Still OM Pimespo Forklift E10N E8N

Series 4033 Workshop Manual

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Still OM Pimespo Forklift E10N E8N Series 4033 Workshop ManualSize: 20.9
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Pimespo Forklift E10N E8N Series 4033Number of Pages: 172 pagesPart Number:
40338042301ENDate Modified: 07/2008
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So he flung it away with a very gladness.
And the baron died—and the bridegroom, well,—
Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth!—to tell
Of him there is nothing. The baron died;
The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy!
And the Clare estate with its wealth and its pride
Devolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy.

Ten years and a score thereafter. And they

Ransacked the old castle and mark!—one day
In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest
From Flanders, of sinister ebon, carved
Sardonic with masks 'round an olden crest,
Gargoyle faces distorted and starved:
Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo!
When they opened it—ha, Hortense!—or, no!—
Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathed
With flowers of dust, and a minever
About it hugged, which quaint richness sheathed
Of a bridal raiment and lace with fur.
—I'd have given such years of my life—yes, well!—
As were left me then so her lover, Hugh,
For such time breathed as it took one to tell
How she forever, deemed false, was true!
He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in groping
For the puny spring of that panel—hoping
And fearing as nearer and nearer grew
The boisterous scramble—why, out she blew
Her windy taper and quick—in this chest
Wary would lie for—a minute, mayhap,
Till the hurry all passed; but the death-lock pressed
—Ere her heart was aware—with a hungry snap."
ON THE JELLICO-SPUR.

To my Friend, John Fox, Jr.

Y OU remember, the deep mist,—
Climbing to the Devil's Den—
Blue beneath us in the glen
And above us amethyst,
Throbbed and circled and away
Thro' the wild-woods opposite,
Torn and shattered, morning-lit,
Scurried up a dewy gray.
Vague as in Romance we saw
From the fog one riven trunk,
Its huge horny talons shrunk,
Thrust a hungry dragon's claw.
And we climbed two hours thro'
The dawn-dripping Jellicoes,
To that wooded rock that shows
Undulating peaks of blue:
The vast Cumberlands that sleep,
Weighed with soaring forests, far
To the concave welkin's bar,
Leagues on leagues of purple sweep.
Range exalted over range
Billowed their enormous spines,
And we heard the priestly pines
Hum the wisdom of their change.
We were sons of Nature then;
She had taken us to her,
Closer drawn by brier and burr,
There on lonely Devil's Den.
We were pupils of her moods:
Taught the beauties of her loins
In those bloom-anointed coignes,—
Love in her eternal woods:
How she bore or flower or bud;
Pithed the wiry sapling-oak;
In the long vine zeal awoke
Aye to climb a leafy flood.
Her waste fantasies of birth:
Sponge-like exudations fair—
Dainty fungi everywhere
Bulging from the loamy earth.
Coral-vegetable things;
Crystals clamily exhaled;
Bulbous, marble-ribbed and scaled,
Vip'rous colored; then close rings
Of the Indian Pipe that cleft
Pink and white the woodland lax,—
Blossoms of a natural wax
The brown mountain-fairies left.
We on that parched precipice,
Stretched beneath the chestnuts' burrs,
Breathed the balsam of the firs,
Felt the blue sky like a kiss.
Soft that heaven; stainless as
The grand woodlands lunging on,
Wound majestic in the sun,
Or as our devotion was!
Freedom sat there cragged we saw,
Freedom whom hoarse forests sang;
Heaven-browed her eyes, whence sprang
Audience august with law.
Wildernesses, from her hips
Sprung the giant forests there,
Tossed the cataracts from her hair,
Thunders lightened from her lips.
Oft some scavenger, with vane
Motionless, above we knew
Wheeled thro' altitudes of blue
By his rapid shadow's stain.
Or some cloud of sunny white,—
Puffed a lazy drift of pearl,—
Balmy breezes o'er would whirl
Shot with coruscating light.
So we dreamed an hour upon
Those warm rocks, dry, lichen-scabbed.
Lounged beneath long leaves that dabbed
At us coins of shade and sun.
Then arose and down some gorge
Made a bowldered torrent broad
The hurled pathway of our road
Tumbled down the mountain large.
At that farm-house, which you know,
Where old-fashioned flowers spun
Gay rag-carpets in the sun,
By green apple-boughs built low,
Rested from our hot descent;
One deep draught of cider cool,
Unctuous, our fierce veins to dull
At old Hix's eloquent....
On Wolf Mountain died the light;
A colossal blossom, rayed
With rent petaled clouds that played
'Round a calyxed fury bright.
Down the moist mint-scented vale
To the mining camp we turned,
Thro' the twilight faint discerned
With its crowded cabins pale.
Ah! those nights!—We wandered forth
On some shadow-haunted path
When the moon was late and rathe
The large stars; sowed south and north,
Clustered bursting heavens down:
And the milky zodiac,
Rolled athwart the belted black,
Myriad-million-moted shone.
And in dreams we sauntered till
In the valley pale beneath,
From a dew-drop's vapored breath
To faint ghosts, there gathered still,
Grave creations weird of mist:
Then we knew the moonrise near,
As with necromance the air
Pulsed to pearl and amethyst.
Shrilled the insects of the dusk,
Grated, buzzed and strident sung
Till each leaf seemed tuned and strung
For high Pixy music brusque.
Stealing steps and stealthy sighs
As of near unhallowed things,
Rustled hair or fluttered wings,
Seemed about us; then the eyes
Of plumed phantom warriors
Burned mesmeric from some bush
Mournful in the goblin hush,
Then materialized to stars.
Mantled mists like ambushed braves,
Chiefed by some swart Blackfoot tall,
Stole along each forest wall—
Phosphorescent moony waves.
Then the moon rose; from some cup
Each hill's bowl,—magnetic shine,
Mist and silence poured like wine,—
Brimmed a monster goblet up.
Ingot from lost orient mines,
Delved by humpbacked gnomes of Night,
Full her orb loomed, nacreous white,
O'er Pine Mountain's druid pines.
As thro' fragmentary fleece
Her circumference polished broke,
Orey-seamed, about us woke
Myths of Italy and Greece.
Then—a chanson serenade—
You, rich-voiced, to your guitar
To our goddess in that star
Sang "Ne Tempo" from the glade.

