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diff --git a/old/35667.txt b/old/35667.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6f25c01 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/35667.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2210 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sour Grapes, by William Carlos Williams + +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: Sour Grapes + A Book of Poems + +Author: William Carlos Williams + +Release Date: March 24, 2011 [EBook #35667] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUR GRAPES *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive.) + + + + + + + + + + 'SOUR GRAPES' + + _A Book of Poems_ + + + BOSTON + THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY + 1921 + + + + + _Copyright, 1921, by_ + THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY + + The Four Seas Press + Boston, Mass., U. S. A. + + + + + To ALFRED KREYMBORG + + + + +Certain of the poems in this book have appeared in the magazines: +_Poetry_, _a Magazine of Verse_, _The Egoist_, _The Little Review_, +_The Dial_, _Others_, and _Contact_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Page + + THE LATE SINGER 11 + + MARCH 12 + + BERKET AND THE STARS 17 + + A CELEBRATION 18 + + APRIL 21 + + A GOODNIGHT 22 + + OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES 24 + + ROMANCE MODERNE 26 + + THE DESOLATE FIELD 30 + + WILLOW POEM 31 + + APPROACH OF WINTER 32 + + JANUARY 33 + + BLIZZARD 34 + + TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY 35 + + WINTER TREES 36 + + COMPLAINT 37 + + THE COLD NIGHT 38 + + SPRING STORM 39 + + THE DELICACIES 40 + + THURSDAY 43 + + THE DARK DAY 44 + + TIME, THE HANGMAN 45 + + TO A FRIEND 46 + + THE GENTLE MAN 47 + + THE SOUGHING WIND 48 + + SPRING 49 + + PLAY 50 + + LINES 51 + + THE POOR 52 + + COMPLETE DESTRUCTION 53 + + MEMORY OF APRIL 54 + + EPITAPH 55 + + DAISY 56 + + PRIMROSE 57 + + QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE 58 + + GREAT MULLEN 59 + + WAITING 60 + + THE HUNTER 61 + + ARRIVAL 62 + + TO A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES 63 + + YOUTH AND BEAUTY 65 + + THE THINKER 66 + + THE DISPUTANTS 67 + + THE TULIP BED 68 + + THE BIRDS 69 + + THE NIGHTINGALES 70 + + SPOUTS 71 + + BLUEFLAGS 72 + + THE WIDOW'S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME 73 + + LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM 74 + + PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR 75 + + THE LONELY STREET 77 + + THE GREAT FIGURE 78 + + + + +SOUR GRAPES + + + + +THE LATE SINGER + + + Here it is spring again + and I still a young man! + I am late at my singing. + The sparrow with the black rain on his breast + has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past: + What is it that is dragging at my heart? + The grass by the back door + is stiff with sap. + The old maples are opening + their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers. + A moon hangs in the blue + in the early afternoons over the marshes. + I am late at my singing. + + + + +MARCH + + +I + + Winter is long in this climate + and spring--a matter of a few days + only,--a flower or two picked + from mud or from among wet leaves + or at best against treacherous + bitterness of wind, and sky shining + teasingly, then closing in black + and sudden, with fierce jaws. + + +II + + March, + you remind me of + the pyramids, our pyramids-- + stript of the polished stone + that used to guard them! + March, + you are like Fra Angelico + at Fiesole, painting on plaster! + + March, + you are like a band of + young poets that have not learned + the blessedness of warmth + (or have forgotten it). + + At any rate-- + I am moved to write poetry + for the warmth there is in it + and for the loneliness-- + a poem that shall have you + in it March. + + +III + + See! + Ashur-ban-i-pal, + the archer king, on horse-back, + in blue and yellow enamel! + with drawn bow--facing lions + standing on their hind legs, + fangs bared! his shafts + bristling in their necks! + + Sacred bulls--dragons + in embossed brickwork + marching--in four tiers-- + along the sacred way to + Nebuchadnezzar's throne hall! + They shine in the sun, + they that have been marching-- + marching under the dust of + ten thousand dirt years. + + Now-- + they are coming into bloom again! + See them! + marching still, bared by + the storms from my calendar + --winds that blow back the sand! + winds that enfilade dirt! + winds that by strange craft + have whipt up a black army + that by pick and shovel + bare a procession to + the god, Marduk! + + Natives cursing and digging + for pay unearth dragons with + upright tails and sacred bulls + alternately-- + in four tiers-- + lining the way to an old altar! + Natives digging at old walls-- + digging me warmth--digging me + sweet loneliness-- + high enamelled walls. + + +IV + + My second spring-- + passed in a monastery + with plaster walls--in Fiesole + on the hill above Florence. + + My second spring--painted + a virgin--in a blue aureole + sitting on a three-legged stool, + arms crossed-- + she is intently serious, + and still + watching an angel + with coloured wings + half kneeling before her-- + and smiling--the angel's eyes + holding the eyes of Mary + as a snake's holds a bird's. + On the ground there are flowers, + trees are in leaf. + + +V + + But! now for the battle! + Now for murder--now for the real thing! + My third springtime is approaching! + Winds! + lean, serious