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