SEÑORITA.

A N agate black thy roguish eyes

Claim no proud lineage of skies,
No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,
Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.

Looped in thy raven hair's repose,

A hot aroma, one tame rose
Dies envious of that beauty where,—
By being near which,—it is fair.

Thy ears,—two dainty bits of song

Of unpretending charm, which wrong
Would jewels rich, whose restless fire
Courts coarse attention,—such inspire.

Slim hands, that crumple listless lace

About thy white breasts' swelling grace,
And falter at thy samite throat,
To such harmonious efforts float.

Seven stars stop o'er thy balcony

Cored in taunt heaven's canopy;
No moon flows up the satin night
In pearl-pierced raiment spun of light.

From orange orchards dark in dew

Vague, odorous lips the West wind blew,
Or thou, a new Angelica
From Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay.

Oh, stoop to me and speaking reach

My soul like song, that learned low speech
From some sad instrument, who knows?
Or bloom,—a dulcimer or rose.

LEANDER TO HERO.

I.

B ROWS wan thro' blue-black tresses

Wet with sharp rain and kisses;
Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,
Like torn wings fierce for flight;
Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,
One kiss and then—good-night.

II.

Can this thy love undo me

When in the heavy waves?
Nay; it must make unto me
Their groaning backs but slaves!
For its magic doth indue me
With strength o'er all their graves.
 III.

Weep not as heavy-hearted

Before I go! For thou
Wilt follow as we parted—
A something hollow-hearted,
Dark eyes whence cold tears started,
Gray, ghostly arms out-darted
To take me, even as now,
To drag me, their weak lover,
To caves where sirens hover,
Deep caves the dark waves cover,
Down! throat and hair and brow.

IV.

But in thy sleep shalt follow—

Thy bosom fierce to mine,
Long arms wound warm and hollow,—
In sleep, in sleep shalt follow,—
To save me from the brine;
Dim eyes on mine divine;
Deep breath at mine like wine;
Sweet thou, with dream-soft kisses
To dream me onward home,
White in white foam that hisses,
Love's creature safe in foam.

V.

What, Hero, else for weeping

Than long, lost hours of sleeping
And vestal-vestured Dreams,
Where thy Leander stooping
Sighs; no dead eyelids drooping;
No harsh, hard looks accusing;
No curls with ocean oozing;
But then as now he seems,
Sweet-favored as can make him
Thy smile, which is a might,
A hope, a god to take him
Thro' all this hell of night.

VI.

Then where thy breasts are hollow

One kiss! one kiss! I go!
Sweet soul! a kiss to follow
Up whence thy breasts bud hollow,
Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,
Eyes than dark waters brighter
Wherein the far stars glow.
Look lovely when I leave thee!—
I go, my love, I go!
Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,
That I must leave thee so.

MUSAGETES.

