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Ozziey

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I knew too that through them I knew too that he was through, I knew too that he threw them. I knew too that they were through, I knew too I knew too, I knew I knew them. I knew to them. If they tear a hunter through, if they tear through a hunter, if they tear through a hunt and a hunter, if they tear through different sizes of the six, the different sizes of the six which are these, a woman with a white package under one arm and a black package under the other arm and dressed in brown with a white blouse, the second Saint Joseph the third a hunter in a blue coat and black garters and a plaid cap, a fourth a knife grinder who is full faced and a very little woman with black hair and a yellow hat and an excellently smiling appropriate soldier. All these as you please. In the meantime examples of the same lily. In this way please have you rung. WHAT DO I SEE? A very little snail. A medium sized turkey. A small band of sheep. A fair orange tree. All nice wives are like that. Listen to them from here. Oh. You did not have an answer. Here. Yes. A VERY VALENTINE. Very fine is my valentine. Very fine and very mine. Very mine is my

neutral

Modern

Love

Thou art my lute, by thee I sing, My being is attuned to thee. Thou settest all my words a-wing, And meltest me to melody. Thou art my life, by thee I live, From thee proceed the joys I know; Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give The meed of lovethe cup of woe. Thou art my love, by thee I lead My soul the paths of light along, From vale to vale, from mead to mead, And home it in the hills of song. My song, my soul, my life, my all, Why need I pray or make my plea, Since my petition cannot fall; For Im already one with thee!

joy

Modern

Love

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; Thats all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh.

sadness

Modern

Love

Bilbea, I was in Babylon on Saturday night. I saw nothing of you anywhere. I was at the old place and the other girls were there, But no Bilbea. Have you gone to another house? or city? Why dont you write? I was sorry. I walked home half-sick. Tell me how it goes. Send me some kind of a letter. And take care of yourself.

sadness

Modern

Love

How much do you love me, a million bushels? Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more. And tomorrow maybe only half a bushel? Tomorrow maybe not even a half a bushel. And is this your heart arithmetic? This is the way the wind measures the weather.

surprise

Modern

Love

as freedom is a breakfastfood or truth can live with right and wrong or molehills are from mountains made —long enough and just so long will being pay the rent of seem and genius please the talentgang and water most encourage flame as hatracks into peachtrees grow or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair and every finger is a toe and any courage is a fear —long enough and just so long will the impure think all things pure and hornets wail by children stung or as the seeing are the blind and robins never welcome spring nor flatfolk prove their world is round nor dingsters die at break of dong and common’s rare and millstones float —long enough and just so long tomorrow will not be too late worms are the words but joy’s the voice down shall go which and up come who breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs deeds cannot dream what dreams can do —time is a tree(this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough

fear

Modern

Love

love is more thicker than forget more thinner than recall more seldom than a wave is wet more frequent than to fail it is most mad and moonly and less it shall unbe than all the sea which only is deeper than the sea love is less always than to win less never than alive less bigger than the least begin less littler than forgive it is most sane and sunly and more it cannot die than all the sky which only is higher than the sky

anger

Modern

Love

Harry loves Myrtle—He has strong arms, from the warehouse, And on Sunday when they take the bus to emerald meadows he doesn't say: "What will your chastity amount to when your flesh withers in a little while?" No, On Sunday, when they picnic in emerald meadows they look at the Sunday paper: GIRL SLAYS BANKER-BETRAYER They spread it around on the grass BATH-TUB STIRS JERSEY ROW And then they sit down on it, nice. Harry doesn't say "Ziggin's Ointment for withered flesh, Cures thousands of men and women of moles, warts, red veins, flabby throat, scalp and hair diseases, Not expensive, and fully guaranteed." No, Harry says nothing at all, He smiles, And they kiss in the emerald meadows on the Sunday paper.

neutral

Modern

Love

Even when your friend, the radio, is still; even when her dream, the magazine, is finished; even when his life, the ticker, is silent; even when their destiny, the boulevard, is bare; And after that paradise, the dance-hall, is closed; after that theater, the clinic, is dark, Still there will be your desire, and hers, and his hopes and theirs, Your laughter, their laughter, Your curse and his curse, her reward and their reward, their dismay and his dismay and her dismay and yours— Even when your enemy, the collector, is dead; even when your counsellor, the salesman, is sleeping; even when your sweetheart, the movie queen, has spoken; even when your friend, the magnate, is gone.