as a virgin, + seeking, seeking the flowers of March. + + Seeking + flowers nowhere to be found, + they twine among the bare branches + in insatiable eagerness-- + they whirl up the snow + seeking under it-- + they--the winds--snakelike + roar among yellow reeds + seeking flowers--flowers. + + I spring among them + seeking one flower + in which to warm myself! + + I deride with all the ridicule + of misery-- + my own starved misery. + + Counter-cutting winds + strike against me + refreshing their fury! + + Come, good, cold fellows! + Have we no flowers? + Defy then with even more + desperation than ever--being + lean and frozen! + + But though you are lean and frozen-- + think of the blue bulls of Babylon. + + Fling yourselves upon + their empty roses-- + cut savagely! + + But-- + think of the painted monastery + at Fiesole. + + + + +BERKET AND THE STARS + + + A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of + student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones. + Berket in high spirits--"Ha, oranges! Let's have one!" + And he made to snatch an orange from the vender's cart. + + Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timed + to the full sweep of certain wave summits, + that the rumor of the thing has come down through + three generations--which is relatively forever! + + + + +A CELEBRATION + + + A middle-northern March, now as always-- + gusts from the south broken against cold winds-- + but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, + it moves--not into April--into a second March, + the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping + upon the mould: this is the shadow projects the tree + upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere. + + So we will put on our pink felt hat--new last year! + --newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back + the seasons--and let us walk to the orchid-house, + see the flowers will take the prize to-morrow + at the Palace. + Stop here, these are our oleanders. + When they are in bloom-- + You would waste words + It is clearer to me than if the pink + were on the branch. It would be a searching in + a coloured cloud to reveal that which now, huskless, + shows the very reason for their being. + + And these the orange-trees, in blossom--no need + to tell with this weight of perfume in the air. + If it were not so dark in this shed one could better + see the white. + It is that very perfume + has drawn the darkness down among the leaves. + Do I speak clearly enough? + It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone + loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings-- + not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion + of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves + its own caretaker. + And here are the orchids! + Never having seen + such gaiety I will read these flowers for you: + This is an odd January, died--in Villon's time. + Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet + grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom. + + And this, a certain July from Iceland: + a young woman of that place + breathed it toward the south. It took root there. + The colour ran true but the plant is small. + + This falling spray of snowflakes is + a handful of dead Februarys + prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez + of Guatemala. + Here's that old friend who + went by my side so many years: this full, fragile + head of veined lavender. Oh that April + that we first went with our stiff lusts + leaving the city behind, out to the green hill-- + May, they said she was. A hand for all of us: + this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem. + + June is a yellow cup I'll not name; August + the over-heavy one. And here are-- + russet and shiny, all but March. And March? + Ah, March-- + Flowers are a tiresome pastime. + One has a wish to shake them from their pots + root and stern, for the sun to gnaw. + + Walk out again into the cold and saunter home + to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough. + I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze + instead which will at least warm our hands + and stir up the talk. + I think we have kept fair time. + Time is a green orchid. + + + + +APRIL + + + If you had come away with me + into another state + we had been quiet together. + But there the sun coming up + out of the nothing beyond the lake was + too low in the sky, + there was too great a pushing + against him, + too much of sumac buds, pink + in the head + with the clear gum upon them, + too many opening hearts of + lilac leaves, + too many, too many swollen + limp poplar tassels on the + bare branches! + It was too strong in the air. + I had no rest against that + springtime! + The pounding of the hoofs on the + raw sods + stayed with me half through the night. + I awoke smiling but tired. + + + + +A GOODNIGHT + + + Go to sleep--though of course you will not-- + to tideless waves thundering slantwise against + strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray + dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, + scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady + car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gust + broken by the wind; calculating wings set above + the field of waves breaking. + Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, + refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! + Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white + for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild + chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices-- + sleep, sleep.... + + Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. + Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, + hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings-- + lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, + the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: + it is all to put you to sleep, + to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, + and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen + and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, + brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, + sleep and dream-- + + A black fungus springs out about lonely church doors-- + sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon + the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his + message, to have in at your window. Pay no + heed to him. He storms at your sill with + cooings, with gesticulations, curses! + You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. + He would have you sit under your desk lamp + brooding, pondering; he would have you + slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger + and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen-- + go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; + his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is + a crackbrained messenger. + + The maid waking you in the morning + when you are up and dressing, + the rustle of your clothes as you raise them-- + it is the same tune. + At table the cold, greenish, split grapefruit, its juice + on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in + your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. + + The open street-door lets in the breath of + the morning wind from over the lake. + The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes-- + lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, + the movement of the troubled coat beside you-- + sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep.... + It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of + the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed + with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. + And the night passes--and never passes-- + + + + +OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES + + +I + + Men with picked voices chant the names + of cities in a huge gallery: promises + that pull through descending stairways + to a deep rumbling. + The rubbing feet + of those coming to be carried quicken a + grey pavement into soft light that rocks + to and fro, under the domed ceiling, + across and across from pale + earthcoloured walls of bare limestone. + + Covertly the hands of a great clock + go round and round! Were they to + move quickly and at once the whole + secret would be out and the shuffling + of all ants be done forever. + + A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing + out at a high window, moves by the clock: + disaccordant hands straining out from + a center: inevitable postures infinitely + repeated-- + + +II + + Two--twofour--twoeight! + Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms. + This way ma'm! + --important not to take + the wrong train! + Lights from the concrete + ceiling hang crooked but-- + Poised horizontal + on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders + packed with a warm glow--inviting entry-- + pull against the hour. But brakes can + hold a fixed posture till-- + The whistle! + + Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two! + + Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating + in a small kitchen. Taillights-- + + In time: twofour! + In time: twoeight! + + --rivers are tunneled: trestles + cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating + the same gesture remain relatively + stationary: rails forever parallel + return on themselves infinitely. + The dance is sure. + + + + +ROMANCE MODERNE + + + Tracks of rain and light linger in + the spongy greens of a nature whose + flickering mountain--bulging nearer, + ebbing back into the sun + hollowing itself away to hold a lake,-- + or brown stream rising and falling + at the roadside, turning about, + churning itself white, drawing + green in over it,--plunging glassy funnels + fall-- + And--the other world-- + the windshield a blunt barrier: + Talk to me. Sh! they would hear us. + --the backs of their heads facing us-- + The stream continues its motion of + a hound running over rough ground. + + Trees vanish--reappear--vanish: + detached dance of gnomes--as a talk + dodging remarks, glows and fades. + --The unseen power of words-- + And now that a few of the moves + are clear the first desire is + to fling oneself out at the side into + the other dance, to other music. + Peer Gynt. Rip Van Winkle. Diana. + + If I were young I would try a new alignment-- + alight nimbly from the car, Good-bye!-- + Childhood companions linked two and two + criss-cross: four, three, two, one. + Back into self, tentacles withdrawn. + Feel about in warm self-flesh. + Since childhood, since childhood! + Childhood is a toad in the garden, a + happy toad. All toads are happy + and belong in gardens. A toad to Diana! + + Lean forward. Punch the steersman + behind the ear. Twirl the wheel! + Over the edge! Screams! Crash! + The end. I sit above my head-- + a little removed--or + a thin wash of rain on the roadway + --I am never afraid when he is driving,-- + interposes new direction, + rides us sidewise, unforseen + into the ditch! All threads cut! + Death! Black. The end. The very end-- + + I would sit separate weighing a + small red handful: the dirt of these parts, + sliding mists sheeting the alders + against the touch of fingers creeping + to mine. All stuff of the blind emotions. + But--stirred, the eye seizes + for the first time--The eye awake!-- + anything, a dirt bank with green stars + of scrawny weed flattened upon it under + a weight of air--For the first time!-- + or a yawning depth: Big! + Swim around in it, through it-- + all directions and find + vitreous seawater stuff-- + God how I love you!--or, as I say, + a plunge into the ditch. The end. I sit + examining my red handful. Balancing + --this--in and out--agh. + + Love you? It's + a fire in the blood, willy-nilly! + It's the sun coming up in the morning. + Ha, but it's the grey moon too, already up + in the morning. You are slow. + Men are not friends where it concerns + a woman? Fighters. Playfellows. + White round thighs! Youth! Sighs--! + It's the fillip of novelty. It's-- + + Mountains. Elephants humping along + against the sky--indifferent to + light withdrawing its tattered shreds, + worn out with embraces. It's + the fillip of novelty. It's a fire in the blood. + + Oh get a flannel shirt, white flannel + or pongee. You'd look so well! + I married you because I liked your nose. + I wanted you! I wanted you + in spite of all they'd say-- + + Rain and light, mountain and rain, + rain and river. Will you love me always? + --A car overturned and two crushed bodies + under it.--Always! Always! + And the white moon already up. + White. Clean. All the colors. + A good head, backed by the eye--awake! + backed by the emotions--blind-- + River and mountain, light and rain--or + rain, rock, light, trees--divided: + rain-light counter rocks-trees or + trees counter rain-light-rocks or-- + + Myriads of counter processions + crossing and recrossing, regaining + the advantage, buying here, selling there + --You are sold cheap everywhere in town!-- + lingering, touching fingers, withdrawing + gathering forces into blares, hummocks, + peaks and rivers--river meeting rock + --I wish that you were lying there dead + and I sitting here beside you.-- + It's the grey moon--over and over. + It's the clay of these parts. + + + + +THE DESOLATE FIELD + + + Vast and grey, the sky + is a simulacrum + to all but him whose days + are vast and grey, and-- + In the tall, dried grasses + a goat stirs + with nozzle searching the ground. + --my head is in the air + but who am I...? + And amazed my heart leaps + at the thought of love + vast and grey + yearning silently over me. + + + + +WILLOW POEM + + + It is a willow when summer is over, + a willow by the river + from which no leaf has fallen nor + bitten by the sun + turned orange or crimson. + The leaves cling and grow paler, + swing and grow paler + over the swirling waters of the river + as if loath to let go, + they are so cool, so drunk with + the swirl of the wind and of the river-- + oblivious to winter, + the last to let go and fall + into the water and on the ground. + + + + +APPROACH OF WINTER + + + The half stripped trees + struck by a wind together, + bending all, + the leaves flutter drily + and refuse to let go + or driven like hail + stream bitterly out to one side + and fall + where the salvias, hard carmine,-- + like no leaf that ever was-- + edge the bare garden. + + + + +JANUARY + + + Again I reply to the triple winds + running chromatic fifths of derision + outside my window: + Play louder. + You will not succeed. I am + bound more to my sentences + the more you batter at me + to follow you. + And the wind, + as before, fingers perfectly + its derisive music. + + + + +BLIZZARD + + + Snow: + years of anger following + hours that float idly down-- + the blizzard + drifts its weight + deeper and deeper for three days + or sixty years, eh? Then + the sun! a clutter of + yellow and blue flakes-- + Hairy looking trees stand out + in long alleys + over a wild solitude. + The man turns and there-- + his solitary track stretched out + upon the world. + + + + +TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY + + + Old age is + a flight of small + cheeping birds + skimming + bare trees + above a snow glaze. + Gaining and failing + they are buffetted + by a dark wind-- + But what? + On harsh weedstalks + the flock has rested, + the snow + is covered with broken + seedhusks + and the wind tempered + by a shrill + piping of plenty. + + + + +WINTER TREES + + + All the complicated details + of the attiring and + the disattiring are completed! + A liquid moon + moves gently among + the long branches. + Thus having prepared their buds + against a sure winter + the wise trees + stand sleeping in the cold. + + + + +COMPLAINT + + + They call me and I go + It is a frozen road + past midnight, a dust + of snow caught + in the rigid wheeltracks. + The door opens. + I smile, enter and + shake off the cold. + Here is a great woman + on her side in the bed. + She is sick, + perhaps vomiting, + perhaps laboring + to give birth to + a tenth child. Joy! Joy! + Night is a room + darkened for lovers, + through the jalousies the sun + has sent one gold needle! + I pick the hair from her eyes + and watch her misery + with compassion. + + + + +THE COLD NIGHT + + + It is cold. The white moon + is up among her scattered