tumult

When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,nUntasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.

Let the lamp affix its beam.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

Meantime, centurions guffaw and beatnTheir shrilling tankards on the table-boards.

That scrawny cry--It wasn A chorister whose c preceded the choir.

Thus,nThe conscience is converted into palms,nLike windy cisterns hankering for hymns.

You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath.

Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceitnIs not too lusty for your broadening.

The Emperor of Ice-CreamnnCall the roller of big cigars,nThe muscular one, and bid him whipnIn kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

Suppose these couriers brought amid their trainnA damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

Let the wenches dawdle in such dressnAs they are used to wear, and let the boysnBring flowers in last month's newspapers.

IX.nIn verses wild with motion, full of din,nLoudened by cries, by clashes, quick and surenAs the deadly thought of men accomplishingnTheir curious fates in war, come, celebratenThe faith of forty, ward of Cupido.

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

But in our amours amorists discernnSuch fluctuations that their scriveningnIs breathless to attend each quirky turn.

Two golden gourds distended on our vines,nInto the autumn weather, splashed with frost,nDistorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.

Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,nAnd still pursue, the origin and coursenOf love, but until now I never knewnThat fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,nThat makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shoutnDoleful heroics, pinching gestures forthnFrom madness or delight, without regardnTo that first, foremost law.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

For me, the firefly's quick, electric strokenTicks tediously the time of one more year.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,nWhy, when the singing ended and we turnednToward the town, tell why the glassy lights,nThe lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,nAs the night descended, tilting in the air,nMastered the night and portioned out the sea,nFixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,nArranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheetnOn which she embroidered fantails oncenAnd spread it so as to cover her face.

The Emperor of Ice-CreamnnCall the roller of big cigars,nThe muscular one, and bid him whipnIn kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

The water never formed to mind or voice,nLike a body wholly body, flutteringnIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionnMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,nThat was not ours although we understood,nInhuman, of the veritable ocean.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,nWhy, when the singing ended and we turnednToward the town, tell why the glassy lights,nThe lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,nAs the night descended, tilting in the air,nMastered the night and portioned out the sea,nFixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,nArranging, deepening, enchanting night.

VI.nIf men at forty will be painting lakesnThe ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,nThe basic slate, the universal hue.

Thus, our bawdiness,nUnpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,nIs equally converted into palms,nSquiggling like saxophones.

Suppose these couriers brought amid their trainnA damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

But it excels in this, that as the fruitnOf love, it is a book too mad to readnBefore one merely reads to pass the time.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hamm...

When amorists grow bald, then amours shrinknInto the compass and curriculumnOf introspective exiles, lecturing.

"Gray Room" (1917)nnby nn Although you sit in a room that is gray,n Except for the silvern Of the straw-paper,n And pickn At your pale white gown;n Or lift one of the green beadsn Of your necklace,n To let it fall;n Or gaze at your green fann Printed with the red branches of a red willow;n Or, with one finger,n Move the leaf in the bowl--n The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythian Beside you...

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

The High-Toned Old Christian WomannnttPoetry is the supreme fiction, Madame.

But fictive thingsnWink as they will.

There are filaments of your eyesnOn the surface of the waternAnd in the edges of the snow.

Let be be finale of seem.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

The webs of your eyesnAre fastenednTo the flesh and bones of younAs to rafters or grass.

But in our amours amorists discernnSuch fluctuations that their scriveningnIs breathless to attend each quirky turn.

The water never formed to mind or voice,nLike a body wholly body, flutteringnIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionnMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,nThat was not ours although we understood,nInhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea of spuming thought foists up againnThe radiant bubble that she was.

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,nThat makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shoutnDoleful heroics, pinching gestures forthnFrom madness or delight, without regardnTo that first, foremost law.

I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;nFor it has come that thus I greet the spring.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

It may be that in all her phrases stirrednThe grinding water and the gasping wind;nBut it was she and not the sea we heard.

"Gray Room" (1917)nnby nn Although you sit in a room that is gray,n Except for the silvern Of the straw-paper,n And pickn At your pale white gown;n Or lift one of the green beadsn Of your necklace,n To let it fall;n Or gaze at your green fann Printed with the red branches of a red willow;n Or, with one finger,n Move the leaf in the bowl--n The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythian Beside you...

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured seanWas merely a place by which she walked to sing.

One must have a mind of wintern To regard the frost and the boughsn Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;nn And have been cold a long timen To behold the junipers shagged with ice,n The spruces rough in the distant glitternn Of the January sun; and not to thinkn Of any misery in the sound of the wind,n In the sound of a few leaves,nn Which is the sound of the landn Full of the same windn That is blowing in the...