sadness

Modern

Love

Suddenly discovering in the eyes of the very beautiful Normande cocotte The eyes of the very learned British Museum assistant.

surprise

Modern

Love

We sat together at one summers end, That beautiful mild woman, your close friend, And you and I, and talked of poetry. I said, A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moments thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught. Better go down upon your marrow-bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather; For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world. And thereupon That beautiful mild woman for whose sake Theres many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, To be born woman is to know Although they do not talk of it at school That we must labour to be beautiful. I said, Its certain there is no fine thing Since Adams fall but needs much labouring. There have been lovers who thought love should be So much compounded of high courtesy That they would sigh and quote with learned looks Precedents out of beautiful old books; Yet now it seems an idle trade enough. We sat grown quiet at the name of love; We saw t

sadness

Modern

Love

What do I owe to you Who loved me deep and long? You never gave my spirit wings Nor gave my heart a song. But oh, to him I loved, Who loved me not at all, I owe the little open gate That led through heaven’s wall.

neutral

Modern

Love

Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

sadness

Modern

Love

She has attained the permanence She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning. Untended stalks blow over her Even and swift, like young men running. Always in the heart she loved Others had lived,—she heard their laughter. She lies where none has lain before, Where certainly none will follow after.

joy

Modern

Love

The house was just twinkling in the moon light, And inside it twinkling with delight, Is my baby bright. Twinkling with delight in the house twinkling with the moonlight, Bless my baby bless my baby bright, Bless my baby twinkling with delight, In the house twinkling in the moon light, Her hubby dear loves to cheer when he thinks and he always thinks when he knows and he always knows that his blessed baby wifey is all here and he is all hers, and sticks to her like burrs, blessed baby

joy

Modern

Love

You dweller in the dark cabin, To whom the watermelon is always purple, Whose garden is wind and moon, Of the two dreams, night and day, What lover, what dreamer, would choose The one obscured by sleep? Here is the plantain by your door And the best cock of red feather That crew before the clocks. A feme may come, leaf-green, Whose coming may give revel Beyond revelries of sleep, Yes, and the blackbird spread its tail, So that the sun may speckle, While it creaks hail. You dweller in the dark cabin, Rise, since rising will not waken, And hail, cry hail, cry hail.

joy

Modern

Love

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

fear

Modern

Love

Come when the nights are bright with stars Or come when the moon is mellow; Come when the sun his golden bars Drops on the hay-field yellow. Come in the twilight soft and gray, Come in the night or come in the day, Come, O love, wheneer you may, And you are welcome, welcome. You are sweet, O Love, dear Love, You are soft as the nesting dove. Come to my heart and bring it to rest As the bird flies home to its welcome nest. Come when my heart is full of grief Or when my heart is merry; Come with the falling of the leaf Or with the reddning cherry. Come when the years first blossom blows, Come when the summer gleams and glows, Come with the winters drifting snows, And you are welcome, welcome.

sadness

Modern

Love

When beauty breaks and falls asunder I feel no grief for it, but wonder. When love, like a frail shell, lies broken, I keep no chip of it for token. I never had a man for friend Who did not know that love must end. I never had a girl for lover Who could discern when love was over. What the wise doubt, the fool believes-- Who is it, then, that love deceives?

sadness

Modern

Love

Agathas Four and forty lovers had Agathas in the old days, All of whom she refused; And now she turns to me seeking love, And her hair also is turning. Young Lady I have fed your lar with poppies, I have adored you for three full years; And now you grumble because your dress does not fit And because I happen to say so. Lesbia Illa Memnon, Memnon, that lady Who used to walk about amongst us With such gracious uncertainty, Is now wedded To a British householder. Lugete, Veneres! Lugete, Cupidinesque! Passing Flawless as Aphrodite, Thoroughly beautiful, Brainless, The faint odor of your patchouli, Faint, almost, as the lines of cruelty about your chin, Assails me, and concerns me almost as little.

anger

Modern

Love

I do not know where either of us can turn Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other. I do not know how we can bear The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon, Or many trees shaken together in the darkness. We shall wish not to be alone And that love were not dispersed and set free— Though you defeat me, And I be heavy upon you. But like earth heaped over the heart Is love grown perfect. Like a shell over the beat of life Is love perfect to the last. So let it be the same Whether we turn to the dark or to the kiss of another; Let us know this for leavetaking, That I may not be heavy upon you, That you may blind me no more.

fear

Modern

Love

At last I know—it’s on old ivory jars, Glassed with old miniatures and garnered once with musk. I’ve seen those eyes like smouldering April stars As carp might see them behind their bubbled skies In pale green fishponds—they’re as green your eyes, As lakes themselves, changed to green stone at dusk. At last I know—it’s paned in a crystal hoop On powder-boxes from some dead Italian girl, I’ve seen such eyes grow suddenly dark, and droop Their small, pure lids, as if I’d pried too far In finding you snared there on that ivory jar By crusted motes of rose and smoky-pearl.

fear

Modern

Love

Four white heifers with sprawling hooves trundle the waggon. Its ill-roped crates heavy with fruit sway. The chisel point of the goad, blue and white, glitters ahead, a flame to follow lance-high in a man’s hand who does not shave. His linen trousers like him want washing. You can see his baked skin through his shirt. He has no shoes and his hat has a hole in it. ‘Hu ! vaca ! Hu ! vaca !’ he says staccato without raising his voice; ‘Adios caballero’ legato but in the same tone. Camelmen high on muzzled mounts boots rattling against the panels of an empty packsaddle do not answer strangers. Each with his train of seven or eight tied head to tail they pass silent but for the heavy bells and plip of slobber dripping from muzzle to dust; save that on sand their soles squeak slightly. Milkmaids, friendly girls between fourteen and twenty or younger, bolt upright on small trotting donkeys that bray (they arch their tails a few inches from the root, stretch neck and jaw forward to make the windpipe a trumpet) chatter. Jolted cans clatter. The girls’ smiles repeat the black silk curve of the wimple under the chin. Their hats are absurd doll’s hat

sadness

Modern

Love

In my heart the old love Struggled with the new, It was ghostly waking All night through. Dear things, kind things That my old love said, Ranged themselves reproachfully Round my bed. But I could not heed them, For I seemed to see Dark eyes of my new love Fixed on me. Old love, old love, How can I be true? Shall I be faithless to myself Or to you?

fear

Modern

Love

I Oh chimes set high on the sunny tower Ring on, ring on unendingly, Make all the hours a single hour, For when the dusk begins to flower, The man I love will come to me! ... But no, go slowly as you will, I should not bid you hasten so, For while I wait for love to come, Some other girl is standing dumb, Fearing her love will go. II Oh white steam over the roofs, blow high! Oh chimes in the tower ring clear and free! Oh sun awake in the covered sky, For the man I love, loves me! ... Oh drifting steam disperse and die, Oh tower stand shrouded toward the south,— Fate heard afar my happy cry, And laid her finger on my mouth. III The dusk was blue with blowing mist, The lights were spangles in a veil, And from the clamor far below Floated faint music like a wail. It voiced what I shall never speak, My heart was breaking all night long, But when the dawn was hard and gray, My tears distilled into a song. IV I said, “I have shut my heart As one shuts an open door, That Love may starve therein And trouble me no more.” But over the roofs there came The wet new wind of May, And a tune blew up from the curb Where the street-pianos play. My room was white

fear

Modern

Love

Now that I have your face by heart, I look Less at its features than its darkening frame Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame, Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd’s crook. Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease The lead and marble figures watch the show Of yet another summer loath to go Although the scythes hang in the apple trees. Now that I have your face by heart, I look. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read In the black chords upon a dulling page Music that is not meant for music’s cage, Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed. The staves are shuttled over with a stark Unprinted silence. In a double dream I must spell out the storm, the running stream. The beat’s too swift. The notes shift in the dark. Now that I have your voice by heart, I read. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see The wharves with their great ships and architraves; The rigging and the cargo and the slaves On a strange beach under a broken sky. O not departure, but a voyage done! The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun. Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

fear

Modern

Love

Love has crept into her sealed heart As a field bee, black and amber, Breaks from the winter-cell, to clamber Up the warm grass where the sunbeams start. Love has crept into her summery eyes, And a glint of colored sunshine brings Such as his along the folded wings Of the bee before he flies. But I with my ruffling, impatient breath Have loosened the wings of the wild young sprite; He has opened them out in a reeling flight, And down her words he hasteneth. Love flies delighted in her voice: The hum of his glittering, drunken wings Sets quivering with music the little things That she says, and her simple words rejoice.

