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diff --git a/35667-h/35667-h.htm b/35667-h/35667-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ad472c --- /dev/null +++ b/35667-h/35667-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1834 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <title>Sour Grapes | Project Gutenberg</title> + + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right; font-style: normal;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + + hr {width: 33%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + .giant {font-size: 200%} + .big {font-size: 125%} + .note {margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;} + .right {text-align: right;} + .center {text-align: center;} + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + a:link {color:#0000ff; text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:#6633cc; text-decoration:none} + + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 35667 ***</div> + +<p class="center"><span class="giant">‘SOUR GRAPES’</span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big"><i>A Book of Poems</i></span></p> +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/print.png" alt="" /></div> +<p> </p> +<p class="center">BOSTON<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Four Seas Company</span><br /> +1921</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center"><i>Copyright, 1921, by</i><br /> +<span class="smcap">The Four Seas Company</span></p> +<p> </p> +<p class="center">The Four Seas Press<br /> +Boston, Mass., U. S. A.</p> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center">To<br /> +ALFRED KREYMBORG</p> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="note">Certain of the poems in this book have appeared in the magazines: +<i>Poetry</i>, <i>a Magazine of Verse</i>, <i>The Egoist</i>, <i>The Little Review</i>, <i>The +Dial</i>, <i>Others</i>, and <i>Contact</i>.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td> </td><td align="right">Page</td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">the Late Singer</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">March </span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_12">12</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Berket and the Stars</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Celebration</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">April</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">A Goodnight</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Overture to a Dance of Locomotives</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Romance Moderne</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Desolate Field</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Willow Poem</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Approach of Winter</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">January</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Blizzard</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">To Waken an Old Lady</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Winter Trees</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Complaint</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Cold Night</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Spring Storm</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Delicacies</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Thursday</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Dark Day</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Time, the Hangman</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">To a Friend</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Gentle Man</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Soughing Wind</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Spring</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Play</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Lines</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Poor</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Complete Destruction</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Memory of April</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Epitaph</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Daisy</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Primrose</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Queen-Ann’s-Lace</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Great Mullen</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Waiting</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Hunter</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Arrival</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">To a Friend Concerning Several Ladies</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Youth and Beauty</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Thinker</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Disputants</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Tulip Bed</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Birds</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Nightingales</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Spouts</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Blueflags</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Widow’s Lament in Springtime</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Light Hearted William</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Portrait of the Author</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Lonely Street</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">The Great Figure</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> +<h1>SOUR GRAPES</h1> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h2>THE LATE SINGER</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Here it is spring again<br /> +and I still a young man!<br /> +I am late at my singing.<br /> +The sparrow with the black rain on his breast<br /> +has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:<br /> +What is it that is dragging at my heart?<br /> +The grass by the back door<br /> +is stiff with sap.<br /> +The old maples are opening<br /> +their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.<br /> +A moon hangs in the blue<br /> +in the early afternoons over the marshes.<br /> +I am late at my singing.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> +<h2>MARCH</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td align="center">I</td></tr> +<tr><td>Winter is long in this climate<br /> +and spring—a matter of a few days<br /> +only,—a flower or two picked<br /> +from mud or from among wet leaves<br /> +or at best against treacherous<br /> +bitterness of wind, and sky shining<br /> +teasingly, then closing in black<br /> +and sudden, with fierce jaws.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">II</td></tr> +<tr><td> +March,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">you remind me of</span><br /> +the pyramids, our pyramids—<br /> +stript of the polished stone<br /> +that used to guard them!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">March,</span><br /> +you are like Fra Angelico<br /> +at Fiesole, painting on plaster!<br /> +<br /> +March,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">you are like a band of</span><br /> +young poets that have not learned<br /> +the blessedness of warmth<br /> +(or have forgotten it).