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diff --git a/old/51997-0.txt b/old/51997-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 08e4241..0000000 --- a/old/51997-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2919 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Al Que Quiere!, 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/license - - -Title: Al Que Quiere! - A Book of Poems - -Author: William Carlos Williams - -Release Date: May 4, 2016 [EBook #51997] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AL QUE QUIERE! *** - - - - -Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - A BOOK OF POEMS - - AL QUE QUIERE! - - +--------------------------------+ - | _By William Carlos Williams_ | - | | - | THE TEMPERS | - | | - | [London: Elkin Mathews] | - +--------------------------------+ - - - - A BOOK OF POEMS - - AL QUE QUIERE! - - BY - WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS - - [Illustration: colophon] - - BOSTON - THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY - 1917 - - _Copyright, 1917, by_ - THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY - - The Four Seas Press - Boston, Mass., U. S. A. - - Había sido un arbusto desmedrado que prolonga sus filamentos hasta - encontrar el humus necesario en una tierra nueva. Y cómo me nutría! - Me nutría con la beatitud con que las hojas trémulas de clorófila - se extienden al sol; con la beatitud con que una raíz encuentra un - cadáver en descompositión; con la beatitud con que los - convalecientes dan sus pasos vacilantes en las mañanas de - primavera, bañadas de luz; ... - - RAFAEL ARÉVALO MARTÍNEZ - - - - Many of the poems in this book have appeared in magazines, - especially in _Poetry_, _Others_, _The Egoist_, and _The Poetry - Journal_. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -PAGE - -SUB TERRA 13 - -PASTORAL 14 - -CHICKORY AND DAISIES 15 - -METRIC FIGURE 16 - -WOMAN WALKING 17 - -GULLS 18 - -APPEAL 19 - -IN HARBOR 20 - -WINTER SUNSET 21 - -APOLOGY 22 - -PASTORAL 23 - -LOVE SONG 24 - -M. B. 25 - -TRACT 26 - -PROMENADE 29 - -EL HOMBRE 31 - -HERO 31 - -LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD! 32 - -CANTHARA 33 - -MUJER 33 - -SUMMER SONG 34 - -LOVE SONG 35 - -FOREIGN 35 - -A PRELUDE 36 - -HISTORY 37 - -WINTER QUIET 42 - -DAWN 42 - -GOOD NIGHT 43 - -DANSE RUSSE 44 - -PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BED 45 - -VIRTUE 47 - -CONQUEST 49 - -PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN WITH A BAD HEART 49 - -KELLER GEGEN DOM 50 - -SMELL 52 - -BALLET 52 - -SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF A CHILD 54 - -THE OGRE 55 - -RIPOSTE 56 - -THE OLD MEN 57 - -PASTORAL 57 - -SPRING STRAINS 58 - -TREES 59 - -A PORTRAIT IN GREYS 60 - -INVITATION 61 - -DIVERTIMIENTO 62 - -JANUARY MORNING 62 - -TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE 67 - -DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUND 69 - -K. MCB. 70 - -LOVE SONG 71 - -THE WANDERER 75 - - - - - AL QUE QUIERE! - - - - - SUB TERRA - - - Where shall I find you, - you my grotesque fellows - that I seek everywhere - to make up my band? - None, not one - with the earthy tastes I require; - the burrowing pride that rises - subtly as on a bush in May. - - Where are you this day, - you my seven year locusts - with cased wings? - Ah my beauties how I long--! - That harvest - that shall be your advent-- - thrusting up through the grass, - up under the weeds - answering me, - _that_ shall be satisfying! - The light shall leap and snap - that day as with a million lashes! - - Oh, I have you; yes - you are about me in a sense: - playing under the blue pools - that are my windows,-- - but they shut you out still, - there in the half light. - - For the simple truth is - that though I see you clear enough - you are not there! - - It is not that--it is you, - you I want! - - --God, if I could fathom - the guts of shadows! - - You to come with me - poking into negro houses - with their gloom and smell! - In among children - leaping around a dead dog! - Mimicking - onto the lawns of the rich! - You! - to go with me a-tip-toe, - head down under heaven, - nostrils lipping the wind! - - - - - PASTORAL - - - When I was younger - it was plain to me - I must make something of myself. - Older now - I walk back streets - admiring the houses - of the very poor: - roof out of line with sides - the yards cluttered - with old chicken wire, ashes, - furniture gone wrong; - the fences and outhouses - built of barrel-staves - and parts of boxes, all, - if I am fortunate, - smeared a bluish green - that properly weathered - pleases me best - of all colors. - - No one - will believe this - of vast import to the nation. - - - - - CHICKORY AND DAISIES - - - I. - - Lift your flowers - on bitter stems - chickory! - Lift them up - out of the scorched ground! - Bear no foliage - but give yourself - wholly to that! - - Strain under them - you bitter stems - that no beast eats-- - and scorn greyness! - Into the heat with them: - cool! - luxuriant! sky-blue! - The earth cracks and - is shriveled up; - the wind moans piteously; - the sky goes out - if you should fail. - - - II. - - I saw a child with daisies - for weaving into the hair - tear the stems - with her teeth! - - - - - METRIC FIGURE - - There is a bird in the poplars! - It is the sun! - The leaves are little yellow fish - swimming in the river. - The bird skims above them, - day is on his wings. - Phœbus! - It is he that is making - the great gleam among the poplars! - It is his singing - outshines the noise - of leaves clashing in the wind. - - - - - WOMAN WALKING - - - An oblique cloud of purple smoke - across a milky silhouette - of house sides and tiny trees-- - a little village-- - that ends in a saw edge - of mist-covered trees - on a sheet of grey sky. - - To the right, jutting in, - a dark crimson corner of roof. - To the left, half a tree: - - --what a blessing it is - to see you in the street again, - powerful woman, - coming with swinging haunches, - breasts straight forward, - supple shoulders, full arms - and strong, soft hands (I’ve felt them) - carrying the heavy basket. - I might well see you oftener! - And for a different reason - than the fresh eggs - you bring us so regularly. - - Yes, you, young as I, - with boney brows, - kind grey eyes and a kind mouth; - you walking out toward me - from that dead hillside! - I might well see you oftener. - - - - - GULLS - - - My townspeople, beyond in the great world, - are many with whom it were far more - profitable for me to live than here with you. - These whirr about me calling, calling! - and for my own part I answer them, loud as I can, - but they, being free, pass! - I remain! Therefore, listen! - For you will not soon have another singer. - - First I say this: you have seen - the strange birds, have you not, that sometimes - rest upon our river in winter? - - Let them cause you to think well then of the storms - that drive many to shelter. These things - do not happen without reason. - - And the next thing I say is this: - I saw an eagle once circling against the clouds - over one of our principal churches-- - Easter, it was--a beautiful day!