yellow, and violet, white,
Fluttering fellows of soft delight,
Why do you follow, following fair—
Backward and forward, here again, there—
Nothing, it seems nothing in view?
Everywhere fluttering, light and true,
Nowhere particular, happy in flight,
Butterflies yellow, violet, white!

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The Love of Being

Above the love of being there is naught to go,
And being that is reason is a height to know.
And higher than a thinker who in act is true
Is nothing but accomplishment of ends seen through.
The happiness of heroes in their calm, proud stance,
The lifting up of goblets ere the light-heart dance,
The smiling eyes triumphant for the thing well done,
Is morning, spring and glory for all life begun.
Above the love of being there is naught to see,
And being is the reason that we love to be,
But being’s not existing, it is filled with fire—
The fire of enacting your exact desire,
Of knowing what you want and going on and on,
Unsleeping half the night and waking up with dawn!

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The Poet and The Statue

If I, as bird, did fly around your waterfall
Of silver-shining hair to see your twinkling eyes
And stopped, a-hover there, so much amazed with all
The wrink’less beauty of a splendid lover, oh,
Would I not sing such piercing songs into the skies
That gath’ring clouds would get them fast and far away,
And winds, that moved so dull before, would blow and blow,
And fill with big bloom odors all the wilding air
Until you breathed, and turned, and stretched like bursting May!?
Then awed I’d sit a waving branch and watch you there,
Like ship upon the waters, up and down, in bliss
To sight the isle of happiness for which it’s bound.
And now, with flutt’ring pulse for perfect, twirling ground,
I ‘magine me a bee to buzz your lips and kiss!
Oh, what’s a better power than poet’s power like this?

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If I Could Change The World

If I could change the world I’d do religion in,
And all that’s altruistic I would make a sin.
If I could change the world I’d change all governments
To rights protecting bodies of rational good sense.
There’d not be thugs “competing” for a throne of power,
Nor angry men, “smart” women, who think life is sour;
There’d be no sly manipulation with daft-craft lies,
But the honest exaltation of the great and wise.
If I could change the world I’d put self on top,
Where all ideas selfless would stop and drop.
And most of all, and everywhere, blaze high this rule:
Initiating force is evil, coarse and cruel,
A thing that’s banned and damned, and hammered underground,
Till peace on earth increases and is all where found!

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Forth, Model!

If I should carve in block of purest marble stone
My perfect body made of you and I, alive
Within my mind, alive in you, although unknown;
If then you saw me kneel in worship, face alight,
Forgetting you were near, would you then disappear?
Or would you stay, revering too, my high ideal?
Would you turn round to see and praise my perfect height
That’s also in your mind if you’d but let you know?
Or would you think, “That is not me; the hips are low,
The shoulders off, somehow; the brow too high and bright;
It’s so un-true to life, not really very real?”
You laugh now. Yea, and I am very pleased withal.
You rise, and toss your robe, stand proud against the wall!
I have my answer! We are masters over all!

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A New Idea

I went composing music through the foggy night;
I went composing music, and it was all right;
I went composing music till the wind did spring
And all came out all round about, and I did sing.
A fence stood here, a building there, two lonely cars,
And then a sign. Stop, it said, but I went on,
Still walking, lightly swinging, singing to the stars,
Until the fog rolled back again. The wind was gone.
I went composing music through the foggy dew;
I went composing music that was brave and true;
I went composing music as I thought of you,
When suddenly I stopped. A new idea came.
A great idea set my singing soul aflame!
I went composing music that was all your name!

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Monica

Strong rebel ‘gainst authority is Monica the Brave
Who, with such independence, her lover’s life will save.
High virtues all are on her side, and great will’s light,
As she inspires and instills the strength to fight.
The facts come first and are well-versed in Monica the True,
And all that can be done by one she’ll truly do.
The docs of dull tradition may mumble with forced might
While she, with greater confidence, knocks sickness left and right.
We praise her for her certainty, and praise her mind—
Dear Monica the Merciless, to fate unkind!
So may her knowledge, growing, with love-lit cheer,
Keep Robb aloft and glowing to hurl thought’s spear!
We reach a hand to shake your hand, dear Monica the Wise,
So glad to be and, standing, see—your truth-filled eyes.

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