Devon baldwin and eazy relationship poems

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devon baldwin and eazy relationship poems

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It ended in the cool evening, with a wood fire in one's bedroom, and next morn—thirty more of them ahead! One had leisure to work, too, at whatever play-work was in one's head, and that was usually full. Kipling included most of these stories in Plain Tales from the Hillshis first prose collection, which was published in Calcutta in Januarya month after his 22nd birthday.

Kipling's time in Lahore, however, had come to an end. In Allahabad, he worked as the Assistant editor of The Pioneer and lived in Belvedere house, Allahabad from to In addition, as The Pioneer's special correspondent in the western region of Rajputanahe wrote many sketches that were later collected in Letters of Marque and published in From Sea to Sea and Other Sketches, Letters of Travel.

By this time, he had been increasingly thinking about the future. Kipling was favourably impressed by Japan, writing that the Japanese were "gracious folk and fair manners".

Weeping softly for O-Toyo O-Toyo was a darling". Kipling arrived unannounced at Twain's home, and later wrote that as he rang the doorbell, "It occurred to me for the first time that Mark Twain might possibly have other engagements other than the entertainment of escaped lunatics from India, be they ever so full of admiration.

He also found a place to live for the next two years at Villiers Streetnear Charing Cross the building was subsequently named Kipling House: Meantime, I had found me quarters in Villiers StreetStrandwhich forty-six years ago was primitive and passionate in its habits and population.

My rooms were small, not over-clean or well-kept, but from my desk I could look out of my window through the fanlight of Gatti's Music-Hall entrance, across the street, almost on to its stage. The Charing Cross trains rumbled through my dreams on one side, the boom of the Strand on the other, while, before my windows, Father Thames under the Shot tower walked up and down with his traffic.

Before his return, he had used the telegram to propose to and be accepted by Wolcott's sister Caroline Starr Balestier —called "Carrie", whom he had met a year earlier, and with whom he had apparently been having an intermittent romance. Henry James gave the bride away. Kipling and his wife settled upon a honeymoon that would take them first to the United States including a stop at the Balestier family estate near Brattleboro, Vermont and then on to Japan.

Taking this loss in their stride, they returned to the US, back to Vermont — Carrie by this time was pregnant with their first child —and rented a small cottage on a farm near Brattleboro for ten dollars a month. We bought, second or third hand, a huge, hot-air stove which we installed in the cellar.

Translation

We cut generous holes in our thin floors for its eight-inch [20 cm] tin pipes why we were not burned in our beds each week of the winter I never can understand and we were extraordinarily and self-centredly content. Her Mother's birthday being the 31st and mine the 30th of the same month, we congratulated her on her sense of the fitness of things It chanced that I had written a tale about Indian Forestry work which included a boy who had been brought up by wolves.

devon baldwin and eazy relationship poems

In the stillness, and suspense, of the winter of '92 some memory of the Masonic Lions of my childhood's magazine, and a phrase in Haggard's Nada the Lilycombined with the echo of this tale. After blocking out the main idea in my head, the pen took charge, and I watched it begin to write stories about Mowgli and animals, which later grew into the two Jungle Books ".

Kipling named the house Naulakhain honour of Wolcott and of their collaboration, and this time the name was spelled correctly. In the short span of four years, he produced, in addition to the Jungle Books, a collection of short stories The Day's Worka novel Captains Courageousand a profusion of poetry, including the volume The Seven Seas.

The collection of Barrack-Room Ballads was issued in Marchfirst published individually for the most part inand containing his poems " Mandalay " and " Gunga Din ". He especially enjoyed writing the Jungle Books — both masterpieces of imaginative writing — and enjoyed, too, corresponding with the many children who wrote to him about them. He described this moment in a letter: Next morning there was an answering signal from the swamp where the sumacs grow.

Three days later, the hill-sides as fast as the eye could range were afire, and the roads paved, with crimson and gold.

Then a wet wind blew, and ruined all the uniforms of that gorgeous army; and the oakswho had held themselves in reserve, buckled on their dull and bronzed cuirasses and stood it out stiffly to the last blown leaf, till nothing remained but pencil-shadings of bare boughs, and one could see into the most private heart of the woods. She died of pneumonia in aged 6. In FebruaryElsie Kipling was born, the couple's second daughter.