anger

Modern

Love

The dark is thrown Back from the brightness, like hair Cast over a shoulder. I am alone, Four years older; Like the chairs and the walls Which I once watched brighten With you beside me. I was to waken Never like this, whatever came or was taken. The stalk grows, the year beats on the wind. Apples come, and the month for their fall. The bark spreads, the roots tighten. Though today be the last Or tomorrow all, You will not mind. That I may not remember Does not matter. I shall not be with you again. What we knew, even now Must scatter And be ruined, and blow Like dust in the rain. You have been dead a long season And have less than desire Who were lover with lover; And I have life—that old reason To wait for what comes, To leave what is over.

sadness

Modern

Love

A birdless heaven, sea-dusk and a star Sad in the west; And thou, poor heart, love’s image, fond and far, Rememberest: Her silent eyes and her soft foam-white brow And fragrant hair, Falling as in the silence falleth now Dusk from the air. Ah, why wilt thou remember these, or why, Poor heart, repine, If the sweet love she yielded with a sigh Was never thine?

sadness

Modern

Love

Too high, too high to pluck My heart shall swing. A fruit no bee shall suck, No wasp shall sting. If on some night of cold It falls to ground In apple-leaves of gold Ill wrap it round. And I shall seal it up With spice and salt, In a carven silver cup, In a deep vault. Before my eyes are blind And my lips mute, I must eat core and rind Of that same fruit. Before my heart is dust At the end of all, Eat it I must, I must Were it bitter gall. But I shall keep it sweet By some strange art; Wild honey I shall eat When I eat my heart. O honey cool and chaste As clovers breath! Sweet Heaven I shall taste Before my death.

anger

Modern

Love

When the first dark had fallen around them And the leaves were weary of praise, In the clear silence Beauty found them And shewed them all her ways. In the high noon of the heavenly garden Where the angels sunned with the birds, Beauty, before their hearts could harden, Had taught them heavenly words. When they fled in the burning weather And nothing dawned but a dream, Beauty fasted their hands together And cooled them at her stream. And when day wearied and night grew stronger, And they slept as the beautiful must, Then she bided a little longer, And blossomed from their dust.

sadness

Modern

Love

The jester walked in the garden: The garden had fallen still; He bade his soul rise upward And stand on her window-sill. It rose in a straight blue garment, When owls began to call: It had grown wise-tongued by thinking Of a quiet and light footfall; But the young queen would not listen; She rose in her pale night-gown; She drew in the heavy casement And pushed the latches down. He bade his heart go to her, When the owls called out no more; In a red and quivering garment It sang to her through the door. It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming Of a flutter of flower-like hair; But she took up her fan from the table And waved it off on the air. 'I have cap and bells, he pondered, 'I will send them to her and die; And when the morning whitened He left them where she went by. She laid them upon her bosom, Under a cloud of her hair, And her red lips sang them a love-song Till stars grew out of the air. She opened her door and her window, And the heart and the soul came through, To her right hand came the red one, To her left hand came the blue. They set up a noise like crickets, A chattering wise and sweet, And her hair was a folded flower And the quiet of love in her feet.

fear

Modern

Love

Supper comes at five o'clock, At six, the evening star, My lover comes at eight o'clock But eight o'clock is far. How could I bear my pain all day Unless I watched to see The clock-hands laboring to bring Eight o'clock to me.

sadness

Modern

Love

Go, dumb-born book, Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes: Hadst thou but song As thou hast subjects known, Then were there cause in thee that should condone Even my faults that heavy upon me lie And build her glories their longevity. Tell her that sheds Such treasure in the air, Recking naught else but that her graces give Life to the moment, I would bid them live As roses might, in magic amber laid, Red overwrought with orange and all made One substance and one colour Braving time. Tell her that goes With song upon her lips But sings not out the song, nor knows The maker of it, some other mouth, May be as fair as hers, Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers, When our two dusts with Wallers shall be laid, Siftings on siftings in oblivion, Till change hath broken down All things save Beauty alone.

neutral

Modern

Love

They came to tell your faults to me, They named them over one by one; I laughed aloud when they were done, I knew them all so well before, Oh, they were blind, too blind to see Your faults had made me love you more.

