Selected poems and ballads of Paul Fort

Selected poems and ballads of Paul Fort

by Paul Fort
     
 
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This is an OCR edition with typos.

Overview

Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free.
This is an OCR edition with typos.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
2940022861266
Publisher:
New York : Duffield and company
Format:
NOOK Book
File size:
326 KB

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imposed, that drunk with song the world more swiftly whirled through space. From A PORTFOLIO OF SKETCHES. THE LITTLE ANNUITANT. He has departed by the road, the poor man, summoning up such fortitude as old men can, with little faltering steps counted by trembling cane, he has departed. He will not come again. His constitutional covers no great distance, the dear man. Conservative for eighteen hundred years, none has he wronged, no enemy he fears. He has always led so prudent an existence since Time began. Two rods of road and then a path we trace, a tiny little path, to re- conduct the man, the worthy little man, back to his starting place. And why should Fate select as victim of its spleen that honest little man in his little by-path green t He trudges there, he coughs, he spits, he gnaws, he mumbles to himself, he blinks applause, content with all. He roasts his doddering heart in the bright sun's warm beam. He dreams his way through life. He takes no part in strife, and he is happy in his dream. Yes, why should evil Fate have grudged felicity to that good man and wished to do him wrong, when nothing came his peace to mar save that he sometimes trudged too far? Of course there's death the icy breath that solveth all our sums. Ah, death, the broad highway, there one marches long. But bah, is there not this good abbe" to graft you on a good little path this excellent little abbe" who so opportunely comes! THE VISIT OF DEATH. A small, pale hand brushes against the lock, lengthens, and with one finger upsets my sleeping-draught. Discreetly a light foot tiptoes by. I call. But there is no reply. Can it be that it is snowing in my warm room! Disdainfully Death sits beside my fire, hewaits my hour, his tower of little bones, ranged on my chair...

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