By this time, according to several biographers, their marital relationship was no longer light-hearted and spontaneous. By the early s, the United Kingdom and Venezuela were in a border dispute involving British Guiana. The US had made several offers to arbitrate, but inthe new American Secretary of State Richard Olney upped the ante by arguing for the American "right" to arbitrate on grounds of sovereignty on the continent see the Olney interpretation as an extension of the Monroe Doctrine.

Although the crisis led to greater US-British co-operation, at the time Kipling was bewildered by what he felt was persistent anti-British sentiment in the US, especially in the press. A family dispute became the final straw. For some time, relations between Carrie and her brother Beatty Balestier had been strained, owing to his drinking and insolvency. In Mayan inebriated Beatty encountered Kipling on the street and threatened him with physical harm.

In Julya week before the hearing was to resume, the Kiplings packed their belongings, left the United States, and returned to England. Devon[ edit ] By Septemberthe Kiplings were in TorquayDevon, on the southwestern coast of England, in a hillside home overlooking the English Channel.

Although Kipling did not much care for his new house, whose design, he claimed, left its occupants feeling dispirited and gloomy, he managed to remain productive and socially active. The Kiplings had welcomed their first son, Johnin August Kipling had begun work on two poems, " Recessional " and " The White Man's Burden " which were to create controversy when published.

Regarded by some as anthems for enlightened and duty-bound empire-building that captured the mood of the Victorian agethe poems equally were regarded by others as propaganda for brazenfaced imperialism and its attendant racial attitudes; still others saw irony in the poems and warnings of the perils of empire.

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet. Lest we forget—lest we forget! In earlythe Kiplings travelled to South Africa for their winter holiday, thus beginning an annual tradition which excepting the following year was to last until They always stayed in "The Woolsack", a house on Cecil Rhodes ' estate at Groote Schuur and now a student residence for the University of Cape Town ; it was within walking distance of Rhodes' mansion.

Kipling cultivated their friendship and came to admire the men and their politics.

devon baldwin and eazy relationship poems

When summer nights the dews bestow, And summer suns enrich the day, Thy notes the blossoms charm to blow, Each opes delighted at thy lay. So when in youth the eye's dark glance Speaks pleasure from its circle bright, The tones of love our joys enhance And make superior each delight. And when bleak storms resistless rove, And ev'ry rural bliss destroy, Nought comforts then the leafless grove But thy soft note — its only joy — E'en so the words of love beguile When pleasure's tree no flower bears, And draw a soft endearing smile Amid the gloom of grief and tears.

Fill for me a brimming bowl Fill for me a brimming bowl And let me in it drown my soul To banish Women from my mind For I want not the stream inspiring That fills the mind with fond desiring, But I want as deep a draught As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd; From my despairing heart to charm The image of the fairest form That e'er my reveling eyes beheld, That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.

My sight will never more be blest; For all I see has lost its zest Nor with delight can I explore The classic page, or muse's lore. Had she but known how beat my heart, And with one smile reliev'd its smart, I should have felt a sweet relief, I should have felt " the joy of grief. As from the darkening gloom a silver dove As from the darkening gloom a silver dove Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light, On pinions that naught moves but pure delight, So fled thy soul into the realms above, Regions of peace and everlasting love; Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight, Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove.

There thou or joinest the immortal quire In melodies that even heaven fair Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air On holy message sent — what pleasure's higher? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair? To Lord Byron Byron, how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.

Delightful thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow, Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan! Dear child of sorrow — son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye, Whence genius wildly flash'd, and high debate. How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers!

Thou didst die A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate. But this is past. Thou art among the stars Of highest heaven to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest naught thy hymning mars, Above the ingrate world and human fears. On earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears. Written on the Day That Mr. Leigh Hunt Left Prison What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he, In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.

Think you he nought but prison walls did see, Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key? In Spenser's halls he strayed, and bowers fair, Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air To regions of his own his genius true Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew? To Hope When by my solitary hearth I sit, When no fair dreams before my " mind's eye " flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night, Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray, Should sad Despondency my musings fright, And frown, to drive fair cheerfulness away, Peep with the moon-beams through the leafy roof, And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, Strive for her son to seize my careless heart; When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart Chace him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, And fright him as the morning frightens night! Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy Cheer; Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, From cruel parents, or relentless fair; O let me think it is not quite in vain To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air! Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head! In the long vista of the years to roll, Let me not see our country's honour fade O let me see our land retain her soul, Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade. From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed — Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, Great Liberty! With the base purple of a court oppress'd, Bowing her head, and ready to expire But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the skies with silver glitterings! And as, in sparkling majesty, a star Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed, Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.