<br /> +<br /> +At any rate—<br /> +I am moved to write poetry<br /> +for the warmth there is in it<br /> +and for the loneliness—<br /> +a poem that shall have you<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">in it March.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">III</td></tr> +<tr><td>See!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Ashur-ban-i-pal,</span><br /> +the archer king, on horse-back,<br /> +in blue and yellow enamel!<br /> +with drawn bow—facing lions<br /> +standing on their hind legs,<br /> +fangs bared! his shafts<br /> +bristling in their necks!<br /> +<br /> +Sacred bulls—dragons<br /> +in embossed brickwork<br /> +marching—in four tiers—<br /> +along the sacred way to<br /> +Nebuchadnezzar’s throne hall!<br /> +They shine in the sun,<br /> +they that have been marching—<br /> +marching under the dust of<br /> +ten thousand dirt years.<br /> +<br /> +Now—<br /> +they are coming into bloom again!<br /> +See them!<br /> +marching still, bared by<br /> +the storms from my calendar<br /> +—winds that blow back the sand!<br /> +winds that enfilade dirt!<br /> +winds that by strange craft<br /> +have whipt up a black army<br /> +that by pick and shovel<br /> +bare a procession to<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">the god, Marduk!</span><br /> +<br /> +Natives cursing and digging<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>for pay unearth dragons with<br /> +upright tails and sacred bulls<br /> +alternately—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">in four tiers—</span><br /> +lining the way to an old altar!<br /> +Natives digging at old walls—<br /> +digging me warmth—digging me<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">sweet loneliness—</span><br /> +high enamelled walls.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">IV</td></tr> +<tr><td>My second spring—<br /> +passed in a monastery<br /> +with plaster walls—in Fiesole<br /> +on the hill above Florence.<br /> +<br /> +My second spring—painted<br /> +a virgin—in a blue aureole<br /> +sitting on a three-legged stool,<br /> +arms crossed—<br /> +she is intently serious,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">and still</span><br /> +watching an angel<br /> +with coloured wings<br /> +half kneeling before her—<br /> +and smiling—the angel’s eyes<br /> +holding the eyes of Mary<br /> +as a snake’s holds a bird’s.<br /> +On the ground there are flowers,<br /> +trees are in leaf.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">V</td></tr> +<tr><td> +But! now for the battle!<br /> +Now for murder—now for the real thing!<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>My third springtime is approaching!<br /> +Winds!<br /> +lean, serious as a virgin,<br /> +seeking, seeking the flowers of March.<br /> +<br /> +Seeking<br /> +flowers nowhere to be found,<br /> +they twine among the bare branches<br /> +in insatiable eagerness—<br /> +they whirl up the snow<br /> +seeking under it—<br /> +they—the winds—snakelike<br /> +roar among yellow reeds<br /> +seeking flowers—flowers.<br /> +<br /> +I spring among them<br /> +seeking one flower<br /> +in which to warm myself!<br /> +<br /> +I deride with all the ridicule<br /> +of misery—<br /> +my own starved misery.<br /> +<br /> +Counter-cutting winds<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">strike against me</span><br /> +refreshing their fury!<br /> +<br /> +Come, good, cold fellows!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Have we no flowers?</span><br /> +Defy then with even more<br /> +desperation than ever—being<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">lean and frozen!</span><br /> +<br /> +But though you are lean and frozen—<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>think of the blue bulls of Babylon.<br /> +<br /> +Fling yourselves upon<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">their empty roses—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">cut savagely!</span><br /> +<br /> +But—<br /> +think of the painted monastery<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">at Fiesole.</span></td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> +<h2>BERKET AND THE STARS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of<br /> +student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones.<br /> +Berket in high spirits—“Ha, oranges! Let’s have one!”<br /> +And he made to snatch an orange from the vender’s cart.<br /> +<br /> +Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timed<br /> +to the full sweep of certain wave summits,<br /> +that the rumor of the thing has come down through<br /> +three generations—which is relatively forever!</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> +<h2>A CELEBRATION</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>A middle-northern March, now as always—<br /> +gusts from the south broken against cold winds—<br /> +but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,<br /> +it moves—not into April—into a second March,<br /> +the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping<br /> +upon the mould: this is the shadow projects the tree<br /> +upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.<br /> +<br /> +So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year!<br /> +—newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back<br /> +the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house,<br /> +see the flowers will take the prize to-morrow<br /> +at the Palace.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">Stop here, these are our oleanders.</span><br /> +When they are in bloom—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">You would waste words</span><br /> +It is clearer to me than if the pink<br /> +were on the branch. It would be a searching in<br /> +a coloured cloud to reveal that which now, huskless,<br /> +shows the very reason for their being.<br /> +<br /> +And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need<br /> +to tell with this weight of perfume in the air.<br /> +If it were not so dark in this shed one could better<br /> +see the white.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">It is that very perfume</span><br /> +has drawn the darkness down among the leaves.<br /> +Do I speak clearly enough?<br /> +It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone<br /> +loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings—<br /> +not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion<br /> +of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>its own caretaker.<br /> +And here are the orchids!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">Never having seen</span><br /> +such gaiety I will read these flowers for you:<br /> +This is an odd January, died—in Villon’s time.<br /> +Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet<br /> +grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.<br /> +<br /> +And this, a certain July from Iceland:<br /> +a young woman of that place<br /> +breathed it toward the south. It took root there.<br /> +The colour ran true but the plant is small.<br /> +<br /> +This falling spray of snowflakes is<br /> +a handful of dead Februarys<br /> +prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez<br /> +of Guatemala.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">Here’s that old friend who</span><br /> +went by my side so many years: this full, fragile<br /> +head of veined lavender. Oh that April<br /> +that we first went with our stiff lusts<br /> +leaving the city behind, out to the green hill—<br /> +May, they said she was. A hand for all of us:<br /> +this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.