neutral

Modern

Love

You have not conquered me—it is the surge Of love itself that beats against my will; It is the sting of conflict, the old urge That calls me still. It is not you I love—it is the form And shadow of all lovers who have died That gives you all the freshness of a warm And unfamiliar bride. It is your name I breathe, your hands I seek; It will be you when you are gone. And yet the dream, the name I never speak, Is that that lures me on. It is the golden summons, the bright wave Of banners calling me anew; It is all beauty, perilous and grave— It is not you.

anger

Modern

Love

Version 1 (1921) Yours is the shame and sorrow, But the disgrace is mine; Your love was dark and thorough, Mine was the love of the sun for a flower He creates with his shine. I was diligent to explore you, Blossom you stalk by stalk, Till my fire of creation bore you Shrivelling down in the final dour Anguish then I suffered a balk. I knew your pain, and it broke My fine, craftsman's nerve; Your body quailed at my stroke, And my courage failed to give you the last Fine torture you did deserve. You are shapely, you are adorned, But opaque and dull in the flesh, Who, had I but pierced with the thorned Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast In a lovely illumined mesh. Like a painted window: the best Suffering burnt through your flesh, Undrossed it and left it blest With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now Who shall take you afresh? Now who will burn you free From your body's terrors and dross, Since the fire has failed in me? What man will stoop in your flesh to plough The shrieking cross? A mute, nearly beautiful thing Is your face, that fills me with shame As I see it hardening, Warping the perfect image of God, And darkening my eternal fame. Version 2 (1928) Yours is the sullen sorrow, The disgrace is also mine; Your love was intense and thorough, Mine was th

sadness

Modern

Love

Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day.

disgust

Modern

Love

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, What is it? Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and

fear

Modern

Love

I went to the dances at Chandlerville, And played snap-out at Winchester. One time we changed partners, Driving home in the moonlight of middle June, And then I found Davis. We were married and lived together for seventy years, Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children, Eight of whom we lost Ere I had reached the age of sixty. I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick, I made the garden, and for holiday Rambled over the fields where sang the larks, And by Spoon River gathering many a shell, And many a flower and medicinal weed Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys. At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all, And passed to a sweet repose. What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you It takes life to love Life.

sadness

Modern

Love

Seen my lady home las' night, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight, Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh, Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye, An' a smile go flittin' by Jump back, honey, jump back. Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine, Jump back, honey, jump back. Mockin'-bird was singin' fine, Jump back, honey, jump back. An' my hea't was beatin' so, When I reached my lady's do', Dat I could n't ba' to go Jump back, honey, jump back. Put my ahm aroun' huh wais', Jump back, honey, jump back. Raised huh lips an' took a tase, Jump back, honey, jump back. Love me, honey, love me true? Love me well ez I love you? An' she answe'd, "'Cose I do" Jump back, honey, jump back.

joy

Modern

Love

W'en daih's chillun in de house, Dey keep on a-gittin' tall; But de folks don' seem to see Dat dey's growin' up at all, 'Twell dey fin' out some fine day Dat de gals has 'menced to grow, W'en dey notice as dey pass Dat de front gate's saggin' low. W'en de hinges creak an' cry, An' de bahs go slantin' down, You kin reckon dat hit's time Fu' to cas' yo' eye erroun', 'Cause daih ain't no 'sputin' dis, Hit's de trues' sign to show Dat daih's cou'tin goin' on W'en de ol' front gate sags low. Oh, you grumble an' complain, An' you prop dat gate up right; But you notice right nex' day Dat hit's in de same ol' plight. So you fin' dat hit's a rule, An' daih ain' no use to blow, W'en de gals is growin' up, Dat de front gate will sag low. Den you t'ink o' yo' young days, W'en you cou'ted Sally Jane, An' you so't o' feel ashamed Fu' to grumble an' complain, 'Cause yo' ricerlection says, An' you know hits wo'ds is so, Dat huh pappy had a time Wid his front gate saggin' low. So you jes' looks on an' smiles At 'em leanin' on de gate, Tryin' to t'ink whut he kin say Fu' to keep him daih so late, But you lets dat gate erlone, Fu' yo' 'sperunce goes to show, 'Twell de gals is ma'ied off, It gwine keep on saggin' low.