stars-- + like the bare thighs of + the Police Seargent's wife--among + her five children.... + No answer. Pale shadows lie upon + the frosted grass. One answer: + It is midnight, it is still + and it is cold...! + White thighs of the sky! a + new answer out of the depths of + my male belly: In April.... + In April I shall see again--In April! + the round and perfect thighs + of the Police Sergent's wife + perfect still after many babies. + Oya! + + + + +SPRING STORM + + + The sky has given over + its bitterness. + Out of the dark change + all day long + rain falls and falls + as if it would never end. + Still the snow keeps + its hold on the ground. + But water, water + from a thousand runnels! + It collects swiftly, + dappled with black + cuts a way for itself + through green ice in the gutters. + Drop after drop it falls + from the withered grass-stems + of the overhanging embankment. + + + + +THE DELICACIES + + + The hostess, in pink satin and blond hair--dressed + high--shone beautifully in her white slippers against + the great silent bald head of her little-eyed husband! + Raising a glass of yellow Rhine wine in the narrow + space just beyond the light-varnished woodwork and + the decorative column between dining-room and hall, + she smiled the smile of water tumbling from one ledge + to another. + + We began with a herring salad: delicately flavoured + saltiness in scallops of lettuce-leaves. + + The little owl-eyed and thick-set lady with masses + of grey hair has smooth pink cheeks without a wrinkle. + She cannot be the daughter of the little red-faced + fellow dancing about inviting lion-headed Wolff the + druggist to play the piano! But she is. Wolff is a + terrific smoker: if the telephone goes off at night--so + his curled-haired wife whispers--he rises from bed but + cannot answer till he has lighted a cigarette. + + Sherry wine in little conical glasses, dull brownish + yellow, and tomatoes stuffed with finely cut chicken + and mayonnaise! + + The tall Irishman in a Prince Albert and the usual + striped trousers is going to sing for us. (The piano + is in a little alcove with dark curtains.) The hostess's + sister--ten years younger than she--in black net and + velvet, has hair like some filmy haystack, cloudy about + the eyes. She will play for her husband. + + My wife is young, yes she is young and pretty when + she cares to be--when she is interested in a discussion: + it is the little dancing mayor's wife telling her of the + Day nursery in East Rutherford, 'cross the track, + divided from us by the railroad--and disputes as to + precedence. It is in this town the saloon flourishes, + the saloon of my friend on the right whose wife has + twice offended with chance words. Her English is + atrocious! It is in this town that the saloon is situated, + close to the railroad track, close as may be, this side + being dry, dry, dry: two people listening on opposite + sides of a wall!--The Day Nursery had sixty-five + babies the week before last, so my wife's eyes shine + and her cheeks are pink and I cannot see a blemish. + + Ice-cream in the shape of flowers and domestic + objects: a pipe for me since I do not smoke, a doll + for you. + + The figure of some great bulk of a woman disappearing + into the kitchen with a quick look over the + shoulder. My friend on the left who has spent the + whole day in a car the like of which some old fellow + would give to an actress: flower-holders, mirrors, + curtains, plush seats--my friend on the left who is + chairman of the Streets committee of the town council--and + who has spent the whole day studying automobile + fire-engines in neighbouring towns in view of + purchase,--my friend, at the Elks last week at the + breaking-up hymn, signalled for them to let Bill--a + familiar friend of the saloon-keeper--sing out all alone + to the organ--and he did sing! + + Salz-rolls, exquisite! and Rhine wine _ad libitum_. + A masterly caviare sandwich. + + The children flitting about above stairs. The + councilman has just bought a National eight--some + car! + + For heaven's sake I mustn't forget the halves of + green peppers stuffed with cream cheese and whole + walnuts! + + + + +THURSDAY + + + I have had my dream--like others-- + and it has come to nothing, so that + I remain now carelessly + with feet planted on the ground + and look up at the sky-- + feeling my clothes about me, + the weight of my body in my shoes, + the rim of my hat, air passing in and out + at my nose--and decide to dream no more. + + + + +THE DARK DAY + + + A three-day-long rain from the east-- + an interminable talking, talking + of no consequence--patter, patter, patter. + Hand in hand little winds + blow the thin streams aslant. + Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion. + A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves, + hurry from one place to another. + Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!-- + An interminable talking, talking, + talking ... it has happened before. + Backward, backward, backward. + + + + +TIME THE HANGMAN + + + Poor old Abner, old white-haired nigger! + I remember when you were so strong + you hung yourself by a rope round the neck + in Doc Hollister's barn to prove you could beat + the faker in the circus--and it didn't kill you. + Now your face is in your hands, and your elbows + are on your knees, and you are silent and broken. + + + + +TO A FRIEND + + + Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men--and + the baby hard to find a father for! + + What will the good Father in Heaven say + to the local judge if he do not solve this problem? + A little two pointed smile and--pouff!