<br /> +<br /> +June is a yellow cup I’ll not name; August<br /> +the over-heavy one. And here are—<br /> +russet and shiny, all but March. And March?<br /> +Ah, March—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;">Flowers are a tiresome pastime.</span><br /> +One has a wish to shake them from their pots<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>root and stern, for the sun to gnaw.<br /> +<br /> +Walk out again into the cold and saunter home<br /> +to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough.<br /> +I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze<br /> +instead which will at least warm our hands<br /> +and stir up the talk.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">I think we have kept fair time.</span><br /> +Time is a green orchid.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> +<h2>APRIL</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>If you had come away with me<br /> +into another state<br /> +we had been quiet together.<br /> +But there the sun coming up<br /> +out of the nothing beyond the lake was<br /> +too low in the sky,<br /> +there was too great a pushing<br /> +against him,<br /> +too much of sumac buds, pink<br /> +in the head<br /> +with the clear gum upon them,<br /> +too many opening hearts of<br /> +lilac leaves,<br /> +too many, too many swollen<br /> +limp poplar tassels on the<br /> +bare branches!<br /> +It was too strong in the air.<br /> +I had no rest against that<br /> +springtime!<br /> +The pounding of the hoofs on the<br /> +raw sods<br /> +stayed with me half through the night.<br /> +I awoke smiling but tired.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> +<h2>A GOODNIGHT</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Go to sleep—though of course you will not—<br /> +to tideless waves thundering slantwise against<br /> +strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray<br /> +dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,<br /> +scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady<br /> +car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust<br /> +broken by the wind; calculating wings set above<br /> +the field of waves breaking.<br /> +Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,<br /> +refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!<br /> +Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white<br /> +for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild<br /> +chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices—<br /> +sleep, sleep....<br /> +<br /> +Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.<br /> +Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,<br /> +hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings—<br /> +lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,<br /> +the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:<br /> +it is all to put you to sleep,<br /> +to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,<br /> +and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen<br /> +and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,<br /> +brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,<br /> +sleep and dream—<br /> +<br /> +A black fungus springs out about lonely church doors—<br /> +sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon<br /> +the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his<br /> +message, to have in at your window. Pay no<br /> +heed to him. He storms at your sill with<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>cooings, with gesticulations, curses!<br /> +You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.<br /> +He would have you sit under your desk lamp<br /> +brooding, pondering; he would have you<br /> +slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger<br /> +and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen—<br /> +go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;<br /> +his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is<br /> +a crackbrained messenger.<br /> +<br /> +The maid waking you in the morning<br /> +when you are up and dressing,<br /> +the rustle of your clothes as you raise them—<br /> +it is the same tune.<br /> +At table the cold, greenish, split grapefruit, its juice<br /> +on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in<br /> +your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.<br /> +<br /> +The open street-door lets in the breath of<br /> +the morning wind from over the lake.<br /> +The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—<br /> +lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,<br /> +the movement of the troubled coat beside you—<br /> +sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep....<br /> +It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of<br /> +the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed<br /> +with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.<br /> +And the night passes—and never passes—</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> +<h2>OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td align="center">I</td></tr> +<tr><td>Men with picked voices chant the names<br /> +of cities in a huge gallery: promises<br /> +that pull through descending stairways<br /> +to a deep rumbling.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">The rubbing feet</span><br /> +of those coming to be carried quicken a<br /> +grey pavement into soft light that rocks<br /> +to and fro, under the domed ceiling,<br /> +across and across from pale<br /> +earthcoloured walls of bare limestone.<br /> +<br /> +Covertly the hands of a great clock<br /> +go round and round! Were they to<br /> +move quickly and at once the whole<br /> +secret would be out and the shuffling<br /> +of all ants be done forever.<br /> +<br /> +A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing<br /> +out at a high window, moves by the clock:<br /> +disaccordant hands straining out from<br /> +a center: inevitable postures infinitely<br /> +repeated—</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">II</td></tr> +<tr><td>Two—twofour—twoeight!<br /> +Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.<br /> +This way ma’m!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">—important not to take</span><br /> +the wrong train!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Lights from the concrete</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>ceiling hang crooked but—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Poised horizontal</span><br /> +on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders<br /> +packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—<br /> +pull against the hour. But brakes can<br /> +hold a fixed posture till—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 10em;">The whistle!</span><br /> +<br /> +Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!<br /> +<br /> +Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating<br /> +in a small kitchen. Taillights—<br /> +<br /> +In time: twofour!<br /> +In time: twoeight!<br /> +<br /> +—rivers are tunneled: trestles<br /> +cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating<br /> +the same gesture remain relatively<br /> +stationary: rails forever parallel<br /> +return on themselves infinitely.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">The dance is sure.