--: - three gulls came from above the river - and crossed slowly seaward! - Oh, I know you have your own hymns, I have heard them-- - and because I knew they invoked some great protector - I could not be angry with you, no matter - how much they outraged true music-- - - You see, it is not necessary for us to leap at each other, - and, as I told you, in the end - the gulls moved seaward very quietly. - - - - - APPEAL - - - You who are so mighty, - crimson salamander, - hear me once more. - - I lay among the half burned sticks - at the edge of the fire. - The fiend was creeping in. - I felt the cold tips of fingers-- - - O crimson salamander! - - Give me one little flame, - one! - that I may bind it - protectingly about the wrist - of him that flung me here, - here upon the very center! - - This is my song. - - - - - IN HARBOR - - - Surely there, among the great docks, is peace, my mind; - there with the ships moored in the river. - Go out, timid child, - and snuggle in among the great ships talking so quietly. - Maybe you will even fall asleep near them and be - lifted into one of their laps, and in the morning-- - There is always the morning in which to remember it all! - - Of what are they gossiping? God knows. - And God knows it matters little for we cannot understand them. - Yet it is certainly of the sea, of that there can be no question. - It is a quiet sound. Rest! That’s all I care for now. - The smell of them will put us to sleep presently. - Smell! It is the sea water mingling here into the river-- - at least so it seems--perhaps it is something else--but what matter? - - The sea water! It is quiet and smooth here! - How slowly they move, little by little trying - the hawsers that drop and groan with their agony. - Yes, it is certainly of the high sea they are talking. - - - - - WINTER SUNSET - - - Then I raised my head - and stared out over - the blue February waste - to the blue bank of hill - with stars on it - in strings and festoons-- - but above that: - one opaque - stone of a cloud - just on the hill - left and right - as far as I could see; - and above that - a red streak, then - icy blue sky! - - It was a fearful thing - to come into a man’s heart - at that time: that stone - over the little blinking stars - they’d set there. - - - - - APOLOGY - - - Why do I write today? - - The beauty of - the terrible faces - of our nonentities - stirs me to it: - - colored women - day workers-- - old and experienced-- - returning home at dusk - in cast off clothing - faces like - old Florentine oak. - - Also - - the set pieces - of your faces stir me-- - leading citizens-- - but not - in the same way. - - - - - PASTORAL - - - The little sparrows - hop ingenuously - about the pavement - quarreling - with sharp voices - over those things - that interest them. - But we who are wiser - shut ourselves in - on either hand - and no one knows - whether we think good - or evil. - Meanwhile, - the old man who goes about - gathering dog-lime - walks in the gutter - without looking up - and his tread - is more majestic than - that of the Episcopal minister - approaching the pulpit - of a Sunday. - These things - astonish me beyond words. - - - - - LOVE SONG - - - Daisies are broken - petals are news of the day - stems lift to the grass tops - they catch on shoes - part in the middle - leave root and leaves secure. - - Black branches - carry square leaves - to the wood’s top. - They hold firm - break with a roar - show the white! - - Your moods are slow - the shedding of leaves - and sure - the return in May! - - We walked - in your father’s grove - and saw the great oaks - lying with roots - ripped from the ground. - - - - - M. B. - - - Winter has spent this snow - out of envy, but spring is here! - He sits at the breakfast table - in his yellow hair - and disdains even the sun - walking outside - in spangled slippers: - - He looks out: there is - a glare of lights - before a theater,-- - a sparkling lady - passes quickly to - the seclusion of - her carriage. - Presently - under the dirty, wavy heaven - of a borrowed room he will make - re-inhaled tobacco smoke - his clouds and try them - against the sky’s limits! - - - - - TRACT - - - I will teach you my townspeople - how to perform a funeral-- - for you have it over a troop - of artists-- - unless one should scour the world-- - you have the ground sense necessary. - - See! the hearse leads. - I begin with a design for a hearse. - For Christ’s sake not black-- - nor white either-- and not polished! - Let it be weathered-- like a farm wagon-- - with gilt wheels (this could be - applied fresh at small expense) - or no wheels at all: - a rough dray to drag over the ground. - - Knock the glass out! - My God--glass, my townspeople! - For what purpose? Is it for the dead - to look out or for us to see - how well he is housed or to see - the flowers or the lack of them-- - or what? - To keep the rain and snow from him? - He will have a heavier rain soon: - pebbles and dirt and what not. - Let there be no glass-- - and no upholstery phew! - and no little brass rollers - and small easy wheels on the bottom-- - my townspeople what are you thinking of? - - A rough plain hearse then - with gilt wheels and no top at all. - On this the coffin lies - by its own weight. - - No wreathes please-- - especially no hot house flowers. - Some common memento is better, - something he prized and is known by: - his old clothes-- a few books perhaps-- - God knows what! You realize - how we are about these things - my townspeople-- - something will be found-- anything - even flowers if he had come to that. - - So much for the hearse. - For heaven’s sake though see to the driver! - - Take off the silk hat! In fact - that’s no place at all for him-- - up there unceremoniously - dragging our friend out to his own dignity! - Bring him down-- bring him down! - Low and inconspicuous! I’d not have him ride - on the wagon at all-- damn him-- - the undertaker’s understrapper! - Let him hold the reins - and walk at the side - and inconspicuously too! - - Then briefly as to yourselves: - Walk behind-- as they do in France, - seventh class, or if you ride - Hell take curtains! Go with some show - of inconvenience; sit openly-- - to the weather as to grief. - Or do you think you can shut grief in? - What--from us? We who have perhaps - nothing to lose? Share with us - share with us-- it will be money - in your pockets. - - Go now - I think you are ready. - - - - - PROMENADE - - - I. - - Well, mind, here we have - our little son beside us: - a little diversion before breakfast! - - Come, we’ll walk down the road - till the bacon will be frying. - We might better be idle? - A poem might come of it? - Oh, be useful. Save annoyance - to Flossie and besides--the wind! - It’s cold. It blows our - old pants out! It makes us shiver! - See the heavy trees - shifting their weight before it. - Let us be trees, an old house, - a hill with grass on it! - The baby’s arms are blue. - Come, move! Be quieted! - - - II. - - So. We’ll sit here now - and throw pebbles into - this water-trickle. - - Splash the water up! - (Splash it up, Sonny!) Laugh! - Hit it there deep under the grass. - - See it splash! Ah, mind, - see it splash! It is alive! - Throw pieces of broken leaves - into it. They’ll pass through. - No! Yes--just! - - Away now for the cows! But-- - It’s cold! - It’s getting dark. - It’s going to rain. - No further! - - - III. - - Oh then, a wreath! Let’s - refresh something they - used to write well of. - - Two fern plumes. Strip them - to the mid-rib along one side. - Bind the tips with a grass stem. - Bend and intertwist the stalks - at the back. So! - Ah! now we are crowned! - Now we are a poet! - - Quickly! - A bunch of little flowers - for Flossie--the little ones - only: - a red clover, one - blue heal-all, a sprig of - bone-set, one primrose, - a head of Indian tobacco, this - magenta speck and this - little lavender! - Home now, my mind!