gri_2004_m_4_b01_f07_015
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.152
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.06
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Transcribers
- WINNER - 65859529 - mar15ted
- 66044599 - mariaonufrow
- 66217632 - 2416837397
- 66241739 - not-logged-in-f350b83fe678228ed40d
- 66260154 - kop12
- 66381664 - ethomson
WINNER - 65859529 - mar15ted
BLACKHEATH 31 iii 1950Dearest Sylvia, How good to talk with you this morning, for so long a time which yet passed, for me, so quickly. Here are three poems for you, my Muse who inspires me so generously. I must thank you for them, my love. Today the poet in his landscape, Landscape with telephones, Remembers the blue duel of the boats, The women in the trains at night, The rattle of the couplings, And burning names of biscuits Visionary in the sky. My love is nearer by a world: Streets could hide her by a block, A pause at red-eyed traffic-lights Might be fatal to a meeting. All the houses should wear blue plaques Saying 'your love is here, or near', oh where, In the labyrinthine city, love. TWO When the stars creak like trees in the wind And the floor mumbles its age And you cannot reach the switch To put off the light in your mind Let lions take the place of sheep And blow dust back in the past's face And persuade to honeyed peace My wakeful beauty: let lions fill your sleep THREE Spring is not academic, A footnote or a time Fixed in the almanac Past which there is no rime. Nor quite the rising heads of daffodils that hear The song of birds With their long yellow ears. Spring is the time we meet, In garden, room, or street,, For images, then, fly Like flowers from your hair, Like birds from my thighs Growing into air. I love, dearest Sylvia, I love you Lawrence
66044599 - mariaonufrow
BLACKHEATH31 iii 1950
Dearest Sylvia,
How good to talk with you this morning, for so long a time which yet passed, for me, so quickly. Here are three poems for you, my Muse who inspires me so generously. I must thank you for them, my love.
Today the poet in his landscape,
Landscape with telephones,
Remembers the blue duel of the boats,
The women in the trains at night,
The rattle of the couplings,
And burning names of biscuits
Visionary in the sky.
My love is nearer by a world:
Streets could hide her by a block,
A pause at red-eyed traffic-lights
Might be fatal to a meeting.
All the houses should wear blue plaques
Saying 'your love is here, or near', oh where,
In the labyrinthine city, love.
TWO
When the stars creak like trees in the wind
And the floor numbles its age
And you cannot reach the switch
To put off the light in your mind
Let lions take the place of sheep
And blow dust back in the past's face
And persuade to honeyed peace
My wakeful beauty: let lions fill your sleep
THREE
Spring is not academic,
A footnote or a time
Fixed in the almanac
Past which there is no rime.
Nor quite the rising heads
Of daffodils that hear
The song of birds
With their long yellow ears.
Spring is the time we meet,
In garden, room, or street,
For images, then, fly
Like flowers from your hair,
Like birds from my thighs
Growing into air.
I love you, dearest Sylvia,
I love you Lawrence
66217632 - 2416837397
Dearest Sylvia, How good to talk with you this morning, for so long a time which yet passed, for me, so quickly. Here are three poems for you, my Muse who inspires me so generously. I must thank you for them, my love. Today the poet in his landscape, Landscape with the telephones, Remembers the blue duel of the boats, The women in the trains at night, The rattle of the couplings, And burning names of biscuits Visionary in the sky. My love is nearer by a world: Streets could hide her by a block, A pause at red-eyed traffic-lights Might be fatal to a meeting. All the houses should wear blue plaques Saying 'your love is here, or near', oh where, In the labyrinthine city, love. TWO When the stairs creak like trees in the wind And the floor mumbles its age And you cannot reach the switch To put off the light in your mind Let lions take the place of sheep And blow dust back in the past's face And persuade to honeyed peace My wakeful beauty: let lions fill your sleep. THREE Spring is not academic, A footnote or a time Fixed in the almanac Past which there is no time. Nor quite the rising heads Of daffodils that hear The song of birds With their long yellow ears. Spring is the time we meet, In garden, room, or street, For images, then, fly Like birds from my thighs Growing into air.66241739 - not-logged-in-f350b83fe678228ed40d
Blackheath31 iii 1950
Dearest Sylvia,
How good to talk with you this morning, for so long a time which yet passes, for me, so quickly. Here are three poems for you, my Muse who inspires me so generously. I must thank you for them, my love.