</span></td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> +<h2>ROMANCE MODERNE</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Tracks of rain and light linger in<br /> +the spongy greens of a nature whose<br /> +flickering mountain—bulging nearer,<br /> +ebbing back into the sun<br /> +hollowing itself away to hold a lake,—<br /> +or brown stream rising and falling<br /> +at the roadside, turning about,<br /> +churning itself white, drawing<br /> +green in over it,—plunging glassy funnels<br /> +fall—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And—the other world—</span><br /> +the windshield a blunt barrier:<br /> +Talk to me. Sh! they would hear us.<br /> +—the backs of their heads facing us—<br /> +The stream continues its motion of<br /> +a hound running over rough ground.<br /> +<br /> +Trees vanish—reappear—vanish:<br /> +detached dance of gnomes—as a talk<br /> +dodging remarks, glows and fades.<br /> +—The unseen power of words—<br /> +And now that a few of the moves<br /> +are clear the first desire is<br /> +to fling oneself out at the side into<br /> +the other dance, to other music.<br /> +Peer Gynt. Rip Van Winkle. Diana.<br /> +<br /> +If I were young I would try a new alignment—<br /> +alight nimbly from the car, Good-bye!—<br /> +Childhood companions linked two and two<br /> +criss-cross: four, three, two, one.<br /> +Back into self, tentacles withdrawn.<br /> +Feel about in warm self-flesh.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>Since childhood, since childhood!<br /> +Childhood is a toad in the garden, a<br /> +happy toad. All toads are happy<br /> +and belong in gardens. A toad to Diana!<br /> +<br /> +Lean forward. Punch the steersman<br /> +behind the ear. Twirl the wheel!<br /> +Over the edge! Screams! Crash!<br /> +The end. I sit above my head—<br /> +a little removed—or<br /> +a thin wash of rain on the roadway<br /> +—I am never afraid when he is driving,—<br /> +interposes new direction,<br /> +rides us sidewise, unforseen<br /> +into the ditch! All threads cut!<br /> +Death! Black. The end. The very end—<br /> +<br /> +I would sit separate weighing a<br /> +small red handful: the dirt of these parts,<br /> +sliding mists sheeting the alders<br /> +against the touch of fingers creeping<br /> +to mine. All stuff of the blind emotions.<br /> +But—stirred, the eye seizes<br /> +for the first time—The eye awake!—<br /> +anything, a dirt bank with green stars<br /> +of scrawny weed flattened upon it under<br /> +a weight of air—For the first time!—<br /> +or a yawning depth: Big!<br /> +Swim around in it, through it—<br /> +all directions and find<br /> +vitreous seawater stuff—<br /> +God how I love you!—or, as I say,<br /> +a plunge into the ditch. The end. I sit<br /> +examining my red handful. Balancing<br /> +—this—in and out—agh.<br /> +<br /> +Love you? It’s<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>a fire in the blood, willy-nilly!<br /> +It’s the sun coming up in the morning.<br /> +Ha, but it’s the grey moon too, already up<br /> +in the morning. You are slow.<br /> +Men are not friends where it concerns<br /> +a woman? Fighters. Playfellows.<br /> +White round thighs! Youth! Sighs—!<br /> +It’s the fillip of novelty. It’s—<br /> +<br /> +Mountains. Elephants humping along<br /> +against the sky—indifferent to<br /> +light withdrawing its tattered shreds,<br /> +worn out with embraces. It’s<br /> +the fillip of novelty. It’s a fire in the blood.<br /> +<br /> +Oh get a flannel shirt, white flannel<br /> +or pongee. You’d look so well!<br /> +I married you because I liked your nose.<br /> +I wanted you! I wanted you<br /> +in spite of all they’d say—<br /> +<br /> +Rain and light, mountain and rain,<br /> +rain and river. Will you love me always?<br /> +—A car overturned and two crushed bodies<br /> +under it.—Always! Always!<br /> +And the white moon already up.<br /> +White. Clean. All the colors.<br /> +A good head, backed by the eye—awake!<br /> +backed by the emotions—blind—<br /> +River and mountain, light and rain—or<br /> +rain, rock, light, trees—divided:<br /> +rain-light counter rocks-trees or<br /> +trees counter rain-light-rocks or—<br /> +<br /> +Myriads of counter processions<br /> +crossing and recrossing, regaining<br /> +the advantage, buying here, selling there<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>—You are sold cheap everywhere in town!—<br /> +lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing<br /> +gathering forces into blares, hummocks,<br /> +peaks and rivers—river meeting rock<br /> +—I wish that you were lying there dead<br /> +and I sitting here beside you.—<br /> +It’s the grey moon—over and over.<br /> +It’s the clay of these parts.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DESOLATE FIELD</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Vast and grey, the sky<br /> +is a simulacrum<br /> +to all but him whose days<br /> +are vast and grey, and—<br /> +In the tall, dried grasses<br /> +a goat stirs<br /> +with nozzle searching the ground.<br /> +—my head is in the air<br /> +but who am I...?<br /> +And amazed my heart leaps<br /> +at the thought of love<br /> +vast and grey<br /> +yearning silently over me.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> +<h2>WILLOW POEM</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>It is a willow when summer is over,<br /> +a willow by the river<br /> +from which no leaf has fallen nor<br /> +bitten by the sun<br /> +turned orange or crimson.<br /> +The leaves cling and grow paler,<br /> +swing and grow paler<br /> +over the swirling waters of the river<br /> +as if loath to let go,<br /> +they are so cool, so drunk with<br /> +the swirl of the wind and of the river—<br /> +oblivious to winter,<br /> +the last to let go and fall<br /> +into the water and on the ground.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> +<h2>APPROACH OF WINTER</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The half stripped trees<br /> +struck by a wind together,<br /> +bending all,<br /> +the leaves flutter drily<br /> +and refuse to let go<br /> +or driven like hail<br /> +stream bitterly out to one side<br /> +and fall<br /> +where the salvias, hard carmine,—<br /> +like no leaf that ever was—<br /> +edge the bare garden.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> +<h2>JANUARY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Again I reply to the triple winds<br /> +running chromatic fifths of derision<br /> +outside my window:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Play louder.</span><br /> +You will not succeed. I am<br /> +bound more to my sentences<br /> +the more you batter at me<br /> +to follow you.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">And the wind,</span><br /> +as before, fingers perfectly<br /> +its derisive music.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> +<h2>BLIZZARD</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Snow:<br /> +years of anger following<br /> +hours that float idly down—<br /> +the blizzard<br /> +drifts its weight<br /> +deeper and deeper for three days<br /> +or sixty years, eh? Then<br /> +the sun! a clutter of<br /> +yellow and blue flakes—<br /> +Hairy looking trees stand out<br /> +in long alleys<br /> +over a wild solitude.<br /> +The man turns and there—<br /> +his solitary track stretched out<br /> +upon the world.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> +<h2>TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Old age is<br /> +a flight of small<br /> +cheeping birds<br /> +skimming<br /> +bare trees<br /> +above a snow glaze.