-- - Sonny’s arms are icy, I tell you-- - and have breakfast! - - - - - EL HOMBRE - - - It’s a strange courage - you give me ancient star: - - Shine alone in the sunrise - toward which you lend no part! - - - - - HERO - - - Fool, - put your adventures - into those things - which break ships-- - not female flesh. - - Let there pass - over the mind - the waters of - four oceans, the airs - of four skies! - - Return hollow-bellied, - keen-eyed, hard! - A simple scar or two. - - Little girls will come - bringing you - roses for your button-hole. - - - - - LIBERTAD! IGUALDAD! FRATERNIDAD! - - - You sullen pig of a man - you force me into the mud - with your stinking ash-cart! - - Brother! - --if we were rich - we’d stick our chests out - and hold our heads high! - - It is dreams that have destroyed us. - - There is no more pride - in horses or in rein holding. - We sit hunched together brooding - our fate. - - Well-- - all things turn bitter in the end - whether you choose the right or - the left way - and-- - dreams are not a bad thing. - - - - - CANTHARA - - - The old black-man showed me - how he had been shocked - in his youth - by six women, dancing - a set-dance, stark naked below - the skirts raised round - their breasts: - bellies flung forward - knees flying! - --while - his gestures, against the - tiled wall of the dingy bath-room, - swished with ecstasy to - the familiar music of - his old emotion. - - - - - MUJER - - - Oh, black Persian cat! - Was not your life - already cursed with offspring? - - We took you for rest to that old - Yankee farm,--so lonely - and with so many field mice - in the long grass-- - and you return to us - in this condition--! - - Oh, black Persian cat. - - - - - SUMMER SONG - - - Wanderer moon - smiling a - faintly ironical smile - at this - brilliant, dew-moistened - summer morning,-- - a detached - sleepily indifferent - smile, a - wanderer’s smile,-- - if I should - buy a shirt - your color and - put on a necktie - sky blue - where would they carry me? - - - - - LOVE SONG - - - Sweep the house clean, - hang fresh curtains - in the windows - put on a new dress - and come with me! - The elm is scattering - its little loaves - of sweet smells - from a white sky! - - Who shall hear of us - in the time to come? - Let him say there was - a burst of fragrance - from black branches. - - - - - FOREIGN - - - Artsybashev is a Russian. - I am an American. - Let us wonder, my townspeople, - if Artsybashev tends his own fires - as I do, gets himself cursed - for the baby’s failure to thrive, - loosens windows for the woman - who cleans his parlor-- - or has he neat servants - and a quiet library, an - intellectual wife perhaps and - no children,--an apartment - somewhere in a back street or - lives alone or with his mother - or sister-- - - I wonder, my townspeople, - if Artsybashev looks upon - himself the more concernedly - or succeeds any better than I - in laying the world. - - I wonder which is the bigger - fool in his own mind. - - These are shining topics - my townspeople but-- - hardly of great moment. - - - - - A PRELUDE - - - I know only the bare rocks of today. - In these lies my brown sea-weed,-- - green quartz veins bent through the wet shale; - in these lie my pools left by the tide-- - quiet, forgetting waves; - on these stiffen white star fish; - on these I slip bare footed! - - Whispers of the fishy air touch my body; - “Sisters,” I say to them. - - - - - HISTORY - - - I. - - A wind might blow a lotus petal - over the pyramids--but not this wind. - - Summer is a dried leaf. - - Leaves stir this way then that - on the baked asphalt, the wheels - of motor cars rush over them,-- - gas smells mingle with leaf smells. - - Oh, Sunday, day of worship!!! - - The steps to the museum are high. - Worshippers pass in and out. - Nobody comes here today. - I come here to mingle faiance dug - from the tomb, turquoise colored - necklaces and belched wind from the - stomach; delicately veined basins - of agate, cracked and discolored and - the stink of stale urine! - - Enter! Elbow in at the door. - Men? Women? - Simpering, clay fetish-faces counting - through the turnstile. - Ah! - - - II. - - This sarcophagus contained the body - of Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut, - Mother of All-- - - Run your finger against this edge! - --here went the chisel!--and think - of an arrogance endured six thousand years - without a flaw! - - But love is an oil to embalm the body. - Love is a packet of spices, a strong - smelling liquid to be squirted into - the thigh. No? - Love rubbed on a bald head will make - hair--and after? Love is - a lice comber! - Gnats on dung! - - “The chisel is in your hand, the block - is before you, cut as I shall dictate: - this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai, - priestess to the sky goddess,--built - to endure forever! - Carve the inside - with the image of my death in - little lines of figures three fingers high. - Put a lid on it cut with Mut bending over - the earth, for my headpiece, and in the year - to be chosen I will rouse, the lid - shall be lifted and I will walk about - the temple where they have rested me - and eat the air of the place: - - Ah--these walls are high! This - is in keeping.” - - - III. - - The priestess has passed into her tomb. - The stone has taken up her spirit! - Granite over flesh: who will deny - its advantages? - - Your death?--water - spilled upon the ground-- - though water will mount again into rose-leaves-- - but you?