For a hundred and fifty years, in the pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs..., yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground--old toilers, soil makers: O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Those lumbering horses in the steady plough, On the bare field--I wonder why, just now,... They seemed terrible, so wild and strange, Like magic power on the stony grange.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows, I am rough ...and lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »