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Mirimirage

Allusion is not Illusion

You'll pry my books off my cold, dead body. By the time you shift them all I'll be flat and dessicated.

Currently reading

Winter's Tales
Karen Blixen, Isak Dinesen
Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (Penguin Classics)
Rebecca West, Christopher Hitchens
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Susanna Clarke
Already Dead
Charlie Huston
The Rings of Saturn
W.G. Sebald, Michael Hulse
Lady Audley's Secret
Mary Elizabeth Braddon, David Skilton
Unequal Protection: How Corporations Became "People" - And How You Can Fight Back
Thom Hartmann
The City, Not Long After
Pat Murphy
You Can Sketch: A Step-by-Step Guide for Absolute Beginners
Jackie Simmonds
Lonely Werewolf Girl
Martin Millar

There is a canker...

Heart of New England - Abbie Farwell Brown
THE Heathen hailed us from the beach,
Prayed the new gods to bless and teach.
They worshiped us and gave us food,
Sweet water and maize, nuts from the wood;
Showed us safe harbor. Liquor and beads
Got us broad acres for our needs;
We set shrewd boundaries to the farms.
Too generously we loaned them arms;
Froward they grew and scorned our laws,
They bared white fangs, unsheathed fierce claws.
Haunts in the wilderness they made
To spy upon our barricade,
Our meeting-house and granaries,
Coveting them with cruel eyes.
One stole a heifer from our yard;
We hanged the whelp; they scalped our guard;
We shot their chief and eight tall braves.
The devils swarmed from dens and caves,
And burned the roofs above our heads;
Murdered the children in their beds!
With righteous wrath we armed for war,
Scouring the forest near and far,
River and lake with uncouth name,
All the fair region once their claim,
Killing the Redskin fiends at sight.
At last we rid us of the blight;
We made the savage race to cease,
And earned a Sabbath Day of peace.
We walled the tilth and reared this town.

O great Jehovah looking down,
Reward our pious people still,
Who set Thy temple on the hill.


Wow.

Well, I see why this poet's popularity has not endured.

Second star because my new standard is "Well, it's bad but it's not Lang Leav bad." At least when Brown picks a rhyme scheme she sticks with it. Of course, I don't think they published things that were Lang-Leav-bad a hundred years ago, so maybe I'm being too generous...