--would hold life still, - even as a memory, when it is over. - Benevolence is rare. - - Climb about this sarcophagus, read - what is writ for you in these figures, - hard as the granite that has held them - with so soft a hand the while - your own flesh has been fifty times - through the guts of oxen,--read! - “The rose-tree will have its donor - even though he give stingily. - The gift of some endures - ten years, the gift of some twenty - and the gift of some for the time a - great house rots and is torn down. - Some give for a thousand years to men of - one face, some for a thousand - to all men and some few to all men - while granite holds an edge against - the weather. - Judge then of love!” - - - IV. - - “My flesh is turned to stone. I - have endured my summer. The flurry - of falling petals is ended. Lay - the finger upon this granite. I was - well desired and fully caressed - by many lovers but my flesh - withered swiftly and my heart was - never satisfied. Lay your hands - upon the granite as a lover lays his - hand upon the thigh and upon the - round breasts of her who is - beside him, for now I will not wither, - now I have thrown off secrecy, now - I have walked naked into the street, - now I have scattered my heavy beauty - in the open market. - Here I am with head high and a - burning heart eagerly awaiting - your caresses, whoever it may be, - for granite is not harder than - my love is open, runs loose among you! - - I arrogant against death! I - who have endured! I worn against - the years!” - - - V. - - But it is five o’clock. Come! - Life is good--enjoy it! - A walk in the park while the day lasts. - I will go with you. Look! this - northern scenery is not the Nile, but-- - these benches--the yellow and purple dusk-- - the moon there--these tired people-- - the lights on the water! - - Are not these Jews and--Ethiopians? - The world is young, surely! Young - and colored like--a girl that has come upon - a lover! Will that do? - - - - - WINTER QUIET - - - Limb to limb, mouth to mouth - with the bleached grass - silver mist lies upon the back yards - among the outhouses. - The dwarf trees - pirouette awkwardly to it-- - whirling round on one toe; - the big tree smiles and glances upward! - Tense with suppressed excitement - the fences watch where the ground - has humped an aching shoulder for the ecstasy. - - - - - DAWN - - - Ecstatic bird songs pound - the hollow vastness of the sky - with metallic clinkings-- - beating color up into it - at a far edge,--beating it, beating it - with rising, triumphant ardor,-- - stirring it into warmth, - quickening in it a spreading change,-- - bursting wildly against it as - dividing the horizon, a heavy sun - lifts himself--is lifted-- - bit by bit above the edge - of things,--runs free at last - out into the open--! lumbering - glorified in full release upward--songs cease. - - - - - GOOD NIGHT - - - In brilliant gas light - I turn the kitchen spigot - and watch the water plash - into the clean white sink. - On the grooved drain-board - to one side is - a glass filled with parsley-- - crisped green. - Waiting - for the water to freshen-- - I glance at the spotless floor--: - a pair of rubber sandals - lie side by side - under the wall-table, - all is in order for the night. - - Waiting, with a glass in my hand - --three girls in crimson satin - pass close before me on - the murmurous background of - the crowded opera-- - it is - memory playing the clown-- - three vague, meaningless girls - full of smells and - the rustling sound of - cloth rubbing on cloth and - little slippers on carpet-- - high-school French - spoken in a loud voice! - - Parsley in a glass, - still and shining, - brings me back. I take my drink - and yawn deliciously. - I am ready for bed. - - - - - DANSE RUSSE - - - If I when my wife is sleeping - and the baby and Kathleen - are sleeping - and the sun is a flame-white disc - in silken mists - above shining trees,-- - if I in my north room - danse naked, grotesquely - before my mirror - waving my shirt round my head - and singing softly to myself: - “I am lonely, lonely. - I was born to be lonely. - I am best so!” - If I admire my arms, my face - my shoulders, flanks, buttocks - against the yellow drawn shades,-- - - who shall say I am not - the happy genius of my household? - - - - - PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN IN BED - - - There’s my things - drying in the corner: - that blue skirt - joined to the grey shirt-- - - I’m sick of trouble! - Lift the covers - if you want me - and you’ll see - the rest of my clothes-- - though it would be cold - lying with nothing on! - - I won’t work - and I’ve got no cash. - What are you going to do - about it? - - --and no jewelry - (the crazy fools) - - But I’ve my two eyes - and a smooth face - and here’s this! look! - it’s high! - There’s brains and blood - in there-- - my name’s Robitza! - Corsets - can go to the devil-- - and drawers along with them! - What do I care! - - My two boys? - --they’re keen! - Let the rich lady - care for them-- - they’ll beat the school - or - let them go to the gutter-- - that ends trouble. - - This house is empty - isn’t it? - Then it’s mine - because I need it. - - Oh, I won’t starve - while there’s the Bible - to make them feed me. - - Try to help me - if you want trouble - or leave me alone-- - that ends trouble. - - The county physician - is a damned fool - and you - can go to hell! - - You could have closed the door - when you came in; - do it when you go out. - I’m tired. - - - - - VIRTUE - - - Now? Why-- - whirl-pools of - orange and purple flame - feather twists of chrome - on a green ground - funneling down upon - the steaming phallus-head - of the mad sun himself-- - blackened crimson! - Now? - - Why-- - it is the smile of her - the smell of her - the vulgar inviting mouth of her! - It is--Oh, nothing new - nothing that lasts - an eternity, nothing worth - putting out to interest, - nothing-- - but the fixing of an eye - concretely upon emptiness! - - Come! here are-- - cross-eyed men, a boy - with a patch, men walking - in their shirts, men in hats - dark men, a pale man - with little black moustaches - and a dirty white coat, - fat men with pudgy faces, - thin faces, crooked faces - slit eyes, grey eyes, black eyes - old men with dirty beards, - men in vests with - gold watch chains. Come! - - - - - CONQUEST - -[_Dedicated to F. W._] - - - Hard, chilly colors: - straw grey, frost grey - the grey of frozen ground: - and you, O sun, - close above the horizon! - It is I holds you-- - half against the sky - half against a black tree trunk - icily resplendent! - - Lie there, blue city, mine at last-- - rimming the banked blue grey - and rise, indescribable smoky yellow - into the overpowering white! - - - - - PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG MAN WITH A BAD HEART - - - Have I seen her? - Only through the window - across the street. - - If I go meeting her - on the corner - some damned fool - will go blabbing it - to the old man and - she’ll get hell. - He’s a queer old bastard! - Every time he sees me - you’d think - I wanted to kill him. - But I figure it out - it’s best to let things - stay as they are-- - for a while at least. - - It’s hard - giving up the thing - you want most - in the world, but with this - damned pump of mine - liable to give out ... - - She’s a good kid - and I’d hate to hurt her - but if she can get over it-- - - it’d be the best thing. - - - - - KELLER GEGEN DOM - - - Witness, would you-- - one more young man - in the evening of his love - hurrying to confession: - steps down a gutter - crosses a street - goes in at a doorway - opens for you-- - like some great flower-- - a room filled with lamplight; - or whirls himself - obediently to - the