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diff --git a/32778-8.txt b/32778-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43ac53c --- /dev/null +++ b/32778-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4049 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Pushcart at the Curb, by John Dos Passos + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: A Pushcart at the Curb + + +Author: John Dos Passos + + + +Release Date: June 11, 2010 [eBook #32778] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PUSHCART AT THE CURB*** + + +E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +A PUSHCART AT THE CURB + +by + +JOHN DOS PASSOS + + + * * * * * + +_Books by John Dos Passos_ + + +_NOVELS:_ + +_Three Soldiers_ + +_One Man's Initiation_ + +_Streets of Night_ + + _(In Preparation)_ + + +_ESSAYS:_ + +_Rosinante to the Road Again_ + + +_POEMS:_ + +_A Pushcart at the Curb_ + + * * * * * + + + +A PUSHCART AT THE CURB + +by + +JOHN DOS PASSOS + + + + + + + +[Decorative Illustration] + +George H. Doran Company +Publishers New York + +Copyright, 1922, +By George H. Doran Company + +[Decorative Illustration] + +_A Pushcart at the Curb. I_ + +Printed in the United States of America + + + + +TO THE MEMORY + +OF + +WRIGHT McCORMICK + +WHO TUMBLED OFF A MOUNTAIN + +IN MEXICO + + + + + My verse is no upholstered chariot + Gliding oil-smooth on oiled wheels, + No swift and shining modern limousine, + But a pushcart, rather. + + A crazy creaking pushcart, hard to push + Round corners, slung on shaky patchwork wheels, + That jolts and jumbles over the cobblestones + Its very various lading: + + A lading of Spanish oranges, Smyrna figs, + Fly-specked apples, perhaps of the Hesperides, + Curious fruits of the Indies, pepper-sweet ... + Stranger, choose and taste. + + _Dolo_ + + + + + ACKNOWLEDGMENT + + For permission to reprint certain of the poems + in this volume, thanks are due _The Bookman_, + _The Dial_, _Vanity Fair_, _The Measure_, and + _The New York Evening Post_. + + + + + CONTENTS + + PAGE + + WINTER IN CASTILE 13 + + NIGHTS AT BASSANO 65 + + VAGONES DE TERCERA 109 + + QUAI DE LA TOURNELLE 139 + + ON FOREIGN TRAVEL 163 + + PHASES OF THE MOON 185 + + + + +WINTER IN CASTILE + + + The promiscuous wind wafts idly from the quays + A smell of ships and curious woods and casks + And a sweetness from the gorse on the flowerstand + And brushes with his cool careless cheek the cheeks + Of those on the street; mine, an old gnarled man's, + The powdered cheeks of the girl who with faded eyes + Stands in the shadow; a sailor's scarred brown cheeks, + And a little child's, who walks along whispering + To her sufficient self. + O promiscuous wind. + + _Bordeaux_ + + + I + + A long grey street with balconies. + Above the gingercolored grocer's shop + trail pink geraniums + and further up a striped mattress + hangs from a window + and the little wooden cage + of a goldfinch. + + Four blind men wabble down the street + with careful steps on the rounded cobbles + scraping with violin and flute + the interment of a tune. + + People gather: + women with market-baskets + stuffed with green vegetables, + men with blankets on their shoulders + and brown sunwrinkled faces. + + Pipe the flutes, squeak the violins; + four blind men in a row + at the interment of a tune ... + But on the plate + coppers clink + round brown pennies + a merry music at the funeral, + penny swigs of wine + penny gulps of gin + peanuts and hot roast potatoes + red disks of sausage + tripe steaming in the corner shop ... + + And overhead + the sympathetic finch + chirps and trills + approval. + + _Calle de Toledo, Madrid_ + + + II + + A boy with rolled up shirtsleeves + turns the handle. + Grind, grind. + The black sphere whirls + above a charcoal fire. + Grind, grind. + The boy sweats and grits his teeth and turns + while a man blows up the coals. + Grind, grind. + Thicker comes the blue curling smoke, + the moka-scented smoke + heavy with early morning + and the awakening city + with click-clack click-clack on the cobblestones + and the young winter sunshine + advancing inquisitively + across the black and white tiles of my bedroom floor. + Grind, grind. + The coffee is done. + The boy rubs his arms and yawns, + and the sphere and the furnace are trundled away + to be set up at another café. + + A poor devil + whose dirty ashen white body shows through his rags + sniffs sensually + with dilated nostrils + the heavy coffee-fragrant smoke, + and turns to sleep again + in the feeble sunlight of the greystone steps. + + _Calle Espoz y Mina_ + + + III + + Women are selling tuberoses in the square, + and sombre-tinted wreaths + stiffly twined and crinkly + for this is the day of the dead. + + Women are selling tuberoses in the square. + Their velvet odor fills the street + somehow stills the tramp of feet; + for this is the day of the dead. + + Their presence is heavy about us + like the velvet black scent of the flowers: + incense of pompous interments, + patter of monastic feet, + drone of masses drowsily said + for the thronging dead. + + + Women are selling tuberoses in the square + to cover the tombs of the envious dead + and shroud them again in the lethean scent + lest the dead should remember. + + _Difuntos; Madrid_ + + + IV + + Above the scuffling footsteps of crowds + the clang of trams + the shouts of newsboys + the stridence of wheels, + very calm, + floats the sudden trill of a pipe + three silvery upward notes + wistfully quavering, + notes a Thessalian shepherd might have blown + to call his sheep + in the emerald shade + of Tempe, + notes that might have waked the mad women sleeping + among pinecones in the hills + and stung them to headlong joy + of the presence of their mad Iacchos, + notes like the glint of sun + making jaunty the dark waves of Tempe. + + In the street an old man is passing + wrapped in a dun brown mantle + blowing with bearded lips on a shining panpipe + while he trundles before him + a grindstone. + + The scissors grinder. + + _Calle Espoz y Mina_ + + + V + + Rain slants on an empty square. + + Across the expanse of cobbles + rides an old shawl-muffled woman + black on a donkey with pert ears + that places carefully + his tiny sharp hoofs + as if the cobbles were eggs. + The paniers are full + of bright green lettuces + and purple cabbages, + and shining red bellshaped peppers, + dripping, shining, a band in marchtime, + in the grey rain, + in the grey city. + + _Plaza Santa Ana_ + + + VI + BEGGARS + + The fountain some dead king put up, + conceived in pompous imageries, + piled with mossgreened pans and centaurs + topped by a prudish tight-waisted Cybele + (Cybele the many-breasted mother of the grain) + spurts with a solemn gurgle of waters. + + Where the sun is warmest + their backs against the greystone basin + sit, hoarding every moment of the palefaced sun, + (thy children Cybele) + Pan a bearded beggar with blear eyes; + his legs were withered by a papal bull, + those shaggy legs so nimble to pursue + through groves of Arcadian myrtle + the nymphs of the fountains and valleys; + a young Faunus with soft brown face + and dirty breast bared to the sun; + the black hair crisps about his ears + with some grace yet; + a little barefoot Eros + crouching to scratch his skinny thighs + who stares with wide gold eyes aghast + at the yellow shiny trams that clatter past. + + All day long they doze in the scant sun + and watch the wan leaves rustle to the ground + from the yellowed limetrees of the avenue. + They are still thine Cybele + nursed at thy breast; + (like a woman's last foster-children + that still would suck grey withered dugs). + They have not scorned thy dubious bounty + for stridence of grinding iron + and pale caged lives + made blind by the dust of toil + to coin the very sun to gold. + + _Plaza de Cibeles_ + + + VII + + Footsteps + and the leisurely patter of rain. + + Beside the lamppost in the alley + stands a girl in a long sleek shawl + that moulds vaguely to the curves + of breast and arms. + Her eyes are in shadow. + + A smell of frying fish; + footsteps of people going to dinner + clatter eagerly through the lane. + A boy with a trough of meat on his shoulder + turns by the lamppost, + his steps drag. + The green light slants + in the black of his eyes. + Her eyes are in shadow. + + Footsteps of people going to dinner + clatter eagerly; the rain + falls with infinite nonchalance ... + a man turns with a twirl of moustaches + and the green light slants on his glasses + on the round buttons of his coat. + Her eyes are in shadow. + + A woman with an umbrella + keeps her eyes straight ahead + and lifts her dress + to avoid the mud on the pavingstones. + + An old man stares without fear + into the eyes of the girl + through the stripes of the rain. + His steps beat faster and he sniffs hard suddenly + the smell of dinner and frying fish. + Was it a flame of old days + expanding in his cold blood, + or a shiver of rigid graves, + chill clay choking congealing? + + Beside the lamppost in the alley + stands a girl in a long sleek shawl + that moulds vaguely to the curves + of breast and arms. + + _Calle del Gato_ + + + VIII + + A brown net of branches + quivers above silver trunks of planes. + Here and there + a late leaf flutters + its faint death-rattle in the wind. + Beyond, the sky burns fervid rose + like red wine held against the sun. + + Schoolboys are playing in the square + dodging among the silver tree-trunks + collars gleam and white knees + as they romp shrilly. + + Lamps bloom out one by one + like jessamine, yellow and small. + At the far end a church's dome + flat deep purple cuts the sky. + + Schoolboys are romping in the square + in and out among the silver tree-trunks + out of the smoked rose shadows + through the timid yellow lamplight ... + Socks slip down + fingermarks smudge white collars; + they run and tussle in the shadows + kicking the gravel with muddied boots + with cheeks flushed hotter than the sky + eyes brighter than the street-lamps + with fingers tingling and breath fast: + banqueters early drunken + on the fierce cold wine of the dead year. + + _Paseo de la Castellana_ + + + IX + + Green against the livid sky + in their square dun-colored towers + hang the bronze bells of Castile. + In their unshakeable square towers + jutting from the slopes of hills + clang the bells of all the churches + the dustbrown churches of Castile. + + How they swing the green bronze bells + athwart olive twilights of Castile + till their fierce insistant clangour + rings down the long plowed slopes + breaks against the leaden hills + whines among the trembling poplars + beside sibilant swift green rivers. + + O you strong bells of Castile + that commanding clang your creed + over treeless fields and villages + that huddle in arroyos, gleaming + orange with lights in the greenish dusk; + can it be bells of Castile, + can it be that you remember? + + Groans there in your bronze green curves + in your imperious evocation + stench of burnings, rattling screams + quenched among the crackling flames? + The crowd, the pile of faggots in the square, + the yellow robes.... Is it that + bells of Castile that you remember? + + _Toledo--Madrid_ + + + X + + The Tagus flows with a noise of wiers through Aranjuez. + The speeding dark-green water mirrors the old red walls + and the balustrades and close-barred windows of the palace; + and on the other bank three stooping washerwomen + whose bright red shawls and piles of linen gleam in the green, + the swirling green where shimmer the walls of Aranjuez. + + There's smoke in the gardens of Aranjuez + smoke of the burning of the years' dead leaves; + the damp paths rustle underfoot + thick with the crisp broad leaves of the planes. + + The tang of the smoke and the reek of the box + and the savor of the year's decay + are soft in the gardens of Aranjuez + where the fountains fill silently with leaves + and the moss grows over the statues and busts + clothing the simpering cupids and fauns + whose stone eyes search the empty paths + for the rustling rich brocaded gowns + and the neat silk calves of the halcyon past. + + The Tagus flows with a noise of wiers through Aranjuez. + And slipping by mirrors the brown-silver trunks + of the planes and the hedges + of box and spires of cypress and alleys of yellowing elms; + and on the other bank three grey mules pulling a cart + loaded with turnips, driven by a man in a blue woolen sash + who strides along whistling and does not look towards Aranjuez. + + + XI + + Beyond ruffled velvet hills + the sky burns yellow like a candle-flame. + + Sudden a village + roofs against the sky + leaping buttresses + a church + and a tower utter dark like the heart + of a candleflame. + + Swing the bronze-bells + uncoiling harsh slow sound through the dusk + that growls out in the conversational clatter + Of the trainwheels and the rails. + + A hill humps unexpectedly to hide + the tower erect like a pistil + in the depths of the tremendous flaming + flower of the west. + + _Getafe_ + + + XII + + Genteel noise of Paris hats + and beards that tilt this way and that. + Mirrors create on either side + infinities of chandeliers. + + The orchestra is tuning up: + Twanging of the strings of violins + groans from cellos + toodling of flutes. + + Legs apart, with white fronts + the musicians stand + amiably as pelicans. + + Tap. Tap. Tap. + With a silken rustle beards, hats + sink back in appropriate ecstasy. + A little girl giggles. + Crystals of infinities of chandeliers + tremble in the first long honey-savored chord. + + From under a wide black hat + curving just to hide her ears + peers the little face of Juliet + of all child lovers + who loved in impossible gardens + among roses huge as moons + and twinkling constellations of jessamine, + Juliet, Isabel, Cressida, + and that unknown one who went forth at night + wandering the snarling streets of Jerusalem. + + She presses her handkerchief to her mouth + to smother her profane giggling. + Her skin is browner than the tone of cellos, + flushes like with pomegranate juice. + + ... The moist laden air of a garden in Granada, + spice of leaves bruised by the sun; + she sits in a dress of crimson brocade + dark as blood under the white moon + and watches the ripples spread + in the gurgling fountain; + her lashes curve to her cheeks + as she stares wide-eyed + lips drawn against the teeth and trembling; + gravel crunches down the path; + brown in a crimson swirl + she stands with full lips + head tilted back ... O her small breasts + against my panting breast. + + Clapping. Genteel noise of Paris hats + and beards that tilt this way and that. + + Her face lost in infinities of glittering chandeliers. + + _Ritz_ + + + XIII + + There's a sound of drums and trumpets + above the rumble of the street. + (Run run run to see the soldiers.) + All alike all abreast keeping time + to the regimented swirl + of the glittering brass band. + + The café waiters are craning at the door + the girl in the gloveshop is nose against the glass. + O the glitter of the brass + and the flutter of the plumes + and the tramp of the uniform feet! + Run run run to see the soldiers. + + The boy with a tray + of pastries on his head + is walking fast, keeping time; + his white and yellow cakes are trembling in the sun + his cheeks are redder + and his bluestriped tunic streams + as he marches to the rum tum of the drums. + Run run run to see the soldiers. + + The milkman with his pony + slung with silvery metal jars + schoolboys with their packs of books + clerks in stiff white collars + old men in cloaks + try to regiment their feet + to the glittering brass beat. + Run run run to see the soldiers. + + _Puerta del Sol_ + + + XIV + + Night of clouds + terror of their flight across the moon. + Over the long still plains + blows a wind out of the north; + a laden wind out of the north + rattles the leaves of the liveoaks + menacingly and loud. + + * * * * * + + Black as old blood on the cold plain + close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons + swaying shrouded crowds + and their rustle in the knife-keen wind + is like the dry death-rattle of the winter grass. + + (Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall + from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.) + + Huge, of grinning brass + steaming with fresh stains + their God + gapes with smudged expectant gums + above the plain. + + Flicker through the flames of the wide maw + rigid square bodies of men + opulence of childbearing women + slimness of young men, and girls + with small curved breasts. + + (Loud as musketry rattles the sudden laughter of the dead.) + + Thicker hotter the blood drips + from the cold brass lips. + + Swift over grainless fields + swift over shellplowed lands + ever leaner swifter darker + bay the hounds of the dead, + before them drive the pale ones + white limbs scarred and blackened + laurel crushed in their cold fingers, + the spark quenched in their glazed eyes. + + Thicker hotter the blood drips + from the avenging lips + of the brass God; + (and rattling loud as musketry + the laughter of the unsated dead). + + * * * * * + + The clouds have blotted the haggard moon. + A harsh wind shrills from the cities of the north + Ypres, Lille, Liège, Verdun, + and from the tainted valleys + the cross-scarred hills. + Over the long still plains + the wind out of the north + rattles the leaves of the liveoaks. + + _Cuatro Caminos_ + + + XV + + The weazened old woman without teeth + who shivers on the windy street corner + displays her roasted chestnuts invitingly + like marriageable daughters. + + _Calle Atocha_ + + + XVI + NOCHEBUENA + + The clattering streets are bright with booths + lighted by balancing candleflames + ranged with figures in painted clay, + Virgins adoring and haloed bambinos, + St. Joseph at his joiner's bench + Judean shepherds and their sheep + camels of the Eastern kings. + + _Esta noche es noche buena + nadie piensa a dormir._ + + The streets resound with dancing + and chortle of tambourines, + strong rhythm of dancing + drumming of tambourines. + + Flicker through the greenish lamplight + of the clattering cobbled streets + flushed faces of men + women in mantillas + children with dark wide eyes, + teeth flashing as they sing: + + _La santa Virgen es en parto + a las dos va desparir. + Esta noche es noche buena + nadie piensa a dormir._ + + Beetred faces of women + whose black mantillas have slipped + from their sleek and gleaming hair, + streaming faces of men. + + With click of heels on the pavingstones + boys in tunics are dancing + eyes under long black lashes + flash as they dance to the drum + of tambourines beaten with elbow and palm. + A flock of girls comes running + squealing down the street. + + Boys and girls are dancing + flushed and dripping dancing + to the beat on drums and piping + on flutes and jiggle + of the long notes of accordions + and the wild tune swirls and sweeps + along the frosty streets, + leaps above the dark stone houses + out among the crackling stars. + + _Esta noche es noche buena + nadie piensa a dormir._ + + In the street a ragged boy + too poor to own a tambourine + slips off his shoes and beats them together + to the drunken reeling time, + dances on his naked feet. + + _Esta noche es noche buena + nadie piensa a dormir._ + + _Madrid_ + + + XVII + + The old strong towers the Moors built + on the ruins of a Roman camp + have sprung into spreading boistrous foam + of daisies and alyssum flowers, + and sprout of clover and veiling grass + from out of the cracks in the tawny stones + makes velvet soft the worn stairs + and grooved walks where clanked the heels + of the grave mailed knights who had driven and killed + the darkskinned Moors, + and where on silken knees their sons + knelt on the nights of the full moon + to vow strange deeds for their lady's grace. + + The old strong towers are crumbled and doddering now + and sit like old men smiling in the sun. + + About them clamber the giggling flowers + and below the sceptic sea gently + laughing in daisywhite foam on the beach + rocks the ships with flapping sails + that flash white to the white village on the shore. + + On a wall where the path is soft with flowers + the brown goatboy lies, his cap askew + and whistles out over the beckoning sea + the tune the village band jerks out, + a shine of brass in the square below: + a swaggering young buck of a tune + that slouches cap on one side, cigarette + at an impudent tilt, out past the old + toothless and smilingly powerless towers, + out over the ever-youthful sea + that claps bright cobalt hands in time + and laughs along the tawny beaches. + + _Denia_ + + + XVIII + + How fine to die in Denia + young in the ardent strength of sun + calm in the burning blue of the sea + in the stabile clasp of the iron hills; + Denia where the earth is red + as rust and hills grey like ash. + O to rot into the ruddy soil + to melt into the omnipotent fire + of the young white god, the flamegod the sun, + to find swift resurrection + in the warm grapes born of earth and sun + that are crushed to must under the feet + of girls and lads, + to flow for new generations of men + a wine full of earth + of sun. + + + XIX + + The road winds white among ashen hills + grey clouds overhead + grey sea below. + The road clings to the strong capes + hangs above the white foam-line + of unheard breakers + that edge with lace the scarf of the sea + sweeping marbled with sunlight + to the dark horizon + towards which steering intently + like ducks with red bellies + swim the black laden steamers. + + The wind blows the dust of the road + and whines in the dead grass + and is silent. + + I can hear my steps + and the clink of coins in one pocket + and the distant hush of the sea. + + _On the highroad to Villajoyosa_ + + + XX + SIERRA GUADARRAMA + TO J. G. P. + + The greyish snow of the pass + is starred with the sad lilac + of autumn crocuses. + + Hissing among the brown leaves + of the scruboaks + bruising the tender crocus petals + a sleetgust sweeps the pass. + + The air is calm again. + Under a bulging sky motionless overhead + the mountains heave velvet black + into the cloudshut distance. + + South the road winds + down a wide valley + towards stripes of rain + through which shine straw yellow + faint as a dream + the rolling lands of New Castile. + + A fresh gust whines through the snowbent grass + pelting with sleet the withering crocuses, + and rustles the dry leaves of the scruboaks + with a sound as of gallop of hoofs + far away on the grey stony road + a sound as of faintly heard cavalcades + of old stern kings + climbing the cold iron passes + stopping to stare with cold hawkeyes + at the pale plain. + + _Puerto de Navecerrada_ + + + XXI + + Soft as smoke are the blue green pines + in the misty lavender twilight + yellow as flame the flame-shaped poplars + whose dead leaves fall + vaguely spinning through the tinted air + till they reach the brownish mirror of the stream + where they are borne a tremulous pale fleet + over gleaming ripples to the sudden dark + beneath the Roman bridge. + + Forever it stands the Roman bridge + a firm strong arch in the purple mist + and ever the yellow leaves are swirled + into the darkness beneath + where echoes forever the tramp of feet + of the weary feet that bore + the Eagles and the Law. + + And through the misty lavender twilight + the leaves of the poplars fall and float + with the silent stream to the deep night + beneath the Roman bridge. + + _Cercedilla_ + + + XXII + + In the velvet calm of long grey slopes of snow + the silky crunch of my steps. + About me vague dark circles of mountains + secret, listening in the intimate silence. + + Bleating of sheep, the bark of a dog + and, dun-yellow in the snow + a long flock straggles. + Crying of lambs, + twitching noses of snowflecked ewes, + the proud curved horns of a regal broadgirthed ram, + yellow backs steaming; + then, tails and tracks in the snow, + and the responsible lope of the dog + who stops with a paw lifted to look back + at the baked apple face of the shepherd. + + _Cercedilla_ + + + XXIII + JULIET + + You were beside me on the stony path + down from the mountain. + + And I was the rain that lashed such flame into your cheeks + and the sensuous rolling hills + where the mists clung like garments. + + I was the sadness that came out of the languid rain + and the soft dove-tinted hills + and choked you with the harsh embrace of a lover + so that you almost sobbed. + + _Siete Picos_ + + + XXIV + + When they sang as they marched in step + on the long path that wound to the valley + I followed lonely in silence. + + When they sat and laughed by the hearth + where our damp clothes steamed in the flare + of the noisy prancing flames + I sat still in the shadow + for their language was strange to me. + + But when as they slept I sat + and watched by the door of the cabin + I was not lonely + for they lay with quiet faces + stroked by the friendly tongues + of the silent firelight + and outside the white stars swarmed + like gnats about a lamp in autumn + an intelligible song. + + _Cercedilla_ + + + XXV + + I lie among green rocks + on the thyme-scented mountain. + The thistledown clouds and the sky + grey-white and grey-violet + are mirrored in your dark eyes + as in the changing pools of the mountain. + + I have made for your head + a wreath of livid crocuses. + How strange they are the wan lilac crocuses + against your dark smooth skin + in the intense black of your wind-towseled hair. + + Sleet from the high snowfields + snaps a lash down the mountain + bruising the withered petals + of the last crocuses. + + I am alone in the swirling mist + beside the frozen pools of the mountain. + + _La Maliciosa_ + + + XXVI + + Infinities away already + are your very slender body + and the tremendous dark of your eyes + where once beyond the laughingness of childhood, + came a breath of jessamine prophetic of summer, + a sudden flutter of yellow butterflies + above dark pools. + + Shall I take down my books + and weave from that glance a romance + and build tinsel thrones for you + out of old poets' fancies? + + Shall I fashion a temple about you + where to burn out my life like frankincense + till you tower dark behind the sultry veil + huge as Isis? + + Or shall I go back to childhood + remembering butterflies in sunny fields + to cower with you when the chilling shadow fleets + across the friendly sun? + + _Bordeaux_ + + + XXVII + + And neither did Beatrice and Dante ... + But Beatrice they say + was a convention. + + _November, 1916--February, 1917._ + + + + +NIGHTS AT BASSANO + + + I + DIRGE OF THE EMPRESS TAITU OF ABYSSINIA + + _And when the news of the Death of the Empress + of that Far Country did come to them, they + fashioned of her an Image in doleful wise and + poured out Rum and Marsala Sack and divers + Liquors such as were procurable in that place into + Cannikins to do her Honor and did wake and + keen and make moan most piteously to hear. And + that Night were there many Marvels and Prodigies + observed; the Welkin was near consumed + with fire and Spirits and Banashees grumbled and + wailed above the roof and many that were in that + place hid themselves in Dens and Burrows in the + ground. Of the swanlike and grievously melodious + Ditties the Minstrels fashioned in that fearsome + Night these only are preserved for the + Admiration of the Age._ + + + [I] + + Our lady lies on a brave high bed, + On pillows of gold with gold baboons + On red silk deftly embroidered-- + O anger and eggs and candlelight-- + Her gold-specked eyes have little sight. + + Our lady cries on a brave high bed; + The golden light of the candles licks + The crown of gold on her frizzly head-- + O candles and angry eggs so white-- + Her gold-specked eyes are sharp with fright. + + Our lady sighs till the high bed creaks; + The golden candles gutter and sway + In the swirling dark the dark priest speaks-- + O his eyes are white as eggs with fright + --Our lady will die twixt night and night. + + Our lady lies on a brave high bed; + The golden crown has slipped from her head + On the pillows crimson embroidered-- + O baboons writhing in candlelight-- + Her gold-specked soul has taken flight. + + + [II] + ZABAGLIONE + + Champagne-colored + Deepening to tawniness + As the throats of nightingales + Strangled for Nero's supper. + + Champagne-colored + Like the coverlet of Dudloysha + At the Hotel Continental. + + Thick to the lips and velvety + Scented of rum and vanilla + Oversweet, oversoft, overstrong, + Full of froth of fascination, + Drink to be drunk of Isoldes + Sunk in champagne-colored couches + While Tristans with fair flowing hair + And round cheeks rosy as cherubs + Stand and stretch their arms, + And let their great slow tears + Roll and fall, + And splash in the huge gold cups. + + And behind the scenes with his sleeves rolled up, + Grandiloquently + Kurwenal beats the eggs + Into spuming symphonic splendor + Champagne-colored. + + Red-nosed gnomes roll and tumble + Tussle and jumble in the firelight + Roll on their backs spinning rotundly, + Out of earthern jars + Gloriously gurgitating, + Wriggling their huge round bellies. + + And the air of the cave is heavy + With steaming Marsala and rum + And hot bruised vanilla. + + Champagne-colored, one lies in a velvetiness + Of yellow moths stirring faintly tickling wings + One is heavy and full of languor + And sleep is a champagne-colored coverlet, + the champagne-colored stockings of Venus ... + And later + One goes + And pukes beautifully beneath the moon, + Champagne-colored. + + + II + ODE TO ENNUI + + The autumn leaves that this morning danced with the wind, + curtseying in slow minuettes, + giddily whirling in bacchanals, + balancing, hesitant, tiptoe, + while the wind whispered of distant hills, + and clouds like white sails, sailing + in limpid green ice-colored skies, + have crossed the picket fence + and the three strands of barbed wire; + they have leapt the green picket fence + despite the sentry's bayonet. + + Under the direction of a corporal + three soldiers in khaki are sweeping them up, + sweeping up the autumn leaves, + crimson maple leaves, splotched with saffron, + ochre and cream, + brown leaves of horse-chestnuts ... + and the leaves dance and curtsey round the brooms, + full of mirth, + wistful of the journey the wind promised them. + + This morning the leaves fluttered gaudily, + reckless, giddy from the wind's dances, + over the green picket fence + and the three strands of barbed wire. + Now they are swept up + and put in a garbage can + with cigarette butts + and chewed-out quids of tobacco, + burnt matches, old socks, torn daily papers, + and dust from the soldiers' blankets. + + And the wind blows tauntingly + over the mouth of the garbage can, + whispering, Far away, + mockingly, Far away ... + + And I too am swept up + and put in a garbage can + with smoked cigarette ash + and chewed-out quids of tobacco; + I am fallen into the dominion + of the great dusty queen ... + Ennui, iron goddess, cobweb-clothed + goddess of all useless things, + of attics cluttered with old chairs + for centuries unsatupon, + of strong limbs wriggling on office stools, + of ancient cab-horses and cabs + that sleep all day in silent sunny squares, + of camps bound with barbed wire, + and green picket fences-- + bind my eyes with your close dust + choke my ears with your grey cobwebs + that I may not see the clouds + that sail away across the sky, + far away, tauntingly, + that I may not hear the wind + that mocks and whispers and is gone + in pursuit of the horizon. + + + III + TIVOLI + TO D. P. + + The ropes of the litter creak and groan + As the bearers turn down the steep path; + Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet. + But the Roman poet lies back confident + On his magenta cushions and mattresses, + Thinks of Greek bronzes + At the sight of the straining backs of his slaves. + + The slaves' breasts shine with sweat, + And they draw deep breaths of the cooler air + As they lurch through tunnel after tunnel of leaves. + At last, where the spray swirls like smoke, + And the river roars in a cauldron of green, + The poet feels his fat arms quiver + And his eyes and ears drowned and exalted + In the reverberance of the fall. + + The ropes of the litter creak and groan, + The embroidered curtains, moist with spray, + Flutter in the poet's face; + Pebbles scuttle under slipping feet + As the slaves strain up the path again, + And the Roman poet lies back confident + Among silk cushions of gold and magenta, + His hands clasped across his mountainous belly, + Thinking of the sibyll and fate, + And gorgeous and garlanded death, + Mouthing hexameters. + + But I, my belly full and burning as the sun + With the good white wine of the Alban hills + Stumble down the path + Into the cool green and the roar, + And wonder, and am abashed. + + + IV + VENICE + + The doge goes down in state to the sea + To inspect with beady traders' eyes + New cargoes from Crete, Mytilene, + Cyprus and Joppa, galleys piled + With bales off which in all the days + Of sailing the sea-wind has not blown + The dust of Arabian caravans. + + In velvet the doge goes down to the sea. + And sniffs the dusty bales of spice + Pepper from Cathay, nard and musk, + Strange marbles from ruined cities, packed + In unfamiliar-scented straw. + Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun. + Marmosets pull at the pompous gowns + Of burgesses. Parrots scream + And cling swaying to the ochre bales ... + Dazzle of the rising dust of trade + Smell of pitch and straining slaves ... + + And out on the green tide towards the sea + Drift the rinds of orient fruits + Strange to the lips, bitter and sweet. + + + V + ASOLO GATE + + The air is drenched to the stars + With fragrance of flowering grape + Where the hills hunch up from the plain + To the purple dark ridges that sweep + Towards the flowery-pale peaks and the snow. + + Faint as the peaks in the glister of starlight, + A figure on a silver-tinkling snow-white mule + Climbs the steeply twining stony road + Through murmuring vineyards to the gate + That gaps with black the wan starlight. + + The watchman on his three-legged stool + Drowses in his beard, dreams + He is a boy walking with strong strides + Of slender thighs down a wet road, + Where flakes of violet-colored April sky + Have brimmed the many puddles till the road + Is as a tattered path across another sky. + + The watchman on his three-legged stool, + Sits snoring in his beard; + His dream is full of flowers massed in meadowland, + Of larks and thrushes singing in the dawn, + Of touch of women's lips and twining hands, + And madness of the sprouting spring ... + His ears a-sudden ring with the shrill cry: + Open watchman of the gate, + It is I, the Cyprian. + + --It is ruled by the burghers of this town + Of Asolo, that from sundown + To dawn no stranger shall come in, + Be he even emperor, or doge's kin. + --Open, watchman of the gate, + It is I, the Cyprian. + --Much scandal has been made of late + By wandering women in this town. + The laws forbid the opening of the gate + Till next day once the sun is down. + --Watchman know that I who wait + Am Queen of Jerusalem, Queen + Of Cypress, Lady of Asolo, friend + Of the Doge and the Venetian State. + + There is a sound of drums, and torches flare + Dims the star-swarm, and war-horns' braying + Drowns the fiddling of crickets in the wall, + Hoofs strike fire on the flinty road, + Mules in damasked silk caparisoned + Climb in long train, strange shadows in torchlight, + The road that winds to the city gate. + + The watchman, fumbling with his keys, + Mumbles in his beard:--Had thought + She was another Cyprian, strange the dreams + That come when one has eaten tripe. + The great gates creak and groan, + The hinges shriek, and the Queen's white mule + Stalks slowly through. + + The watchman, in the shadow of the wall, + Looks out with heavy eyes:--Strange, + What cavalcade is this that clatters into Asolo? + These are not men-at-arms, + These ruddy boys with vineleaves in their hair! + That great-bellied one no seneschal + Can be, astride an ass so gauntily! + Virgin Mother! Saints! They wear no clothes! + + And through the gate a warm wind blows, + A dizzying perfume of the grape, + And a great throng crying Cypris, + Cyprian, with cymbals crashing and a shriek + Of Thessalian pipes, and swaying of torches, + That smell hot like wineskins of resin, + That flare on arms empurpled and hot cheeks, + And full shouting lips vermillion-red. + + Youths and girls with streaming hair + Pelting the night with flowers: + Yellow blooms of Adonis, white + scented stars of pale Narcissus, + Mad incense of the blooming vine, + And carmine passion of pomegranate blooms. + + A-sudden all the strummings of the night, + All the insect-stirrings, all the rustlings + Of budding leaves, the sing-song + Of waters brightly gurgling through meadowland, + Are shouting with the shouting throng, + Crying Cypris, Cyprian, + Queen of the seafoam, Queen of the budding year, + Queen of eyes that flame and hands that twine, + Return to us, return from the fields of asphodel. + + And all the grey town of Asolo + Is full of lutes and songs of love, + And vows exchanged from balcony to balcony + Across the singing streets ... + But in the garden of the nunnery, + Of the sisters of poverty, daughters of dust, + The cock crows. The cock crows. + + The watchman rubs his old ribbed brow: + Through the gate, in silk all dusty from the road, + Into the grey town asleep under the stars, + On tired mules and lean old war-horses + Comes a crowd of quarrelling men-at-arms + After a much-veiled lady with a falcon on her wrist. + --This Asolo? What a nasty silent town + He sends me to, that dull old doge. + + And you, watchman, I've told you thrice + That I am Cypress's Queen, Jerusalem's, + And Lady of this dull village, Asolo; + Tend your gates better. Are you deaf, + That you stand blinking at me, pulling at your dirty beard? + You shall be thrashed, when I rule Asolo. + --What strange dreams, mumbled in his beard + The ancient watchman, come from eating tripe. + + + VI + HARLEQUINADE + + Shrilly whispering down the lanes + That serpent through the ancient night, + They, the scoffers, the scornful of chains, + Stride their turbulent flight. + + The stars spin steel above their heads + In the shut irrevocable sky; + Gnarled thorn-branches tear to shreds + Their cloaks of pageantry. + + A wind blows bitter in the grey, + Chills the sweat on throbbing cheeks, + And tugs the gaudy rags away + From their lean bleeding knees. + + Their laughter startles the scarlet dawn + Among a tangled spiderwork + Of girdered steel, and shrills forlorn + And dies in the rasp of wheels. + + Whirling like gay prints that whirl + In tatters of squalid gaudiness, + Borne with dung and dust in the swirl + Of wind down the endless street, + + With thin lips laughing bitterly, + Through the day smeared in sooty smoke + That pours from each red chimney, + They speed unseemily. + + Women with unlustered hair, + Men with huge ugly hands of oil, + Children, impudently stare + And point derisive hands. + + Only ... where a barrel organ thrills + Two small peak-chested girls to dance, + And among the iron clatter spills + A swiftening rhythmy song, + + They march in velvet silkslashed hose, + Strumming guitars and mellow lutes, + Strutting pointed Spanish toes, + A stately company. + + + VII + TO THE MEMORY OF DEBUSSY + _Good Friday, 1918._ + + This is the feast of death + We make of our pain God; + We worship the nails and the rod + and pain's last choking breath + and the bleeding rack of the cross. + + The women have wept away their tears, + with red eyes turned on death, and loss + of friends and kindred, have left the biers + flowerless, and bound their heads in their blank veils, + and climbed the steep slope of Golgotha; fails + at last the wail of their bereavement, + and all the jagged world of rocks and desert places + stands before their racked sightless faces, + as any ice-sea silent. + + This is the feast of conquering death. + The beaten flesh worships the swishing rod. + The lacerated body bows to its God, + adores the last agonies of breath. + + And one more has joined the unnumbered + deathstruck multitudes + who with the loved of old have slumbered + ages long, where broods + Earth the beneficent goddess, + the ultimate queen of quietness, + taker of all worn souls and bodies + back into the womb of her first nothingness. + + But ours, who in the iron night remain, + ours the need, the pain + of his departing. + He had lived on out of a happier age + into our strident torture-cage. + He still could sing + of quiet gardens under rain + and clouds and the huge sky + and pale deliciousness that is nearly pain. + His was a new minstrelsy: + strange plaints brought home out of the rich east, + twanging songs from Tartar caravans, + hints of the sounds that ceased + with the stilling dawn, wailings of the night, + echoes of the web of mystery that spans + the world between the failing and the rising of the wan daylight + of the sea, and of a woman's hair + hanging gorgeous down a dungeon wall, + evening falling on Tintagel, + love lost in the mist of old despair. + + Against the bars of our torture-cage + we beat out our poor lives in vain. + We live on cramped in an iron age + like prisoners of old + high on the world's battlements + exposed until we die to the chilling rain + crouched and chattering from cold + for all scorn to stare at. + And we watch one by one the great + stroll leisurely out of the western gate + and without a backward look at the strident city + drink down the stirrup-cup of fate + embrace the last obscurity. + + We worship the nails and the rod + and pain's last choking breath. + We make of our pain God. + This is the feast of death. + + + VIII + PALINODE OF VICTORY + + Beer is free to soldiers + In every bar and tavern + As the regiments victorious + March under garlands to the city square. + + Beer is free to soldiers + And lips are free, and women, + Breathless, stand on tiptoe + To see the flushed young thousands in advance. + + "Beer is free to soldiers; + Give all to the liberators" ... + Under wreaths of laurel + And small and large flags fluttering, victorious, + They of the frock-coats, with clink of official chains, + Are welcoming with eloquence outpouring + The liberating thousands, the victorious; + In their speaking is a soaring of great phrases, + Balloons of tissue paper, + Hung with patriotic bunting, + That rise serene into the blue, + While the crowds with necks uptilted + Gaze at their upward soaring + Till they vanish in the blue; + And each man feels the blood of life + Rumble in his ears important + With participation in Events. + + But not the fluttering of great flags + Or the brass bands blaring, victorious, + Or the speeches of persons in frock coats, + Who pause for the handclapping of crowds, + Not the stamp of men and women dancing, + Or the bubbling of beer in the taverns,-- + Frothy mugs free for the victorious--, + Not all the trombone-droning of Events, + Can drown the inextinguishible laughter of the gods. + + And they hear it, the old hooded houses, + The great creaking peak-gabled houses, + That gossip and chuckle to each other + Across the clattering streets; + They hear it, the old great gates, + The grey gates with towers, + Where in the changing shrill winds of the years + Have groaned the poles of many various-colored banners. + The poplars of the high-road hear it, + From their trembling twigs comes a dry laughing, + As they lean towards the glare of the city. + And the old hard-laughing paving-stones, + Old stones weary with the weariness + Of the labor of men's footsteps, + Hear it as they quake and clamour + Under the garlanded wheels of the yawning confident cannon + That are dragged victorious through the flutter of the city. + + Beer is free to soldiers, + Bubbles on wind-parched lips, + Moistens easy kisses + Lavished on the liberators. + + Beer is free to soldiers + All night in steaming bars, + In halls delirious with dancing + That spill their music into thronging streets. + + --All is free to soldiers, + To the weary heroes + Who have bled, and soaked + The whole earth in their sacrificial blood, + Who have with their bare flesh clogged + The crazy wheels of Juggernaut, + Freed the peoples from the dragon that devoured them, + That scorched with greed their pleasant fields and villages, + Their quiet delightful places: + + So they of the frock-coats, amid wreaths and flags victorious, + To the crowds in the flaring squares, + And a murmurous applause + Rises like smoke to mingle in the sky + With the crashing of the bells. + + But, resounding in the sky, + Louder than the tramp of feet, + Louder than the crash of bells, + Louder than the blare of bands, victorious, + Shrieks the inextinguishable laughter of the gods. + + The old houses rock with it, + And wag their great peaked heads, + The old gates shake, + And the pavings ring with it, + As with the iron tramp of old fighters, + As with the clank of heels of the victorious, + By long ages vanquished. + The spouts in the gurgling fountains + Wrinkle their shiny griffin faces, + Splash the rhythm in their ice-fringed basins-- + Of the inextinguishable laughter of the gods. + + And far up into the inky sky, + Where great trailing clouds stride across the world, + Darkening the spired cities, + And the villages folded in the hollows of hills, + And the shining cincture of railways, + And the pale white twining roads, + Sounds with the stir of quiet monotonous breath + Of men and women stretched out sleeping, + Sounds with the thin wail of pain + Of hurt things huddled in darkness, + Sounds with the victorious racket + Of speeches and soldiers drinking, + Sounds with the silence of the swarming dead-- + The inextinguishable laughter of the gods. + + + IX + + O I would take my pen and write + In might of words + A pounding dytheramb + Alight with teasing fires of hate, + Or drone to numbness in the spell + Of old loves long lived away + A drowsy vilanelle. + O I would build an Ark of words, + A safe ciborium where to lay + The secret soul of loveliness. + O I would weave of words in rhythm + A gaudily wrought pall + For the curious cataphalque of fate. + + But my pen does otherwise. + + All I can write is the orange tinct with crimson + of the beaks of the goose + and of the wet webbed feet of the geese + that crackle the skimming of ice + and curve their white plump necks to the water + in the manure-stained rivulet + that runs down the broad village street; + and of their cantankerous dancings and hissings, + with beaks tilted up, half open + and necks stiffly extended; + and the curé's habit blowing in the stinging wind + and his red globular face + like a great sausage burst in the cooking + that smiles + as he takes the shovel hat off his head with a gesture, + the hat held at arm's length, + sweeping a broad curve, like a censor well swung; + and, beyond the last grey gabled house in the village, + the gaunt Christ + that stretches bony arms and tortured hands + to embrace the broad lands leprous with cold + the furrowed fields and the meadows + and the sprouting oats + ghostly beneath the grey bitter blanket of hoarfrost. + + _Sausheim_ + + + X + + In a hall on Olympus we held carouse, + Sat dining through the warm spring night, + Spilling of the crocus-colored wine + Glass after brimming glass to rouse + The ghosts that dwell in books to flight + Of word and image that, divine, + In the draining of a glass would tear + The lies from off reality, + And the world in gaudy chaos spread + Naked-new in the throbbing flare + Of songs of long-fled spirits;--free + For the wanderer devious roads to tread. + + Names waved as banners in our talk: + Lucretius, his master, all men who to balk + The fear that shrivels us in choking rinds + Have thrown their souls like pollen to the winds, + Erasmus, Bruno who burned in Rome, Voltaire, + All those whose lightning laughter cleaned the air + Of the minds of men from the murk of fear-sprung gods, + And straightened the backs bowed under the rulers' rods. + + A hall full of the wine and chant of old songs, + Smelling of lilacs and early roses and night, + Clamorous with the names and phrases of the throngs + Of the garlanded dead, and with glasses pledged to the light + Of the dawning to come ... + + O in the morning we would go + Out into the drudging world and sing + And shout down dustblinded streets, hollo + From hill to hill, and our thought fling + Abroad through all the drowsy earth + To wake the sleeper and the worker and the jailed + In walls cemented of lies to mirth + And dancing joy; laughingly unveiled + From the sick mist of fear to run naked and leap + And shake the nations from their snoring sleep. + + O in the morning we would go + Fantastically arrayed + In silk and scarlet braid, + In rich glitter like the sun on snow + With banners of orange, vermillion, black, + And jasper-handed swords, + Anklets and tinkling gauds + Of topaz set twistingly, or lac + Laid over with charms of demons' heads + In indigo and gold. + Our going a music bold + Would be, behind us the twanging threads + Of mad guitars, the wail of lutes + In wildest harmony; + Lilting thumping free, + Pipes and kettledrums and flutes + And brazen braying trumpet-calls + Would wake each work-drowsed town + And shake it in laughter down, + Untuning in dust the shuttered walls. + + O in the morning we would go + With doleful steps so dragging and slow + And grievous mockery of woe + And bury the old gods where they lay + Sodden drunk with men's pain in the day, + In the dawn's first new burning white ray + That would shrivel like dead leaves the sacred lies, + The avengers, the graspers, the wringers of sighs, + Of blood from men's work-twisted hands, from their eyes + Of tears without hope ... But in the burning day + Of the dawn we would see them brooding to slay, + In a great wind whirled like dead leaves away. + + In a hall on Olympus we held carouse, + In our talk as banners waving names, + Songs, phrases of the garlanded dead. + + Yesterday I went back to that house ... + Guttered candles where were flames, + Shattered dust-grey glasses instead + Of the fiery crocus-colored wine, + Silence, cobwebs and a mouse + Nibbling nibbling the moulded bread + Those spring nights dipped in vintage divine + In the dawnward chanting of our last carouse. + + _1918--1919_ + + + + +VAGONES DE TERCERA + + + _Refrain_ + + HARD ON YOUR RUMP + BUMP BUMP + HARD ON YOUR RUMP + BUMP BUMP + + + I + + O the savage munching of the long dark train + crunching up the miles + crunching up the long slopes and the hills + that crouch and sprawl through the night + like animals asleep, + gulping the winking towns + and the shadow-brimmed valleys + where lone trees twist their thorny arms. + + The smoke flares red and yellow; + the smoke curls like a long dragon's tongue + over the broken lands. + + The train with teeth flashing + gnaws through the piecrust of hills and plains + greedy of horizons. + + _Alcazar de San Juan_ + + + II + TO R. H. + + I invite all the gods to dine + on the hard benches of my third class coach + that joggles over brown uplands + dragged at the end of a rattling train. + + I invite all the gods to dine, + great gods and small gods, gods of air + and earth and sea, and of the grey land + where among ghostly rubbish heaps and cast-out things + linger the strengthless dead. + + I invite all the gods to dine, + Jehovah and Crepitus and Sebek, + the slimy crocodile ... But no; + wait ... I revoke the invitation. + + For I have seen you, crowding gods, + hungry gods. You have a drab official look. + You have your pockets full of bills, + claims for indemnity, for incense unsniffed + since men first jumped up in their sleep + and drove you out of doors. + + Let me instead, O djinn that sows the stars + and tunes the strings of the violin, + have fifty lyric poets, + not pale parson folk, occasional sonneteers, + but sturdy fellows who ride dolphins, + who need no wine to make them drunk, + who do not fear to meet red death at the meanads' hands + or to have their heads at last + float vine-crowned on the Thracian sea. + + Anacreon, a partridge-wing? + A sip of wine, Simonides? + Algy has gobbled all the pastry + and left none for the Elizabethans + who come arm in arm, singing bawdy songs, + smelling of sack, from the Mermaid. Ronsard, + will you eat nothing, only sniff roses? + Those Anthologists have husky appetites! + There's nothing left but a green banana + unless that galleon comes from Venily + with Hillyer breakfasts wrapped in sonnet-paper. + + But they've all brought gods with them! + Avaunt! Take them away, O djinn + that paints the clouds and brings in the night + in the rumble and clatter of the train + cadences out of the past ... Did you not see + how each saved a bit out of the banquet + to take home and burn in quiet to his god? + + _Madrid, Caceres, Portugal_ + + + III + + Three little harlots + with artificial roses in their hair + each at a window of a third-class coach + on the train from Zafra to the fair. + + Too much powder and too much paint + shining black hair. + One sings to the clatter of wheels + a swaying unending song + that trails across the crimson slopes + and the blue ranks of olives + and the green ranks of vines. + Three little harlots + on the train from Zafra to the fair. + + The plowman drops the traces + on the shambling oxen's backs + turns his head and stares + wistfully after the train. + + The mule-boy stops his mules + shows his white teeth and shouts + a word, then urges dejectedly + the mules to the road again. + + The stout farmer on his horse + straightens his broad felt hat, + makes the horse leap, and waves + grandiosely after the train. + + Is it that the queen Astarte + strides across the fallow lands + to fertilize the swelling grapes + amid shrieking of her corybants? + + Too much powder and too much paint + shining black hair. + Three little harlots + on the train from Zafra to the fair. + + _Sevilla--Merida_ + + + IV + + My desires have gone a-hunting, + circle through the fields and sniff along the hedges, + hounds that have lost the scent. + + Outside, behind the white swirling patterns of coalsmoke, + hunched fruit-trees slide by + slowly pirouetting, + and poplars and aspens on tiptoe + peer over each other's shoulders + at the long black rattling train; + colts sniff and fling their heels in air + across the dusty meadows, + and the sun now and then + looks with vague interest through the clouds + at the blonde harvest mottled with poppies, + and the Joseph's cloak of fields, neatly sewn together with hedges, + that hides the grisly skeleton + of the elemental earth. + + My mad desires + circle through the fields and sniff along the hedges, + hounds that have lost the scent. + + _Misto_ + + + V + VIRGEN DE LAS ANGUSTIAS + + The street is full of drums + and shuffle of slow moving feet. + Above the roofs in the shaking towers + the bells yawn. + + The street is full of drums + and shuffle of slow moving feet. + The flanks of the houses glow + with the warm glow of candles, + and above the upturned faces, + crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robe + of vast dark folds glittering with gold, + swaying on the necks of men, swaying + with the strong throb of drums, + haltingly she advances. + + What manner of woman are you, + borne in triumph on the necks of men, + you who look bitterly + at the dead man on your knees, + while your foot in an embroidered slipper + tramples the new moon? + + Haltingly she advances, + swaying above the upturned faces + and the shuffling feet. + + In the dark unthought-of years + men carried you thus + down streets where drums throbbed + and torches flared, + bore you triumphantly, + mourner and queen, + followed you with shuffling feet + and upturned faces. + You it was who sat + in the swirl of your robes + at the granary door, + and brought the orange maize + black with mildew + or fat with milk, to the harvest: + and made the ewes + to swell with twin lambs, + or bleating, to sicken among the nibbling flock. + You wept the dead youth + laid lank and white in the empty hut, + sat scarring your cheeks with the dark-cowled women. + You brought the women safe + through the shrieks and the shuddering pain + of the birth of a child; + and, when the sprouting spring + poured fire in the blood of the young men, + and made the he-goats dance stiff-legged + in the sloping thyme-scented pastures, + you were the full-lipped wanton enchantress + who led on moonless nights, + when it was very dark in the high valleys, + the boys from the villages + to find the herd-girls among the munching sweet-breathed cattle + beside their fires of thyme-sticks, + on their soft beds of sweet-fern. + + Many names have they called you, + Lady of laughing and weeping, + shuffling after you, borne + on the necks of men down town streets + with drums and red torches: + dolorous one, weeping the dead + youth of the year ever dying, + or full-breasted empress of summer, + Lady of the Corybants + and the headlong routs + that maddened with cymbals and shouting + the hot nights of amorous languor + when the gardens swooned under the scent + of jessamine and nard. + You were the slim-waisted Lady of Doves, + you were Ishtar and Ashtaroth, + for whom the Canaanite girls + gave up their earrings and anklets and their own slender bodies, + you were the dolorous Isis, + and Aphrodite. + It was you who on the Syrian shore + mourned the brown limbs of the boy Adonis. + You were the queen of the crescent moon, + the Lady of Ephesus, + giver of riches, + for whom the great temple + reeked with burning and spices. + And now in the late bitter years, + your head is bowed with bitterness; + across your knees lies the lank body + of the Crucified. + + Rockets shriek and roar and burst + against the velvet sky; + the wind flutters the candle-flames + above the long white slanting candles. + + Swaying above the upturned faces + to the strong throb of drums, + borne in triumph on the necks of men, + crowned, robed in a cone-shaped robe + of vast dark folds glittering with gold + haltingly, through the pulsing streets, + advances Mary, Virgin of Pain. + + _Granada_ + + + VI + TO R. J. + + It would be fun, you said, + sitting two years ago at this same table, + at this same white marble café table, + if people only knew what fun it would be + to laugh the hatred out of soldiers' eyes ... + + --If I drink beer with my enemy, + you said, and put your lips to the long glass, + and give him what he wants, if he wants it so hard + that he would kill me for it, + I rather think he'd give it back to me-- + You laughed, and stretched your long legs out across the floor. + + I wonder in what mood you died, + out there in that great muddy butcher-shop, + on that meaningless dicing-table of death. + + + Did you laugh aloud at the futility, + and drink death down in a long draught, + as you drank your beer two years ago + at this same white marble café table? + Or had the darkness drowned you? + + _Café Oro del Rhin_ + _Plaza de Santa Ana_ + + + VII + + Down the road + against the blue haze + that hangs before the great ribbed forms of the mountains + people come home from the fields; + they pass a moment in relief + against the amber frieze of the sunset + before turning the bend + towards the twinkling smoke-breathing village. + + A boy in sandals with brown dusty legs + and brown cheeks where the flush of evening + has left its stain of wine. + A donkey with a jingling bell + and ears askew. + Old women with water jars + of red burnt earth. + Men bent double under burdens of faggots + that trail behind them the fragrance + of scorched uplands. + A child tugging at the end of a string + a much inflated sow. + A slender girl who presses to her breast + big bluefrilled cabbages. + And a shepherd in the clinging rags of his cloak + who walks with lithe unhurried stride + behind the crowded backs of his flock. + + The road is empty + only the swaying tufts of oliveboughs + against the fading sky. + + Down on the steep hillside + a man still follows the yoke + of lumbering oxen + plowing the heavy crimson-stained soil + while the chill silver mists + steal up about him. + + I stand in the empty road + and feel in my arms and thighs + the strain of his body + as he leans far to one side + and wrenches the plow from the furrow, + feel my blood throb in time to his slow careful steps + as he follows the plow in the furrow. + + Red earth + giver of all things + of the yellow grain and the oil + and the wine to all gods sacred + of the fragrant sticks that crackle in the hearth + and the crisp swaying grass + that swells to dripping the udders of the cows, + of the jessamine the girls stick in their hair + when they walk in twos and threes in the moonlight, + and of the pallid autumnal crocuses ... + are there no fields yet to plow? + + Are there no fields yet to plow + where with sweat and straining of muscles + good things may be wrung from the earth + and brown limbs going home tired through the evening? + + _Lanjaron_ + + + VIII + + O such a night for scaling garden walls; + to push the rose shoots silently aside + and pause a moment where the water falls + into the fountain, softly troubling the wide + bridge of stars tremblingly mirrored there + terror-pale and shaking as the real stars shake + in crystal fear lest the rustle of silence break + with a watchdog's barking. + + O to scale the garden wall and fling + my life into the bowl of an adventure, + stake on the silver dice the past and future + forget the odds and lying in the garden sing + in time to the flutter of the waiting stars + madness of love for the slender ivory white + of her body hidden among dark silks where + is languidest the attar weighted air. + + To drink in one strong jessamine scented draught + sadness of flesh, twining madness of the night. + + O such a night for scaling garden walls; + yet I lie alone in my narrow bed + and stare at the blank walls, forever afraid, + of a watchdog's barking. + + _Granada_ + + + IX + + Rain-swelled the clouds of winter + drag themselves like purple swine across the plain. + On the trees the leaves hang dripping + fast dripping away all the warm glamour + all the ceremonial paint of gorgeous bountiful autumn. + + The black wet boles are vacant and dead. + Among the trampled leaves already mud + rot the husks of the rich nuts. On the hills + the snow has frozen the last pale crocuses + and the winds have robbed the smell of the thyme. + + Down the wet streets of the town + from doors where the light spills out orange + over the shining irregular cobbles + and dances in ripples on gurgling gutters; + sounds the zambomba. + + In the room beside the slanting street + round the tray of glowing coals + in their stained blue clothes, dusty + with the dust of workshops and factories, + the men and boys sit quiet; + their large hands dangle idly + or rest open on their knees + and they talk in soft tired voices. + Crosslegged in a corner a child with brown hands + sounds the zambomba. + + Outside down the purple street + stopping sometimes at a door, breathing deep + the heady wine of sunset, stride with clattering steps + those to whom the time will never come + of work-stiffened unrestless hands. + + The rain-swelled clouds of winter roam + like a herd of swine over the town and the dark plain. + + The wineshops full of shuffling and talk, tanned faces + bright eyes, moist lips moulding desires + blow breaths of strong wine in the faces of passers-by. + + There are guards in the storehouse doors + where are gathered the rich fruits of autumn, the grain + the sweet figs and raisins; sullen blood tingling to madness + they stride by who have not reaped. + Sounds the zambomba. + + _Albaicin_ + + + X + + The train throbs doggedly + over the gleaming rails + fleeing the light-green flanks of hills + dappled with alternate shadow of clouds, + fleeing the white froth of orchards, + of clusters of apples and cherries in flower, + fleeing the wide lush meadows, + wealthy with cowslips, + and the tramping horses and backward-strained bodies of plowmen, + fleeing the gleam of the sky in puddles and glittering waters + the train throbs doggedly + over the ceaseless rails + spurning the verdant grace + of April's dainty apparel; + so do my desires + spurn those things which are behind + in hunger of horizons. + + _Rapido: Valencia--Barcelona_ + _1919--1920_ + + + + +QUAI DE LA TOURNELLE + + + I + + See how the frail white pagodas of blossom + stand up on the great green hills + of the chestnuts + and how the sun has burned the wintry murk + and all the stale odor of anguish + out of the sky + so that the swollen clouds bellying with sail + can parade in pomp like white galleons. + + And they move the slow plumed clouds + above the spidery grey webs of cities + above fields full of golden chime + of cowslips + above warbling woods where the ditches + are wistfully patined + with primroses pale as the new moon + above hills all golden with gorse + and gardens frothed + to the brim of their grey stone walls + with apple bloom, cherry bloom, + and the raspberry-stained bloom of peaches and almonds. + + So do the plumed clouds sail + swelling with satiny pomp of parade + towards somewhere far away + where in a sparkling silver sea + full of little flakes of indigo + the great salt waves have heaved and stirred + into blossoming of foam, + and lifted on the rush of the warm wind + towards the gardens and the spring-mad cities of the shore + Aphrodite Aphrodite is reborn. + + And even in this city park + galled with iron rails + shrill with the clanging of ironbound wheels + on the pavings of the unquiet streets, + little children run and dance and sing + with spring-madness in the sun, + and the frail white pagodas of blossom + stand up on the great green hills + of the chestnuts + and all their tiers of tiny gargoyle faces + stick out gold and red-striped tongues + in derision of the silly things of men. + + _Jardin du Luxembourg_ + + + II + + The shadows make strange streaks and mottled arabesques + of violet on the apricot-tinged walks + where the thin sunlight lies + like flower-petals. + + On the cool wind there is a fragrance + indefinable + of strawberries crushed in deep woods. + + And the flushed sunlight, + the wistful patterns of shadow + on gravel walks between tall elms + and broad-leaved lindens, + the stretch of country, + yellow and green, + full of little particolored houses, + and the faint intangible sky, + have lumped my soggy misery, + like clay in the brown deft hands of a potter, + and moulded a song of it. + + _Saint Germain-en-Laye_ + + + III + + In the dark the river spins, + Laughs and ripples never ceasing, + Swells to gurgle under arches, + Swishes past the bows of barges, + in its haste to swirl away + From the stone walls of the city + That has lamps that weight the eddies + Down with snaky silver glitter, + As it flies it calls me with it + Through the meadows to the sea. + + I close the door on it, draw the bolts, + Climb the stairs to my silent room; + But through the window that swings open + Comes again its shuttle-song, + Spinning love and night and madness, + Madness of the spring at sea. + + + IV + + The streets are full of lilacs + lilacs in boys' buttonholes + lilacs at women's waists; + arms full of lilacs, people trail behind them through the moist night + long swirls of fragrance, + fragrance of gardens + fragrance of hedgerows where they have wandered + all the May day + where the lovers have held each others hands + and lavished vermillion kisses + under the portent of the swaying plumes + of the funereal lilacs. + + The streets are full of lilacs + that trail long swirls and eddies of fragrance + arabesques of fragrance + like the arabesques that form and fade + in the fleeting ripples of the jade-green river. + + _Porte Maillot_ + + + V + + As a gardener in a pond + splendid with lotus and Indian nenuphar + wades to his waist in the warm black water + stooping to this side and that to cull the snaky stems + of the floating white glittering lilies + groping to break the harsh stems of the imperious lotus + lifting the huge flowers high + in a cluster in his hand + till they droop against the moon; + so I grope through the streets of the night + culling out of the pool + of the spring-reeking, rain-reeking city + gestures and faces. + + _Place St. Michel_ + + + VI + TO A. K. MC C. + + This is a garden + where through the russet mist of clustered trees + and strewn November leaves, + they crunch with vainglorious heels + of ancient vermillion + the dry dead of spent summer's greens, + and stalk with mincing sceptic steps + and sound of snuffboxes snapping + to the capping of an epigram, + in fluffy attar-scented wigs ... + the exquisite Augustans. + + _Tuileries_ + + + VII + + They come from the fields flushed + carrying bunches of limp flowers + they plucked on teeming meadows + and moist banks scented of mushrooms. + + They come from the fields tired + softness of flowers in their eyes + and moisture of rank sprouting meadows. + + They stroll back with tired steps + lips still soft with the softness of petals + voices faint with the whisper of woods; + and they wander through the darkling streets + full of stench of bodies and clothes and merchandise + full of the hard hum of iron things; + and into their cheeks that the wind had burned and the sun + that kisses burned out on the rustling meadows + into their cheeks soft with lazy caresses + comes sultry + caged breath of panthers + fetid, uneasy + fury of love sprouting hot in the dust and stench + of walls and clothes and merchandise, + pent in the stridence of the twilight streets. + + And they look with terror in each other's eyes + and part their hot hands stained with grasses and flowerstalks + and are afraid of their kisses. + + + VIII + EMBARQUEMENT POUR CYTHERE + AFTER WATTEAU + + The mists have veiled the far end of the lake + this sullen amber afternoon; + our island is quite hidden, and the peaks + hang wan as clouds above the ruddy haze. + + Come, give your hand that lies so limp, + a tuberose among brown oak-leaves; + put your hand in mine and let us leave + this bank where we have lain the day long. + + In the boat the naked oarsman stands. + Let us walk faster, or do you fear to tear + that brocaded dress in apricot and grey? + Love, there are silk cushions in the stern + maroon and apple-green, + crocus-yellow, crimson, amber-grey. + + We will lie and listen to the waves + slap soft against the prow, and watch the boy + slant his brown body to the long oar-stroke. + + But, love, we are more beautiful than he. + We have forgotten the grey sick yearning nights + brushed off the old cobwebs of desire; + we stand strong + immortal as the slender brown boy who waits + to row our boat to the island. + + But love how your steps drag. + + And what is this bundle of worn brocades I press + so passionately to me? Old rags of the past, + snippings of Helen's dress, of Melisande's, + scarfs of old paramours rotted in the grave + ages and ages since. + + No lake + the ink yawns at me from the writing table. + + + IX + LA RUE DU TEMPS PASSE + + Far away where the tall grey houses fade + A lamp blooms dully through the dusk, + Through the effacing dusk that gently veils + The traceried balconies and the wreaths + Carved above the shuttered windows + Of forgotten houses. + + Behind one of the crumbled garden walls + A pale woman sits in drooping black + And stares with uncomprehending eyes + At the thorny angled twigs that bore + Years ago in the moon-spun dusk + One scarlet rose. + + In an old high room where the shadows troop + On tiptoe across the creaking boards + A shrivelled man covers endless sheets + Rounding out in his flourishing hand + Sentence after sentence loud + With dead kings' names. + + Looking out at the vast grey violet dusk + A pale boy sits in a window, a book + Wide open on his knees, and fears + With cold choked fear the thronging lives + That lurk in the shadows and fill the dusk + With menacing steps. + + Far away the gaslamp glows dull gold + A vague tulip in the misty night. + The clattering drone of a distant tram + Grows loud and fades with a hum of wires + Leaving the street breathless with silence, chill + And the listening houses. + + _Bordeaux_ + + + X + + _O douce Sainte Geneviève + ramène moi a ta ville, Paris._ + + In the smoke of morning the bridges + are dusted with orangy sunshine. + + Bending their black smokestacks far back + muddling themselves in their spiralling smoke + the tugboats pass under the bridges + and behind them + stately + gliding smooth like clouds + the barges come + black barges + with blunt prows spurning the water gently + gently rebuffing the opulent wavelets + of opal and topaz and sapphire, + barges casually come from far towns + towards far towns unhurryingly bound. + + The tugboats shrieks and shrieks again + calling beyond the next bend and away. + In the smoke of morning the bridges + are dusted with orangy sunshine. + + _O douce Sainte Geneviève + ramène moi a ta ville, Paris._ + + Big hairy-hoofed horses are drawing + carts loaded with flour-sacks, + white flour-sacks, bluish + in the ruddy flush of the morning streets. + + On one cart two boys perch + wrestling and their arms and faces + glow ruddy against the white flour-sacks + as the sun against the flour-white sky. + + _O douce Sainte Geneviève + ramène moi a ta ville, Paris._ + + Under the arcade + loud as castanettes with steps + of little women hurrying to work + an old hag who has a mole on her chin + that is tufted with long white hairs + sells incense-sticks, and the trail of their strangeness lingers + in the many-scented streets + among the smells of markets and peaches + and the must of old books from the quays + and the warmth of early-roasting coffee. + + The old hag's incense has smothered + the timid scent of wild strawberries + and triumphantly mingled with the strong reek from the river + of green slime along stonework of docks + and the pitch-caulked decks of barges, + barges casually come from far towns + towards far towns unhurryingly bound. + + _O douce Sainte Geneviève + ramène moi a ta ville, Paris._ + + + XI + A L'OMBRE DES JEUNES FILLES EN FLEURS + + And now when I think of you + I see you on your piano-stool + finger the ineffectual bright keys + and even in the pinkish parlor glow + your eyes sea-grey are very wide + as if they carried the reflection + of mocking black pinebranches + and unclimbed red-purple mountains mist-tattered + under a violet-gleaming evening. + + But chirruping of marriageable girls + voices of eager, wise virgins, + no lamp unlit every wick well trimmed, + fill the pinkish parlor chairs, + bobbing hats and shrill tinkling teacups + in circle after circle about you + so that I can no longer see your eyes. + + Shall I tear down the pinkish curtains + smash the imitation ivory keyboard + that you may pluck with bare fingers on the strings? + + I sit cramped in my chair. + Futility tumbles everlastingly + like great flabby snowflakes about me. + + Were they in your eyes, or mine + the tattered mists about the mountains + and the pitiless grey sea? + + _1919_ + + + + +ON FOREIGN TRAVEL + + + I + + Grey riverbanks in the dusk + Melting away into mist + A hard breeze sharp off the sea + The ship's screws lunge and throb + And the voices of sailors singing. + + O I have come wandering + Out of the dust of many lands + Ears by all tongues jangled + Feet worn by all arduous ways-- + O the voices of sailors singing. + + What nostalgia of sea + And free new-scented spaces + dreams of towns vermillion-gated + Must be in their blood as in mine + That the sailors long so in singing. + + Churned water marbled astern + Grey riverbanks in the dusk + Melting away into mist + And a shrill wind hard off the sea. + O the voices of sailors singing. + + + II + + Padding lunge of a camel's stride + turning the sharp purple flints. A man sings: + + Breast deep in the dawn + a queen of the east; + the woolen folds of her robe + hang white and straight + as the hard marble columns + of the temple of Jove. + + A thousand days + the pebbles have scuttled + under the great pads of my camels. + + A thousands days + like bite of sour apples + have been bitter with desire in my mouth. + + A thousand days + of cramped legs flecked + with green slobber of dromedaries. + + At the crest of the road + that transfixes the sun + she awaits + me lean with desire + with muscles tightened + by these thousand days + pallid with dust + sinewy + naked before