With endless rebound!

Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in;

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,

And darting and parting,

And threading and spreading,

And whizzing and hissing,

And dripping and skipping,

And hitting and splitting,

And shining and twining,

And rattling and battling,

And shaking and quaking,

And pouring and roaring,

And waving and raving,

And tossing and crossing,

And flowing and going,

And running and stunning,

And foaming and roaming,

And dinning and spinning,

And dropping and hopping,

And working and jerking,

And guggling and struggling,

And heaving and cleaving,

And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering,

And gathering and feathering,

And whitening and brightening,

And quivering and shivering,

And hurrying and scurrying,

And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And falling and brawling and sprawling,

And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,

And sounding and bounding and rounding,

And bubbling and troubling and doubling,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,

And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,

Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;

And so never ending, but always descending,

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,

All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,

And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.

Robert Southey

Empty Places

Empty Places

I like empty places.

The woods, the stream, the fields.

It’s knowing I’ve no need

to make connections with anyone

about anything.

It’s knowing I don’t have to speak,

and that no one can contact me.

And the places themselves

are secure in their silence.

The landscape keeps tight-lipped,

it has no wish to reveal

its secrets.

(Although, just occasionally

I detect the whisperings of leaves,

the gossip of greenery.)

There are times, of course,

when my fingers feel the pulse of the city,

when its heartbeat connects with mine.

There are times too

when I need to be vocal,

when I need to crack the surface of silence.

But then it’s back to those empty places,

that desire to be somewhere where no one else is,

to feel, to touch, to surf the breeze.

I like empty places,

the woods, the stream, the fields,

those kinds of places

that I can fill

with my dreams.

Brian Moses

Out in the Desert

Out in the Desert

Out in the desert lies the Sphinx

It never eats and it never drinx

Its body’s quite solid without any chinx

And when the sky’s all purple and pinx