curl of a hill - some wind-dancing afternoon; - lies for you in - the futile darkness of - a wall, sets stars dancing - to the crack of a leaf-- - - and--leaning his head away-- - snuffs (secretly) - the bitter powder from - his thumb’s hollow, - takes your blessing and - goes home to bed? - - Witness instead - whether you like it or not - a dark vinegar smelling place - from which trickles - the chuckle of - beginning laughter - - It strikes midnight. - - - - - SMELL! - - - Oh strong ridged and deeply hollowed - nose of mine! what will you not be smelling? - What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose, - always indiscriminate, always unashamed, - and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled - poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth - beneath them. With what deep thirst - we quicken our desires - to that rank odor of a passing spring-time! - Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors - for something less unlovely? What girl will care - for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways? - Must you taste everything? Must you know everything? - Must you have a part in everything? - - - - - BALLET - - - Are you not weary, - great gold cross - shining in the wind-- - are you not weary - of seeing the stars - turning over you - and the sun - going to his rest - and you frozen with - a great lie - that leaves you - rigid as a knight - on a marble coffin? - - --and you, - higher, still, - robin, - untwisting a song - from the bare - top-twigs, - are you not - weary of labor, - even the labor of - a song? - - Come down--join me - for I am lonely. - - First it will be - a quiet pace - to ease our stiffness - but as the west yellows - you will be ready! - - Here in the middle - of the roadway - we will fling - ourselves round - with dust lilies - till we are bound in - their twining stems! - We will tear - their flowers - with arms flashing! - - And when - the astonished stars - push aside - their curtains - they will see us - fall exhausted where - wheels and - the pounding feet - of horses - will crush forth - our laughter. - - - - - SYMPATHETIC PORTRAIT OF A CHILD - - - The murderer’s little daughter - who is barely ten years old - jerks her shoulders - right and left - so as to catch a glimpse of me - without turning round. - - Her skinny little arms - wrap themselves - this way then that - reversely about her body! - Nervously - she crushes her straw hat - about her eyes - and tilts her head - to deepen the shadow-- - smiling excitedly! - - As best as she can - she hides herself - in the full sunlight - her cordy legs writhing - beneath the little flowered dress - that leaves them bare - from mid-thigh to ankle-- - - Why has she chosen me - for the knife - that darts along her smile? - - - - - THE OGRE - - - Sweet child, - little girl with well shaped legs - you cannot touch the thoughts - I put over and under and around you. - - This is fortunate for they would - burn you to an ash otherwise. - Your petals would be quite curled up. - - This is all beyond you--no doubt, - yet you do feel the brushings - of the fine needles; - the tentative lines of your whole body - prove it to me; - so does your fear of me, - your shyness; - likewise the toy baby cart - that you are pushing-- - and besides, mother has begun - to dress your hair in a knot. - These are my excuses. - - - - - RIPOSTE - - - Love is like water or the air - my townspeople; - it cleanses, and dissipates evil gases. - It is like poetry too - and for the same reasons. - - Love is so precious - my townspeople - that if I were you I would - have it under lock and key-- - like the air or the Atlantic or - like poetry! - - - - - THE OLD MEN - - - Old men who have studied - every leg show - in the city - Old men cut from touch - by the perfumed music-- - polished or fleeced skulls - that stand before - the whole theater - in silent attitudes - of attention,-- - old men who have taken precedence - over young men - and even over dark-faced - husbands whose minds - are a street with arc-lights. - Solitary old men for whom - we find no excuses-- - I bow my head in shame - for those who malign you. - Old men - the peaceful beer of impotence - be yours! - - - - - PASTORAL - - - If I say I have heard voices - who will believe me? - - “None has dipped his hand - in the black waters of the sky - nor picked the yellow lilies - that sway on their clear stems - and no tree has waited - long enough nor still enough - to touch fingers with the moon.” - - I looked and there were little frogs - with puffed out throats, - singing in the slime. - - - - - SPRING STRAINS - - - In a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds - crowded erect with desire against - the sky-- - tense blue-grey twigs - slenderly anchoring them down, drawing - them in-- - two blue-grey birds chasing - a third struggle in circles, angles, - swift convergings to a point that bursts - instantly! - - Vibrant bowing limbs - pull downward, sucking in the sky - that bulges from behind, plastering itself - against them in packed rifts, rock blue - and dirty orange! - But-- - - (Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!) - the blinding and red-edged sun-blur-- - creeping energy, concentrated - counterforce--welds sky, buds, trees, - rivets them in one puckering hold! - Sticks through! Pulls the whole - counter-pulling mass upward, to the right, - locks even the opaque, not yet defined - ground in a terrific drag that is - loosening the very tap-roots! - - On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds - two blue-grey birds, chasing a third, - at full cry! Now they are - flung outward and up--disappearing suddenly! - - - - - TREES - - - Crooked, black tree - on your little grey-black hillock, - ridiculously raised one step toward - the infinite summits of the night: - even you the few grey stars - draw upward into a vague melody - of harsh threads. - - Bent as you are from straining - against the bitter horizontals of - a north wind,--there below you - how easily the long yellow notes - of poplars flow upward in a descending - scale, each note secure in its own - posture--singularly woven. - - All voices are blent willingly - against the heaving contra-bass - of the dark but you alone - warp yourself passionately to one side - in your eagerness. - - - - - A PORTRAIT IN GREYS - - - Will it never be possible - to separate you from your greyness? - Must you be always sinking backward - into your grey-brown landscapes--and trees - always in the distance, always against - a grey sky? - Must I be always - moving counter to you? Is there no place - where we can be at peace together - and the motion of our drawing apart - be altogether taken up? - I see myself - standing upon your shoulders touching - a grey, broken sky-- - but you, weighted down with me, - yet gripping my ankles,--move - laboriously on, - where it is level and undisturbed by colors. - - - - - INVITATION - - - You who had the sense - to choose me such a mother, - you who had the indifference - to create me, - you who went to some pains - to leave hands off me - in the formative stages,-- - (I thank you most for that - perhaps) - but you who - with an iron head, first, - fiercest and with strongest love - brutalized me into strength, - old dew-lap,-- - I have reached the stage - where I am teaching myself - to laugh. - Come on, - take a walk with me. - - - - - DIVERTIMIENTO - - - Miserable little woman - in a brown coat-- - quit whining! - My hand for you! - We’ll skip down the tin cornices - of Main Street - flicking the dull roof-line - with our toe-tips! - Hop clear of the bank! A - pin-wheel round the white flag-pole. - - And I’ll sing you the while - a thing to split your sides - about Johann Sebastian Bach, - the father of music, who had - three wives and twenty-two children. - - - - - JANUARY MORNING - - SUITE - - - I. - - I have discovered that most of - the beauties of travel are due to - the strange hours we keep to see them: - - the domes of the Church of - the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken - against a smoky dawn--the heart stirred-- - are beautiful as Saint Peters - approached after years of anticipation. - - - II. - - Though the operation was postponed - I saw the tall probationers - in their tan uniforms - hurrying to breakfast! - - - III. - - --and from basement entrys - neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen - with orderly moustaches and - well brushed coats - - - IV. - - --and the sun, dipping into the avenues - streaking the tops of - the irregular red houselets, - and - the gay shadows dropping and dropping. - - - V. - - --and a young horse with a green bed-quilt - on his withers shaking his head: - bared teeth and nozzle high in the air! - - - VI. - - --and a semicircle of dirt colored men - about a fire bursting from an old - ash can, - - - VII. - - --and the worn, - blue car rails (like the sky!) - gleaming among the cobbles! - - - VIII. - - --and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”! - What an object to be called “Arden” - among the great piers,--on the - ever new river! - “Put me a Touchstone - at the wheel, white gulls, and we’ll - follow the ghost of the Half Moon - to the North West Passage--and through! - (at Albany!) for all that!” - - - IX. - - Exquisite brown waves--long - circlets of silver moving over you! - enough with crumbling ice-crusts among you! - The sky has come down to you, - lighter than tiny bubbles, face to - face with you! - His spirit is - a white gull with delicate pink feet - and a snowy breast for you to - hold to your lips delicately! - - - X. - - The young doctor is dancing with happiness - in the sparkling wind, alone - at the prow of the ferry! He notices - the curdy barnacles and broken ice crusts - left at the slip’s base by the low tide - and thinks of summer and green - shell crusted ledges among - the emerald eel-grass! - - - XI. - - Who knows the Palisades as I do - knows the river breaks east from them - above the city--but they continue south - --under the sky--to bear a crest of - little peering houses that brighten - with dawn behind the moody - water-loving giants of Manhattan. - - - XII. - - Long yellow rushes bending - above the white snow patches; - purple and gold ribbon - of the distant wood: - what an angle - you make with each other as - you lie there in contemplation. - - - XIII. - - Work hard all your young days - and they’ll find you too, some morning - staring up under - your chiffonier at its warped - bass-wood bottom and your soul-- - out! - --among the little sparrows - behind the shutter. - - - XIV. - - --and the flapping flags are at - half mast for the dead admiral. - - - XV. - - All this-- - was for you, old woman. - I wanted to write a poem - that you would understand. - For what good is it to me - if you can’t understand it? - But you got to try hard-- - But-- - Well, you know how - the young girls run giggling - on Park Avenue after dark - when they ought to be home in bed? - Well, - that’s the way it is with me somehow. - - - - - TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE - - - Rather notice, mon cher, - that the moon is - tilted above - the point of the steeple - than that its color - is shell-pink. - - Rather observe - that it is early morning - than that the sky - is smooth - as a turquoise. - - Rather grasp - how the dark - converging lines - of the steeple - meet at the pinnacle-- - perceive how - its little ornament - tries to stop them-- - - See how it fails! - See how the converging lines - of the hexagonal spire - escape upward-- - receding, dividing! - --sepals - that guard and contain - the flower! - - Observe - how motionless - the eaten moon - lies in the protecting lines. - - It is true: - in the light colors - of morning - brown-stone and slate - shine orange and dark blue. - - But observe - the oppressive weight - of the squat edifice! - Observe - the jasmine lightness - of the moon. - - - - - DEDICATION FOR A PLOT OF GROUND - - - This plot of ground - facing the waters of this inlet - is dedicated to the living presence of - Emily Richardson Wellcome - who was born in England; married; - lost her husband and with - her five year old son - sailed for New York in a two-master; - was driven to the Azores; - ran adrift on Fire Island shoal, - met her second husband - in a Brooklyn boarding house, - went with him to Puerto Rico - bore three more children, lost - her second husband, lived hard - for eight years in St. Thomas, - Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followed - the oldest son to New York, - lost her daughter, lost her “baby,” - seized the two boys of - the oldest son by the second marriage - mothered them--they being - motherless--fought for them - against the other grandmother - and the aunts, brought them here - summer after summer, defended - herself here against thieves, - storms, sun, fire, - against flies, against girls - that came smelling about, against - drought, against weeds, storm-tides, - neighbors, weasles that stole her chickens, - against the weakness of her own hands, - against the growing strength of - the boys, against wind, against - the stones, against trespassers, - against rents, against her own mind. - - She grubbed this earth with her own hands, - domineered over this grass plot, - blackguarded her oldest son - into buying it, lived here fifteen years, - attained a final loneliness and-- - - If you can bring nothing to this place - but your carcass, keep out. - - - - - K. McB. - - - You exquisite chunk of mud - Kathleen--just like - any other chunk of mud! - --especially in April! - Curl up round their shoes - when they try to step on you, - spoil the polish! - I shall laugh till I am sick - at their amazement. - Do they expect the ground to be - always solid? - Give them the slip then; - let them sit in you; - soil their pants; - teach them a dignity - that is dignity, the dignity - of mud! - - - Lie basking in - the sun then--fast asleep! - Even become dust on occasion. - - - - - LOVE SONG - - - I lie here thinking of you:-- - - the stain of love - is upon the world! - Yellow, yellow, yellow - it eats into the