Two golden gourds distended on our vines,nInto the autumn weather, splashed with frost,nDistorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.

It may be that in all her phrases stirrednThe grinding water and the gasping wind;nBut it was she and not the sea we heard.

Two golden gourds distended on our vines,nInto the autumn weather, splashed with frost,nDistorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.

Meantime, centurions guffaw and beatnTheir shrilling tankards on the table-boards.

Two golden gourds distended on our vines,nInto the autumn weather, splashed with frost,nDistorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

Thus,nThe conscience is converted into palms,nLike windy cisterns hankering for hymns.

Take the moral law and make a nave of itnAnd from the nave build haunted heaven.

If it was only the dark voice of the seanThat rose, or even colored by many waves;nIf it was only the outer voice of skynAnd cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,nHowever clear, it would have been deep air,nThe heaving speech of air, a summer soundnRepeated in a summer without endnAnd sound alone.

I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;nFor it has come that thus I greet the spring.

I shall not play the flat historic scale.

But it was more than that,nMore even than her voice, and ours, amongnThe meaningless plungings of water and the wind,nTheatrical distances, bronze shadows heapednOn high horizons, mountainous atmospheresnOf sky and sea.

VI.nIf men at forty will be painting lakesnThe ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,nThe basic slate, the universal hue.

Thus,nThe conscience is converted into palms,nLike windy cisterns hankering for hymns.

Remember how the crickets camenOut of their mother grass, like little kin,nIn the pale nights, when your first imagerynFound inklings of your bond to all that dust.

IV.nThis luscious and impeccable fruit of lifenFalls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.

Have all the barbers lived in vainnThat not one curl in nature has survived?

Thus, our bawdiness,nUnpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,nIs equally converted into palms,nSquiggling like saxophones.

The water never formed to mind or voice,nLike a body wholly body, flutteringnIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionnMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,nThat was not ours although we understood,nInhuman, of the veritable ocean.

Remember how the crickets camenOut of their mother grass, like little kin,nIn the pale nights, when your first imagerynFound inklings of your bond to all that dust.

The measure of the intensity of lovenIs measure, also, of the verve of earth.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

When amorists grow bald, then amours shrinknInto the compass and curriculumnOf introspective exiles, lecturing.

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

Last night, we sat beside a pool of pink,nClippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,nKeen to the point of starlight, while a frognBoomed from his very belly odious chords.

Remember how the crickets camenOut of their mother grass, like little kin,nIn the pale nights, when your first imagerynFound inklings of your bond to all that dust.

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheetnOn which she embroidered fantails oncenAnd spread it so as to cover her face.

When amorists grow bald, then amours shrinknInto the compass and curriculumnOf introspective exiles, lecturing.

IV.nThis luscious and impeccable fruit of lifenFalls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.

The High-Toned Old Christian WomannnttPoetry is the supreme fiction, Madame.

She measured to the hour its solitude.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hamm...

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

VI.nIf men at forty will be painting lakesnThe ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,nThe basic slate, the universal hue.

No spring can follow past meridian.

The Motive for Metaphornby nnYou like it under the trees in autumn,nBecause everything is half dead.

The water never formed to mind or voice,nLike a body wholly body, flutteringnIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionnMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,nThat was not ours although we understood,nInhuman, of the veritable ocean.

Every day, I foundnMan proved a gobbet in my mincing world.

And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.

Le Monocle de Mon Oncle t nby nn"Mother of heaven, Regina of the clouds,nO scepter of the sun, crown of the moon,nThere is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,nLike the clashed edges of two words that kill."

Take the moral law and make a nave of itnAnd from the nave build haunted heaven.

The Emperor of Ice-CreamnnCall the roller of big cigars,nThe muscular one, and bid him whipnIn kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

Have all the barbers lived in vainnThat not one curl in nature has survived?

Take the moral law and make a nave of itnAnd from the nave build haunted heaven.

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hamm...

Last night, we sat beside a pool of pink,nClippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,nKeen to the point of starlight, while a frognBoomed from his very belly odious chords.

Meantime, centurions guffaw and beatnTheir shrilling tankards on the table-boards.

But takenThe opposing law and make a peristyle,nAnd from the peristyle project a masquenBeyond the planets.

When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,nUntasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

The words were spoken as if there was no book,nExcept that the reader leaned above the page,nnWanted to lean, wanted much to benThe scholar to whom his book is true, to whomnnThe summer night is like a perfection of thought.