her. + + Padding lunge of a camel's stride + over the flint-strewn hills. A man sings: + + I have heard men sing songs + of how in scarlet pools + in the west in purpurate mist + that bursts from the sun trodden + like a grape under the feet of darkness + a woman with great breasts + thighs white like wintry mountains + bathes her nakedness. + + I have lain biting my cheeks + many nights with ears murmurous + with the songs of these strange men. + My arms have stung as if burned + by the touch of red ants with anguish + to circle strokingly + her bulging smooth body. + My blood has soured to gall. + The ten toes of my feet are hard + as buzzards' claws from the stones + of roads, from clambering + cold rockfaces of hills. + For uncountable days' journeys + jouncing on the humps of camels + iron horizons have swayed + like the rail of a ship at sea + mountains have tossed like wine + shaken hard in a wine cup. + + I have heard men sing songs + of the scarlet pools of the sunset. + + Two men, bundled pyramids of brown + abreast, bow to the long slouch + of their slowstriding camels. + Shrilly the yellow man sings: + + In the courts of Han + green fowls with carmine tails + peck at the yellow grain + court ladies scatter + with tiny ivory hands, + the tails of the fowls + droop with multiple elegance + over the wan blue stones + as the hands of courtladies + droop on the goldstiffened silk + of their angular flower-embroidered dresses. + + In the courts of Han + little hairy dogs + are taught to bark twice + at the mention of the name of Confucius. + + The twittering of the women + that hop like silly birds + through the courts of Han + became sharp like little pins + in my ears, their hands in my hands + rigid like small ivory scoops + to scoop up mustard with + when I had heard the songs + of the western pools where the great queen + is throned on a purple throne + in whose vast encompassing arms + all bitter twigs of desire + burst into scarlet bloom. + + Padding lunge of the camel's stride + over flint-strewn hills. The brown man sings: + + On the house-encumbered hills + of great marble Rome + no man has ever counted the columns + no man has ever counted the statues + no man has ever counted the laws + sharply inscribed in plain writing + on tablets of green bronze. + + At brightly lit tables + in a great brick basilica + seven hundred literate slaves + copy on rolls of thin parchment + adorned by seals and purple bows + the taut philosophical epigrams + announced by the emperor each morning + while taking his bath. + + A day of rain and roaring gutters + the wine-reeking words of a drunken man + who clenched about me hard-muscled arms + and whispered with moist lips against my ear + filled me with smell and taste of spices + with harsh panting need to seek out the great + calm implacable queen of the east + who erect against sunrise holds in the folds + of her woolen robe all knowledge of delight + against whose hard white flesh my flesh + will sear to cinders in a last sheer flame. + + Among the house-encumbered hills + of great marble Rome + I could no longer read the laws + inscribed on tablets of green bronze. + The maxims of the emperor's philosophy + were croaking of toads in my ears. + A day of rain and roaring gutters + the wine-reeking words of a drunken man: + ... breast deep in the dawn + a queen of the east. + + The camels growl and stretch out their necks, + their slack lips jiggle as they trot + towards a water hole in a pebbly torrent bed. + + The riders pile dry twigs for a fire + and gird up their long gowns to warm + at the flame their lean galled legs. + + Says the yellow man: + + You have seen her in the west? + + Says the brown man: + + Hills and valleys + stony roads. + In the towns + the bright eyes of women + looking out from lattices. + Camps in the desert + where men passed the time of day + where were embers of fires + and greenish piles of camel-dung. + + You have seen her in the east? + + Says the yellow man: + + Only red mountains and bare plains, + the blue smoke of villages at evening, + brown girls bathing + along banks of streams. + + I have slept with no woman + only my dream. + + Says the brown man: + + I have looked in no woman's eyes + only stared along eastward roads. + + They eat out of copper bowls beside the fire in silence. + They loose the hobbles from the knees of their camels + and shout as they jerk to their feet. + The yellow man rides west. + The brown man rides east. + + Their songs trail among the split rocks of the desert. + + Sings the yellow man: + + I have heard men sing songs + of how in the scarlet pools + that spurt from the sun trodden + like a grape under the feet of darkness + a woman with great breasts + bathes her nakedness. + + Sings the brown man: + + After a thousand days + of cramped legs flecked + with green slobber of dromedaries + she awaits + me lean with desire + pallid with dust + sinewy + naked before her. + + Their songs fade in the empty desert. + + + III + + There was a king in China. + + He sat in a garden under a moon of gold + while a black slave scratched his back + with a back-scratcher of emerald. + Beyond the tulip bed + where the tulips were stiff goblets of fiery wine + stood the poets in a row. + + One sang the intricate patterns of snowflakes + One sang the henna-tipped breasts of girls dancing + and of yellow limbs rubbed with attar. + One sang red bows of Tartar horsemen + and whine of arrows and blood-clots on new spearshafts + The others sang of wine and dragons coiled in purple bowls, + and one, in a droning voice + recited the maxims of Lao Tse. + + (Far off at the walls of the city + groaning of drums and a clank of massed spearmen. + Gongs in the temples.) + + The king sat under a moon of gold + while a black slave scratched his back + with a back-scratcher of emerald. + The long gold nails of his left hand + twined about a red tulip blotched with black, + a tulip shaped like a dragon's mouth + or the flames bellying about a pagoda of sandalwood. + The long gold nails of his right hand + were held together at the tips + in an attitude of discernment: + to award the tulip to the poet + of the poets that stood in a row. + + (Gongs in the temples. + Men with hairy arms + climbing on the walls of the city. + They have red bows slung on their backs; + their hands grip new spearshafts.) + + The guard of the tomb of the king's great grandfather + stood with two swords under the moon of gold. + With one sword he very carefully + slit the base of his large belly + and inserted the other and fell upon it + and sprawled beside the king's footstool. + His blood sprinkled the tulips + and the poets in a row. + + (The gongs are quiet in the temples. + Men with hairy arms + scattering with taut bows through the city; + there is blood on new spearshafts.) + + The long gold nails of the king's right hand + were held together at the tips + in an attitude of discernment. + The geometrical glitter of snowflakes, + the pointed breasts of yellow girls + crimson with henna, + the swirl of river-eddies about a barge + where men sit drinking, + the eternal dragon of magnificence.... + Beyond the tulip bed + stood the poets in a row. + + The garden full of spearshafts and shouting + and the whine of arrows and the red bows of Tartars + and trampling of the sharp hoofs of war-horses. + Under the golden moon + the men with hairy arms + struck off the heads of the tulips in the tulip-bed + and of the poets in a row. + + The king lifted the hand that held the flaming dragon-flower. + + Him of the snowflakes, he said. + On a new white spearshaft + the men with hairy arms + spitted the king and the black slave + who scratched his back with a back-scratcher of emerald. + + There was a king in China. + + + IV + + Says the man from Weehawken to the man from Sioux City + as they jolt cheek by jowl on the bus up Broadway: + --That's her name, Olive Thomas, on the red skysign, + died of coke or somethin' + way over there in Paris. + Too much money. Awful + immoral the lives them film stars lead. + + The eye of the man from Sioux City glints + in the eye of the man from Weehawken. + Awful ... lives out of sky-signs and lust; + curtains of pink silk fluffy troubling the skin + rooms all prinkly with chandeliers, + bed cream-color with pink silk tassles + creased by the slender press of thighs. + Her eyebrows are black + her lips rubbed scarlet + breasts firm as peaches + gold curls gold against her cheeks. + She dead + all of her dead way over there in Paris. + + O golden Aphrodite. + + The eye of the man from Weehawken slants + away from the eye of the man from Sioux City. + They stare at the unquiet gold dripping sky-signs. + + + + +PHASES OF THE MOON + + + I + + Again they are plowing the field by the river; + in the air exultant a smell of wild garlic + crushed out by the shining steel in the furrow + that opens softly behind the heavy-paced horses, + dark moist noisy with fluttering of sparrows; + and their chirping and the clink of the harness + chimes like bells; + and the plowman walks at one side + with sliding steps, his body thrown back from the waist. + O the sudden sideways lift of his back and his arms + as he swings the plow from the furrow. + + And behind the river sheening blue + and the white beach and the sails of schooners, + and hoarsely laughing the black crows + wheel and glint. Ha! Haha! + + Other springs you answered their laughing + and shouted at them across the fallow lands + that smelt of wild garlic and pinewoods and earth. + + This year the crows flap cawing overhead Ha! Haha! + and the plow-harness clinks + and the pines echo the moaning shore. + + No one laughs back at the laughing crows. + No one shouts from the edge of the new-plowed field. + + _Sandy Point_ + + + II + + The full moon soars above the misty street + filling the air with a shimmer of silver. + Roofs and chimney-pots cut silhouettes + of dark against the milk-washed sky! + O moon fast waning! + + Seems only a night ago you hung + a shallow cup of topaz-colored glass + that tilted towards my feverish dry lips + brimful of promise in the flaming west: + O moon fast waning! + + And each night fuller and colder, moon, + the silver has welled up within you; still I + I have not drunk, only the salt tide + of parching desires has welled up within me: + only you have attained, waning moon. + + The moon soars white above the stony street, + wan with fulfilment. O will the tide + of yearning ebb with the moon's ebb + leaving me cool darkness and peace + with the moon's waning? + + _Madrid_ + + + III + + The shrill wind scatters the bloom + of the almond trees + but under the bark of the shivering poplars + the sap rises + and on the dark twigs of the planes + buds swell. + + Out in the country + along soggy banks of ditches + among busy sprouting grass + there are dandelions. + Under the asphalt + under the clamorous paving-stones + the earth heaves and stirs + and all the blind live things + expand and writhe. + + Only the dead + lie still in their graves, + stiff, heiratic, + only the changeless dead + lie without stirring. + + Spring is not a good time + for the dead. + + _Battery Park_ + + + IV + + Buildings shoot rigid perpendiculars + latticed with window-gaps + into the slate sky. + + Where the wind comes from + the ice crumbles + about the edges of green pools; + from the leaping of white thighs + comes a smooth and fleshly sound, + girls grip hands and dance + grey moss grows green under the beat + of feet of saffron + crocus-stained. + + Where the wind comes from + purple windflowers sway + on the swelling verges of pools, + naked girls grab hands and whirl + fling heads back + stamp crimson feet. + + Buildings shoot rigid perpendiculars + latticed with window-gaps + into the slate sky. + + Garment-workers loaf in their overcoats + (stare at the gay breasts of pigeons + that strut and peck in the gutters). + Their fingers are bruised tugging needles + through fuzzy hot layers of cloth, + thumbs roughened twirling waxed thread; + they smell of lunchrooms and burnt cloth. + The wind goes among them + detaching sweat-smells from underclothes + making muscles itch under overcoats + tweaking legs with inklings of dancetime. + + Bums on park-benches + spit and look up at the sky. + + Garment-workers in their overcoats + pile back into black gaps of doors. + + Where the wind comes from + scarlet windflowers sway + on rippling verges of pools, + sound of girls dancing + thud of vermillion feet. + + _Madison Square_ + + + V + + The stars bend down + through the dingy platitude of arc-lights + as if they were groping for something among the houses, + as if they would touch the gritty pavement + covered with dust and scraps of paper and piles of horse-dung + of the wide deserted square. + + They are all about