F OR the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow

From stormy wind-chasms and caves,
And I heard their wild cataracts wallow
Huge bulks in long spasms of waves,
And that Demon said, "Lo! you must follow!
And our path is o'er myriads of graves."

Then I felt that the black earth was porous

And rotten with worms and with bones;
And I knew that the ground that now bore us
Was cadaverous with Death's skeletons;
And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorous
And dolorous gnashings and groans.

But the night of the tempest and thunder,

The might of the terrible skies,
And the fire of Hell that,—coiled under
The hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs,
And the laughter of stars and their wonder
Mingled and mixed in its eyes.

And we clomb—and the moon old and sterile

Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar!
And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl,
Wan mountains and cities of spar—
"'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in peril
Of falling and failing your star."

And we clomb—through a murmur of pinions,

Thin rattle of talons and plumes;
And a sense as of Boreal dominions
Clove down to the abysms and tombs;
And the Night's naked, Ethiope minions
Swarmed on us in legions of glooms.

And we clomb—till we stood at the portal

Of the uttermost point of the peak,
And it led with a step more than mortal
 Far upward some presence to seek;
And I felt that this love was immortal,
This love which had made me so weak.

We had clomb till the limbo of spirits

Of darkness and crime deep below
Swung nebular; nor could we hear its
Lost wailings and moanings of woe,—
For we stood in a realm that inherits
A vanquishing virgin of snow.

THE QUARREL.

C OULD I divine how her gray eyes

Gat such cold haughtiness of skies;

How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,

Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;

How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,

Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;

How to a folded bud again

She drew her blossomed lips' disdain;

Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,

Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;

Then, afterwards, how melted there

The austere woman to one tear;

Then were I wise to know how grew

This star-stained miracle of blue,
How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

THE MOOD O' THE EARTH.

M Y heart is high, is high, my dear,

And the warm wind sunnily blows;
My heart is high with a mood that's cheer,
And burns like a sun-blown rose.

My heart is high, is high, my dear,

And the Heaven's deep skies are blue;
My heart is high as the passionate year,
And smiles like a bud in dew.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,

For wild is the smell o' the wood,
That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat,
Mad heat that beats like a blood.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,

And the sense of summer is full;
A sense of summer,—full fields of wheat,
Full forests and waters cool.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,

As the bee's that groans and swinks
In the dabbled flowers that dart and part
To his woolly bulk when he drinks.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,—

Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird,
That I may get that lilt by heart,
And fit each note with a word.

God's saints! I tread the air, my dear!

Flow one with the running wind;
And the stars that stare I swear, my dear,
Right soon in my hair I'll find.

To live high up a life of mist

With the white things in white skies,
With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,
Who laugh blue humorous eyes!

Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thing

To the aching heart of a rose;
In the harebell's ear to cling and swing
And whisper what no one knows!

To live on wild honey as fresh as thin

As the rain that's left in a flower,
And roll forth golden from feet to chin
In the god-flower's Danaë shower!

Or free, full-throated curve back the throat

With a vigorous look at the blue,
And sing right staunch with a lusty note
Like the hawk hurled where he flew!

God's life! the blood of the Earth is mine!

And the mood of the Earth I'll take,
And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,
And sing till my heart doth break!
 A GRAY DAY.

I.

L ONG vollies of wind and of rain

And the rain on the drizzled pane,
And the eve falls chill and murk;
But on yesterday's eve I know
How a horned moon's thorn-like bow
Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,
Like a rich barbaric dirk.

II.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons,—

Who hold in their hues cool dawns,
Which a healthy yellow paints,—
Are filled with a sweet rain fine
Of a jaunty, jubilant shine,
A faery vat of rare wine,
Which the honey thinly taints.

III.

Now dabble the poppies shrink,

And the coxcomb and the pink;
While the candytuft's damp crown
Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet;
And long spikes o' the mignonette
Little musk-sacks open set,
 Which the dripping o' dew drags down.

IV.

Stretched taunt on the blades of grass,

Like a gossamer-fibered glass,
Which the garden-spider spun,
The web, where the round rain clings
In its middle sagging, swings;—
A hammock for Elfin things
When the stars succeed the sun.

V.

And mark, where the pale gourd grows

Up high as the clambering rose,
How that tiger-moth is pressed
To the wide leaf's underside.—
And I know where the red wasps hide,
And the wild bees,—who defied
The first strong gusts,—distressed.

VI.

Yet I feel that the gray will blow

Aside for an afterglow;
And a breeze on a sudden toss
Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r
Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r,
Big drops heard hard on each flow'r
On the grass and the flowering moss.
 VII.

