Original Poetry Anonymous 10726
O brew up fuel for psychic War,
word-makers. Dream, for it lies here,
the seed of Fruit forevermore,
that Apple which for Adam gleam'd
when shined by Eve against her Cheek:
O speaketh ye a voice from far,
μιμούμαι Σαπφώ or Cate Parr.
That Apple Eve mostly bravely bit,
for 'til the day she sank her Teeth,
who knew what might abide in it
or what Juice from it might squeeze.
Long Adam saw it ripe and free,
dangling from its silver Bough,
but it was Eve that dared bite down.
Anonymous 10728
How fine a fruit your figges be,
growing eight on one small tree.
A michty fig turns ripe from green
when yellow turns his tender skein.
Anonymous 10729
Mortar thy soul,
lay years on years,
for judgement day,
it ever nears.
Anonymous 10803
And wilt thou say, "I have lived well,"
when thund'ring tolls the midnight bell?