I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everythingnFor the music and manner of the paladinsnTo make oblation fit.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

Thus,nThe conscience is converted into palms,nLike windy cisterns hankering for hymns.

The sun was rising at six,n No longer a battered panache above snow...

This parable, in sense, amounts to this:nThe honey of heaven may or may not come,nBut that of earth both comes and goes at once.

It may be that in all her phrases stirrednThe grinding water and the gasping wind;nBut it was she and not the sea we heard.

XII.nA blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,nOn sidelong wing, around and round and round.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

You ten-foot poet among inchlings.

The High-Toned Old Christian WomannnttPoetry is the supreme fiction, Madame.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,nWhy, when the singing ended and we turnednToward the town, tell why the glassy lights,nThe lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,nAs the night descended, tilting in the air,nMastered the night and portioned out the sea,nFixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,nArranging, deepening, enchanting night.

III.nIs it for nothing, then, that old ChinesenSat titivating by their mountain poolsnOr in the Yangtze studied out their beards?

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,nThe maker's rage to order words of the sea,nWords of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,nAnd of ourselves and of our origins,nIn ghostlier demarcations, keener soundsnBantams in Pine-Woods t nby nnChieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftannOf tan with henna hackles, halt!

An inchling bristles in these pines,nnBristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,nAnd fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

But takenThe opposing law and make a peristyle,nAnd from the peristyle project a masquenBeyond the planets.

If her horny feet protrude, they comenTo show how cold she is, and dumb.

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,nAnd still pursue, the origin and coursenOf love, but until now I never knewnThat fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

But in our amours amorists discernnSuch fluctuations that their scriveningnIs breathless to attend each quirky turn.

Like a dark rabbi, InObserved, when young, the nature of mankind,nIn lordly study.

It was liken A new knowledge of reality.

But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,nThat makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shoutnDoleful heroics, pinching gestures forthnFrom madness or delight, without regardnTo that first, foremost law.

An apple serves as well as any skullnTo be the book in which to read a round,nAnd is as excellent, in that it is composednOf what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.

An apple serves as well as any skullnTo be the book in which to read a round,nAnd is as excellent, in that it is composednOf what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hamm...

I shall not play the flat historic scale.

Le Monocle de Mon Oncle t nby nn"Mother of heaven, Regina of the clouds,nO scepter of the sun, crown of the moon,nThere is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,nLike the clashed edges of two words that kill."

The words were spoken as if there was no book,nExcept that the reader leaned above the page,nnWanted to lean, wanted much to benThe scholar to whom his book is true, to whomnnThe summer night is like a perfection of thought.

At the earliest ending of winter,n In March, a scrawny cry from outsiden Seemed like a sound in his mind.

Last night, we sat beside a pool of pink,nClippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,nKeen to the point of starlight, while a frognBoomed from his very belly odious chords.

Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knewnIt was the spirit that we sought and knewnThat we should ask this often as she sang.

But, after all, I know a tree that bearsnA semblance to the thing I have in mind.

An apple serves as well as any skullnTo be the book in which to read a round,nAnd is as excellent, in that it is composednOf what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.

Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,nAnd still pursue, the origin and coursenOf love, but until now I never knewnThat fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

But it was more than that,nMore even than her voice, and ours, amongnThe meaningless plungings of water and the wind,nTheatrical distances, bronze shadows heapednOn high horizons, mountainous atmospheresnOf sky and sea.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheetnOn which she embroidered fantails oncenAnd spread it so as to cover her face.

VI.nIf men at forty will be painting lakesnThe ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,nThe basic slate, the universal hue.

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

She measured to the hour its solitude.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knewnIt was the spirit that we sought and knewnThat we should ask this often as she sang.

X.nThe fops of fancy in their poems leavenMemorabilia of the mystic spouts,nSpontaneously watering their gritty soils.

It crawls under your eyelidsnAnd spreads its webs there--nIts two webs.

One must have a mind of wintern To regard the frost and the boughsn Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;nn And have been cold a long timen To behold the junipers shagged with ice,n The spruces rough in the distant glitternn Of the January sun; and not to thinkn Of any misery in the sound of the wind,n In the sound of a few leaves,nn Which is the sound of the landn Full of the same windn That is blowing in the...

We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,nThe laughing sky will see the two of usnWashed into rinds by rotting winter winds.

It may be that in all her phrases stirrednThe grinding water and the gasping wind;nBut it was she and not the sea we heard.

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

There is a substance in us that prevails.