<br /> +Gaining and failing<br /> +they are buffetted<br /> +by a dark wind—<br /> +But what?<br /> +On harsh weedstalks<br /> +the flock has rested,<br /> +the snow<br /> +is covered with broken<br /> +seedhusks<br /> +and the wind tempered<br /> +by a shrill<br /> +piping of plenty.</td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> +<h2>WINTER TREES</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>All the complicated details<br /> +of the attiring and<br /> +the disattiring are completed!<br /> +A liquid moon<br /> +moves gently among<br /> +the long branches.<br /> +Thus having prepared their buds<br /> +against a sure winter<br /> +the wise trees<br /> +stand sleeping in the cold.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> +<h2>COMPLAINT</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>They call me and I go<br /> +It is a frozen road<br /> +past midnight, a dust<br /> +of snow caught<br /> +in the rigid wheeltracks.<br /> +The door opens.<br /> +I smile, enter and<br /> +shake off the cold.<br /> +Here is a great woman<br /> +on her side in the bed.<br /> +She is sick,<br /> +perhaps vomiting,<br /> +perhaps laboring<br /> +to give birth to<br /> +a tenth child. Joy! Joy!<br /> +Night is a room<br /> +darkened for lovers,<br /> +through the jalousies the sun<br /> +has sent one gold needle!<br /> +I pick the hair from her eyes<br /> +and watch her misery<br /> +with compassion.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE COLD NIGHT</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>It is cold. The white moon<br /> +is up among her scattered stars—<br /> +like the bare thighs of<br /> +the Police Seargent’s wife—among<br /> +her five children....<br /> +No answer. Pale shadows lie upon<br /> +the frosted grass. One answer:<br /> +It is midnight, it is still<br /> +and it is cold...!<br /> +White thighs of the sky! a<br /> +new answer out of the depths of<br /> +my male belly: In April....<br /> +In April I shall see again—In April!<br /> +the round and perfect thighs<br /> +of the Police Sergent’s wife<br /> +perfect still after many babies.<br /> +Oya!</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> +<h2>SPRING STORM</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The sky has given over<br /> +its bitterness.<br /> +Out of the dark change<br /> +all day long<br /> +rain falls and falls<br /> +as if it would never end.<br /> +Still the snow keeps<br /> +its hold on the ground.<br /> +But water, water<br /> +from a thousand runnels!<br /> +It collects swiftly,<br /> +dappled with black<br /> +cuts a way for itself<br /> +through green ice in the gutters.<br /> +Drop after drop it falls<br /> +from the withered grass-stems<br /> +of the overhanging embankment.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DELICACIES</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The hostess, in pink satin and blond hair—dressed<br /> +high—shone beautifully in her white slippers against<br /> +the great silent bald head of her little-eyed husband!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Raising a glass of yellow Rhine wine in the narrow</span><br /> +space just beyond the light-varnished woodwork and<br /> +the decorative column between dining-room and hall,<br /> +she smiled the smile of water tumbling from one ledge<br /> +to another.<br /> +<br /> +We began with a herring salad: delicately flavoured<br /> +saltiness in scallops of lettuce-leaves.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The little owl-eyed and thick-set lady with masses</span><br /> +of grey hair has smooth pink cheeks without a wrinkle.<br /> +She cannot be the daughter of the little red-faced<br /> +fellow dancing about inviting lion-headed Wolff the<br /> +druggist to play the piano! But she is. Wolff is a<br /> +terrific smoker: if the telephone goes off at night—so<br /> +his curled-haired wife whispers—he rises from bed but<br /> +cannot answer till he has lighted a cigarette.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sherry wine in little conical glasses, dull brownish</span><br /> +yellow, and tomatoes stuffed with finely cut chicken<br /> +and mayonnaise!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tall Irishman in a Prince Albert and the usual</span><br /> +striped trousers is going to sing for us. (The piano<br /> +is in a little alcove with dark curtains.) The hostess’s<br /> +sister—ten years younger than she—in black net and<br /> +velvet, has hair like some filmy haystack, cloudy about<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>the eyes. She will play for her husband.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My wife is young, yes she is young and pretty when</span><br /> +she cares to be—when she is interested in a discussion:<br /> +it is the little dancing mayor’s wife telling her of the<br /> +Day nursery in East Rutherford, ’cross the track,<br /> +divided from us by the railroad—and disputes as to<br /> +precedence. It is in this town the saloon flourishes,<br /> +the saloon of my friend on the right whose wife has<br /> +twice offended with chance words. Her English is<br /> +atrocious! It is in this town that the saloon is situated,<br /> +close to the railroad track, close as may be, this side<br /> +being dry, dry, dry: two people listening on opposite<br /> +sides of a wall!—The Day Nursery had sixty-five<br /> +babies the week before last, so my wife’s eyes shine<br /> +and her cheeks are pink and I cannot see a blemish.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ice-cream in the shape of flowers and domestic</span><br /> +objects: a pipe for me since I do not smoke, a doll<br /> +for you.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The figure of some great bulk of a woman disappearing</span><br /> +into the kitchen with a quick look over the<br /> +shoulder. My friend on the left who has spent the<br /> +whole day in a car the like of which some old fellow<br /> +would give to an actress: flower-holders, mirrors,<br /> +curtains, plush seats—my friend on the left who is<br /> +chairman of the Streets committee of the town council—and<br /> +who has spent the whole day studying automobile<br /> +fire-engines in neighbouring towns in view of<br /> +purchase,—my friend, at the Elks last week at the<br /> +breaking-up hymn, signalled for them to let Bill—a<br /> +familiar friend of the saloon-keeper—sing out all alone<br /> +to the organ—and he did sing!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Salz-rolls, exquisite! and Rhine wine <i>ad libitum</i>.</span><br /> +A masterly caviare sandwich.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The children flitting about above stairs. The</span><br /> +councilman has just bought a National eight—some<br /> +car!<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For heaven’s sake I mustn’t forget the halves of</span><br /> +green peppers stuffed with cream cheese and whole<br /> +walnuts!</td></tr></table> + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> +<h2>THURSDAY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>I have had my dream—like others—<br /> +and it has come to nothing, so that<br /> +I remain now carelessly<br /> +with feet planted on the ground<br /> +and look up at the sky—<br /> +feeling my clothes about me,<br /> +the weight of my body in my shoes,<br /> +the rim of my hat, air passing in and out<br /> +at my nose—and decide to dream no more.