Pallas Joan, Laura Minde gently while in seat and staying put but descended, by momentum, like the coronal mist that gathers around the flaring spikes and flowered shafts of the meadow, when yon (yin) storm approaches it, upon it will bear, at the median of the margent of the meadow, whereupon it will all be dark and damp, but now is moisture, and stillness, except the swaying, the descending, against what they face, with motive at their backs, the stalks of grain in the meadow bedewed, electricity climbing their hair, and their hands on the hafts of the steel of their sight.
Push! Rocket! Hit the ground! Return the lob! Bring it back! Make explode! Land with thine ball of feet, Danny boy, and put thy back into it, Wolfgang, and Taric! Grab the damn cylinder with yer jaw! Ride on, laddie! It hurts? It hurts? Being a useless fellow hurts us all! It is the song of sank into the earth in shame, or it is the sang of song that springs with Splechulane of the Soft-bright Goldenmeadowlarksomefirespuncheeryfieldspeareivififedforcânbeard! And Cluacha of the Caves, whacked until wakened, when our shod feet hit the floor of Gallod, and our backs hit the multiplication of their force alangst spinally, and our chins grip the cylindrical rod of the seesaw finally, since if nothing else is ours to do then we must do and ought do with brightness and fervor what we can do and make ourselves like, it, brightness, yank ourselves there to the rising and return the fire to them! The draught of the storm is the warping to fight in the air and in the motion against what’s proper, in good order, and right. We will beat it, oppress it, trample it, and play squash with it. We will revolutionise it and alter it and change it and convert it to the completion of the romance of the rail-stave on which we rise.
From two east-er came an æther and met at the fulcrum where the world made a fold, frame, fracture, and crossing across which were the forces of brightness, the banner of dawn, King, the manly broad shouldery force behind three miniature younglings. Yet the Wintry ladies coming up from below were larger yet than they all could be seen to be, and that strategic point in the matter of things was why they needed a three to the two, which was fair, fair as the brightness and fire of the forked beard and hat-hair and bright shoes and laces of the three falling back down there.
To the pit, to the pit, to the pit goes these useless playgroundselmen. Put them, put them, put them back in their pen. Stabled and soft, here they’ll grow their hair. “They’ll roll in the dirt down there.” “And may they gain wisdom thereof, a Laurel, a mind even maybe, beyond odorous sentimental miniature pert ardors and untutored leanings!” “Ha!” Be more solemn, you three.
Oh look, what solemnity there is in the flush that rises to their cheeks. Embarrassed!
Ember asses. Eo! O lords you are beat!
Baaaaaa, baaaaa, baaaaa — the three sheep wept, on the silver vine, but their tears were of fire, and as comets moved above, and the tall gray ladies rose to their towering, something was turned, something was overturned, up came down, it was April 1, September would come due, as soon as you knew it, and in the blink of an eye looking up and looking down, the heat expanded, the fire searing dew from the electrical wires of the meadow, pulling it into the air, as bright flaming hair, as a bright golden cloak, that was called humid and august July. We made yon sneer upon us, we made yon fear upon us, we made yon delicate nature that eschews this crudeness, to be our hot candle wax burnt from the tower to suffuse all this, and shift! yon frosty excrescence of removal ‘round your silver eye that glows in the farthest moist mist, was the waning of yon position, the decline of youse betches, bet man is the strongest over all these two sets boy-women so fall and descend into rightful submission while the tygers of the night take over yon passions, outside our muscular circle and cincture they’ll whirl, sinistral, carrying forth yon spiritsome formor, being tygerish, and unmentioned. Here we are at the roar from the caves and the volcano that spews from my —
Mouth! Mouth! You have three mouths, but one is on steel. He tries so hard, that boy, you certainly must have whipped him. I am glad we didn’t see it, you didn’t have to whip him. Why whip this or that, steadying your stratagem on the wolfback? Why strain yourself, there is a shallow you come to. Strength is shallowness, wit is silver, the nature of the fulcrum. Philosophy and exiles’ victories, the longer motion. We rule over motion, rumours, sensation. Physics would be yours but there’s nothing much in that.
(The three lads slipped off — the back lad to the left, the mid lad on his head along the spine, the last one broke off chaotically. There was then teeth in the grass. There was then heads in the mud. Just then the horses of the king drew along, with the caravans of the camp followers and captive maidens behind them. They went over the ridge. One or two laughed at the sight of the fallen boys, but none of the five were cruel, savage, none of them wanted victory beyond the minute that was chasing itself away in its own shadowlightglittering leafarray of phantom hoofbeat.)
Victory to the feminine in that century, said Pallas Athena, recorded the ―――
