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