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DARK DAY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>A three-day-long rain from the east—<br /> +an interminable talking, talking<br /> +of no consequence—patter, patter, patter.<br /> +Hand in hand little winds<br /> +blow the thin streams aslant.<br /> +Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.<br /> +A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,<br /> +hurry from one place to another.<br /> +Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!—<br /> +An interminable talking, talking,<br /> +talking ... it has happened before.<br /> +Backward, backward, backward.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> +<h2>TIME THE HANGMAN</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Poor old Abner, old white-haired nigger!<br /> +I remember when you were so strong<br /> +you hung yourself by a rope round the neck<br /> +in Doc Hollister’s barn to prove you could beat<br /> +the faker in the circus—and it didn’t kill you.<br /> +Now your face is in your hands, and your elbows<br /> +are on your knees, and you are silent and broken.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> +<h2>TO A FRIEND</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men—and<br /> +the baby hard to find a father for!<br /> +<br /> +What will the good Father in Heaven say<br /> +to the local judge if he do not solve this problem?<br /> +A little two pointed smile and—pouff!—<br /> +the law is changed into a mouthful of phrases.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE GENTLE MAN</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>I feel the caress of my own fingers<br /> +on my own neck as I place my collar<br /> +and think pityingly<br /> +of the kind women I have known.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE SOUGHING WIND</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Some leaves hang late, some fall<br /> +before the first frost—so goes<br /> +the tale of winter branches and old bones.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> +<h2>SPRING</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>O my grey hairs!<br /> +You are truly white as plum blossoms.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> +<h2>PLAY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,<br /> +by what devious means do you contrive<br /> +to remain idle? Teach me, O master.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> +<h2>LINES</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Leaves are greygreen,<br /> +the glass broken, bright green.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE POOR</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>By constantly tormenting them<br /> +with reminders of the lice in<br /> +their children’s hair, the<br /> +School Physician first<br /> +brought their hatred down on him,<br /> +But by this familiarity<br /> +they grew used to him, and so,<br /> +at last,<br /> +took him for their friend and adviser.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> +<h2>COMPLETE DESTRUCTION</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>It was an icy day.<br /> +We buried the cat,<br /> +then took her box<br /> +and set fire to it<br /> +in the back yard.<br /> +Those fleas that escaped<br /> +earth and fire<br /> +died by the cold.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> +<h2>MEMORY OF APRIL</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>You say love is this, love is that:<br /> +Poplar tassels, willow tendrils<br /> +the wind and the rain comb,<br /> +tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip—<br /> +branches drifting apart. Hagh!<br /> +Love has not even visited this country.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> +<h2>EPITAPH</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>An old willow with hollow branches<br /> +slowly swayed his few high bright tendrils<br /> +and sang:<br /> +<br /> +Love is a young green willow<br /> +shimmering at the bare wood’s edge.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> +<h2>DAISY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The dayseye hugging the earth<br /> +in August, ha! Spring is<br /> +gone down in purple,<br /> +weeds stand high in the corn,<br /> +the rainbeaten furrow<br /> +is clotted with sorrel<br /> +and crabgrass, the<br /> +branch is black under<br /> +the heavy mass of the leaves—<br /> +The sun is upon a<br /> +slender green stem<br /> +ribbed lengthwise.<br /> +He lies on his back—<br /> +it is a woman also—<br /> +he regards his former<br /> +majesty and<br /> +round the yellow center,<br /> +split and creviced and done into<br /> +minute flowerheads, he sends out<br /> +his twenty rays—a little<br /> +and the wind is among them<br /> +to grow cool there!<br /> +<br /> +One turns the thing over<br /> +in his hand and looks<br /> +at it from the rear: brownedged,<br /> +green and pointed scales<br /> +armor his yellow.<br /> +But turn and turn,<br /> +the crisp petals remain<br /> +brief, translucent, greenfastened,<br /> +barely touching at the edges:<br /> +blades of limpid seashell.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> +<h2>PRIMROSE</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow!<br /> +It is not a color.<br /> +It is summer!<br /> +It is the wind on a willow,<br /> +the lap of waves, the shadow<br /> +under a bush, a bird, a bluebird,<br /> +three herons, a dead hawk<br /> +rotting on a pole—<br /> +Clear yellow!<br /> +It is a piece of blue paper<br /> +in the grass or a threecluster of<br /> +green walnuts swaying, children<br /> +playing croquet or one boy<br /> +fishing, a man<br /> +swinging his pink fists<br /> +as he walks—<br /> +It is ladysthumb, forgetmenots<br /> +in the ditch, moss under<br /> +the flange of the carrail, the<br /> +wavy lines in split rock, a<br /> +great oaktree—<br /> +It is a disinclination to be<br /> +five red petals or a rose, it is<br /> +a cluster of birdsbreast flowers<br /> +on a red stem six feet high,<br /> +four open yellow petals<br /> +above sepals curled<br /> +backward into reverse spikes—<br /> +Tufts of purple grass spot the<br /> +green meadow and clouds the sky.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> +<h2>QUEEN-ANN’S-LACE</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Her body is not so white as<br /> +anemony petals nor so smooth—nor<br /> +so remote a thing. It is a field<br /> +of the wild carrot taking<br /> +the field by force; the grass<br /> +does not raise above it.<br /> +Here is no question of whiteness,<br /> +white as can be, with a purple mole<br /> +at the center of each flower.<br /> +Each flower is a hand’s span<br /> +of her whiteness. Wherever<br /> +his hand has lain there is<br /> +a tiny purple blemish. Each part<br /> +is a blossom under his touch<br /> +to which the fibres of her being<br /> +stem one by one, each to its end,<br /> +until the whole field is a<br /> +white desire, empty, a single stem,<br /> +a cluster, flower by flower,<br /> +a pious wish to whiteness gone over—<br /> +or nothing.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> +<h2>GREAT MULLEN</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>One leaves his leaves at home<br /> +being a mullen and sends up a lighthouse<br /> +to peer from: I will have my way,<br /> +yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten<br /> +fifty, a hundred, smaller and smaller<br /> +as they grow more—Liar, liar, liar!<br /> +You come from her! I can smell djer-kiss<br /> +on your clothes. Ha, ha! you come to me,<br /> +you—I am a point of dew on a grass-stem.