Ode to apollo In thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires. Here Homer with his nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war, And even the western splendour warms, While the trumpets sound afar But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

Then, through thy temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre The soul delighted on each accent dwells, — Enraptured dwells, — not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand, And quickly forward spring The Passions — a terrific band — And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.

A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless chastity.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from pleasure's lair — Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move, But when thou joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine, We listen here on earth The dying tones that fill the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.

To Some Ladies What though while the wonders of nature exploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes, With you, kindest friends, in idea I muse; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling? Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare? If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven; And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending, The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given; It had not created a warmer emotion Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you, Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure, And blissful is he who such happiness finds, To possess but a sand in the hour of leisure, In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. On Receiving a Curious Shell, and a Copy of Verses, from the Same Ladies Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine? That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold? And splendidly mark'd with the story divine Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold? Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing? Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is? Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave, Embroidered with many a spring-peering flower? Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

G-Eazy - Mad ft. Devon Baldwin

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower? I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers to bless, and to sooth. On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain; And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain. This canopy mark 'tis the work of a fay; Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, When lovely Titania was far, far away, And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened; The wondering spirits of heaven were mute, And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened. In this little dome, all those melodies strange, Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change; Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. So, when I am in a voluptuous vein, I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers, to bless and to sooth. O come, dearest Emma! And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head There, beauteous Emma, I'll sit at thy feet, While my story of love I enraptured repeat. So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh, Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is nigh Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee, And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.

That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses; So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland. From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd They be of what is worthy, — though not drest In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.

Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere I dine, Or thrice my palate moisten but when I mark Such charms with mild intelligences shine, My ear is open like a greedy shark, To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

[OTA] The poems of John Keats

Who can forget her half retiring sweets? Surely the All-seeing, Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing, Will never give him pinions, who intreats Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats A dove-like bosom.

In truth there is no freeing One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear A lay that once I saw her hand awake, Her form seems floating palpable, and near; Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake. But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd, Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

To George Felton Mathew Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew! The thought of this great partnership diffuses Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream; Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam; Or again witness what with thee I've seen, The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, After a night of some quaint jubilee Which every elf and fay had come to see When bright processions took their airy march Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.

But might I now each passing moment give To the coy muse, with me she would not live In this dark city, nor would condescend 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind, Ah! There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy, To say " joy not too much in all that's bloomy. Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.

With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world.

We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace. While to the rugged north our musing turns We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face That thou hast never told thy travels strange, And all the wonders of the mazy range O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprize But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies; No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation. Hadst thou liv'd in days of old Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, O what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness; In the very fane of lightness.

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning In a dainty bend they lie, Like to streaks across the sky, Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow. Of thy dark hair that extends Into many graceful bends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. And behind each ample curl Peeps the richness of a pearl. With a glossy waviness; Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny air.

Add too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd With those beauties, scarce discern'd, Kept with such sweet privacy, That they seldom meet the eye Of the little loves that fly Round about with eager pry.

Saving when, with freshening lave, Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; Like twin water lillies, born In the coolness of the morn. O, if thou hadst breathed then, Now the Muses had been ten. Couldst thou wish for lineage higher Than twin sister of Thalia?

At least for ever, evermore, Will I call the Graces four. Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high, Tell me what thou wouldst have been. I see the silver sheen Of thy broidered, floating vest Cov'ring half thine ivory breast; Which, O heavens!

I should see; But that cruel destiny Has placed a golden cuirass there; Keeping secret what is fair. Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested Thy locks in knightly casque are rested O'er which bend four milky plumes Like the gentle lilly's blooms Springing from a costly vase.

See with what a stately pace Comes thine alabaster steed; O'er his loins, his trappings glow Like the northern lights on snow. Sign of the enchanter's death; Bane of every wicked spell; Silencer of dragon's yell. I am as brisk I am as brisk As a bottle of wisk-k Ey and as nimble Give me women, wine, and snuff Give me women, wine and snuff You may do so sans objection Till the day of resurrection; For bless my beard they aye shall be My beloved trinity. Specimen of an Induction to a Poem Lo!

I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, To show this wonder of its gentle might. I must tell a tale of chivalry; For while I muse, the lance points slantingly Athwart the morning air: And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes, when the good knight his rest would take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests. Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Leaps to the honors of a tournament, And makes the gazers round about the ring Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing? How sing the splendour of the revelries, When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees? And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield, Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces; Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: