NPPF: Seadarn

Terrance lycidas2 at earthlink.net
Mon Oct 13 14:57:46 CDT 2003





                   Less nimbly now through brakes they wind, 
                   And ford wild creeks where men have drowned; 
                   They skirt the pool, avoid the fen, 
                   And so till night, when down they lie, 
                   Their steeds still saddled, in wooded ground: 
                   Rein in hand they slumber then, 
                   Dreaming of Mosby's cedarn den. 

The Scout toward Aldie
by Herman Melville 

              Down to a sunless sea.
              So twice five miles of fertile ground
              With walls and towers were girdled round:
              And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
              Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
              And here were forests ancient as the hills,
              Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

              But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
              Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

Kubla Khan
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

     Gently draw off the clear and tomb it yet,
     For other twenty days, in cedarn casks!
     Where through trance, surely, prophecy will set;
     As, dedicated to light temple-tasks,
     The young priest dreams the unknown mystery.
     Through Ariadne, knelt disconsolate
     In the sea’s marge, so well’d back warmth which throbb’d
     With nuptial promise: she
     Turn’d; and, half-choked through dewy glens, some great,
     Some magic drone of revel coming sobb’d.

A Duet
by Thomas Sturge Moore

That instant, the White Whale made a sudden rush among the remaining
tangles of the
other lines; by so doing, irresistibly dragged the more involved boats
of Stubb and Flask towards his flukes; dashed them together like two
rolling husks on a surf-beaten beach, and then, diving down into the
sea, disappeared in a boiling maelstrom, in which, for a space, the
odorous cedarn  chips of the wrecks danced round and round, like the
grated nutmeg in a swiftly stirred bowl of punch.

Moby-Dick
by Herman Melville



More information about the Pynchon-l mailing list