-- + the law is changed into a mouthful of phrases. + + + + +THE GENTLE MAN + + + I feel the caress of my own fingers + on my own neck as I place my collar + and think pityingly + of the kind women I have known. + + + + +THE SOUGHING WIND + + + Some leaves hang late, some fall + before the first frost--so goes + the tale of winter branches and old bones. + + + + +SPRING + + + O my grey hairs! + You are truly white as plum blossoms. + + + + +PLAY + + + Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am, + by what devious means do you contrive + to remain idle? Teach me, O master. + + + + +LINES + + + Leaves are greygreen, + the glass broken, bright green. + + + + +THE POOR + + + By constantly tormenting them + with reminders of the lice in + their children's hair, the + School Physician first + brought their hatred down on him, + But by this familiarity + they grew used to him, and so, + at last, + took him for their friend and adviser. + + + + +COMPLETE DESTRUCTION + + + It was an icy day. + We buried the cat, + then took her box + and set fire to it + in the back yard. + Those fleas that escaped + earth and fire + died by the cold. + + + + +MEMORY OF APRIL + + + You say love is this, love is that: + Poplar tassels, willow tendrils + the wind and the rain comb, + tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip-- + branches drifting apart. Hagh! + Love has not even visited this country. + + + + +EPITAPH + + + An old willow with hollow branches + slowly swayed his few high bright tendrils + and sang: + + Love is a young green willow + shimmering at the bare wood's edge. + + + + +DAISY + + + The dayseye hugging the earth + in August, ha! Spring is + gone down in purple, + weeds stand high in the corn, + the rainbeaten furrow + is clotted with sorrel + and crabgrass, the + branch is black under + the heavy mass of the leaves-- + The sun is upon a + slender green stem + ribbed lengthwise. + He lies on his back-- + it is a woman also-- + he regards his former + majesty and + round the yellow center, + split and creviced and done into + minute flowerheads, he sends out + his twenty rays--a little + and the wind is among them + to grow cool there! + + One turns the thing over + in his hand and looks + at it from the rear: brownedged, + green and pointed scales + armor his yellow. + But turn and turn, + the crisp petals remain + brief, translucent, greenfastened, + barely touching at the edges: + blades of limpid seashell. + + + + +PRIMROSE + + + Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! + It is not a color. + It is summer! + It is the wind on a willow, + the lap of waves, the shadow + under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, + three herons, a dead hawk + rotting on a pole-- + Clear yellow! + It is a piece of blue paper + in the grass or a threecluster of + green walnuts swaying, children + playing croquet or one boy + fishing, a man + swinging his pink fists + as he walks-- + It is ladysthumb, forgetmenots + in the ditch, moss under + the flange of the carrail, the + wavy lines in split rock, a + great oaktree-- + It is a disinclination to be + five red petals or a rose, it is + a cluster of birdsbreast flowers + on a red stem six feet high, + four open yellow petals + above sepals curled + backward into reverse spikes-- + Tufts of purple grass spot the + green meadow and clouds the sky. + + + + +QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE + + + Her body is not so white as + anemony petals nor so smooth--nor + so remote a thing. It is a field + of the wild carrot taking + the field by force; the grass + does not raise above it. + Here is no question of whiteness, + white as can be, with a purple mole + at the center of each flower. + Each flower is a hand's span + of her whiteness. Wherever + his hand has lain there is + a tiny purple blemish. Each part + is a blossom under his touch + to which the fibres of her being + stem one by one, each to its end, + until the whole field is a + white desire, empty, a single stem, + a cluster, flower by flower, + a pious wish to whiteness gone over-- + or nothing. + + + + +GREAT MULLEN + + + One leaves his leaves at home + being a mullen and sends up a lighthouse + to peer from: I will have my way, + yellow--A mast with a lantern, ten + fifty, a hundred, smaller and smaller + as they grow more--Liar, liar, liar! + You come from her! I can smell djer-kiss + on your clothes. Ha, ha! you come to me, + you--I am a point of dew on a grass-stem. + Why are you sending heat down on me + from your lantern--You are cowdung, a + dead stick with the bark off. She is + squirting on us both. She has had her + hand on you!--Well?--She has defiled + ME.--Your leaves are dull, thick + and hairy.--Every hair on my body will + hold you off from me. You are a + dungcake, birdlime on a fencerail.