<br /> +Why are you sending heat down on me<br /> +from your lantern—You are cowdung, a<br /> +dead stick with the bark off. She is<br /> +squirting on us both. She has had her<br /> +hand on you!—Well?—She has defiled<br /> +ME.—Your leaves are dull, thick<br /> +and hairy.—Every hair on my body will<br /> +hold you off from me. You are a<br /> +dungcake, birdlime on a fencerail.—<br /> +I love you, straight, yellow<br /> +finger of God pointing to—her!<br /> +Liar, broken weed, duncake, you have—<br /> +I am a cricket waving his antenae<br /> +and you are high, grey and straight. Ha!</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> +<h2>WAITING</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>When I am alone I am happy.<br /> +The air is cool. The sky is<br /> +flecked and splashed and wound<br /> +with color. The crimson phalloi<br /> +of the sassafrass leaves<br /> +hang crowded before me<br /> +in shoals on the heavy branches.<br /> +When I reach my doorstep<br /> +I am greeted by<br /> +the happy shrieks of my children<br /> +and my heart sinks.<br /> +I am crushed.<br /> +<br /> +Are not my children as dear to me<br /> +as falling leaves or<br /> +must one become stupid<br /> +to grow older?<br /> +It seems much as if Sorrow<br /> +had tripped up my heels.<br /> +Let us see, let us see!<br /> +What did I plan to say to her<br /> +when it should happen to me<br /> +as it has happened now?</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE HUNTER</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>In the flashes and black shadows<br /> +of July<br /> +the days, locked in each other’s arms,<br /> +seem still<br /> +so that squirrels and colored birds<br /> +go about at ease over<br /> +the branches and through the air.<br /> +<br /> +Where will a shoulder split or<br /> +a forehead open and victory be?<br /> +<br /> +Nowhere.<br /> +Both sides grow older.<br /> +<br /> +And you may be sure<br /> +not one leaf will lift itself<br /> +from the ground<br /> +and become fast to a twig again.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> +<h2>ARRIVAL</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>And yet one arrives somehow,<br /> +finds himself loosening the hooks of<br /> +her dress<br /> +in a strange bedroom—<br /> +feels the autumn<br /> +dropping its silk and linen leaves<br /> +about her ankles.<br /> +The tawdry veined body emerges<br /> +twisted upon itself<br /> +like a winter wind...!</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> +<h2>TO A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>You know there is not much<br /> +that I desire, a few crysanthemums<br /> +half lying on the grass, yellow<br /> +and brown and white, the<br /> +talk of a few people, the trees,<br /> +an expanse of dried leaves perhaps<br /> +with ditches among them.<br /> +But there comes<br /> +between me and these things<br /> +a letter<br /> +or even a look—well placed,<br /> +you understand,<br /> +so that I am confused, twisted<br /> +four ways and—left flat,<br /> +unable to lift the food to<br /> +my own mouth:<br /> +Here is what they say: Come!<br /> +and come! and come! And if<br /> +I do not go I remain stale to<br /> +myself and if I go—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">I have watched</span><br /> +the city from a distance at night<br /> +and wondered why I wrote no poem.<br /> +Come! yes,<br /> +the city is ablaze for you<br /> +and you stand and look at it.<br /> +<br /> +And they are right. There is<br /> +no good in the world except out of<br /> +a woman and certain women alone<br /> +for certain things. But what if<br /> +I arrive like a turtle<br /> +with my house on my back or<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>a fish ogling from under water?<br /> +It will not do. I must be<br /> +steaming with love, colored<br /> +like a flamingo. For what?<br /> +To have legs and a silly head<br /> +and to smell, pah! like a flamingo<br /> +that soils its own feathers behind.<br /> +Must I go home filled<br /> +with a bad poem?<br /> +And they say:<br /> +Who can answer these things<br /> +till he has tried? Your eyes<br /> +are half closed, you are a child,<br /> +oh, a sweet one, ready to play<br /> +but I will make a man of you and<br /> +with love on his shoulder—!<br /> +<br /> +And in the marshes<br /> +the crickets run<br /> +on the sunny dike’s top and<br /> +make burrows there, the water<br /> +reflects the reeds and the reeds<br /> +move on their stalks and rattle drily.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> +<h2>YOUTH AND BEAUTY</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>I bought a dishmop—<br /> +having no daughter—<br /> +for they had twisted<br /> +fine ribbons of shining copper<br /> +about white twine<br /> +and made a towsled head<br /> +of it, fastened it<br /> +upon a turned ash stick<br /> +slender at the neck<br /> +straight, tall—<br /> +when tied upright<br /> +on the brass wallbracket<br /> +to be a light for me—<br /> +and naked,<br /> +as a girl should seem<br /> +to her father.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE THINKER</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>My wife’s new pink slippers<br /> +have gay pom-poms.<br /> +There is not a spot or a stain<br /> +on their satin toes or their sides.<br /> +All night they lie together<br /> +under her bed’s edge.<br /> +Shivering I catch sight of them<br /> +and smile, in the morning.<br /> +Later I watch them<br /> +descending the stair,<br /> +hurrying through the doors<br /> +and round the table,<br /> +moving stiffly<br /> +with a shake of their gay pom-poms!<br /> +And I talk to them<br /> +in my secret mind<br /> +out of pure happiness.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE DISPUTANTS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Upon the table in their bowl<br /> +in violent disarray<br /> +of yellow sprays, green spikes<br /> +of leaves, red pointed petals<br /> +and curled heads of blue<br /> +and white among the litter<br /> +of the forks and crumbs and plates<br /> +the flowers remain composed.<br /> +Cooly their colloquy continues<br /> +above the coffee and loud talk<br /> +grown frail as vaudeville.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> +<h2>TULIP BED</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The May sun—whom<br /> +all things imitate—<br /> +that glues small leaves to<br /> +the wooden trees<br /> +shone from the sky<br /> +through bluegauze clouds<br /> +upon the ground.<br /> +Under the leafy trees<br /> +where the suburban streets<br /> +lay crossed,<br /> +with houses on each corner,<br /> +tangled shadows had begun<br /> +to join<br /> +the roadway and the lawns.<br /> +With excellent precision<br /> +the tulip bed<br /> +inside the iron fence<br /> +upreared its gaudy<br /> +yellow, white and red,<br /> +rimmed round with grass,<br /> +reposedly.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE BIRDS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The world begins again!<br /> +Not wholly insufflated<br /> +the blackbirds in the rain<br /> +upon the dead topbranches<br /> +of the living tree,<br /> +stuck fast to the low clouds,<br /> +notate the dawn.<br /> +Their shrill cries sound<br /> +announcing appetite<br /> +and drop among the bending roses<br /> +and the dripping grass.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE NIGHTINGALES</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>My shoes as I lean<br /> +unlacing them<br /> +stand out upon<br /> +flat worsted flowers<br /> +under my feet.