At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent cur
As the immense dew of Florida
The big-finned palm
And green vine angering for life,
To sing jubilas at exact, accustomed times,
To be crested and wear the mane of a multitude
He is not here, the old sun,
As absent as if we were asleep.
The field is frozen. The leaves are
The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a m
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the e
Weight him down, O side-stars, with the great weightings of
Seal him there. He looked in
A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the s
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom
“Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not
Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave
You dweller in the dark cabin,
To whom the watermelon is always purple,
Whose garden is wind and
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.
A tempest cracked on the theatre. Quickly,
The wind beat in the roof and half the walls.
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!
Damned universal cock, as
There’s a little square in Paris,
Waiting until we pass.
They sit idly there,
Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
The lilacs wither in the Carolinas.
Already the butterflies flutter above the cabins.
That's what misery is,
Nothing to have at heart.
It is to have or nothing.
It is a thing to have,
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
One chemical afternoon in mid-autumn,
When the grand mechanics of earth and sky were near;
Pour the unhappiness out
From your too bitter heart,
Which grieving will not sweeten.
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning
In Hydaspia, by Howzen
Lived a lady, Lady Lowzen,
For whom what is was other things.
It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore,
The snake has left its skin upon the floor.
Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with s