-- + I love you, straight, yellow + finger of God pointing to--her! + Liar, broken weed, duncake, you have-- + I am a cricket waving his antenae + and you are high, grey and straight. Ha! + + + + +WAITING + + + When I am alone I am happy. + The air is cool. The sky is + flecked and splashed and wound + with color. The crimson phalloi + of the sassafrass leaves + hang crowded before me + in shoals on the heavy branches. + When I reach my doorstep + I am greeted by + the happy shrieks of my children + and my heart sinks. + I am crushed. + + Are not my children as dear to me + as falling leaves or + must one become stupid + to grow older? + It seems much as if Sorrow + had tripped up my heels. + Let us see, let us see! + What did I plan to say to her + when it should happen to me + as it has happened now? + + + + +THE HUNTER + + + In the flashes and black shadows + of July + the days, locked in each other's arms, + seem still + so that squirrels and colored birds + go about at ease over + the branches and through the air. + + Where will a shoulder split or + a forehead open and victory be? + + Nowhere. + Both sides grow older. + + And you may be sure + not one leaf will lift itself + from the ground + and become fast to a twig again. + + + + +ARRIVAL + + + And yet one arrives somehow, + finds himself loosening the hooks of + her dress + in a strange bedroom-- + feels the autumn + dropping its silk and linen leaves + about her ankles. + The tawdry veined body emerges + twisted upon itself + like a winter wind...! + + + + +TO A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES + + + You know there is not much + that I desire, a few crysanthemums + half lying on the grass, yellow + and brown and white, the + talk of a few people, the trees, + an expanse of dried leaves perhaps + with ditches among them. + But there comes + between me and these things + a letter + or even a look--well placed, + you understand, + so that I am confused, twisted + four ways and--left flat, + unable to lift the food to + my own mouth: + Here is what they say: Come! + and come! and come! And if + I do not go I remain stale to + myself and if I go-- + I have watched + the city from a distance at night + and wondered why I wrote no poem. + Come! yes, + the city is ablaze for you + and you stand and look at it. + + And they are right. There is + no good in the world except out of + a woman and certain women alone + for certain things. But what if + I arrive like a turtle + with my house on my back or + a fish ogling from under water? + It will not do. I must be + steaming with love, colored + like a flamingo. For what? + To have legs and a silly head + and to smell, pah! like a flamingo + that soils its own feathers behind. + Must I go home filled + with a bad poem? + And they say: + Who can answer these things + till he has tried? Your eyes + are half closed, you are a child, + oh, a sweet one, ready to play + but I will make a man of you and + with love on his shoulder--! + + And in the marshes + the crickets run + on the sunny dike's top and + make burrows there, the water + reflects the reeds and the reeds + move on their stalks and rattle drily. + + + + +YOUTH AND BEAUTY + + + I bought a dishmop-- + having no daughter-- + for they had twisted + fine ribbons of shining copper + about white twine + and made a towsled head + of it, fastened it + upon a turned ash stick + slender at the neck + straight, tall-- + when tied upright + on the brass wallbracket + to be a light for me-- + and naked, + as a girl should seem + to her father. + + + + +THE THINKER + + + My wife's new pink slippers + have gay pom-poms. + There is not a spot or a stain + on their satin toes or their sides. + All night they lie together + under her bed's edge. + Shivering I catch sight of them + and smile, in the morning. + Later I watch them + descending the stair, + hurrying through the doors + and round the table, + moving stiffly + with a shake of their gay pom-poms! + And I talk to them + in my secret mind + out of pure happiness. + + + + +THE DISPUTANTS + + + Upon the table in their bowl + in violent disarray + of yellow sprays, green spikes + of leaves, red pointed petals + and curled heads of blue + and white among the litter + of the forks and crumbs and plates + the flowers remain composed. + Cooly their colloquy continues + above the coffee and loud talk + grown frail as vaudeville. + + + + +TULIP BED + + + The May sun--whom + all things imitate-- + that glues small leaves to + the wooden trees + shone from the sky + through bluegauze clouds + upon the ground. + Under the leafy trees + where the suburban streets + lay crossed, + with houses on each corner, + tangled shadows had begun + to join + the roadway and the lawns. + With excellent precision + the tulip bed + inside the iron fence + upreared its gaudy + yellow, white and red, + rimmed round with grass, + reposedly. + + + + +THE BIRDS + + + The world begins again! + Not wholly insufflated + the blackbirds in the rain + upon the dead topbranches + of the living tree, + stuck fast to the low clouds, + notate the dawn. + Their shrill cries sound + announcing appetite + and drop among the bending roses + and the dripping grass. + + + + +THE NIGHTINGALES + + + My shoes as I lean + unlacing them + stand out upon + flat worsted flowers + under my feet. + Nimbly the shadows + of my fingers play + unlacing + over shoes and flowers. + + + + +SPOUTS + + + In this world of + as fine a pair of breasts + as ever I saw + the fountain in + Madison Square + spouts up of water + a white tree + that dies and lives + as the rocking water + in the basin + turns from the stonerim + back upon the jet + and rising there + reflectively drops down again. + + + + +BLUEFLAGS + + + I stopped the car + to let the children down + where the streets end + in the sun + at the marsh edge + and the reeds begin + and there are small houses + facing the reeds + and the blue mist + in the distance + with grapevine