sadness

Modern

Love

I saw her in a Broadway car, The woman I might grow to be; I felt my lover look at her And then turn suddenly to me. Her hair was dull and drew no light And yet its color was as mine; Her eyes were strangely like my eyes Tho' love had never made them shine. Her body was a thing grown thin, Hungry for love that never came; Her soul was frozen in the dark Unwarmed forever by love's flame. I felt my lover look at her And then turn suddenly to me, His eyes were magic to defy The woman I shall never be.

fear

Modern

Love

I Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the selfsame sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna: Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt The basses of their beings throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. II In the green water, clear and warm, Susanna lay. She searched The touch of springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed, For so much melody. Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions. She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering. A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned A cymbal crashed, And roaring horns. III Soon, with a noise like tambourines, Came her attendant Byzantines. They wondered why Susanna crie

fear

Modern

Love

I Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon You have the scene arrange itself as it will seem to do With "I have saved this afternoon for you"; And four wax candles in the darkened room, Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead, An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid. We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips. "So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul Should be resurrected only among friends Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room." And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins. "You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, And how, how rare and strange it is, to find In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, (For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!) To find a friend who has these qualities, Who has, and gives Those qualities upon which friendship lives. How much it means that I say this to you Without these friendships life, what cauchemar!" Among the winding of the violins And the ariettes Of crac

fear

Modern

Love

This youth too long has heard the break Of waters in a land of change. He goes to see what suns can make From soil more indurate and strange. He cuts what holds his days together And shuts him in, as lock on lock: The arrowed vane announcing weather, The tripping racket of a clock; Seeking, I think, a light that waits Still as a lamp upon a shelf, A land with hills like rocky gates Where no sea leaps upon itself. But he will find that nothing dares To be enduring, save where, south Of hidden deserts, torn fire glares On beauty with a rusted mouth, Where something dreadful and another Look quietly upon each other.

fear

Modern

Love

Making his advances He does not look at her, nor sniff at her, No, not even sniff at her, his nose is blank. Only he senses the vulnerable folds of skin That work beneath her while she sprawls along In her ungainly pace, Her folds of skin that work and row Beneath the earth-soiled hovel in which she moves. And so he strains beneath her housey walls And catches her trouser-legs in his beak Suddenly, or her skinny limb, And strange and grimly drags at her Like a dog, Only agelessly silent, with a reptile's awful persistency. Grim, gruesome gallantry, to which he is doomed. Dragged out of an eternity of silent isolation And doomed to partiality, partial being, Ache, and want of being, Want, Self-exposure, hard humiliation, need to add himself on to her. Born to walk alone, Forerunner, Now suddenly distracted into this mazy side-track, This awkward, harrowing pursuit, This grim necessity from within. Does she know As she moves eternally slowly away? Or is he driven against her with a bang, like a bird flying in the dark against a window, All knowledgeless? The awful concussion, And the still more awful need to persist, to follow, follow, continue, Driven, after ons of pristine, fore-god-like singleness and oneness, At the end of some myster

fear

Modern

Love

I thought he was dumb, I said he was dumb, Yet I've heard him cry. First faint scream, Out of life's unfathomable dawn, Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's dawning rim, Far, far off, far scream. Tortoise in extremis. Why were we crucified into sex? Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves, As we began, As he certainly began, so perfectly alone? A far, was-it-audible scream, Or did it sound on the plasm direct? Worse than the cry of the new-born, A scream, A yell, A shout, A pan, A death-agony, A birth-cry, A submission, All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn. War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream reptilian, Why was the veil torn? The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane? The male soul's membrane Torn with a shriek half music, half horror. Crucifixion. Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of that dense female, Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the shell In tortoise-nakedness, Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spread-eagle over her house-roof, And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath her walls, Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in uttermost tension Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping

fear

Modern

Love

With the man I love who loves me not, I walked in the street-lamps' flare; We watched the world go home that night In a flood through Union Square. I leaned to catch the words he said That were light as a snowflake falling; Ah well that he never leaned to hear The words my heart was calling. And on we walked and on we walked Past the fiery lights of the picture shows Where the girls with thirsty eyes go by On the errand each man knows. And on we walked and on we walked, At the door at last we said good-bye; I knew by his smile he had not heard My heart's unuttered cry. With the man I love who loves me not I walked in the street-lamps' flare But oh, the girls who ask for love In the lights of Union Square.

anger

Modern

Love

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

sadness

Modern

Love