The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on
There’s a little square in Paris,
Waiting until we pass.
They sit idly there,
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a m
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
Pour the unhappiness out
From your too bitter heart,
Which grieving will not sweeten.
In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning
A tempest cracked on the theatre. Quickly,
The wind beat in the roof and half the walls.
One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
That's what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.
It is a thing to have,
To sing jubilas at exact, accustomed times,
To be crested and wear the mane of a multitude
In Hydaspia, by Howzen
Lived a lady, Lady Lowzen,
For whom what is was other things.
Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave
It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
“Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
He is not here, the old sun,
As absent as if we were asleep.
The field is frozen. The leaves are
You dweller in the dark cabin,
To whom the watermelon is always purple,
Whose garden is wind and
Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the e
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
Damned universal cock, as
As the immense dew of Florida
The big-finned palm
And green vine angering for life,
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the s
Weight him down, O side-stars, with the great weightings of
Seal him there. He looked in
Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent cur
The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
My titillations have no foot-notes
And their memorials are the phrases
Of idiosyncratic music.
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with s
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,