trellises + with grape clusters + small as strawberries + on the vines + and ditches + running springwater + that continue the gutters + with willows over them. + The reeds begin + like water at a shore + their pointed petals waving + dark green and light. + But blueflags are blossoming + in the reeds + which the children pluck + chattering in the reeds + high over their heads + which they part + with bare arms to appear + with fists of flowers + till in the air + there comes the smell + of calamus + from wet, gummy stalks. + + + + +THE WIDOW'S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME + + + Sorrow is my own yard + where the new grass + flames as it has flamed + often before but not + with the cold fire + that closes round me this year. + Thirtyfive years + I lived with my husband. + The plumtree is white today + with masses of flowers. + Masses of flowers + load the cherry branches + and color some bushes + yellow and some red + but the grief in my heart + is stronger than they + for though they were my joy + formerly, today I notice them + and turn away forgetting. + Today my son told me + that in the meadows, + at the edge of the heavy woods + in the distance, he saw + trees of white flowers. + I feel that I would like + to go there + and fall into those flowers + and sink into the marsh near them. + + + + +LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM + + + Light hearted William twirled + his November moustaches + and, half dressed, looked + from the bedroom window + upon the spring weather. + + Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily + leaning out to see + up and down the street + where a heavy sunlight + lay beyond some blue shadows. + + Into the room he drew + his head again and laughed + to himself quietly + twirling his green moustaches. + + + + +PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR + + + The birches are mad with green points + the wood's edge is burning with their green, + burning, seething--No, no, no. + The birches are opening their leaves one + by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold + and separate, one by one. Slender tassels + hang swaying from the delicate branch tips-- + Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word. + Black is split at once into flowers. In + every bog and ditch, flares of + small fire, white flowers!--Agh, + the birches are mad, mad with their green. + The world is gone, torn into shreds + with this blessing. What have I left undone + that I should have undertaken + + O my brother, you redfaced, living man + ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon + this same dirt that I touch--and eat. + We are alone in this terror, alone, + face to face on this road, you and I, + wrapped by this flame! + Let the polished plows stay idle, + their gloss already on the black soil. + But that face of yours--! + Answer me. I will clutch you. I + will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face + into your face and force you to see me. + Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest + thing that is in your mind to say, + say anything. I will understand you--! + It is the madness of the birch leaves opening + cold, one by one. + + My rooms will receive me. But my rooms + are no longer sweet spaces where comfort + is ready to wait on me with its crumbs. + A darkness has brushed them. The mass + of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken. + Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed. + I am shaken, broken against a might + that splits comfort, blows apart + my careful partitions, crushes my house + and leaves me--with shrinking heart + and startled, empty eyes--peering out + into a cold world. + + In the spring I would drink! In the spring + I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things. + Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei! + your hands, your lips to drink! + Give me your wrists to drink-- + I drag you, I am drowned in you, you + overwhelm me! Drink! + Save me! The shad bush is in the edge + of the clearing. The yards in a fury + of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror. + Drink and lie forgetting the world. + + And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one. + Coldly I observe them and wait for the end. + And it ends. + + + + +THE LONELY STREET + + + School is over. It is too hot + to walk at ease. At ease + in light frocks they walk the streets + to while the time away. + They have grown tall. They hold + pink flames in their right hands. + In white from head to foot, + with sidelong, idle look-- + in yellow, floating stuff, + black sash and stockings-- + touching their avid mouths + with pink sugar on a stick-- + like a carnation each holds in her hand-- + they mount the lonely street. + + + + +THE GREAT FIGURE + + + Among the rain + and lights + I saw the figure 5 + in gold + on a red + firetruck + moving + with weight and urgency + tense + unheeded + to gong clangs + siren howls + and wheels rumbling + through the dark city. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sour Grapes, by William Carlos Williams + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOUR GRAPES *** + +***** This file should be named 35667.txt or 35667.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/6/6/35667/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive.) + + +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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