leaves, - smears with saffron - the horned branches that lean - heavily - against a smooth purple sky! - There is no light - only a honey-thick stain - that drips from leaf to leaf - and limb to limb - spoiling the colors - of the whole world-- - - you far off there under - the wine-red selvage of the west! - - - - - THE WANDERER - - _A Rococo Study_ - - - ADVENT - - Even in the time when as yet - I had no certain knowledge of her - She sprang from the nest, a young crow, - Whose first flight circled the forest. - I know now how then she showed me - Her mind, reaching out to the horizon, - She close above the tree tops. - I saw her eyes straining at the new distance - And as the woods fell from her flying - Likewise they fell from me as I followed-- - So that I strongly guessed all that I must put from me - To come through ready for the high courses. - - But one day, crossing the ferry - With the great towers of Manhattan before me, - Out at the prow with the sea wind blowing, - I had been wearying many questions - Which she had put on to try me: - How shall I be a mirror to this modernity? - When lo! in a rush, dragging - A blunt boat on the yielding river-- - Suddenly I saw her! And she waved me - From the white wet in midst of her playing! - She cried me, “Haia! Here I am, son! - See how strong my little finger is! - Can I not swim well? - I can fly too!” And with that a great sea-gull - Went to the left, vanishing with a wild cry-- - But in my mind all the persons of godhead - Followed after. - - - CLARITY - - “Come!” cried my mind and by her might - That was upon us we flew above the river - Seeking her, grey gulls among the white-- - In the air speaking as she had willed it: - “I am given,” cried I, “now I know it! - I know now all my time is forespent! - For me one face is all the world! - For I have seen her at last, this day, - In whom age in age is united-- - Indifferent, out of sequence, marvelously! - Saving alone that one sequence - Which is the beauty of all the world, for surely - Either there in the rolling smoke spheres below us - Or here with us in the air intercircling, - Certainly somewhere here about us - I know she is revealing these things!” - - And as gulls we flew and with soft cries - We seemed to speak, flying, “It is she - The mighty, recreating the whole world, - This the first day of wonders! - She is attiring herself before me-- - Taking shape before me for worship, - A red leaf that falls upon a stone! - It is she of whom I told you, old - Forgiveless, unreconcilable; - That high wanderer of by-ways - Walking imperious in beggary! - At her throat is loose gold, a single chain - From among many, on her bent fingers - Are rings from which the stones are fallen, - Her wrists wear a diminished state, her ankles - Are bare! Toward the river! Is it she there?” - And we swerved clamorously downward-- - “I will take my peace in her henceforth!” - - - BROADWAY - - It was then she struck--from behind, - In mid air, as with the edge of a great wing! - And instantly down the mists of my eyes - There came crowds walking--- men as visions - With expressionless, animate faces; - Empty men with shell-thin bodies - Jostling close above the gutter, - Hasting--nowhere! And then for the first time - I really saw her, really scented the sweat - Of her presence and--fell back sickened! - Ominous, old, painted-- - With bright lips, and lewd Jew’s eyes - Her might strapped in by a corset - To give her age youth, perfect - In her will to be young she had covered - The godhead to go beside me. - Silent, her voice entered at my eyes - And my astonished thought followed her easily: - “Well, do their eyes shine, do their clothes fit? - These _live_ I tell you! Old men with red cheeks, - Young men in gay suits! See them! - Dogged, quivering, impassive-- - Well--are these the ones you envied?” - At which I answered her, “Marvelous old queen, - Grant me power to catch something of this day’s - Air and sun into your service! - That these toilers after peace and after pleasure - May turn to you, worshippers at all hours!” - But she sniffed upon the words warily-- - Yet I persisted, watching for an answer: - “To you, horrible old woman, - Who know all fires out of the bodies - Of all men that walk with lust at heart! - To you, O mighty, crafty prowler - After the youth of all cities, drunk - With the sight of thy archness! All the youth - That come to you, you having the knowledge - Rather than to those uninitiate-- - To you, marvelous old queen, give me always - A new marriage--” - But she laughed loudly-- - “A new grip upon those garments that brushed me - In days gone by on beach, lawn, and in forest! - May I be lifted still, up and out of terror, - Up from before the death living around me-- - Tom up continually and carried - Whatever way the head of your whim is, - A burr upon those streaming tatters--” - But the night had fallen, she stilled me - And led me away. - - - PATERSON--THE STRIKE - - At the first peep of dawn she roused me! - I rose trembling at the change which the night saw! - For there, wretchedly brooding in a corner - From which her old eyes glittered fiercely-- - “Go!” she said, and I hurried shivering - Out into the deserted streets of Paterson. - - That night she came again, hovering - In rags within the filmy ceiling-- - “Great Queen, bless me with thy tatters!” - “You are blest, go on!” - “Hot for savagery, - Sucking the air! I went into the city, - Out again, baffled onto the mountain! - Back into the city! - Nowhere - The subtle! Everywhere the electric!” - - “A short bread-line before a hitherto empty tea shop: - No questions--all stood patiently, - Dominated by one idea: something - That carried them as they are always wanting to be carried, - ‘But what is it,’ I asked those nearest me, - ‘This thing heretofore unobtainable - That they seem so clever to have put on now!’ - - “Why since I have failed them can it be anything but their own brood? - Can it be anything but brutality? - On that at least they’re united! That at least - Is their bean soup, their calm bread and a few luxuries! - - “But in me, more sensitive, marvelous old queen - It sank deep into the blood, that I rose upon - The tense air enjoying the dusty fight! - Heavy drink were the low, sloping foreheads - The flat skulls with the unkempt black or blond hair, - The ugly legs of the young girls, pistons - Too powerful for delicacy! - The women’s wrists, the men’s arms, red - Used to heat and cold, to toss quartered beeves - And barrels, and milk-cans, and crates of fruit! - - “Faces all knotted up like burls on oaks, - Grasping, fox-snouted, thick-lipped, - Sagging breasts and protruding stomachs, - Rasping voices, filthy habits with the hands. - - “Nowhere you! Everywhere the electric! - - “Ugly, venemous, gigantic! - Tossing me as a great father his helpless - Infant till it shriek with ecstasy - And its eyes roll and its tongue hangs out!