Today the poet in his landscape,
Landscape with telephones,
Remembers the blue duel of the boats,
The women i the trains at night,
The rattle of the couplings,
The burning names of biscuits
Visionary in the sky.
My love nearer by a world:
Streets could hide her by a block,
A puase at red-eyed traffic-lights
Might be fatal to a meeting.
All the houses should weat blue plaques
Saying 'your love is her, or near', or where,
In the labyrinthine city, love.
TWO
When the stars creak like trees in the wind
And the floor numbles its age
And you cannot reach the switch
To put off the light in your mind
Let lions take the place of sheep
And blow dust back in the past's face
And persuade the honeyed peace
My wakeful beauty: let lions fill your sleep
THREE
Spring is not academic,
A footnote or a time
Fixed in the almanac
Past which there is no rime.
Nor quite the rising heads
Of daffodils that hear
The songs of birds
With their long yellow ears.
Spring is the time we meet,
In garden, room, or street,
For images, then, fly
Like flowers from your hair,
Like birds from my thighs
Growing into air.
I love you, dearest Sylvia,
I love you
Lawrence
66260154 - kop12
[31 iii 1950] BLACKHEATHDearest Sylvia,
How good to talk with you this morning, for so long a time which
yet passed, for me, so quickly. Here are three poems for you,
my Muse who inspires me so generously. I must thank you for
them, my love.
Today the poet in his landscape,
Landscape with telephones,
Remembers the blue duel of the boats,
The women in the trains at night,
The rattle of the couplings,
And burning names of biscuits
Visionary in the sky.
My love is nearer by a world:
Streets could hide her by a block,
A pause at red-eyed traffic-lights
Might be fatal to a meeting.
All the houses should wear blue plaques
Saying 'your love is here, or near', oh where,
In the labyrinthine city, love.
TWO
When the stars creak like trees in the wind
And the floor mumbles its age
And you cannot reach the switch
To put off the light in your mind
Let lions take the place of sheep
And blow dust back in the past's face
And persuade to honeyed peace
My wakeful beauty: let lions fill your sleep
THREE
Spring is not academic,
A footnote or a time
Fixed in the almanac
Past which there is no rime.
Nor quite the rising heads
Of daffodils that hear
The song of birds
With their long yellow ears.
Spring is the time we meet,
In garden, room, or street,
For images, then, fly
Like flowers from your hair,
Like birds from my thighs
Growing into air.
I love you, dearest Sylia,
I love you,
Lawrence
66381664 - ethomson
BLACKHEATH 31 iii 1950Dearest Sylvia,
How good to talk with you this morning, for so long a time which
yet passed, for me, so quickly. Here are three poems for you,
my Muse who inspires me so generously. I must thank you for
them, my love.
Today the poet in his landscape,
Landscape with telephones,
Remembers the blue duel of the boats,
The women in the trains at night,
The rattle of the couplings,
And burning names of biscuits
Visionary in the sky.
My love is nearer by a world:
Streets could hide her by a block,
A pause at red-eyed traffic-lights
Might be fatal to a meeting.
All the houses should wear blue plaques
Saying 'your love is here, or near', oh where,
In the labyrinthine city, love.
TWO
When the stars creak like trees in the wind
And the floor mumbles its age
And you cannot reach the switch
To put off the light in your mind
Let lions take the place of sheep
And blow dust back in the past's face
And persuade to honeyed peace
My wakeful beauty: let lions fill your sleep
THREE
Spring is not academic,
A footnote or a time
Fixed in the almanac
Past which there is no rime.
Nor quite the rising heads
Of daffodils that hear
The song of birds
With their long yellow ears.
Spring is the time we meet,
In garden, room, or street,
For images, then, fly
Like flowers from your hair,
Like birds from my thighs
Growing into air.
I love you, dearest Sylvia,
I love you
Lawrence