<br /> +Nimbly the shadows<br /> +of my fingers play<br /> +unlacing<br /> +over shoes and flowers.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> +<h2>SPOUTS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>In this world of<br /> +as fine a pair of breasts<br /> +as ever I saw<br /> +the fountain in<br /> +Madison Square<br /> +spouts up of water<br /> +a white tree<br /> +that dies and lives<br /> +as the rocking water<br /> +in the basin<br /> +turns from the stonerim<br /> +back upon the jet<br /> +and rising there<br /> +reflectively drops down again.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> +<h2>BLUEFLAGS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>I stopped the car<br /> +to let the children down<br /> +where the streets end<br /> +in the sun<br /> +at the marsh edge<br /> +and the reeds begin<br /> +and there are small houses<br /> +facing the reeds<br /> +and the blue mist<br /> +in the distance<br /> +with grapevine trellises<br /> +with grape clusters<br /> +small as strawberries<br /> +on the vines<br /> +and ditches<br /> +running springwater<br /> +that continue the gutters<br /> +with willows over them.<br /> +The reeds begin<br /> +like water at a shore<br /> +their pointed petals waving<br /> +dark green and light.<br /> +But blueflags are blossoming<br /> +in the reeds<br /> +which the children pluck<br /> +chattering in the reeds<br /> +high over their heads<br /> +which they part<br /> +with bare arms to appear<br /> +with fists of flowers<br /> +till in the air<br /> +there comes the smell<br /> +of calamus<br /> +from wet, gummy stalks.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE WIDOW’S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Sorrow is my own yard<br /> +where the new grass<br /> +flames as it has flamed<br /> +often before but not<br /> +with the cold fire<br /> +that closes round me this year.<br /> +Thirtyfive years<br /> +I lived with my husband.<br /> +The plumtree is white today<br /> +with masses of flowers.<br /> +Masses of flowers<br /> +load the cherry branches<br /> +and color some bushes<br /> +yellow and some red<br /> +but the grief in my heart<br /> +is stronger than they<br /> +for though they were my joy<br /> +formerly, today I notice them<br /> +and turn away forgetting.<br /> +Today my son told me<br /> +that in the meadows,<br /> +at the edge of the heavy woods<br /> +in the distance, he saw<br /> +trees of white flowers.<br /> +I feel that I would like<br /> +to go there<br /> +and fall into those flowers<br /> +and sink into the marsh near them.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> +<h2>LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Light hearted William twirled<br /> +his November moustaches<br /> +and, half dressed, looked<br /> +from the bedroom window<br /> +upon the spring weather.<br /> +<br /> +Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily<br /> +leaning out to see<br /> +up and down the street<br /> +where a heavy sunlight<br /> +lay beyond some blue shadows.<br /> +<br /> +Into the room he drew<br /> +his head again and laughed<br /> +to himself quietly<br /> +twirling his green moustaches.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> +<h2>PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>The birches are mad with green points<br /> +the wood’s edge is burning with their green,<br /> +burning, seething—No, no, no.<br /> +The birches are opening their leaves one<br /> +by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold<br /> +and separate, one by one. Slender tassels<br /> +hang swaying from the delicate branch tips—<br /> +Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.<br /> +Black is split at once into flowers. In<br /> +every bog and ditch, flares of<br /> +small fire, white flowers!—Agh,<br /> +the birches are mad, mad with their green.<br /> +The world is gone, torn into shreds<br /> +with this blessing. What have I left undone<br /> +that I should have undertaken<br /> +<br /> +O my brother, you redfaced, living man<br /> +ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon<br /> +this same dirt that I touch—and eat.<br /> +We are alone in this terror, alone,<br /> +face to face on this road, you and I,<br /> +wrapped by this flame!<br /> +Let the polished plows stay idle,<br /> +their gloss already on the black soil.<br /> +But that face of yours—!<br /> +Answer me. I will clutch you. I<br /> +will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face<br /> +into your face and force you to see me.<br /> +Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest<br /> +thing that is in your mind to say,<br /> +say anything. I will understand you—!<br /> +It is the madness of the birch leaves opening<br /> +cold, one by one.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span><br /> +My rooms will receive me. But my rooms<br /> +are no longer sweet spaces where comfort<br /> +is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.<br /> +A darkness has brushed them. The mass<br /> +of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.<br /> +Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.<br /> +I am shaken, broken against a might<br /> +that splits comfort, blows apart<br /> +my careful partitions, crushes my house<br /> +and leaves me—with shrinking heart<br /> +and startled, empty eyes—peering out<br /> +into a cold world.<br /> +<br /> +In the spring I would drink! In the spring<br /> +I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.<br /> +Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!<br /> +your hands, your lips to drink!<br /> +Give me your wrists to drink—<br /> +I drag you, I am drowned in you, you<br /> +overwhelm me! Drink!<br /> +Save me! The shad bush is in the edge<br /> +of the clearing. The yards in a fury<br /> +of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.<br /> +Drink and lie forgetting the world.<br /> +<br /> +And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.<br /> +Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.<br /> +And it ends.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE LONELY STREET</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>School is over. It is too hot<br /> +to walk at ease. At ease<br /> +in light frocks they walk the streets<br /> +to while the time away.<br /> +They have grown tall. They hold<br /> +pink flames in their right hands.<br /> +In white from head to foot,<br /> +with sidelong, idle look—<br /> +in yellow, floating stuff,<br /> +black sash and stockings—<br /> +touching their avid mouths<br /> +with pink sugar on a stick—<br /> +like a carnation each holds in her hand—<br /> +they mount the lonely street.</td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p><p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<h2>THE GREAT FIGURE</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td>Among the rain<br /> +and lights<br /> +I saw the figure 5<br /> +in gold<br /> +on a red<br /> +firetruck<br /> +moving<br /> +with weight and urgency<br /> +tense<br /> +unheeded<br /> +to gong clangs<br /> +siren howls<br /> +and wheels rumbling<br /> +through the dark city.</td></tr></table> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 35667 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/35667-h/images/print.png b/35667-h/images/print.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1543ef8 --- /dev/null +++ b/35667-h/images/print.png |