The High-Toned Old Christian WomannnttPoetry is the supreme fiction, Madame.

There are filaments of your eyesnOn the surface of the waternAnd in the edges of the snow.

It was part of the colossal sun,nn Surrounded by its choral rings,n Still far away.

Have all the barbers lived in vainnThat not one curl in nature has survived?

And thennA deep up-pouring from some saltier wellnWithin me, bursts its watery syllable.

An inchling bristles in these pines,nnBristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,nAnd fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

Allow,nTherefore, that in the planetary scenenYour disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,nSmacking their muzzy bellies in parade,nProud of such novelties of the sublime,nSuch tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,nMay, merely may, Madame, whip from themselvesnA jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

Meantime, centurions guffaw and beatnTheir shrilling tankards on the table-boards.

TattoonnThe light is like a spider.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hamm...

But it was more than that,nMore even than her voice, and ours, amongnThe meaningless plungings of water and the wind,nTheatrical distances, bronze shadows heapednOn high horizons, mountainous atmospheresnOf sky and sea.

It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.

For me, the firefly's quick, electric strokenTicks tediously the time of one more year.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,nWhy, when the singing ended and we turnednToward the town, tell why the glassy lights,nThe lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,nAs the night descended, tilting in the air,nMastered the night and portioned out the sea,nFixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,nArranging, deepening, enchanting night.

It stands gigantic, with a certain tipnTo which all birds come sometime in their time.

III.nIs it for nothing, then, that old ChinesenSat titivating by their mountain poolsnOr in the Yangtze studied out their beards?

A torrent will fall from him when he finds.

The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured seanWas merely a place by which she walked to sing.

But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,nThat makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shoutnDoleful heroics, pinching gestures forthnFrom madness or delight, without regardnTo that first, foremost law.

This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.

This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.

But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,nThat makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shoutnDoleful heroics, pinching gestures forthnFrom madness or delight, without regardnTo that first, foremost law.

Damned universal cock, as if the sunnWas blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.

The song and water were not medleyed soundnEven if what she sang was what she heard,nSince what she sang was uttered word by word.

Have all the barbers lived in vainnThat not one curl in nature has survived?

It was her voice that madenThe sky acutest at its vanishing.

It was not from the vast ventriloquismn Of sleep's faded papier-mâché...

Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceitnIs not too lusty for your broadening.

It was not from the vast ventriloquismn Of sleep's faded papier-mâché...

The water never formed to mind or voice,nLike a body wholly body, flutteringnIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionnMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,nThat was not ours although we understood,nInhuman, of the veritable ocean.

I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs,nNo silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits.

IX.nIn verses wild with motion, full of din,nLoudened by cries, by clashes, quick and surenAs the deadly thought of men accomplishingnTheir curious fates in war, come, celebratenThe faith of forty, ward of Cupido.

The measure of the intensity of lovenIs measure, also, of the verve of earth.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,nWith the half colors of quarter-things,nThe slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,nThe single bird, the obscure moon--nnThe obscure moon lighting an obscure worldnOf things that would never be quite expressed,nWhere you yourself were not quite yourself,nAnd did not want nor have to be,nnDesiring the exhilarations of changes:nThe motive for metaphor, shrinking fromnThe weight of primary noon,nThe A B C of being,nnThe ruddy temper, the hammernOf r...

IX.nIn verses wild with motion, full of din,nLoudened by cries, by clashes, quick and surenAs the deadly thought of men accomplishingnTheir curious fates in war, come, celebratenThe faith of forty, ward of Cupido.

Let the wenches dawdle in such dressnAs they are used to wear, and let the boysnBring flowers in last month's newspapers.

The water never formed to mind or voice,nLike a body wholly body, flutteringnIts empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motionnMade constant cry, caused constantly a cry,nThat was not ours although we understood,nInhuman, of the veritable ocean.

"Gray Room" (1917)nnby nn Although you sit in a room that is gray,n Except for the silvern Of the straw-paper,n And pickn At your pale white gown;n Or lift one of the green beadsn Of your necklace,n To let it fall;n Or gaze at your green fann Printed with the red branches of a red willow;n Or, with one finger,n Move the leaf in the bowl--n The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythian Beside you...

This will make widows wince.

I am a yeoman, as such fellows go.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,nWhy, when the singing ended and we turnednToward the town, tell why the glassy lights,nThe lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,nAs the night descended, tilting in the air,nMastered the night and portioned out the sea,nFixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,nArranging, deepening, enchanting night.