-- - - “I am at peace again, old queen, I listen clearer now.” - - - ABROAD - - Never, even in a dream, - Have I winged so high nor so well - As with her, she leading me by the hand, - That first day on the Jersey mountains! - And never shall I forget - The trembling interest with which I heard - Her voice in a low thunder: - “You are safe here. Look child, look open-mouth! - The patch of road between the steep bramble banks; - The tree in the wind, the white house there, the sky! - Speak to men of these, concerning me! - For never while you permit them to ignore me - In these shall the full of my freed voice - Come grappling the ear with intent! - Never while the air’s clear coolness - Is seized to be a coat for pettiness; - Never while richness of greenery - Stands a shield for prurient minds; - Never, permitting these things unchallenged - Shall my voice of leaves and varicolored bark come free through!” - At which, knowing her solitude, - I shouted over the country below me: - “Waken! my people, to the boughs green - With ripening fruit within you! - Waken to the myriad cinquefoil - In the waving grass of your minds! - Waken to the silent phoebe nest - Under the eaves of your spirit!” - - But she, stooping nearer the shifting hills - Spoke again. “Look there! See them! - There in the oat field with the horses, - See them there! bowed by their passions - Crushed down, that had been raised as a roof beam! - The weight of the sky is upon them - Under which all roof beams crumble. - There is none but the single roof beam: - There is no love bears against the great firefly! - At this I looked up at the sun - Then shouted again with all the might I had. - But my voice was a seed in the wind. - Then she, the old one, laughing - Seized me and whirling about bore back - To the city, upward, still laughing - Until the great towers stood above the marshland - Wheeling beneath: the little creeks, the mallows - That I picked as a boy, the Hackensack - So quiet that seemed so broad formerly: - The crawling trains, the cedar swamp on the one side-- - All so old, so familiar--so new now - To my marvelling eyes as we passed - Invisible. - - - SOOTHSAY - - Eight days went by, eight days - Comforted by no nights, until finally: - “Would you behold yourself old, beloved?” - I was pierced, yet I consented gladly - For I knew it could not be otherwise. - And she--“Behold yourself old! - Sustained in strength, wielding might in gript surges! - Not bodying the sun in weak leaps - But holding way over rockish men - With fern free fingers on their little crags, - Their hollows, the new Atlas, to bear them - For pride and for mockery! Behold - Yourself old! winding with slow might-- - A vine among oaks--to the thin tops: - Leaving the leafless leaved, - Bearing purple clusters! Behold - Yourself old! birds are behind you. - You are the wind coming that stills birds, - Shakes the leaves in booming polyphony-- - Slow, winning high way amid the knocking - Of boughs, evenly crescendo, - The din and bellow of the male wind! - Leap then from forest into foam! - Lash about from low into high flames - Tipping sound, the female chorus-- - Linking all lions, all twitterings - To make them nothing! Behold yourself old!” - As I made to answer she continued, - A little wistfully yet in a voice clear cut: - “Good is my over lip and evil - My underlip to you henceforth: - For I have taken your soul between my two hands - And this shall be as it is spoken.” - - - ST. JAMES’ GROVE - - And so it came to that last day - When, she leading by the hand, we went out - Early in the morning, I heavy of heart - For I knew the novitiate was ended - The ecstasy was over, the life begun. - - In my woolen shirt and the pale blue necktie - My grandmother gave me, there I went - With the old queen right past the houses - Of my friends down the hill to the river - As on any usual day, any errand. - Alone, walking under trees, - I went with her, she with me in her wild hair, - By Santiago Grove and presently - She bent forward and knelt by the river, - The Passaic, that filthy river. - And there dabbling her mad hands, - She called me close beside her. - Raising the water then in the cupped palm - She bathed our brows wailing and laughing: - “River, we are old, you and I, - We are old and by bad luck, beggars. - Lo, the filth in our hair, our bodies stink! - Old friend, here I have brought you - The young soul you long asked of me. - Stand forth, river, and give me - The old friend of my revels! - Give me the well-worn spirit, - For here I have made a room for it, - And I will return to you forthwith - The youth you have long asked of me: - Stand forth, river, and give me - The old friend of my revels!” - - And the filthy Passaic consented! - - Then she, leaping up with a fierce cry: - “Enter, youth, into this bulk! - Enter, river, into this young man!” - Then the river began to enter my heart, - Eddying back cool and limpid - Into the crystal beginning of its days. - But with the rebound it leaped forward: - Muddy, then black and shrunken - Till I felt the utter depth of its rottenness - The vile breadth of its degradation - And dropped down knowing this was me now. - But she lifted me and the water took a new tide - Again into the older experiences, - And so, backward and forward, - It tortured itself within me - Until time had been washed finally under, - And the river had found its level - And its last motion had ceased - And I knew all--it became me. - And I knew this for double certain - For there, whitely, I saw myself - Being borne off under the water! - I could have shouted out in my agony - At the sight of myself departing - Forever--but I bit back my despair - For she had averted her eyes - By which I knew well what she was thinking-- - And so the last of me was taken. - - Then she, “Be mostly silent!” - And turning to the river, spoke again: - “For him and for me, river, the wandering, - But by you I leave for happiness - Deep foliage, the thickest beeches-- - Though elsewhere they are all dying-- - Tallest oaks and yellow birches - That dip their leaves in you, mourning, - As now I dip my hair, immemorial - Of me, immemorial of him - Immemorial of these our promises! - Here shall be a bird’s paradise, - They sing to you remembering my voice: - Here the most secluded spaces - For miles around, hallowed by a stench - To be our joint solitude and temple; - In memory of this clear marriage - And the child I have brought you in the late years. - Live, river, live in luxuriance - Remembering this our son, - In remembrance of me and my sorrow - And of the new wandering!” - - * * * * * - -Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: - -con la beautitud=> con la beatitud {pg 5} - -a rough day to=> a rough dray to {pg 26} - -From which he old eyes=> From which her old eyes {pg 79} - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Al Que Quiere!, by William Carlos Williams - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AL QUE QUIERE! *** - -***** This file should be named 51997-0.txt or 51997-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/9/51997/ - -Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -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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