The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

song of dutar, lourdes dutar

do not go gentle into that dark night of the soul
at three o'clock in the mourning becomes electra
built on rock of ages' long day's journey into
the light brigade, faust's charge up the city on
the hill where i have lived my life, and that which
god finds good and evil in the hearts of mice and
men, may go forth and multiply against the lean and
hungry looks of dangerous minions in the morning
of the world of illuminations of the nights and
their red dappled dawns, tolling and toiling for
thee, for what is this before me but the dagger in
the hart of the lady's lake, what i mean to say is
unsaid, ladders and snakes skating the thin ice of
our intentions, our caterpillar dreams end where
worlds begin, not with a bang but a neighing white
horse which is not a horse, just as we never were

death take me, carry me away, everyone's hurting
the sailor on the sea, not a drop of life left
around my neck of the woods, on a snowy evening,
good fences not going gently anywhere, but going

i think that I shall never see where wilt thou blow
over many a quaint and curious volume of the small
reigns of kings and queens against the armies of
this night unbedded, lost, death comes to the
archways in the garden of the good hands made in the
bright tygers' naked wheeling in the skies, i'm done,
the darkness surrounds us, the belle tolls for me,
don't ask one of three whither thou goest, what news
from ghent this dawn of april's showers, mourn the
tempest, all is lost, our generations' best minds
forlorn without mercy

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