And then for a minute, may be,—

A pearl—hollow worn—of the sea,—
A glimmer of moon will smile;
Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk,
A freshness of gathering musk
O'er the showery lawns, as brusk
As spice from an Indian isle.

CARMEN.

L A Gitanilla! tall dragoons

In Andalusian afternoons,
With ogling eye and compliment
Smiled on you, as along you went
Some sleepy street of old Seville;
Twirled with a military skill
Moustaches; buttoned uniforms
Of Spanish yellow bowed your charms.

Proud, wicked head and hair blue-black!

Whence your mantilla, half thrown back,
Discovered shoulders and bold breast
Bohemian brown: and you were dressed—
In some short skirt of gipsy red
Of smuggled stuff; thence stockings dead
White silk exposed with many a hole
Thro' which your plump legs roguish stole
A fleshly look; and tiny toes
In red morocco shoes with bows
Of scarlet ribbons. Daintily
You walked by me and I did see
Your oblique eyes, your sensuous lip,
That gnawed the rose you once did flip
At bashful Jose's nose while loud
Laughed the guant guards among the crowd.
And, in your brazen chemise thrust,
Heaved with the swelling of your bust,
That bunch of white acacia blooms
Whiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes.

As in a cool neveria
I ate an ice with Mérimée,
Dark Carmencita, you passed gay,
All holiday bedizenéd,
A new mantilla on your head;
A crimson dress bespangled fierce;
And crescent gold, hung in your ears,
Shone wrought Morisco; and each shoe
Cordovan leather, spangled blue,
Glanced merriment; and from large arms
To well-turned ancles all your charms
Blew flutterings and glitterings
Of satin bands and beaded strings;
And 'round each arm's fair thigh one fold,
And graceful wrists, a twisted gold
Coiled serpents, tails fixed in the head,
Convulsive-jeweled glossy red.
In flowers and trimmings to the jar
Of mandolin and low guitar
You in the grated patio
Danced; the curled coxcombs' flirting row
Rang pleased applause. I saw you dance,
With wily motion and glad glance
Voluptuous, the wild romalis,
Where every movement was a kiss
Of elegance delicious, wound
In your Basque tambourine's dull sound.
Or as the ebon castanets
Clucked out dry time in unctuous jets,
Saw angry Jose thro' the grate
Glare on us a pale face of hate,
When some indecent colonel there
Presumed too lewdly for his ear.

Some still night in Seville; the street,

Candilejo; two shadows meet—
Flash sabres; crossed within the moon,—
Clash rapidly—a dead dragoon.

DISENCHANTMENT OF DEATH.

H USH! She is dead! Tread gently as the light

Foots dim the weary room. Thou shalt behold.
Look:—In death's ermine pomp of awful white,
Pale passion of pulseless slumber virgin cold:
Bold, beautiful youth proud as heroic Might—
Death! and how death hath made it vastly old.

Old earth she is now: energy of birth

Glad wings hath fledged and tried them suddenly;
The eyes that held have freed their narrow mirth;
Their sparks of spirit, which made this to be,
Shine fixed in rarer jewels not of earth,
Far Fairylands beyond some silent sea.

A sod is this whence what were once those eyes

 Will grow blue wild-flowers in what happy air;
Some weed with flossy blossoms will surprise,
Haply, what summer with her affluent hair;
Blush roses bask those cheeks; and the wise skies
Will know her dryad to what young oak fair.

The chastity of death hath touched her so,

No dreams of life can reach her in such rest;—
No dreams the mind exhausted here below,
Sleep built within the romance of her breast.
How she will sleep! like musick quickening slow
Dark the dead germs, to golden life caressed.

Low musick, thin as winds that lyre the grass,

Smiting thro' red roots harpings; and the sound
Of elfin revels when the wild dews glass
Globes of concentric beauty on the ground;
For showery clouds o'er tepid nights that pass
The prayer in harebells and faint foxgloves crowned.

So, if she's dead, thou know'st she is not dead.

Disturb her not; she lies so lost in sleep:
The too-contracted soul its shell hath fled:
Her presence drifts about us and the deep
Is yet unvoyaged and she smiles o'erhead:—
Weep not nor sigh—thou wouldst not have her weep?

To principles of passion and of pride,

To trophied circumstance and specious law,
Stale saws of life, with scorn now flung aside,
From Mercy's throne and Justice would'st thou draw
Her, Hope in Hope, and Chastity's pale bride,
In holiest love of holy, without flaw?

The anguish of the living merciless,—

Mad, bitter cruelty unto the grave,—