me; + they sear my body. + How very cold the stars are touching my body. + What do they seek + the fierce ice-flames of the stars + in the platitude of arc-lights? + + _Plaza Mayor, Madrid_ + + + VI + + Not willingly have I wronged you O Eros, + it is the bitter blood of joyless generations + making my fingers loosen suddenly + about the full glass of purple wine + for which my dry lips ache, + making me turn aside from the wide arms of lovers + that would have slaked the rage of my body + for supple arms and burning young flushed faces + to wander in solitary streets. + + A funeral clatters over the glimmering cobbles; + they are burying despair! + Lank horses whose raw bones show through + the embroidered black caparisons + and whose heads jerk feebly + under the tall nodding crests; + they are burying despair. + A great hearse that trundles crazily along + under pompous swaying plumes + and intricate designs of mud-splashed heraldry; + they are burying despair! + A coffin obliterated under the huge folds + of a faded velvet pall + and following clattering over the cobblestones + lurching through mud-puddles + a long train of cabs + rain-soaked barouches + old landaus off which the paint has peeled + leprous coupés; + in their blank windows shines the glint + of interminable gaslamps; + they are burying despair! + + Joyously I turn into the wineshop + where with strumming of tambourines + and staccato cackle of castanets + they are welcoming the new year, + and I look in the eyes of the woman; + (are they your wide eyes O Eros?) + who sits with wine-dabbled lips + and stained tinsel dress torn open + by the brown hands of strong young lovers; + (were they your brown hands O Eros?). + + --Your flesh is hot to my cold hands + hot to thaw the ice of an old curse + now that with pomp of plumes and strings of ceremonial cabs + they are burying despair. + + She laughs and points with a skinny forefinger + at the flabby yellow breasts that hang + over the tarnished tinsel of her dress, + and shows me her brown wolf's teeth; + and the blood in my temples goes suddenly cold + with bitterness and I know + it was not despair that they buried. + + _New Year's Day--Casa de Bottin_ + + + VII + + The leaves are full grown now + and the lindens are in flower. + Horseshoes leave their mark + on the sun-softened asphalt. + Men unloading vegetable carts + along the steaming market curb + bare broad chests pink from sweating; + their wet shirts open to the last button + cling to their ribs and shoulders. + + The leaves are full grown now + and the lindens are in flower. + + At night along the riverside + glinting watery lights + sway upon the lapping waves + like many-colored candles that flicker in the wind. + + The warm wind smells of pitch from the moored barges + smells of the broad leaves of the trees + wilted from the day's long heat; + smells of gas from the last taxicab. + + Sounds of the riverwater rustling + circumspectly past the piers + of bridges that span the glitter with dark + of men and women's voices + many voices mouth to mouth + smoothness of flesh touching flesh, + a harsh short sigh blurred into a kiss. + + The leaves are full grown now + and the lindens are in flower. + + _Quai Malaquais_ + + + VIII + + In me somewhere is a grey room + my fathers worked through many lives to build; + through the barred distorting windowpanes + I see the new moon in the sky. + + When I was small I sat and drew + endless pictures in all colors on the walls; + tomorrow the pictures should take life + I would stalk down their long heroic colonnades. + + When I was fifteen a red-haired girl + went by the window; a red sunset + threw her shadow on the stiff grey wall + to burn the colors of my pictures dead. + + Through all these years the walls have writhed + with shadow overlaid upon shadow. + I have bruised my fingers on the windowbars + so many lives cemented and made strong. + + While the bars stand strong, outside + the great processions of men's lives go past. + Their shadows squirm distorted on my wall. + + Tonight the new moon is in the sky. + + _Stuyvesant Square_ + + + IX + + Three kites against the sunset + flaunt their long-tailed triangles + above the inquisitive chimney-pots. + + A pompous ragged minstrel + sings beside our dining-table + a very old romantic song: + + _I love the sound of the hunting-horns + deep in the woods at night._ + + A wind makes dance the fine acacia leaves + and flutters the cloths of the tables. + The kites tremble and soar. + The voice throbs sugared into croaking base + broken with the burden of the too ancient songs. + + And yet, beyond the flaring sky, + beyond the soaring kites, + where are no voices of singers, + no strummings of guitars, + the untarnished songs + hang like great moths just broken + through the dun threads of their cocoons, + moist, motionless, limp + as flowers on the inaccessible twigs + of the yewtree, Ygdrasil, + the untarnished songs. + + Will you put your hand in mine + pompous street-singer, + and start on a quest with me? + For men have cut down the woods where the laurel grew + to build streets of frame houses, + they have dug in the hills after iron + and frightened the troll-king away; + at night in the woods no hunter puffs out his cheeks + to call to the kill on the hunting-horn. + + Now when the kites flaunt bravely + their tissue-paper glory in the sunset + we will walk together down the darkening streets + beyond these tables and the sunset. + + We will hear the singing of drunken men + and the songs whores sing + in their doorways at night + and the endless soft crooning + of all the mothers, + and what words the young men hum + when they walk beside the river + their arms hot with caresses, + their cheeks pressed against their girls' cheeks. + + We will lean very close + to the quiet lips of the dead + and feel in our worn-out flesh perhaps + a flutter of wings as they soar from us + the untarnished songs. + + But the minstrel sings as the pennies clink: + _I love the sound of the hunting-horns + deep in the woods at night._ + + O who will go on a quest with me + beyond all wide seas + all mountain passes + and climb at last with me + among the imperishable branches + of the yewtree, Ygdrasil, + so that all the limp unuttered songs + shall spread their great moth-wings and soar + above the craning necks of the chimneys + above the tissue-paper kites and the sunset + above the diners and their dining-tables, + beat upward with strong wing-beats steadily + till they can drink the quenchless honey of the moon. + + _Place du Tertre_ + + + X + + Dark on the blue light of the stream + the barges lie anchored under the moon. + + On icegreen seas of sunset + the moon skims like a curved white sail + bellied by the evening wind + and bound for some glittering harbor + that blue hills circle + among the purple archipelagos of cloud. + + So, in the quivering bubble of my memories + the schooners with peaked sails + lean athwart the low dark shore; + their sails glow apricot-color + or glint as white as the salt-bitten shells on the beach + and are curved at the tip like gulls' wings: + their courses are set for impossible oceans + where on the gold imaginary sands + they will unload their many-scented freight + of very childish dreams. + + Dark on the blue light of the stream + the barges lie anchored under the moon; + the wind brings from them to my ears + faint creaking of rudder-cords, tiny slappings + of waves against their pitch-smeared flanks, + to my nose a smell of bales and merchandise + the wet familiar smell of harbors + and the old arousing fragrance + making the muscles ache and the blood seethe + and the eyes see the roadsteads and the golden beaches + where with singing they would furl the sails + of the schooners of childish dreams. + + On icegreen seas of sunset + the moon skims like a curved white sail: + had I forgotten the fragrance of old dreams + that the smell from the anchored barges + can so fill my blood with bitterness + that the sight of the scudding moon + makes my eyes tingle with salt tears? + + In the ship's track on the infertile sea + now many childish bodies float + rotting under the white moon. + + _Quai des Grands Augustins_ + + + XI + _Lua cheia esta noit_ + + Thistledown clouds + cover the whole sky + scurry on the southwest wind + over the sea and islands; + somehow in the sundown + the wind has shaken out plumed seed + of thistles milkweed asphodel, + raked from off great fields of dandelions + their ghosts of faded golden springs + and carried them in billowing of mist + to scurry in moonlight + out of the west. + + They hide the moon + the whole sky is grey with them + and the waves. + + They will fall in rain + over country gardens + where thrushes sing. + + They will fall in rain + down long sparsely lighted streets + hiss on silvery windowpanes + moisten the lips + of girls leaning out + to stare after the footfalls of young men + who splash through the glimmering puddles + with nonchalant feet. + + They will slap against the windows of offices + where men in black suits + shaped like pears + rub their abdomens + against frazzled edges of ledgers. + + They will drizzle + over new-plowed fields + wet the red cheeks of men harrowing + and a smell of garlic and clay + will steam from the new-sowed land + and sharp-eared young herdsmen will feel + in the windy rain + lisp of tremulous love-makings + interlaced soundless kisses + impact of dead springs + nuzzling tremulous at life + in the red sundown. + + Shining spring rain + O scud steaming up out of the deep sea + full of portents of sundown and islands, + beat upon my forehead + beat upon my face and neck + glisten on my outstretched hands, + run bright lilac streams + through the clogged channels of my brain + corrode the clicking cogs the little angles + the small mistrustful mirrors + scatter the shrill tiny creaking + of mustnot darenot cannot + spatter the varnish off me + that I may stand up + my face to the wet wind + and feel my body + and drenched salty palpitant April + reborn in my flesh. + + I would spit the dust out of my mouth + burst out of these stiff wire webs + supple incautious + like the crocuses that spurt up too soon + their saffron flames + and die gloriously in late blizzards + and leave no seed. + + _Off Pico_ + + + XII + + Out of the unquiet town + seep jagged barkings + lean broken cries + unimaginable silent writhing + of muscles taut against strangling + heavy fetters of darkness. + + On the pool of moonlight + clots and festers + a great scum + of worn-out sound. + + (Elagabalus, Alexander + looked too long at the full moon; + hot blood drowned them + cold rivers drowned them.) + + Float like pondflowers + on the dead face of darkness + cold stubs of lusts + names that glimmer ghostly + adrift on the slow tide + of old moons waned. + + (Lais of Corinth that Holbein drew + drank the moon in a cup of wine; + with the flame of all her lovers' pain + she seared a sign on the tombs of the years.) + + Out of the voiceless wrestle of the night + flesh rasping harsh on flesh + a tune on a shrill pipe shimmers + up like a rocket blurred in the fog + of lives curdled in the moon's glare, + staggering up like a rocket + into the steely star-sharpened night + above the stagnant moon-marshes + the song throbs soaring and dies. + + (Semiramis, Zenobia + lay too long in the moon's glare; + their yearning grew sere and they died + and the flesh of their empires died.) + + On the pool of moonlight + clots and festers + a great scum + of worn-out lives. + + No sound but the panting unsatiated + breath that heaves under the huge pall + the livid moon has spread above the housetops. + I rest my chin on the window-ledge and wait. + There are hands about my throat. + + Ah Bilkis, Bilkis + where the jangle of your camel bells? + Bilkis when out of Saba + lope of your sharp-smelling dromedaries + will bring the unnameable strong wine + you press from the dazzle of the zenith + over the shining sand of your desert + the wine you press there in Saba? + Bilkis your voice loud above the camel bells + white sword of dawn to split the fog, + Bilkis your small strong hands to tear + the hands from about my throat. + Ah Bilkis when out of Saba? + + _Pera Palace_ + + + + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcribers' note: + +The original spelling has been retained. + +Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). + +One typographical error was corrected: + Jasdin-->Jardin du Luxembourg. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PUSHCART AT THE CURB*** + + +******* This file should be named 32778-8.txt or 32778-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/2/7/7/32778 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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